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.

Secreted Treasures

 

 

Walking down aisles in stores for months,
I loved finding small treasures,
Picking them up and putting them in my cart,
Imagining the upcoming excitement and the smiles.

How I used to love purchasing
Little objects that spoke to their boy hearts,
Toys that encouraged their passions,
Items that would pique their curiosities and excite them,
Reminding them
That life was a joy
And that their mother loved them with all her heart.

I secreted these objects in hidden corners,
Holding them for that special moment that commemorated their day
Or that moment they saw the signs of my love under a fir tree.

I then tenderly wrapped these specially-selected treasures,
Hugging the paper around the item, hiding its identity until the perfect moment.

Now that those moments have passed and are replaced
With a more refined, adultlike reaction,
Now that their passions and curiosities are a bit more unknown to me,
I walk down the aisles a bit more unsure,
But thankful for so many precious memories and moments hidden in my heart.  

* * * * * *

All those years of focusing on them,
Of loving others,
Of getting up on weary feet and doing and doing and doing,
Of listening to others’ voices and others’ needs,
Of putting many of my own desires on the shelf,
Of shutting out my own voice,
I am now walking down the aisles again.
Alone.
Alone the majority of the time now.

But that is not necessarily a bad thing.
I now can hear my voice in the silence.
I now can hear my little inner voice asking to just sit, to just relax, to just be.


I am just now discovering a long-hidden reason to walk down the aisles,
To spend my time and energies.
I now walk down aisles and love finding small treasures,
Imagining how this little object speaks to my heart,
How it piques my curiosities about life.

I now dream how to use my time to encourage my passions.
I look for ways to remind myself that life is a joy
And remind this little “girl” inside that she is loved.

I tenderly select these treasures,
These experiences,
These moments,
And I hug them around me as tightly as a soft blanket around my shoulders.  

Whether the experience is finding a small antique that will create a spot of joy in my house,
Or sitting in the air conditioning, watching a rabbit hop through the grass in my front yard,
Or laughing as Calli falls over herself as she tries to catch a ball,
Or cuddling up with a blanket, a glass of wine beside me, as a rerun of Law and Order plays on the television,
Or finishing a book chapter with tears rolling down my cheeks as the words carefully woven on the page touch me,
Or lying in bed for moments after the sun has risen,
Or dancing in my back yard to a piece of music that makes my body move.

I look for special treasures,
Ways to thrill this “little girl” to make a smile reappear from ear to ear,
To feel the excitement and anticipation thrumming beneath the skin,
A trip to a tiny cabin to turn off the technology and listen to the silence, to read and write and dream, to wrap myself up in possibilities,
Snow angels with co-workers in Chicago,
A moment seeing my 22-year-old accepting his college diploma with my 26-year-old beside me,
Or my first non-Christian music concert at age 55,
Or a trip across the country to meet with writers and sit beside the Hudson River,
Or moments in my childhood town, sitting beside lakes, visiting with friends, and reflecting on the past.

In these moments, I remind myself that life is a joy,
then secrete the treasured time in a hidden place in my mind and heart.

I am busy loving life as it is, as much as I can,
Loving myself in a way maybe I haven’t been loved
Or haven’t been listened to since I was young
When my own mother walked down the aisles picking treasures for her little girls.

And as I put my head on my pillow at the end of my life,
I hope I will treasure these little specially-selected moments
That are wrapped and secreted in corners of my brain,
Knowing that I loved
And was loved.

The Tree Needs to Go: A Lesson in What Was---and What Could Be

 

The tree needs to go.
Nostalgia and a hope of new growth—
And a desire for a sliver of shade in the heat of summer—
Kept me from cutting the whole thing down in 2022.

It’s ugly.
The only branches left are sucker branches that do not belong.
The majority of the branches died in Sno-pocalypse 2022.
Its limbs remaining are short, mismatched,
It will mark no new life in a year—or maybe two.

But the trunk stands strong.
The trunk—the shelter it once represented for me and my boys—
Is now the shelter for two families of red-streaked ladder-backed woodpeckers
Who marked their arrival with incessant knocking on the rough wood bark,
As if they were begging the trunk for entrance.

With much effort, they cut piece after piece of wood away to make the perfect home
Marked by a perfect circled entrance.
The mother and father sit guard,
Early morning into the dark,
Resilient, determined, and resolute,
Watching over their home,
Protecting their young,
Keeping out predators,
Feeding,
Providing a home to the best of their abilities.

Just as this mother once did,
Watching over her home,
Protecting her young,
Keeping out predators,
Feeding,
Providing a home to the best of her abilities.

Where I saw just a month ago the symbol of the loss of what was,
They see beauty and purpose and hope in what could be.

Who knows what else could be?

The tree will stand.

The tree will not go.