Identity, Legacy, motherhood

How Did They (Do We) Do It?

I often wonder how mothers of our mothers did it. In the age of keeping up appearances and, in the generation before that, of simply surviving.

There were no therapists, no LICSWs, no yoga retreats and meditation circles. There was no opportunity for a facial and hot stone massage. There was no medication to make the pain go away – except for those self-prescribed.

There was alcohol sipped in secret. There was valium – and laudanum in the early days. There might be lashing out at the children when the husband or society did the same to them. Catholics might find solace in confession – if the guilt of their perceived shortcomings and ungrateful attitude didn’t keep them away.

I wonder how many women thought they were flawed because they didn’t love the life handed to them. That they were failures because they didn’t find rearing children and keeping house easy.

But that’s not even the point.

Mothers today still flounder with the many resources available to them.

How the hell did women of previous generations keep it together?

Was it the lack of a pervasive media that kept us from hearing about children murdered by their own mother’s hand? Did bubbling anger dissipate through more readily accepted floggings? Were extended family and neighbors more readily available and willing to step in and pick up slack?

Did women suffer in silence?

I wonder how many women devolved into mental illness from the stress of responsibility, relentless duty, stifled desires. I wonder how many Academy Award worthy actresses were forged in the face of an uninterested audience.

And what do we do for them now? How do we celebrate the uncelebrated?

By feeling guilty as hell that we don’t like this comparatively golden portion we’ve been dealt?

Or by saturating the dry earth of hopelessness with resources for women struggling with themselves, with motherhood, with life?

Part of me yearns for the ironclad persona of the women and mothers of my thrice-removed family. But another more unwilling part realizes that armor came at a merciless price. Not only are these women I cannot question because of space and time, but because they would never answer. Perhaps one small admittance would open the chink that would crumble the entire suit. They would never take that chance. Nor would society let them. They did what they had to because there was no other choice. Their own mothers had it hard and so, then, would they.

I wonder if in this age of modern convenience we have too much time on our hands to ponder our existence. However, I’d like to think, even amidst the stirring of lye and slaying of chickens, our female forebears wondered the same things. They probably wouldn’t have lived so fiercely if they hadn’t.

How do we live fiercely in their honor while fighting for what we all need?

Children, Literacy, Weekend Write-Off, Writing

Bluebird

I hate books with sad endings. But I love Bob Staake’s.

The Donut Chef is in heavy rotation in our house. I cannot eat a donut without proclaiming, “There’s nothing quite like glazed, I think!”

So when I spied a new title, Bluebird, on prominent display in my child’s library at open house, I couldn’t resist removing it from its perch for a peek. My first grader came home with it a few weeks later much to my delight.

Every workshop on children’s writing I’ve attended, particularly those on picture books, says you must have a happy ending or at least end on a positive note of some sort. Kids need to know they will prevail in some fashion. Lately, I‘ve been finding many books that are heartbreaking! After reading Bluebird, I have to say, my excitement in finding a new Staake book was quelled somewhat by the poignant moments at the end of it.

A lonely boy begins a new school year. Two bullies have him pegged from the moment the class queues up outside. After school, he heads in one direction, the rest of the children, the other. He is all alone save the bluebird that has been quietly watching him all day – from tree branches and windowsills. Immersed in his solitary confinement, he does not notice the bird flit along beside him, until she swoops in low over his head and engages him. With a fun mixture of tag, hide-and-seek, and follow-the-leader, the two become friends as they move through the city. These are the only times we see the boy smile. As he floats a boat in the park, the bird perched upon its mast, drawing the attention and friendship of a nearby boy and girl, readers rejoice with the boy and finally relax. He will be okay. He has found happiness, even if one bright spot of it.

And then he passes under the bridge – where three bullies want not friendship, but his beloved toy boat. At first, the bird hangs back, watching from atop the bridge. I wanted the bird to rescue him, but the workshops have also taught me that protagonists need to solve problems for themselves. Still, I was angry that his new friend was seemingly hanging him out to dry. But when the situation turns dire and the boy truly needs him, she swoops in. She blocks the blow the boy would’ve received from a stick thrown by the bullies, but sacrifices her own life in the process. To their possibly redeeming credit, the bullies are appalled by the result of their actions. A flurry of rainbow-hued birds lifts the boy and the bluebird into the sky for the spiritual denouement.

His friend dies? He finally has someone that makes him smile and she’s dead? This is not the gooey goodness of a glazed donut! But it does adhere to that positive tenet of children’s literature: through the process of nurturing this friendship and finding what makes him happy, the boy can now fly on his own. The bluebird has taught him how to find happiness on his own.

The plot of this book is riveting and transcendent. What is astounding is that there is no narrative text whatsoever. Staake tells this incredibly intricate and rich tale with nary a word. It is a true testament to his amazing graphic skills.

This book may not have been what I was expecting, but happiness rarely is. Bluebird joins Bob Staake’s catalog as another superb example of children’s literature.

anxiety, Identity, motherhood

Desperate Measures

My feet sweat in my sneakers.

image from Marie Claire

My t-shirt pulled under my arms.

My hair rubbed at my neck.

I tucked, pulled, squished, shrugged.

I could not get comfortable.

I wanted to rent my garments from my body and my hair from its roots.

I burned out the last of the caffeine scrubbing in the shower and fidgeted into bed with a foggy plan forming.

I dropped my last daughter off at preschool after a harried rush to the others’ bus stop.

And waited in line with the other little old ladies in front of the walk-in salon.

I chopped my hair.

I spent the remainder of the morning scouring sale racks for totally new togs.

I squandered the entire morning, returning to the preschool just in time for their singing debut in front of the senior luncheon.

The teachers, the secretary, my neighbors – all did double takes.

How brave you are, they said.

How different you look, they said.

How great it looks, they exclaimed.

I felt like it was an act of desperation. The only grip on unpredictability I can grasp right now. To leave as one thing and come back as another. To blow off all responsibilities and should-dos for one morning in exchange for a few no-need-fors.

My daughter didn’t flinch.

It looks beautiful, Mommy, she said.

I don’t know if that spells success or failure for my desperate mission.

Technology, Writing

It’s the Most Wonderful Team. . .Member Readership Award

In the spirit of delayed recognition of awards I’m perhaps non-deserving of, I would like to thank Patty Mitchell for nominating me for The Most Wonderful Team Member Readership Award. Whew. What a mouthful!

I think this award follows the WordPress Family Award nicely. Having an on-line community of readers and writers who thoughtfully approach your work and share their ideas, questions, and challenges in a constructive way is tantamount to making this thing worthwhile! Many of the people in ‘mi familia’ would be on this team. There are also bloggers, readers who consistently check in to see what’s been posted on my site, take the time to like a post, or make a comment. I am truly grateful for their time, effort, and thoughtful attention.

Word of the day: thoughtful. I know I use it a lot, but that’s the best way to describe the comments and dialogue these family and team members give to me. It’s not off-the-cuff, by-the-way, putting something down just to do so. I value the give and take that occurs and the time you spend with me.

Thank you so much to all my friends, family, acquaintances who take the time to check in here on a regular basis and support my writing efforts. You truly are the most wonderful . . .

And the nominees are (it just never gets old) . . .

The names above are not necessarily the titles of each respective blog. They are the names I know them by, the ones that pop up when they lay their wisdom on me 😉

I cheated and added a few more nominees than was originally prescribed, but due to the late nature of my entry, does that count like interest on a loan? Also, my wonderful nominees, do not feel obligated to do anything other than enjoy this honor – it is I who am indebted to you.

Uncategorized, Writing

We Are Family

I got all my bloggers with me! Sing it with me!

Sherri Matthews, writer renown of A View from My Summerhouse, has invited me to be part of her WordPress family. Well, she did a few months ago, but as anyone in my flesh and bone family can attest to, Sherri, it often takes me awhile to get around to things. So this makes it official, I suppose!

Sherri included a description of the award from its creator, Shaun:

‘This is an award for everyone who is part of the “WordPress Family” I started this award on the basis that the WordPress family has taken me in, and showed me love and a caring side only WordPress can. The way people take a second to be nice, to answer a question and not make things a competition amazes me here. I know I have been given many awards, but I wanted to leave my own legacy on here by creating my own award, as many have done before. This represents “Family” we never meet, but are there for us as family. It is my honour to start this award.’

From Shaun @ http://prayingforoneday.wordpress.com/

The rules of the award (maybe people actually follow rules in this family 😉 ):

1. Display the award logo on your blog.
2. Link back to the person who nominated you.
3. Nominate 10 others who have positively impacted your WordPress experience.
4. Don’t forget to let your WordPress family members know of your nomination.
5. That’s it! Just pick 10 people that have accepted you as a friend, and spread the love!

And the nominees are . . .

Right back at ya, Sherri. Always a warm word, a thoughtful observation, encouragement. I feel that I’ve gotten to know her through her posts and discussion of mine. Beautiful writing just this side of the raw edge of life. Thank you.
Patty Mitchell – a lovely woman and talented writer I met at an intensive institute in June. She wrote her mother’s memoir, which just reinforces my feeling that she’s all about a life well-lived, tradition, legacy, a good story, and good food.
Free Little Words – Kelly Hibbert has taken a hiatus from blogging – so she can write. And, no, that’s not antithetical. I miss the love she brings to the page and world through the computer screen, but totally get that she needs to focus that on her own little corner of the world for now. Still, her blog archive is more than worth a read.
Infinite Sadness . . . or Hope? – Cate is fabulous. A great wit despite – or perhaps because of – chronic pain and mental health struggles. Totally thought-provoking commentary on life, important issues, spirituality, struggles . . . and thoughtful discussion with me. Thank you!
Sorrygnat – Always a positive, life-affirming voice in the hard face of life. I think we’re traveling the same path at different points in time (though Esther is so much more positive than I!)
Tiny Steps, Big Journey – A gorgeous, raw look at single motherhood. The struggles and simply profound pleasures.
A Canvas of the Mind – Ruby Tuesday – what a gift to the blogging world. She reaches out to all seeking help, info, or support in dealing with mental illness through her posts and guest bloggers, but reach out to her, and she responds in kind.
Sid Dunnebacke – A blogging friend of a friend (of a friend?). I’m not sure what the degrees of separation are, but Sid found his way to Chopping Potatoes and I’m glad. I love his photos and honest appraisal of life through the scope of depression. And I totally appreciate his thoughtful comments on my posts – like his humorous take on my conversational run-in with my 84 year-old grandmother 😉
Ericka Clay – We have a lot in common: mothers of girls, writers, anxiety-ridden people . . . Ericka is a star on the rise. You will not be disappointed with her writing.
My Thoughts on a Page – Tric gives me a modern insight on my Irish ancestors – the traits and quirks and humor that have survived the jump across the pond. Her blog offers beautiful insights into the human condition and our journey through it.

Thank you to all of you for your amazing writing, your perceptive outlooks on life, and your personal and thoughtful conversation in a generally impersonal medium. Bravo.

Now get on your good foot and get down to the staple of all family functions:

Weekend Write-Off, Writing

Symbolically Speaking

“Symbols arise from the instant and continuous deterioration of sensation in the memory since first experience.”

– in Henry’s notebooks from Perfection by Julie Metz

God, I hope this isn’t true in relation to writing. In creating symbols and their –isms, does each time I hit that note weaken the power of the initial memory or feeling it elicits?

Writers use symbols to illustrate themes, ideas, emotions. Illustrate is a key word here. ‘Show, don’t tell’ is a mantra that haunts us all in our sleep. We cannot describe said feeling without talking down to or boring our reader. But if we can hit them where it hurts, draw out that venom from a similar hurt they’ve experienced, yes, that is what makes writing powerful and universal.

Raindrops, an unexpected phone call or delivery, a plump bud about to burst, a family business with one remaining heir.

But where do we cross the line between evocative and cliché?

A repetition, a refrain, an oral tradition, cautionary tales – there are threads that weave us all together in the collective consciousness of all time. There are reasons for patterns.

But if we bang that drum one too many times, do we risk ‘the instant and continuous deterioration’ Metz mentions above?

Or is it not what we do, but the way that we do it?

The goal is to fine-tune our words, choose them like each brushstroke of a painting. If we create a unique experience in each scene, regardless of its resemblance to an aura that once surrounded our readers, we will gain connection, a relativity with a resounding freshness.

It’s no small task. But there’s also pretty good research backing us up. There’s a reason symbols resonate throughout the millennia. Through story, there is some thread of our DNA. Whether it’s deteriorated throughout the years, some small part of it remains and vibrates within us when we read it.

Living, Spirituality

Ain’t Got Time to Die

Hello, my name is Jennifer. And I have a problem with mindfulness.

In the quest to be mindful, I’m consumed by it. I’m so busy thinking about it, I don’t think I can achieve it. Two days ago, I wrote about the miniscule moments that eat up our day; how we don’t live because we’re completing chores and tasks that never end, but we keep trying to complete them anyway. True. But people like me never set boundaries, a point when reached, regardless of completion or ‘im’, I stop and begin to relax, enjoy.

Julie Metz also offered me another perspective in her book, Perfection: A Memoir of Betrayal and Renewal.

“Henry’s [Metz’ husband] idea of a perfect day was an action-packed race from waking to sleeping. He was afraid of the tedium of everyday life, with its chores and routines. Every real day, however, includes a portion of boredom.

I have struggled to resolve my own boredom through frantic mental activity or shoe shopping. In rare, blessed moments, I have understood that, with patience, boredom can lead to stillness and calm. And in calm, I can experience a meditation where I connect with my true self. I can greet myself with kindness, before I return to my work, parenting, and chores. These uncharted moments, whenever they happen, are as close as I have come to heaven.

Henry fought off every meeting with his true self, with all its flaws, contradictions, and talents.”

Am I, by not embracing the boredom and tedium, not meeting with my own true self? By mocking the replacing of the toilet paper roll, et al, am I missing out on whole chunks of my life? Mini-mental vacations I can take to realize, wonder, and reflect?

I can’t tell you the last time I was bored – unless you count depressive states when nothing is appealing. I often joke that I’d love to be bored, to have the opportunity to do nothing. Really, we can’t do something with our lives unless with take time to do nothing periodically. Am I physically and mentally capable of that?

The refrain of a song I heard long ago fills my head as I write this [My subconscious speaking or another sign that I can’t focus on one thing at a time ;-)] – “Ain’t Got Time to Die,” a Negro Spiritual I first heard sung by Terras Irradiant, a Christian acapella group from Amherst College.

Lord, I keep so busy praisin’ my Jesus

Keep so busy praisin’ my Jesus

Keep so busy praisin’ my Jesus

Ain’t got time to die.

I am so busy, but I think I’m filling my time with the wrong sorts of things. Or at least the balance is off. Focusing on the spiritual would make the crazy press of days fall away or at least lessen. The hectic pace would slacken, or wouldn’t bother me so much with moments of mindfulness to bring me back to center. My center as it relates to the greater world around me, my place in this great sweep of time and humanity called life.

How’s that for some high falutin’ thinking?

Now enough thinking, just be.

(Think I can follow my own advice!?)

(Don’t answer that!)

Living, Poetry, Spirituality

One

Disparate sources

Un-disjointed by you –

The common denominator

Umami

Ujjayi

States of higher being

Sizzling pan-fried hamburger

Time stops and you with it

Don’t be afraid

Let the universe hold you

I’ve got you, she says.

Let go.

You are the center from which infinitesimal spokes shoot out

But you are not the only one

Millions rotate through the atmosphere

Spun by One

Feel One thing at a time.

Living, Photography

Swinging into Home

It’s true that you wake up one morning and suddenly realize you’re a different person. In the midst of the transition, you’re usually at the bottom of some pit, miserable, whiny, and thinking the end will never be in sight. But even when you’re able to say definitively that a change occurred, you still can’t pinpoint exactly when it did. It just happened at some point and now things will forever be different.

We put up a swing set in our backyard. It was a grand neighborhood adventure. We purchased it from a neighbor whose children had outgrown it, but who had kept it in fabulous condition. He organized its transport to our yard, two houses over and one up. I met a neighbor – and his much-appreciated motorcycle-turned-tree-house-trailer – that I never had before. Two other neighbors brought their children to play and watch with mine while they helped the other men. The seller and his son stayed on to help my husband finish assembling it while the kids called to them, saying hello and ‘can we go on it yet?’ Many hands make light work and I was so appreciative of their efforts and how happy they made my children.

After the excitement died down and just our three children swung and my husband and I surveyed the scene, I realized it. I realized our life is forever altered. We are different people here.

But in a totally positive, wide-open way.

We ask for and accept offers of help from our neighbors. We relax on our porch and watch the trees blow in the breeze. We have places to sit and read, whilst our children do some other activity nearby. We have spots on the floor perfect for laying out vintage matchbox car tracks complete with loop-de-loops. We have hooks for towels. And room to swing around in the bathroom without smashing into some manner of porcelain. There are dormers and transoms and skylights and fanlights. There are angles and peaks, nooks and crannies.

Our entire perspective has changed.

The neighbor who sold us the swing set said it still feels like vacation even after living in his home for nearly two decades. The light, airy feeling of vacation is nice, wonderful indeed.

But looking at that swing set to the profile of our home beside it, I realize this plot of land, this place and time we’ve landed in is a dream come true. The realization of some nebulous idea I formed as a child.

Suddenly and unequivocally, this is home. I can’t say exactly when it happened, but I can now say with certainty, we are home.

It never is a straight path 😉

Living, Poetry

Miniscule Moments

The tiny tasks we do throughout the day.

The minutiae that eat up our time, but bear no importance to our conscience.

Pulling back the polka-dot cardboard piece to open the window atop the tissue box.

Placing items in the corner of the bottom step to fill shelves upstairs later.

Milk in fridge.

Bags in plastic column to be pulled out as needed.

A picture frame smashing to the floor, its glass front smashing into tiny pieces.

One clear shard a tiny scimitar slicing the terracotta tile.

There is life to be lived, but the slivers must be vacuumed.

And then the hose sniffs the crumbs just around the corner,

the detritus tracked in from outside –

grass clippings and unidentifiable pieces of bark

or dried stalks from dead flowers.

Stop.

There is always a mess to be cleaned up.

But time is limited.

We must be sure not suck our precious moments into the vacuum canister, lost forever.

Chopping Potatoes

and other metaphors for motherhood

Author Archives: Jennifer Butler Basile