Drawing a circle over a circle over a circle
That’s how Kate Bowler describes anxiety.
I laughed knowingly as I read it out loud
because I know that feeling, that repetitive loop
of thoughts, of sensations
But now my ‘normal’ anxiety loop is piggybacked by the dopamine loop
of what I use to ignore my anxiety –
or what is causing my anxiety.
And as hard as it is to get out of an endless cycle of anxiety,
I worry if I’ll ever be able to escape this other addictive loop.
Cannonball
Where is my mind?
Minor inconveniences
Home is wherever I’m with you
Send me on my way
Take a walk on the wild side
The way our parents parented shaped us.
Intellectually, we can understand this. Rationally, we accept this.
I don’t think, however, we realize how much our relationship with them informs so much of our relating moving forward.
Only now, after over twenty years, do I realize how sticking points with my father are presenting themselves in my marriage.
Of course it shows up in how we parent.
But it wasn’t just in how their example informs our parenting behaviors.
Their shit affected how they raised (treated) us and consequently how we see ourselves and so on and so on ad infinitum.
I’ve always said I have to slow my roll as I uncover pieces of my emotional history and upbringing – because any anger I harbor will just come back to bear on me when my kids dissect their own upbringings.
One good thing about social media is that it has normalized this phrase that one of my older girls said she’d heard during a recent discussion:
May we all be covered in the Grace of that statement.
I sat in on my daughter’s therapy appointment.
I was invited. I did not force my way in
in helicopter fashion.
Perhaps my daughter didn’t want to be in the wash of the rotors by herself.
And I am fully there for that
despite my own second guessing about . . .
the optics? I felt the need to tell the therapist it was requested.
the process? Is my presence inhibiting personal growth?
It is hard as a parent to let go of the idea that we know our child better than she knows herself.
It is dangerous to hold, though.
The process of separation began as the fourth trimester ended, as infant realized her own personhood.
There is no sense in cinching the ties now.
It inhibits the self-actualization we want for our children.
After the hours of my own therapy I’ve put in and countless readings and writings, I look at things differently from my end – even though we’re both sitting on the same couch. And knowing her as well as I do, I can offer a perspective she may not have even considered herself.
But that doesn’t mean she won’t. And that doesn’t mean she won’t learn a ton in the journey to get there.
Because it’s her journey – not mine.
My eight year old daughter likes the stations on the edges of satellite radio.
You know the stations at the far end of your presets that you chose, with music you like, but not the stuff you listen to all the time. The ones you usually land on when the regulars don’t have any good options.
It has become part of our morning routine for her to seek one of these out.
First, there was the affinity for the channel playing downtempo electronic and deep house. Maybe she wanted to start off her days in a relaxing way. Maybe she just needs more chill in her life.
Then there was a brief stint with Smokey Robinson’s emceed soul station.
She was bummed when they replaced 40s Junction with holiday favorites, but her jazz and standards came back.
Which leaves me in the car, after she climbs the steps onto the bus, listening to Buddy Clark and the Andrews Sisters, orchestral early Sinatra, Bing Crosby and Louis Jordan. (I am actually excited at how much Louis Jordan there is)
Some of it didn’t age well. Misguided lyrics or culturally inappropriate band names.
All of it speaks to the atmosphere of the time.
The yearning to be reunited with loved ones after the war. The desire to forget all worries in a night of dancing on the town. The hope that the one you love will return your affection.
The lyrics tell a story or hint at one just beyond the notes. Like the “great big mouse eating an onion and crying like a baby” that gave us pause in The Three Flames’ version of “Open the Door, Richard” – absurdity that’s just perfect for an eight year old’s imagination. And made me deep dive into the background of the black vaudeville skit which gave birth to the song.
It makes me dream of the dance halls of my grandmother’s youth. It makes me wonder about the artists of color who were forced to compromise their craft for crowd recognition. It makes me long for a time when the music was bigger than the artist.
What will our songs say about us?
We can only hope that eight year olds keep sticking to the fringes.
Stop
leave the key in the door,
turn right round where you are
See, feel, hear
the wind rush through the trees
Let yourself be lifted in its flow
the great whirling above our heads
that we miss
when we only look down
My grandmother was a connoisseur of the written word.
She devoured it voraciously.
Oftentimes, seeing her car in the library parking lot, I would find her among the stacks or bump into her in the lobby, fist full of the next adventure to be had.
As my own love of writing deepened in high school, she began to share what she deemed stellar examples of its use. A clipping of newspaper, a strong Op Ed, a well-executed essay.
She’d come of age in the glory days of the Providence Journal, her own brother disappearing into its whole block of a building for work each day. It was a stalwart of journalism and professional writing.
Naturally, then, I came to appreciate those writers and articles she’d send. With my parents referencing Ken Weber’s hiking guide nearly every weekend, I became interested in the sparse yet beautifully evocative language of his nature columns. I fancied myself ‘the next Ken Weber’ as I detailed my own rambles. And as an adult, I discovered more of my own writers.
G. Wayne Miller was a name I was accustomed to seeing in the by-lines of the Journal. When he did an ongoing series about mental health in 2014, I followed closely. How encouraging to see a close-up view of the many facets of mental illness and its treatment in our state. When he retired from the Journal in 2022, I was glad for his accomplishment; sad for the loss of such thoughtful coverage.
Through the wonders of LinkedIn, I stayed abreast of his work with Ocean State Stories (housed within Salve Regina University’s Pell Center). Imagine my surprise and delight when he reached out to me recently to be the subject of one of the Q&A features on their site.
When your writing comes of age with a steady diet of talented writers, fed to you by loved ones, part of the literary fabric of Rhode Island – and then one reaches out to you . . . it’s as if fairy dust has burst from the folds of clipped newsprint.
Thank you, Wayne, for taking the time to read my work and offering the space for me to share it. Your care and attention to mental health already impressed me. Your encouragement of fellow writers means perhaps even more.
Going gluten free has taken away the joy of a dinner roll.
What is it about that plump pillow of yeasty goodness
that inspires joy
that conjures childhood holiday dinners
Fresh white linens nestled into the silvery swoop of a bread bowl,
cradling the warm treasure inside.
Peeling the paper thin square from its side,
folding it into my mouth where it immediately melts,
before pressing a cool smear of butter
against its warm surface
leaving enough of a layer
so the salty bite stands on its own for just a beat before
it melds together in all its glutinous glory.
I’m always late.
Not because I’m an asshole.
But my best intentions to leave and arrive in a timely fashion just never seem to progress as intended.
Sometimes a progression of stuff that you just can’t make up stacks up and against and over each other and makes for a royal shit show.
As I breathlessly explained to my daughter’s Girl Scout leader why we were late to one activity last year, “it’s been one of those days”.
She said, “I feel like that’s everyday for you.”
I felt my face stiffen. It often betrays that initial ego reaction you’d usually like to keep under wraps.
She said it with a warm smile and a laugh. She did not mean it as a dig.
My face was more my own sober realization that, while our life may not be, very often our logistics are a shit show.
I do often rush into a room, feeling (and quite possibly sweating) as if I’ve just run a marathon. More pressing than my pulse is the urge to explain. If that old woman with the disapprovingly dipped eyelids knew the gauntlet we’d just run to get here, she’d be impressed we were only x minutes late.
There was the teen who refused to get out of bed. The kid who hid the hairbrush. The one who needed help with socks.
A forgotten book.
You didn’t get my coat?
Shut up
Stop it
I don’t know what to wear
We’re leaving in five minutes?
And that’s when we’re all headed to the same place.
Forget multiple work schedules, sport schedules, driving abilities and available cars.
And compliance is always on a sliding scale with six bars.
I have always been such a good control freak. A logistics queen. Responsible. Trustworthy. With follow-through like we the people. I was never the harried hot mess mom with a shoe full of kids.
Now it seems like everyday is one of those days.
As I said, this woman had not remarked in judgement. And I should not be concerned with the opinions of others. And we do deal with a lot on a daily basis.
I guess I just didn’t want my struggle to be so public.
Imagine you are in your happy place
It wasn’t my meditation
Do you like to float?
I can never fully let go
Let the salt water buoy you
I want that for her
You are free
We all want the same thing
Chopping Potatoes 