Make Hay While the Sun Shines

“Whan the sunne shinth make hay. Whiche is to say.

Take time whan time cometh, lest time steale away.”

 ~ John Heywood, 1546 AD

I fall down a lot of rabbit holes through my days. I have a highly distractable mind and I follow a lot of thoughts away from the party and into the woods. It can be a problem but I do explore ideas and concepts and learn a lot of new things because of it, so, all in a day. 

Recently, in exploring quotes and sayings about hay because of some photos I had taken, drawn to and interested in local hay bales because visually I think they are like giant fields of Shredded Wheat, I discovered this gem about making hay: Make hay while the sun shines. The saying apparently originally appears in John Haywood’s “A dialogue conteinyng the nomber in effect of all the prouerbes in the Englishe tongue” dated 1546, although it is thought to have originated much earlier from Tudor farmers of Europe. The saying warns farmers to make their hay while the sun is shining. It is about taking advantage of an opportunity while the opportunity still presents itself. 

In Tudor England farmers didn’t have the technology that they have today to determine the weather. The best they had was “red sky at night” to help them decide. So, they had to get it whilst the getting was good, you could say. If they waited another day to make their hay they could risk it raining and ruining their harvest and the growing season would have all been for naught. This was a pretty big deal. That’s where this Proverb came in. While it was sunny and the conditions were good it was best to make the hay lest they lose the opportunity. They said this so often to remind themselves and others that it became a verbal chunk of wisdom you handed out and repeated, passing on the knowledge for posterity and, let’s face it back then, survival. Think of how important hay was back on Tudor farms when animals were relied on even moreso than they are now.  Getting your hay made was akin to getting your business done.

This saying struck me when I found it. I thought it was neat. As far as I could recollect I had never heard it before. I wondered why, after years and years of these hay bales. There are cornfields and fields of grasses galore where I’m from and I’m still here. I’ve been driving these roads since I was a kid, literally. I rode plenty a dirt road atop a cooler or in the back of a pickup. Suffice it to say I’ve seen a bale of hay or two. I remember my dad parking us on the side of the road to go out into a field and climbing up on one when I was young. Being placed on one, perhaps? Hay bales were huge as a kid, they’re fairly big to an adult but as a kid they are giant things. It felt like you were on the top of the world as a kid, sitting on a hay bale. Or at least like you were riding a horse or some other mythical creature made of grasses. It was fun and my dad knew how to have fun because he also followed ideas and thoughts away from the party and literally into the woods. He could be rather impulsive and curious; we never knew what we’d be doing. Sometimes we rode hay bales. 

Fields and fields of hay made by local farmers, we drive by it all the time. Shredded wheat, it resembles, I’ve often thought; if I were to make a diorama of a farm I think I would use Shredded Wheat as hay bales. Frosted Mini Wheats for winter scenes. Sometimes they wrap them in white plastic. This makes them look like fields of puffy marshmallows. Marshmallows would be great in a diorama too. I digress. 

I pondered this advice in my own life, for there are times that I have left my hay to rot in the field and wasted a perfectly fine harvest. Motherhood is teaching me to weed out what isn’t necessary and boil down what I need into a condensed stock of wants and wishes. I reckon that's a fancy way to say prioritize. Adding a third kid has lit yet another fire under my ass. If you want to be a breeder and a creative you need to learn to make your hay when the sun shines, get it while you can and move like you stole it. Conditions are never right for long. If you don’t move on something when the opportunity is there chances are you’re going to miss it. This sounds like a call to impulsiveness but it’s not. Much of life is about timing and yet it’s hard to tell when the time is right for anything. I am never going to have uninterrupted large chunks of time to write or create or do anything that restores me but I desperately need to do those things or I do not function properly, my soul begins to feel imprisoned. I need to take full advantage of opportunity, however elusive it may be, if I don’t want to lose myself in motherhood. This is a call to seize the opportunities that present themselves while the getting is good, whether that’s a job change, or a creative endeavor or simply getting anything done with 3 children in tow. It’s about getting your business done, finishing what you set out to do lest you not be able to finish it at all and sometimes just riding those hay bales.

A field of frosted mini-wheats this morning.

Laughing Through the Flames Together

Parenting is a lot of things. It’s an honor, it’s a blessing, it’s a privilege and it’s also a job. Parenthood can either be the most joyous time of your life or a living hell from which there is no escape. Honestly, even though we are encouraged and expected to “cherish every moment” the hard truth is that parenting is often both. Parenthood is the hardest job anyone will ever have...except for maybe that guy that gets his heart ripped out by Mola Ram and is lowered down into the firey pit on Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. They aren’t without their similarities, anyway: High pressure. Sacrifice. Rip your heart out. In a cage descending into fire. Very hot. It burns!  

Okay, it’s not all that bad but it helps at times to keep things as light as possible and to not take it too seriously...even though you need to because you are single-handedly making choices that are in part forming your beloved children’s personalities that they will then be at the mercy of forever...and even though they will go forth with these personalities into the world either to make it or break it. Kiiind of totally a huge deal. But don’t worry. No pressure. “Kali maa shakti de!!” 

What could be harder than parenting? Single-parenting, obviously, would take about a thousand cakes on that one. But actually sometimes, albeit to a much lesser degree, it can also be co-parenting. Parenting is hard in general to wrap your will around but meeting another person on the same page who has their own preconceived notions of what parenting is or should be and staying on the same page when it comes to your beliefs on raising children and consistently standing by said beliefs in the face of distraction and frustration…two different heads of the same snarling beast and they both chew your face off. My husband and I can agree that this is often really shitty. Call a spade a spade. We both can also agree, however, that it is the best thing to ever happen to us so where do we meet in the middle of this? That’s the million dollar question. That’s also where the continual relationship work resides. It’s no laughing matter...except for when it is. 

This past weekend my husband and I were jokingly talking about our day, and he had an errand to run. I had the baby on the boob and the other two were being their loud and annoying selves because yes, kids are often loud and annoying no matter how many times you post their pictures on social media decreeing them your angels and your everything. I said, “You guys should go with your father,” giving him an eye and a Cheshire Cat beam. We knew I was mostly joking. His face visibly sunk in an exaggeration of protest because everyone knows it takes twice as long to do any errand with kids in tow, and he said, in a wailing womanly voice: “You haate me!” We laughed. Humor is often your saving grace. It’s also wonderful when our daughter chalks up everything that goes over her head to “adult comedy” as she calls it. We’re not entirely proud but this is where we find ourselves. Parents make jokes because you either laugh or you’ll cry. 

Later that day, after earlier having discussed how his truck has gotten him over 100,000 miles, he said how he had to go out to work on it for awhile. I teasingly accuse him: 

“You know, you’re truck hasn’t needed anything big but you SURE do work on it a lot? What are you sabotaging shit just to get out there and get away from us? ‘OOoh NOOOOoOOO my BRAKE line broke, I better get out there and FIX that today for sure!!’ Is that how it is? ...’Cause that’s what I’d be doing.”

Again, we laughed. Humor through parenthood is like saying that the knife wound in your side kinda looks like a face. It’s simultaneously both denial and complete and total acceptance. We started doing impressions of him taking out his brake lines and other truck parts because they really did go out recently and it does seem he is perpetually working on his truck during his brief time at home. It’s seemingly never ending; duties and projects drag on into a balmy eternity. Everything moves like chilled molasses because there is never enough time in a weekend. It’s funny because the poor guy is actually out there as I write this working on it again. This weekend it’s universal joints. Lucky bastard. It’s funny because it’s not funny. At least we have humor. 

I think if you can laugh together you have a lot to work with. If you can’t make each other laugh, then it’s going to be a hard road for you because it can get a tad rocky and you’re going to feel every bump and stone. If you’re laughing you kinda just roll over the top of some of them and it doesn’t seem like such a bumpy ride even if your shocks are shot. Who you have as a co-pilot traveling with you as your partner in crime on the road of parenthood matters a lot. It helps if you get along with your celly. Your partner ultimately helps to determine how bumpy the ride will be and even when you have a good one the struggle is still real. Parenthood is where relationships go to train for the UFC; it will either make your marriage stronger or take it down blow by blow. 

That poor bastard in the basket on Indiana Jones didn't survive the destructive flames in the pit. He evaporated. Kali needed her sacrifice. It all seems so gruesome. We can just say he represents your egoic parts that need to surrender to the sacrifice. In Hinduism, Kali is the goddess of death and destruction. In her earlier depictions she is often a crone with red eyes, holding weapons and severed heads, with black skin and protruding tongue, a real bad bitch. Westerners generally view her as evil because of her form and requirements of destruction and human sacrifice. But in her complexity, she is a dualistic goddess, in her later Kali Ma form she is also a symbol of Mother Nature, nurturing and benevolent. Kali is like the transformative power of tough love, your darkness transmuted. When we are breaking apart from circumstance and heading into darkness that is Kali, but when we are fitting the pieces back together and finding our light, that is also Mother Kali. From my understanding, that is. Maybe you can see where I’m heading with this metaphor. 

Dealing with the stresses of parenthood together exposes you to each other’s deepest wounds. If there is anything ugly in your core kids will pull that dark shit right out of you and cover it in glitter and boogers before shoving it directly and repeatedly into your frame of view. “Look! LOOK! Do you see this?!” Kids are Mola Ram invoking the power of Kali to tear into your chest and hold your still-beating heart in front of your face before sacrificing your ego in a pit of flames. In short: kids’ll fuck you up. You need a strong resolve to survive the destruction of the goddess Kali. It requires a tight connection, a sturdy bond to hold your relationship together in the fire as the flesh of your old selves is seared away in sacrifice. Parenthood is some serious shit. It burns a good bit but as with much of life, it helps to laugh. 

EBF Sonnet

So soon to wake after a night time rest? 

Soft cries alert my ears that you must feed. 

I pull you once again onto my breast. 

I answer every want and every need. 

With forlorn eyes I gaze upon your face. 

Your baby blues, two pools of water, still. 

To care for you I need a sense of grace. 

To breastfeed requires an iron will. 

A mother’s milk supply is on demand.

Her baby takes all that her body gives. 

At beck and call; “Your wish is my command!”

On this sole sustenance her nursling lives. 

I sacrifice my peace of mind and rest;

For in my heart I know that breast is best. 

#shakespeareansonnet #poetry #forfunsies 

Stand Up to Anything and Anyone

A picture is worth how many words? I need to say a few about this good thing right here. It's clever. It's simple. It's positive. It's me and not me at all, simultaneously. Its none of me. It's all of me. It was also not my idea at all. All in all...it was all little Miss Celie Ruth who will be turning 8 in 3 days and is proving herself to be not quite so little anymore. 

Last week on a family trip to Lowe's Home Improvement, which is sadly and gloriously one of Celie's favorite places, we were walking past the display for Valspar paint that they have enlarged since their removal of Olympic, which I personally feel is for the best (okay, it's one of my favorite places to), when #celiesays "Hey, mom! Look! That could be a thing!" She points over at the signage and then says "That could he a good message!" She holds her fingers up to cover a letter in one of the Valspar claims. A moment of awe fell over me and I was compelled to document the moment on my shitty Grammy-phone with my 4,677th-4,679th photos for posterity.

She later would use the word "metaphor" when describing it as being a good message. Arguing all semantics and technicalities aside, this still brought on a "holy-shit-you-do-listen-to-me" moment. You know they hear some things but the vast amount of pearls you attempt to spew out at your children seem to fall on deaf ears. Needless to say, I had a moment. Her two little fingers outstretched to cover up the "S" in Valspar's claim that their paint "Stands Up To Anything" which is funny, because I would have just snapped the pic without covering anything and laughed and said Ha Ha yeah: Celie stands up to anything. Tough little shit. That's a metaphor. Yadda yadda. Not my girl, though. My girl gave it a twist; she made it an action. In truth, she gave it a positive twist and and made it a call to action. Love her love her LOVE her! 

The positive, active mindset is one that I struggle the most to pass on to my daughter because it's also the hardest for me to hold onto myself. I experience such negative moods that it is essential for me to counteract that with grasps at positive perspectives. I strive to teach her to do her best to focus on the positive side of life as well as that side of me. While the beast cannot be fooled by platitudes or other contrived bullshit messages, I also try my best to look for things that are actually believable and resonate with me in order to raise my spirit. After every storm I do my best to trudge onward through the scattered debris and remember to look on the bright side of life as Monty Python taught me. It is a struggle, though, because I have both rides to hell and trips to the moon. In my understanding, the Eternal Nothing and The Absolute All are mere polarities of the same pendulum swing. I digress. 

My point being with all of this, parenting is hard regardless. I found it to be the hardest relationship to be in successfully because the size of the mirror may be small but it reflects every little fucking ugly angle right back at you. At least it only gets bigger in time, though, and if you break it, you're ego will be cut to shreds! Definitely keeps you on your toes with your bullshit and I come with a lot of bullshit. One of the things I have taught and encouraged Celie to do is to call me out on my bullshit. While you need to parent from a place of authority, they also need to see that you are human and capable of error. It does not serve their psyche to be totalitarian in your parenting, it crushes their spirits. They need to see that you are flawed, you make mistakes, and you are willing to own them. I've taught her to stand up to anything and anyone, including me. While some might think this is destructive, some people need to get real with their power trip parenting style. You aren't a super hero, you are only a person and they are capable of understanding that if you just take off the mask. I eat a lot of crow over the matter, willingly. Every day. I eat crow, I eat dirt, I eat my hat, I eat my words; I eat, I eat, I eat, I eat. Seems to be a theme in my life, but in this instance it's my sickening saving grace. While fucking up on the daily and losing my temper, saying stupid shit, doing stupid shit, and being generally emotionally unstable I have tried my best to explain the "boo boo in my head" to her since she was 2...because as a SAHM I had no other choice. I was alone with her and there was no escape. She picked the bathroom lock. That's a fucking metaphor. I had to keep it real in order to keep our attachment healthy. Has it shifted back and forth at times? Absolutely...it does with any parent-child relationship at times, but I always strive to remember that my point is connection and not control, which seems to be what comes programmed. Fighting the system is hard when you are a part of the system, which is why checks and balances are vital. I essentially taught Celie to call me out on my shit. This is essential but has also added to her already genetic inheritance of stubbornness from both sides, but I just like to think that she's going to be a hardheaded woman some day in a Cat Stevens kind of way. She knows how she should be treated because I am teaching her to recognize and express feeling even when I, her primary caregiver, cross a line. I don't just act like nothing happened and it's within my parental right to be a total asshole. She knows all about moods and emotions. She knows all about anxiety and is learning to deal with her own developing weirdness and the connected struggles. I do my best to help her to understand herself as I better understand myself through understanding her. Does that make sense? "I understand!" she is constantly telling me. It's fucked up...but I really believe her. I'm not the kind of mother that would stack bills to bet my kid is smarter than yours or give IQ that much overall value in a child. Celie Ruth is smart as a whip but her true gift lies in her innate sensitivity, her learned compassion, and her striking emotional intelligence. Kids can understand a lot more than you think they can if you just talk to them, meet them at their own level, and never take away their source of love. Know your audience, keep explaining yourself in order to be understood, and eat the fucking crow. Always. EAT IT!! Just don't choke on the feathers.

Okay, so I couldn't just say a few words about this image but I can seldom say only a few about anything. I essentially never really stood up to anyone or anything and I took people's bullshit all of my life which feeds into many of my problems. My goal with my daughter as a parent is to raise a woman that will not react that way to the world she finds herself in, no matter what. Celie has been through her share of bullshit and I will inevitably leave her with her own pile of bullshit because of my own bullshit because of their bullshit, but I hope that it's a small pile and doesn't stink as bad as mine does. #parentinggoals Knockin' off the shit, my girl is going to be turning 8 on Sunday and birthdays are bittersweet, every one of 'em. Her looks are changing; she's growing into her big girl face. I'm growing up right along with her, though. She has, so far, been my biggest teacher. Being called out is hard enough in life, but when it's by a child it does all kinds of weird things to your heart and mind. Ego punches; growing pains. Children innately have a very strong sense of indignation and if you allow them to apply a durable coat, they actually have their own excellent scrub and stain resistance. This whole idea was just too phenomenally beautiful not to share. Stand up to anything and anyone. 

Trapped Inside the Interstellar Bookshelf

The cycle of Life. It's fucked up, right? I've been in this crazy head space this past year and I have failed to describe it using words aside from saying that it feels like I am trapped inside the Interstellar bookshelf. Have you seen the movie Interstellar? If you haven't, you should; it's a good flick. And that's how I feel. Closterphobic, lost in space. All of time laid out before me. Endlessly spirally away from me. It's not an entirely bad feeling. It's a bit nihilistic, because everything I do is futile and pointless, but in the same breath, a fractal mirroring of that...everything I do is of the utmost importance. I am inside the cycle of life peering out at the entirety of the thing. It’s a little nostalgic, because I am fixated on the past and how much things have changed. But we can’t go back, we can only move ahead. And the beat goes on.

I am the age now that my parents, aunts, uncles, etc. were when I was Celie's age, when I remember them. I am them. They are my grandmother, who I can remember in her late fifties, who is gone now, God rest her soul, and I miss her every day. I'm a panicking child periodically as I think of the monotony of life and my role in it and I just want to crawl up into Grandma's lap again. I'm a mother and a wife. What the fuck happened? It feels like high school was yesterday. What happened to my twenties? I'm going to wake up soon and be in my 60's, I'm fairly certain that's how it happens. Out of nowhere, boom, there you are. Before you know it, you're elderly....going back into the vagina of life only to be shot out of one again. It's like a conveyer belt! I guess only if you believe in reincarnation, but still...I digress.

I just gave birth to my second child 4 months ago. My entire pregnancy seems like a blur. My dog was sick and dying of cancer for 9 months right along with my pregnancy. Life and death were occurring simultaneously once again. He died when our baby boy was 2 months old; at least he got to meet him. We just built an addition onto our house, two rooms that we desperately needed for expanding our family. My daughter's bedroom was my old office space, a tiny little room that's not much more than a closet. We remodeled the entire room for her when I was pregnant the first time. Since then we remodeled the bathroom and moved the washer and dryer into her already extremely small room. I felt horrible that she barely had a space of her own so I tried to make it hers the best that I could, getting her a lava lamp and a My Little Pony clock and all kinds of purple shit. There was a bed, a dresser that was blocked by the bed so it couldn't even be opened fully, and a tiny path to the washer and dryer, that were stacked in the corner. I would sit on her bed as I loaded laundry. It was tight, but we made it work for the past 6 years.

When I became a mother I lost that space, that room that I had my computer and office things set up in, where I would hide and write. In building the addition, we moved my daughter to our old bedroom, so her old bedroom could become JUST the laundry room but I have taken it over as more of a multipurpose room. My husband put wire shelves up along the whole length of the wall and built me a countertop in it. I made it my desk already. We are moving my two bulky filing cabinets that are in our dining room into it soon. This room is going to clear up a lot of cluttered space throughout the house. We are still shifting things all around; it's been so chaotic here lately. Everything is up in the air and there is a Great Settling that is going to take place. There's so much to do but I feel like I know where I'm going now.

Creating life is a mind fuck. It's intense, not only the whole process of pregnancy and the mighty pain of labor, but the rearing and raising. Parenting is what can change the world. Parents are directly molding the entire future...no pressure. There has been so much change here lately. Another baby, finally. Our dog is dead. Our house is changing. Trees were cut down?! (Is that a metaphor?) We just celebrated our 10 year wedding anniversary. I put off having a second child for a few years to take care of myself mentally. Although, I feel tremendous guilt for not making a playmate for my daughter sooner, I really needed those years to get to a better state of mind, one that is conducive to parenting. Parenting alone all week took its toll on me. This time around my husband is working locally so he can be home every night, that's a real game changer. It's a completely different life for us and we are still learning to coparent during the week. It's been an adjustment.

So, here I am. After 6 years and a ton of life changes I find myself once again sitting in this little room writing. I paid all of our bills the other night, too. I have been avoiding that…for years. I think having somewhere to actually sit my laptop and paperwork helps. That’s a whole other part of me that I haven’t been in touch with since I became a mother and had to give up this room. This room is a metaphor. This is where my Drifting Sun dream began over 12 years ago. This is where I set my small business self up. This is where I kept up with my blogging self. This is where I kept my life in check with my office manager bill-paying self. This is where I designed t-shirts with my graphic designer self. There are so many parts of me that I lost when I became a mother because I foolishly thought that was what mothers were supposed to do. Ultimately, this way of thinking is what required me to take that time to go to therapy, etc. I had lost my Self in motherhood. I feel that I have done enough self analysis and discovery to know how to approach it this time around with a better grasp of what I need to do to take care of myself, maintain my own identity and continue to grow as a person. Self-love is important because you can’t pour from an empty glass. I am no good as a mother if I am not CONTINUALLY caring for my self. Now doing it is the hard part. So, it’s a long road ahead. At least I am more self aware and know when I’m fucking up now.

Inside the Interstellar bookshelf, I reside. It’s funny that I am in this room once again after all these years. I’ve heard that nothing ever goes away until it teaches you what you need to know. Apparently I have more to learn from this room. It’s like starting out, making tons of progress, you think, then unraveling all of said progress, and ending up right where you started in the beginning but with new eyes.

The Upside to Procrastination

HAIKU:

PROcrastination.

As the dishes pile up.

I make a cheesecake. 

This weekend Joey worked on Saturday, so I was bored and sad. At first, I was motivated and said, okay, that's fine, I'll do the dishes. Then I looked at the dishes and immediately decided I had much better things to do. This was Friday night. I was in good spirits and had the best intentions but then I got bummed out because it was Friday and he wasn't coming home, so instead of doing the dishes and cleaning up the destroyed (I mean, put off for days) kitchen, I would write a song. I sat at the counter, facing the mocking dishes, and instead penned and strummed out a song that actually made me fairly proud. So that was a Friday well spent, I'd say, even if my kitchen was a disaster. The first lesson in procrastination..sometimes, putting off doing the dirty work allows you to create something new.

On Saturday, I thought about cleaning up the kitchen again but just wasn't in a cleaning shit up mood. I figured, since Joey's ETA wasn't until after 6, I would make my leap into cheesecakery. I finished up the song I wrote the night before and played around with it a bit, but then I started to bake, regardless of the state of my kitchen, which is something I'm not usually inclined to do. I usually prefer to have it cleaned up if I am doing any kind of fun baking and added mess making. I have never made a cheesecake from scratch before, but my mother had given me a 9" Wolfgang Puck springform pan as a gift this Christmas, because I had said about wanting to make one. So I finally got around to trying it out. This baby was from scratch. I mean, not from a box, but an honest to goodness cream cheese heavy whipping cream concoction of a for real cheesecake. My first!

I found a recipe on the internet. It is allegedly The Perfect Cheesecake, a twist on another woman's recipe posted by another woman. I didn't even look in my books and for some reason just searched the net and went with this one. It's a New York Style cheese cake, that actually required a water bath and everything and had a few steps. Leave it to me to go with a harder one, because I don't believe they all require a fancy pants bath and foil wrap? I also found out that our oven is incredibly uneven and needs leveled before I make my next cheesecake or a cake of any type for that matter. So, it's a little lopsided, but that doesn't affect the taste at all. It's still a beautiful thing.

This cheesecake actually called for a sour cream based topping spread on it, and then an optional fruit (raspberry) topping drizzled over it. I was at my mother's last week when she had been picking rhubarb out of their garden so I got some off of her to try out. Surely I should be able to make a fruit concoction for cheesecake from it? So I tried it out. My rhubarb topping wasn't exactly drizzlable, so I just spread it over top of the sour cream topping layer after I chilled that a bit. It worked. It ended up tasting quite sweet and yummy; rhubarb and cheesecake actually go together well.

The cake, as a whole, was a success. The butter in the crust was perhaps a bit much, or the salt wasn't stirred into the crumbs enough, perhaps, and I would let the cream cheese come a little more to room temperature next time, but I'm still mmmmmcredibly pleased with the end result. We ate a bunch and gave a bunch away. The second lesson in procrastination...sometimes putting off the dirty work is pretty tasty! It's all about priorities. A dirty house doesn't need to be the end of your endeavors; you aren't putting things off if you are still doing something worthwhile. I got a song and a cheesecake out of the deal. There are so many better things to be doing than dishes!! So there. My first cheesecake, a rhubarb New York Style one, even. Delicious.

SOURCES: Perfect Cheesecake Recipe

http://www.simplyrecipes.com/recipes/perfect_cheesecake/

Master of Minecraft Puppets

December 18th, 2015

After Celie's Christmas program at preschool on this day we came back home and ended up making some popsicle stick puppets? Random. She had me, at first, making all of the animals from Minecraft, starting with the pig, which is her favorite, and then the cow, the sheep, the horse. I made her. And then I started making them more Minecraft-esqe looking while doing the chicken and I got into it a little more. When it was all said and done, I ended up being rather pleased with my Creeper and Zombie Pig Man. The girl loves her Minecraft.

Ode to My Daughter

Her eyes well with wonder;

She looks up to the stars.

Her voice is like thunder.

She is beautiful, bizarre.

Her hair is like corn silk.

She's wild and free. 

Her skin is like fresh milk. 

She stings like a bee. 

Her smile is magic. 

She's seldom seen sad. 

Her anger is tragic;

She's tough when she's mad. 

Her compassion astounds me.

She forgives and forgets. 

Her kindness is lasting;

She gives what she gets. 

Her love is a gift;

She laughs, it's a treasure.

Her life is a wish. 

She lives for this pleasure. 

Dear Daughter, always growing.

Today you are turning five!

To my heart, you are showing,

The joys of being alive. 

The Abrasive Side of the Sponge

So, I was watching Sponge Bob with Celie the other day and I laughed so hard and mused a bit.  It's a funny show, and sometimes I doubt my 3 year old is learning much from it, but I am, so it seems harmless enough?  Sponge Bob is THE man in this house.  He is the only show that can actually keep the kid hooked for more than 15 minutes at a clip.  I've never seen anything like it!  Are you kidding me?  Of course I shall embrace the Bob Pants!!  This is something we can both 'learn' from.

So, basically on this episode, Gary, thinking Sponge Bob too passive or what have you, orders him an accessory of sorts for sponges.  It's one of those rough and tough green abrasive sides!!  Sponge Bob puts it on and he loves it, marching down the street declaring "I have an abrasive side!! I have an abrasive side!!"  I couldn't help but laugh.  Some of us are just that proud of it, aren't we?

As Sponge Bob continues on his way, he soon finds that he can't control his other side, which is basically a green face on his back that randomly flips around and throws insulting remarks at his friends. He even tells off his grandma at a cross walk and refuses to help her across the road. For awhile he's sort of blissfully unaware this is happening, but then he begins to realize all of his friends are mad at him and he is filled with regret when he thinks of how he treated his grandma. The Awakening!

Abrasive is an adjective that according to Webster's means 'tending to abrade' or 'causing irritation'. Irritating. This basically means that Sponge Bob's other side was irritating to everyone around him. The things he would come out and say in almost a bipolar manner could be hilarious. Some things were just brutally honest. Other things were just down right mean. There are two sides to every sponge. I know people like this. People that seem to announce it as they parade through life. Others, like myself, don't really realize how the other side seems because our yellow side is so snarky, sometimes it's hard to tell the difference. I digress.

Ultimately, Sandy Squirrel ended up ripping the abrasive face right off of Sponge Bob's back. What a pal! That's what friends are for. We could all use to be a little more abrasive on some tough messes, and that's what abrasive sides are essentially made for, those ancient, caked on messes that give the most resistance. But for those softer, milder jobs, the other side of the sponge is more than sufficient. The abrasive side, which is used for tougher stains, is overkill for those gentle jobs. If it could only be controlled, maybe we could get the job done without scratching the china? No matter, squirrelly friends will always be willing to help you find your true face on the other side of the sponge.

The Chain That Binds

After feeling empowered by my building of a crude table using the cordless and some pieces of scrap wood earlier this summer (it's amazing what Red Bull and dopamine can do together!), I hung some things up inside and when doing so put a chain on the front door.  A chain...quite the symbol. This got me thinking about which side of the door was being blocked. Are you locked in or out?   Chains are used for a lot of things.  These door chains are used against intruders, but I surmise mostly to slow them down?   You can use them that way, but my chains are mostly used to contain what is inside, not to keep out what is outside.  Bound, locked, shut, blocked, closed, restrained, protected....chained. Restriction.
 

Celie is at the age now that she will unlock the dead bolt and go outside.  It's not a huge deal because there's not a four lane out there or anything, as we live in the woods, but being that she had also taken to relieving herself in the yard and on the front steps at the time as well as running into the woods, I decided to lock her in so she couldn't randomly sneak out without my knowledge. RESTRICTED! I was quite proud of putting this chain up myself, even if it was only to contain childish attempts at escape, it also represented a sense of protection, Self protection.  I suppose I have it better than Celie, the inner child, so to speak. She is at the mercy of the chain. It's better when you can be the master of the chain, but I suppose this is an art? Houdini was famous for chaining himself up, only to practice his escapes.  Chains can only hold those that don't understand how to break the locks, or simply choose not to.  Is that a metaphor?

Restrictions are sometimes for safety, as is the case with my daughter, or for mastery, as with Houdini. Mastering the Self is mastering the chain; picking the lock of your own prison. However, one of the biggest reasons for chains is fear. Fear of intruders, fear of being overtaken, fear of injury, violence, or death...even the fear of our own freedom. Chains make us feel secure and safe, separated from would-be intruders and threats. If we don't learn when it is safe to unchain the door, though, we can keep out the friends with the foes, block out the good with the bad. We need to master the chain that binds, so to speak. Like the door chain, these tethers are usually unlocked more often than they are broken. Some chains are damn near unbreakable, and the only way out is through the lock itself.

Chains are used to contain, restrain, restrict, block, and hold.  They are also used to lift, to raise, to pull through, and to hold together.  They can lock in as well as lock out, sometimes simultaneously. It protects as well as restricts; it goes both ways.  The protection is a restriction, but also the restriction is the protection. THAT is a metaphor.

Are we chaining out threats to our well being, or are the chains themselves a threat to our well being? It goes both ways.

Asking For Help: A Retrospective Ramble

[Started February 3, 2012]

Last week I was still dealing with crazy head.  Don’t get excited, nothing has changed, but I have a plan of action now at the very least.  I’ve said I want a Renaissance.  I’ve been saying it and feeling it.  But it’s hard to work on my Self and be a semi-single SAH mother and a wife and a writer and an artist and a musician and a business owner.  For some reason I guess I always felt like I should be able to do it all.  Not 100%, but at least do it all myself.  My husband is always away, so I take on the role I have to in order to exist here.  But I want my other roles; I have many.  It’s hard to keep things going and still manage to do everything.  Motherhood trumps everything else, including my sanity.

Drifting Sun has been back burnered for quite awhile now.  My shed was inundated with all of the stuff that was in my office prior to us needing a room for the baby.  I only printed one or two jobs the entire time I was pregnant.  I actually had my sister and husband do the physical printing, and I just did the screening, prepping and registration.  It can get a little smoky while printing, and in July while being 8 months pregnant the last thing I wanted to do was be standing and printing in my tiny hot box of a shop.  So they printed for me as I oversaw the process while sitting outside in a chair, and it worked out nicely.  I did print a couple pieces when they ran into problems, though, and helped them get straightened out.  And I printed a jacket job I had, because it was one jacket (ONE CHANCE SWIPE!) and my husband felt a little too intimidated to do it himself, which is understandable. 

I just printed a job for my cousin (December 2011), a memorial shirt for my Aunt Leslie who died of cancer in 2008.  It was an honor to print these shirts and it got me back into the swing of things with printing after the pregnancy hiatus.  This still doesn’t change the fact that my printing and chemicals and dark(bath)room stuff doesn’t exactly mix with watching a toddler.  And even when I am working on graphics or other things, it takes a great deal of my attention.  I’m always split.  I’m not a working mother and I’m not a stay at home mother...I’m something else.  I’ve tried to work out a situation where I could have her consistently watched once a week but haven’t been able to make it work yet.  At a loss, I’ve taken a friend on as my “assistant” instead.  I need help.  I think it’s obvious, and if I am pleading “please, I’m dying here!” and am not answered with a helpful hand, then by the fuck I’ll MAKE a helping hand.  Leslie is my friend and it seems appropriate she shares my aunt’s name.  Truthfully, other than my aunt, she is the only Leslie I have ever known.  She will visit me a lot and simply allow me to get simple things done like the dishes or getting a shower, just by being another individual that is around.  Leslie has agreed to help me out with my business also.  It seems appropriate that the first time I met her I was in the shed printing a job.  She actually helped me out watching my kid AND printing the first day I met her.  Maybe it was her eagerness, or something inside of her I recognized that seemed familiar, but this girl is a lifesaver.  Sometimes you just recognize people on a soul level and the connection is immediate and effortless.

 

Sometimes asking for help can be difficult.  I have grown to have a problem with this because the response was usually unsatisfying.  I shirked from asking for help...but in truth, I need help.  Isn’t it obvious?  It can be hard to submit to the fact that you are lost, look at the male stereotype of how hard it is to ask for directions.  Last year I struggled with this dilemma when deciding whether to take antidepressants or not and whether to begin to see a therapist or not.  Decisions decisions.  Life decisions.  This year has been chock full of the help I received because of that decision, the decision to heal.  The decision to leave the victim mentality behind.  It’s mostly a battle with EGO.  Ego doesn’t need help...so it thinks.  Truth is...EGO needs help more than anyone or anything.  EGO is the prime reason for all suffering and most of the communication problems among us.  It’s quite the bitch. 

So last year was fucking nuts but it was a first step into what really feels like a whole new life, it seems fitting that December 2012 was the end of the Mayan calendar and the supposed end of the world as we know it.  Nothing seemed to happen, aside from symbolically.  Was that really such a bad thing?  I needed the change.  I needed my world to end so that my new life could begin.  It was a matter of SURRENDER.  I simply had to surrender to the help that I have always desperately needed...physically, emotionally, mentally...and spiritually. 

[Finished September 10, 2013]

(Facebook Meme Graphic/artist unknown)

Rising Reflections on Fear and Faith

This morning while still sitting in bed I heard Celie, while she was playing pretend beside me, telling her Snoopy “It’s okay, honey, s’nothing be ‘fraid of.”  It is in the tiny moments like these that I feel proud as a mother, like she actually IS absorbing some of the things I struggle to teach her, the things I desperately try to push into the chaotic ADHD toddler sponge that is my daughter.  Usually it’s something deeper that I then realize she actually DOES understand, and that is so touching and refreshing to me, because sometimes in the bowels of the battle of wills and ye olde discipline game, it’s hard to know if you are being heard, let alone listened to.  I love that Celie has started into the imaginary play stage.  It’s fascinating to watch when she really gets into it and forgets that I’m watching.  When she plays, she’s in essence “passing it on”---playing telephone with my words.  Those stuffed animals are in theory my future grandchildren, and I take comfort in the fact that she is already soothing them and assuring them that there is “nothing to be afraid of”. 

Celie has been “scared” since early on in her existence, a year or two ago she started verbalizing being scared.  She’s an odd kid.  She sees “Ameet” and Shadows and is scared a lot.  Not in a debilitating kind of way, she is still mighty curious and brave, but she has always been a little funny.  A couple of months ago around 2:30 in the morning she woke up freaking out and screaming about “shadows” and them “touching her stomach”.  She wasn’t entirely awake but pointing and it actually got me freaked out thinking like “HOLY SHIT WHAT’S THERE?”  I assume she has some sort of night terrors, which would explain her hatred of sleep and the process of falling into it, although she still mentions these things randomly throughout her waking day.  Randomly.  No rhyme or reason sometimes.  “Oh, there go a shadows...”  I’m dumbfounded.  “Okay.”  What do you say to that?  So needless to say with seeing “Ameet” everywhere and shadows and stuff she is “scared” a lot.  I stewed over how to deal with this for awhile.  I didn’t want her to be afraid, but I didn’t want to tell her nothing is there?  What if there WAS something there?  How the hell am I supposed to know what she sees?  So I don’t want to negate any sensitivity she may have to such things because I force her into seeing things in my reality.  It’s possible.  Anything is possible.  So how was I supposed to deal with her fear without simply dismissing it or neglecting her need for some true comfort?  In the end, I chose to comfort her to the best of my abilities, but instruct her to not be afraid of anything she sees.  “There is nothing to be afraid of.”  I know, right?  Why am I blatantly lying to my child like this at such a young age?  In the darkness of a crazy world like the one in which we live, I perhaps would receive criticism because I chose to tell her that there is nothing to be afraid of.  There is plenty to be afraid of, but is there really?  We should be cautious of many things and be careful, but being fearful, I have found in my life experience, isn’t too beneficial.  I don’t want my daughter to be afraid.  I want her to feel her fear and recognize it, but not feel guilty for being afraid.  I want my child to understand that fear is not a desired emotion or state of mind; it’s a bridge to faith. 

I remembered a conversation I had with my Grandmother at her house, just before she was going in for one of her many surgeries, this time to amputate part of the leg that she had previously had several surgeries on trying to save.  I was sick with fear and worry, but struggled with not letting it show to this woman, this incredibly strong and faithful woman.  “I’ve never been afraid,” she told me that day.  I marveled over that.  “You’ve never been afraid going into any of your surgeries?”  “No,” she replied, lowering her eyes and shaking her head, slightly nodding at the same time. "It's God's will," she said.  The corners of her mouth rose into the small, humble grin of self pride and she beamed; to me that was more beautiful than Mona Lisa’s smile.  Gram's self-pride didn't come from the fact that she wasn't afraid or was so brave, herself.  You could tell it was REALLY in the fact that she knew she was teaching by example...every second of her life.  She was teaching you not to be afraid...by not being afraid.  I couldn’t prevent a teary-eyed good-bye, even after her reassurance; I was still unnerved by the whole ordeal and the fear of a surgery of such gravity on a woman of her age.  I just remember how brave she was in the face of it, batting not an eye, eternal smile still on her face.  Who knows if my Grandmother was putting on her straight face like I was trying to do, for the benefit of those around her, but honestly, you got the impression from Leona Cecelia that she walked her walk.  She practiced what she preached, and she believed in her heart of hearts that whatever happened---it was God’s will.  To a woman of high faith, such as Leona, this removed all fear from her.  Whatever is to be, will be.  Life will unfold.  What is there to possibly fear when you know that it will all work out, regardless---regardless of ANYTHING? This is what faith is, folks; believing in something, no matter what the consequences.  Believing that there is NOTHING to be afraid of.  We can feel our fear, learn from it, use it to grow, use it as a warning, etc. but when it comes down to it, if you believe it is all in the hands of the Universe---then there is NOTHING to be afraid of.  That’s where my Grandmother lived, sitting safe and snug with that everlasting smile in the palm of God. 

You can’t teach faith.  I will never be able to exactly convey or pass on to Celie my reverence for religion, value of positive thinking or faith, because I learned it first hand from having this woman in my life...through example.  I could never set such a strong and positive example.  Maybe that is why I feel like such a failure at times.  I struggle with wanting Celie to truly understand my beliefs and get my good parts.  This is the only way I know how.  In little lessons that I hope my daughter is paying attention to.  Some seeds don’t sprout for years, but it’s important to have faith that they are planted.  I’ll never forget what my grandmother said that day, and it came to mind this morning as I watched my daughter comfort her “friends”, assuring them that there’s nothing to be afraid of.  She was practicing the example she will someday set.  Grandma has successfully, in essence, “passed it on” down to her great-great-grand animals.  A lesson in faith and fear that she taught me is in turn teaching my children and will someday, God willing, be passed on to my children’s children.  That’s one mighty legacy.  That would definitely make her smile. 

Rod Wives: When Saturday Sucks

Living as a Rod Wife can be hard enough, but what is even worse than seeing your man only two true days a week is when they work on Saturday.  Sure, overtime can be nice, but who cares about money when you are that lonely?  Oh, Mr. Scrooge?  Yeah, him, but for real?  We "pay" enough to live this way, I want my Saturday. We both sacrifice a lot to live the rod life, but it does allow me to spend this irreplaceable time with my child instead of in the work force, climbing a ladder or running with the rats.  I would rather do my work at home, but this life does come with sacrifices, as would the other one.  Everything comes with its price.

On this Saturday, for instance, my husband worked so he didn't get home until 6:30pm.  So right off the bat, Saturday feels like Friday, and obviously what should be Saturday morning is Sunday morning, soon turned Sunday evening and before the clock hands even seem to move it's Monday morning and he's leaving again.  That's barely enough time to get your laundry done, let alone feel like a family, do errands, and get some lovin's in.  At least on this Saturday, we had plans to fall into directly after he arrived which included dinner at a friend's, other children for entertainment (namely hers, meaning ours) and some wine!  So we were able to have an authentic Irish dinner and some grown up talk and beverages, while our midget enjoyed the company of some other shorties.  For a sucky Saturday it was pretty fun after all.  Most of the day was spent waiting for Joey to get home, which made it feel like Friday, but then it actually had the rewarding feeling Friday's used to have back when they included more friends, food, and fanfare, and less bawling, baths, and bedtimes.  It's nice to celebrate the return of your loved ones. Friday's were always a party; everyone was coming home.

Obviously things have changed with our week and weekend routines after having a child, but being a Rod Wife still sucks when you're both doing overtime.  Some men are gone for weeks on end, so I should be grateful we are only apart the amount that we are.  Money is nice, but not as nice as my husbands arms feel.  They can keep their money, I want our Saturday's.  It doesn't happen that often so it's important to look on the bright side of the situation when it occurs.  Absence has been known, for example, to make the heart grow fonder.  It's true.  It also makes the sex better.

Me To You,
Missie Sue

Dead Dreams and the Dirty Truth

I have been thinking about what my therapist said at our last session lately.  We were discussing my anxiety over all of my projects and ideas, work and play, my "Renaissance woman" nature, as she put it, and as I was going off about my inability to do everything she reminded me that I was forgetting the fact that I am a single mother during the week.  Not only am I a mother, which comes with all of its responsibilities and sacrifices, but I do it on my own the majority of the time, which comes with even more.  I feel bad even comparing myself to single mothers, who have to be the hardest working, most chronically stressed and strongest creatures on the face of the earth.  Props to that group of women, which includes my therapist.  (You are all amazing!)  Having her make the comparison herself allowed me to see the truth in it.  I am not a single mother for real, but it certainly can feel like it sometimes!  And like other real single mothers, and all mothers alike, time is of the essence.  It is valuable, and we have to manage it or it will manage us.  Sometimes there isn't enough time to do everything, and in order to prioritize for parenthood, we need to make sacrifices.  That's part of the deal.  Sometimes some parts of us have to experience a temporary death in order to rear new life, all in the hope that they will be resurrected one glorious, long-awaited day in the future.

I have given up a lot to be a mother, as does every woman.  We sacrifice our freedom, our time, our sleep, our nourishment, our hygiene and most cases our mental well being...all so our progeny is properly taken care of.  This is an amazing gift, both to give and to receive, but it also can be one of the most soul crippling acts of selflessness.  All of our personal pleasures in life, the places and things that we find and express ourselves in, can get put on hold.  We are at the beck and call of another creature.  Hobbies fall by the wayside, dreams fluttering after them.  My therapist used to be a trainer, she used to be a size 4, she used to be a sculptor, she used to be an artist...until 3 years ago when her son was born.  It was heart breaking hearing her tell how she cried as she covered her potter's wheel in her basement studio.  She had to put those parts of herself away in order to be the best mother she could be. At least temporarily.  In synchronistic fashion my dad mentioned the same thing to me the same day in the same words.  Parts die, not forever.  I am realizing how many directions I am pulling myself in creatively and I know that there are some things I need to put away, things that need to die, although, there are some parts of me that I refuse to give up.  I was forced to break myself down to my basic components and determine what is absolutely necessary for my spiritual survival.  What was the bread and butter of my soul?

When I was little, the first thing that I can remember ever wanting to be was an artist.  I can still remember the first time I was placed in front of an easel.  I can still feel that chalky paint being stirred by my over-sized brush in the bottom of that little Styrofoam cup.  I can still smell the powdery paint.  Part of me is still standing in front of that easel, looking at the blank paper, and making those first brush strokes.  I am still standing there, in so many ways in my life.  Still standing at the easel, at the very beginning.

Painting is an amazing feeling and release.  There is really nothing like it, if you are someone that understands its worth.  It isn't even my "thing" per say, just one of many sides of me, but I have been drawn to it since my early childhood.  It is an excellent means for expression.  It can also be pretty messy, time consuming, and not exactly kid friendly.  I was by some miracle able to squeeze in some painting time early last year, and that was the first time it happened in quite awhile.  I'm not even exactly sure how it happened, I think I just desperately needed it to happen at the time.  It was wonderful, but it gave me a false sense of hope about my life as a mother. It was exciting while I could swing it, but soon I had a stack of canvas and brushes and paints and rags wedged into our already cluttered bedroom.  And there it sat.

There it sat...mocking me.  Every morning I woke up and it was beside me, every night I curled up next to it...next to a dead dream.  All snug as a bug, next to decaying hopes.  "You'll never paint me, EVER!"  The half painted ones taunted me.  It wasn't healthy.  I decided all of it was better out of sight, out of mind instead of in a limbo life, waiting for me to pull them out and pick up where I'd left off.  Not gonna happen.  Don't wait for me.  Shut the car off, I'm gonna be awhile. I decided that even though I feel so emotionally connected to painting and have always returned to it again, no matter how long I had previously given it up for, it represented something I just can't accomplish at this point in my life.  That representation was hard to see every single time I went into my bedroom, my supposed sanctuary.  It needed to be removed.  It was sand in my eye, it just made my eyes water and burn and itch!  It is hard to remember that this is only temporary.  It doesn't have to be forever, it just isn't my main priority right now in life. 

I have a lot of ideas and plans on my plate, I enjoy creating and expressing myself.  There are things that I do that have a purpose beyond expression.  My screen printing and piercing are both possibly lucrative activities, they obviously can not be put on the back burner.  Those projects and all activities they include will continue.  They are my work, not so much hobby, even though it feels like it at times. 

As far as pastimes go, when it comes down to it, writing and music are things I can not go without, and they are kind of tied around each other.  My spirit would be crushed if I had to give these forms of self expression up, especially writing.  It's the only thing that has always been there for me, that has always been a trusted pain reliever.  Sorry, Painting, but Writing stays. 

So, I decided that if my therapist can cover up her potter's wheel, if she can let her creative muscles atrophy until time and life permit her exercising them once again, surely I can give up some things that aren't so much a priority, mainly oil painting, which meant packing my things away in a plastic tote and saying goodbye...for now.  It wasn't as hard as I THOUGHT it would be, but it was still sad in a way.  I just have to remember that it isn't forever.  And I can focus those ideas, that energy, into other aspects of my life.  My screens can become my canvas as I work on my own shirt designs more.  I have been wanting to get a new set of water color pencils.  Perhaps they would be a little more child compliant?  I used to love using my set in college, I think it would be a good compromise.  Removing my small canvas collection helped to remove the negative feelings of failure they stir up in me and also forced me to define my inalienable creative outlets.  I can only be so many parts of me at a time.  It's like the Rock Hall, you have to rotate the exhibits, some pieces need to stay in the vault for a bit, but they will be displayed again.

The dirty truth about being a mother is that you can't be or do it all.  Parts of you die, huge parts, parts that have shaped and defined who you are as person.  Beautiful, colorful pieces of yourself need to be laid to rest for a time, but not forever.  I remember a few years ago my dad telling me that when you are young you tend to think that there won't be time for all of these things that you want to do, but then when you get there you realize, there is time.  Time is of the essence.  The time will come.

Are there any pieces of yourself that could use a temporary death?

In Time,
Missie Sue

A Meet in the Middle of Reflections and Shadows

How far is a shadow's reach?

ON Monday, Celie was introduced to her shadow.  That's a loaded concept and a metaphor; complex for anyone, let alone for a toddler.  I'm speaking of course of the shadow in the psychological sense.  I think she sees MY shadow more than any other human being, even more than the sun, so I suppose it is only right she learn how they are made, starting with the 'physical' ones, if you will.  I also gained some insight into "A Meet" and it's identification.  A Meet has been a character in the family for going on 3 months or more now.  We have no clue as to its true identity, aside from the many cryptic descriptions we are given almost on a daily basis.  It's a mystery, much like all of life, but one that we are determined to get to the bottom of.

Celie first started talking about A Meet around the holidays.  She was watching You Tube videos with her Grammy and Aunt Kate.  This one video was just a scene of Christmas lights going on and off backed by music.  On this one spot the lights didn't go off because it appeared to be lights from a house in the distance that wasn't part of the lights display.  Celie began to say "A Meet! A Meet is onna spot!!"  We didn't know what she meant, but figured it to be that "spot" on the video she pointed out, which was weird and perplexing.  She has since then gone into an "I'm scared!" stage of sorts where often times she is scared of areas, or the dark, or "things".  She hasn't liked the dark since she was young but had never verbalized being scared of anything until 4 to 6 months ago.  She started saying A Meet was "onna win'ow" at my parents' house.  They have a large bow window in the kitchen and she didn't like it while sitting in her high chair.  Was it a reflection in the glass?  She has also always said "A Meet is sad!"  So far we knew A Meet to be "sad", "onna win'ow" and "onna spot" but had no clue what it really was or why it was so damn melancholy and creepy.

Celie has since then brought up A Meet many many times.  She has said it was on our windows, usually at night, which leads you to believe it is a reflection of sorts she is talking about.  But, still. WHY is it sad?!  Plus, it is very odd to hear the things she has been telling me are "like A Meet".  So far it is apparently like the goat in Green Eggs and Ham as well as the little heart shaped pillow the blue haired pet sits on in One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish?  What in the hell does this thing look like?!  No wonder it's scary!  She will also just start telling people about A Meet even when she doesn't say she is actively seeing it, just a random "oh by the way..." in conversation.  Last week when my mother-in-law was visiting, I was blissfully using the bathroom alone when I heard her up in the living room telling her about A Meet.  It's quite the popular oddity with her lately.

While in the living room on Monday, the sun was coming through the window and throwing a shadow on the floor as it often does that time of day.  The tassels of the valance style curtain were forming a dark visually interesting shape on the carpet.  Celie pointed at it and said "A Meet! A Meet!"  I looked at the floor and wondered what it was she saw in the shapes.  I realized she didn't really understand the concept of what a shadow is, how it is made, or where it comes from.  She was scared of the shadow, so I moved the tassels on the curtain, being the part of the shadow she was pointing at, showing her how they and the shadow both moved, hopefully showing her how the shadow came from the sun on the curtain.  We had played with the sunlight in this window using dangley shiny streamers before, shaking them and playing with the light reflected on the ceiling.  She had seen the light, and I hoped that would allow her to understand the dark.  (That's a metaphor!!)
After moving the curtain and it's shadow I extended my arm into the light, pointing out my arm moving and the new shadow form that was moving.  She seemed to understand and immediately declared, "I needa try it!"  She climbed up onto the couch in front of the window that was creating the magic, and began moving her arms, seemingly satisfied that the movement was hers.  She extended individual fingers, playing with the changes and locating her shadow hand.  She got onto the floor and started stepping on it and walking around.  This calmed her fear, and she moved past it not mentioning A Meet again for the moment.

Celie learned that she makes her own shadow and can control it.  I learned just how scary reflections can be and how they can be interwoven with shadow, and used to help us to understand the dark spots.  She is afraid of A Meet.  Reflections can be scary, so can your shadow.  It's a different form of yourself that follows you everywhere, but you can control it if you can see it.

Reflections are sometimes intimidating.  To the human mind programmed to find order in chaos,they tend to take on forms and shapes...symbols, if you will, and therefore have meaning.  They change.  Perspective changes them.  The image is always different; sometimes it's a horned goat in your face, sometimes it's a cushion to sit on.  Reflections come from objects throwing the light source back out onto another object.  A passing of the light, in a way, letting the light shine.  Reflections should then, theoretically speaking, be positive.  They are a vicarious source of light.

Your shadows are dark reflections of your soul in a psychological sense, that you can see if you are backed by light.  They are areas of blocked light, where the source can not move through us.  Shadows are also intimidating.  They show a distorted version of ourselves; a taller tale or a stretched truth.  Perhaps if we become more reflective we can better understand our dark side and become more shadowless, bending the light in accordance to our shape and movement, adding our own twist, and then sending it back out to space, rather than blocking the light and creating darkness.  Learning to control your darkness, your own shadow, is a milestone at any age.

How far is a shadows reach?

Musing Through,
Missie Sue

Thanksgiving

In the spirit of the holiday, I would like for my positive side to make a fuss over my daughter now, because there is really nothing in my life that I am more thankful for.

It is funny to think of how fragile a human life is, in general and on the web of existence. They are each such tiny stands in the fabric of time, yet they can powerfully touch so many lives.  There is a delicate balance that holds them in 'being'. Had anything happened differently in the course of my life, there would be no Celie Ruth.

Anyone can say this, but do you truly grasp what that means? Anything. Obviously, had I not married and mated with my husband, she wouldn't be here, but the nuances of fate are even more delicate than that.  If I hadn't had an early miscarriage before conceiving her, she wouldn't be here. If I hadn't waited until I was 29 to conceive, she wouldn't be here. If I had EVER used the pill as a contraceptive, suspending my ovulation and the order of my eggs...she wouldn't be here!

Those are some odds. Are they really odds? It just seems to me that this is the way it was supposed to be, the Universe wanted its Celie Ruth. While I was pregnant with her, I would tell the Universe in my head, ' This is your child...' I was but a vessel for the amazing thing brewing inside of me. Something has far greater hopes and dreams for this critter than even I can imagine. She is a child of the Universe, my daughter, but my little sister in creation as well.

I know that she stresses me out a lot and can drive me crazy, but I would surely be lost without her. She is seriously cooler than about 78% of the people I know. A friend was warning me the other day about becoming too much of a friend to her as sometimes happens to single parents. This is something I'll surely have to struggle with, because unconsciously I am just hanging out everyday. We are alone together so much and I am alone with her so much, we're going to have to make sure the parent/child line is distinct. I'm not a single mother and could never imagine the hardships those women face daily, but as a SAHM all week on her own, I experience a tiny sliver of that life.  When you are lonely, you lean on a companion you can, and I have her.  We'll see how the balance unwinds as she gets older.

Mostly we hang out and listen to music, watch our favorite shows, read books, color, draw, talk, and play pretend. Sounds like best friends to me! What does that say about me, then, if my two year old is my best friend? It means she's one cool cat, that's what it means!