The Gaze

 

 I can still feel his eyes on me—

I somehow knew even before I cracked my eyes a small bit.
I knew he was watching me intently.

Drowsy, but now awake,
Pretending to be asleep,
I barely opened my lids and saw him—
Staring at me contemplatively.

As a child, when my grandfather studied me while I slept on the sofas in their hot living room,
An un-air-conditioned room in Florida with just a fan blowing,
His long-lasting gaze at both my sister and me made me wonder,
What is so interesting about us when we are asleep?
Why watch us?

I now know why.

He loved.
He loved me.
He loved me enough to be enchanted by my breaths,
By my face,
By my fingers and hands,
By my curled figure,
To be mesmerized by my innocence and potential,
By my blond hair splayed on the pillow,
By my stillness.

I was his blood.
I was the daughter of his daughter.
The apple of his eye.

If what they say is true,
If eyes are the windows to the soul,
His soul was awakened by me—the center of his soul.
 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Decades after he left this earth,
I still feel his gaze,
His love.

Grandpa’s presence was beside me
when I gazed at my sons’ faces,
As I sat in the chair beside the crib,
Listening to their deep breathing,
now knowing why he gazed.

I hope my sons know beyond a shadow of a doubt
Even decades later that
I was enchanted by their breaths,
By their faces,
By their fingers and hands,
By their curled figures.
I was mesmerized by their innocence and potential,
By their blond hair splayed on the pillow,
By their stillness.

They were my blood—
The sons I longed for,
The reason my blood thumped in my body,
My essence.

Rocking back and forth,
I felt their heaviness on my chest,
As I grasped their tiny fingers in my hand,
As I tried to comfort their fears and remove tears,
As I held them and sang in the darkness,
Reminding them I was there—-

I wanted them to know they were the center of my soul.

Oh, to be loved like this.
To be the enchantment of someone’s soul,
To be loved so much that decades later there are no doubts. 

My Personal Folk Hero

 

 

Dad loved history—-and he loved sharing his passion with others.
You couldn’t listen to him and not want to know more about the past.
He took us to Vicksburg, Gettysburg, Williamsburg, Jamestown, and Fort Ticonderoga.
Civil War battles and early American life came alive in his eyes,
as Kelly and I could imagine Grant and Lee signing the papers as we stood at Appomattox.  

In addition to historical visits,
Dad shared tales of Wild Bill Hickok and Annie Oakley,
And female heroines like Amelia Earhart and Harriet Tubman.
We even had coonskin caps like Davy Crockett.

He read us folk tales about Johnny Appleseed, Pecos Bill in the tornado, and Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox.
We were astonished at the deeds of a man who planted apple trees wherever he went,
And the thought of an ox who “grew so big that 42 axe handles plus a plug of tobacco could fit between his eyes.” 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

When your dad dies when you are 24–
And when he is at the height of his professional career
And has taught and served as a principal in the same area his whole life–
And when he had over a thousand at his funeral at age 52—

When all those are true,
It is easy to somehow transform your views of your dad
Into someone larger than life—
As a sort of folk hero–
As someone who did no wrong and had a perfect life.

Now, at age 55, three years older than he ever was,
It is much more obvious that Dad was not a folk hero.  
Dad was a normal man who loved big, did all he could to make his students know they were loved, and did all he could to tell his three females at home that they were amazing.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

In thinking how to describe my dad to my sons who never met him,
I could tell of his folk hero-type achievements—
His Teacher of the Year awards for Polk County two different times,
His transition from history teacher to assistant principal to principal,
His crazy antics to motivate his students on the football field (as he wore his Lake Gibson Braves Indian outfit and ran up and down the sidelines)
To his decision to walk 20 miles from Lake Gibson to Bartow to take their test scores to the district office,
To several nights spent on the roof of the school to celebrate state scores.

I could tell of the ways he, like Johnny Appleseed, changed the landscape of Central Florida by planting “seeds” of hope.
I could tell of the times I had to share Dad even when I was little
With the students who ran up to him, hugging him,
With the students who wanted to share their awards and achievements,
And with students who needed a father figure in their lives.
I could tell of his motivational talks, of his encouragement that his students fly with the eagles.
I could tell of his decision to name the eagle as the mascot at his new high school, George Jenkins,
And of his pure joy of dreaming of the new campus and of the way students would enjoy the courtyard.

I could tell my sons of his never-ending energy,
Almost supernatural like the strength of Paul Bunyan.
He moved constantly from 5 a.m. until 10 p.m., eating a meal a day by grabbing small bits of food on his way from one event to the next.
I could tell of his Barney Fife figure, of the power that lived inside that tiny physical frame.
I could talk of his involvement at church, from Sunday School teacher and superintendent, to board member, to choir member.
I could talk of all the help he provided my mom as we set up for children’s events.
I could talk of his solos and of his role as Psalty, a blue songbook in a children’s musical.


I could do all that . . . .
And obviously, I could tell of his almost unnatural end—
Of the sudden heart attack on the way to the football field of the first football game at George Jenkins.
I could talk of the grief,
Of the suddenness of the loss of this life, this man who seemed larger than life.


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ** *

I could do all that. . . .
But to introduce my personal “folk hero” to my sons, I wouldn’t focus on that.

I would focus on these details of his life:

• He treated everyone with the utmost respect, from the repairmen who worked at the school to the custodians who barely spoke English.
• He loved to sing along with music, regardless of whether he knew the words.  The music itself was more important than getting everything right.  He made up words that Kelly and I called “Slippy Pippy” words.
• He loved to watch things grow—his students, the grass, the trees, the plants.  He loved his yard and having it look just right.  We spent so many hours with Dad out in the yard, mowing, raking pine needles (in Florida) and leaves (in North Carolina).
• He didn’t mind sweat and hard work.  Whether it was cutting down a pine tree that needed to come down, or working an extra job doing construction work during the summer, Dad worked hard.  He wore out the soles of his dress shoes each year from walking so much.
• He loved to teach.  He was passionate about public education and his students.  He was rarely angry, but when he was, it was when his students were hurt or when someone (including loved ones) criticized teachers.
• He loved to encourage others.  He wrote small notes each morning that he would deliver to people he wanted to thank.  I have some of those notes he gave to Mom.
• He loved my mom.  Beyond doubt.  They were true partners, taking part equally in each other’s endeavors.  I still have all their love letters to each other.  It might be expected that she kept his, but true to form for him, Dad kept all her love letters, too.
• He loved Kelly and me.  Each night I was in his house, I got a hug and a kiss from him, and each morning, he kissed my forehead while I slept and wished me a good day.   He was so proud of both of us and was at each of our events.  He never missed a day telling us that he loved us.  And always would.
  
• He loved soft-serve ice cream, and his nighttime treat was vanilla (or chocolate) ice cream with salted peanuts on it.  
• He did not watch sports 24/7, but he always knew the scores so he could converse with others.  I can remember being super excited about Joe Montana and the 49ers and the Pittsburgh Steelers.
• When he got up in the mornings, his ankles and toes popped.  We would tease him with “Snap, Crackle, Pop.”
• He loved making French toast on Sunday mornings for us, and we would read the comics.  He also loved washing dishes.  
• He taught me that real men help clean the house, fold laundry, vacuum, and dust.  Real men also cry at The Waltons and at any other small thing that is important.
  
• He loved going down snowy mountains on a sled, making snowmen, and making snow angels.  However, if you ever got on a toboggan with Dad in the snow, you could plan going backward and falling out.
• He sat with one leg draped over the arm of chairs when he was comfortable.  He loved Christmas Vacation and other Chevy Chase humor.  He loved his Christmas train (he purchased it as an childless adult, and when the toy salesman asked about his little boy, Dad admitted it was for himself), tinsel deliberately laid on branches, and the butter cookies that came in a metal tin.
• He loved sitting on the front porch of the Maggie Valley home, drinking coffee and reading a book.  He voraciously read and had the unbelievable ability to remember characters and plots of books he hadn’t read in decades.
• He loved imagining retirement, something he never reached.  He frequently talked, though, of never sitting on the porch and dying.  He wanted to “run into the grave,” words he said the week he died.  He and Mom drew plans of the expansion of their Maggie Valley home.
• He loved walking in the woods, seeing inspiration in nature, and seeing beautiful natural sights.  He enjoyed watching the chipmunks (Kelly called them "chinkminks") scamper. 
  
• He always had a pad of paper and pen with him.  When we shopped, Dad would sit in a chair or stand at a clothing rack, writing down thoughts for future speeches or a list of tasks he needed to do.   He frequently was mistaken as a manager and was asked how to find an item.  The funny part is that Dad would go along with it and would help the customer find what he/she was looking for.
• We never went anywhere without someone knowing my dad.  We could go out of state, and it seemed like we always saw someone who knew him.
• He was so tired he would fall asleep any time he sat down.  He fell asleep at train crossings, waiting for the train to pass.  He fell asleep in the dentist chair while he was undergoing dental work.  But, he wouldn’t slow down.
• He rolled up his pants and would walk in rivers (and would often slip).  He often mowed his front yard in shorts and dress socks, trying to get the grass mowed before it got dark outside.  He wasn’t afraid of looking like a fool—dressing up for his students, rolling down the hill at Biltmore Mansion, riding a kids’ tricycle at church, and crawling around on the floor with toddlers.  
• He felt like he had a mission—a world he wanted to make better.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * **

My kids may never have met my father.
However, I hope they have seen a reflection of him in me.

He showed me how to love my children.
He showed me how one person’s passion can power a life and can motivate others.
He showed me how to love big—
And how to live with respect for all and with appreciation for the small things of life.

He wasn’t a folk hero.
He was just MY hero.

 

 

Life with a Narcissist in 7 Short Chapters (inspired by Portia Nelson's piece)

inspired by Portia Nelson’s “Autobiography in Five Short Chapters”
located below

I.
I walk down the street.
He has prepared a red carpet for me to walk on,
Strewn with roses.
He puts a crown on my head,
Telling me he would do anything for me and only wants the very best for me.


II.
I walk down the street, with him beside me.
He pushes me out of the way in one spot, saying,
“Watch out for that big hole.
Aren’t you fortunate I saved you from falling?
I’m your hero!”
He leads me onward.
I look back and see no hole.  There is no hole.
But I am so grateful he saved me.


III.
I walk down the same street in the same spot, with him beside me.
He sticks out his foot in front of my legs.
I fall.
I skin my knee, I twist my ankle.
He stands above me, looking down with contempt,
“Wow!  You really are clumsy.  You are lucky I put up with you.
If only you were like me, you wouldn’t have fallen in that hole.
What a shame.”
I pull myself out of the hole,
Watching the blood drip down my shin,
My head hanging low in shame,
Hobbling along,
Watching the back of his head disappear ahead into the crowd.
This happens every time we walk down this street.


IV.
I walk down the same street in the same spot, all by myself.
When I get to the hole in the sidewalk that now is so apparent,
I tiptoe on the curb,
Thankful, so thankful for his warning and wisdom.
I look back and see a shadow of the hole.


V.
I walk down the same street,
my friend walking beside me.  
When I go to tiptoe on the curb, she tugs at my arm,
And she asks, “What are you doing?”
When I reply, “Avoiding the hole,” she stares at me and asks, in a completely serious voice,
“What hole?”
She reassures, “There is no hole, and I would never let you fall in one.”
I look at the sidewalk and wonder.


VI.
Much later, I walk down the same street, all by myself.
With scarred knees and a permanent limp,
I walk assuredly on the sidewalk,
Looking back to see the sidewalk that was whole all along.


VII.
Much, much later, I walk down the same street, all by myself or with others.
My scars on my knees have lessened.
But, if I am truthful, I still sometimes walk timidly in that spot,
Still hoping that I won’t fall.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *


Original Piece “Autobiography in Five Short Chapters”
 by Portia Nelson:
I
I walk down the street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk
I fall in.
I am lost ... I am helpless.
It isn't my fault.
It takes me forever to find a way out.
II
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I pretend I don't see it.
I fall in again.
I can't believe I am in the same place
but, it isn't my fault.
It still takes a long time to get out.
III
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I see it is there.
I still fall in ... it's a habit.
my eyes are open
I know where I am.
It is my fault.
I get out immediately.
IV
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I walk around it.
V
I walk down another street.

The End of My Cleaver Life

 

My world at the age of 11 revolved around
My home in the country with my parents and sister,
Two sets of grandparents,
A church and church family where I spent a half-dozen hours a week (at least),
My dad’s school where I spent half of every summer,
And my own school, Medulla Elementary.

To say my life was idyllic would be an understatement.
I knew little of the harshness of the world.
My parents never argued in front of us—and we never even heard anything resembling conflict through the walls.
We knew of no verbally abusive language,
No hateful actions,
No divorces, no one accused of a crime, no one out to hurt others.

The worst thing I can remember happening during the time was the death of one of our cats who escaped and got run over.

And I can remember no time I was ever truly scared
With the exception of two different nights when we came home to discover our home had been burglarized,  
the scary German shepherds that ran loose in the neighborhood,
the dark hallways where the boogeyman lived,
and the wildfires down the road.

Mom and Dad always said they loved us.
They read stories to us,
they tucked us in at night,
And we always knew that they would be there for us.

Leave it to Beaver may have been primetime television before I was born,
But I lived it.
However, instead of Ward doing all the “male” tasks while June awaited Ward’s arrival home with dinner ready,
Mom helped Dad outside and supported his interests,
And Dad was one who would help wash dishes, do laundry, and vacuum.
Mom was one mean ax chopper, and Dad could wash dishes with great joy.

The real world—the ugliness possible—was unknown to me.
I had no awareness of the Vietnam War and only knew that the Russians had scary nuclear weapons.
My only awareness of the news was through re-run episodes of You Are There, told by Walter Cronkite in black and white on a film projector.

This all changed in the fall of my 6th grade year.
Because I was bumped ahead a grade in reading each year throughout elementary school,
When I entered my final year at Medulla, they had no idea what to do with me.
I became a library aide and put together book displays for other students.

My whole world broke open when I was called to Mr. Hollingsworth’s office.  
He introduced me to a young lady who was 5 years older than I was—I was 11, and she was 16.
Her family had just been sponsored by the Lutheran church in town,
And she had just arrived in America from a refugee camp for survivors of the conflict in Cambodia.

Just like I had no awareness of the Vietnam War, I knew nothing of any war in Cambodia,
And I knew nothing of Pol Pot or the Khmer Rouge.
If I am honest, I doubt I even knew a country called Cambodia existed.
I had no idea 1.5 to 2 million Cambodians had been killed from 1975 to 1979 while I rode my bicycles and played school at home with my stuffed animals.  
I knew nothing of Pol Pot’s attempts to create a Cambodian “master race.”

All I knew was my life—
But that morning I saw before me a young lady who looked scared to death as she faced me.
Her name was Huoy.
She was new to the U.S.  She was new to Florida.  
And she knew about 10 words of English.

My new task in the fall of 1980 at the age of 11 was to become her personal tutor,
Helping her learn English,
Helping her figure out life in America,
Assisting her with schoolwork.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

That first day all we did was walk around campus.
I pointed at an oak tree and said, “Tree.”
She looked at her Cambodian-English dictionary, looked at both words, and repeated “tree”
Before we moved on to “car” and “door” and “sky.”
She took notes so she could study the words and memorize them.
She knew Cambodia could no longer be her home.
She had to learn English for her new life.

That day began a daily routine where we spent an hour or more together.
We added more words to her English vocabulary,
and she learned how to write in English,
and she and I worked on math.

She drew me pictures of flowers I had never seen before.
She gave me notes with her new English vocabulary beside.
Cambodian words on the sheets of paper she gave me,
Beautiful written Cambodian characters that were artistic pieces all by themselves.
Prior to the days of the internet and varied food options, someone like me did not have experience with other cultures.  My only experience with Asian food was La Choy’s Chow Mein in a can.

I shared my culture with her when she came to church events with me, flying kites,
Hunting for candy in field thrown by Mr. Wilson during our Easter event,
And she shared her Cambodian culture with me, providing me homemade egg rolls her dad made and teaching me a few words in her language.

We became friends.
That spring she shared her story—or part of it.
She told me with tears in her eyes of journeys through the jungles,
Of running for her life,
Of Pol Pot’s men hunting her and her family,
Of the deaths of her mother and brother in the jungles.

Her stories challenged me, terrified me, and broke my heart for her.
Her life experiences were more than I could even imagine at that age.


* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

In addition to the world crashing into my elementary school that fall with my new friend’s arrival, ,
the world crashed into my living room later that year—during the spring of 1981– as I saw Secret Service agents whisk away President Reagan, barely escaping an assassination attempt.
Real-world events suddenly became real.
This event was the first news event that brought the dangers of the world into my home.

Followed soon after was the landing of the Columbia space shuttle in April of 1981, as seen by my classmates and me in our portable classroom.  Five classes crowded around one TV that must have been using an antenna to get the footage.

That year, that friendship, and that experience of hearing of her life story, of the horrors she had experienced—
All of this revealed for me a whole new world.
A whole new reality.
A world I could not even imagine, but a world that was happening outside of my experience.

Through her friendship and her stories,
she provided me with an awareness early on that horrible, ugly things happened outside of my idyllic life.
However, through her love and her smile, I also learned that this type of hate did not guarantee destruction.

Huoy was a model of strength, of goodness, and of friendship.
She showed me how to live through my own hardships that would eventually come—and how to keep on loving.

I may have taught Huoy the basics of English,
But she taught me all about life.




Afterword:  Huoy and I went to the same junior high, but our classes were never together after that sixth grade year.  When I moved across town to another high school, prior to social media, it was hard to stay in touch. I saw her one additional time after college, and she told me she had graduated with honors from University of South Florida.  I have looked for her for years on social media and on the internet.  I may have finally discovered her address.  I plan to send her this, along with a letter, hoping that perhaps I will reconnect all these years later.  To learn more about the Cambodian genocide, check out the fabulous movie called First They Killed My Father or the documentary called The Killing Fields.

My Monkeys, My Circus: A reflection on monkey mind

 

I know the phrase is “Not my Monkeys, Not my Circus!”

The problem is . . . what if they ARE your monkeys?  
What if they make up your circus?

For me, moments are often filled with my monkeys,
Swinging back and forth,
Jumping from rope to rope.
They cackle and call to me, scratch at themselves and at others,
Pick at each other to pull off bugs.
They make faces, and oh!  The noise!
The high-pitched calls—
It is all a girl can do to think straight.

These are MY monkeys.

The Buddhists talk about monkey mind.
It “describes a state of restlessness, capriciousness, and lack of control in one's thoughts”
In which the mind jumps from one topic to another,
From one task to the next,
A sense of scattered thinking, a feeling of being unsettled.
For me, my mind jumps from personal tasks to work tasks to interpersonal tasks—
A to-do list that is always running and reordering.
For me, my mind jumps from past to present to future to present to past.

There is an inability when the monkeys call to stay present.
To sit.
To be.
To live in the moment.

Monkey mind gets worse when my anxiety rises.
Just this evening while sitting in my stocktank pool, within a few minutes,
I worried about Millie chasing the bumblebees on my salvia.  That led me to worry about vet visits and bills, and how could I go to the vet with school starting this week.  Oh, and that reminded me that I still hadn't done the rewrite of my quiz in my freshman composition class.  In the meantime, the crape myrtle looked a bit odd, and I wondered if it needed water or fungicide.  Then, I thought about the water bill, and wondered if the dogs needed water in their dog dish, which then made me think about the heartworm medicine—and the air filter I needed to change because I do the air filter when I do the heartworm medicine.  Mixed in with all of this was a sense of being overwhelmed—and a feeling that I was failing at it all.

The noise!
The monkeys distract with their swinging and calling.

When I  feel the sway of the ropes as they begin their play,
When I feel the uptick of my heartbeat and blood pressure,
When their vocal decibels rise,
I have learned a trick.
I stop and talk to myself, “It’s okay, baby girl.”

I know I am not a baby.
However, there is very little that calms the monkeys as much as this simple phrase
Said in loving kindness by grown-up Kim to the little Kim who still lives within.
Regardless of how big we get, how large our shoes are, how many wrinkles we wear like corduroy ridges on our faces, and how gray (or absent) the hairs become,
We are still basically little kids within, little kids who want to be seen and loved and cared for.

I started the “baby girl” phrase with my female dogs.
When Millie got scared when the thunder rumbled, I sat beside her and told her the same thing I now tell myself when the monkeys cackle: “It’s okay, baby girl.”
I patted her and rubbed behind her ears.

Much the same way, I used to hold my sons close when the noise of the world became too much for them.
I used to rock them and sing to them, reminding them, “It’s okay, baby boy.”

I am much too big to rock and sing to.
I am much too old.
However, even the simple acknowledgement of the fact that life can sometimes be too much,
Too loud,
Too scary,
Too unsure—-this simple acknowledgement silences the monkeys.

When I rocked my boys and told them it was okay, I honesty wasn’t sure it was.
I couldn’t fix Jonathan’s colic or the ear infections.
I couldn’t make the pain go away or make the bad dream disappear.
All I could do was acknowledge my presence and unwillingness to let them down.

“It’s okay, baby girl” is perhaps my new way
To take a deep breath
To figuratively acknowledge that life has become too much,
To figuratively acknowledge that it is okay for me to stop—-
To sit.
To cry if I need to.
Or just to listen to myself.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * 

Stilling the monkeys is a new goal for me.
Learning how to be—and do nothing--is a new reality.
However, this evening, while the monkeys swung on their ropes as I worried about heartworm medicine and crape myrtles,  
I was able to calm the monkeys enough to realize that their noise had almost made me miss:

The green hummingbird dipping its beak into the salvia blossom,
The hum of the bumblebees on my vitex tree,
The joy of Millie as she hunted for life along the fence line, hoping for that random squirrel to cross her path,
The warmth of the sun on my face,
The stillness and quiet that comes as a joy after a long, busy day filled with schedule making and hiring.
The feeling of my leg and foot gliding through the water,
The Summer Chill mix list on my Spotify playlist beating through the air, making my heart thump in rhythm,
The female cardinal swooping down over my head, bringing me to say, "You go, girl!"
The little lizard gliding along in the shade beside the house,
And the joy of the moment—--that single moment.

When the monkeys calm down,
I can finally take a deep breath and sigh in relief and just
Sit.
Be.
Live.

A Mighty Tree Has Fallen: A Tribute

 

 

As a small child, Jeff Brock was a giant.
He was taller than my dad, and he was taller than any other man I knew.
His slim figure only added to his height.

As a small child, Jeff Brock was a giant—
Not just in stature,
But in wisdom and knowledge.
There seemed to be nothing he did not know.
Woodworking,
Electronics,
Computers (when they were just being developed),
House repair,
World events,
Subjects galore.

I was in awe of him.
I wanted to be just like him—and just like my dad.
When we shopped with the Brocks in the Westshore Mall or in North Carolina malls,  we tended to divide up with Mom, Kelly, and Mrs. Brock looking at other stores,
With the guys—my dad and Mr. Brock–followed along by me
Making a beeline for B. Dalton’s and Waldenbooks—yes, both bookstores on the same trip.

I watched Dad and Mr. Brock repair things around the house,
Watched them work in the yard,
And neither of them seemed appalled to allow me to participate, including reshingling the house on Ewell Rd. in the 6th grade.
Just a few years ago, when Mom moved into her condo in Gainesville, there we were again,
Mr. Brock and me at work on Mom’s repair list.

If you didn’t guess already,
The Brocks were a second pair of parents.
I count myself so fortunate.  I had two amazing, passionate parents—
and then ended up with another set of bonus parents.
We vacationed together—in Maggie Valley, Lake Junaluska, Boone, and Daytona Beach.
We sliced peaches, made preserves, slid down snowy mountains, fished for trout, and so much more.
Childhood pictures frequently show the Brocks with our family of four.
They were family.

The Brocks attended all of the major events in my life and in Kelly’s—our high school graduations, the births of our children, our marriages, both of the funerals of my parents.
Mr. Brock married Anthony and me in 2009 in a small church service in North Carolina, and he cried with me on the phone when I shared news of Anthony’s unexpected suicide.  
He held Kelly’s children and my children as babies,
And he lifted them high onto his shoulders as youngsters, helping them reach the skies.
The Brocks visited Mom in North Carolina and then came to visit her in  Gainesville when she moved back to Florida, supporting her and being loving family  for the 27 years of her life after Dad died,
(And Mom never hesitated to have a list of repairs waiting for their arrival.)

Having a good parent means having someone who thinks the world of you,
Who loves hearing all your stories,
Who loves celebrating your victories and crying with you over your losses,
Someone who believes you are capable of anything.
To all of my Texas friends, the Brocks are known as my bonus mom and bonus dad because they both did all of these things.
Their deaths have felt like the loss of my parents all over again.

I was a teacher of adolescents, but Mr. Brock was the one who pushed me to teach adults by turning over the Sunday School “podium” to me when he was out of town.  Little did either of us know that this was a beginning of a decade of preaching occasionally.

Every time I saw or talked with the Brocks, we laughed and cried.
They loved keeping up with the craziness of the lives of the Lewis girls.

A very personal story I will share with you that happened in 2004 is one that lived in his memory for dozens of years—and will forever live in mine.
I was going through an unexpected divorce.
I was a full-time minister at the time, but the divorce and all the gossip associated with it
Led to many people telling me that I was not worthy—-in fact, telling me those exact words,
Led to many church people refusing to be alone with me,
Led to many people blaming me for everything.
I was lower than I had ever been.
I had lost 25 pounds in a matter of months, and I was only sleeping because of medication.
I was 20 hours away from my family, and I was so, so, so alone.
Mom and I talked every day, but there was no one beside me.

After visiting family, the Brocks took a detour that late summer or fall to meet me beside I-35 in the asphalt parking lot of a Jack in the Box restaurant.
The second they got out of the car, I stood there crying.  It was so good to see someone who loved me.
However, a part of me was so sure that I had disappointed them and everyone at home.
A divorce—how could that be?
I remember Mr. Brock stating as he approached me, “I just have to give you a hug.  It is so good to see you.”
I replied, “Are you sure you want to?  Are you sure you want to be seen hugging me?”
He grabbed me, and the three of us just stood crying and hugging for about 15 minutes.
I am sure I cried most of the time, squeaking words out between sobs.
Their sorrow over my sorrow was palpable.
Their whole-hearted love over broken little me made all the difference.
They loved me no matter what.
They saw the best in me 24/7.

Just this past December I came to Florida for the express purpose of visiting Mr. Brock.
I know all too well how the grief over the loss of a spouse can be overwhelming,
And my goal was just to sit with him and cry and talk, much as he had done for hundreds of others over the years.
We did just that.  Both of us sat and laughed, talked, cried, and reminisced.
These two days will forever live in my memory.

When I heard that Mr. Brock, Jeff Brock to most of you, had passed away,
The first words that came to mind were, “A mighty tree has fallen.”
And then the tears fell.

If you don’t know about this, and I didn’t until I heard this recently in an audiobook, the trees in a forest are interconnected through underground fungal networks, humorously referred to as a “wood-wide web.”  Apparently, “trees share water and nutrients through the networks, and also use them to communicate. They send distress signals about drought and disease, for example, or insect attacks, and other trees alter their behavior when they receive these messages.”  The older trees provide additional tools to protect the younger trees from attack.

“For young saplings in a deeply shaded part of the forest, the network is literally a lifeline. Lacking the sunlight to photosynthesize, they survive because big trees, including their parents, pump sugar into their roots through the network.”

The young trees who may suffer from disease and insect attacks more easily than large trees rely on the large trees for survival.  The large trees literally provide food and protection for the young ones.


Jeff Brock was the giant I saw as a child.
And he was a giant not just to me–-but to many.
He was a large, mighty tree, with deep roots,
With a love for people,
With a love for his family and his God.
I think he would love that all I can picture when I think of him is a huge Florida oak tree,
The kind with limbs touching the ground,
With Spanish moss hanging,
With a tire swing attached to a lower branch,
The type of oak tree seen in many places in Bartow.
The type of tree that did not waver over the years, did not fall due to harsh weather, the type of tree that provided life for so many others.

He was a large tree who for years was a minister, feeding those who would be susceptible to dangers, helping them find the lifeflow that comes from faith.
He was a mighty tree for years as a guidance counselor at Bartow High, caring for and nurturing adolescents through one of the more traumatizing times of life.
He was a giant who ministered again at Highland Park, doing all the behind-the scenes ministry that involved one of his gifts—
Seeing people in hurt and sitting beside them.
Crying (yes, giants cry) and laughing.
He sat in hospital waiting rooms, beside hospital beds, and with the retired who were alone in their homes,
Being present in great moments of need.  

Many young trees, like me, are who we are today because of this giant,
This man who loved others and gave.

I may have grown older and taller,
And I may have a bit more wisdom under my belt now than I did when I was 5.
However, I was correct about one thing  back when I was 5—
Jeff Brock was a giant.

And a giant tree, a mighty tree has fallen.
However, as Maya Angelou wrote in her poem “When Great Trees Fall,”
 this act of nature—the falling of this mighty tree–encourages us to focus on what we “can be” and aspire to “be and be better” because he existed.


When great trees fall,
rocks on distant hills shudder,
lions hunker down
in tall grasses,
and even elephants
lumber after safety.

When great trees fall
in forests,
small things recoil into silence,
their senses
eroded beyond fear.

When great souls die,
the air around us becomes
light, rare, sterile.
We breathe, briefly.
Our eyes, briefly,
see with
a hurtful clarity.
Our memory, suddenly sharpened,
examines,
gnaws on kind words
unsaid,
promised walks
never taken.

Great souls die and
our reality, bound to
them, takes leave of us.
Our souls,
dependent upon their
nurture,
now shrink, wizened.
Our minds, formed
and informed by their
radiance,
fall away.
We are not so much maddened
as reduced to the unutterable ignorance
of dark, cold
caves.

And when great souls die,
after a period, peace blooms,
slowly and always
irregularly. Spaces fill
with a kind of
soothing electric vibration.
Our senses, restored, never
to be the same, whisper to us.
They existed. They existed.
We can be. Be and be
better. For they existed.                                                                     

Maya Angelou. "When Great Trees Fall." Family Friend Poems, https://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/when-great-trees-fall-by-maya-angelou


Information about the Interconnectedness of Trees:  https://www.smithsonianmag.com/science-nature/the-whispering-trees-180968084/

A Confused Wanderer in the Wilderness (I Am From--Church Edition)

 

Children's Church, Mom and Dad in front.  Fabulous memories of Aunt Eunice and Uncle Bill (not family, but they were family!)

I am from nightly devotions, of Noah and his big boat and of Zaccheus “the wee little man”,
From Jesus in my living room, white skin, downcast glance,
From Jesus knocking at my door,
And I opened it at age 5.  
I know I was unsure what it all meant, but I knew it was something that should happen.
I am from tears, from a sense that if God really knew “what a worm was I”
That perhaps I might miss hearing the trumpet from heaven and
“Wish We’d All Been Ready.”

I am from parents giving me over to God,
From prayer jars,
From “Stop and Let Me Tell You What the Lord has Done for Me,”
And “When We All Get To Heaven” with shouts and “hallelujahs,”
From Homer screaming salvation prayers over someone at the altar,
And who can forget the “Just As I Am” calls where some believers again and again
Found their way down that long aisle to the “blood of Christ”
And the mediation of the Holy Spirit.

I am from gospel tents, hot in the sand, paper fans moving the air,
I am from revival nights, after a long day at school,
Only to have Dr. K, the evangelist, scream about Jesus, making us little kids jump,
I am from six straight weeks of Bible School in people’s hot Florida summer backyards,
So often, my sister and I repeated the lessons word-for-word “for fun” afterwards.
From weeks of Vacation Bible Schools, day camps, and campouts.
From Caravan badges and perfect memorization of scriptures.
Miss a word in 25 verses and Mrs. S would make you do it all over again.

Knock.  Knock.  Knock.  Are you going to keep Him out?
Slide.  Slide.  Slide.  Are you really thinking bad thoughts?  If so, “Just As I Am.”
Don’t forget He is coming.  (Surprise!  You won’t know when)
Don’t be that woman whose husband flew into the sky and “wish we’d all been ready.”
Are you sure you are ready?
6-6-6.  You aren’t ready.  Are you?  Make sure.  
Beg God each night just in case.
“Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord  my soul to keep.  If I die before I wake . . .”
If I die—-wait, are you ready?  Make sure.

I am from making gallons and gallons of orange drink, vacuuming carpets,
Cleaning urinals, unlocking church doors,
Turning classroom lights on in the dark tunnels of hallways by myself.
I am from picking up bulletins left in pew pockets,
From paper cuts folding and stuffing the bulletins,
From setting up nursery toys, chairs, rooms, and tables.

I am from Gaithers, Speers (“a chip off the old Brock”), and Cathedrals.
Who knew of Journey, Fleetwood Mac, or Bread?  
Played backwards, and Satan Himself will steal your soul.
Amy Grant is as far as you can go.
From dresses, pantyhose, and heels—Sundays or Wednesdays or any other day,
From no movies (unless on vacation, and even then, Herbie or Don Knotts are the limit),
From no dancing, no drinking, no swearing (even Jiminy Cricket, because, you know--JC),
From no running in God’s House, from no thought of ever missing a holy day or a service,
From “thou shalt nots” running through my head.
And P.S. “others are watching you, so make sure you are always a good example.”
And “You don’t want others to miss Heaven because of your behavior.”
And “Go to a movie, and you may tempt others.”
And “Take a drink, and you may become an alcoholic or tempt others.”
After all, “My Body is a Temple of the Holy Spirit”--
And because of that, no thoughts of intimacy before marriage,
That holy sacrament and institution that always works if you pray hard enough
And hold your husband up and allow him to be the moral leader of the house.

I am from all of this—and yet more.
I am from after-church potlucks,
From caring for people without your shared DNA as if they are your own family,
From flying kites together, making smores over the fire, lighting sparklers on the 4th,
From vacations taken together with “family”--to the mountains, to the beach, to Epcot,
From shared birthdays and weddings,
From helping each other out, whether it meant wallpapering or painting, moving, re-shingling, cooking, or just being there.
From hugs and offers of prayer,
From people who helped you celebrate and stood beside caskets,
From people who loved me
And still do.

I am from stories of Zaccheus “the wee little man” who was called down from his hiding place, forgiven and accepted by Christ,
From David who was called God’s own despite adultery and premeditated murder,
And from Jonah who disobeyed God and yet was still saved by God’s whale-taxi.
I am from stories of Christ’s amazing grace,
And Christ’s acceptance of all those whose lives were messy.

HOWEVER . . . . . . this same origin story,
The same “I am from” that developed so much of my childhood story—and the one that determined so many of my values and principles—the one that provided me love and support and a sense of security—
Often reveal themselves as “whited sepulchres,”
the source of thrown stones of accusation and exclusion and cliques.
This “I am from” that loved me with open arms is also
the source of closed doors and turned backs for so many I know,
the source of silence for many when life got messy.

This same Christ who loved
The prostitute,
The bleeding, unclean woman,
The lepers,
The crippled man—-

The same Christ who saw the crowd and felt his heart go out in pain for others
Is supposedly (according to my “I am from” crowd) also the same one who doesn’t fully love gay people, Democrats,
Women whose husbands filed for divorce, mothers pregnant outside of wedlock,
Or ministers who happen to be female.
According to them, He is the same One who upholds the institution of marriage
Over the welfare of women and children in abusive households,
The same one whose will is to make young girls pregnant from their incestuous families (and the same one who will not help her find a way out of this situation).
To them, He is the same One who shames people for mental issues
Because “Let Go and Let God.”

The same “I am from” background
Has allowed the world to seep into their beliefs,
Pushing them to intertwine politics into their religious beliefs,
Thus closing the doors on anyone who doesn’t believe like they do.
Some of their ministers (who I know) openly ridicule political leaders who don’t carry an R.
Their leaders post cruel posts about those D people,
Those LGBTQIA+ gay people,
And suggest God’s special touch on some,
While those gays at the Pulse club were punished by God, suggesting God loves some more than others.

AS A RESULT, I am from confusion,
From a perplexed and lost mind.
From former every-day churchgoer, from licensed minister, from pastor,
to the one wandering in the wilderness,
Hearing the Voice,
Hearing the Heart,
Seeking the Truth,
But only hearing it and finding it—for now— outside of four walls.

The place that provided me those glorious potlucks where all ate and were welcomed now appears to be the place where the tables are shrinking, the seats are reserved, and some are asked to leave.

In my search in the wilderness,
I have found so many searching with me,
So many wanting to sit, talk, and be heard.
So, I am setting up a huge picnic blanket, and I have brought along snacks and drinks.
Who knows?  
Maybe a stranger will come meet us out there in the wilderness and multiply some fishes and bread.

I am not sure where I am going,
But I am not alone.

Part 2: Of Voodoo Curses, Shamrocks, #blessed Theology, (and Shifted Bullets)

 

I published this the first time on my blog in February 2020, just a month shy of the world's awareness of just how big of a situation COVID would be.

 

I also published this just 8 months before my mother's sudden death from a reaction to chemotherapy for her stage 1 breast tumor----and  almost 2 years shy of my husband's suicide.   I had no idea how true these words of February 2020 would become for me.

Below are the original words with a few small parts added in regarding the past 4 years:

* * * * * * * * *

 

For the past two years, my sister and I have joked that we have a special type of sister bond---a shared voodoo curse.  We had seen voodoo curses back in an episode of Gilligan's Island and maybe with The Brady Bunch---or maybe that was just a necklace with a curse.  

 

Regardless, little did Kelly and I know when we were young, when we played the M.A.S.H. paper game of the 1970s that allowed us to dream about our future home, husband, and financial situation, that our lives would not turn out at all like we had thought it might. 

Our joke is a sisterly twist of Murphy’s Law.  For us, the Lewis Sisters’ voodoo curse is a matter of the two of us trying to find humor in some very humorless situations.  To continue our dark humor, we mutually own two little miniature voodoo figurines of Wonder Woman, and her ringtone on my phone states "voodoo jester.”  

 

When something goes wrong, as it often does, all we do is laugh, shrug, and blame the voodoo curse for her family's continued health issues and my family's continued relationship issues.

Although I have no real belief in voodoo curses or in magic shamrocks or in the colored rabbits’ feet I used to buy as a child, I do truly believe that the #blessed theology is dangerous.

From Christian friends of mine who claim #blessed when their kid’s Christian sports team wins a game (I guess because the other Christian team is not blessed) and from Christians who claim #blessed when their luxury boat is not harmed in a hurricane while others’ hard-earned trailers are demolished, I find it hard to swallow this #blessed theology.  If this theology is, in fact, true, then unfortunate situations prove that God does not love me, does not listen to me, does not protect my belongings, or have my team win.  He must not love me as much as he loves these #blessed people.

I would guarantee that those who landed on American shores to obliterate Native Americans by the thousands thought they were blessed as they ate their first Thanksgiving dinner provided by the Native Americans.  I am sure the pictures of that event would have been tagged with #blessed had Twitter existed then. This #blessed flawed theology states that because the Native American culture was completely demolished, God must have not cared as much for these people. 

Likewise, when people were rounded up to become slaves in this #blessed country, historical reports show that the white slaveowners told their slaves that God had allowed them to rule.  As a result, these African slaves were led to believe that God must love the white slaveowners who openly committed adultery with their female slaves and beat others to bloody messes more than he loved the small African boy.  What a twisted image of God this is!

 

Much more recently, I have heard many claim God's Anointing on one political candidate because a bullet barely missed his ear.  Yet, have we considered how this type of statement reveals a heart unaware of empathy because a Christian in the crowd did die.  How can God choose one but not the other?  Do we not realize that when we claim God's blessing on one and not on another this is not only hurtful but also suggests that we believe that one is more #blessed than another?

 

Even more, I have heard claims that this political candidate was "strong enough" to avoid being killed while apparently the same was not true for the 19 students and 2 teachers who died (and the 17 others who were injured) in the shooting at Robb Elementary in Uvalde, Texas, in 2022.  For the parents of the 19 students, if they believe this, God must not have been there----or their children and their teachers were not "strong enough" or "heroic" enough to live.  How can one person be seen as extra important, extra #blessed, and extra valued if God knows and loves each of us?  If you don't believe me that this type of thinking hurts the entire Christian faith, I am not the only one pointing out the hypocrisy:  https://www.texasmonthly.com/news-politics/trump-assassination-texas-christians/.  As the author of this article suggests, this type of #blessed thinking makes God's ways their own ways.  

When we use this type of talk, God becomes a tool to push one political agenda over another, to push one's wealth or importance over another, to value one life over another----and the only one hurt in the whole mess is God.

* * * * * * *

After all these years, we still treat God as if He is some rabbit’s foot.  If we rub the rabbit’s foot enough by praying the right amount of time, using the exact right words, tweeting #blessed enough times to witness to others, then God will provide all we dream and ask. 

I believe God is more than a rabbit’s foot.  This #blessed theology makes those whose loved ones die of cancer or have incurable diseases despite all types of prayers feel like they failed, that God must not love them enough.  This #blessed theology makes those whose marriage collapsed despite prayers feel like even God does not care.  This #blessed theology makes anyone whose “luck” is down, whose paycheck is not enough to pay the bills, or whose lives are not ideal question who they are in God’s eyes.

I have to believe that God is more complicated than any tweet or hashtag.  Just because I have belongings or a win for my kid’s team does not mean that God has blessed me.

Perhaps this desire to believe this about God is selfish.  Perhaps my hope that God is more complicated than any #blessed concept is because of my "voodoo curse."  Otherwise, the only thing I can believe is true is that I must have sinned tremendously.  Considering how things have worked out in my life with my two marriages, my parents who died early, my sons-----I either have to believe God hates me or that boxing him in with #blessed is false.

Recognizing God’s blessing means that we recognize in private the many ways He has quietly stood beside us when life was falling apart.  Our lives may not be perfect, but He sat with us through the wreckage.  Recognizing God’s blessings is not connected to monetary successes or achieving the Pinterest house or having the Norman Rockwell life.  God’s blessings do not come in perfect houses, luxury boats, the proper clothing, the achievement of the American Dream, or the extravagant paycheck---or even perhaps, a shifted bullet. 

God’s blessings come in small ways---from the complicated spider web that shimmers in the dew, from an expected word of encouragement from a friend or stranger, from an extra long cuddle from a child, from a deep conversation with a special someone, or just a brief moment of peace in the midst of a storm of life.

There are so many watching those who claim faith.  They see when their life circumstances do not “match up” to those who call themselves #blessed.  I do not want to be the person whose #blessed theology makes others lose hope, believe less in themselves, or believe less in my God who is much more complicated than any hashtag I use.

A Poof at the Bottom of the Cliff: Lessons from Wile Coyote

 

The big heavy cube
With rabbit ear antennas
And a dial with only a few channels
Held the wonder of Saturday morning cartoons.

Scooby Doo and Hanna-Barbera favorites,
Hong Kong Phooey or Dastardly and Muttley, filled the screen.
The greatest of these was the Bugs Bunny and Roadrunner Show.
Although as a child I only got a portion of the humor,  there was nothing like seeing Bugs Bunny trick gangsters or hunters like Elmer Fudd,
Or seeing a little bird trick the big cat with the speech impediment, Sylvester.

Somehow out of all the conflicts in the Bugs Bunny and Roadrunner Show,
I never really appreciated the deeds of the Roadrunner and the Coyote.
They all ended the same with very little humor or suspense.
I only felt sympathy for this dogged coyote.
Wile Coyote was hungry.
He tried hard.
He purchased Acme products that were sure to work, like monstrous magnets, tunnels that were really painted rock, and rockets that would speed his travel to help him catch his target.

The Coyote pursued the Roadrunner as nature decrees,
But the laws of nature always were flipped,
The Roadrunner always defeated the Coyote,
And the Coyote ended up getting squished, falling off a cliff, or
Falling off the cliff and having a rock fall on top of him,
Or just being utterly defeated . . .

Until the next scene when his indomitable spirit—
Or stupidity—
Or unwillingness to stop–
Or hunger
Forced him to give it a try once again.

I always felt sorry for the Coyote as he opened a new Acme box
(while I also wondered who was paying for all this cool stuff).
I especially sympathized as the Coyote was in mid-air,
waving goodbye to the audience
Right before his body catapulted toward earth from a high cliff,
Landing in a “poof” at the bottom.

The part that was supposed to make us laugh was the taunting “beep, beep” at the end
As the Roadrunner smiled at the audience and took off in the distance.

What was the lesson in this?
Was this funny?
Did Hanna and Barbera want the audience to realize
That laws of nature don’t count?
That the Puritan work ethic doesn’t matter since a sneaky manipulator will always win?
That hard work and effort do not lead to success?
That his desire to satisfy his hunger does not justify killing the Roadrunner?
That Acme products should never be purchased?

* * * * * * * * * *

Now that I have grown up,
Now that I have chased after a few rivals, fought in challenges I should have won,
Gone up against those who wanted to destroy me or humiliate me or just get ahead,
I can definitely identify with the Coyote.

Sometimes it seems like all my hard work, all my effort, all my best ideas
End up in a rubble pile at the bottom of a tall cliff,
With me falling and landing with just a “poof” at the bottom
While the enemy goes by laughing with his little “beep beep”

What do you do when the “beep beep” is all you hear
While you sit at the bottom of the cliff?

Perhaps all that cartoon was doing (other than making a lot of money for the creators)
Was teaching each of us as children
That life rarely goes as planned.
The best-laid plans, the most wonderfully-idealized Acme designs, the hardest work
May all go “poof” and we may be faced once again with the realization that we are saying goodbye to all our efforts.

Perhaps like the Coyote,
We can take the falls,
Accept the failures,
And still pick ourselves up, all bent up and battered, all dusty and dirty,
A bit bruised and a bit puzzled at where it all went wrong,
And take one step after another.
Back to the drawing board.
Back to dream of the victory that eludes,

Determined that at one point, the victory comes to those who find a reason to
Keep on getting up,
Keep on finding a reason to face a new day,
Keep on fighting against the odds.

However, if I am completely honest, sometimes I just cannot do this.                                 
Sometimes I just want to sit at the bottom of the cliff, put some bandaids on my boo-boos, and cry.
Sometimes I want revenge on the “beep beepers” of life, those who celebrate my fall.
Like the image above, I sometimes ask “how” it has happened and try to learn how to avoid it in the future.
I know that sometimes I have given up the fight to chase after a specific Roadrunner and instead pursued another challenge.

All I know is that it is not that easy to be the Coyote.
All of us at times have been Wile Coyote sitting at the bottom of the cliff. 

Most of the time, the only thing that has gotten me to start crawling again, start moving away from the bottom of the cliff
Is pure courage,
A tiny bit of hope,
And a helping hand from another coyote who has fallen.

Regardless of the motives of Hanna-Barbera, one thing I know:

The Coyote and Roadrunner cartoon has taught me I am not alone.  

Giggle--A Family Tradition

 

The Giggle Mattress was brought into existence when I was a child.
My parents slept in a double bed.  
Their mattress existed before memory mattresses, hybrid mattresses, or even firm mattresses.  

My parents rarely changed mattresses or furniture in their house.
If it worked, then, why get rid of it?  
I think they had the same bedroom suite and mattress from their first year of marriage until my high school graduation or perhaps college graduation.

A couple times a year, my parents decided we would have a special night.
They would grab their double mattress and drag it into the living room.
We would place the mattress on the floor and watch TV snuggled together.  

I don’t remember why these evenings happened,
Or what motivated these nights.
I don’t even remember if we all fell asleep out on the mattress.
These Giggle mattress nights usually lasted one night only, and then, the mattress would be put back in the bedroom where it “belonged.”

All I remember was the sheer joy of the oddity of this event—
Of pulling out the mattress and making a living room “fort.”
All I remember were the moments of hilarity as
Mom and Dad grappled with the mattress.
It was old and worn out.
It did not move easily.
It folded and warped.
Mom and Dad could barely grab hold of it and move it from room to room.
All 4 of us would end up in giggles as the mattress collapsed beneath one of us or
Folded in on itself, loosening its grip from a hand.

It quickly became known as the Giggle Mattress.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Years passed.
Kelly and I grew up.
The mattress did not get moved out to the living room any longer.
The mattress was sold.
Dad died.
I moved to Texas.
I had two boys.
I got divorced.
I lived by myself in a house ¼ of the size of my previous house prior to the divorce.
3200 sq. feet reduced to 800 sq. feet.

No income.
A strange house for my boys.
Surreal life for me.
I was all alone.
Depressed.
Loaded with anxiety.
Looking for work,
Redesigning my life.

All felt off, abnormal, out of control.
How could I keep doing life?
How could I keep being the mom I wanted and needed to be for my boys when I only saw them half the time?
Traditions associated with holidays would no longer work like they had with my family
Since I would only see my boys half of those holidays.

I felt like a failure of a parent.
I knew I could never provide them the safe environment that my parents provided me 24/7, 12 months a year, 365 days a year.
I was at a loss of what to do.

I lived in a small house,
Nothing like the house I used to own.
I had no money.
I had nothing to compete with the wealth, with the security our old house and the marriage had seemingly provided.

One Friday evening when the boys were with me,
I suddenly made a decision.
I wanted to make this ordinary night magical.

I pulled out the boys’ two twin mattresses since that was all I could lift by myself.
I put them side-by-side in the small living room, moving chairs and end tables to make the mattresses fit.
I had the boys grab every pillow we owned.
I grabbed blankets.  
We made popcorn and all sorts of treats.
Avatar:  The Last Airbender played.
The boys and I watched TV,
They played.
We cuddled with the TV on, and we fell asleep on our own version of the Giggle Mattress.

The Giggle Mattress continued its joy.

I didn’t do it every weekend,
But whenever it felt like we all needed a treat,
Whenever we needed encouragement,
Whenever we were tired,
Or when someone was sick, our Giggle Mattress got pulled out.
The three of us would enjoy the special treat of a mattress night.

Sometimes, when illnesses lasted, Giggle Mattress stayed out for days—or even a week.

Some of my best memories of the boys when they were little
Were on the Giggle Mattress.

Even when the boys were old enough to drag the twin mattresses in by themselves,
They loved these special moments.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

It has been at least 15 years since Giggle Mattress has been formally put into practice.
Yet,
As much as life changes,
Some things remain.

My parents are no longer alive.
The rental house I lived in is now someone else’s.
The house here on Karma Dr. is still mine, but
The boys are no longer here.

It is just me.  
I have no twin beds, so there is no chance of moving the mattress by myself.
Things have changed,
But the floor beneath my feet
Still holds the giggles
Still holds the memories
Of moments watching Aing the Avatar, Gremlins, or any of the other movies we watched together
On the Giggle Mattress.

It is still real to me.
The Giggle Mattress took a moment of hopelessness and despair
And brought me priceless memories
Over a decade.

My daily goal right now is to regularly make something ordinary into a magical moment,
A moment that brings giggles,
Smiles,
Even tears,
A moment to remind me that life is magical even here in the living room on Karma Drive.

My Secret Career

I have had a secret career.
Everyone just assumed I spent my life teaching and educating.

Really I may have spent just as much time,
Often in the quiet moments,
In the darkest minutes of the night,
Or in the car,
Or when things got quiet enough for me to think—

I have spent just as much time
Volunteering as a criminal prosecutor.

Yes, me.
Imagine me dressed in a business suit,
Pacing before the jury,
12 individuals who have volunteered their time to judge the guilt or innocence
Of a criminal—
Of someone who should have known better,
Should have done better,
Should have acted differently,
But didn’t.

I have volunteered my empty moments
Arguing the guilt of this criminal,
This lowlife,
This good-for-nothing,
This failure.

I have reminded the jury (and the criminal) of every time
She has not lived up to the standards,
Has said an angry word,
Has said something that was not as clear as it could have been,
Has failed to say something she should have.

I have reminded the jury (and the criminal) of
Moments when she was too busy for her children,
Moments when she ignored the needs of others around her,
Moments when she acted selfishly or inconsiderately,
Moments even 15 years ago because each moment should be brought back up.

I have reminded the jury that this person deserves punishment,
Deserves the judgment of others.
I have used derogatory terms toward this criminal
And argued that she will not change.
She deserves what she gets.
She should continue to serve time for every infraction of the past,
Whether she has already served time or not.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

However, because life is full of contradictions,
in my free time,
I have also offered myself up to sit in the jury box,
To sit in each of the 12 chairs,
To offer up my own criticism,
My own, “Oh, my!  How could she?!”
My reiteration of the should’s and the shouldn’ts.
The shaking of my head in disgust,
My head bowed in embarrassment that I was
Exposed to this lowlife’s lowest moments.

When I didn’t feel like sitting in each of the 12 chairs,
I offered the seat to the very people who have sat in judgment of her as well,
I helped these others take notes,
Reminding these others of this lowlife’s failures.
I have offered up the criminal on a platter to these others.


Imagine as well,
This blond-haired middle-aged woman who began her career as a prosecutor as a blond-haired teenager (or maybe child)
Is also the same twelve blond-haired middle-aged women in the jury who began doing their volunteer service as blond-haired teenagers (or maybe children)
AND
Is also the same blond-haired middle-aged woman in the defendant’s seat who began failing
And missing standards
And forgetting
And losing her cool
And making mistakes
As a blond-haired teenager (and definitely child).

I have spent my life sitting in the
Defendant’s chair and witness seat
Being prosecuted and judged by those who look and act just like me.

Who needs external judgment-makers
When my own internal judgment-makers
Are so much more effective?
 
This internal prosecutor and jury
Have books and books of notes
Of infractions
And errors
And failures
And are so keen to remind me of these.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Sitting on my second jury on my birthday just a few weeks ago,
I listened to 11 other individuals talk about a 4-time felon who was
Guilty of aggravated robbery,
Of possession of a large amount of drugs while on parole,
Guilty of burglary while also on parole,
And then finally guilty of possession of a firearm while on parole.

This man who was sentenced to 40 years that was reduced to 8,
Sentenced to 8 years that was reduced to 2,
This man who openly admitted the guilt of the 3 previous felonies,
This man on video,
This man with fingerprints,
This man with DNA is guilty.

Yet, the jury was discussing “mistakes,”
“Poor choices,”
“Bad decisions,”
And each was desperate to save the man from dying in prison.
This jury of strangers was desperate to rehabilitate this criminal,
This jury of strangers had hearts torn about a man who did not seem capable of change.



Maybe I need to change my 2nd career.
If a jury of strangers can find mercy for a four-time felon,
If a jury of strangers can discuss “poor choices” for significant crimes,
Why do I find such ease in holding myself accountable for “crimes” done 40 years ago?
For words spoken in anger,
For inactions that were unintentional,
For mistakes made?

Maybe as judge, I need to dismiss the case.
I need to release the prisoner.
I need to realize time served is more time than this person deserved,
That this low-life is instead a
Gifted, thoughtful, considerate, loving individual who deserves to be let off
To live a life without handcuffs, accusations, and constant judgment,
Free to skip down the sidewalk in the sunshine,
Free to feel the wind in her hair,
Free to go find life where she can find it.

Queen of the Jungle

 

Throughout my childhood, I woke up early every Saturday morning while everyone else slept
Just to watch TV re-runs of Ron Ely swing on vines
And command the lions, crocodiles, great apes, and elephants,
All while dressed in a small leather loincloth.
I was enamored with the concept of Lord Greystoke, otherwise known as
Tarzan, King of the Jungle.

I wanted to be Tarzan.

When my dad hung up a tire swing in the woods way behind our house,
I would often go and straddle the top of the tire swing,
Tiny hands gripping tightly onto the yellow rope.
With my arms extended, hanging my torso over open ground,
Swinging back and forth,
Loudly imitating the Tarzan cry,
I often beat my chest, imagining my power over all the creatures around me.

It didn’t matter that Tarzan was a male and I was just a little girl.
Possibilities were all I knew.
I could become Tarzan and build my tiny muscles into giant ropes of tissue.
It was just a matter of time.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
 

Somehow,
At some point in my life,
I’m not sure when or how,
My Tarzan dream died.
My Tarzan hid in the jungles and didn’t make much noise.
Her powers to command the jungles were subdued.

I’m not sure if I was subconsciously taught by society
That girls didn’t do those types of things,
That girls in central Florida couldn’t go to Africa and become kings of jungles,
That humans couldn’t possibly control all these creatures, OR
That the Tarzan story was just a myth, a made-up story by Edgar Rice Burroughs.
(In fact, it wasn’t until a pop culture literature class in grad school that I read the original Tarzan novel.)
  
I’m not sure how or when,
But my Tarzan dream died.

The rebel in me,
The tiny kingdom-conqueror,
Became a rule-follower, a color-in-the-lines individual, an authority non-questioner.
Yes, I was a leader.
I was the person others followed even at a young age.
I tended to take over situations when no one else did.
I did not mind being the little adult in a tiny body.
In fact, when my kindergarten teacher left the classroom, I gathered the other kindergarteners around me while I read them The Cat in the Hat, displaying pictures between page turns.
I was a teacher even at age 5.

But somewhere along the way, this Tarzan wannabe learned that
The authorities were to be listened to,
And without question, I was to do what they told me.

Even if it was a pastor who thought it would be great fun to smear rubber cement all over both my tiny arms one day,
I never expressed alarm.
Even when a teacher decided to put me as a sixth grader in charge of demerits for fellow sixth grade patrol officers,
I never complained aloud but just went home and cried over the cruelty of angry peers.
Even when a youth pastor put me as a ninth grader in charge of planning an entire weekend of teen activities,
I silently cried at home when he criticized me in front of my teenage peers after the event ended.

I kept leading.
I kept volunteering and being a tiny adult,
But inside, I learned to take up less and less space.
No swinging from vines, or yelling my presence to the world,
But silently, antlike, busylike, I did what I was told.
I avoided the “too’s” as much as possible—too strong, too much, too ______.

In my first teaching job, when the assistant principal frequently made false claims about what “good teachers” could do, suggesting that I was a failure,
I quietly went about doing my job (and somehow didn’t give up teaching).
Both parents warned me that some men felt threatened by competent, able females.  
Neither suggested I be less than.
 

However, I could see no escape.
I was a female.
I was competent and able.
What was my alternative option?

A Tarzan wasn't allowed in this world.  All I learned to do was to stifle my jungle cry.  

These men threatened by competent, able females seemed to cross paths with me.
It happened again with a narcissistic pastor boss who made me feel less than, who told me I was “not worthy” to be a minister.
It happened again later with a supervisor who put every strong individual in their place and punished me with a schedule that was unmanageable.

Each time I stayed quiet.
I didn’t scream, or yell, or speak up for myself.
I didn’t file a complaint or go to HR.
I didn’t call the lions and the elephants to my rescue.

Each time I feared the repercussions that would come if I swung on my vine,
if I beat my chest,
If I loudly claimed my space in this world.

    * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

If I am honest, because I knew no other alternatives,
It happened in many personal relationships,
Where I gave up space,
Trying to love,
Trying to please,
Trying to be the person I felt I should be.

I didn’t ask the right questions.
I didn’t question statements that possibly seemed untrue.
I didn’t tell anyone I was Tarzan, and I didn't yell my jungle cry.
I just went along, busylike and antlike,
Mowing the yard, cleaning the house, doing the laundry, raising the boys, grading papers, buying groceries, and checking off items on my list of tasks.

I didn’t assert myself as Queen of the Jungle.
When I was told at age 20, “You grew on me like a wart” as a statement of how we fell in love,
I didn’t beat my chest and express my power.
I didn’t speak up about the hurt.

I loved big.
But I lost big.
This Tarzan made mistakes, but this Tarzan denied herself
And her power
And her voice.

            * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

Somehow,
In the rubble of the death of my husband,
As I was cleaning up the belongings stashed in corners of the house and in closets,
piled in the shed and in the garage,
As I removed the excess,
As I went through boxes, and uncovered long-lost belongings,
I somehow uncovered Tarzan hidden among the boxes.

Tarzan was there all along.
She was a bit dusty and her voice creaked from lack of use.
However, Tarzan's eyes still twinkled,
And unloosed from the piles of restrictions,
And with practice on a figurative tire swing,
And with daily vocal cries,
She is starting to regain her power.

From what I can tell,
And what I can observe,
This new Tarzan is one badass Queen of the Jungle.
You should see her swing.
You should see her beat her chest.
You should hear her yell her jungle cry,
And she will never again relinquish her hard-earned spot as Queen of the Jungle.  

She is finally realizing her dream to become Tarzan—
Not a myth—
A reality.