Summer Bowl for kid's sake

The internet is a wonderful thing. You can maintain your anonymity and still do good works!

Pictures Don't Lie

I attended an event this weekend where my photo was taken unawares. No poses, no self editing, no chance to stand at a more flattering angle. It let me see the truth of how I look, even after a loss of 40 pounds. I wish this truth wasn't so... true.

OK, Well... back the truck up a bit. I HAD lost nearly 50 pounds. I was at goal and feeling and looking pretty good. A few have snuck back on. How many I really can't say ... for sure. 10?

But judge for yourself. Is this a thin person? Sadly, no. Even in my size 8 shorts I still look like a corn-fed heifer. A proper little hausfrau. I hate that.

The deal with my weight is that I play this game, called "It's Not So Bad". I suck my stomach in really hard, turn in the mirror to find the best angle, ignore the tighter items of clothing in my closet and tell myself I'm still a size 8, maybe 10. It's not so bad to be a size 10. Or 12. Hey, 12 is average. Then I have a piece of cake. Or a donut. In fact in this very picture I had a sandwich, some slaw and beans. Then I had a brownie, peach cobbler, candy, a donut and whatever else I ate I may have blocked out in my total shame.

I feel depressed, out of control and a little lost. I worry about my bad behavior and wonder how I can model healthy attitudes toward food for my struggling teenage stepdaughter when I have such a tenuous hold myself. 100 years ago I could have strapped myself in to a corset and looked pretty fine. Today we don't have those kinds of zaftig-friendly garments. Of course if I was wearing a corset, it would also be much harder to eat. And breathe.

I guess I'll have to do it on my own. Say, 20 pounds worth? Pictures don't lie.

For my birthday

Rain scrubbed sky
bright blue, glaze of pink
no traffic
cherries for breakfast
a card, a flower
a call from a friend
seventeen things off my to-do list
something pretty
2 hours browsing books
a walk, some ice cream
late dinner
sunset on the water
or
maybe just a touch
like you brushing the hair from my face
slipping on arm around me
as though I were thin
a kiss on the top of the head
or having my hand held
while we maneuver through a crowd.

Happy Hump Day

In the summers of 1986, 1987 and 1988 I was a camp counselor at Camp Towanyak. What might have been just a summer job to some was a real live life changing experience for me. I met two of my best friends and my ex-husband there. I also learned to rappel and start a one-match fire (a skill that still comes in handy). I fought off marshmallow-crazed raccoons and beer-crazed trespassers. I entertained sticky, weary, homesick girls week after week and learned something about kids that has served me well as a stepmother of two. I learned to meet new people and how to say goodbye and that sometimes you have to give up the things you love because it's the right thing to do. I also laughed more during those sweltering summers than I'd ever laughed in my whole life.

Because of Towanyak, I invariably think of Wednesdays as hump days. Camp always had an abundance of Hallmark-donated stickers, toys, plaques, mugs and other items. On Wednesdays we could always look for one of these gifts in our mailbox. We weren't celebrating anything special - just the passing of another week. Yet the memory is still with me -- and I still feel a little relieved when Wednesday arrives. Though I miss the trinket, I won't forget the feeling of accomplishment I got from having made it through another week unscathed.

So Happy Hump Day. I'll leave you some virtual gifts in your mailbox: a stuffed critter and some Wacky Packs. Just 2 more days until the weekend and then you're home free. In the meantime, do what work needs to be done, sing songs, make a friend and laugh as much as you can.

Going Home

This clockwork day winds down to nothing
late afternoon growing still
I turn my gaze toward home

I'm lingering on the angle of the sun
the dinner you are cooking
the zen of pulling weeds

I'm picturing your sideways smile
and sliding off my shoes
the dogs' schuff of greeting

No one else can talk this language
our jokes, the thrill
of long expected blackberries

Here is where my heart can be bigger
than my brain: with you
my yin and destination.

I don't believe in something, I believe in one thing

My mother and I have had some pretty lively debates about religion over the years. Now, my mom is a good person and she's given me the seeds for my own faith but her beliefs seem to me to be a tangled mix of Catholicism, humanism and "Maryism" (Mary, my mother -- not Jesus' mother).

Saturday night we had another campfire chat about faith. She said something to me that echoes a common humanist criticism of evangelical Christianity: that Christians are "bigots" because we believe that ours is the only way and so we exclude other good and "holy" people and, in fact, condemn them all to hell.

I don't believe that a simple reading of the facts -- that some people don't believe in Christ -- is judging. Jesus said in John 14:6 "I am the way, the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the Father, but by me." If I believe in Christ and I believe in the Bible, I have to buy it all, not just the parts I like. So if Jesus says "no man cometh unto the Father but by me", that's it. Jesus or nobody. Christianity or hell. If I believe anything else, then I'm not Christian. I really don't believe -- or believe in --Jesus at all.

I don't want to be a "cafeteria" Christian. Granted, there are parts of the Bible that are uncomfortable for me or that I don't know what to do with. So I read, study and get help with interpretations. But I can't pick and choose the parts that make sense or make me feel good. And in some persons' eyes, that makes me a bigot. I'm genuinely sorry they feel that way but I can't compromise. After all, Muslims think I'm going to hell and no one criticizes them for saying so: Koran 98:1-8 "The unbelievers among the People of the Book and the pagans shall burn for ever in the fire of Hell. They are the vilest of all creatures."

That being said, I believe God loves us all and because He loves us He gives us free will to accept or reject that love. He gives us the ability to change course at any time. And when we do, He joyfully makes a place for us. Romans 11:22-24 says of Jews who have not accepted Jesus: "And if they do not persist in unbelief, they will be grafted in, for God is able to graft them in again. After all, if you were cut out of an olive tree that is wild by nature, and contrary to nature were grafted into a cultivated olive tree, how much more readily will these, the natural branches, be grafted into their own olive tree!" I think that Grace is not only available to the Jews but to everyone.

Why I love Fridays...

Because even though I hate getting up early, it's the one day a week I don't mind crawling out of bed at 5:30 a.m. -- I know tomorrow I get to sleep in, all the way to 8 a.m. or later if T feels benevolent.

Because it's the end of the week, which means something interesting, constructive or fun is coming. This weekend we are camping with my parents. I don't know why it's so peaceful to drive across town, park and spend the weekend hiking around, sleeping in a box and staring into fires. It just is. It's slow enough that I can think out there. Quiet enough to fall asleep without the neverending list of "stuff" scrolling through my head.

I love this Friday because this morning there was an awesome thunderstorm. Enough to rattle and electrify your fillings. We woke up at 5 a.m. and just lay there, listening to the rain and the thunder. I hesitate to use the word AWESOME because it's so overused, but it was. just. awesome.

Because I get to wear jeans on Fridays. Somehow work doesn't seem so "worky" when you're wearing jeans and tennis shoes.

TGIF!

Quick asides

Just some random thoughts:
1) There are a lot of kids with too much time on their hands and a knowledge of html. Some of the blogs I have dropped in on freak me out. I'd like to find some nice blogs, some pretty blogs. Someone else who writes their own poetry that isn't all about demons and bugs would be great. If you know of anyone, please share.

2) The new book I'm reading has me snorting milk out my nose ... well, ok, just twittering to myself over lunch.
Yeah, it sounds just like that.

3) I'm jealous of pretty pics and in-text links in other people's blogs. Maybe I should run down an html for Dummies book.

4) I have visitors! I don't know who you are or why you're here, but thanks for stopping by.

No child left behind?

Let me start by saying that I'm proud that we live in one of the most ethnically diverse areas in the metro. I really thought that meant something... I used to anyway. When T said he wanted to join Big Brother/Big Sisters last year, I thought I was up for it. But the moment we met our little brother I knew that when it came to diversity, race and culture, I really didn't know a thing.

Because there were so many black boys on the BB/BS waiting list we said we'd like to be matched with one. We ended up with TC, a boy of 11. TC lives with his grandmother and attends middle school. He has severe allergies, ADHD, is smaller than most kids his age and gets in to a lot of fights. Despite the best efforts of his counselors, grandmother, coach and us, he has been suspended 3 times and is now on probation for stealing. Bear in mind he's only 12.

You know what? TC is also an awesome kid. I thought about him yesterday when I read this. Because I wished for a program like that here. I'm always wondering what we can do to keep this sweet, loving, energetic boy from becoming another statistic. How can we keep him interested and engaged at school when they keep throwing him out? He gets in to fights because he gets picked on. It's a common theme in every school, but in the old days they used to just haul you to the principal's office. Now they boot you. I thought he had to be exaggerating but I had a conversation with K's advisor at her new school (same district)and he said even if they are defending themselves, kids are suspended if they do anything but ward off the blows. Crazy.

TC's life is so different from mine. Forget living in the same city, sometimes it seems like we're not even on the same planet. He tells us about how his uncle hates white people, about how before he knew us he didn't really like white people either. His one white relative by marriage is as odd to him as my one black relative by marriage is to my family (although it doesn't seem that odd to me, he's a great looking guy). He tells us about how his aunt & her boyfriend fight and hit each other, he knows someone with a gun in the trunk of his car, about his uncle in prison and his uncle who's a pastor. His grandmother is working on her master's degree and his mother is a former drug user. What a tangle this guy has to sort out.

Do we have anything at all to offer? With God's help; only with his help. We do love this boy. There are days when he pleads to stay with us and it breaks my heart because I want him to. I know we could be great parents to him, regardless of the differences in the color of our skin and the "stuff" in our lives. We're trying to give him some confidence and encouragement but I'm afraid he's already given up on himself: when we told him that K was going to a particular school, he said, "Oh, that smart school? I'd never get in there. I'm too stupid."

You know what kills me? There are hundreds of thousands of kids just like him. Who's advocating for these kids? When our government says no child should be left behind, do they realize what they are promising? And if they do, how can they ever hope to fulfill it?

All that said, I wish more people would consider BB/BS. 3-4 hours a week might change a kid's life. Talk about a small price to pay to literally change the world and learn a little something about yourself in the process.

I've got the blah-gs

I can't believe how fast time seems to go when you're just living life, doing your thing. Next week is my birthday, another mile marker on the freeway to 40. There aren't many left... I wish I had more to show for myself. 20 years ago I thought I'd be high, high up in the advertising food chain with a nice house, a devoted husband, a couple of kids and a book in the works. Instead I have an ordinary worker bee marketing job, a modest home, a devoted husband and a blog.

It's true, I took a ride down the divorce highway, I frittered away a couple of great jobs, I voluntarily gave up having any kids and my house needs a thorough cleaning. My poetry is cheesy and I'm not disciplined enough to outline, much less write, a novel. But it's funny, every time I feel like singing the blues, I start counting my blessings instead.

Today isn't a bad day. My marriage is solid, by stepdaughters love me, I have 3 good friends that have stuck by me for half my life. I have great books, plenty of food, God in my life and a secret seed of joy in my heart that I don't show as often as I should. My parents are alive, my dogs wag their tails when they see me and people ask me things at work as if my opinion matters. I get to go on vacation in 3 weeks and again in 4 months. I am spoiled, fat n' happy and my hair is even softer today (new shampoo).

Deep down inside, I'm relentlessly cheerful. Lord help me, but I am.

summer girl (the most happy)

She gets up late and stays up later
she's always smiling unless you bait her
A sunny girl who's growing tired
She's spread so thin but she's still wired.

What can I tell her when she's crying?
When she can't win why say keep trying?
We push her on beyond all reason
to seduction, murder, betrayal, treason.

chorus
She's a summer girl living in the winter world
with a smile that melts the snow
but the storm is rising higher still
and all that she has left is will
And where is spring? I just don't know.

I wish that I could bring her home today
When I ask her please she looks away
her sins are many; she seems diminished
but she won't be turned until she's finished.

Another brutal storm is blowing
and still the summer girl keeps going
she doesn't shiver and never cries
And what's inside turns to ice and dies.


Note: I really must finish this book about Anne Boleyn and move on to something cheerier...

The legacy

All my life I have been surrounded by childless women. I don't know if this happens as frequently in other families, but there seems to be one in each generation on my mothers' side, stretching back 3 generations. When I start getting baby cravings and feeling sorry for myself, I find comfort in revisiting their lives.

The first one that I know of is Great-Great Aunt Kit, a schoolteacher and all-around grand lady that I never had the good fortune to meet. But I have her tidy scrapbooks, dating from the years 1917-1919. The books are packed with pictures, ribbons, programs, letters, receipts and other flotsam of a young woman's life. It's uniquely her and unusually forward thinking. She was an athlete and one of my favorite pictures is of her high school basketball team. I didn't know such a thing existed in 1917 as organized girls' sports, especially since Title IX wasn't even signed into law until 1971. She did marry and they appear to have been very devoted but there were no children. I wonder if this was a heartbreak for her? I'll never know.

All her wonderful things passed to her niece, my Great Aunt Jean. Aunt Jean was also an amazing lady. She spent WWII serving in the military as either a WAC or WAVE; I'm sad to say I'm not clear on the details. We recently had 19 rolls of her 35 mm film cleaned, restored and developed. Many of the photos were of her days at a military base in CA, roughly 1943-1945. My mother believes she was a flight instructor for the military. She also loved to ski, traveled to Europe, made friends with squirrels and was a school teacher. She died loved but unmarried. Her things went to her favorite niece, my mother.

The next generation yielded another aunt with impeccable education, great humor and plenty of class. I have spent very little time speaking with her since she moved away several years ago. But I can picture her smile, her eastern accent (which is so different from the Midwestern twang I grew up hearing) and I still receive a Christmas gift from her every year.

Included in that generation is also my stepmother, whose story I do know well. She is childless first for health reasons and finally by choice. Betrayed by her body and unwilling to continue pursuing a baby, she has settled in to middle age with the certainty that things were meant to be this way: she seems at peace. Our life together was an often painful prelude to my own career as a stepmother. We learned together the hard way but I'm a better stepmom because of our mistakes.

Do I regret my own choice? Sometimes. Once in a while I can feel my arms around a child, settled on my hip, smelling like baby lotion and hands all sticky. I can see myself smiling at a child that never came. But most days I pad through my tidy house in peaceful oblivion, happy not to be tripping over toys and wiping up spills. My husband feels the same, I think. Does he look at his almost grown baby and regret that there won't be more? Does he wonder, as I do, what our child would have been, what traits he or she might have shared? Would there have been a curly brown or red-haired boy or girl -- eyes green like his or hazel like mine?

In the end, I am not alone. I share a legacy with great women. Someday I will pass along their precious mementos to a museum or University archive where they will live on forever. As for me, my life will end with no children from my body but rather with two daughters of the heart. Hopefully, my own stories will live on in their recollections. Their love for me is a love of choice -- not obligation -- and I am grateful for it.

I'm really looking at you...

I've been catching myself doing something lately that I don't ordinarily do. I've been really looking at people, looking at their faces, eyes, clothes, hair, the sound of their voice, the expressions when they talk. I often look past people or down away from them, but not really at them.

I watched K the other day -- such a pretty girl. I love the way she and her dad stand together, conspiratorial, slightly in each others' space, like one might reach out to the other any second.

I got a chance to sneak a look at him, too, without him asking me what I was doing and thinking I've slipped my gears. Actually it was the back of his head I was admiring, the beautiful way his hair lays, the texture of it, the ash brown now as much grey as brown. It was the first time he ever let me cut his hair: I hope I get to do it more often. It overwhelmed me just to be doing something so intimate and see him without him really knowing what I was doing. My heart was full of him.

Last night I had dinner with a friend I had not seen for nearly 2 years. When I got past wondering what he thought of me (I'm 42# lighter than he last saw me), I found I loved looking in to his face as he talked animatedly about his wife and baby, his new job and his home in Oklahoma. I can see now the passage of time in his face, the 9 years that have passed since we first met. But he still looks like the kid I knew, the one who called me ma'am, even though I am only 6 years older.

I wonder how much time anyone really takes to look in to the faces and hear the hearts of the people they love? It takes more time and more care than I usually spend. But what are we missing by having those half conversations over the TV or while our brain is preoccupied with meals, the paper, work or chores? I think I know the answer. I think we are missing it all.

stream of consciousness, 6 a.m.

My brain comes on when the alarm goes off
the music pours in my ear and percolates the cells
I start to think about toast
socks, cats, sex
sitting peacefully with a book
work, God, furniture
airplane schedules
Anne Boleyn, the ironies of sleep
the feel of hot water
peace, rain, bluegrass
bills, joining the PTA
the tomatoes in bloom
the way your coffee smells on Saturday morning
the snake I found.

Just before I go under
you throw out one Moses arm and
hold back the water for just a few minutes more.

June 9, 2004

I guess a blog called "Poetry in the Everyday" should have some poetry. So here's my entry for today, dedicated to my stepdaughter K.


Miller's Daughter

I was driving, you were next to me
As I began to unspin the fairy tale
I lifted the coronet from my head
And I tell you how the golden threads were made.

This, my daughter, is the secret
I love you perfectly, but am not perfect
They put me in a room full of straw
Someone else spun all this gold.

I only did what I could do
with so little skill and all to lose
I didn't make it, I only made it mine
and now I have a King and crown.

I am just the Miller's daughter
without any special gifts or talents
only a little luck, some brains, a blessing
and a heart to save the princess.

Food Fight

I've been fighting with food for 25 years and sometimes I think the food is winning.

I've been as low as 121 lbs., as high as 189. I've been to gyms, nutritionists and Weight Watchers. I have tried Slim Fast and some diet with green beans and beets.

Most of the time, I stubbornly insist on eating what I want. I have a great sense of entitlement about all food. Food is my reward and I deserve every bite. Lately I have rewarded myself in to a larger size pair of jeans. I'm shocked at myself when I look in the mirror. It scares me to see how willing those little fat cells are to fill out again -- to make the slimmer hips and flatter stomach fuller, softer and more plush. Apparently fat cells have memory.

I decided yesterday that I needed to get serious and get back on my 20 point Weight Watchers routine. Am I hungry? Oh, holy cow I am hungry. I want cookies, chocolates, pretzels, chocolate covered pretzels, ice cream, whatever I can jam in my face. But on the flip side, there's a purity in being hungry. There's a thin feeling I get when I'm anticipating the next meal. It's like I can feel myself burning fat. I feel more alive, sharper, more alert. Being hungry makes me feel less stupid. In a way, being a little hungry feels good. Is that messed up? I don't know. I think there's a balance I need to find-- because there are days when being just-got-back-from-the-buffet full feels pretty great too.

I wonder how long I can do the 20 point days before I cave in and eat like a wild coyote? Which bait is more tempting, the new 2 piece swim suit for my beach vacation or the freedom to say yes to the next glass of wine or piece of peach cobbler? We shall see...

June 7, first out

Up on the Roof

When I was a kiddo, I used to love to sit out on the roof. There wasn't much to see, just the pasture and the woods behind our farm house. But it was the cat in me that liked the up. And the teenager in me liked the out. So I sat there for as long as my ADD would allow me to before bouncing off to some other activity.

Today, my husband wants me up on the roof to do some mundane housekeeping that will be hard on my knees and take more time than I want to spend. I would rather be reading my book. I have given him buckets of grief about getting up there.

Maybe I have forgotten the joy of the up and the out. Even doing what I have to do, maybe I can take the time to look out over my neighborhood: the neat little houses, the neighbors doing everyday things, the lush greens of the grass, the cottonwoods, the sycamore and oak. Watch the dogs pace the fences, hear the neighborhood kids laugh. Be glad that I am up there because I am smaller and spryer than poor husband.

What can I find on the roof? Perspective.

While I'm up there, I want to remember that some moments, while unremarkable in and of themselves, are great and joyful because they lack drama and pain. That good days can be cobbled together with goodbye kisses, fresh cherries for lunch, a favorite song on the radio and the sun on my back while I perform a chore. I want to do a thing without complaining. I want to be sweet for him.

I can always read later, right?