Anywhere's good

I have a blanket in the back of my car. I know, I know. It's not what you're thinking, although that would be nice on one of these hot days (or nights). Breeze lightly touching the skin, sun washing over every muscle...whew! Anyway, back to the blanket. It's pretty beat up, a mass-produced "Navajo" weave I got some 10 years ago at a Mohican trade shop (although, the owner is a Cherokee, trust me, I asked). I keep it there, neatly folded, in the event that there is an opportunity to lay it out somewhere next to a river or an alfalfa field or on a beach somewhere, and just sit and enjoy the sun and the smells, whatever that moment brings really. I spread it out next to a river today and nearly fell asleep in the sun, my belly full, my sandals resting beside me in the grass. I didn't have a book to read, no iPod, just the blanket, the water, the sun...
It was miraculous.
This blanket is what I would call a true veteran of my life. It has seen all that I have seen in these moments. It has softened the ground for my daughter when she rolled around on it, just an infant entranced by her own fingers. It has nestled tightly over the laps of cold children desperate for the heat to work in the car. It has even, in times of need, caught a few tears in its fibers when I needed to catch my breath driving from point a to point b, unable to fathom how chaotic my life had become.
It's a good blanket. I have thrown it over shivering shoulders during school fire drills, dreamed lazily on it while sharing a crisp apple and bread with a friend. It never stays folded for too long. It is in constant use. It smells like dirt and sky and rain and dryer sheets. And I couldn't help but think, when I was crashed out on it this afternoon, the sun beating down on my collar bones and legs, through my skirt and hair, that I need to use this blanket even more. It's not enough that it comes out only when I think I'm ready to relax on it. It needs to be in constant use in order for the message that it carries to become more habit than privilege. Like I said, it'd be nice to lay there on a fall day, in the middle of an apple orchard, with someone beside me who enjoys the peace as much as I do. And that's not to say I haven't shared the blanket many a time, but I don't have to. I can and have been alone on this blanket, I just need to stay there longer until it smells like me, not someone else.

Fire and ice

"Some say the world will end in fire..." Gotta love Robert Frost for his lucid observations of nature and human nature. I am thinking that, despite the beauty of his words and thoughts, he probably hated being right about certain things.
I'm with ya, Bob.
I usually like to be right. It's validating. Being right says, "Hey, good job. You know your sh*t. Once again, you hit the nail right on the head. Nice going, Nichole."
But these moments are somewhat rare. It's the moments when you know you're right and you really wish you weren't, that's what kills me, because those moments are becoming commonplace for me. The universe is practicing the Socratic method on me. A bit late, don't you think? Even this scholar hates learning sometimes.
Yesterday I used the fire water analogy to describe the slow hissing of the human flame. Water representing doubt (and common sense) and fire representing the raging inferno of lust, love and new emotions.
Well, there is another analogy which, I think, deserves some attention.
You guessed it; fire and ice.
The instantaneous transformation of fire into ice is only possible with human beings. Ever feel a handshake go completely cold? Ever see a marriage that began with smiles end in tight-lipped indifference? Ever feel your heart surge at the sight of someone only to be laid cold hours later?
That is human fire and human ice. The transition happens when you buy 800 honey yogurts at the store because your weird-ass nine-year-old loves Greek, honey yogurt, has been eating it voraciously, even on her pancakes, and suddenly tells you, when you proudly show her the stockpile of yogurt, that she doesn't even like yogurt anymore.
Poof, just like that. And suddenly you're stuck with all of that yogurt.
The transition is almost too much to bear. It is confusing, it is a left field pop fly that you would've caught, no problem, if the goddamn sun hadn't been in your eyes.
The goddamn fire.
So, I missed the pop fly, I bought the f*cking crate of Chobani, how the hell was I supposed to know?!
Hints, words and indications are always helpful. I had no idea they were a luxury. I wish I had some warning that I was supposed to bring my skates. It was 80 degrees today, I was happy, I was wearing my favorite red shoes.
But I should've brought the skates.
Lucky for me, I have friends who don't require me to wear ice skates. Once I chipped the freezer burn off of shoulders and small parts of my heart, I had two margaritas and an amazing meal with my friend Jerome, my sort-of-sage. With full bellies, the sun waning and some overly serious conversation about being too broken to be fixed, he said the nicest thing I have heard in many months.
"You're a hero to me."
"Excuse me?" I laughed nervously. It just seemed so preposterous.
"I'm serious, you're a hero. You've had all of this sh*t happen to you and you just lock it away and say f*ck it, I'm moving on with my life."
"I'm a happy person. I don't like getting in my own way. I want other people to be happy when they see me. I don't always inspire this reaction for some reason, even when I'm at my happiest. Like today, for instance."
"Well, still..."
Yes, still. No ice, no blinding, heart-rending transition from fire to ice. Just a nice thing to say to someone who needed to hear a nice thing. That should keep the flame lit for a little longer.

"Tyger, tyger..."

You ever see a roaring bonfire get snuffed out by mild, misty rain? It's an amazing sight, a poetic testament to nature's power.
It sucks when it's a metaphor for human interaction. C'mon, you know what I'm talking about. You've seen the flames, we all have. The skin burns, the eyes glow, all you can smell is fire and smoke and the sweet knowledge that you may be eaten alive by heat and you don't care.
And then, out of nowhere, the rain comes. At first it is barely noticeable. Maybe a little water on the forehead while you are engulfed in your fire. But then, you get a little chilly, things are wet and suddenly your inferno that could have called the devil up from hell is hissing and popping under the suffocating weight of water. Little droplets that, as individuals, are useless in dousing the flames, but as a collective, could put out a drum of gasoline.
And so the hiss, pop, crack, ssss is on its way. I can feel it. And I bet you know what what I'm talking about here, too.
The fizzle begins with noticing things, little things that you were too busy to see while lusting your way into oblivion on the surface of the sun.
Just little epiphanies at first.
"Huh, I'm always the one doing the initiating." Or, "Huh, that's weird, we've really never been out in public except that one time," or, and this is my personal favorite because you can see the mist turning into big fat rain drops, "Huh, I wonder if I'm not the only one in his fire."
And that's where it all begins. Of course, all of this wondering and hissing could be abated if basic questions were asked and answered honestly, but when was the last time that happened? Questions like: "So, um, do you even like me?" Or, "How come you never ask me to do anything?" or, and this has several applications, "How was that?"
And so, if you can't ask these questions then you certainly can't drop bombs like "Are you, um, seeing other people, too?" or "Is there something about the combination of me and the sun that you don't like?" or "Hey, what color are my eyes, man?"
And this is why I am a big fan of communication. I'm not a very good practitioner, but I think it's time to start asking some questions and to get ready for answers.
Or just get burned up before I even give a sh*t, but it's already too late for that. Damn.

shrink my head, not my dreams

I have enrolled myself in the hideous cliche known as "therapy." It has been two months since my beloved Katherine, the therapist who got me on a better road despite my ridiculously stubborn behavior, has jumped ship to go to Boston.
Of course, that is the first thing that the new therapist, I will call him El Doctor, wanted to talk about.
"Were you angry when Katherine left?" He had his notepad at the ready.
"No. People leave. It was a f*cking opportunity for her. I would have done the same thing."
"Hmm. Okay, but what would you say to her now."
"How's things in Boston? I don't f*cking know. Something like that."
"You seem very rational about the whole thing."
"I'm a rational person most times."
"Any other thoughts?" He scribbled a bit, then kept a steady eye on my darting glances and restless foot. More notes.
"Well, maybe that I was jealous of that fact that she had a new baby and her husband seemed supportive."
"Jealous...okay. And...?"
"I don't know, maybe a little cynical of her situation. You know, new baby, moving, new start. I wanted to say good f*cking luck with that one, girlie." My foot was going nuts at this point.
"You like the f-word don't you?" He laughed a little.
"I don't like it, per say. It is one of my safe words."
I could see the question mark forming on his forehead, I just waved my hand. "You know what, don't worry about it. I use it a lot. I will try to stop. It's offensive, I know, I know."
"Maybe you're the one who has been offended this whole time."
"What do you mean?"
And that, my darlings, is when the Red Sea parted and sand flew up in big wet globs as the waves crashed on both sides of life.
"I mean, that you've been offended for so long, now you are defending yourself against it. Do you tell people if they've upset you or if you're upset and not feeling exactly cheery that day? Do you give them a chance to see you as you really are, in all of your moments."
I nearly choked on my coffee.
"Why the f*ck would I do that? I don't want to burden people with my sh*t. My sh*t sucks. It's a downer. It makes people uncomfortable."
"When did you last keep something to yourself?"
"Um, right before I got here."
"And...?"
"And in March, the day before I met someone I now find myself liking too much, I buried one of my students. She died in a car accident. I met this guy, happenstance in a cafe, and I was as raw as could be. And he still wanted to talk to me."
"Did you tell him you went to a funeral the day before? Did you tell him you were sad?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because I didn't want him to know the kind of sh*t I carry around with me, I guess. I don't f*cking know. He probably wouldn't give a sh*t anyway."
"That's a harsh assumption. He's a human being right? He should know more of you, right?"
"Maybe sometime. Maybe sometime later. When I'm sure it's safe." More scribbling in the pad. More foot craziness.
"How will you know when it's safe, Nichole?"
Good question, Doc. I have no idea. When is it safe to let some things out? When is it safe to tell someone, anyone, that you are a walking fracture? When's a good time to say, "Hey, you know, the first man I ever loved hanged himself. That was fun." Or how about leaning over to him in the movie theater, while he's slurping loudly on a Coke and laughing and whispering, "Baby, guess what, when I was five months pregnant the baby daddy, my boyfriend of 3 years, left me high and dry."
Yeah, f*cking right. Ever see those cartoons where the character is running so fast that lightening and flames shoot out of their shoes? That's what that business would look like.
"Have you told him anything about yourself. Not the funny stuff, but anything serious?"
"Um, once, in an attempt to comfort him, I hinted at the fact that my little brother tried to ice himself two years ago."
"Ice..himself? You mean...commit suicide?"
"Yeah, something like that."
"And what did he say when you told him?"
"Not a f*cking word. Not even a 'huh."
"Huh. Interesting."
Keep scribbling, Doc. My friend's 3-year-old daughter has an expression that I think I will be using a lot this summer.
"AWWW-KWWARD! Poopy-face."
It's cute when she says it.

am I doing them a favor?

Sunday morning, at the ass crack of dawn, Lucian woke me up. Now, knowing how fast kids grow up (seems like just yesterday he was sleeping in my hair, only 6 months old) I am usually delighted when they sneak into the room and snooze with me. It's rare these days and I can barely breathe when I think of a time when their voices won't ring and blast through the house. So, at 5:30, he was there. Mind you, I am an insomniac and had just dozed off 3 hours before the wake up.
Clearly I am setting the scene so that you will sympathize with me when I get to the goddamn point of this story. Just remember, sleep deprived, splitting pain in my head, nose and face from a pride-wrecking work accident, and chronic worry about money. This combined with vague amounts of self-pity that I am going it alone, all the time it seems. I'd like to collapse against someone else once in awhile and let them shush me into a deep sleep, maybe take up some of this anguish.
Of course, I would lose the joy, and so, thus, alone it is.
Anyway, in a haze of fatigue I was just about to take my first blessed sip of coffee (after having pounded several Alleve and considering putting the nitro under my tongue because my heart has been insane this week) when Lucian called me into the living room.
"They're stuck." He was near to tears.
"What's stuck, man?"
He handed me his new light up spy goggles and sure enough, against my distinct orders, he had rammed three batteries in, each going the wrong way.
"Goddamnit, Lucian," I hissed. I set the coffee down as if I were parting from a lover at a Paris train station and tried prying the batteries out with my fingers. No go. I got my pocket knife out and began excavating the batteries, the whole while knowing that my coffee was getting cold.
"You know, Mom, you could probably just use your pinkie finger to get those out." Anna began coaching me on my extraction technique. I popped all three batteries out, nearly cutting my thumb off, and then whipped around to face her. She was, of course, still hovered over me giving pointers.
That's when I lost my sh*t.
"Anna, I have been on this planet for 33 effin years. I have cleaned up shit, piss, blood and people for half of those. You get me? I have been stabbed at, shot at and beat up before I even earned the right to drink. I have prayed to the Virgin Mary in the bathroom of a train station an ocean away from here. So, don't worry about a thing, baby, I can handle the goddamn batteries."
You would think that this litany would silence a crowd of 5000. Not here. As I was taking a tepid swig of coffee and trying to calm myself down lest I get into a way-too-dark place for a Sunday, Anna started shooting off questions left and right. Lucian followed suit.
"You were shot at?! When?"
"Who tried to stab you? Were you just a kid?"
"Why did you have to clean up blood? Whose blood was it?"
I just shook my head and waved my hands in surrender, "Don't worry about it. I'll tell you some other time."
That's when Anna dropped the bomb.
"Why were you praying in a bathroom? Were your prayers answered?"
I stopped at that one. Were they answered? Hmm.
"Well, yeah, I just didn't like the answer at the time."
"What was the answer to your prayer?"
"I lived."
"Is that what you prayed for?"
"I guess so, I just didn't know it at the time."
Her eyes got very, very wide.
"Or did you want to die?"
I set the coffee down and put my hands on her face.
"It doesn't matter what I prayed for. I got what I needed."
End of conversation.

wealth of kings

It is rare, very rare, to have perfect days. Or almost perfect ones. Came goddamn close for the last two, though.
Yesterday, I was officially offered a job, the job, that I have most wanted on this loooong path of mine. Did I take it?
You bet your ass.
I had only to tell a few friends and suddenly all was right with the world. One took me out to lunch, and told the whole restaurant, including the bartender, about the exciting news. Toasts all around, even with people I didn't know. And all before 3:30. I was giddy by the time I went home to shower and get dolled up for a gala event. For the first time in a long time, after all of those compliments and positive energy, I saw what I wanted to see in the mirror.
Of course, the rum punch and the gushing strangers and hugs helped.
This morning, I woke up to find a gorgeous man in my bed. He was loving, attentive, adoring.
Then he asked me if I could make him a spinach omelet.
"No problem, Lucian." It took a bit to drag my ass out of bed, a little weary from indulging the day before, but still happy. I made the omelets, hunted down Anna's tae kwon do uniform (had to pull it out of the dirty laundry) and we were out the door to my favorite place; the farmer's market.
I plied the kids with chocolate croissants and while they ate contentedly under the tent, I breathed in the damp-dirt smell and felt up the begonias and foxgloves at the flower stand.
It doesn't take much to make me giddy.
Later, in the car, after martial arts and in a croissant coma Anna spoke up amidst the blaring lyrics of "Sweet Virginia."
"Avery's family is as wealthy as King Tut." She sounded almost indignant.
"Oh yeah, how do you know?"
"He told me. His nana has boxes of money."
"Just remember, Anna, the Pharaohs had slaves."
"Good point."
I'm not sure if she got the point, but she let the matter drop. Maybe she sensed the hope around her, maybe she was tired, who knows. "Sweet Virginia" continued to play, we all bobbed our heads to the rhythm of the Stones. And I felt like a king.
There is a cliche often used that we want better for our children than we had. The truth of this cannot be denied. I dream, pray, weep and worry over their quality of life. I think of my own childhood and the broken bits of that place and I am certain that theirs is a better one already. No, I cannot give them all that they desire, but what I do have to give, I give it with no attachment, no thought at all. And with the hope that there is more to come. The same friend who took me out to lunch and raised a glass to my success (and laughed at my flushed face after the rum punch) asked me about my "mothering style."
"Are you maternal? You know, that mother hen thing," he said.
I nearly choked on my calamari.
"Um, no. Actually, they hate me sometimes because I draw a hard line."
"So, you're like a momma bear, then? Not a June Cleaver."
"Yeah, you could say that. I'm not a nurturer, that's for sure."
"So, how would you describe it then?"
"Ferocious. I love them fiercely and recklessly," I said. I stopped at this.
Scary stuff. Not something I go around telling people, but the truth of it hit me tonight. In this weird silence punctuated by traffic noises and the neighbor's sad attempts at karaoke stardom.
I have my "people" and I love them fiercely. To the point of blindness it seems. The real killer (perhaps literally) is that once I decide to unleash this love on others, it is the very thing that may drive them away. What I think is one of my greatest gifts to someone is actually too intense to open. Good thing I know that now.
At least the kids can handle it, the rest can run.
I wonder if they ever realize, or will ever realize, that they were standing on a goldmine.

Just be...yourself?

I have a job interview today. Yeah, remember those? Jobs? Interviews? So 2007 I know, but they still exist. This is the second round of interviews for this job, and, given my type A personality I have, of course, managed to nearly mindf*ck this thing into the ground.
Thank good for Tussin with codeine (sp?).
The main thread of advice that I've been given is "just be yourself." My mother's exact words, actually. And then, of course, some commentary.
"Oh, honey, just be yourself. Er, well, maybe not all of it, but most of it."
Right, good point. Anna said the same thing this morning. She said I looked a little "bouncy" and I told her I really wanted to make a good impression because a lot (i.e. her quality of life, her brother's quality of life, my sanity and physical well-being, my career as an editor) was riding on this job.
"Oh that will be easy, Mom," she said, toast crumbs dropping out of her mouth. "People think you're hilarious. Just don't swear. You never know if someone doesn't like the F-bomb."
True, true. So, no swearing, perhaps no crude jokes about fecal matter, and maybe not gonna unload about the time I almost went crashing into the Cliffs of Moher due to whiskey and wind.
"Well, Anna, if I don't get this job, then that means the universe is talking to me and there is something else that's going to happen instead."
This is when Lucian finally lifted his head from the task of inhaling his omelet. Yes, I do still make breakfast for my children in the morning.
"The universe can talk?"
"Yup, sometimes it talks so loud we can't hear anything else. It talks through earthquakes, roaring wind, thunder, everything."
"What's it saying?" His magnificent blue eyes were wide with concern. Or maybe just curiosity.
"It's saying...um...stop making war on my skin and in my guts and in my heart. I'm tired."
There was a brief contemplative moment among the three of us. A bird even chirped. Then Lucian spoke.
"Hey, Anna, have you ever seen a machine gun?!"
Moment over.
So, be myself minus one eighth of myself. Minus the lcoarse language, minus the perverse humor, minus the scarring of a thousand little battles lost and fewer won, minus the blind pride that comes with working myself into the ground merely to survive.
I will give it a shot. If there is one thing that I don't mind sharing with folks, no matter the company, it is a gut laugh and with that a sense that hope is somehow lingering, waiting for the next joke.