Somewhere along the way in life we all come to the realization that we have underlying issues that affect who we are and who we strive to be. As I become mature as a woman and seasoned as a parent I strive to be a better person. One can not become better without first recognizing and mending those pieces of your soul that have become worn and broken on your journey through life thus far. One can not move forward in the journey of self if obstacles block the road.
This blog is selfish. I am not writing to offer advice, suggestions or to help anyone but myself. This blog is for me, myself and I. It is for the little girl inside of me who has felt lost her whole life. It is for the woman who knows that the little girl must grow up and face her demons. It is for the woman, who in the future, wants to be carefree, without regret but with effervescent transparency. It is for the woman who wants to know herself and accept all of the fallacies, lumps and bumps and find forgiveness for her aberrations. For it is only when one really knows ones self that we become enlightened.
I am excited to explore my past, present and future in a profound and illuminating manner. There is a certain level of fear that accompanies exploration of the soul. Regardless of the extent of the pain and joy of the process it will end in peace. And peace is what I ultimately strive for.
Monday, July 13, 2009
The Sleeper
A wholesome breakfast is said to be the best start to the day. I'm not a big breakfast eater. Perhaps I never got used to eating breakfast as a child. It's hard to find time to eat breakfast when you are eight years old and getting yourself and your five year old sister up and off to school in the morning. There was never enough time.
I wish as a child that I was as organized as I now am. Life would have been much easier. Finding clothes, making lunch and brushing your hair take a lot of time if you have not done the preparation the night before. But I was a kid. Eight year olds are not supposed to be burdened with the responsibility of tiptoeing around the dark house each school morning as not to wake their sleeping mother all the while attempting to get to the bus stop on time.
My mom was a sleeper. Always, always sleeping. One would think that with all the sleep she got that she would have more energy than a racehorse at the Kentucky Derby. I guess she didn't agree. What kind of mother allows two little girls to get up, dressed, make their lunches and gather their homework and off to the bus all without assistance, let alone a hug and a good-day farewell? What kind of mother? My mother.
I loved coming home from school every day. Getting off the bus I would take my sister's hand and we would run home. The jubilation we felt was one of freedom. Because, we knew that once home it would mean hand fulls of Fudgeeoo cookies and cartoons for hours. There was no one to tell us we should have fruit instead of cookies or do our homework instead of watching Hercules and Newt. Our only obstacle to freedom was once again, napping in the nearby bedroom. And we were aware that as long as we didn't bother her she would stay in her slumber and shirk her responsibilities for as long as possible. But who cared? We had cookies and cartoons instead of carrot sticks and math problems.
At some point we would wake her from her slumber. We would make her aware that Dad would be home soon and dinner was needed. We would start dinner with the hopes of her appearing to finish it. It was a good day when she joined us in the kitchen and we got to stand beside her hoping for a good word and just relishing her presence. The much needed and anticipated attention we had hungered for all day had finally arrived.
Once sitting at the table, Dad home from work we consumed dinner and all the consideration we could capture from that target audience that were our parents. It was the best part of the day; The only time we felt needed and interesting. We fed our souls as we did our bellies and never wanted it to end. But it did end. My sister and I would clear the table and do the dishes while mom retreated to her Harlequin Romance books and Dad to his workshop.
The day over we made our way to bed hoping for morning to come and pass us by quickly so we could once again hear the screaming of the school bus brakes.
I wish as a child that I was as organized as I now am. Life would have been much easier. Finding clothes, making lunch and brushing your hair take a lot of time if you have not done the preparation the night before. But I was a kid. Eight year olds are not supposed to be burdened with the responsibility of tiptoeing around the dark house each school morning as not to wake their sleeping mother all the while attempting to get to the bus stop on time.
My mom was a sleeper. Always, always sleeping. One would think that with all the sleep she got that she would have more energy than a racehorse at the Kentucky Derby. I guess she didn't agree. What kind of mother allows two little girls to get up, dressed, make their lunches and gather their homework and off to the bus all without assistance, let alone a hug and a good-day farewell? What kind of mother? My mother.
I loved coming home from school every day. Getting off the bus I would take my sister's hand and we would run home. The jubilation we felt was one of freedom. Because, we knew that once home it would mean hand fulls of Fudgeeoo cookies and cartoons for hours. There was no one to tell us we should have fruit instead of cookies or do our homework instead of watching Hercules and Newt. Our only obstacle to freedom was once again, napping in the nearby bedroom. And we were aware that as long as we didn't bother her she would stay in her slumber and shirk her responsibilities for as long as possible. But who cared? We had cookies and cartoons instead of carrot sticks and math problems.
At some point we would wake her from her slumber. We would make her aware that Dad would be home soon and dinner was needed. We would start dinner with the hopes of her appearing to finish it. It was a good day when she joined us in the kitchen and we got to stand beside her hoping for a good word and just relishing her presence. The much needed and anticipated attention we had hungered for all day had finally arrived.
Once sitting at the table, Dad home from work we consumed dinner and all the consideration we could capture from that target audience that were our parents. It was the best part of the day; The only time we felt needed and interesting. We fed our souls as we did our bellies and never wanted it to end. But it did end. My sister and I would clear the table and do the dishes while mom retreated to her Harlequin Romance books and Dad to his workshop.
The day over we made our way to bed hoping for morning to come and pass us by quickly so we could once again hear the screaming of the school bus brakes.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Rolling Smokes
I remember the smell of dried tobacco. I love that smell. On the rare occasion I am at a party and someone is opening a new packet of cigarettes I always recognize the familiar aroma of dried tobacco filling the air with its presence. There is something sweet in the smell of that darkened, dried brown-leafed, sticky, cancer causing vegetation. It fills my nostrils with nostalgia.
One of my most vivid childhood memories is sitting at the kitchen table. On one side of me sat a pile of empty cigarette papers and on the other, that earthy, sweet smelling tobacco. The task was not difficult to comprehend but did require an acute level of dexterity. My small hands knew just how to hold the paper tubes so the tobacco would find it's way in with one slide of the cigarette maker machine. I can still recall that sound. Whoosh-click. Whoosh-click. Two more cigarettes finished. My sister and I would sit there at that table for an hour making cigarettes.
I'm not sure what saddens me more remembering those moments - the fact that my parents had me manufacture cigarettes for their enjoyment or that I didn't recognize a problem with the situation. It just was. I was a kid. I said I was bored. My parents offered a solution. I rolled smokes and thought nothing of it.
My dad smoked two packs of cigarettes every day. He still does. Mom is not far behind in her consumption. I wonder with every passing year when they will be stricken with some form of incurable malignancy. I wonder but I don't fear. I feel that I should be regretful of the fact that we are estranged and they could be stricken and dead and I will still have unresolved business. I fear for the fact that I honestly feel nothing.
I detest smoking. Its expense, its process, its monies given to lobby government, its filth, its abundance and its acceptance. It represents money lost and kids who often go without a meal while their parents smoke their precious lives away feeding their addiction and not their children. The only thing sweet about it is it's smell before it is set afire and set into action. Actions that disease people and families and populations and health care systems. I still smell it now. Its sweet aroma is an oxymoron to everything it represents. But I can still smell it. It lingers like a fog in my mind.
One of my most vivid childhood memories is sitting at the kitchen table. On one side of me sat a pile of empty cigarette papers and on the other, that earthy, sweet smelling tobacco. The task was not difficult to comprehend but did require an acute level of dexterity. My small hands knew just how to hold the paper tubes so the tobacco would find it's way in with one slide of the cigarette maker machine. I can still recall that sound. Whoosh-click. Whoosh-click. Two more cigarettes finished. My sister and I would sit there at that table for an hour making cigarettes.
I'm not sure what saddens me more remembering those moments - the fact that my parents had me manufacture cigarettes for their enjoyment or that I didn't recognize a problem with the situation. It just was. I was a kid. I said I was bored. My parents offered a solution. I rolled smokes and thought nothing of it.
My dad smoked two packs of cigarettes every day. He still does. Mom is not far behind in her consumption. I wonder with every passing year when they will be stricken with some form of incurable malignancy. I wonder but I don't fear. I feel that I should be regretful of the fact that we are estranged and they could be stricken and dead and I will still have unresolved business. I fear for the fact that I honestly feel nothing.
I detest smoking. Its expense, its process, its monies given to lobby government, its filth, its abundance and its acceptance. It represents money lost and kids who often go without a meal while their parents smoke their precious lives away feeding their addiction and not their children. The only thing sweet about it is it's smell before it is set afire and set into action. Actions that disease people and families and populations and health care systems. I still smell it now. Its sweet aroma is an oxymoron to everything it represents. But I can still smell it. It lingers like a fog in my mind.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Life Isn't Fair
I learned that life doesn't play fair very early on. About the first grade I started to recognize a distinct difference between my station in life and those of my little friends. Of course, I was just a kid to the adults in my life. They assumed, wrongly, I am sure that I was oblivious to the differences. First I never knew that your parents were supposed to enjoy spending time with you. I thought kids were just 'there' to be told what to do. I had no idea that other children had a voice and were encouraged to use it. What a revelation. Things didn't work that way in my house. We were just objects to be enjoyed when it suited our parents. To be shown off for the company. And when we were an annoyance, to be shipped off to Nana's house for the day, weekend, or during school break, the bulk of the summer. I didn't know that parents were supposed to come to Meet The Teacher Night or school plays or get to know your friends. I didn't know that you could invite friends over to play or that other little girls had bedrooms that looked like a fairy tale castle in my books at home. My bedroom had a hole in the ceiling that leaked over my bed at night. Who knew that this wasn't the case for everyone. But I was becoming quite educated in life's inequalities. It seemed to me, at that young age, that God decided who would be winners and losers. God decided that if you were a kid you were stuck with what you got. And don't even bother to ask for more because there never was more. It wasn't long before I started to hate God.
When you discover that there are winners and losers it's quite shocking. But more shocking is to learn that you were in the group of losers. The group who never quite fit in. The group who had no great stories of weekend trips with their parents, the cool lunch box, the Adidas shoes, or the clean clothes. Nope, losers didn't have those things. It's hard to get along on the playground when you have no points of assimilation with the other kids. Nobody wants to play with the kid who can never attend the birthday parties and never returns the invitation by asking you over to play. Nope, losers are losers who become even bigger losers. Life wasn't fair and I didn't like it. But I was just a kid who had no voice. A voiceless loser who silently screamed inside each and every day for God to either strike her down or make her a winner. I hated God. He never came to my rescue. Thanks for nothing.
When you discover that there are winners and losers it's quite shocking. But more shocking is to learn that you were in the group of losers. The group who never quite fit in. The group who had no great stories of weekend trips with their parents, the cool lunch box, the Adidas shoes, or the clean clothes. Nope, losers didn't have those things. It's hard to get along on the playground when you have no points of assimilation with the other kids. Nobody wants to play with the kid who can never attend the birthday parties and never returns the invitation by asking you over to play. Nope, losers are losers who become even bigger losers. Life wasn't fair and I didn't like it. But I was just a kid who had no voice. A voiceless loser who silently screamed inside each and every day for God to either strike her down or make her a winner. I hated God. He never came to my rescue. Thanks for nothing.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
