Valentine’s Day

To my Valentine, my husband, my partner in crime. I love you!

(I know this is a bit long for a blog post, but if you are married, or have been,  you just might enjoy the ride )

Valentine’s Day

I placed a hesitant hand on the smooth metal door handle of the Hallmark store and pulled it open to the sound of tinkling bells. Ruby hearts hanging from the door jamb brushed the top of my head as I stepped inside and headed for the Valentine section, an explosion of pinks and reds.  Crowded with last minute lovers like myself, we had to jockey for position as we searched for the perfect card.  Studying people’s expressions with secretive sideways glances, I longed to hear the running commentary inside their heads.

I have always been a last minute Valentine shopper because I dread it.  I can only bring myself to buy something simple that says “I love you’.  All of the other cards in the store are stupid.  With every card I read, I have to add one more sarcastic sentence in my mind.  Or at the very least, a clarifier. I can’t leave it alone.  It’s very stressful.

After a quarter of a century of marriage few of them ring true.  Can we all please admit that many of these sentiments are, at the very least, stretching the imagination? I have long considered designing a line of Valentine cards that are grouped according to the number of years you have been married.

I long for little ditties like this:

Loving each other has been a long, hard road, but I still think you are cute.

Or:

Can’t wait to celebrate our love at Donovan’s Steak house because we got a $150.00 coupon from your client.

Or:

Let’s stay up past 9:00 PM and make out for eight minutes straight.

Love is damn tricky.  An enigma.  So much has been written about it that I dare not add to the rubble.  But if I had to, if Cupid put a gun to my head, I wouldn’t waste time composing an essay as it would never capture the layers, the nuances. I would take a thousand noble words and nestle them in pairs with their less than noble opposites. Then I would shake them in my cupped hands like dice and toss the whole collection off of Juliet’s balcony and watch them scatter and bounce on the cobblestone streets of Verona until they landed in a mish-mash mural of the language of love. Maybe I would even take a photo of it and sell it to Hallmark for next year’s selection.

“Excuse me,” I said to a young woman with a sparkly diamond ring. She smelled of lavender and caressed a card like it held the whereabouts of the Holy Grail.  “Just reaching for this one.” I grabbed one depicting a romantic table set for two. It unearthed a memory.

My husband and I became engaged at Papa Pirozki’s in Atlanta on the anniversary of Pearl Harbor.  Who chooses to propose to his bride in a Russian restaurant on December 7^th?  Looking back, I think he had a subconscious yearning to personalize the Cold War, to plant it as a seed in our relationship.  Though the rest of the world was evolving beyond such ideology, it was apparent that he was some sort of fan.

I hadn’t expected it to be a night unlike all other nights as we were rekindling a relationship that had been on a long hiatus. Neither of us expected the marriage proposal to play out the way it did.  But maybe that was a good thing.  Perhaps it’s the couples who do everything according to the Prince and Princess Handbook who don’t survive when the magic wears thin.  In retrospect, I think it was better to start this union with our gloves on, in a boxer’s stance. One needs to understand strategy and battle maneuvers. It is vital to appreciate humor and build camaraderie in the unexpected foxhole. These are the necessary skills that keep a marriage alive.  Flowers and chocolate are useless.

I remember sitting alone enjoying the candlelight and crystal that adorned our table for two as I held a thumb-sized glass of fruited vodka, icy and thick with raspberries. I loved the way the color matched my fingernails, the stark contrast of them against the white linens reminded me of the raspberry and cream popsicles I ate as a child. Feeling relaxed and elegant I took tiny sips as I gazed around, nodding to other couples nearby who were beginning to notice that my date had disappeared.  I wondered what was taking him so long as he had excused himself to go chat up the chef, whom he said was an acquaintance.

A black door to the kitchen swung open and Tim burst back into the room, all smiles.  At 6’8” he wasn’t known for quiet entrances.

“Ivan’s going to send out a few freebies.  Said he’d take care of us.” Tim plopped into his chair and smoothed his blonde hair into place.  He downed his fruity vodka like it was Kool-aide and motioned for the waiter to bring us another round of drinks.

“Great,” I said picturing all sorts of exotic Russian delights appearing on plates that were once served to the Romanovs.  “So how do you know this guy?”

“Met him at a radio event.  He’s from uhm,” Tim snapped his long fingers as he recalled the information, “Moscow.  Yea, that’s it.  Moscow.”

“What was the event?”

“Does it matter?”

“No.”

“So what’s with all the questions?”

“It was only one question. Why are you getting agitated?”

“I’m not agitated.” He picked up the second fruity vodka and downed it. “Would you finish your first drink already?”

“Fine.”  I threw it back like a pro.  Then I picked up the second one and saluted him.  “Let’s just relax and enjoy this. We only have two days before I fly back. I missed you.”  He took a deep breath and exhaled through flared nostrils.  I put my hand over his drumming fingers.  Something was up. “Are you okay?” I asked.

A young waiter with Ricky Riccardo hair swooped over, handed us menus and then gave a run-down of the night’s specials.  We each chose an entrée and Tim asked for another round of drinks.

“Tim. Maybe we should slow down on the drinks.”

“No.”

“Fine.”  What was wrong with him ?  It seemed as if he had left his usual joking demeanor in the kitchen with Ivan. I threw back my second drink in one gulp and choked daintily into my napkin.  We could take a cab home.

“So how are things at the airline?” Tim asked as he took a piece of bread from a silver bowl.  Thrilled to have some normal conversation, I started into an elaborate story about a new dad who tried to change his baby’s diaper on a fold down, jump seat. As I got to the part where the dad laid the baby on her back while he held the jump seat down with his knee, Ricky Riccardo came back and placed a small salad in front of me.

“Zees is from Ivan,” he announced as he stood back from the table.

I nodded to him and smiled.  “Thank you.”

“No problem.”  He beamed as he retreated to the water station.

It was ugliest, driest looking salad I had ever seen so I pushed it to the side as I continued my story.  Tim stared at the salad and then back at me.  “That’s your salad,” he said.

“There’s no dressing. And what is this stuff?  It’s not even lettuce.  It’s cabbage or who knows what?”

“Have some salad.”  His voice held an edge.

“I don’t want the salad.”  I calmly stated, the words evenly spaced and heavy on my tongue.

“Eat the salad,” he whispered through clenched teeth. Beads of sweat were forming on his brow. I gave him my most powerful defiant stare.

“Eat – the – damned – salad.”

“Fine.” I pulled the salad over and started to pick at it with my fork suddenly feeling other people’s eyes upon me.  I looked around and noticed them, whispering in hushed tones.

“What is up with you?” I could barely conceal by growing rage. “I thought we were going to have fun.”  Blood was pumping through my veins, banging in my ears.  I took a bite of one of the bitter greens and held up my fork as I chewed it. “This is disgusting. I thought Ivan was your friend.”

Then I saw it.  A velvet box of midnight blue half hidden under shreds of carrot and radicchio.  Panic gripped me like a giant hand and squeezed tight. No, no, no.  I did not want this to happen here. This was not what I had choreographed in my ten-year-old heart as I picked at my chenille bedspread on sleepless nights.  I could see our waiter going from table to table alerting the others to our impending moment.

“Honey,”   Tim leaned on his elbows and bore into me with blinking eyes, “Stop blinking your eyes like that. Take the box out of the salad.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Open the box, Susan.”

“People are staring.”  I attempted another defiant stare but it was difficult to pull off with tears plopping onto the table.

“Open – the – damn – box.”

Though I don’t remember willing them to do so, my shaking fingers pushed away the vegetables and picked up the small velvet cube.  All eyes in the restaurant were on us.  I opened the box and a diamond solitaire caught the candlelight.  I looked up at Tim and stared as his lips moved without sound.  I glanced at the staring eyes to the left and then I glanced at the staring eyes to the right, distorted faces like funhouse mirrors.

“Well?” Tim asked with a face so vulnerable and earnest that I suddenly couldn’t imagine a life without him. “Will you marry me?”

“Yes.”

The room ruptured into cheers as Tim handed me a third vodka and held up his.  And we burst into laughter, toasted each other and cheered along with them.

The whole experience did not play out the way either of us had imagined.  It was not the traditional down on one knee sort of proposal on the beach at sunset, nor was the ring magically unveiled on a covered silver dish as he had hoped.  It was clumsy, unexpected, and filled with nervous emotion on both sides. It was real and heartfelt and awkwardly expressed the way marriage often looks on a daily basis. In retrospect it was the perfect engagement.

“Must be a funny card,” Ms. I Smell Like Lavender commented as I giggled to myself.

“Just brought back some memories,” I sighed as I put the card back in its place, “But it’s not the one I’m going to buy.”

“I think I’m going to get this one,” she confided as she held up a photo of a sunrise on which was printed ‘Every sunrise means another day of loving you’.

I forced myself not to add a sardonic comment and ruin her choice.

She opened the card and pointed to a wall of poetry five inches long. “This poem says it all for me.”

“How many years?”

“One.  Well almost,” she said with a shy smile.  “You?”

“Twenty-four.”

“Wow.  So, what’s the secret?  What have you learned?”

I plucked a simple white card with a simple red heart and opened it for her to see. “This is the card I get for him every year.  Because after awhile, you learn that these are the only three words that matter.”

The Dragonflies

I just returned from four glorious days nestled deep in the evergreen woodlands of Northern Arizona.  Rim country they called it, referring to the Mogollon Rim. Two hundred miles of dramatic rock formations, deep canyons and more sky than you have ever seen at one time.  Three of my treasured writing pals and I gathered at a mountain cabin in Christopher Creek. Call it retreating, recharging, the rebirth of the muse, call it the long exhale.  Okay, call it heaven if you must.

I am well into a job transition, deciding to leave the classroom and develop a writing based business that encompasses all of my loves: writing, teaching, speaking, traveling, and more writing.  It has not been an easy road.  And though I knew, as I stepped in that direction, that few writers can make a living this way, I felt a pull toward it. A call. And if I have learned anything from writingHalfway to Each Other, it is to follow that call, no matter how absurd it may sound to you or those around you.  It is the call of your creative soul, the dwelling place of sanity, of peace. It will only call you, and if you don’t answer it…who will?

These past two months, particularly, I have been working furiously on a new book.  It has taken awhile to get started on it, but now I am in the thick of process, shaping and rewording and spilling blood. Recently the pieces were more difficult to birth. The muse was stingy, my well of words running dry.  Pulling the proper ones into place became arduous like lining up pebbles on a steep slant. They kept rolling, shifting, falling over edges. I didn’t realize that I was entering extreme fatigue, not the kind that sends you in search of a pillow, but the kind that sends you in search of a glass of wine hoping your muse is swimming in it.

When I was invited to join these writers, I left my computer at home. I found an old notebook and pen and off I went without expectation. I awoke the first morning, rubbed the sleep from my eyes, grabbed a mug of steaming coffee and ventured onto a wraparound deck that stood fifty feet from a creek, the border of the Tonto National Forest.  Surrounded by greens of every shade and texture, I felt immediately calmed. The sort of calm that comes from a mother’s hand on your shoulder. I could stand and stare into that green forever, watch the tall grasses gently bending with drops of dew, count and recount the species of trees and bushes and wildflowers that poked their heads up to greet the sun.

All of a sudden a large dragonfly with bulging iridescent blue green eyes stopped about twenty feet from me and hovered as if he was surprised that a human had appeared.  I stood still and held his gaze to see what he might do. He continued to hover, did not go about his merry dragonfly way.  Then he slowly advanced toward me, inch by steady inch, until I could hear the beating of his wings.

“Hello there, my friend,” I whispered thinking my words would scare him off. “Good morning to you, too!”  The sound did not scare him at all, he only moved closer.  And when it became uncomfortable I waved him off until he buzzed above my head and over the roof of the cabin.

I was intrigued by our greeting of each other and chewed on it all day as I went for a hike through the forest and then sat with my friends as we shared meals and writing prompts and picked apart shorts stories written by the masters of our time.  The memory of him perched on my shoulder as I fixed an early afternoon gin and tonic, that we all agreed was medicinal, for one of us who had received a deflating rejection letter that very noon. And he haunted my dreams, in a good way, as I slept the deep restorative sleep that comes when you find the courage to break open the shell of your heart and share your fears with like minded comrades around a campfire that sends red sparks to meet the full moon.

The next day, he returned, but it was not for a morning greeting and it was not alone.  The four of us were seated in folding chairs, in the shade of the bordering forest, working silently on the art of imagery. We were, if I may speak for all of us, happily lost in creative wonderfulness. The way it feels when your words are pulsing upwards like geysers and soothing hot springs. As we painted metaphors and placed poetic phrases in our notebooks and wrapped these images around our hearts, the dragonflies appeared. As we answered the knocking doors of our souls, walked toward that voice that has called us, quietly and persistently, all of our lives, to write and claim our places as true artists, they swarmed in gentle circles over our heads.

We looked up from our notebooks and remarked about the magic of that particular moment. Indeed it was. The dragonflies never landed, never bothered us in any way. They did, however, perform a dragonfly ballet to the music that only a writer can hear as he/she creates. Their dance, a visual response to our collective song of joy.

Upon my return home, yesterday, I looked up the meaning of the dragonfly and was not surprised at what I found.  A powerful symbol in many cultures it represents a number of things.  It stands for renewal, positive force and the power of life.  Because it has wings sensitive to even the slightest breezes, it represents change. Also a creature of water, it is symbolic of the subconscious, the dreaming mind, a reminder to pay attention to our deeper thoughts and desires. Lastly, because it has such a short life it reminds us of the value of living in the moment. Living life to the fullest by heeding the call of our souls and making choices to connect and give birth to that which we are called to create, whatever that means and however that looks.

Those moments with the dragonflies will inspire me the rest of my life. Those four days were vital ones that have restored me on many levels.  I share this story, this moment in my writer’s journey, as encouragement to others who may feel stuck or unsure. For those who have written themselves dry, or have piled manuscripts into a drawer afraid to share them with the light of day.

Seek renewal from those who share your creative journey. Find the courage to stand before the dragonfly and bid him a fine morning then welcome him to begin his pirouettes as you let your soul free.

Path to a Peaceful Heart: Part 3

The Words We Choose Matter

 

Words are powerful. They can, if strung together in just the right pattern, change lives.  You can choose to make your life more peaceful by thoughtfully examining your daily word choices.

Words reflect the soul of the person that speaks them.  They will effect those who hear them in either a positive or negative way.  If you choose words that uplift, heal, problem solve, soothe, and promote good will, then those with whom you come in contact will generally mirror your tone.

Nobody likes to be around a cranky, down in the dumps, stick in the mud.  This type of person, and we all know at least one, creates his/her own misery by choosing to constantly share their negative thoughts and words with those they meet.  Though he or she might actually be seeking solace from the listener, it usually accomplishes the opposite.

When I teach writing, I spend a lot of time on word choice and how it affects the tone of a story. We examine pieces of writing with angry, divisive words and compare them with pieces that contain soothing and peaceful ones.  The tone in the classroom invariably corresponds with the tone of the writing. It is often an eye opening experience for the students to feel this on a visceral level.

Such it is in life.  Each day you are the author of a new page in your life story. If you want to live in peace, choose words that promote it.

 

Mothers Stick Together Like That

I boarded the plane on a muggy July afternoon in Columbus and spied an empty aisle seat three rows down on the right. Two pre-teen aged girls sat, backpacks on their laps, in the middle and window seats. “Unaccompanied Minors” was like a neon sign floating above their heads.  I plopped myself down next to them in silent collusion with their mothers whom I was sure were somewhere biting their fingernails and figuring how to assuage the hollow pit in their stomachs.  I would protect them on the flight, keep all n’er do wells at bay.  Mothers stick together like that.

As passengers filed by and the plane filled, I couldn’t help but overhear the girls introducing themselves to each other.  They spoke with an openness that surprised me, like they had known each other since kindergarten.

“I’m going into seventh grade,” announced the Window Seat girl with her shoulder length auburn hair and riotous flash of freckles across her face. “I hope it’s better than last year.”

“Well, I’ll be going into Miss Connors’ class I guess. She’s the fourth grade teacher who loves worksheets,” answered the Middle Seater as she dug through a well worn, pink Hello Kitty backpack with marker stains bleeding though the front pocket. Old homework, broken pencils, and a variety of half eaten items spilled out as she spoke, her face hidden by cascades of chocolate brown hair.

“Here, let me help you with that,” I offered as I caught some of the items before they hit the floor.

“Thanks,” she mumbled as she dug out a twisted metal headband and slipped it on, pulling back her bangs to reveal chubby cheeks and hazel eyes that held something older than fourth grade.

“Where are you girls headed?”

“I’m going to grandmother’s. She lives in California.  I used to live there before my mother married my new father,” said the Window Seat, “I live in Indiana now.”

“How do you like Indiana?” I asked.

“It’s okay.  I guess new dad likes me.”

“ I’m sure he does,” I responded.

“We laugh and everything,” she smiled and her braces gleamed. “He calls me his new side-kick.”

“I don’t have a dad anymore,” announced the Middle Seat.

“Oh,” her blunt announcement caught me off guard.

“It’s no big deal,” she said unwrapping some Oreos, “my mom and I are a team.”

“I bet you have an amazing mom,” I agreed.  This conversation was making me a little nervous.  I did not want to tread on dangerous territory so I laid my head back and took out my novel.

“What do you do?  Who are you?” inquired the Middle Seat who did not pick on up my non-verbal cue.

“Sometimes I’m a teacher and sometimes I’m a writer,” I answered.

“Hmmm,” she said, “interesting.”

“I think I’ll read for awhile,” I added with a smile and nod toward my book.

“Okay.”

The girls continued to chat and giggle through take-off, sharing information about movie stars and reality TV shows.  As the plane settled into its cruising altitude, they settled into Ipods and Sudoku.

About a hour into the flight, as we sipped on soft drinks and crunched on pretzels, the Window Seat leaned forward and stared me straight in the eye.

“I didn’t have any friends this year.  No one liked me at my new school.”

My hear fluttered at this announcement.  “I am so sorry.”

“They all called me California Girl. They said I thought I was cooler than anyone else because I grew up in California.  It wasn’t true.  They don’t even know me on the inside.”  My heart ached immediately for this emerging young woman.  A child so filled with pain that she couldn’t help but let it spill into the laps of strangers on a plane.

“Jerks and bullies,” offered Middle Seat matter-of-factly. “All schools have ‘em.”

“Some days they would wait for me after school and want me to fight them. I hated it.”  She leaned her head to the left and rested it against the window.

“Did you?”  asked Middle Seat tearing into a sleeve of Fig Newtons.

“No, my mom said I’m too good for that. But they would call me things like ho, and bitch, and the F word.”

“Oh my goodness!” I gasped. Continuing to be shocked by the revelations of my seat mates, I searched for the right thing to say. “I didn’t even know those words when I was your age.”

“Well, I’ve known the word prostitute since I was four,” Middle Seat stated.

“You have?”

“My mom used that word when she yelled at my dad all the time. When he left, she finally told me what it meant.”  She turned to Window Seat and stated plainly, “You are NOT a prostitute.  I’ll tell you that much.”

We all nodded our heads in agreement.

“I read a lot.  I love books,” the Window Seat said.

“Me, too,”  I said.

“I could take ‘em or leave ‘em,” Middle Seat started another puzzle.

“You know,”  I said, “Let me tell you a little something about words.”  Window Seat raised her defeated brown eyes and looked into mine.  “Words are like mirrors. They reflect what is on the inside of the person who chooses them. Not the person they are spoken to.”

Her eyes glistened. She inhaled sharply. “You’re the new girl,” I continued, “They don’t know what’s in your heart.  If they did, I bet they would say words like courage, and strength. It’s hard to start your life over in a new town.”

She slowly nodded as she listened.

“Any coward can hide behind ugly, powerful words and pretend that they are mighty. I think your mom is right. You’re too good for that.”

We all sat in silence for a long time. Window Seat looked out the window, Middle Seat opened a bag of M&M’s, and I picked up my book.

“Want a few?” she asked me as she shook the bright yellow bag in front of me.  “They have peanuts.”

“Sure.” She poured a few in my outstretched palm.

“You know what I think about those bullies?”

“What?”

“They can go to H-E-Double toothpicks.  Do you know what that means?”

“You bet I do.”