I woke up thinking about this story this morning, so it must be time I shared it.
I was at the Triple Crown one afternoon getting a beer, and I saw an old classmate sitting on the back porch. His name is Ray, and I remember thinking to myself that I would go and sit with him. I had always felt sorry for him because he was picked on so badly at school. He was small and slight of frame. He wore glasses and he was mild mannered. So, obviously in our jock obsessed world and our phobic Texas ways, kids started calling him "gay Ray." I suppose these days that wouldn't seem like too much of a burn, but it was a different time, and calling someone gay publically (whether they were or not), was not cool. He was often threatened. I don't remember ever seeing him defend himself, verbally or physically. I don't remember anyone else ever defending him either. I just remember that nickname going on for years and feeling sorry for him.
So I asked to share his table. I said, "Remember me? I'm Molly we went to school together."
He said "Oh yeah, I remember you." And then he told me a story.
"This is weird, but do you remember ...? One day in junior high gym class, we had to run the mile. All the boys in class began lapping you and chanting 'Moo Cow! Moo Cow! Moo Cow!' as they passed. Then, everybody else passed you too, and they all chanted. It was horrible. The gym teacher didn't even do anything. I felt so sorry for you. I always wanted to tell you I was sorry that happened."
"Oh, uh, no- wow," I stammered, "I had forgotten that."
Like a flash this memory returned to me. Of course, I hadn't forgotten the nick name. I had been "Molly Moo Cow" since fifth grade when John Fontaine had cruelly dubbed me so. (Twice as cruel because before this, I had a school girl crush on him.) I was tall, broad and developing at an astounding rate. The name caught like wildfire, and soon lots of kids called me that. The mile run was three years later and it was still going so...
I had, however, managed to block out that particular incident. I'm sure I had never told my parents for fear of it somehow being my fault and punishable (my life was a closed book), and at the time I only had a tiny handful of friends who probably all saw it. I remembered it now though; feeling sick as I always did when we ran a mile in the spring Texas heat, the feeling like my head would pop off in heart pulsing pain, how I was no longer sweating but dizzy and wanting to barf, and having to stop and walk, like always when we did the mile.
Then here came the jocks and other fit popular boys... chanting. Followed by the others, all picking up the chant. Looking over for help from the coaches to see them smiling. A chorus of voices;
"Moo Cow! Moo Cow! Moo Cow! Moo Cow! Moo Cow!..."
It still seems like it can't be real- a movie scene or a nightmare.
Ray and I had grown up together. We weren't friends- didn't eat lunch together or even ride the same bus, but we had quietly watched the other be bullied and tortured. Our hearts were opened up with compassion, and what we ultimately held on to was not the pain we had felt ourselves, but the times we wished we had stood up for someone else.
What would it have been like if I had stood up for and defended "gay Ray'? Would anything have changed if he had come to the aid of "Molly Moo Cow"? Why didn't we stand up for each other, even though we wanted to? I was probably too scared of my own bullies to draw too much attention to myself, and maybe Ray was the same.
I hope that I have grown out of this fear, because just because we're not in grade school doesn't mean there aren't bullies and mobs of assholes chanting. I hope that I have the courage now to stand up for someone else when given the opportunity.
Our compassion for someone can be a mirror. Sometimes, by seeing our pain in someone else's eyes, we can finally accept it as our own, and doing so learn compassion for ourselves.
Tuesday, November 7, 2017
Friday, March 3, 2017
Transformation
From December, 2016...
These last few months I have been trying to "find myself". I have been rediscovering what it is I might want out of life while working a very few hours at a coffee house. I have been meditating and learning healing breath work, and I have dislodged some deep trauma. I feel it in my muscles and bones, so I do a crap-load of yoga to try and release it. I feel like a washcloth that is being rinsed and wrung out- twisted up to let loose the gunk and then starting all over again.
It's kind of like cleaning out a closet you haven't looked at in a long time; there's no telling what might be in there until you start to drag it all out. There's stuff in there that is going to take you down memory lane, things that no longer fit you even though you keep holding on to them, and bits that you forgot you loved so much. You take it all out and look at it, and the closet starts to make sense, but the room is full of shit now. All that crap is all over the bed and the floor and it's hard to tell how to organize it. You have to decide what goes and what stays. It's going to take time and it has to get worse before it gets better. That is the nature of change and growth.
Hopefully that can also explain what is happening right now in US politics. Apparently there is a lot of shit that is still in our American closet. Many US citizens, turns out, are not only afraid of and discriminating towards the gay and trans community and women (knew that, duh), but racial prejudice is still rampant! The closet has been emptied and we can all see eachother... we can see the racists, bigots and misogynists and ALSO the LGBTQA+ community, the women who won't take shit any more, the witches, the goddesses, and the strong communities of all races. The next generation will decide what stays and what goes from this big closet cleaning.
It's exhausting but every time I think I need to be going to look for some "good job" or trying to hustle some money I just want to go get into the child's pose for an hour and maybe take a walk a read some books and do some writing and I realize the right job is not my answer.
I am trying hard to love myself and it's going to take a lot of practice to get it right. Writing is becoming part of my practice. I have been journalling and working on rough pages for something that may someday become a book. It could feel really selfish to be loving myself in this way, but I am hoping to connect to this human condition of knowing our own mortality and feeling the loss of our friends and family, of realizing the grand impermanence of every day and the gift of every moment, and of the glorious miracle that is consciousness.
These last few months I have been trying to "find myself". I have been rediscovering what it is I might want out of life while working a very few hours at a coffee house. I have been meditating and learning healing breath work, and I have dislodged some deep trauma. I feel it in my muscles and bones, so I do a crap-load of yoga to try and release it. I feel like a washcloth that is being rinsed and wrung out- twisted up to let loose the gunk and then starting all over again.
It's kind of like cleaning out a closet you haven't looked at in a long time; there's no telling what might be in there until you start to drag it all out. There's stuff in there that is going to take you down memory lane, things that no longer fit you even though you keep holding on to them, and bits that you forgot you loved so much. You take it all out and look at it, and the closet starts to make sense, but the room is full of shit now. All that crap is all over the bed and the floor and it's hard to tell how to organize it. You have to decide what goes and what stays. It's going to take time and it has to get worse before it gets better. That is the nature of change and growth.
Hopefully that can also explain what is happening right now in US politics. Apparently there is a lot of shit that is still in our American closet. Many US citizens, turns out, are not only afraid of and discriminating towards the gay and trans community and women (knew that, duh), but racial prejudice is still rampant! The closet has been emptied and we can all see eachother... we can see the racists, bigots and misogynists and ALSO the LGBTQA+ community, the women who won't take shit any more, the witches, the goddesses, and the strong communities of all races. The next generation will decide what stays and what goes from this big closet cleaning.
It's exhausting but every time I think I need to be going to look for some "good job" or trying to hustle some money I just want to go get into the child's pose for an hour and maybe take a walk a read some books and do some writing and I realize the right job is not my answer.
I am trying hard to love myself and it's going to take a lot of practice to get it right. Writing is becoming part of my practice. I have been journalling and working on rough pages for something that may someday become a book. It could feel really selfish to be loving myself in this way, but I am hoping to connect to this human condition of knowing our own mortality and feeling the loss of our friends and family, of realizing the grand impermanence of every day and the gift of every moment, and of the glorious miracle that is consciousness.
Thursday, October 27, 2016
Wherever you go...
My husband, Furly and I went on a road trip this fall. We wanted to see some places we had never seen and do some camping and hiking and fishing. We had not been on a trip together for a few years and thought we deserved some time to "get our heads together" out on the road.
Personally and professionally, I am sort of at crossroads in my life, (or maybe this is what they call a mid-life crisis); either way I have some choices to make about what the next bit of my worldly existence will look like. I thought for sure I would find some answers out on the road, like some young beatnik poet. This trip was almost to be a sequel to my post-college wide eyed Great American Road Trip, where I drove up the west coast to Vancouver and back. On that trip I wrote songs, I made plans, I fell more deeply in love (with some dweeb), and I expanded my vision and my mind. I was 22 years old and life was stretched out before me.
Things were very different this recent trip. I mean, first off we went to Florida and through the swampy spooky racist deep south instead of cruising the Cali coastline. There is a big difference in vibes, obviously. Also, I am forty now, which sounds older in my mind than it is. More than likely the real truth is that I am a different person now. I have been changed. My life begins now to stretch behind me, and I find myself becoming wistful and nostalgic. I think more often lately of that which is gone than what lies ahead.
So it was very different. We hiked and relaxed and did all our fishing and camping. We toured the tourist towns and took all the pictures. We had many fun times. I did not find myself, write songs, make plans or decisions. Know what I did manage to do a lot? Cry. I cried in the car. I cried on the trail. I cried by the lake. Don't get me wrong- I laughed and smiled and all that good stuff too, but for being on vacation, it was a lot of crying. I could say "I needed it" but it would be more accurate to say I could not help it. With so much quiet time out in nature and minus the distractions of work and home, emotions I had been avoiding had nowhere else to go. Then I got so homesick we came home a week early, and I STILL had no direction, inspiration or clarity of any sort.
A couple weeks before we left for this grand adventure, I was visiting with a friend who had just come home from a long road trip of her own. When I asked her how it was, she laughed and said, "Well, you know how it is. Wherever you go, there you are."
There I was. Here I am. I am still hurting and lost and that sucks. Furly is still hurting too, and that also sucks. Taking care of Mom changed everything. She has been gone over a year and we are both still pretty depressed. Furly says we won't feel like this forever, and I know he is right. Without the darkness we would not see the break of dawn and all of the promise it holds.
Personally and professionally, I am sort of at crossroads in my life, (or maybe this is what they call a mid-life crisis); either way I have some choices to make about what the next bit of my worldly existence will look like. I thought for sure I would find some answers out on the road, like some young beatnik poet. This trip was almost to be a sequel to my post-college wide eyed Great American Road Trip, where I drove up the west coast to Vancouver and back. On that trip I wrote songs, I made plans, I fell more deeply in love (with some dweeb), and I expanded my vision and my mind. I was 22 years old and life was stretched out before me.
Things were very different this recent trip. I mean, first off we went to Florida and through the swampy spooky racist deep south instead of cruising the Cali coastline. There is a big difference in vibes, obviously. Also, I am forty now, which sounds older in my mind than it is. More than likely the real truth is that I am a different person now. I have been changed. My life begins now to stretch behind me, and I find myself becoming wistful and nostalgic. I think more often lately of that which is gone than what lies ahead.
So it was very different. We hiked and relaxed and did all our fishing and camping. We toured the tourist towns and took all the pictures. We had many fun times. I did not find myself, write songs, make plans or decisions. Know what I did manage to do a lot? Cry. I cried in the car. I cried on the trail. I cried by the lake. Don't get me wrong- I laughed and smiled and all that good stuff too, but for being on vacation, it was a lot of crying. I could say "I needed it" but it would be more accurate to say I could not help it. With so much quiet time out in nature and minus the distractions of work and home, emotions I had been avoiding had nowhere else to go. Then I got so homesick we came home a week early, and I STILL had no direction, inspiration or clarity of any sort.
A couple weeks before we left for this grand adventure, I was visiting with a friend who had just come home from a long road trip of her own. When I asked her how it was, she laughed and said, "Well, you know how it is. Wherever you go, there you are."
There I was. Here I am. I am still hurting and lost and that sucks. Furly is still hurting too, and that also sucks. Taking care of Mom changed everything. She has been gone over a year and we are both still pretty depressed. Furly says we won't feel like this forever, and I know he is right. Without the darkness we would not see the break of dawn and all of the promise it holds.
Thursday, June 23, 2016
Visiting the Dead
A short while back I got a job in a coffee shop called Wake the Dead working for a good friend and with a group of creative and interesting people. My co-workers are fun and our customers, for the most part, considerate and friendly. All in all, being at work is a mix of fun customer service, learning the craft of good coffee (harder than it sounds), and a list of tasks to fill the rest of the time. There is no "down time," only sweet distraction.
It is difficult for me to be alone, for up through the stillness creeps my grief. It's always waiting in the wings, like a migraine or an understudy, eager to be allowed to make it's appearance- to have my full attention. I know that this time and space for my grief is also necessary, and I sometimes crave it. (Grief itself has a rank sweetness that some of us would drink like wine until we are laughing and crying, before we are finally able to fall into a dreamless sleep of exhaustion.)
Weekend mornings I get to work at 5:30am, and am alone in the quiet for not quite an hour. At first it was very hard to figure out how to deal with all the sobbing and flashbacks at the beginning of my work day. There was not enough coffee brewing and arranging of newspapers in the world that could take her off my mind, so I put on a favorite album of hers. I still cried a lot, but it was nice too, in it's way. The next day I put on the same album. I cried some more, but I sang too, and loud.
The following weekend, after thinking about how much Mom would have loved that I worked in this shop, and the thousands of cups of coffee we must have enjoyed during our time together, I poured two cups of coffee. I made hers extra sweet and creamy, and mine the way I like it. She was visiting me at work. I thought about putting on that same album, but I could almost hear her complain bitterly how she was tired of it. (She was never fond of being overly sentimental.) Instead, I silently talked to her about everything that had been going on; what it's like at my new job, how we are planning a trip for the fall, and how much I miss her but am trying so hard. When we were done I said goodbye and washed her cup, but it's sort of our thing now. Now I like to open the shop in the wee hours of the morning having coffee with my mom. I put on some music I think she might like. At the expense of sounding crazy, except that I can't hug and kiss her, it's like she's there with me.
There is some strange magic in love that is made of eternity. I don't know how else to explain it or even what I mean. Words, as usual, are insufficient in matters such as these.
When I am in the garden, I remember my mom's spirit and how we are all a part of everything.
I write in a special journal if I want to send her a letter,
and now we have coffee every weekend.
P.S. This is my grief at 9 months and 20 days
It is difficult for me to be alone, for up through the stillness creeps my grief. It's always waiting in the wings, like a migraine or an understudy, eager to be allowed to make it's appearance- to have my full attention. I know that this time and space for my grief is also necessary, and I sometimes crave it. (Grief itself has a rank sweetness that some of us would drink like wine until we are laughing and crying, before we are finally able to fall into a dreamless sleep of exhaustion.)
Weekend mornings I get to work at 5:30am, and am alone in the quiet for not quite an hour. At first it was very hard to figure out how to deal with all the sobbing and flashbacks at the beginning of my work day. There was not enough coffee brewing and arranging of newspapers in the world that could take her off my mind, so I put on a favorite album of hers. I still cried a lot, but it was nice too, in it's way. The next day I put on the same album. I cried some more, but I sang too, and loud.
The following weekend, after thinking about how much Mom would have loved that I worked in this shop, and the thousands of cups of coffee we must have enjoyed during our time together, I poured two cups of coffee. I made hers extra sweet and creamy, and mine the way I like it. She was visiting me at work. I thought about putting on that same album, but I could almost hear her complain bitterly how she was tired of it. (She was never fond of being overly sentimental.) Instead, I silently talked to her about everything that had been going on; what it's like at my new job, how we are planning a trip for the fall, and how much I miss her but am trying so hard. When we were done I said goodbye and washed her cup, but it's sort of our thing now. Now I like to open the shop in the wee hours of the morning having coffee with my mom. I put on some music I think she might like. At the expense of sounding crazy, except that I can't hug and kiss her, it's like she's there with me.
There is some strange magic in love that is made of eternity. I don't know how else to explain it or even what I mean. Words, as usual, are insufficient in matters such as these.
When I am in the garden, I remember my mom's spirit and how we are all a part of everything.
I write in a special journal if I want to send her a letter,
and now we have coffee every weekend.
P.S. This is my grief at 9 months and 20 days
Thursday, January 14, 2016
The thing that matters persists.
I was laid off one month ago, so I have had the luxury of the thing called "spare time". Now that I have finally gotten over being sick, caught up on my sleep and my reading, cleaned the house and took care of my important errands (whew!) things in my brain have finally started to SLOW DOWN.
I've been reading about the yoga paths, Buddhism and women's magic. I went to a service at my old church and said the Lord's prayer. I started meditating. I "sat with my grief," contemplated Maya and called upon Gaia. I started going for walks again, each lap a meditation, each step a mantra. I picked up my guitar yesterday for the first time in awhile; I took it to the park and played my heart and emotion out into the universe on it, tears like boulders rolling down my face. I have begun trying to learn whatever precious lessons life must be holding for me after such a year. I know they are there. They have begun peeking at me around corners in my mind and unlocking hidden doors for me. I am getting glimpses of truth through the darkness.
Mom is here with me through all of this. She helped me flush out a good idea yesterday while I walked. It doesn't matter if it was illusion of attachment or her ghost or an angel or that I know what she would say because I was lucky enough to talk to her a LOT. The Thing That Matters persists because I can still feel what it is to love someone that much and have them love me back. I still feel her love, and when I call her she seems to be there. Souls or not, love is eternal.
I've been reading about the yoga paths, Buddhism and women's magic. I went to a service at my old church and said the Lord's prayer. I started meditating. I "sat with my grief," contemplated Maya and called upon Gaia. I started going for walks again, each lap a meditation, each step a mantra. I picked up my guitar yesterday for the first time in awhile; I took it to the park and played my heart and emotion out into the universe on it, tears like boulders rolling down my face. I have begun trying to learn whatever precious lessons life must be holding for me after such a year. I know they are there. They have begun peeking at me around corners in my mind and unlocking hidden doors for me. I am getting glimpses of truth through the darkness.
Mom is here with me through all of this. She helped me flush out a good idea yesterday while I walked. It doesn't matter if it was illusion of attachment or her ghost or an angel or that I know what she would say because I was lucky enough to talk to her a LOT. The Thing That Matters persists because I can still feel what it is to love someone that much and have them love me back. I still feel her love, and when I call her she seems to be there. Souls or not, love is eternal.
Monday, January 4, 2016
Christmas Blues
I love Christmas. This time of year has always been strange, mystical, serene and crazy all at once, but in all my memory I think this is my first "sad Christmas". Sure, nostalgia has kicked in lots of years as I remembered past times, friends gone and magic lost, but this is different.
Too much is different this year. My family won't or can't get together for various reasons. There will not be a big family Christmas. I'll get to see some of my family, as long as I travel to them, and the others (that I speak to) I'm sending cards that will probably not get there in time.
This is our first Christmas without Mom. It's impossible not to miss her, and the closer it gets to...
and that's where this entry ends. I must have broken down and called it a day, but I will publish it now anyways. (9/5/16)
Too much is different this year. My family won't or can't get together for various reasons. There will not be a big family Christmas. I'll get to see some of my family, as long as I travel to them, and the others (that I speak to) I'm sending cards that will probably not get there in time.
This is our first Christmas without Mom. It's impossible not to miss her, and the closer it gets to...
and that's where this entry ends. I must have broken down and called it a day, but I will publish it now anyways. (9/5/16)
11/4/15
This week has been a roller coaster. For weeks I cried every morning because I missed Mom so much and the pain was just intolerable. I don't cry every day now, more like 2/3 of them, but lately it is at night when I am trying to fall asleep that I start to remember all of the hard and scary moments of the last year. They run through my mind and I can hear all the times she screamed in fear or cried the regretful tears of a person who thought they would have more time. During the day it is easier to go on about my business, not stop and think about anything but work or tv or some dumb conversation.
When Mom was just sick but not dying or gone, I was still a good listener for my friends. They would call me to talk about their problems, and sometimes feel bad that they were unloading on someone that was obviously going through some stuff. It was a distraction for me, so I didn't mind focusing on somebody else's stuff. Now, however, I find I have very little compassion for most people's problems, unless they are as tragic as mine. I know that sounds terrible, and I really just am not used to feeling this way. I am mad that people don't know how I am feeling, but it's only because I don't tell them.
I packed up all of Mom's clothes yesterday. I made no plans to get rid of them or anything, just put them in some plastic bins. I came across her dentures again and wondered for the hundredth time what to do with them, knowing full well that I will probably keep them forever. I got together the last of the baby wipes and the monitor to give to my brother with the new baby.
When Mom was just sick but not dying or gone, I was still a good listener for my friends. They would call me to talk about their problems, and sometimes feel bad that they were unloading on someone that was obviously going through some stuff. It was a distraction for me, so I didn't mind focusing on somebody else's stuff. Now, however, I find I have very little compassion for most people's problems, unless they are as tragic as mine. I know that sounds terrible, and I really just am not used to feeling this way. I am mad that people don't know how I am feeling, but it's only because I don't tell them.
I packed up all of Mom's clothes yesterday. I made no plans to get rid of them or anything, just put them in some plastic bins. I came across her dentures again and wondered for the hundredth time what to do with them, knowing full well that I will probably keep them forever. I got together the last of the baby wipes and the monitor to give to my brother with the new baby.
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