Just stepped into The Bean, for a cup of hot, black coffee, in hopes of clearing the, what feels like 10 lbs of sediment sitting in my intestines this morning. A whole lot of greens the past few days, and maybe not quite enough water? Like a cigarette in the morning (so I’ve heard from many smoking friends), it is a catalyst I seek.
In addition to the hot, black, java fix, I am greeted with Ani lyrics (it's not just everywhere that you'll hear Ani DiFranco belting some folk). Singing boldy, with zest, I glance out the window into an icy parking lot parked with cars of every size, shape, color and age. Here I am, working at a mix of blue-collar, white-collar facility, in the northern part of a state whose had its fair share of blows to its economic base over the past few years. Lucky for us, we stand tall. For now.
18 March 2009
Tacoma
The Pacific Northwest is one of my favorite parts of the United States—Eugene and Florence, Oregon; Corvallis too. I intended to move there in 1999. On dreamy day’s off from my expositorily-unfulfilling retail day-job, I would spend hours at the library, examining topographical maps, creating routes windy and never circuitous; venturing to places like Half Moon and Libby Montana along the way. I wanted to run along ‘Going to the Sun’ road in Glacier. To bed a mountain man. To enjoy the sweet splendor of a western morning, alone, unafraid of what it most certainly would bring to my center.
Tacoma. Seattle. Visited in feb 06. Loved it there.
The day after i arrived, i took the third of three pregnancy tests, and learned i was pregnant for the first time in my life. I spent an hour investigating 'motherhood' sites on the web, while dilas showered. I had gone on an early morning, green-in-winter, run through her neighborhood streets. My sweat hadn't yet dried on my skin. Her boxer, stella, was licking my knee as i sat there, researching.
I remember glancing away from my laptop screen and staring at my hands, typing. Looking up my arm, at the freckles. Contemplating mannerisms and genetics.
When i was a sophomore in college, i experienced my first short bout with the 'biological clock' ticking that can happen to women. I remember talking about it to a friend who was on a PhD track, who was Catholic, and already dating Aaron, the man she intended to marry (and did, although they've been unhappy for years). I remember her shaking her head at me, admonishing it. For me, i was simply sharing something that was going on with me. I hadn't planned for it. I didn't ask for it. I wasn't even dating or having sex at the time. It was just happening with my body.
It happened again when i was 26. Again, i wasn't dating. I was very casually involved with a man who was disinterested in dating me, but was enamored of my heart, and infatuated with my body.
I distracted myself with work. I let go of the noncommittal man who frankly did not deserve my attentions. The biological clock thing ticked herself away.
Since then, it hasn't really happened. I mean kids typically love me. I'm a lot like them. I like playing outside and laughing and i'm not afraid to get dirty. I also collect bouncy balls and wear pony tails or braids a lot, so i guess we're sort of on the same level.
When i learned i was pregnant, i was with someone who was in love with me, and who i was really enjoying the company of. I was enthralled with the fact that he could throw me over his shoulder and that although in our 30's, that we'd met when i was 19--he'd known me when i was just a girl. For a short time, i excited myself with the notion of 'finally' moving on with life--'finally' growing up and 'settling down' as everyone seems to label it. We'd both been engaged before, but had yet to marry. He wanted to marry me. He couldn't wait to get a dog, and have the newspaper delivered to our front yard, and teach our child how to play catch. The enticement of motherhood and 'adulthood' didn't last long. True colors revealed themselves. Both his and my own.
Like a character in a story i had read, that woman's story evolved into something else.
Children. Parenting. For so many years now, it seems, i imagine that 'someday' when my 'adult' life begins, that i will be a borrowed mother. A fill in, when my lover's children are away from their own wonderful mother.
'Step parent' sounds so crass. So empty somehow. At least when borrowed, you are soft, and worn-in a bit; the edges aren't sharp or splintery. You don't have to climb (step) toward it, instead you are wrapped up in it--enveloped in a blanket of additional love...i'm not explaining it well...the point is i guess i wrote childbearing out of my script...somehow, and sometimes i just don't understand it at all, and yet other times, it simply suits me. As i am a caregiver, i am also an aunt. I was born to be an aunt, a borrowed-mom, for a short time, when my sister's are away.
Shoveling this morning, I thought about mountain men, and breadwinners. About how you become your own person-of-the-house one day after another, and eventually it leads you to a life, alone. The piles of white snow are high—surprisingly. The snow is beautiful. Stark. Freezing. There is so much snow this year. This winter reminds me of when i was a child. One year my dad built us this incredible igloo fort in the front yard. It was amazing. I swear we played in it the entire winter...that was the kind of winter's we used to have. Tons of snow and snow that lasted all winter--not just a few weeks at a time, only to melt and turn grey...this area thrives all year, it's been called 'the year round playground" for years, but wacky winters with melting weather really hurt the economy as well as the spirits of the locals.
So far, this year seems to be just the pick-me-up all the curmudgeons needed.
Tacoma. Seattle. Visited in feb 06. Loved it there.
The day after i arrived, i took the third of three pregnancy tests, and learned i was pregnant for the first time in my life. I spent an hour investigating 'motherhood' sites on the web, while dilas showered. I had gone on an early morning, green-in-winter, run through her neighborhood streets. My sweat hadn't yet dried on my skin. Her boxer, stella, was licking my knee as i sat there, researching.
I remember glancing away from my laptop screen and staring at my hands, typing. Looking up my arm, at the freckles. Contemplating mannerisms and genetics.
When i was a sophomore in college, i experienced my first short bout with the 'biological clock' ticking that can happen to women. I remember talking about it to a friend who was on a PhD track, who was Catholic, and already dating Aaron, the man she intended to marry (and did, although they've been unhappy for years). I remember her shaking her head at me, admonishing it. For me, i was simply sharing something that was going on with me. I hadn't planned for it. I didn't ask for it. I wasn't even dating or having sex at the time. It was just happening with my body.
It happened again when i was 26. Again, i wasn't dating. I was very casually involved with a man who was disinterested in dating me, but was enamored of my heart, and infatuated with my body.
I distracted myself with work. I let go of the noncommittal man who frankly did not deserve my attentions. The biological clock thing ticked herself away.
Since then, it hasn't really happened. I mean kids typically love me. I'm a lot like them. I like playing outside and laughing and i'm not afraid to get dirty. I also collect bouncy balls and wear pony tails or braids a lot, so i guess we're sort of on the same level.
When i learned i was pregnant, i was with someone who was in love with me, and who i was really enjoying the company of. I was enthralled with the fact that he could throw me over his shoulder and that although in our 30's, that we'd met when i was 19--he'd known me when i was just a girl. For a short time, i excited myself with the notion of 'finally' moving on with life--'finally' growing up and 'settling down' as everyone seems to label it. We'd both been engaged before, but had yet to marry. He wanted to marry me. He couldn't wait to get a dog, and have the newspaper delivered to our front yard, and teach our child how to play catch. The enticement of motherhood and 'adulthood' didn't last long. True colors revealed themselves. Both his and my own.
Like a character in a story i had read, that woman's story evolved into something else.
Children. Parenting. For so many years now, it seems, i imagine that 'someday' when my 'adult' life begins, that i will be a borrowed mother. A fill in, when my lover's children are away from their own wonderful mother.
'Step parent' sounds so crass. So empty somehow. At least when borrowed, you are soft, and worn-in a bit; the edges aren't sharp or splintery. You don't have to climb (step) toward it, instead you are wrapped up in it--enveloped in a blanket of additional love...i'm not explaining it well...the point is i guess i wrote childbearing out of my script...somehow, and sometimes i just don't understand it at all, and yet other times, it simply suits me. As i am a caregiver, i am also an aunt. I was born to be an aunt, a borrowed-mom, for a short time, when my sister's are away.
Shoveling this morning, I thought about mountain men, and breadwinners. About how you become your own person-of-the-house one day after another, and eventually it leads you to a life, alone. The piles of white snow are high—surprisingly. The snow is beautiful. Stark. Freezing. There is so much snow this year. This winter reminds me of when i was a child. One year my dad built us this incredible igloo fort in the front yard. It was amazing. I swear we played in it the entire winter...that was the kind of winter's we used to have. Tons of snow and snow that lasted all winter--not just a few weeks at a time, only to melt and turn grey...this area thrives all year, it's been called 'the year round playground" for years, but wacky winters with melting weather really hurt the economy as well as the spirits of the locals.
So far, this year seems to be just the pick-me-up all the curmudgeons needed.
Rain
A dark, puddle-ridden pathway, winding down an October road, I traversed the black night to escape the faraway look glimpsed in the mirror’s reflection…one not erased with the booze of a wedding reception, the champagne toast to a rousing reggae band.
A day of celebration for a childhood friend…an autumnal afternoon and eve, set aside in the history books, for the sake of commitment. An opportunity to reconnect with old friends, teachers, acquaintances; after a long stint ‘away,’ part of another life altogether.
Small talk and talk back and one more glass and a hope to fill the empty gash, bleating like a sick cow across my abdomen, the pain seeping through the dim haze of narcotic.
Wincing the pain, I let my eyelids lightly shut, and upon doing so, a flash of memory reveals the quick tap-tap-tap on the keys of a computer keyboard (while on lunch break at work) which lightning-quick located an answer to my problem. A destination, not as many miles away this time. A solution sought, found, and endured just one day ago.
Opening my eyes, they are hot with tears. I quickly inhale, willing them away stretching my eyes open as to help absorb the extra moisture around the corners. Sniffing, I glance left and right. Take another deep breath, open them a little wider, blink briefly and sniff away the urge to dive into a tidal tumult, the source of which I might never return from. The belly of that beast, one too many riptides away from shore.
Slosh, slosh, slosh, the brown suede and crepe-paper-thin, hand painted cotton accoutrements to my fancy Brazilian slides went; enduring irreversible damage. I was numb to the want to care for the oh-too-expensive splurge.
A chill seeped through the grey black mist, tip-toed down my spine, and rattled me. It was enough to make me consider and then blatantly partake in an awkward high-heeled jog/jaunt the quarter mile to the gravel drive, wooden steps, creaky-hinged screen door and entrance into the remainder of the buzz I was seeking to soak up the bitter au juis of the disastrous finality of the previous day’s decision.
A day of celebration for a childhood friend…an autumnal afternoon and eve, set aside in the history books, for the sake of commitment. An opportunity to reconnect with old friends, teachers, acquaintances; after a long stint ‘away,’ part of another life altogether.
Small talk and talk back and one more glass and a hope to fill the empty gash, bleating like a sick cow across my abdomen, the pain seeping through the dim haze of narcotic.
Wincing the pain, I let my eyelids lightly shut, and upon doing so, a flash of memory reveals the quick tap-tap-tap on the keys of a computer keyboard (while on lunch break at work) which lightning-quick located an answer to my problem. A destination, not as many miles away this time. A solution sought, found, and endured just one day ago.
Opening my eyes, they are hot with tears. I quickly inhale, willing them away stretching my eyes open as to help absorb the extra moisture around the corners. Sniffing, I glance left and right. Take another deep breath, open them a little wider, blink briefly and sniff away the urge to dive into a tidal tumult, the source of which I might never return from. The belly of that beast, one too many riptides away from shore.
Slosh, slosh, slosh, the brown suede and crepe-paper-thin, hand painted cotton accoutrements to my fancy Brazilian slides went; enduring irreversible damage. I was numb to the want to care for the oh-too-expensive splurge.
A chill seeped through the grey black mist, tip-toed down my spine, and rattled me. It was enough to make me consider and then blatantly partake in an awkward high-heeled jog/jaunt the quarter mile to the gravel drive, wooden steps, creaky-hinged screen door and entrance into the remainder of the buzz I was seeking to soak up the bitter au juis of the disastrous finality of the previous day’s decision.
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