Use Your Words!

  Why is it, with some people, it is possible to say exactly what we think or ask precisely what we want to know, while with other people we dance around such statements and questions?

  Why is it, with some people, we can say, “I am so pissed-frustrated-stressed-angry-sucky-bloated, etc.,” while with other people we say (with a forced smile, even), “I am well, thank you.”

  Why is that?  Why do we discriminate?  Why do we judge?  Because that’s what it is, isn’t it?  Discrimination and judgement.  We discriminate by not being as forthcoming with some as we are with others; we judge that some, more than others, are worthy/capable/trustworthy to receive the whole truth and nothing but the truth.  It actually sounds ugly and wrong when put into those categories.  Why do we edit ourselves?  There, that sounds better!

  Really.  Why do we do it?  Why do I do it?

  While I tell some friends exactly where I’m at (and, in turn, expect and receive the same courtesy from them), I tell other friends only an abridged and even softened version of those facts – if at all!  Of course, I must admit that several of those “other” friends have a lot going on in their own lives and I make a conscious choice not to burden them with my stuff and there’s another friend to whom I long to tell everything and pepper with a million in-depth questions (and get answers, of course!) but whose shutters prohibit such nonsense.  And I haven’t even mentioned my family, who basically all fall into the “other” category because I’ve learned they really don’t want to know the complete and unabridged version of my life.

  What would happen, I sometimes wonder, if I “let loose” with all of my friends?  What would happen if I opened up to all of them?  How would it feel to let go with no holds barred, no stone unturned, soup to nuts?  Would my full-throttle approach be met with empathy?  Sympathy?  Relief in the form of reciprocation?  The blank stare of a person caught unawares and looking for the nearest exit?  The quizzical half-smile of a person who heard what you said but simply couldn’t take it in, the inside of their brain screaming, “TMI?”  Or, maybe worse, a swift change of subject to effectively cover what has just been revealed?

  We tell children to “use your words” (and sometimes adults; try it if you haven’t!) when they are struggling with just that: the ability to articulate what is going on for them.  Couldn’t we give ourselves the same bit of encouragement when it’s on the tip of our tongue to answer that double-edged ”How are you?” with complete and utter honesty and let the chips fall where they may?  Couldn’t I take the risk (because it is a risk, never doubt it!) to reveal my true and complete self to the people who make up my family of the heart?  The consequences couldn’t be that harsh, could they?  Could they??  Or could they?  hmmm …

  And so I continue to wonder if I can truly use my words with all of my friends, and I wonder why I feel a need to.

Reflections – Part 3

  “Friendship!  Friendship!  Just the perfect blendship!”  As an elementary schooler, that song was one of dozens I learned in music class with Miss Ward (who would become the first of my 3 stepmothers, but that’s another reflection!).  I loved that song, but not as much as I loved my friends!  Micki  and Danny Myshrall, Julie and Glen Smith, Gretchen (can’t remember her last name), Lori Stark, Mario Cometti, DJ Deniston, Helen Pappas, Karen Nartonicola, etc., etc. … I had a slew of friends and a never-ending stream of activities to enjoy with them during my elementary years.

  Whether it was simply playing on our jungle gym (the “it” place of our neighborhood), sleepovers at Julie’s, Micki’s or Lori’s, bicycling around the block, walking to the park just down the hill (it had a bigger playground!), putting on plays in my livingroom (the dining room was our backstage area), playing store in the play shed out back or holding neighborhood “carnivals” to support McDonald’s charities, we were nearly inseparable.  Those friendships continued into 6th grade – junior high school!!  wow!!! – and I truly believe they’d be in place today if my parents hadn’t separated right after school let out after 6th grade. 

My mother’s sisters and brothers came with a big truck and a couple station wagons one Saturday early in July of 1977 and moved Mom, my two brothers and me to New Hampshire.  As I recall – it’s all such a blur – we kids had only a few days’ notice; likely so that we wouldn’t have time to worry about it since there was so much to do.  It seemed more like an adventure: summer in New Hampshire with all our cousins would be a blast!  The reality was less of an adventure and the toll was a high one to pay.  From my 11-year-old point of view, I lost my father, all my friends and my cat, Tiger, in one fell swoop.

What I know now is that the effect of those losses was a profound fear of attachment that saw me right through my high school years.  My “friends” were the people I sat next to in class.  After school and weekend hours were spent reading books, finding books to read at the library or second hand book store, writing, and listening to music.  Books, writing, and music became my constant companions; they were always with me – could always be with me … the chance of losing them was minimal to none and so they were safe.

I graduated with over 300 other students from high school.  I knew those I shared homeroom and other classes with by name, for the most part, but I didn’t know them and they didn’t know me.  I’ve met some of them on occasion in recent years and still can recall their first names – sometimes even their second names … I smile and say “hello” and tell them I hope life is treating them well.  And I wonder where – and how – Micki, Danny, Lori, Gretchen, Julie, Glen, Helen, Mario, Karen and DJ are.

Reflections – Part 2

  College.  I’d always known I’d go to college and for what – writing!  It was merely a question of where I’d go.  I was courted by USC, BC, BU, UFM … I considered all of them, plus SUNY Purchase and others … But the place I really needed to go was a college in Wisconsin which, oddly, I can’t recall the name of.  At that time it was the go-to college for serious writers and I was that.  I remember meeting with recruiters at a hotel suite in Manchester.  I met all the qualifications academically.  They’d reviewed and accepted my application.  But the price tag … It was twenty-five years ago and I remember the look on my mother’s face when they said how much we would be responsible for after financial aid and the multiple scholarships I’d been awarded: $17,000.00.  Per year.  At that point in time it may as well have been $100,000.00.  It wasn’t possible.  To say I was disappointed was a vast understatement.

  Given financial constraints, I “settled” for PSC … It was the least expensive of my state’s colleges.  Since my parents couldn’t offer me any assistance and I’d never taken a loan before and had no credit history, I had to pay my own way.  But the problem, too, was that my parents made enough money that I didn’t qualify for any of PSC’s financial aid packages.  I had my scholarships, which were contingent upon completing my first year successfully, and that was it.  I managed to get a loan for my first year and thought I was all set until the day I returned from Christmas break.  There was a note on my dorm room door stating I had to go to the financial aid office.  My parents were with me, so off we went, only to be told that an additional $500.00 was due: that day.  My parents couldn’t help me.  I couldn’t help me.  My only recourse was to go back home, go to work, and come back for the fall semester.

  I went home.  I went to work.  I got a job at the lunch counter at Woolworth’s.  I didn’t tell anyone that I had to leave college.  I was so disappointed … so mortified.  One day my grandmother showed up at Woolworth’s because she’d heard I was working there and wanted to see for herself.  She couldn’t believe I wasn’t at college.  I couldn’t, either.

  Once in that work mode, my college plans drifted away.  I needed transportation, so I bought a car.  I actually made friends – not friends like Steven that I only talked to at school; real friends that I hung out with after work.  But I didn’t write for a long time … a really long time.

Reflections – Part 1

  The word reflections has two obvious meanings: 1) the reflections we see when we look in the mirror and 2) the reflections which comprise thoughts on the past, present or future.  Therefore, it’s possible to reflect on one’s reflection.  Love how that works!

  When I reflect on my reflection these days, I find myself reflecting on past reflections … more youthful reflections … reflections that don’t feature wiry white hair sprouting among the auburn-brown; that don’t feature the stamps of time in the form of lines around my eyes and across my forehead; that don’t feature worrisome age spots emerging through the pale skin of my English-Scottish-Irish ancestry.  Not that I want to turn back time, mind you!  I have no desire to do that.  But it’s interesting to consider what has come before; who I have been as opposed to who I am now - and I’m not talking about roles I’ve played!

I reflect on a young woman who dreamed of one day being a wife and a mother to (gulp!) ten children.  Ten!!!  I see her sitting on the bleachers at her high school with her friend Steven during a mutual free period talking about her plans for the future.  Ten children didn’t seem unrealistic (or insane).  Being a wife didn’t seem unrealistic; it seemed, in fact, to be a matter of course … Of course, that would come after graduating from college.

And so comes another reflection … college.  Plymouth State College, now called Plymouth State University.  Mary Lyons Hall sitting in its stately bygone elegance at the heart of the campus; my dormitory, which was officially all girls but unofficially was never without boys, much to the chagrin of the dorm mother and delight of most of the residents.  I recall two football players from the Nashua area I had met at freshman orientation.  On my first night I was sitting on a bench with my first roommate outside of the cafeteria where we had just finished dinner when these two lovely boys came up behind me and each planted a kiss on either side of my neck.  The look on my roommate’s face  – and on the faces of her friends - was priceless!  The guys made sure I’d gotten settled in okay, found out where I was staying and told me where they were staying, gave me big bear hugs and were on their way.  Delicious!  I remember what I was wearing because I felt so feminine and powerful … a lilac, cotton eyelet peasant blouse over jeans and oh-so-popular ankle boots.  For all I was chunky, I felt so pretty and sexy in that moment, which still resides vividly in my memory.  It’s a reflection that even now makes me smile, and feel pretty and sexy.

Hello, Me.

  I had a very important meeting.  It came up suddenly and so I’d had no chance to form opinions or pre-conceived notions.  In that moment, the only option was to be.

   So there I was, being by a beautiful pond.  It was as serene as it was surreal; the lush green of the thick yet carefully groomed grass, the dense pine trees forming a perimeter around a good two-thirds of it, the deep blue of the sky as twilight neared …  It was so quiet and so peaceful that I could hear my own breath; my own heartbeat.

  Something caused a gentle “plop” in the middle of the crystal clear pond, which in turn caused a ripple effect.  The ripples, as gentle as the plop which caused them, made their way toward the edges of the pond; toward me.  My eyes grew heavier with each ripple and I finally gave in and closed them, relaxing as I sat in my comfortable chair at the edge of the pond.

  The sensation of floating began.  Even though my body hadn’t moved, I – my spirit – was floating above the ground.  I was aware of a golden yellow tendril between me and my body.  It grew longer as I floated ever higher, rejoicing in the freedom and the sensation of flying.  What great fun!  I soared higher and higher, far above myself and Earth until I was floating high enough to look back and see how magnificent Earth is viewed from space.  The colors!  Vivid and nearly glowing!  I ached to take a picture of it from that incredible point of view, but I had to get to my appointment.

  I envisioned – and in doing so formed – a second tendril to lead me back to Earth.  This tendril was a delicate pink and I anticipated what awaited me at the other end.  Landing back on Earth, the knowledge came to me that I was twenty years in the future and I accepted that fact as a matter of course.  I found myself standing in front of a beautiful English-style cottage.  The overhang of the roof was fairly deep on this charming one-story dwelling.  There was a picture-perfect picket fence lining the front yard, which was festooned with colorful flowers clustering happily by the cottage, cheerfully outlining the stone walkway and clearly making their way around the sides and to the back yard.

  There were tall trees behind the cottage and I could just hear what would likely be a brook running through the trees.  I wanted to see if I was right, but I needed to keep my appointment.  I walked up the stone walkway to the pretty and welcoming front door decorated with a dried floral wreath (perhaps constructed from the cottage’s flower garden?) and knocked.

  After a moment, the door was opened to reveal a woman.  Her brownish-auburn hair highlighted with white was drawn back into a loose bun; tendrils curled about her pretty face.  Her somewhat slender body was clothed in a pretty cotton blouse and a skirt.  She smiled a familiar smile and opened her arms to pull me into a warm hug.

  The joy I felt emanating from her nearly took my breath away.  I was filled with a reciprocal joy that was so intense it brought tears to my eyes as she drew me inside.  We settled ourselves into comfortable, non-matching arm chairs positioned on a colorful area rug.  There was a pot of tea and two tea cups on the table between us, which told me she had been expecting me.

  I asked her the one question that I knew I must: “What brought you to this place in life?”

  She smiled a smile that had the tears returning to my eyes as she replied, “Following my joy brought me here.”

  I had more questions, but I was suddenly aware that it was time to leave this place.  The tears fell from my eyes as I was drawn away and up the length of the pink tendril … far above Earth again until I reached the point where the pink tendril connected with the gold.  The gold tendril gently brought me back down to Earth; back to the pond and back to my present self.

  I was weeping; aching to converse more with that future self.  For that is who my appointment was with: my self, twenty years in the future.  That beautiful, joyful woman in the lovely cottage was me – twenty years from now.  Even now as I concentrate on that memory and vision of the future, I feel the tears prickling in my eyes so strong is my desire to know more of her.  But isn’t that the point?  I know it is.

  I remain in my present with an eye to my future and I know that in my future there is joy – so much joy!!!  With that knowledge, I am given the opportunity to make the choices which will best take me to that future.  And so I live in this moment but tingle with anticipation of what is to come … “Hello, me.”