Boo Radley meets Casper the Friendly Ghost

   

“A house is made of walls and beams; a home is built with love and dreams.” — Unknown

Once upon a time architect pens hovered over floorplans,
Electricians strung the wires between the studs,
The roofers hammered the shingles,
And every last paint color and brick shade was selected.

Anticipation and promise and the possibilities of the future hung in the air,
Calendar days were counted for the completion of the construction.
Title papers were signed,
The key was handed over,
And a new life began.

The new owners had an idea of what their lives would be like,
The dreams of connectedness,
The hopes of happiness and joy,
The thoughts of future years planned out.

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

Something happened.
I don’t know what.
All I know is that when I moved into this neighborhood seventeen years ago,
The dream for life in that house  had died,
This hope was abandoned.

As far as I remember, this house has always been abandoned.
Seventeen years of echoes within the rooms.
Seventeen years of neglect and abandonment,
Seventeen years on display for all who pass by to see.

I may not live in Maycomb, Alabama, but I think Harper Lee would agree that this house has the feel of the Radley home—
The decay,
The mystery,
The sadness of lives not lived as anticipated.

Thanks to a lack of housing restrictions in the country,
This home has fallen
And fallen
And fallen into disrepair and neglect.

That house has haunted me for years.
I don’t think an evil spirit or even Casper the Friendly Ghost  hovers.
However, there is a sense of grief and loss associated with this house each time I drive by.
Lost now—-
All the love and attention,
All the time and energy,
All the anticipation and hopes  and passion—-

And now the weeds hide the front of the house,
The front door that once hosted a wreath for Christmas
 is now hidden from view.
The tree that may have hosted the play of children among its limbs
Now stands with dead branches, drooping and falling on the once-shingled roof,
The yard that once was green and new
Is now strewn with weeds and dead grass.

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

How can a building have such a loud voice?
How can it speak to my heart of the disappointments in life,
To the desperation silently felt by so many?

It seems to  stand as a monument to the many shattered dreams and
The grief of lost possibilities.

Grief is not just a loss of a physical presence.
It is the loss of future dreams and future possibilities.

This house speaks to me of the choices available to me at this time of change in my life—
When my husband no longer is beside me,
And when my children are physically or emotionally distant.

This house speaks to me of the individuals who have given up,
Those whose massive potential screamed to the world,
And yet those same individuals whose self-view became so distorted that giving up and giving in were the only options.
This house speaks to me of those whose mental illnesses have warped the possibilities,
Those whose grief, depression, and anxieties have grown up to shut out the sunshine.
Those whose dark secrets have blocked the entrance or exit from their inner self-imposed exile.


This house haunts me with questions:
Will I be the house I currently live in?
Willing to undergo a new vision, a new remodeling, a new purpose?

Or will I silently give in to time,
Watching it pass me by as the bushes cover the front windows, back windows, and doors,
As the glass darkens,
As the exits to the house are blocked?


* * * * * * * * * *
This house haunts me in its sadness.
The possibilities dreamed of are now dead.
There is no hope for these four walls other than demolition.

I am not ready for this.
I am destined for more than demolition or self-immolation.

It is hard to see the beauty of this new life with its changed possibilities.

However, it is a good thing that this woman who has undergone several traumas in life
is good with yard work and hard work.

I am picking up the pruners to trim back the bushes,
Kneeling, weeding my beds,
Standing with my hose, watering my plants,
Searching for bees feeding from the blossoms.
I am picking up my window cleaner, making sure that the vision from my windows is clear.
Day by day, step by step, inch by inch,
I am clearing out the mental and emotional debris,
Determined to make my physical and symbolic house
a testament,
a monument of
resiliency, of strength, and of hope.

Maybe if I can make my “house” that sort of testament
Others with no hope will perhaps dare to speak to me,
Dare to perhaps clean their own windows and let me help them with their yard work.

I'm not Chip or Jo: A Look at Remodeling

 

The fixer-upper type shows make it look so enjoyable,
The sledgehammer plunges through the drywall,
The kitchen counters are torn out,
The wires and studs are exposed,
The endless possibilities of the undone . . . .

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

This will disappoint some of you, but Chip and Jo will never touch my walls.

They live 2-3 miles away from me, but even if they chose me for their show, I would say no.
I am tired of remodeling.

Honestly, my current house project is my second true literal remodeling.
Items from one room fill the spaces in four rooms.
Then, items from that one room are put in place while another room is emptied out.
The crew of guys work in a coordinated dance, in synchronized movements,
Ripping the paneling from the glue,
Gathering and tossing the insulation fragile from the years,
Tugging the carpet from its stapled moorings,
Snaking electrical wire between studs.

Drywall dust coats all.
White dogprints on a red rug are a testament of the sweat and effort in the next room.

Remodeling exposes secrets—-
Holes in the window sealing,
Fire hazards,
An old wooden door secreted behind drywall and brick
(Hey, Poe, was my room your inspiration for “The Cask of Amontillado”?),
Broken tiles, remnants of termite tunnels, and a
Brick wall marred with S’s drawn in glue.
Electrical nightmares.
Chaos.

Despite this, as each day proceeds,
Little tendrils of light and new life arise,
Clean and white, transitions made smooth,
Gaps closed up, keeping out the bugs that contaminate,
Shiny plugs appear where extension cords once crept,
Dangers lessened,
Clean, whole, healed.
A new perspective, a new plan, a new map . . . .

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

I am tired of remodeling.
But actually it is not the literal remodeling that has created this fatigue.
Literal remodeling is much quicker and less exhausting in comparison.

I am tired of figurative remodeling, the type that has exhausted me for the past 20 years,
The type that has happened again and again and again.
Just when I had things all put back in place, the dust swept, and the “ahh” released from my lips,
A marriage was ripped apart, a reputation was sullied, a parent died, a job was lost, a child made choices, a life/death health scare happened, a spouse died,
And everything had to be remodeled again.  And again.  And again.

I am sick of life’s sledgehammers that have crashed through established routines,
That have crashed through assumptions and anchored beliefs,
Suddenly, without warning,
The surface of life was torn from its moorings,
The sources of energy ripped out,
The damage,
The footprint signs of a former life,
The chaos.

Those previously-held established routines and assumptions were comfortable, even if not safe.
They provided simplicity of faith—of God, of others, of family, of self.

Each time my life has undergone remodeling,
My reserve, my outward organized persona has been torn and removed.
What may have been a flawed status quo is now smashed and stripped,
The reality beneath is revealed for all and is judged.
The flaws, the possible danger potential, the gaps
Are there for all to see.
The certainties of life are ripped away,
And all that is left are studs and worn-out wires.

It takes time to rebuild.
It takes time to see potential in the wreckage.

The reality of the damage is all too real.
Just because sledgehammers tore out a hole in one section
does not mean the rest is not affected in some way.
Dust covers all.
Furniture from one is crammed into others.
The sledgehammers left nothing untouched.
Decisions must be made.
Changes are a must.
Every item is re-examined before it is replaced.


When life changes in a moment’s time,
Despite the remains of dust, ashes, and fragments,
I have to believe that there is hope.
No timeline completion yet, but it is coming.
This does not mean that the tears do not wet my pillows at night.
It does not mean that sobs do not escape my lips when a song or a TV show or a restaurant or an item at home brings back memories.
Desperation still suddenly grabs me and isolates me.

However, with time, and a whole lot of effort,
I believe (and hope)
I can pull out my hammers and screwdrivers,
Pile up all my construction materials,
And board by board, brush stroke by brush stroke,
The source of energy can be restored,
The broken holes and gaps can be filled,
The dust of my former life can be swept up and rubbed off,
And all that will remain is my new remodeled life.

"It is Good."

 

I was four or five when my family moved out to Carriage Lane, to the country, or the boonies, as we called it.  

The house was placed on 1.65 acres of Florida pine-laden, sandy soil, with an expanse of land for a front yard.

I saw bare land.
My parents saw their dream.

With hundreds of tiny sprigs of St. Augustine grass, our family kneeled in the sand,
dug holes, buried the runners,
standing with a hose spraying well water,
urging the runners to sprint.

Between Florida sun, daily summer rains, and the regular back and forth spread of nitrogen, phosphorus, and potassium, the grass grew and grew.

From that bare plot eventually grew a miniature Garden of Eden, full of chest-high azaleas, shoulder-high camelias covered in pink blooms, dogwoods, oaks, and roses.

I’m not sure, but it seems like I couldn’t even see over the handle of the red Toro push mower the first time I was given the privilege of being like Daddy and
pushing the vibrating beast over ankle-high St. Augustine,
learning to create squares,
seeing the line between the cut and uncut,
adjusting the mower to get a full cut with the right wheel just over the edge,
turning 90 degree angles again and again until there was only one swath left.

Every week without fail, the whole family converged on the yard—pulling weeds, raking pine needles into piles to create our large driveway, trimming bushes, and most importantly, mowing.

How I loved the rumble
And the clean lines that defined that job.
The power,
The clarity of the work,
—and  don’t forget the sweat—
But all was worth it when it was complete.

Here I am, maybe 48 years after my first mow behind that red Toro.

As I pull the handle on my red and black Honda,
I still see the yellow wooden toy block my parents drilled and used as a handle on the Toro when the plastic handle broke.
I still hear Dad’s voice, “See the line, Kim?”
I still feel the cleanness of my edges along the sidewalk, the curb, the plant beds.
I still turn my 90 degree angles,
I sweat and sweat and sweat,
But the sense of accomplishment and joy is there—

As I look over my back and front yard,
I also imagine I feel a bit what Mom and Dad did on Carriage Lane,
Perhaps a bit what God did on Day 7:

“It is good.”
 

Winged Parachutes

  

1970s

I loved childhood summers in North Carolina.  With no cell phones in existence then, and with no television in our rental places at Lake Junaluska, my sister and I spent our two weeks of cooler weather outdoors, reading, imagining, creating, building, and playing.  The soft grass, the smell of clover, the small creeks with smooth rocks, and the fireflies were so different from our norm.  We reveled in the joy of those days.

 We took over a small rock foundation that became a fort, and we protected each other from the marauding pirates.  We skipped and sang as the famous Lewis Sisters.  We owned a restaurant, making menus and serving food and charging customers with tabs we wrote up.  We worked as civil engineers, moving rocks and twigs that blocked the flow of creek water.  We filled mason jars with the tiny lights of fireflies dancing inside the glass.

My first remembered experience with dandelions came in one of those early summers.  What joy!  Pulling the puffed stem from the ground, I gripped it carefully, wrapping all my small fingers around the green furry stem.  I held the puff in front of my lips, careful not to move it too much too soon.   I took a birthday-candle-blowing-out breath and blew.  

It was pure magic.  Those small white seeds rode the wind currents and parachuted down across the lawn, releasing their passengers.  I would pick another puff, make a wish, and blow again, confident that there were no bounds to the magic of nature and the magic of life.


Early 2000s

I watched my two little boys in the yard at Mom and Dad’s place in North Carolina.  Born in a different decade, and born with technology that I couldn’t have dreamed of 30 years earlier, they were quite a bit less sure of what to do with their time without a DVD on or a GameBoy in hand.  

They watched with fascination at the chipmunks (otherwise known as “chinkminks”) who  scuttled across the yard, diving in small holes at the base of the hickory tree.  They marveled at the different grass, the sound of the wind coming down the hills through the leaves of the many trees.  When their cousins appeared, the art of “cousining” resumed after a 12-month hiatus.  With 4 boys under the age of 6, the raucous laughter and crashing of cars and the sound of tussling and wrestling filled the air.

The four boys chased bugs, walked in the creeks, got muddy and wet, and made forts in the house.  They ate everything in sight, from Grandma’s famous pickles to her never-ending batches of sweets.  They, too, became civil engineers, building huge dams, and then became expert rock throwers in the same exact spot their mothers had 30 years before.

I held my breath as they climbed the tree in front of the house, certain that I would hear the thunk of bones on the ground.  Running from dandelion to dandelion, they blew the puffs across the yard, with me cringing each time, loving their laughter but also realizing dandelion weeds would be spread all over the yard.  



October 2020

I held the all-too-familiar hand, the wrinkles a new development I refused to accept.  It was the hand that had weeded gardens, the hand that had written notes and Christmas letters to each of her dear friends, the hand that graded thousands of English assignments, the hand that had spanked me occasionally and nurtured me throughout the years.  It was the hand that held the phone I called each day for almost 30 years since Dad died.  She was dying.  I could do nothing to save her.  My “She-ro,” who was not afraid to climb on roofs and trim trees, who quietly battled anxiety and depression without ever admitting it to herself or anyone else, who was a literal force of nature, couldn’t fight this.

Sitting beside her bed, hearing her take each deep heavy breath, the unreality of the impact of chemo on my mom’s lungs, the unreality of her imminent last breath, and the unreality of being without either parent at the age of 51—-all these unrealities left me numb.  Instead, I sat and held her hand and wrote an obituary she would have laughed about and loved.

Her last gift to me was a light long-sleeved cardigan with the words on the back, “Just Breathe.”  Beside the words was a picture of a dandelion, with seeds parachuting away.  At first, I had misinterpreted and believed it a message to me to stop being anxious.  Perhaps it was.  

However, since she, too, carried the same anxiety, beside that hospital bed in her last moments, I began to think that perhaps she was wanting me to slip back to my younger years, to rediscover the magic of childhood, to dream that the seeds I was planting in the lives of my boys and my other relationships would come true.  

It was a message to believe again.  To believe in me.  To believe in the magic of life.  To grab hold of the furry green stem with bigger fingers and close my eyes and make a wish.  To pucker up my lips and say to the world, “Here’s to bigger dreams, to larger possibilities, to a me that is true to myself.”


November 2020 and after . . . .

When I returned from my mom’s funeral, I suddenly saw dandelions in numerous places in my yard, the puffs just ready for me to blow on.  It was November, and before I even unpacked the car, this 51-year-old woman blew and watched the seeds dance around on the wind.

Now, each time I see a dandelion, including ten days ago, at the age of 54, I breathe and I believe.

Standing Witness---a tree

 

 Summer 2022
The tree, once vibrant and green,
A shelter from the too-bright sun,
The umbrella to many shaded reading hours,
With the strength to hold small boys below.

Trimmed branches became the forbidden fruit of invasive stranglers
That suck the lifesoul,
Diminishing the tree,
Weakening its strength.

So that when the too bitter cold for too many days
(during SNOVID/Sno-pocalypse 2021)
smothers the fresh buds too eager for spring weather,
The tree experiences Raynaud's disease,
Sap constricting, flowing to the trunk, leaving branches vulnerable
To lack of life, lack of love, lack of warmth.

Reaching out with its black-brown fingers toward the sky,
No life flows within.

Death.
Collapse.
Decay.
Loss.


There is no service for a dead tree.
No granite marker commemorating its service, its life.
No Psalm 23.
No line of mourners.
There was me—and only me.
I was not in a black dress and heels.

What sadness to mark the death of a tree that was a symbol of strength.
What sadness to stand witness to the destruction of time, of cold, of lack of warmth.

I bore witness to the death of the tree,
Wearing shorts and a tank top, sneakers and socks,
With tree trimmer, pole saw, chain saw, ladder, wood chipper, and  clippers,
With buckets of energy, gallons of muscle strength, and a lot of sweat,
With curses of frustration and tears of grief and so much love,
I slowly trimmed the dead from the tree.
I placed the limbs into the wood chipper, and from the chewing and cutting and grinding
emerged the tiny chunks of oak to nurture other botanical brothers and sisters.
I loved on the tree the only way I knew how—-
By honoring its contribution to me by caring for it in its last moments.

Summer 2023
What sadness to mark the death of a person who once was a symbol of strength.
What sadness to stand witness to the deterioration of a person due to time, lack of warmth, lack of acceptance, lack of love.

I stand witness to those I have loved,
Those whose bodies gave way before it was time,
Those whose life purposes were cut short by tragedies,
Those who have carried hurt and loss,
Those with heavy secrets that were too much to bear,
Those whose depression and anxieties smothered the lifesoul,
Those who experienced the coldness of the desperation felt by Raynaud’s disease.

I stand witness the best way I know how,
by
Getting up each morning, dressing, calling others, reaching out to those around me,
Learning and reading, asking questions and challenging the preconceptions I had,
Growing and exploring and daring to try new things,
Grading and driving and cleaning and cooking and mowing and texting and shopping,
Laughing and loving and giggling and cheering.

I honor those I have loved
By continuing on,
By pushing forward,
By recycling the hurt and ache in my bones and heart, the loneliness that overwhelms, the questions that circle in my brain,
By recycling the dead growth in the wood chipper,
By refusing to give up.

I can love on my loved ones of the past the only way I know how—
By honoring their contribution to me by caring for others—and caring for me.

Unleashed Reservoirs--the call of water

The water called to me,
Giggling and playfully teasing me as a little girl,
Of walking in cold mountain streams,
Teetering on slippery moss-covered Appalachian rocks,
Family members holding hands and traversing the uncertain ground, the rushing current, and the shore all too far away,
Slipping and plunging with shrieks into the clear water, 

Innocence, belief in the goodness of life,
Togetherness and joy,
Potential.

The water called to me
In a hushed whisper, inviting me to ponder the roaring noise of stillness,
Moments of escape from the beelike activity of life,
One small pebble thrown,
And ripples then forming in outward-facing rings,
One evolved into many,
A purpose, a bigger picture,
The interconnectedness of the flow,
The power of influence, the buoyancy of friendships,
Motivation.



Once again and again, the water called to me,
As to a frightened rabbit alone on the shoreline,
Inviting me to find peace in the small wind-rippled currents,
But my life flow was repeatedly dammed behind a construct of
Mores, expectations, guilt, and inadequacy,
The murkiness of life hiding truth and purpose,
Vision blurred and cloudy,
But to the shores,  the water echoed back to my confusion,
Reminding me of its ever-flowing vastness,
The interweaving nature of all water, 

Rushing and rippling and absorbing each other.
Then, water trickled, free falling down my cheeks,
Cleansing,
Clarifying purpose and meaning,
New eyesight.



The water called to me again just a year ago, 
Daring me, pulling me,
Challenging me to plunge into the depths,
To dive into the unknown,
Fulled clothed and yet so nakedly vulnerable,
Bidding me to leave the safety of the shore,
To blindly trust the water’s ability
To absorb my hurt, to lighten the weight,
To buoy me,
To make me alive.

The water that day provided me a reflection
Of the young girl turned woman,
Who has the power to choose—
To tiptoe and slip into the flow,
Or to dive headfirst and heartfirst,

To reflect from the shore 

Or to listen to her heart’s desire to explore the depths,

A choice to float on the surface and soak in the peace,
Or instead, when the moment is right, 

To pick up a paddle and push forward to the spot where the light rises in the east,

New beginnings,

Re-creation. 

Santa, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, and other Lies/Truths

His three-piece suit and Florsheim wingtips never stopped my 45-year-old father from crawling through play tunnels with toddlers in the church nursery.  His position as a school principal never made him too sophisticated to stack blocks on his head and have them intentionally fall to the ground to the laughter of young children.  

I learned everything about what it takes to entertain young children from watching him and my mother play with the children at church.  Apparently, I learned a lot since kids come to my house and never want to leave.  I have had kids meet me and an hour later refuse to let go of my hand.  Perhaps it is due to the toys I have with me, but perhaps it is my willingness to be real—and silly.

I worked with children at church for several decades, as a children’s worker, children’s worship leader, and children’s pastor at several churches.

My tailgate kids likewise climbed and crawled all over me, and between the pictures they drew for me or “Wild Bronco” rides on my lap, my own boys recognized that playing with them was the highlight of my year.  


* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
There is something about children that draws me to them.  

Perhaps it is their willingness to love wholeheartedly with arms wide open.
Perhaps it is their honesty—-even when that honesty sometimes hurts.
Perhaps it is their hope and willingness to believe in the best.
Perhaps it is their lack of judgment and their open acceptance.

It might be their fragility, the sense of that tiny little hand wrapped for dear life around your finger.
It might be the trueness of their smile, the giggles that comes straight from their bellies, or
The wide-eyed wonder in their eyes when something appears to be magical.

Yes, I know I was that child at one time, as I know you were as well.

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

Wouldn’t you in many ways like to time travel back to childhood?
To the simple belief in the mistruths we adults tell to children?
Of the existence of our bearded Santa Claus and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, the hoppity Easter Bunny with his hidden eggs and chocolate, the sneaky Tooth Fairy, and other lies?

Isn’t it true that we are stuck with the same dreams as little children?  


We laugh at Santa Claus, but we want to believe that someone or some circumstance will listen to our deepest desires and bring us what we want.  That someone or something will fulfill our dreams.
We would love to crawl up into a lap, be hugged, and be guaranteed that everything our heart desires will be ours.
We look for this bearded desire-giver in our spouses, our friends, our jobs, our children, and our God.  We hope and pray that if we find the right person and ask in the right way or if we behave and act like good little boys and girls, our deepest desires can be met.
However, we get disappointed when this person or this circumstance does not solve all our problems.


Isn’t it true that we can laugh at the Easter Bunny but still long for someone who would spend time and energy decorating and working to surprise us with items that bring us joy?
It might be true that chocolate still might work for many of us as adults.  
However, if we think of other surprises, don’t they bring us joy?  
Don’t handwritten cards, thoughtful presents, texts of appreciation, or the happy surprises of life still bring that sense of excitement?
We see the envelope in the mailbox with our names on it, we tear at the patterned giftwrap, or we hear the “ding” of our text messages—-and we are little children again, ready to run for the surprise.


And what adult believes in a winged fairy who comes and gets teeth with decayed roots and exchanges them for money?  (I used to get $1.00 a tooth, but I know inflation has hit!)
Yet, our childlike heart still prays and hopes that there is some possibility of recycling the losses of life—-the loss of death, the loss of a job, the loss of familial relationships, the loss of financial stability—-into something positive with no effort from us.

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

What other mistruths were we told as children?
It will be OK.
Mommy will never leave you.
Let me kiss it and it won’t hurt any more.
Daddy’s got you and he’ll never let you go.
No one can ever hurt you.

Wouldn’t you like someone to say all of these words to you right now?—--
And mean it?
And you believe it?
To believe that your loved ones will never leave you, that it will all be OK, and that no one will ever hurt you again?

Wouldn’t EACH of you want to hear those words right now, this minute, this month, this year?
Even those of you in suits and ties with wingtip shoes.
Even those of you looking at wrinkles in the mirror.
Even the single moms with babes hanging off of her all day long and crying for more.
Even those of us who have almost given up?

The sweet, not-so-honest words of comfort and
The figures of childhood joy and mystery—Santa, the Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy—
All speak of the deepest desires of all of us–
Our desires to be seen, heard, cared for, and sacrificed for,
Our desires to be surrounded by those we love,
Our desires to be looked out for and guarded,
And our desires to have everything make sense.

* * * * * * * * * * * *
Perhaps I am drawn to children because they represent a chance for me to lose some of my adult maturity and full-time seriousness/responsibility,
Perhaps their simple joy rubs off on me when they are near,
Maybe their innocent, belly-filled giggles and wide-open love remind me of what life is all about,
Maybe it is a chance for me to hope and pray that I can believe again in all the things I used to believe about life, about people, and about God.

Regardless of the reason,
I believe in the magic of children,
In their power to heal the broken-hearted,
In their ability to revive hope and joy.


Spoiler Alert:
If any of you adults brings a child around me, plan to be ignored.
Plan for the Fisher-Price buildings to come out all over the floor of my clean living room,
For the game of riding “Wild Bronco” on my lap,
For homemade peanut butter chocolate chip Rice Krispies treats,
And for me to be seen crawling on my knees in a play tunnel,
Laughing and giggling and being silly.


Final Thought:  
Who knows?  
Maybe I don’t need children around me 24/7 to adopt some of these ideas in my oh-so-serious life.
I may not pull out the Fisher-Price buildings, but what seems silly and a waste of time?  
Maybe I need to spend time putting aside adult responsibility and just doing something silly and fun.
Maybe I need to make a sinful edible treat—-just for me—and eat it without worry of who might see the smeared chocolate around my mouth OR worry of my tightening pants,
Maybe I need to pull out my kite and go running through a field,
Maybe I need to gather some friends more often and laugh and giggle and, yes, even be silly.

There is still plenty of summer left.
That maybe may become a reality.