Perhaps she came home to die.
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Tag: reflective writing
A Broken Wing
Saturday. Or was it Sunday? I made my way back to the car to park it in the garage, accidentally leaving my purse in the front seat, forgetting to bring it in after unpacking groceries. Near the driveway, I see a few butterflies fluttering on thinned out stalks of butterfly weed stripped clean save for some blooms on top. Can’t bear to trim them. There are still monarchs coming through once in a while, although I’ve mostly seen queen butterflies this year.
A monarch! I grab my phone to snap a picture. If only it will land on a bit of butterfly weed. “Come on, sweetie,” I coax, but what’s that sound? It isn’t a regular insect mini-helicopter buzz. Monarchs are silent.
I follow its dizzying loops as it sweeps down and stops for a sip of nectar. There it is. A broken wing. Up it goes, fluttering up high, then down, and up again. The broken wing works hard to keep it in flight. That sound. It’s the wing pushing against air. I must capture this image.
And then my phone rings. Be interruptible. A bit of advice I learned from an ELA consultant years ago. The monarch stops, wings open. Poor thing.
“Hi, Mom…”
Off goes the monarch. I’ll never see it again.
This afternoon, I park the car outside of the garage again when I arrive from work. Gym day. I’ll be leaving soon, so there’s no sense driving it in for the day. The butterfly weed is busy. Three, or is it four, queens? Is there a monarch in the mix? The queens happily flutter when I spot it.
Broken winged monarch dances, twirls, dips, then stops for a sip.
Quick, be quick! I shush myself and take a closer look.
Still going strong, this broken-winged beauty. Despite the struggle, there’s life left to live, life’s sweet nectar worth drinking.
Reminds me of my extended family. We’ve been dealing with too many broken wings lately, yet there’s still plenty of nectar that needs sipping.
I snap a picture and for whatever reason, the Soundtrack of Life cues Mr. Mister.
"So take these broken wings
And learn to fly again
Learn to live so free
And when we hear the voices sing
The book of love will open up and let us in..."
Glass of Merlot
Drat!
For the third week, I meant to remove nail color and re-do my pedi. DIY. I don’t have time to mess with appointments. Too many touch-ups to count because late at night, I’m in no mood to inhale sharp nail polish remover fumes before turning in for restless slumber.
This morning, I have to do something. Taking it all off means I have to wear close-toed shoes. It’s a deep shade of red and there will certainly be residual color stains. We’re still at near ninety degree temps, so I’m wearing sandals. Touching up the chipped off parts means uneven color, most of which is now on the sixth (seventh?) coat. From a distance, some color is better than none. Touch-up it is.
I have an hour commute to a meeting downtown. It’s been years since I’ve driven this direction in rush-hour traffic. If you would’ve told twenty year old me how urban sprawl would choke up everything around it, she would’ve laughed it off and said, “Nah, not here!”
I easily slip into a parking space, not bad for being half an hour late. The opening keynote speaker discusses stories. Making connections with people by telling stories is key. It’s Tuesday. I’m reminded to write something tonight. What story will I tell today? The one about why I chose this career? What about my first experience at a library? You already wrote about that. Did I? Telling stories means we become vulnerable. Am I ready to write about a tough conversation I had this weekend? No. Not that. Not yet.
I fuss at myself for not making myself write regularly despite my need for it. Stuck. Blocked. Frozen. Too many unimportant but urgent things needing to get done. But writing is important.
Our closing keynote speaker asks us to discuss the difference between belonging and dignity. That weekend conversation smacks me with meaning. My sisters and I have entered into a space where we’re balancing both, inching our way through whatever happens.
It’s a warm, beautiful afternoon. From the sixth floor terrace, I see what once was not visible from the ground. Twenty years ago, the space where I now stand was only air. Buildings seem to have appeared overnight.
I’m glad I wore sandals today. My multi-layered pedi looks fresh. I’ve Got the Blues for the Red. It’s a deep, fall inspired shade of red. I’d call it Glass of Merlot. They go together, the blues and merlot. Stories and vulnerability. Belonging and dignity.
Rules
I swore I’d never bring it to bed, but here I am, curled up with it balancing on my right thigh, curling up as well as one can curl up with…a laptop.
I also swore I’d never let the dog on my bed either, but a few weeks ago, I had one of those leave work early because the room is spinning, the light hurts, things smell funny, and I need a nap type of migraines where said pupper jumped right up and helped himself. He wouldn’t budge so I let him be, curled up at my feet. There are exceptions to rules. I didn’t bother to fight either one.
The dog hasn’t jumped on my bed since that migraine ridden afternoon. It’s late and I’ve been post-less for too many Tuesdays. Make an exception, draft something, and move on. Get back on track. No one cares I’m in bed with the laptop, except for the dog.
Quince
Estas son las mañanitas
que cantaba el rey David...
There was no Spanish birthday song yesterday morning. No serenata from family or even Spotify. No elaborate party to tap in to our culture. It was more “Can I have my phone back? I didn’t get to talk to him all day yesterday. This day is turning out terrible!” There is still much to do for a fifteenth birthday celebration later in the afternoon, despite a plan for something low-key. I proceed to take pup out for a morning walk, carry on as usual.
But it’s not usual. It’s her fifteenth birthday. A decade ago, a decade, we vacationed in Mexico and a mariachi did sing Las Mañanitas. Inside of a McDonald’s. We were getting ice cream for the kids. Our friend found them strolling along the street, so he arranged the surprise. I held her, lanky five year old legs dangling past my knees as I propped her on my hip, her face buried in my shoulder while she covered her ears with her hands because it was too loud.
Last year, she came out on the other side of middle school. An entire 365.25 days (there’s that quarter again) and we’re at 15. One and a half decades of mothering a daughter and I can only think of hollering, “Well at least you don’t have an older sister getting married on your birthday like on Sixteen Candles!” as I walk out, holding the leash with a death grip so bucking bronco Dipper doesn’t yank me out the door. I have to remember though, I’m not fifteen. I keep my mouth shut.
It’s the day of her birthday and there is a quasi-plan. On our way to pick up a friend for a bowling outing, the plan changes. Again. It’s decided to hang out at our house. Stir-fry for dinner at home courtesy of Chef Dad because it’s her favorite and he’ll cook anything for anyone, but especially her. Cake at 7:00 because E is adulting and needs time to get home from work.
My mind races to think about everything fifteen will bring. 2024 fifteen is a long way from 80’s fifteen. Different issues. Different dangers. Too much for me to handle. Too much for her to handle?
On the drive back (then there’s driving!) from dropping off her friend, she says thank you. “The day got progressively got better. I had fun.”
“You’re welcome.”
She puts her phone back up to her ear (earbuds are lost—again) to listen to her music. When we get home, I go to the front yard to take out the black and white polka-dot birthday letters announcing her day to passersby. I realize we forgot to sing when she blew out the candles on her cake.
Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you…
Sips
Celebrating our twenty fifth anniversary, we made it to dinner half an hour before our reservation. On a Thursday night, it wasn’t as busy as we expected. We have only been to Mattie’s a few times as guests to an occasional wedding or other event, but never for dinner. Formerly known as Green Pastures, it’s well known for its pea fowl roaming the early 1900s southern farm home surrounded by stately live oak trees.
We head to the bar for a pre-dinner drink. The last time I was there, it was one of several dining areas. Pale, mint-green walls made for a cozy atmosphere. Votive candles nestled among the liquor bottles along the wall cast a lovely dance of light throughout the room. Bar tenders wore the speakeasy look and asked what we’d like to sip. My husband ordered the Old Fashioned, I had the Rosabella, pink and fancy in a chilled coupe glass. I’m a sucker for fancy drinks.
We took two of the velvet lounge chairs in front of the windows overlooking the quiet porch. Hot, sticky, summer nights haven’t begun yet, but we decided to stay inside. A couple sat at one of two tables, bar empty, save for the bartenders mixing up drinks for those dining. An empty table sat to my left. We leaned in to chat, sipping our drinks. I asked my husband if he preferred to sit at the empty table even though it was larger than what we needed. No one else would use it; we were the only people there.
He declined and we continued with our conversation. We took deep breaths contemplating what all has happened in twenty five years. A long time, yet not so long.
I set my drink on the cocktail table in front of me. Arranging the small bud vase with fresh flowers and votive next to my drink, I pulled out my phone to snap the mood. I am that person. I shouldn’t be, but I wanted a souvenir photo and who knows when we’ll go back? Hopefully sooner than twenty five years.
A glass shatters.
“Ooh, did you hear that?”
“What?”
I look toward the bar, but it didn’t come from the bar.
“Creepy…”
I look to my left.
Gasp.
“Ghost!” I say.
I look at the bartender, half expecting him to pick up a broken glass, but he looks towards us.
At the table where we considered sitting, a piece of the broken votive rocks back and forth. The candle flame flickers a bit before it goes out.
“Maybe the glass had a hairline crack and the heat made it burst,” my rational brain says aloud, dismissing my ghost theory when the bartender says, “It’s the ghost! Really, it is.”
But it sounded like it was dropped…
He makes his way to the table with a bar towel, methodically picking up glass shards and the spent candle as if it isn’t the first time it has happened.
“Well, maybe they or whatever ghost got a little upset because we didn’t join them,” I mutter, taking another sip. The hostess walks in as the bartender walks behind the bar and relays the story again. Ghost.
“Yeah, probably a hairline fracture in the glass…”
I check my watch. We pick up our drinks and make it back to the hostess station.
“Whatever you do, don’t follow us home,” I say to the empty looking table. “We’re going to dinner. It’s been nice meeting you and next time, maybe we’ll sit with you, just don’t break any more candle holders.”
A Quarter
A quarter of a century. How is it that many years already? A quarter of a century of my life spent teaching, mostly. Slightly less than half of my life. Half! Twenty five years of packing up classrooms and now a library. Shoving things in drawers, closets, cabinets, storage closets. The garbage because..can I just go home already?
I pack my car with high hopes. Planning over the summer so it won’t be so much work. I still can’t manage to do it though. Laptop. I’ll need it for my first day back.
A bag-o-books, this fall’s Lone Stars, the best reads for middle schoolers. I packed a stack instead of all thirty and will probably read two. Maybe three since one is more than half finished only because it’s an audiobook and these days listening is easier than reading. I have my own TBR tower at home I’d like to read.
A pink Keurig needs a deep clean (and a break). I dug out a broken down box from the recycling bin to carry it out. Somehow it’s dripping residual coffee from yesterday’s second cup.
The Wonder Woman spiral notebook with a pile of papers jammed in its middle gets stuffed inside the box too. Good thing the cover is plastic and I don’t care if the papers get coffee all over them. I’ll go through each one to figure out what to do with them. Keeping things fresh so I don’t forget-when days start blurring together-about what it was that needed doing but could wait until fall.
These days, years, I bring less home. Twenty five years and I’m still the last one out. You’d think I’d have this moving out thing figured out. Everything that needed doing got done. Another wave of a spiraling timeline makes me dizzy. Some day I’ll pack it up for good. I look over the clean space, uncluttered counters (mostly), tables, desks, and unplugged computers. Desk supplies hibernate in dark drawers along with framed photos.
I turn in my badge and keys. My much younger self winks back at me. Have a good summer, she says. We’ll catch up again soon!
8:30 p.m. Dreams
Where did the day go? It’s book fair week at work, so kids have been coming in and out buying posters, gummy bear-topped mechanical pencils, spy pens, everything but books. Money is tucked away in the safe. A short drive home feels endless. Pups greet me and so does a Taco Tuesday dinner in progress.
Before I have time to talk my way out of it, I change into workout gear and head off the Y for Body Pump. I’ve been going for years, three times a week, but once the pandemic changed all of the schedules, it has been hard sticking to that schedule. How did I ever go consistently three times a week? And the kids were younger? I vow to get back on track. Officially, the pandemic was years ago, but it sometimes still feels like last week.
On the way back home, police lights flash ahead on the freeway. Why did I even get on? Should’ve noticed traffic slowing down. Rush hour should’ve tapered off by now. My exit is up ahead. That’s where the lights are flashing. Can’t do anything but wait. Inching closer, I get into the exit lane. Everyone is moving to the left except for a few people exiting. An officer clears flat styrofoam boards from the highway, chunks flying behind cars that got ahead of it. I exit, grateful no one was hurt in a wreck.
I eat reheated tacos alone. The amped up outdoor leaf blower buzzes annoyingly. On and on with the occasional dog bark. It’s an oversized hairdryer of sorts, styling the backyard, freeing it of leaves and oak pollen that became embedded between blades of grass. When will it stop? I put away leftovers, toss dog toys in between for some play time, and get the dishes clean.
How will I relax this evening? Lights are on in the backyard. Everyone, including the dogs have been fed. Game night? A bit of journaling? Slice! I need to slice. Maybe I should take the day off? I just finished a 31 day writing streak.
Don’t do it! That’s how good habits die. It starts with one day and snowballs from there.
My laptop is open and I look through thirty three draft titles. As I mull around ideas, Dreams, by The Cranberries plays from the bedroom. Getting up, I retrieve my phone before my husband groans in complaint.
I haven’t even had time to relax! Or write.
An alarm is set on my phone for 8:30 p.m. I named it STOP ALL OF THE THINGS! It’s time to wind down. Get into pjs. In my current gym sweat state, it’s a shower first. Take out my contacts. Wash off makeup. Get the dogs outside one more time. Put them away. Make sure teen is ready for tomorrow morning…and I haven’t sliced yet.
It’s easier to skip it, but I don’t want a good habit to die. It counts as winding down.
Texas Bluebonnets & Pie
There’s a pie baking in the oven. Nothing fancy. Not even homemade. It’s a frozen Marie Callender’s Razzleberry pie, a family favorite. Hubster planned on baking an apple pie for Easter Sunday dessert.
Are you set on apple pie or are you open to suggestions? Are you making it or buying it? I sent him a message yesterday while he shopped for today’s lunch. E and his roommate are joining us. I holler at S. to ask to get her opinion.
“Umm, isn’t that more of a fall dessert? I will not eat it. Ask him to do something with berries. Berries are good right now, apples, not so much. But I’ll eat ice cream.”
Coconut cream, he replies.
Okay. Not arguing. She won’t eat that either, but most of us will.
We have lunch and make our way to take pictures in the bluebonnets. Some families are good about taking pictures in them every year. We like the idea of traditions, but sometimes we can’t keep up. Like the one year the rattlesnakes were bad and I didn’t want to chance it. Other years, they weren’t as showy. Then 2020, when bluebonnet pictures were the last thing on people’s minds for fear of getting sick. We skipped them. Not in the mood. Attended Easter service online. One year, the Texas Snowpocalypse ruined them. Followed by another freeze. Then one of those, we’ll get to it, we’ll get to it, but we never got to it.
In the meantime, the kids have grown. E has his own apartment. S. is in high school. It’s been a while. Was it actually ten years? Really? I look at social media posts and I think it’s correct. Wow. Ten years of putting it off.
We had lunch and headed out. It’s the sweet spot of the season. They’re popping and in a week or so they’ll go to seed. There will be some places where they’ll last a little longer, but soon they will make way for other flowers to have their turn. There’s no sense in driving out to find the perfect place when there are plenty nearby. We take our Chihuahua mix, Reeses, and Dipper, our newest addition.
Family pictures are hard enough. Add two dogs, one being five months old, along with zooming cars on the highway, and we remember why it was such a chore. We got a few good shots with many bad ones, but that’s where the fun lives. The outtakes of those bad photos are where memories seared themselves into our souls.
The pie is cooling. If we cut into it too soon, the filling oozes out. We can wait though. The kids took the dogs to a dog park and just returned. My Polaroid camera sits next to my laptop. I have 5 pictures left to take. One came out over-exposed, but E. is keeping it anyway. That’s how pictures turned out back in the day. You’d take what you could get, saving film for important moments, we explain. Special moments. Memory making moments.
Taking time to document days like this, in picture-words, brings life to seemingly mundane days. It’s in the mundane where life happens. In the ordinary where we experience the extraordinary. We take slices out of our lives and savor them. Some days, we slice right in. Others, we need to wait, that’s what makes it good.
I like pie! I hear E. announce as a seven year old. We pick up where we leave off. Go back to the bluebonnets to take pictures. Pick up those moments we somehow allowed to escape us, bringing the pieces back together.
There is pie with ice cream, ready to eat. And a new set of bluebonnet pictures, documenting the changes in between.
Word Equations
“Taking time to appreciate three beautiful moments in your day instead of one can be extremely meaningful. In my mom’s famous words, let’s make the most of our time here.“
Paris Rosenthal
You know how algebra includes letters with numbers? (I was never good at algebra.) These equations require words. The idea comes from Paris Rosenthal’s book, Project 1. 2. 3. A Daily Creativity Journal for Expressing Yourself in Lists of Three. Write a list of three, prompts are provided, every day. It was a project she continued resulting from her late mother’s work, children’s author Amy Krouse Rosenthal. She posted her list at 1:23 p.m. every day and began the project on 12/3. Her intention was to post for 123 days, but due to her illness, she stopped on day 61.
Like all other things requiring daily discipline to maintain, I faltered and only completed a few pages. Picking up the book for inspiration this afternoon, I took a look at previous entires (I got the book in 2019) and found this one titled Creative Calculations with the following:
__________x__________ = __________
__________+__________ = __________
__________–__________ = __________
My responses on 11/7/19
ideas x solitude = creativity
pen + journal= story
reading – social media = ideas
Today’s responses:
stories + Spotify = podcast
shopping x teen – money = thrifting
(observation + blog) x (community + comments) = SOL
I don’t know if I’ll continue to go through the book every day. I most certainly won’t have my list completed by 1:23 p.m. because I’ll be bogged down with a million other things at that time. I can toss it in my bag. If I get to it, fine, if not, the world moves on. However, I plan to pop in and use it as needed. At the bottom of each page, there’s space to document the date, which my brain likes for keeping track.
Thank you, Amy Krouse Rosenthal and Paris, for brining this project to life, and helping us focus on gratitude and creativity with simple lists of three.
Nerds Beget Nerds 