The Undertow

 

Visiting Anna Maria Island on the Gulf Coast of Florida as a child, my mother who spent her high school years in the area warned Kelly and me of the dangers of an undertow.

As a regular at that beach, she was used to the beach’s secret dangers.  Yet, she found herself surprised by the undertow that can suddenly overwhelm.

One day on a raft in her late teens, she was relaxing, and she raised her head a short while later and found herself far from shore and moving farther and farther away as the seconds passed.  Mom was headed out to sea.  After much desperate paddling, she and the raft got back to the sandbar and she was able to swim to shore.

Needless to say, her horror story was terrifying for us.  

For those unfamiliar with undertow, it is a current that flows under the surface of the ocean, often going in the opposite direction of anything else.

It is subtle.
It is unseen.  
It is also dangerous for these reasons.

You only know of an undertow if you are warned.
And even if you know of the undertow, until you feel the pull on your ankle or
Suddenly find yourself a football field down the beach from your spot on the shore,
Or lift your head and find the shore in the distance,
You honestly don’t believe it truly exists---or has the power it does.

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

Depression is much like the undertow.
Depression is not visible externally much of the time—it does not morph someone’s appearance so it is easily visible.
Depression might manifest in tears, but for many skilled at battling depression,  it also might manifest itself in a smile and laughter.
Depression is a current below the surface, drawing, grabbing, dragging one under.

Depression grabs and claws during sleep,
Its power is strongest in the quiet and in the dark.
It crawls from beneath the bed and whispers in the ears of anyone prone to hearing these sounds.
It suggests all the worst-case scenarios,
It highlights all the possible fears,
It isolates and exaggerates and makes the listeners believe the worst about themselves.

Depression draws and pulls from the moment the feet hit the floor in the morning.
Its continual whispers,
Its constant suggestions—
All are meant to darken the world,
To darken the sun, to silence the sounds of birds, to muffle the laughter of friends.
All senses are dulled.

Depression means that the songs you hear only remind you of your hurt,
Depression means that you desire to be left alone only to desire to be loved and surrounded by people who love you.
Depression means that you believe all the worst things ever said to you.
Depression means that you focus on the worst moments of your life and believe this reflects who you are.
Depression means that the very things that make your heart beat harder and faster and happier are the same things you cannot even make yourself  want to participate in.
Depression means that the very people who make your heart beat harder and faster and happier are the same people who you sometimes pull away from.
Depression means that you doubt their love and their acceptance.

Depression means that you don’t share your feelings because
You are so afraid of seeing their faces when the truth is shared.
You are so afraid of seeing them turn and run off, seeing the backs of their heads as they escape you—the true horror of you.
You are so afraid that you keep silent . . . .
You are so afraid that you wear the mask of a smile.
You convince yourself that you will be fine.
Or not.
But even if you aren’t, there is no one who will understand.

Like the undertow, depression is subtle.
It is unseen.  
It is also dangerous for these reasons.
It is not understood until you realize how far from the safety of the shore you are.

Depression means doggy paddling all day, every day, every month, and every year.
It means pulling against the current dragging you down,
The current grabbing at your ankles,
Nibbling at your toes,
Raiding your heart and spirit,
Silently wearing you down until you quit doggy paddling and just give in.

For those who don’t know depression,
It is exhausting.
It is the hardest battle there is.

 * * * * * * * * * * *

The only solution for this battle I know of . . . .
(And I am one who has complained to myself recently of the weariness of the doggy paddle),
Is to find a raft, a safety float, a rescue boat, or a fellow swimmer.

No one may be able to rescue you completely from the undertow,
But if you find the right safe person, perhaps someone who knows the secrets of the undertow from doggy paddling themselves,
Or perhaps a professional who can provide a solid surface for a few minutes,
You might find a respite from the pull, from the grab—
A respite that might allow you to quit paddling and pushing and moving
And allow you to find rest.

Have Tent, Will Travel---A New Tailgating Experience

 

In 2009, just after our marriage began,  Anthony said he wanted to support the local team and buy season football tickets.  He also wanted to tailgate.  I absolutely love college football, but in Texas heat in the early fall, I had never considered why in the world I would possibly want to spend extra hours in the heat rather than watching the game in my air-conditioned living room.

However, he wanted to, and I joined in.  We bought the food, set up the tent, and sweated.  At first, it was just the two of us tailgating, or when the boys were with us, the four of us tailgating.  The boys played in the creek behind our spot, and Jonathan fell in at least twice.  Look at how little they were in our very first year!  

As the years progressed, however, the tailgating crew grew.  We met people from the neighboring sites.  We invited people from our lives to join us.  Those from an additional 5 groups/sites joined us.  We even made open invitations to people passing by, and we made a point to welcome people who were from the opposing team.  Our crew ran an average of 30-40 each game and sometimes closer to 60.

* * * * * * * * * *

This once-reluctant tailgater grew to love tailgating,
not because of the heat and cold,
not because of the football team or the game of football,
not because of the food and the cold drinks,
but only because of the people.  
 

Our spot became hallowed ground for me.
Our tent became a place that taught me what I wanted to be—-what I was meant to be to others and to myself.

* * * * * * * * * * * *
 

This year marks the first year in 14 years that I am not going to be tailgating outside of the stadium.  
The story is complicated and multi-faceted.   And much too much to share here.

The tailgate trailer Anthony and I bought, along with tables, chairs, televisions, coolers, grills, and much more have been sold or given away.  I will once again be watching football in the air conditioning at home this coming Saturday when it is 101 degrees outside.
 

Regardless that I will not be in that spot—-and under that tent—-I am carrying the figurative tent with me.
Have tent, will travel.

I am so thankful for the past 13 years—and for all of you who joined me under that white fabric.
I am so thankful for Anthony who exposed me to the secret of the tent.

 

These are some of the secrets of the tent I learned about myself:

• I need a chance to just sit.  I never learned this growing up.  My parents were always busy multi-tasking.  I finally learned to set aside a whole day just to be Kim, to socialize, to eat and drink, and to just be.

• I love to be around people.  As someone who heard most of her early adult life that I was impossible to be around and that people couldn’t stand me, what a joy and a surprise to discover I could talk to anyone.  I could become friends with lots of people.  I didn’t have to agree with their beliefs, but I could laugh and talk and share life stories.

• I would give my right arm—or left—for a whole lot of people.  I loved big.  I loved the people who were under that tent.  Loving big means losing big when they disappear from your life.  However, even that loss does not mean that I regret any of my moments.

• I want to live with my arms wide open.  I have lost 3 tailgating family members in the past 10 months—Kerry, Anthony, and Jill.  They were the life of the party.  Each of them exposed me to life with arms wide open.  They experienced every moment that life gave them—and all three were taken too soon.  I want to be like them.

• I want to be a safe space for others.  There is nothing more brutal than a full day of exposure in the Texas weather some days—brutally hot, frigidly cold, or torrentially rainy or windy.  The tent provided some safety from the heat, the cold, and the rain.  The tent sheltered us from the elements.  The tent also was a space where life stories could be shared without judgment.  

        I want to be that same type of space where everyone knows they are welcome.  

        Where everyone is loved.  

        Where the feast is set out for others.  

My new tent will be like the old tent.

• I will share with anyone in need.
• I will ask for help from others when the winds of life threaten to blow down my tent.
• My table and grill are always open.
• Appearances and team jersey colors and personal beliefs and lifestyle choices—-none of them matter.
• I will invite others to join my table.  And add tables if I need to.  And chairs.
• I will wave my flag high to let others know there is a place they can call “home.”
• I will love others like Kerry, Anthony, and Jill spent their lives doing.
• I will be a huge cheerleader, whooping and hollering for my people. 

* * * * * * * * * *
 

So, tomorrow, I will sit in front of several screens, pull out some snacks, load up a cooler, and tailgate by myself.  
 

What I now know is that I will continue to tailgate.  But now my motto will be:  “have tent, will travel.”  
I can tailgate wherever I go.
I can pull out the figurative tent in my classroom, in the store, in my office at work.
I can be that tent to those who work beside me, to those I encounter, to my students, to my family and friends.
 

So, as the invitation has been wide open for 13 years,
And as I have posted in previous blog posts,

Join me under the tent.  The grill is heated up, and the table is always full of food.
You have a standing invitation—and a seat ready for you!

The Fairy Godmother

     

I never dressed up like a Disney princess.
I never even pictured myself a princess.

However, as I think back over my life, I realize that, like Cinderella, I had a fairy godmother.
Daley Love didn’t look anything like the fairy godmother in Disney’s Cinderella movie.

However, she did care for me and my sister as if we were her own children, and she loved my children as her own.  

And she would have turned a pumpkin into a coach for me if she could have.
She would have provided birds as companions to remind me I was loved.

After all, anyone named Daley Love has to be a special person,
Someone whose name exemplifies her.

Daley Love was a fairy godmother of sorts—
She had a magical touch.
She could make a house a home,
a picnic meal a feast,
or an ordinary event a memory to remember long after.

Much as the fairy godmother turned the pumpkin into a magical coach drawn by
mice-turned horses,
Any space in which Daley Love lived in or inhabited became something special—-

A fireplace became a hearth,
A playroom became a magical land of imagination,
A group of children who didn’t sing well became a heavenly choir she directed,
A Caravan camping trip became glamping,
And even a trip to Adventure Island in the pouring rain with roaches pouring out of the shelter we huddled beneath became a memory to forever remember.

Her hospitality,
Her warmth,
Her love . . .

Through my childhood,
Through the awkward teen years,
Through young motherhood, as she greeted each of my children with all the joy a biological mother would,
Through marriage and divorce and remarriage,
Through the deaths of my grandparents, my mother, my father,
Daley Love stood witness and supported me.
Cards would arrive in the mail with love sprinkled inside the envelope.

As one of my mother’s closest friends,
She was the reference book of all things people,
And when Mom could not remember someone’s name or something pertinent,
Daley Love was on speed dial.
For her, people mattered.
People deserved to be seen and deserved to be cared for.

Quietly working weekly at the church counting money,
Doing the books for Freight Sales, supporting her husband,
Cooking food for others,
Volunteering at the church,
Daley Love exemplified love.

How fortunate I am to have memories of times with her
Sledding down snow-covered hills,
Riding in the back of the Freight Sales mattress-filled semi-truck with Lori, Joey, and Kelly,
Singing in the choir she and Carol Mihlfeld led with Psalty the Songbook (AKA Dad) beside me,
Singing beside her in Jim Lacy’s choir when I became older,
Seeing her smile as I married a second time,
Seeing her rocking my youngest in a rocking chair in Texas,
And providing me the warmest welcome when I was able to come back home to Florida.

I will miss knowing that she is only a phone call away,
Or a trip away.
I will miss her tender ability to create that magical sense of love.

I have to believe that she would agree with the Fairy Godmother who says to Cinderella,
“If you’d lost all your faith, I couldn’t be here. And here I am!”

And with just a bit of faith, I think she would want to tell me
She is here.  Still with me.  Just a memory away,
Turning the ordinary into love-touched memories.
Telling me that the ugliness of the world and of evil "stepsisters" can be something of the past.
Reminding me that I am more than some ash-covered unseen being.

With just a bit of faith, she is here telling me that I am more than that.
I am loved.
And my challenge now is to go out and share this truth with others.  

My challenge is to exemplify daily love for
Daley Love.

The Accompanist

 

It is much easier to be the loud voice,
The one who voices an opinion and others follow,
The one who is allowed to be a diva with all the volatile roller-coaster emotions attached.

It is much easier to be the soloist,
The one who gets to lead the music,
The one who decides the speed, and
The one who gets the appreciation.

It is much harder to be the accompanist.
It is much harder to let the soloist lead,
To slow down when the soloist does, to match the rhythms,
To be heard—-but not be heard too much.

It takes so much effort to support the melody,
To fit in and squeeze around the main attention,
To be beside and around and under the voice that is heard.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Elaine Brock was The Accompanist.

As early as I remember, she was a literal accompanist,
Playing organ and piano in church,
Accompanying both my dad and me when we sang solos in church.
She sat patiently beside Kelly and me as we learned to play all the basic notes on the piano.
She took her seat in the alto section of the choir, harmonizing and supporting the melody.

She was much more than a musical accompanist.
She was a figurative accompanist to the lives of many.
She was the silent work partner to my dad for several decades, his silent Accompanist.
She supported his larger-than-life personality and actions,
Quietly moving in the shadows,
But ALWAYS supporting, harmonizing, noticing the gaps, and filling in as needed.

She was The Accompanist to my mother as well.
She was a friend who listened, a friend who had raised her children and was willing to support a young mother with two young girls.
She was tickled with these two girls who played at her house with her antique stamps and with the Billy Goat Gruff bridge over the little creek,
She altered their clothing,
She listened to their stories,
And she loved.

She became a fixture in my life, my godmother just in case my parents died early.

I probably have a hundred pictures with the Brocks amongst my family—-at garage sales, in the VW van going to Daytona Beach, picnicking beside the interstate on the way to North Carolina eating sloppy joes with Joe (oh how funny my sister and I found this!), cleaning nasty refrigerators in rental houses, eating Biltmore ice cream, swinging on the swing at Lake Junaluska, and even putting up with my mom’s crazy idea to sled down the road in the snow.
She helped with canning, pickling peaches, fixing the trout for dinner, and puzzling over the pieces on the dining room table.

Once again, as I look at these pictures, 

The Accompanist cannot be seen in the forefront of the pictures,
But she is always there,
Moving amongst the melody,
Harmonizing, supporting, and lifting the melody to new heights.

As I grew older, and my life took unexpected twists,
I always knew that this woman would support me no matter what.
She may not have always understood my situation,
But when no one else seemed to be in my corner, she stood in a parking lot beside I-35 in Waco, Texas, and hugged me as I cried.
She arranged her spring vacation to witness my second chance at marriage—

And for decades, she has quietly changed out the flowers at my dad’s burial site—-and then again, at my mother’s.  She has spent more time at the cemetery quietly accompanying my family than I have been able to since 1993.

Although I did not know The Accompanist early in her life, I know she served as a
Beautiful accompaniment to her husband,
Supporting, listening, and being a part of his pursuits,
Whether it was stamping books at Bartow High, visiting people in the hospitals, listening to his Sunday School lessons, and playing hymns for the services.

* * * * * * * * * * *

I will miss her.
I will miss her accompaniment to my life’s journey.

She so effortlessly supported my melody,
She fit in and squeezed around,
She was beside me, around me, and lifted me up when I could not hear my own melody.

Beautiful Accompanist, your harmonies will forever be in my heart.
I long to accompany those I love the way you did to those around you.

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.”