Sometimes Life…

I’m writing a book of letters to my daughter. On the eve of Esther’s 9th birthday, here is an excerpt.

Dear Esther;

Yesterday, just before you drifted off to sleep, you asked me why it is that everyone in your class is so much faster than you are, why you are so slow getting your work done at school. This question hit me hard. It’s the first time you’ve verbalized any knowledge that you are different than your classmates, and I was worried that you might be starting to doubt yourself and your abilities. So, let me explain something.

It’s a little more complicated than this, but basically, there are two sides to your brain, the left side and the right side. The left side is… well… it’s black and white, it moves left to right, it’s logical, orderly, and analytical. The right side is in full blooming color. The right side moves in circles, wanders around a lot, and finds answers outside the lines. The right side dances with tree frogs and paints with a spoon. The right side is magical and knows you’re a part of everything and everyone. The lines on the right side are squiggly and blurry but sometimes there just aren’t any lines separating anything from anything else. Life on the right side is open and boundless and hops on one foot from gumdrop to marshmallow. You, my little cabbage, are a right-brained girl.

Now it just so happens that you go to a left-brained school, which, frankly, sucks. I mean, it’s a really good school; it’s just not a really good school for you. Most schools are left-brained, and the schools that are right-brained usually cost a lot more money than we have, which is a bummer. If we had the money you’d surely be attending one, but since you’re not, you’re having to fight quite an internal battle to get the right side of your brain to do stuff better suited to the left side. You’re the square peg, sweetheart, working to get into that pesky little round hole. So, the truth is you are NOT slower than the rest of your class. In fact, you are likely working a million times harder than the rest of them and your brain is going a zillion miles a minute. You’re thinking about 25 things while they’re thinking about one! And that’s why it’s so hard for you to concentrate on just the one thing your teacher asks you to. Besides, you’ve got far more interesting things on your mind than writing the answer to 341 minus 267. I mean, who cares about that when there’s infinity to ponder and a unicorn prancing on a rainbow right at the edge of your eyelashes?

You also happen to be a very bouncy girl who hates to sit her bottom in a seat, so a classroom chair for you is like prison. You’d much rather be jumping rope and doing cartwheels and handstands to backbends, right? Well, you put that right brain together with your bouncy body, and doctors and teachers and psychologists like to call that ADHD, and they like to call it “disordered” and they like to “medicalize” it and medicate it and make it out like there’s something wrong with you. But there is nothing wrong with you. You just don’t fit into their left brained, black and white, orderly, logical world. Did you know, Esther, that your mommy is right-brained too? Did you know that when I was little they didn’t understand people like us at all, and that my 2nd grade teacher actually called me stupid? Isn’t that the silliest thing ever? I knew you ‘d think so…

I’ll tell you what else, Esther, right-brained people are the ones who make the world beautiful with paintings and poetry and purple pixie lipstick. And we don’t care about time. What is time, anyway, except an arbitrary boundary some left-brain people decided to place on our planetary experience? For you and for me there is no time, there is only right now. So how are we supposed to solve 50 multiplication facts in 15 minutes? What does that even mean? I’ll tell you what it means. It means nothing. Nothing at all. We can solve those problems, no doubt, but what’s with the clock? Why is that important? Why are only the ones who can finish in 15 minutes called smart? Why can’t we take 3 earthly days to finish? Why does that make us stupid? I know, Esther. I don’t get it either.

So remember, sweetheart. You are not slow; you are timeless. While others live bound by subjective time restraints, you live in infinity, so you’ve got forever to ponder 12 times 9. And when you finally decide to write it down, you’ll do it with your favorite markers and make the answer come alive with every color the world’s palette has to offer. You’ve got a beautiful brain, Esther. And one day, you’ll realize not only how lucky you are to have it, but that left-brain people envy you for it, and are awestruck by it, and wish they could be like you.

Love you, honey…

Mama.

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My favorite Christmas song is Oh Come Oh Come Emmanuel. Well, actually, it’s not a Christmas song. It’s an Advent song. Christmas celebrates the birth of Jesus. Advent encompasses the waiting for a Savior. I’ve discovered of late that I’m more a fan of Advent than Christmas itself, because even after all these years, I’m still waiting; waiting for good news, for the turn around, for a sign of life, for that glimmer at the end of the tunnel, and on most days, for the other shoe to drop. I worry and I wait. I’ve grown accustomed to it.

It will come as no surprise then for me to say that by most people’s standards I’ve turned into a bit of a Scrooge at Christmas time. I dread the holiday. I dread the shopping, the fight for parking. I dread seeing greed and gluttony in action. I dread the Christmas music that starts before Halloween. I want it over before it begins.

Even so, I am hopeful. Really I am. But I do not hope as I did in my youth for presents and things, for more shoes I don’t need, a new kitchen gadget or an iTunes gift card. I do not hope to find ornaments on sale on the 26th. I hope for an end to conflict – mostly in my own life because I’m kinda self-absorbed, but most certainly I hope for an end to conflict on the planet too, because it all just seems too much for a world with so much unrealized beauty to bear. Maybe I notice all the tragedy more acutely this time of year because it looks so stark up against all the glitter of the holidays. Maybe I really am just a Grinch. I don’t know…

Now if this post doesn’t make you want to come to my house for Christmas dinner, I don’t know what will…

I started making a slide show video set to my favorite rendition of Oh Come Oh Come Emmanuel late December last year, after the floods in Nashville, TN. I never finished it, because Advent had passed and it just didn’t feel like the right timing. Last Sunday at mass, I was reminded that Advent and the beginning of the liturgical year start this week. The video project I abandoned 12 months ago suddenly popped back into my head.

It seemed somewhat dated when I first revisited the project in iMovie three days ago. Yes, that Nashville flood was sooo “last year.” But you don’t have to look far to find tragedy in the world, do you? How about an earthquake? A tsunami? A hurricane? A war? A protest? A famine? An AIDS crisis?

Now I seriously don’t mean to rain on your Christmas parade, really I don’t. I want you to have a happy one. Honest. All I wish to provide in having pieced together this little video is some perspective – mostly for myself, if we’re keeping it real. Seeing and assembling these photos didn’t depress me, per se. It put my own small woes in their place. It made me mindful. It made my heart bigger. And if that isn’t what Christmas is about, well then I’ve got the whole thing wrong. There is so much to be grateful for without spending a dime, without having to overstuff ourselves with 3rd and 4th helpings of turkey and pie, and without trampling one another on Black Friday for an X-box and an iPad2. Am I right?

No matter the time of year, no matter the continent, no matter the people, there is sorrow to be found. Where there is sorrow, there is hope that needs to be restored… and there is a peace worth waiting for.

And so… I wait…

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Everybody’s an expert.
Go to a surgeon,
he’ll tell you to have surgery.
Go to a hairdresser,
she’ll tell you to get a haircut.
Go to a bankruptcy attorney,
he’ll tell you to file.
Go to a priest,
he’ll tell you to confess.

If you ask me,
I’d say
worry,
sing,
write,
announce your arrival;
then have a pint of beer
and get over yourself.

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My surf instructor, Mary Osborne. Photo by Tim Burgess.

1. Just Me

On the day I left for Ventura to surf for the first time,
I had a premonition:
a premonition that my life was about to change.
There was nothing specific,
nothing clear,
nothing to latch onto.
Just the sense that I was climbing an onramp
to a new highway,
even though I’d travelled the 101 North from L.A.
a million times in the last 25 years.

10 days later, I still feel it:
a new existence
rising on the Rincon.
It’s still unclear,
but it looms.
It scares me,
but I want it.
Surely, I am changing.
That’s no surprise.
But into what?
Into whom?

I stand at the water’s edge, and I won’t look back.
I want a double espresso with steamed half and half
and my sunglasses.
Oh, and a cigarette, please.
But I’ll have none of them, thanks,
nor anything else to propel me
or lull me
or hide me
on this inaugural swim
with paper sharks on sea-foam pillows.
It’s just me,
myself,
and my open, hungry heart.

2. Premonition

I could write about the current
or the easy south swell.
I could write about my childhood islands
watching me from 30 miles off shore.

I could write about my useless heartache and how I left it behind,
or about the long, feathering waves I’ve missed
since Friday afternoon.
I could write about the ones that pummeled me
or the ones I let roll by.

I could write about how saltwater makes my hair curl
and how I didn’t expect to love the taste of it on my lips
or the sting of it in my eyes.
I could write about being a lead balloon on top of that board,
and how it mostly felt like wrangling a giant pissed off sea lizard.

I could write about how I landed wrong
or why I jumped off the board when I did.
I could say I was a klutz or I could say I was my own hero,
and both of those things would be true.
I could write about how it changed me, this little weekend,
just like my premonition said it would.

I drove 60 miles north to discover something I’m terrible at.
But thank God I have no talent standing in my way
because that means with enough time in the water and on the board,
I will learn to surf.

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She is on a pilgrimage.
She’s walking the 500-mile Spanish portion
of the walk to the Church of Santiago de Campostela,
The Way of St. James,
and I am envious.

She traveled alone to France
and then on to Spain to walk this walk,
without knowing a word of French or Spanish.
She is meeting other pilgrims along the way, to be sure,
but without a friend or family member
and the baggage they inherently pile on,
it is still a solitary journey.

She is walking with a pack on her back,
which carries just enough water for the day,
an apple, a bar, or a bag of pretzels,
and one change of clothes for the evening.
She has brought with her only what she can reasonably carry
for a daily trek of 15 to 20 miles.

She stays in small villages along the route
– in hostels and albergues.
She washes out her walking clothes each night,
and every morning she begins again.

I carry my life on my back.
Lost and unrequited love,
anxiety and failure,
rage and regret,
self-criticism and the disapproval of others.
You name it.
It’s on my back.

I want to be a pilgrim,
a pilgrim on the Camino de Santiago.
I want to shed this useless baggage
and be alone with my body and my thoughts,
my blisters and my tears.

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“Mommy?” she asks, taking my hand as we walk our afternoon ritual to the pool. “When people go to college, do they take their stuff with them when they go?”

“Yes” I say. “They do.” She stops in the middle of the street.

“Everything? Even their beds? Even their toys and their clothes?”

“Yes, sweetheart, everything. Now, keep walking. Don’t stop in the middle of the street.” I pull her along as I always do, trying not to rush her out of her thoughts, which frustrates her beyond measure.

“Well I don’t want to do that when I go to college,” she says, slowing down, hopping on one foot. I let go of her hand and let her hop. She’s happy when she hops.

“I’m guessing you may very well want to when you get to be that age.” I reply. She stops hopping, runs to my side and buries her face in my belly after poking it with her index finger a few times.

“No mama. I never want to leave. I always want to be with you. Always. I love you toooooo much. I could never leave you. Never.” She unwraps herself from my body and opens the pool gate. She runs for the water and I watch as she leaps.

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I thank God for little words
which, when strung together by brave souls,
can bring tears over the brim of my eyes
and waves over my flesh where no ocean lives.

 

Once to my ears, and only for a moment,
they are quakes in the core of my heart
and music to the dead of my bones.

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Today is Ash Wednesday. I could get all technical on you about what that means in the Catholic Church, but I think I’ll stick to what it means to me. It’s the beginning of Lent, the 40 days before Easter, the day after Mardi Gras, a time which serves to remind me of my faults and shortcomings as a parent, a wife, a friend, a human being. It causes me to take stock of my life, be mindful and, in short, do something for 40 days to keep me mindful. Ideally, however, it causes me to place my focus back on the hope brimming at the horizon.

Today also happens to be the day that, after mass, Esther is to be awarded as Student of the Month. I knew this was coming, but she did not, and I was very excited for her. I wanted this day to be happy, special, and joyful, from the moment she opened her eyes. This, to me, would be a little Easter for my Esther, a little bit of life and hope in the midst of an ongoing struggle, too many days where I know she has felt hopeless. She has been working very hard in school to overcome some minor learning, vision, and sensory issues. She’s made a lot of progress and I am terribly proud of her. Esther is also terribly hard on herself and more often than not expresses with a grief no child should know at such a young age a sense of failure about her inability to do what the other kids seem to do so easily.

I woke her up, stroked her little face and snuggled in bed with her as I do every morning. I told her how much I love her and how today is going to be such a good day if we can all stay focused and work together to get ourselves ready. She smiled at me, as she does every morning, and said how much she loves me.

With a bit of prodding, she got dressed in good time and sat down to her breakfast of choice – waffles with an ice cold glass of milk. While at the table she found a piece of her religion homework that should’ve been done last night, but could easily be done while eating breakfast. No cause for alarm. No morning derailment. It was about the meaning of Lent, of course, and why we give something up or choose to do something nice for the period of time before Easter arrives. This led to us talking about the meaning of Fat Tuesday and Ash Wednesday. Here’s her interpretation: On Ash Wednesday, people who were fat on Tuesday give up eating for 40 days. Clearly, we’ve got some work to do. She then rather suddenly announced with fear and welling tears that she didn’t want to get ashes on her forehead because they would never come off. I tried to explain that they come right off, but the ship had already left the dock. In an instant the time was gone. I was not dressed, her lunch was not made, and my husband was irritated that I told him he needs to put more peanut butter on the bread for her sandwich. I am now irritated with him for being sensitive about peanut butter sandwiches. But we are silent. We are always silent. And the tension grows. The blissful morning I had hoped for is now done for. Is it really too much to ask for a school-day of sunshine for my girl? The makings of a good memory, something to get her through the next few months until her carefree summer arrives? I guess it is. Her teeth are not brushed and her hair is not combed and now she is crying because she has been prodded and rushed and scurried out of her comfort zone. And we are late.

By the time I was able to attend to myself I, too, had been prodded and rushed and scurried out of my comfort zone. Now there is no time for a shower, no time for makeup, and barely enough time to brush my teeth. My own hopelessness sets in. Nothing will ever go as planned, no good memory will ever be made. Nothing I do is right. Why should I bother? Doesn’t anyone see how hard I am trying to make my daughter’s childhood better than my own? Doesn’t anyone give a shit?

We are silent in the car until Esther speaks up to say that she feels like she ruined every thing because she is a crybaby. Now, how do I respond honestly here? Do I tell her, ya, you did ruin it by being a whiny-ass 8 year old who is totally ungrateful for everything you have? Or do I placate her, hope for an in to a happy moment and tell her no, you are not a crybaby, everyone has bad mornings and you are as good a little girl as they come? I opt for something else entirely. “Esther” I say with resolve. “We all have a choice to make when we wake up in the morning. We choose to be happy or we choose to be grumpy. We choose to see what good there is or we choose to see the bad. You can’t ruin my day. Only I can ruin my day. And you are the only one who can ruin yours. It’s your choice.” Hmmm… perhaps this is a bit too heady for a second grader. I know it’s too heady for me at the moment, since in my head I am blaming a litany of people on the planet for my existential misery. “Yes, mommy. I understand,” she says. I think she says it just to get me to shut up. I think I’ve scarred her for life.

We arrive at church and Esther runs to sit with her class. Tim and I hesitate about where to land, and wind up sitting ourselves on the sidelines with The Blessed Virgin and an insanely loud child I would very much like to discipline seeing as his mother is not interested in doing so. I settle and stare into space, lamenting that this day is not what I had hoped for. My heart sinks a mite further and I feel the sting and water rise behind my eyes. Here they are. Finally. My hopeless tears. My husband is right next to me but feels a million light years away. Why doesn’t he say something? Put his hand on my arm. Comfort me. Something. A thought flashes through my head – why don’t I comfort him? Why don’t I reach out to him? Maybe he’s crying too but doesn’t show his tears…

I stand to see Esther receive her ashes. She sees me, points at her forehead and gives me a big smiling thumbs up. She did it. I hope she is not ruined for doing so, given her fear that they’ll never come off. I think twice about receiving the Eucharist. “Lord I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed” the Mass says. Truer words have not rumbled through my bones. If there’s one thing I’ve learned you DON’T do in a moment of darkness, it’s deny the light. And so I get in line behind the 4th graders to receive the Host.

After mass, the principal stands at the lectern to announce this month’s honored students. This is the moment. “Second Grade: Esther Klassen.” Applause. Applause. Applause. I watch her face break into an incredulous grin and she bounds for the altar. There it is. There’s the joy, however fleeting… Sweet, sparkling, bubbling over… She stands with the other kids holding high her certificate and beams at her daddy and me. She puts the certificate in her mouth and gives me an “I love you” in American Sign Language. I sign back to her “I love you too.” Tim turns and smiles at me and puts his hand on my knee.

Well, whaddya know… Perhaps there is a little mercy in that Host we just received, and in our willingness to muddle through the morning. Perhaps this will be a good memory for Esther. Perhaps a day that started out badly, will turn out well. There is the hope brimming on the horizon, and the day has just begun…

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I am behind. I’m always behind, always running to catch up. I have so much work to do, it’s overwhelming – and it’s all my own doing. It’s always my own. I’m the one who’s had the time but wasted it. I don’t even know where to start. Ten months behind on my corporate books, with two accounts to balance just so I can do my taxes. But it’s bigger than that. I am out time. I’ll be 50 in one year and I am acutely aware that the years are ticking by and I’ll never get them back. Never. I’ll never get where I need to go and I’ll never be who I have wanted to be. Never.

I stare at my financial software, I stare at the numbers in front of me and I dream of learning to surf in Las Olas. There among the blue dolphins and translucent fish in the warm green seas, in the gulf to the south. I stare, and I strain through this glass darkly, aching to see myself then, face to face.

I am not from here but I am native to this place – to the swirling salted water where I was birthed a million years past and where my soul still swims in search of my body so long ago lost.

But the killers come with their teeth in the clench. I thrash and I kick and I butt their faces with the blunt force of my fists. They sting and they slap and they circle me like prey. And it’s quiet. There is no crunch of bones. No pounding pavement. No bullets cracking the dark. But there’s blood and silence and shredded flesh. That’s what it feels like, anyway – this gnawing sense that the substance of my life has been stripped away by detail work. Taxes. Checkbooks. Bills. Telephones ringing with useless calls, the ding ding ding of meaningless texts. But really, if I’m honest, I control these things. It’s not some outside force at work against me. It’s just me against me.

“Stop it.” I say to myself, “Stop it, stop it, stop it…” as the moon stands still waiting for my howl and I hope again for one more year, one more chance, one more rite of reconciliation. My heart is a mess, I know, but I’m hoping God can see my eyes are bright and my skin is alive and still salty with effort. My bathing suit drops from the window where it hung, and to it I say yes.

Yes to the board. Yes to the waves. Yes to the sand and the sun and the salt in the water that is my rightful home. Yes. I will ride the waves that break my way. I will ride every ass that gets in my way. I will ride until the sun sets in her sky and I can no longer see my feet in front of me. Yes. I will.

So, are you coming with me? ‘Cause I’m packing myself up in the wood-paneled wagon and heading for the water, like every surfer girl does if she’s totally for real. And I am totally for real. Just in case you were wondering. This time, I am. I got my suit and my board. I got my Uggs. I got some beer, and the 1800. I got the wood and the matches, the salt and the lime. And this time, I’m hangin’ loose and I’m hangin’ ten, for real.

Because next year, the surfer girl in that picture there, will be me.

SURF LAS OLAS!!

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