Back to Good

A few weeks ago, I spent two hours with Rob Thomas.   He was there for me almost ten years ago, and he spoke to me once more on this standard Tuesday evening.  I know people love him as the front man to Matchbox 20.  Others did not know about him until his musical mischief smoothing around with Santana.  I just love him as the individual—specifically, the one who can sing a melancholy ballad with angst and hope that resonates with me on most days.

I found him after the release of his first solo gig in 2005.  Mom passed away the previous December, and I was needing something.  Anything, really.  Then, one quiet evening, with Mimi Pug by my side, I found it.  I found my solace.

And when the hour is upon us and our beauty surely gone
No, you will not be forgotten and you will not be alone
No, you will not be alone

And when the day has all but ended and our echo starts to fade
No, you will not be alone then and you will not be afraid
No, you will not be afraid

And when the fog has finally lifted from my cold and tired brow
No, I will not leave you crying, no, I will not let you down
No, I will not let you down and I will not let you down

I swear it was my story, our story.  Mom and me.  I felt it with every goosebump, tear and bone in my body.  I played the CD until it was too stratched to be played.   On this night, he sat down at the piano, played slowly and sung from the soul.  There were six rows ahead of me, and I only saw him.  As I listened to the song, however, I only thought about the other GENTLEman in my life.  The one who is the keeper of my giggles, the catalyst to all-things-fun at home and the rock steady. 

Jeremy stayed home with the girls so that I could go.  This is what he does.  He figures out what is meaningful to me, and he makes it happen.  With a wedding in the same week, it was not kind to the girls (specifically Ruby) to be away from home two days in one week.  As I was propelled back to 2005, my brain quickly went through all that has happened:

Blθθdbath θf Emθtiθns After Mθm’s Passing

Mθving Back tθ Austin

New Jθb

Guilt θf Nθt Being with Dad

Planning a Wedding as a Nθn-Wedding-Planning Persθn

Pregnancy
Dad’s Strθke

Pregnancy, Again

New Jθb

Pack Up and Sell Hθuse

Find a Hθuse in Freakin’ Austin

Dad Mθves In

New Jθb

_________________________________________

Jeremy M. Palafθx

So, he has been the common denominator.  He carried me through every single bit of it—the awesome, the okay, the shitty and the real-shitty I don’t ever tell anyone but him.  I try to put good in the world, and he surely is the great, the really-awesome, that comes back.  He brings me back to good, always.  

                 

                 

Take Your Place

Take Your Place

for (tenacious, strong, kind) Bennet and Ruby

Partial sun and clouds of gray,

Muted colors take its space

Then came the day, the time brought you

I hear your voice, sweet, take your place.


 

You tilt and totter, tumble and trip

Find a kind hand--please hold on tight

Trust and grow, learn and explore

Shine your light and strive for bright

 

Hold a book between your two hands

Words settle in and you take flight

Your brilliance, yes(!), is already within

And, dear, let go--let go of being right

 

Work and Hard will find their days

Serve them well, they play a role

You need them more than you may know

Do your job and feed your soul


 

Put Ego aside and let kindness in

For those days when the sun will rise

The world will hold all hearts and thoughts

Solace you’ll find in compromise


 

Revel in sillies without regard

Sit beside souls who love your light

Fill your heart-store with the Great that I know

Use it as warmth--the cold will sometimes bite


 

This world has joy because of YOU

Your story is grand--started with my embrace

Own your days, the time all yours

You are loved.  Now, take your amazing-place.

 

                                    

                                     

                          

The Phantom Mother

Sometimes, getting through a day is too much.  All stones have been turned, and there is no energy left to move forward.  I choose to work full time.  I choose to have children.   I choose to spend time doodling or writing when sleep would be a smarter choice.  Beauty and joy is found in all these moments, and it's exhausting.  And this is when the machine of motherhood and workdom is functioning at top-performance.  

One wrong move or an unexpected open orifice for germ entry, and all goes to hell. 

It happens every winter.  Jeremy and I feel like we are home more than our places of employment.  Since last Thursday, all members of our family, including Dad, have come to blows and lost our mêlée with the stomach flu.  We have busted out our light sabers of Lysol and antibacterial-soap-numb-chucks to combat.  Futile and pitifully weak methods. 

The last one to duel with flu-and-fever was Jeremy.   By Sunday, I was able to navigate the day well enough.   Clutch, I was.  The children, at least on this day, would have someone to keep them from knives, opening up all the tampons and typical preschool-age rebellion.  Jeremy was out for the count and in bed wearing a scarf, covered with a blanket and doubled-up with my down robe.  As I walked by the bedroom, I could hear him on the phone.  I didn’t ask, but I assumed he was talking to his mom.  These simple, quiet moments cut deeply.  I was in his place just the day prior, and I wished so badly for Mom.  My phone, right by my head and likely covered in influenza, used to be a direct line to her voice – 442.3839.  But, it just sat there holding Facebook posts of erratic weather patterns, Instagram shots of perfectly lit abandoned buildings and pictures of her grandbabies. 

Sometimes, Mom, I wake up extra early just to drive to work.  The quiet is grand in the car, and it is where I find your voice.  With drives to Manor and Georgetown, I am grateful for the extra mileage.  I hear my inner-voice for you in ballads.  I imagine you dancing when a beat is dropped.   I see you when the orange and purple of the sun starts to fade to the day’s bright yellow.  I feel your arms when the chill is to the bone.  Your arms and hands were always strong from working so hard.  You know, they still hold me up.

Mom, I miss you.  That’s a given.  On these kinds of days, I need you. These are the times when I don't want to be strong.  I don't want to play nice.  I don't want to think.  I just want to go to a place that existed long ago--the core of me that you first loved that mid-October day 35 years ago.  I can't go there anymore, and I don't let myself. The path is obstructed by responsibility and ego.  No one else knows about that place.  Only you. Oh, how I miss this place.    

                                                 

Then, there are other kinds of moments.  Before stepping into the shower tonight, I stood there and looked in the mirror.  My eye color is hers, and I see familiar crevasses around my eyes .  There was no self-judgment of what I saw.  Rather, I just have questions--many of them.  

Is this what happened to your body, Mom, after bearing and nursing children?   What are the words to the  My-Lan lullaby?  I have searched and searched for it on the Internet, and I can’t find it.  I've come to think that you just made it up for us, and my head and heart aches when I think about how I have forgotten the lyrics.  Silly brain.  Will you sing it to the girls?  They will sing along.  It will be so flat, and you will love it. 

Sometimes, there are questions that only she can answer.  You know, I don’t know how to be a good daughter to Dad.   I always knew where you stood.  He speaks in the language of Passivity, and I do not have access to break his code.  How did you do it?  Jeremy and I are doing our best, and we need your help. 

In the words of Mrs. Carter, heaven could not wait for you.  I understand that. I see you there, wearing your flip-flops, and making your eggrolls.  I am sure there is a long line of hungry people.   In one hand is a pair of wooden, worn chopsticks used to slowly turn the rolls in the heated grease.  They were always so evenly fried.  Your other hand is on your hip.  Music would be playing.  Blondie.  You loved her so.   You laugh, take a few bites here and there and sass with friends. 

I take that back, Mom.  Heaven was too eager.  You know what, I will take a single day back. I will take 24 hours with you, please.  It will be great.  I promise.  Here’s our agenda:


1.  Read to Bennet and Ruby.
2. Tell me about the day I was born.  I want every single detail.
3. Sit with me at the kitchen table.  We will share chips and salsa from Taco Delite.
4. Here’s our wedding video.  The dragon dance would have been your favorite part.
5. Can you me make me the cucumber salad and gỏi cuốn (your sauce is the best!)?  I will write down the recipe.
6. Take a picture with me and the girls.  Bennet will want to be the photographer, too.  Be ready and be patient.  You always are.
7. Let's take a walk arm-in-arm.  We don't need to talk.  I will just walk beside you.
8. Watch the girls sleep.  I swear Ruby looks just like you when you sleep.  This brings me comfort.

                                       

9. Let’s shoot hoops with the girls.  I have a feeling Bennet’s tenacious spirit will remind you a bit of yourself.  I bet she would not scream either if she received an envelope full of worms from male classmates.

                                               

10.   Lay next to me while I go to sleep.  And, Mom, sing me the lullaby?

Two Legit

My Ruby, from the start, has always been a present kind-of-kid.  I mean this in the namaste kind-of-way.  While laboring with her, I would hee-hee-hee, crack a mediocre joke,  whoo-whoo, bound angle pose, hee-hee, say lyrics along with Jay-Z, whoo-whoo and threw out some pretty impressive groans.  After a wee bit-o-time, she leisurely came into the world.  And, to be totally in the moment, we did not know her gender until 2:42 that spring afternoon.  Nurse Sarah handed her to me, and she was like, "Hey parents.  I'm here.  Let's hang."  It was freakin' awesome and kinda chill all at the same time.

Since that day, Ruby is just a kid that is content with "just being".  She is happiest picking up little things and holding them:  rocks, lids to water bottles, scraps of paper, roly-polys (may they all rest in bug-peace).  She also has the most endearing kid-voice I've heard.  I know I am her mother.  Bias is in full force, and I don't care. Then, you add the fact that she adds an "a" to end of words.  It's a bit strange and pretty darn cute.  "I don't-a want to-a brush my teeth-a!"   (Fact:  I do not recall engaging in concentual adult activities with any Italians nine months prior.)  Sometimes, I look at her, and I feel like I finally have a Cabbage Patch doll.  A little human that sprung from a vegetable (let's call it a uterus) and just happy to exist in the world. 

 

She's two-years-old now and has important things to say.  After giving it some thought, I really think this kid gets it.  Sure, I am her Mama.  But, she sure as hell is teaching me tons more.

Listen closely: 

1.  "You can be amazing.  You can be a sheep, Mama."

Hand out words of kindness and grace.  Thinking the impossible is great, too.  Be whatever you want.  This sentiment is pretty spot on.  So, baaaaaaaaa, y'all. 

2.  "You hurt my feelings-a."

Hey, you gotta let someone know when your heart is a bit bruised.  Whether the recipient responds tactfully and accordingly, indifferently or nastily, it does not matter.  You do your part, and speak your heart.  Remember, tears are okay, too.  They just mean something is important.

3.  "Go with me.  I too scary-a."

Being scared is okay.  It's good for the spirit.  It's a catalyst for potential awesomeness.  And, if you feel a bit reticent, bring a friend.  You know, the kind of friend who will not ask questions when you ask her to stash a large chunk of benjamins (stored in a non-descript reusable bag, of course). 

4.  "Come join me, Mama."

Ask the person to join you.  You only have friendship and love to lose.  If you like him, talk to him.  If she's awesome, make plans to frolick in a field somewhere without cedar.  Chat with the guy with the awesome tattoos reading the book you want to buy.  Be vunerable and ask them to join in your world. 

5.  Silence and Grit. 

Sometimes, we just need to bear it and stay quiet.  This week Ruby tried to tie a balloon on Mimi Pug's tail.  This did not end well.  No one was at fault, Mimi felt guilty and Ruby was left with two teeth punctures on her face.  While at the ER, they cleaned the wound.  She laid there as directed, did not budge and let Hector clean the shit out of the punctures.  Alligator tears dripped down both sides of her face, and she was silent.  Pure grit.   So, shut up and do what you need to do. 

 

Photo by Awesome E. Danner

 

I mean, really.  I am lucky to be her Mama.  

 

 

365 in Words

The new year subtly stumbled into our home as I munched on some melted cheese and chips. Nothing says “Fab, a whole new slew of 365 days!” like nachos.   Looking at the myriad of social media forums this evening, I notice folks lamenting forfeited goals, acknowledging achievements and advancements and displaying platters of meat and fruit to be consumed during the swan song of 2013.  As I sit here, I am intrigued by how I should measure the previous dozen months.  Good stuff happened.  Then, there was the crappy crap, too.  I would round out the year by throwing in some silly, pissed-off, honest, calm and lots of heart matters. 

Tonight I am driven by words.  I love words, and words are crowding my frontal lobe as I think about this past year.  As I muck through the brain-verbage to eloquently commemorate the last 26 fortnights (1 fortnight = 2 weeks), I chortle at the flexibility and severity of words.  They are these tangible things that always have a recipient.  Oftentimes, I feel that since we cannot see what is coming out of our mouths, we do not give emphasis to the guttural impact they make.  You use them singularly or put them together, and, dear friends, we have our Superpower.  Of course, with power comes restraint, and I hope I use my words concisely and kindly.

There are good (awesome, stellar, profound) words.  Then, there are the reckless and audacious members of the word family that are stakeholders for some impactful, colorful language.  F-yeah.  The best part of words--I can put together whatever I want, and meaning takes place.  Here are some examples from this past year:

#1:  Two words placed adjacently

Occupational spooning:  Spooning, as defined by the Urban Dictionary, is a form of affection between a couple where the man or woman lays front to back with his/her partner resembling the fine fit of two spoons.  Occupational spooning, then, is when you observe those at your place of work in positions that resemble spooning.  These were great, and utterly entertaining, moments (notice the plural form of the aforementioned word) for me professionally.

Bawdy Bristle:  Facial bristle is merely the hair that sprouts from the oral region of a face.  Bawdy, according to Ms. English Oxford Dictionary, means dealing with sexual matters in a comical way.  You put the two together, and it’s how I feel about some good stubble.  I love my husband.  I lust my husband with salacious stubble (for those needing another synonymous speciman of alliteration).

 #2:  Parts of words to form one word

Excermisery:  There is exercise.  Then, there is misery.  Combine the two words, and this is the doom that used to fill every cell of my torso and limbs when I demanded and balked at myself until I worked- out.  Thank goodness those days no longer demand my attention.

Adultantrum:  We have seen adults, and we have seen tantrums.  The ultimate sight is seeing a grown- ass person throw a fit like a wee toddler.  It is a bit entertaining, loads awkward and rarely justified. 

Graticry:  Gratitude + Cry = Practically every day for me.  This is the moment when you become swallowed up by the small and big sentiments in life, and a good cry is the unrivaled form of respect to be bestowed upon the moment. 

I would say the words that best round out 2013 for me would be gratitude and humor.  This year, I swallowed many words spoken by those around me.  Some colloquy was simply stated without purpose and received indifferently.  Other verbage revealed egocentric needs.  Then, there were words that filled my soul a thousand times over.  Through it all, I am most grateful for the residual ability, at the end of the day, the month, the year, to chortle about all of the not-so-good, great, and uber-thrilling hullabaloo.  I will ride the wave of high spirits into the inaugural month of a brand new year.  Welcome and much love to you.

Run, Run, Run Fest

I despise being cold.  The only thing worse is being hungry and cold.  Fortunately, I am always with food—almonds in the purse, dark chocolate hidden in obscure pockets, pork tenderloin slices tucked away.  So, I’ve found compensatory strategies for this perseverative hunger beast.  That still leaves me cold, and it is freakin’ December.  The only, only solitary time I embrace the Central Texas Tundra is when I am running.  This act brings me much joy.  One could assume that since I love running, I must do it all of the time. This is an erroneous assumption.  On average, I run once a week.

This running thing happened by accident in the 7^th grade.  I did not make the basketball team (only volleyball member who did not make the b-ball team—damn being 5’1” and uncoordinated with large, orange balls), was passed over for team manager (low-blow) and was stuck in the off-season.  Coach Hutchinson would blow the whistle, and a mass of girls in the midst of puberty would awkwardly start moving in some type of forward trajectory.  It was not pretty.  We were required to run for the entire athletics’ period through the streets of Wylie’s finest suburbia.  Now, as an academic, overachieving zealot, I kept running because I always did as I was told.  Girls took shortcuts.  Rumor had it (cue Adele) a few would just run home for part of the time, pat some cold water on their faces and got back to school when it was time to get dressed.  How timely and efficient of them.  This is where my tumultuous love-lust affair with running started.  It was 1992, and I was 12 years old.  Oh, how I ran. 

I love the way the soles of my shoes grip the pavement, the dirt, the grass, the track.  I love the juxtaposition of my cold face with my warmed-up torso and limbs.  I am in love with the mental-peace I always find.  This is my favorite part, and I get drunk from it.  When I think about all of my former residences, I think about my paths.  I ran around the Wylie Butane Mobile Home Park as a teen.  It was home, and mom did not want me to go far.  UT did not feel like home until I went on a run.  My first new friend on the 40 acres was Clark Field.  She  was there for me when I needed a break from studying, she was there for me when I broke off a six-year relationship, she was there for me when Kim called about mom's brain tumor.  Madison brought me some of my favorite runs. Lake Mendota pushed me to take longer, faster strides as my throat burned from the sharp , cold-ass air.  The hill on Hart Lane in North Austin challenged my quads and brings fond memories of my first home with Jeremy.  Now, my runs take place long after the sun slumbers.  The girls are in bed, and it’s my time.  I put on my reflector vest and knee brace.  I turn on my music.  Long-gone are the days of Run DMC, Ludacris and Trick Daddy.  Now, my ears and pace are more keen on the Avett Brothers, variations of Pachabel’s Canon in D and Iron and Wine. 

 

In 2006, I annihilated, schooled, simply finished my first 26.2.  I crossed the finish line 55 seconds under my goal.  When asked if I will ever do this again, I am reluctant.  For me, this whole running thing has nothing to do with the distance, the amount of time required or the need to consume goopy crap to provide nutrients during a run.  It is also the only and last time I wore a fanny pack.  Some called it a water carrier belt.  No.  Fanny pack incognito, folks. 

 

I am in awe of those who run long distances for their body and heart-needs.  For me, the six-months of training got me revved and giddy, and that was enough.  Most importantly,  I dedicated time to something I loved.   I need more of this. 

I enjoy my solitary time during my jaunts.  It is also an unexpected gift to share this time with fellow mates.  My recent run with Lisa in 28 degree weather was warmed by heart-conversations.  Cyndi and I surely conquered the parking garage stairs at the service center—it was the perfect way to wrap-up a work week and kick-off two days sans work-work-work-brain.  And, now, I have two of the best running partners.  Given, our treks are more like endless adventures, include various snack stops, and, at times, never involve running (more like corralling).  Notwithstanding, it is pure pleasure for this Mama. 

 

Bottom line, I keep running because I can.  I am still on this earth, and I want to stay connected to it.  I am able to wake up each morning, put on some shoes and move onward.  There are days  (most) when I am slow, and that’s okay.  There are times when I forget how it feels.  My days are wrapped up in hullabaloo, and, eventually and thankfully, I find my way back.  I feel my heart beating.  I feel my lungs working.  I feel my mind settling.  It feels right and too good. 

 

Let's go. 

People, Actually.

I must have been 8 or 9 years old.  Our already-flat noses were cold and pressed up against the kitchen window.  This would be the year he comes.  Nothing.  The sky was black.  Then, we heard a bell.  It’s him.  He’s coming.  Alas, it was only the horn of the train running right in front of the Wylie Butane Mobile Home Park.   Our two bedroom home had wheels but did not have a chimney.  We were confident he would find a way to come into our house.  Now, given, we also did not have a tree.  Instead, Dad permanently had an outdoor antenna placed on our kitchen bar.  I guess this sufficed.  The center pole was perfectly sandwiched between the cheaply-made counter and the ceiling.  The width was ideal for creating a focal point for everyone who entered our home and needed to look at something awkward and large.  Most importantly, instead of going to the roof of the house to make Bull on Night Court appear more clear on the television, we just had to stand up from any point in our living room or kitchen, reach out an arm and rotate the damn thing.  Not even a decade old, even I could sense the ridiculousness of my father’s stubborn need to do things his way.  But, hey, we had good TV viewing, enough metal to build our own Vicky robot and a place to hang a metal fruit basket and the gluey, glittered ornaments made in school.

Twas’ the night before Christmas

All through the mobile abode

3 kids were so hopeful

For just one gift bestowed

The movies said it would happen

The kids said it was all true

Bearded man cladded in red

Brings goodness just for being good-you

Alas the time came

After years of anticipation

Lies of gifts told to save face

Conjured and such fake elation

Perspective gained with time and age

You are better from harder falls!

When the cold settles each year,  

the heart slightly aches to recall.

Not soon after that year, with urging from her three children, Mom convinced Dad to buy our first tree.  It was the 24^th of December, and Dad was going into the Allsup’s gas station in Sachse to buy his weekly lottery tickets.  “I feel lucky.  This is going to be the night.”  We definitely rode the wave of our father's fleeting generous spirit.  The tacky front window display, apparently, was the perfect backdrop for selling holiday trees.  With only a mere day left to sell their goods, the price was reduced.  We could afford the $10 or so purchase.  And, ladies and gents, we had our first tree.  Kmart provided the rest of the discounted holiday paraphernalia.  I swear we were the happiest children to ever exist throwing silver tinsel on a dried, ill-shaped, patchy Christmas tree. Even better, Kim, Dan and I were ecstatic to open up presents that we made in front of one another.  There was no surprise element, but there was something more obtained from those few gifts under the tree.  The feelings were just as real when we played our maracas made of toilet paper rolls, Scotch tape and  uncooked jasmine rice.

Fast-forward about 30 years, and I am sitting in my 4 bedroom, 2-living room home.  Our symmetrical tree holds ornaments that cost 7 times the value of my first tree.  Holiday cards are hung by a contraption made just for the purpose of displaying the said item.  Perfectly spaced lights line the edge of our roof, and a revolving, blow-up carousel guards our front yard.  Not to worry, we have an eight-foot wooden snowman to protect the carousel animals in case the evil winds knock over the prized-possession.


In case we forget which stalking belongs to whom, our names are already embroidered onto our individualized sock made of fine fabrics and lined with batting.  Boxes and boxes of wrapped gifts are hidden away and anticipating their reveal the evening Santa arrives and the creepy, rambunctious elf leaves.

Each year, I am overwhelmed by this season.  The expectation, the hustle and the happiness of it all is all-too-jarring and surely foreign to my inner-and-former-self.  I admit that guilt horribly resides in all this madness, as well.  Why do my girls get to have all of this when there are little-me's that keeping waiting for just one solitary gift to come her way?  And then, there is a part of me that knows that my former hardships molded me.  I am a good person because it was so hard, right?  Bennet and Ruby, in some ways, have it so easy.  Of course, why would any parent want things to be hard for her child?  That would be absurd, and there are days when that is exactly what I feel they need.  It’s horrible, and it’s true. 

And, then, there is my Jeremy.  He is a light.  Add some holiday music and barely a whisper of the word “Christmas” after July 4th, and he is surely the North Star.  He relishes in his warm and loving memories of his wintry family festivities.  I am a quiet participant next to him come one day post-Thanksgiving.  I am supportive because I have learned to not say, “No.”  This is how we mutually move through the holiday season.  I love him because he loves the spirit of it all.  And, even with all he received as a child, he is the least-entitled, kindest, heart-happy soul I know.  And, this thought brings me comfort as I make multiple trips from our secret present-hiding location to our tree this evening. 

Deep, deep down, I know all of this does not matter.  I know my ego gets in the way.  The stuff and, even more importantly, the lack-of-stuff is insignificant.  I am working on letting it go. It is the people, actually. And, we have great people in our lives.  We have passionate, giving, extremely-good-looking (!) , smart, tenacious, honest, kind, kind folks in our circles.  It is always the beating hearts sitting next to you, throughout the day or the first of Christmas morning, that brings the meaning.  And, in this regard, I know Jeremy and I had identical, heart-full upbringings.