Pen-y Thoughts

There are days you wonder why you got out of bed.  The world beats you, tromps on you, kicks you when you are down.  You pull yourself up from a fall only to fall down and get hurt again.  On days like these, it hurts to take a breath.  Your stomach feels like a raisin, your heart has a charlie horse, and you feel at any moment your spine just might dissolve, leaving you in a lifeless pool of flesh.

Then there are good days.  Days when you are surprised by one good fortune after another.  Your team makes it to the play-offs.  Your hair looks just so.  You wake up on time and your children have smiles on their faces.  You get hugs from your friends and a card in the mail.  The clouds look like cotton balls and the sky is a brilliant blue.  Your mind sings as you flutter about your daily chores.  You laugh at common things and smile at people as you pass them. 

 Don’t you wish you could bottle these days?  Wouldn’t it just be nice to cut a little, tiny corner out of a glorious day and tuck it into your pocket to save for later?  Like a security blanket, you could use this scrap of happiness to dry your tears as you sob over losing a precious student, the bill you can’t pay, the grandmother you’ll never hug again.  At night, when your worries grow loud, you could cuddle with the hope of future blessings.

Instead, I suppose, what we can do is revel in these days.  We must explode and rejoice in these fleeting moments; stretch them thin to cover our days as thoroughly as possible.  Rather than living paycheck to paycheck, we could live smile to smile. 

It takes courage and strength to find good in bad.  Pushing aside our self pity requires discipline.  With practice, at this, too, we shall excel.  I am not an expert.  I hope, though, one day, to live as one.

 Thank you, world, for smiles.  For kindness.  For hugs.  For friends.  For family.  For kisses.  For children.  For Mommies and Daddies.  For pretty dresses and pedicures.  For free rides.  For chocolate.  For good jokes.  For romantic comedies and movie popcorn.  For gentlemen.  For puppy love.  For giggle boxes that easily turn.  For wedding dresses.  For dogs greeting you with a wiggly tail and quick little feet.  For babies sleeping in your lap, breathing softly, slowly.  For good days.

I remember hearing that phrase as a child, though I cannot place where I heard it.  I’m not sure if I read it in a story; perhaps my father spoke it to my brother one time…I don’t recall. 

 What I do recall is how, as a child, it seemed impossible.  Explaining to a child how you, the punisher, can possibly be hurting more than them, with their tanned hides and bruised feelings, is like trying to convert the devil to Catholicism.  In their eyes you are awful and mean and cruel and heartless and horrible and hateful and unfair!

Now, as a mother and teacher, that is the thought that just came to my mind.  I’m sitting in “detention” with four of my sweetest students.  They were caught passing notes during a test.  Innocent notes…but my partners and I felt it necessary to send them (and their classmates) a message, loud and clear.  So, here I am, in detention. 

 My heart hurts.  I hate doing this.  I hate being the bad guy.  I hate seeing children — my children — suffer.  At times, you can feel such anger, frustration, rage inside that you want to fly off the handle and scream at the world.  Then, a sweet little thing from across the room says to me, “Mrs. Nash, you look pretty.”  They’re just babies!  They’re so sweet and innocent — even at 9!

 My daughters are beautiful, wonderful children.  Occasionally, though, they have needed time out to “regroup” and regain control of their behavior, to help define limits and expectations.  I’ll never forget the first time I heard my daughter scream from the confines of her bedroom, “You’re mean!  I hate you!”  There’s a first for everything…whether you like it or not. 

One minute she’s crying out, “I want my mommy!” and the next moment it is, “I hate you!”  I want my baby back!  I want to hold her and rock her and tell her I love her.  Can’t I just take it all back?  Did she really deserve this?

Unfortunately, yes.  I guess, so did I.  I get it now.  “This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you.”

A few weeks ago I had an amazing experience. It was one of those experiences after which you keep wondering, “Did that really happen?” In some ways it really wasn’t a big deal at all, but in other ways it was totally stunning.

On Sunday morning, my husband rolled into the garage after pulling a 48-hour weekend shift. I had enjoyed my time alone with my babies, but knowing he was heading out that evening for a four-day trip to the fire college, I was itching to get out alone! I had big plans for the day: a trip to the gym, a few necessary errands, a visit to the nail salon, and maybe a little fun shopping. All alone. It’s amazing how rewarding a little bit of solitude can become!

I decided to branch out and try a new group fitness class at a friend’s recommendation: Boot Camp. OK. I’ll kick butt, right? I’ll leave this class 10 pounds lighter, right? This is going to help me turn over that leaf I’ve been fighting. Give me a jump start.

I was cutting it close, but after a quick drive and a dash up the stairs, I saw a small group in the classroom. A handful of women appeared to be setting up steps and Bosu balls. Was this the right class? Was I too late? Should I? Perhaps I’ll just hop on the treadmill, take it easy today…NO! I’ve got to stop putting it off and do it! No more excuses! No more “tomorrows”.

The ladies were quiet and unhelpful as I attempted to join the group. As the instructor busily led the group in preparing the room, she described the “track” we should be creating around the perimeter. OK…Remember, this is “Boot Camp”. You can run, Jenny, you’ll be fine. You’ll do just fine. Just ask someone what you can do to help…maybe someone else is new, too.

“Excuse me, I just came in and didn’t hear the directions. Are we setting up all the steps in one row or anywhere?”

As she replied, I couldn’t help thinking how oddly familiar she looked. Her face was just like someone I knew. Nah. I wonder what did happen to her.

My lofty goals of “kicking butt” — or even keeping up — turned out to be impossible dreams. I blamed it on a recent sinus infection and chest congestion; I was dragging. My body was heavy and my chest was shallow. Water did nothing but nauseate me further. Well, look at the bright side, I’m burning calories! I’m gonna feel this tomorrow!

As the instructor adjusted her plans on the fly, (hopefully she’ll have mercy on me) a few ladies left the room, some taking longer than others to return. I tried desperately to catch my breath and refresh myself so I could survive the remainder of the class. How much longer till cool down?

Unfortunately, if she did have mercy it wasn’t enough! I felt my body shutting down and my mind allowing it! The nausea outgrew my stomach and sweat flooded my brow. An uncomfortable sense of anxiety and dread took over my mind as I considered my options: play tough? run to the restroom? fain a scheduling conflict and leave class early? CRY?

After a brief attempt at bucking up, it became apparent that I wasn’t just being a wimp — I was going to puke. I excused myself to the restroom and spent a bit of time with my head between my knees. The smell of the pink, perpetual toilet bowl cleaner hanging from the rim only furthered my nausea. Cool water on my face felt good, but being vertical didn’t. How embarrassing. I can’t believe this is happening to me. I cannot let myself throw up in the gym. Adults do not puke in public. As I alternated sink, toilet, sink, toilet, the woman’s face was on my mind. They say everyone has a twin.

By the time I regained composure securely enough to gather my things upstairs and make it to my car, the class was over and my fellow torturees were stacking platforms and risers, hand weights and Bosu balls. The dark room seemed cooler and more tolerable. Maybe I should have stayed. Cool down would have been rewarding. I’m a loser. I failed Boot Camp.

The twin approached me and spoke. “Did you ever go to UF?” It’s her. It’s actually her.

“Are you Ambrosia?” I asked, knowing the answer would be yes.

It had been thirteen years since I last saw or spoke to my first college roommate. She had been frozen in my mind, standing in our Fletcher dorm room, wearing her usual tight t-shirt and baggy, short overalls as the summer sun flooded the room around her through our uncommonly large windows. Memories of Dr. Pepper and Burger King replayed in my mind faster than I could keep up.

I hadn’t forgotten the sight of the two cheesy, construction paper gators on our door, announcing the names of those who would soon live behind it, as I reached the top of the third flight of stairs that first time. How many miles had we walked that summer? The crazy bus ride to a Publix way too far away. The even crazier return, groceries spilling from our arms as we enjoyed a bit of air conditioning on the bus that seemed to be touring the city before returning us to the safety of our little room. Baskin Robbins and mosquitoes. Shaving your legs in a shoe box of a shower. Coloring our hair in the gang bath down the hall. Fire alarms, fire alarms, and more fire alarms in the middle of the night. The laundry room. The mail boxes. Leonardo’s Pizza. Denny’s. The Florida Book Store. Temporary checks. Creepy homeless guys hanging out at ATMs. Missing home. Sitting at the pool and highlighting EVERYTHING in my textbook. Feeling scared. Feeling lost. Feeling lonely.

My first time ever away from home. My first time sharing a room. I was so lucky to be paired with Ambrosia, though the sight of her name on that little gator had been a bit worrisome. Ambrosia? What kind of a person is named “Ambrosia”?

As it turned out, Ambrosia was just what I needed. She was an open book who accepted me immediately. She could talk to a wall, and that made me feel right at home. We spent hours telling each other about our homes, high schools, families, pets, part-time jobs, you name it!

Throughout the years, I thought of Ambrosia often. I thought of her, and her cat that went crazy after surviving Hurricane Andrew, all throughout the summer of 2004 when we boarded and reboarded our house as a succession of approaching hurricanes threatened our state. I remember hearing of her high school job at the movie theater whenever I eat movie popcorn. I think of her when I see girls smoking Marlboro red or when I drink flat Dr. Pepper.

As I hugged her, questions came to my mind faster than I could ask them. It was all such a blur that I don’t really recall all of the answers. As it turns out, I can count on one hand the number of miles between her house and mine. What’s more, we’ve both been in these homes for nearly five years. All these years and she’s been right under my nose?

I had long since realized that I would probably never see her again or hear where her path had taken her. Ambrosia existed only in my mind and a single picture of us that was buried in a shoebox, inside of an 18-gallon Rubbermaid container, somewhere deep in a closet.

I had predicted that one day I would tell my daughters tales of our first days of freedom. They would know her name. Perhaps, one day, they would roll their eyes as they listened to me tell, once again, a story they had long ago memorized. I had never predicted that they would, perhaps, meet her one day.

What if I had not gone in? I had been a fraction of a second away from choosing the treadmill! I might have run miles with only a few yards and a wall separating me from this friend from the past. What if I had stayed home and given myself more time to recover from my sinus infection? I might have gone my entire life without ever knowing her again — never knowing how history could have been different.

The more I thought about this, the more it grew to feel like an out-of-body experience. I imagined myself hovering over my body in Target and Publix. Who was on the other side of the aisle? What about Chili’s? Who was sitting in the booth over there? Who had been sitting at that corner table and strolled past my vacant seat while I was in the restroom? Who else travels the roads I travel? How many near misses will forever remain secret?

This world is smaller than we think.

As I confessed to Ambrosia that I was near vomit, her reply was classic Ambrosia. During the class, she had been one of the ladies that left the room. She was one who took longer than others to return. “Yeah, it’s the class. I had to go downstairs and puke, too.”

The world is smaller than we think.

I asked my students, today, to start thinking about and planning a short story for Mother’s Day. As I helped the students brainstorm ideas to write about, I began to think, “What would I write about my mother?”

There’s something intangible about mothers, isn’t there? The aura of familiarity, warmth, and love that surrounds them is hard to describe. There is a power that the relationship commands over a person emotionally.

No one can save you like your mother. On particularly trying days, the sound of my mother’s voice, even over a long-distance phone connection, can take me back to my childhood in an instant. I’m swept back to my parents’ bedside in a dark, cool bedroom; teary-eyed and sniffly after a bad dream. I yearn to crawl in bed between my parents, tuck under their soft sheets, and relax to the familiar, soothing sound of their night breathing. Tucked between them, I can hide from my fears and worries. I’m safe from the world and my demons, be they imaginary or real.

At the same time, no one can get you like your mother. As a child, a disapproving glare from your mother, even from across a crowded room, can scare you to attention! Even into your adulthood, the tone of your mother’s voice can bruise your ego, enrage you, and bring you to tears faster than anyone else’s. There are some people to whom your skin will never thicken. A mother’s approval, and lack thereof, has pervasive effects.

Nevertheless, no one will love you like your mother. Boyfriends and girlfriends come and go. Even husbands and wives aren’t always permanent. A mother is a mother forever. Decades and decades into our adult lives, our mothers will call us “baby”, kissing and doting on us as though we could crawl up into their laps and rock once again.

As a mother, now, myself, I understand this relationship differently. One moment I find myself wanting my mother: needing her security, needing her reassurance, needing her love. The next moment I find myself being the mother: providing the security, providing the reassurance, providing the love. These experiences, so different and alike, are like a braid in our hearts. Our relationship with our mother is affected by our relationship with our children, and vice versa.

So, what would I write about my mother? I guess it would all boil down to this…

I love her. I miss her. I need her. I am her.

Ralph Fletcher describes a writer’s notebook as a ditch. It makes sense when you read the story from his childhood about a ditch dug in his yard one day by utility workers. His young eyes were amazed to find the variety of “treasures” trapped in the trench the next day. To you or I the frogs and other creatures he found that day might not seem like treasures at all. However, to him, they were a pirate’s loot.

A writer’s notebook should ultimately have the same effect. It should capture simple thoughts, observations, ideas that may or may not seem golden at the time. However, collected together they may shine. Or, perhaps, they just lead you, the scavenging writer, to your greatest find.

I read a book yesterday to my daughters. It’s a cute book, Indescribably Arabella by Jane Gilbert. For the first time, I read the flap of the dust cover and was surprised by what I read. It tells the story of how the author kept a writer’s notebook as a child. She wrote short stories and poems about things she loved to do — and a doll, Arabella Anastasia. She wrote this story in 1947, but was unable to get it published at the time due to a paper shortage resulting from the Korean War. However, a friend convinced her to submit one final time in 2001, and the rest is history!

Earlier this year, I attended a local book signing. The mother of one of my fellow teachers published a book. It was one of those “aha” moments for me. Perhaps this mountain isn’t so unsurmountable…perhaps I can find my way to becoming a writer.

And so…here I am today. Sitting at my desk. My baby sleeping. My older daughter watching Diego, eating Fruit Loops. My dog’s collar tinkles as he mozies towards his water dish.

Welcome to my writer’s notebook.