Maternal Journeys

I tried my hand at fiction, and I’d love to know what you think. Perhaps you’ll see it in a magazine soon . . .

She sat mesmerized by the story unfolding on the pages, unaware that her hair was blowing in circles around her. The clouds were ready to spill, and someone was admiring her stature. Huge drops of rain distorted the final paragraphs of the novel, and she cursed at the interruption. Her body uncurled from its nest in the sand as she struggled to pull herself back into the reality she so wanted to flee. The corners of the worn cotton blanket gathered swiftly in her fingers. Its contents tumbled into the center as the raindrops became sheets and her swirling skirt seemed to carry her to the nearest gazebo, attached to someone’s home. The blanket and all its contents tumbled along the floor, as a quiet voice smiled, “Been watching that storm build for almost half an hour, must be a pretty good book.”

Rae suddenly realized she had no idea where she was, having walked a good ways before finding a spot she could read alone. She whirled around, ready to grab her pile from the floor and run, rain and all. She decided immediately not to.

The voice had come from a stunning man in one of the worn Adirondack chairs near the house, well under the blue and white awning that strained to keep hold of the porch. Still oblivious to the severity of the storm beginning to rage, she enjoyed a bold stare at the length of the figure that lounged and smiled. There was a little salt in his pepper hair, but what caught her off guard were those beautiful hazel eyes, almost green, definitely not simply brown. She watched his hands with interest as he folded his newspaper, and set it aside.

“You could have told me it was coming before I got soaked!” She tried to wipe away the water that dripped from her hair and dress, and finally gave up. He dropped his gaze for a moment, “I could have, but that would have been much less interesting to watch.”

“May I?” she asked, as she motioned to the second chair. “Of course, can’t really send you out in this. I might even have a towel.” He disappeared into the house without waiting for a response. She sank into the chair, surprised at how comfortable a wooden chair could be. Closing her eyes, Rae replayed the picture of his eyes as he mocked her. Damn he was pretty. She guessed him to be around 50. A bit older than she, but that shouldn’t matter. The wind picked up, and for reasons she could not fathom, she relaxed into the chair and propped up her feet.

Perhaps she was still partially in her novel, pretending to be the heroine who knew exactly what she wanted, and how to get it. What if she lived like that? Even for the next few minutes. . .

The walk was supposed to have been a distraction. She had forced herself to leave work for vacation days she would loose in a few weeks, when the new year started. It wasn’t that she was in love with her work, but work was always easier than figuring out the rest of her life. The fund raising and grant writing she did for the local theater company was enough social interaction to quell her mother’s worries, and still allowed her to enjoy time alone. Ever since Paul had left, she contented herself with reading about other people’s adventures. Being bold had never gotten her very far, at least not anywhere she wanted to go. So she rented a little cottage on a warm beach off the beaten path and surrounded herself with plenty of novels. Her mother’s phone call had interrupted a beautiful story, and she realized she had all but run away from home as soon as she could get off the phone. A chunk of sourdough and a wedge of pecorino cheese had been thrown in a bag, along with the latest novel and a blanket. At least out on the beach no one could interrupt her. She hadn’t considered the weather.

He returned a few minutes later with a towel, a sweater, a bottle of Shiraz and two glasses. This was much more interesting than the end of her novel. What if, just for the afternoon, she allowed herself to simply enjoy the adventure, without trying to see into the future?

“I’m Alex.” His handshake was firm, and she noted the warmth in his hand, as well as his gaze.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Rae. Thanks for the hospitality.” She stood and dried off, snuggling into the sweater that smelled faintly of aftershave. The Shiraz went well with the sourdough and cheese, and thunder continued to rumble as sparks flew in the gazebo.

I tried my hand at romantic fiction, I’d love to know what you think.  Perhaps you’ll see it in a magazine soon!

She sat mesmerized by the story unfolding on the pages, unaware that her hair was blowing in circles around her. The clouds were ready to spill, and someone was admiring her stature. Huge drops of rain distorted the final paragraphs of the novel, and she cursed at the interruption. Her body uncurled from its nest in the sand as she struggled to pull herself back into the reality she so wanted to flee. The corners of the worn cotton blanket gathered swiftly in her fingers. Its contents tumbled into the center as the raindrops became sheets and her swirling skirt seemed to carry her to the nearest gazebo, attached to someone’s home. The blanket and all its contents tumbled along the floor, as a quiet voice smiled, “Been watching that storm build for almost half an hour, must be a pretty good book.”

Rae suddenly realized she had no idea where she was, having walked a good ways before finding a spot she could read alone. She whirled around, ready to grab her pile from the floor and run, rain and all. She decided immediately not to.

The voice had come from a stunning man in one of the worn Adirondack chairs near the house, well under the blue and white awning that strained to keep hold of the porch. Still oblivious to the severity of the storm beginning to rage, she enjoyed a bold stare at the length of the figure that lounged and smiled. There was a little salt in his pepper hair, but what caught her off guard were those beautiful hazel eyes, almost green, definitely not simply brown. She watched his hands with interest as he folded his newspaper, and set it aside.

“You could have told me it was coming before I got soaked!” She tried to wipe away the water that dripped from her hair and dress, and finally gave up. He dropped his gaze for a moment, “I could have, but that would have been much less interesting to watch.”

“May I?” she asked, as she motioned to the second chair. “Of course, can’t really send you out in this. I might even have a towel.” He disappeared into the house without waiting for a response. She sank into the chair, surprised at how comfortable a wooden chair could be. Closing her eyes, Rae replayed the picture of his eyes as he mocked her. Damn he was pretty. She guessed him to be around 50. A bit older than she, but that shouldn’t matter. The wind picked up, and for reasons she could not fathom, she relaxed into the chair and propped up her feet.

Perhaps she was still partially in her novel, pretending to be the heroine who knew exactly what she wanted, and how to get it. What if she lived like that? Even for the next few minutes. . .

The walk was supposed to have been a distraction. She had forced herself to leave work for vacation days she would loose in a few weeks, when the new year started. It wasn’t that she was in love with her work, but work was always easier than figuring out the rest of her life. The fund raising and grant writing she did for the local theater company was enough social interaction to quell her mother’s worries, and still allowed her to enjoy time alone. Ever since Paul had left, she contented herself with reading about other people’s adventures. Being bold had never gotten her very far, at least not anywhere she wanted to go. So she rented a little cottage on a warm beach off the beaten path and surrounded herself with plenty of novels. Her mother’s phone call had interrupted a beautiful story, and she realized she had all but run away from home as soon as she could get off the phone. A chunk of sourdough and a wedge of pecorino cheese had been thrown in a bag, along with the latest novel and a blanket. At least out on the beach no one could interrupt her. She hadn’t considered the weather.

He returned a few minutes later with a towel, a sweater, a bottle of Shiraz and two glasses. This was much more interesting than the end of her novel. What if, just for the afternoon, she allowed herself to simply enjoy the adventure, without trying to see into the future?

“I’m Alex.” His handshake was firm, and she noted the warmth in his hand, as well as his gaze.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Rae. Thanks for the hospitality.” She stood and dried off, snuggling into the sweater that smelled faintly of aftershave. The Shiraz went well with the sourdough and cheese, and thunder continued to rumble as sparks flew in the gazebo.

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I tried my hand at romantic fiction, let me know what you think.  Perhaps you’ll see it in a magazine soon!

She sat mesmerized by the story unfolding on the pages, unaware that her hair was blowing in circles around her. The clouds were ready to spill, and someone was admiring her stature. Huge drops of rain distorted the final paragraphs of the novel, and she cursed at the interruption. Her body uncurled from its nest in the sand as she struggled to pull herself back into the reality she so wanted to flee. The corners of the worn cotton blanket gathered swiftly in her fingers. Its contents tumbled into the center as the raindrops became sheets and her swirling skirt seemed to carry her to the nearest gazebo, attached to someone’s home. The blanket and all its contents tumbled along the floor, as a quiet voice smiled, “Been watching that storm build for almost half an hour, must be a pretty good book.

Rae suddenly realized she had no idea where she was, having walked a good ways before finding a spot she could read alone. She whirled around, ready to grab her pile from the floor and run, rain and all. She decided immediately not to.

The voice had come from a stunning man in one of the worn Adirondack chairs near the house, well under the blue and white awning that strained to keep hold of the porch. Still oblivious to the severity of the storm beginning to rage, she enjoyed a bold stare at the length of the figure that lounged and smiled. There was a little salt in his pepper hair, but what caught her off guard were those beautiful hazel eyes, almost green, definitely not simply brown. She watched his hands with interest as he folded his newspaper, and set it aside.

“You could have told me it was coming before I got soaked!” She tried to wipe away the water that dripped from her hair and dress, and finally gave up. He dropped his gaze for a moment, “I could have, but that would have been much less interesting to watch.”

“May I?” she asked, as she motioned to the second chair. “Of course, can’t really send you out in this. I might even have a towel.” He disappeared into the house without waiting for a response. She sank into the chair, surprised at how comfortable a wooden chair could be. Closing her eyes, Rae replayed the picture of his eyes as he mocked her. Damn he was pretty. She guessed him to be around 50. A bit older than she, but that shouldn’t matter. The wind picked up, and for reasons she could not fathom, she relaxed into the chair and propped up her feet.

Perhaps she was still partially in her novel, pretending to be the heroine who knew exactly what she wanted, and how to get it. What if she lived like that? Even for the next few minutes. . .

The walk was supposed to have been a distraction. She had forced herself to leave work for vacation days she would loose in a few weeks, when the new year started. It wasn’t that she was in love with her work, but work was always easier than figuring out the rest of her life. The fund raising and grant writing she did for the local theater company was enough social interaction to quell her mother’s worries, and still allowed her to enjoy time alone. Ever since Paul had left, she contented herself with reading about other people’s adventures. Being bold had never gotten her very far, at least not anywhere she wanted to go. So she rented a little cottage on a warm beach off the beaten path and surrounded herself with plenty of novels. Her mother’s phone call had interrupted a beautiful story, and she realized she had all but run away from home as soon as she could get off the phone. A chunk of sourdough and a wedge of pecorino cheese had been thrown in a bag, along with the latest novel and a blanket. At least out on the beach no one could interrupt her. She hadn’t considered the weather.

He returned a few minutes later with a towel, a sweater, a bottle of Shiraz and two glasses. This was much more interesting than the end of her novel. What if, just for the afternoon, she allowed herself to simply enjoy the adventure, without trying to see into the future?

“I’m Alex.” His handshake was firm, and she noted the warmth in his hand, as well as his gaze.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Rae. Thanks for the hospitality.” She stood and dried off, snuggling into the sweater that smelled faintly of aftershave. The Shiraz went well with the sourdough and cheese, and thunder continued to rumble as sparks flew in the gazebo.

Tomorrow there will be time for thank you notes and nursery schedules, for laundry and meals for those in need.  Tonight there is no guilt in putting my feet up and pulling out the notebook.  And for sipping my second cup of schnapps laced coffee.  So many messy details threaten to wind tentacles around this fragile peace.  But the peace is gaining strength.

I checked on the girls a few minutes ago.  Not because I thought anything was wrong, I just wanted to look at them.  There is no whine, no joy, no need written on their faces.  There is no discovery or anger, just the utter beauty of a child.  Perfectly formed lips open just enough to glimpse a tooth or two.  Fingers wound around something soft and reassuring.  There are still tears if wonder on my cheeks when all is quiet and the dim lights soften the edges of all that is out of place.  The misplaced tiara whispers of a grand adventure, and the days clothes crumpled on the floor show signs of dessert.

I don’t think it’s rose colored lenses I see my life through.  Rather it is the clarity that comes from living without, from watching life slip away too soon, from realizing a hard won dream.

Today my life is beautiful, and I will take the time to simply soak it in.  May you enjoy the sights of the  beauty that surrounds you.

“I hate you.”  She said it quietly, but the words had power nonetheless.  The breeze still rippled the sea grass, and gulls cried over sand fiddler feasts, but the air suddenly felt cleaner, somehow.  She caressed the etchings in the pottery, lulling herself into an eerie calm.  Izzy hadn’t come to scatter the ashes, not today, but she just needed to be here one last time with him.  Scattering would come later, with family and friends and a mask to hide the kaleidoscope of emotions.  Technically, it was against the law to scatter ashes at the beach; you were supposed to go several miles off shore.  But he had always been one to quote “Better to ask forgiveness than permission;” and so it would be.

The  hate had crept in slowly, quietly, after the cards had stopped coming and even the looks of sympathy were waning.   Everyone else was getting on with their lives, missing their friend, but living life much as they had before.  For Izzy, only the cast of characters had remained the same.  Mostly.

Some friends had surprised her by stepping up and helping in ways she hadn’t even known she needed.  Some friends she expected to lean on had distanced themselves, unsure what to say or do, scared to be with her; as if widowhood were contagious.  As if Izzy no longer wanted to talk about Grey’s Anatomy or the new coffee shop in town.  Friendships lost felt like death all over again.

And it all led back to that day.  It even tasted bitter to think about, but he had it easy.  Just thinking that consciously caused the tears to begin their descent.  He was done, now all there was to do was sit back and see what she did with it.  How she dug in her heels and rose stronger and kept going.  And she would, dammit, because those kids were amazing and deserved better than a dead father and a freaked out mom.  Most days didn’t feel this fragile.  Thankfully.  But somehow today she needed to talk to him.  And as screwed up as this looked to most people, it was helpful to take his urn somewhere they had shared and talk as if he were sitting beside her.  At least this way, she always won the argument.

So she sat in the cool sand as the sun set, with her memories and his urn and all the plans they had talked about so often.  She had decided that she would find a fun old house and move it to her family’s land, instead of building a new one.  She still wanted to live where they had planned, but it would be too hard to plan a house and watch it being built without him.  A group of children were busy cleaning up their tools, leaving behind a beautiful, temporary castle.  Izzy closed her eyes and imagined what type of house she might choose, and smiled remembering hidden ‘caves’ in Aunt Marie’s house, little closets that fit in the stairway.  Perhaps she could find one with that much character.  goose bumps brought her back into the present, and she stretched her legs and gathered her husband in her arms, heading back to the car and the condo.  Life was going to be fun again, she could almost see it.

11 pm and I’m finally writing morning pages.  Julia Cameron, author of “The Artist’s Way,”  suggests writing three pages each morning, first thing.  She must not have kids.  “First thing” happens right after a child wakes me up.

So now it’s 11 pm and I’m writing.  Maybe it’s good to do it right before bed, empty my brain onto the page, we’ll see if I sleep better.  It’s cleansing to empty the trash from my mind onto the clean white paper.  And to use this space as a sounding board, a place to unpack the secrets I keep hidden and see what they look like in the light, in a safe place.  ( I don’t publish to a blog ALL the time!)  The fears and anxieties usually look frail and plastic when I write them down, which makes it easier to let them go.

Once in a while, though, they look bold and plain - shown for what they are. In those cases, I can take time to look at the Big Ugly Whatever from different angles; to hold it in my hands and examine it without fearing it will wrap its tentacles around me, at least not right this minute.  And I can walk away and leave it here, move on to grocery lists and puppet shows and not solve anything; never come to that tidy sitcom ending.  I know it will be living in my head and waiting on these pages when I have the strength to pick up the pen and open the flood gates to my subconscious again.

Morning pages, no matter when they are written, have the power to make me let go of things, simply because I don’t want to write about them anymore.  Or, to get up the courage to deal with something so I can report back to myself, or at least not write about that either.  Every day happens quite often, but I’m trying to start sharing something every day.  Give me some feedback, or even write daily yourself; it’s a powerful drug!

I recently got the chance to sneak out to a coffee shop and write.  So much was going on in my head about the selling of our house, moving, etc. that I wanted an escape.  This picture popped in my head and I started writing.  It was almost like taking a day trip, or going to a movie.  I just typed, and the story unfolded.  Let me know what you think, it might be the beginning of something new!

The snow crunched under his boots as he watched the small puffs that rhythmically hovered above his dog’s head, he looked like a little train chugging through the drifts. Snow lay thick on the dog’s back, his legs the only part that showed his golden red tones.

“We’re almost there, buddy, and there will be a warm fire to help melt those drifts on your back.” It had been another long day in the cold, but it was worth it. Thomas was stronger now than he had ever been, crash or not. He could feel his muscles quiver every now and then, but mostly he was filled with a feeling of confidence, as he pushed his body a little further every day.

And Boxer had been there every step, shuffle, and roll of the way. Whether learning to maneuver a wheel chair without breaking things, or living through the torture of relearning to use his own body, the strange mix of retriever and chow had stood faithfully by Thomas. Often at a safe distance, just until he trusted the driver of the wheelchair, but close nonetheless.

They reached the front door of the lodge and he grabbed the towel just inside the door, uncovering the happy smile and wagging tail that had been hiding under all that moving snow. Boxer scurried in, no doubt heading to the fireplace. Thomas unwound the layers that were crusty with snow and laid them over the old wooden laundry dryer he had snuck out of his mother’s laundry room, years before.

As he searched for slippers, Boxer trotted in with a pair of socks in his mouth. “With a dog like that, you’ll never need a wife!” A tall redhead appeared behind Boxer. Marge was heading out and bundling up. “Need anything at the market while I’m out, or has Boxer already done that, too?” Marge’s easy smile and endless sarcasm had made them immediate friends when classes had started. Ever since, their relationship had been hard to explain at times, but the bond was strong to be sure. The dog sat down between the two, as always, looking back and forth as if he might add to the conversation.

“Actually, there’s no milk, but lots of cereal, and we could use some more popcorn and coffee.” He pulled out his wallet and handed over some cash for the items. “Thanks, I’ll save a game of Rummy for you.” The students had gathered for the long weekend before the last week of class, to study and enjoy the snowy weather. “I’ve seen your grades, better review for anatomy and I’ll quiz you later!” She dodged his friendly punch and headed out in the snow. Eager to warm up, Thomas followed Boxer into the warm circle of friends around the fire.

Boxer had no actual boxer blood in him. But as a puppy, he would run up to Thomas and sit up on his haunches, starting their game of boxing with his front paws. The name had been inevitable. Whoever turned him into the humane society had been an angel; that dog had been all that had gotten Thomas through the previous months.

The puppy had been a gift from a girlfriend. The girlfriend didn’t stay long after the crash, but thankfully Boxer had. Although he had never been trained as a service dog, he had picked up lots of little ‘tricks’ to help out as he grew up watching Thomas work his way back to health. Sometimes it was as if the dog could read his mind, offering to help retrieving things that Thomas struggled to get.

If he had it to do over again, he would have chosen to remain the aimless twenty-something with lots of options and no clue what he wanted. But the crash that lazy rainy night had shifted lots of things, hips, vertebrae, priorities, and he had left his physical therapy with a sense of calling to train as a paramedic. It seemed so stereotypical, wanting to give back. But there had been such a sense of calm that had settled over him in the moment, as he systematically did what came next to get out of the car, and even drag the other driver away from the burning wreckage. He lay in the hospital for days after, replaying the events and marveling at how he had responded. It was the first time he had ever been in an emergency situation, and he was frankly quite impressed with himself, even after the morphine wore off. That kind of calm in the face of an emergency got him thinking, I could DO this, and get paid for it.

Luckily, blood had never bothered him. As a child, he had needed to give blood for a battery of allergy tests. Two nurses came in, and asked his mom to hold his arms down while they drew the blood. One nurse had tried to distract him with a puppet, but even at three he had responded, “I don’t want to play right now, I need to watch what she’s doing.” He had watched silently as the nurse prepared the area, set up the needle and drew the blood. His gaze never wavered, and he didn’t make a sound until after she put the Curious George band-aid on. “I didn’t like it when that lady pricked me,” was all that he said as he left the lab. Years later, he still didn’t understand people being squeamish about how their own body worked. It was fascinating. He had never had the drive to go into medicine, nothing was worth that many papers and years of school. But training to be a paramedic was worth it, and a lot less time! He had started classes while still using crutches, which offered endless jokes at his expense as he began to make friends in class.