Tick Tock...

It’s late. “Late” is relative I suppose. Relative to me and myself of past years. Many (many) years ago I would have been making my way out to a club somewhere, money and ID shoved into my kneehigh boots, fresh from a late evening post-work disco nap. I’d head out to soak in whatever energy I could find, sweat it out on the dance floor, and bounce back less than eight hours later to hit the daily grind again. My knees hurt just thinking about it. 

Tick tock. Tick tock.

Tonight’s ‘lateness’ means sitting in the stillness of our home on an oversized chaise lounge, sandwiched between our two incredibly loved dogs. The TV is on quietly in the background, tuned in to the Game Show Network, which turns out has several shows hosted by Joey Fatone/Alfonso Ribeiro. As if I didn't feel my age enough. 

I hear the ‘tick tock’ of a clock. A clock that has ticked and tocked its way throughout most of my life. This particular clock was made by my grandfather. He specialized in woodwork, taxidermy and was also known to deliver a pretty darn good sermon on Sunday mornings. The clock is small, less than a foot high, maybe 6 inches wide and battery operated. There is no magic or mystery behind the clock's function, but still it fascinates me. A perfect example of form and function. When my grandfather passed away, his handiwork and heirlooms were dispersed and passed on. This clock sat in storage for nearly 10 years under my mother's watch  as I was moving around the country and such. No ticking. No tocking. Just resting in silence.

I recently retrieved the clock, replaced the batteries, and found a place to display it. Tick tock. Tick tock. And there it was – alive again, as if not a second was lost. It was a comforting synchronization of sight and sound.

I think of the younger versions of me that watched this clock tick and tock, and the many "me's" between then and now (tragic hairstyles and all). What would all the versions of me say to each other if we were gathered together? Would we even recognize each other? This has been a ongoing curiosity of mine, so much that my thoughts found their way to my musical muse, and this song*.... is what was born from that (click here if you would like to give it a listen).

Tick tock tick tock.

Am I watching this clock or is it watching me?

*many thanks to my friend Dave Lichtenstein, who recorded/produced this recording (and many of my other songs) years ago in Oakland, CA (he’s the one playing guitar as well, because hey.... I'm lazy and just wanna sing).

42 Revisited

[Previously posted on Facebook last year on December 22nd. Today (November 22) would have been my Dad's 78th birthday. In the interest of gathering all my writing together, it seemed timely to repost it here. Thanks for reading y'all! -D]

Today I am 42. And this is totally fine. I will not say “OMG how am I this old?!”. I feel 42. I’ve lived it. I’m still living it. And it’s fine. I’ve felt all of these 42 years - I’ve lived them good and I’ve lived them hard. I’ve lived them gently and obnoxiously… solemnly and loudly. All the sweet, all the sour, and everything in-between. There are some years that were full of more life than others. There are some years that equally sucked that life back. And it’s all fine.

New friends that I meet ask my age and are in wonder of my answer. “What’s my secret?”, they ask…. “I drink lots of water, wear sunscreen, and I hold no regrets”. I also drink a lot of wine and coffee but ya know…. Everything in moderation. The age “42” has more meaning to me than that though. More meaning than these physical wrinkles across my face and body can say. More meaning than this learned heart can comprehend and articulate.

42 was the last age my father knew. He did not live to see his 43^rd birthday. I was 7 years old when he died. I don’t remember much. Aside from nostalgic photos engrained in my mind, and the memories I’ve manifested from them. The “tick tick tick” sound of the black and white reel-to-reel films I’ve memorized and catalogued, now packed away into a disintegrating box somewhere.

It goes without saying, I cannot discount that when my father died, my mother lost her husband (ex-husband if we are being technical). She had 3 kids at the time, me being the youngest. I am forever grateful for her perseverance, strength, and unconditional love it took to get us all through those years. Wow, we were assholes. For those of you that were there for us, I thank you. And it’s likely there are more people than I know, or am aware of.

I will live to see 43. Something my father did not. Perhaps my next birthday will be more poignant, but I’ve always been drawn to the even years, so here it is. I doubt he ever fathomed he would have 3 children that would outlive him. No one could ever imagine such a thing. We don’t live out of fear of the unknown, but rather for the mystery and enchantment of it. Perhaps the creative spirit in me is fueled by his loss. I know he would be proud.

This is not expressed out of sadness, but of celebration. A celebration of life, memories, family and friends. A celebration of pain and sorrow; joy and hope…. for we could never really experience one without the other. There would be no shadows without the light. 

“O Me! O life!... of the questions of these recurring;
Of the endless trains of the faithless—of cities fill’d with the foolish;
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light—of the objects mean—of the struggle ever renew’d;
Of the poor results of all—of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me;
Of the empty and useless years of the rest—with the rest me intertwined;
The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?

Answer. 
That you are here—that life exists, and identity;
That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.” 

― Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass

P.S. Mom, you are a rock star. The older I get, the more I understand. I love you. To John and Debie (my older brother and sister), thanks for being my protectors. You knew more than me at the time, and always will. Thanks for holding that space for me. We are all ok. We are all more than ok.  

Who's driving the bus?

“Every lesson learned, a line upon your beautiful face”

 The word “adaptable” has been popping up often for me lately. Like when you are thinking of getting a yellow car and then all you see are yellow cars. I don’t often mention my life as a military spouse, but this brain dump is something that will likely resonate with anyone who has moved around often. The question burning a hole in my forehead lately: Have I become too adaptable?

Truth is, I was living quite the transient life prior to becoming an Air Force wife. After dropping out of college (the first time), I packed up and drove to Minnesota where I waited tables at the Olive Garden for six months or so, then moved back to Texas. I just wanted to see what the world was like outside of college. I wanted to see if I could support myself. I was 20 years old. I did it, and then it was done. I’ve never been one to learn lessons or take advice in theory…. I need to experience it - dive headfirst into the unknown and come out the other end bruised, tired, wiser, full of stories and knowledge that my future self would sometimes tap into. Sometimes not.

A life full of transitions can be hard to grasp on to. You find yourself floating in and out of friendships, unsure of which ones to feed, allowing the “why bother” thoughts to creep in. Treading water desperately searching for a buoy to hold on to. Wherever you go, there you are.

I do this mental exercise where I try to picture all the bathrooms and showers from places I’ve lived. I’m not sure why the bathrooms specifically, but it seems to be the most unique thing about a lot of living spaces. It’s also the room we are most vulnerable in. How many good cries and breakdowns have you had in your bathroom? Yeah. That. I go all the way back to the pale blue tiles that lined the bathroom walls of my childhood home. The busy flowered wallpaper in the bathroom at our second family home. The endless cold and institutional dorm room bathrooms and community showers. After remembering dozens (and dozens) of various bathrooms I just let out a big exhale and understand why I’m so tired sometimes.

My survival mantra has always been “I figure things out and make shit happen”. There’s an excitement to redefining yourself in a new city, scrolling through job listings, seeing what new opportunities call out to you. I’ve been through this process enough to know what comes next though. As predictable as it is, it still sucks a bit. The novelty and the newness quickly wear off, rose colored glasses are gone, and there you are. The same you. No magic mirrors. Habits (good and bad) follow you. I am the same “me” wherever I go. Granted there are a few degrees of wiggle room in either direction, but the pendulum stubbornly swings back to where it’s most comfortable. I’ve learned to find comfort in the eventual settling of the pendulum though. I dial in to a deeper level of self-love each time I go through this cycle. Like the teddy bear I’ve been dragging around with me the past 25 years. It’s home.

Is being too adaptable a thing? When living your life ‘one foot in and one foot out’ becomes the norm, the thought of settling somewhere in between can be terrifying. When decisions about where you will move next have not been in your control, the thought of being responsible for that choice is a bit overwhelming. What happens when that skill is no longer needed? What feelings and emotions step up to drive the bus for you after adaptation takes a backseat?

I don’t think our snow-globe will be settling for a few years, but I’m learning to not fear the moment it does. Always an adventure. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.  

Why do we hurtle ourselves 
Through every inch of time and space? 
I must say around some corner 
I can sense a restin' place 
With every lesson learned 
A line upon your beautiful face 
We'll amuse ourselves one day 
With these memories we'll trace 

 -Get Out the Map, Amy Elizabeth Ray / Emily Ann Saliers (Indigo Girls)

 

New Phone, Who Dis?

I don't know about you, but I love a good "wake TFU" slap in the face from the universe. 

Granted, the message being delivered is often something I've purposely been shoving further and further back in my emotional closet...but sometimes it's more of a whimsical whisper from my past self. It's the latter that has brought my fingers to the keyboard again today. I've been in a bit of a cloud lately feeling a bit more shuffled and scattered than usual. No surprise, since we just completed our fourth move in six years (including a stint overseas). There's a comforting familiarity about the moving process for me though. Sort the things, label the things, unpack the things..... it's all fine but it eventually catches up to me and I tent to lose my roots a bit (more to come on that topic later).

I sought out a therapist to help me navigate through this transition. After just a few minutes of brain-dumping, she asked "have you ever considered writing?". Writing? Oh right, that's a thing I used to do. Songs, poems... I even had a column in the college newspaper many moons ago. I rather enjoyed writing. Until one day.... I guess I didn't? I honestly couldn't recall why I had stopped. I was encouraged to start writing my own story, of which there is no shortage of content. I could spend hours describing the shag carpet of my childhood home (don't worry, I won't). So, sure why not, I'll give it a go. I came home and cranked out nearly 2,000 words in less than an hour. And for once I didn't stop to go back and edit while I was writing. Truth be told I haven't even gone back to read it. It felt really great to write again and hear the clickety-clack of the keyboard as my words flowed out through my fingers. I just left the words to marinate a bit in the meantime.

 I was inspired to start a blog to keep my writing organized (while also wondering if a blog was still a thing? I like to write but turns out I actually don't enjoy reading. Go figure). I did a quick 5 minute brainstorm session of what to title my blog, thinking it would help me frame my thoughts and give me some direction. I hit a bit of a wall and took a break to do some housecleaning. "I'll sort it out someday", I thought. I was then reminded of a song I wrote over a decade a go: Waiting for Someday. Color me inspired! I go to Google to see if anyone has used that phrase before, being sensitive and mindful of others' creative work. My search ended quickly with a sad "this blog name is currently in use". Bugger.

Who has two thumbs and claimed that phrase for their blog title nearly ten years ago? Yep. That would be me. New phone, who dis? Alright universe, that was a good one. I hear you. I gotchu. Thanks for holding onto those words for my "someday". I'll try not to leave you hanging so long next time. Cheers to making everyday be your someday.

 p.s. I decided to leave the three previous entries from 2011 from when I first posted this blog. What a trip, y'all!

Rain, Rain, Go Away! Come Again Some Other Day…

It’s been a long hard cold rain today. The rain here in the San Francisco Bay Area is much different than the rowdy and cantankerous rainstorms of south Texas (where I grew up).  The rain here is gentle and lingers long…for days even. Back in Texas you can see the storms rolling in, cause a ruckus for a few hours, and then move on elsewhere.

I saw a family of earthworms flailing around in a puddle in the parking lot (how funny…I just decided that it was a family. One big, one medium, and two small. No idea what constitutes a worm family really, but I’m thinking this was pretty darn close). So, this family of worms had been displaced from the ground by the influx of rainwater, and there they were just squirming around on the rough concrete. When the rain goes away and sun comes up, they are stuck and needless to say it usually doesn’t end well for them.

I picked them up, one squirmy gooey worm at a time, and put them back in the grass. I then saw about a dozen more by the time I got to my car in the parking lot.  I thought, “Geez, I can’t save all of them! Why bother!” Yeah, I know…. In amidst of tsunamis, earthquakes, and tornados, I worry about the worms. I realized how happy it made me to tap back into that innocent way of thinking. “I can’t save them all, but it will make a difference to THIS  worm." I miss that feeling --knowing that you did something good; Even one tiny little good thing-- just being content with that and loving yourself because of it. And also being aware that just doing something that comes from a place of joy and happiness is better than doing nothing at all. It’s easy to feel hopeless and defeated looking at all the worms flailing around in the parking lot.

I think of my best friend’s daughter (my mini-BFF, ya dig?)  who is learning to read. Looking at the whole book is super overwhelming and I can imagine that it’s easy to not even want to bother trying… but one word at a time will get you there.

Patience, hope, love, and perseverance…. don't let the rain wash them away. Hold on to them tight.