This is My Body, This is My Blood

Clash Reunion

Memories, they can't be boughten.
They can't be won at carnivals for free.
Well it took me years to get those souvenirs,
And i don't know how they slipped away from me.
~~John Prine

Sunday morning John Prine was singing in the next room when I caught sight of my shadow as she danced a little jig, sang along with the music while I cracked eggs on a cast iron griddle. I almost bumped into her when she twirled past me in the kitchen, the creases in her smile lines like tiny bird tracks on a morning beach. I saw her again later in the day as she tip-toed barefoot across stepping stones, holding her skirt, laughing at the water skimmers skiing across the surface of the pond we dug in the back yard. Just before bed I glimpsed her between sleepy breaths as my eyes fell upon a photograph of her lost in a sensual kiss, swirling in limerance. She disappeared with the lamplight, left me counting the turns of fan blades as they quietly passed over the woman who used to sing and dance and laugh and love like they were all stolen.

Has it ever happened to you? Have you ever reached for a fragmented memory of joy, only to have it fade before you can trace the outline of a captured smile? It's not a sudden thing, this losing oneself layer by layer until all that's left are ragged footprints. It happens gradually, like the slow recession of water at low tide, until you've forgotten the lush lapping at your ankles and the gulls calling over your head. You walk on, your pockets heavy with pinkswirl shells, toward an island that doesn't recognize the shape of your bones or know the fullness of your cupped hands.

Then one day you pull a jacket from behind the door and as you're moving through the paces of a lackluster afternoon your hand rests on something familiar, a crusted curl of beauty carved by the past. You hold the shell in your hand, finger each fine feature of its delicate history, spit-shine it to embellish the iridescence of perfected imperfection. Closing your eyes, you hear the squeak of your feet against wet sand, feel the rhythm of unseen waves against your chest, taste the pungent exhale of your own salty breath. The ocean rises to lick your knees, hug your waist, touch your shoulders until she finally washes over you, reuniting your soul with her lost body, becoming the water itself.

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Reverse Trends

"The secret of genius is to carry the spirit of the child into old age, which means never losing your enthusiasm." Aldous Huxley

For as far back as I can remember, I've conducted my life in reverse.   According to family legend, my ass-backward way of life began during labor, when I was positioned face up in the womb. Thanks to his small hands, my mother's obstetrician was able to reach in and turn me (ouch!) so that she could deliver  more easily.  Apparently a little too easily, because the other part of the story is that  I was born in the elevator between the third and fourth floor of the hospital on the way to the delivery room.

Given my begninnings, I suppose it should come as no surpise that I've spent most of my life doing things the opposite of normal. I read magazines back to front, flip downward through TV channels and radio stations instead of up, and click my way from the bottom of the blogroll to the top.  Heck, I still can't even fasten my bra without pulling the strap around front and hooking it like a twelve year-old. Another example: I married at sixteen then divorced two years later, when I got pregnant. While most of my peers were going to proms and preparing for college, I was going to the grocery store and preparing for parenthood. I spent my youth on grown-up things, became a grandmother at 39, buried both my parents before my youngest child was in the third grade.

There are advantages to living life in reverse. I've gotten to spend my forties doing fun things I missed in my teens, like getting 300 braids woven into my hair, having flowers painted on my toes, dancing wildly at music festivals, and jumping on the bed with girlfriends if we feel like it. As I approach fifty, I don't expect this backward trend to change. In fact, I'm thinking about going back to college, maybe get my MFA in Creative Writing.

I believe it was George Carlin who once supposed we should be born old, live life backwards until we re-enter the womb and turn back into the energy of our parents' smiles. I think he was onto something (except the vagina part--that's just gross). I say we baby boomers should take over the playgrounds, ride in the front of shopping carts, finger paint, take naps followed by milk and cookies. And while we're at it, let's all give ourselves a gold star just for making it this far in one piece.

Technorati Tags: aging, perimenopause, menopause, hot flashes, getting older, pregnancy, body image, womb, essay, blog, george carlin, baby boomers, writing, writers, birth, prose, women, hormones,

Can You Hear Me Now?

I don't know if it's menopause-related or if all the those Bible verses I was forced to memorize as a child finally caused a cerebral back-up as I was attempting to etch another telephone number into my memory, but I seem to have sprung a leak. Literally.

It started last Fall as I was driving downtown. The AC in my van hasn't worked for years so when the inevitable hot flash occurs, rolling down the window is my only reprieve from the instant sauna that is my life. Normally the wind is a welcome rush of fresh air, but on this particular day things got a little weird. First, I'm one of those people who has never liked the tongue-in-ear thing (just ask the men  I've dropped who refused to accept this statement as fact) so when I suddenly got that wet willie feeling in my left ear, I immediately freaked, thinking someone just delivered a drive-by spitting.  I can't imagine what people in the other cars were thinking as they passed the swerving driver with her finger in her ear. Wait. Yes I can. I imagine they were thinking I should roll up my window if I don't enjoy the sounds of traffic. Or turn down my damn radio if it's too loud. Or maybe they just thought I was an idiot. But I'd bet a whole box of Q-Tips nobody thought, hmm, her ear must be leaking--I hate when that happens.

An isolated event, you think. Not so, my friend. Over the course of the next several months the ear thing went from a sudden dampness to a regular spigot.  I cannot begin to describe how distrubing it is to experience a sudden warm trickle out one's ear, jamming your finger as far as it will go and still not being able to relieve the accompanying tickle. After several weeks of drainage, I finally dragged myself to the local health clinic where I joined the ranks of other uninsured souls only to be told (three hours later) my eardrums look fine, no infection, not even a tiny bit red.

As it turns out, following 47 years of languishing in the joy of bathtubs, my ears have suddenly decided to take on water, save it for just the right moment, then, gurgle, gurgle, drip, drip. As if hot flashes, declining libido, occasional incontinence, memory lapse, lubrication issues, sagging everything, hair loss, foggy thinking, depression, low energy, and night sweats weren't enough, now my damn ears are leaking. Plus, the one thing that's helped me make it through these godawful assaults on the body-- my beloved claw foot bathtub--has suddenly become an instrument of evil-doing.

Surely this cruel joke called menopause has an eventual punch line where we share a collectivel laugh before going back to the business of being kick-ass women in an ass-kicking world. I, for one, have had enough of the tribulations on the pathway to the golden fucking pond. What's that you say? It gets purse before it gets letter?  Sorry, I can't hear you with these soggy wads of cotton in my ears.

Technorati Tags: aging, perimenopause, menopause, hot flashes, getting older, libido, body image, depression, essay, blog, self image, baby boomers, writing, writers, poetry, prose, women, hormones, incontinence

Old School

UPDATE: I finally told him and he took the news with more grace than I did--moved through all the stages of grief in one evening while I was still stuck on denial and barganing after four days. Thanks so much for all your compassion and support. 

The good news is that Midland has agreed to keep him enrolled "on paper" while he takes classes at community college next fall so he can do his last year of high school and first year of college simultaneously. Should be a no brainer. Unfortunately, it's the heart, not the head, that took the biggest hit in all this.

That's J practicing the zen of blowing bubbles in the back yard this afternoon. I could learn a lot from this kid.

So while Midland doesn't offer all the luxuries and flashing lights that other schools do, we do offer a school program that is demanding, authentic, and profound in its simplicity and commitment to its students. From "Why Midland?"  

It started with a ring, then another as I stood next to my van at the beach considering whether to answer. Without looking at the number, I flipped open the phone and said hello.

"This is P. I'm sorry. I have bad news."

"No," I said, knowing how anxiously we'd waited for good news.

"J's not being invited back to Midland for his senior year."

My heart cracked, leaving a ragged fault line along its center. " Why would they do that?"

"I'm sorry. I advocated for him, but a vote was taken. Your son lost."

This is J standing if front of his cabin on his first day at Midland, his freshman year, a day that seems ions ago. Ever since he first set foot on campus, he's dreamed of seeing his name inscribed on the chapel hall alongside the others who've graduated from the school over the past seven decades. The last three years have been an up-and-down struggle, but no matter how many times he screws up or how many laps they throw at him, he's remained committed to the Midland Way. He doesn't drink, smoke, do drugs, or screw around with underclassmen and he's been more than willing to live without the Ipods, heaters, and other modern conveniences many students can't forego.

I know it's not been easy for them or him. J is disorganized and impulsive, a classic case of ADhD.  But he's also brilliant, writes stunning poetry, has become a confidant among his peers, and is the kind of kid who'd pack a tuxedo to hike Grass Mountain, just to make his friends and teachers smile when he breaks the peak. Or paint his whole body green and jump up and down at the sidelines as a self-appointed Midland-Man for a cheerleader-less team. Or sing his heart out as the lead in Grease! and thrill audiences with spot-on renditions of a French Maitre' D and a Middle Eastern Interpreter. Or wear silly nose and reindeer ears during a surprise birthday party for him one evening in December.

"No," I finally answered. "Midland lost."

"I'm sorry," he said again.

How is it that in one moment you can feel on top of the world as you absorb the massive panorama of ocean and sky in front of you and in the very next, the world suddenly turns on itself, crushing your chest until it's all you can do to pull in a single breath?  Fighting against a wall of inertia, I hefted my heavy heap of grief onto my back and climbed the stairs toward my massage studio, hunched over like the man in Diego Rivera's painting. I hoped no one would notice that the flowers were dead and my eyes were holding back a flood.

I made it through the massage; drove home in a daze wondering how I'd ever find the right words to tell J about the phone call. When he asked for a ride to the store for sunflower seeds and soda after dinner, I stuck my feet in slippers figuring I'd somehow break the news on our way back home. Sitting in the car while he ran inside Albertsons, I thought about his story of  two butterflies accompanying him on his way to Midland's graduation ceremonies last Saturday, how sure he was their presence was an omen. A good one.

When he got back in the car, I opened my mouth to speak, but all that came out was, "Your hair is getting really long."

"Yeah. I'm not cutting it until after I graduate from Midland next Spring."

Oof. That foot in my stomach again. Maybe I'll tell him tomorrow.

Maybe not.

Technorati Tags: aging, perimenopause, menopause, relationships, parenting, mothers, midland school, childhood, essay, blog, boarding school, high school, writing, writers, disappointment, prose, women, massage,

Anything for Love

The only reward for love is the experience of loving. -- John LeCarre

Karl over at Secondhand Tryptophan recently chronicled in his blog the numerous and often outrageous things he's done in the name of romantic love. In a blatant attempt at one-upmanship, I declared myself the winner (not that he'd advertised any contest) having once administered an enema to my constipated 80 year-old MIL who accompanied us on a vacation to California. Talk about bonding.

It's true that on some level I offered my personal and extremely intimate attendant services on behalf of my wasband whom I loved deeply and for whom I'd have done most anything (including showing up at the airport to pick him up after a couple weeks out of the country wearing a leather mini skirt and thigh-high stiletto boots), however, looking back I now understand my actions weren't so much out of love for my ex as they were out of compassion for another human being. In fact, the more I think about the mental list I ticked off as I read Karl's  post, the more I realize that these things we do for our loved ones aren't necessarily for them so much as for ourselves. It feels good to do good deeds, surprise our lovers, or put a smile on someones face and we like to feel good. Sure, some of our actions may be genuinely altruistic yet at our core, we all want to be loved and will do most anything to get (or retain) that love, even to the point of codependence.

I believe the one exception to these acts of enlightened self-interest is the love of a parent for his or her child. Last year I sold my beloved 12-string guitar in order for my son to continue at a private school rather than be called a fag a dozen times a day in public school. I didn't do it in order to prove my love for the sake of martyrdom, in fact, I didn't even tell him I'd sold it.  I did it because it was simply the right thing to do, just like the many sacrifices my parents made in order to feed and clothe seven children--sacrifices I wouldn't fully appreciate until well into adulthood.

My two oldest children are now grown and married, and my youngest has only a year to go before he graduates from high school. As I move closer to 50, I'm becoming more aware than ever how much energy I've invested in doing for others, whether they've been children, lovers, clients, or friends. Tonight I'm wondering how to gather all that love and turn it inward, do something crazy for myself one of these days, maybe hire someone to stand on the table and sing me a love song. Or better yet, head for the airport to take a vacation out of the country instead of picking up someone else.

I just hope I don't get constipated on the trip.

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