Hey look, this place is still here…After this many days, I feel like I should come in with a feather duster and a vacuum.

I don’t know what to tell you, except that I’ve been busy writing songs, co-writing songs, and having the time of my life doing it. It still feels strange at times. I have moments when I think, who do I think you are, anyway, having so much fun doing something you love? But  it feels exactly right.

So we’re just hanging out here, trying to stay cool through another desert summer, keeping the kids entertained and out of juvie. Pretty much what most of you are doing, right?

And the heat’s not so bad, really…After all, around midnight, it cools down enough (to 95 degrees, or so) that it’s bearable to go outside. What’s to complain about? 120 degrees when we got into the car he other day. Ouch.

Something pretty and soft, when all I see out the window is desert, brown. And the greedy clouds that hold onto their rain even when they crowd the sky each afternoon, as they often do throughout monsoon season (may they let loose the rain, soon).

Because I want to plant peonies when we’re settled, so that in a year or two or three, I can shake the ants off an armload of their blooms and bring them inside for the dining room table. Or so that Elle can pile her small arms high with them and make little arrangements to spread throughout the house, as I used to do with violets when I was her age. As we may both do, next year.

Because so much is contained within a blossom that hasn’t quite opened. (A whole world, it seems, in such a small thing.) All that hope, all that promise. Potential.

What could be. What will be.

What is already, even if we can’t see it, or know it, yet.

And my sister and I spent most of  each summer working in it.

The garden existed as a significant food source for our family and for my step-grandparents, who lived next door. Rows of concord grapes served as bookends, and in between, there were raspberries, strawberries, tomatoes (several varieties), peppers, corn, okra, potatoes, several kinds of squash, green beans, rhubarb, and asparagus. (I feel like I’m leaving something out.)

When something would ripen,  my sister and I would help harvest and get it ready for canning or freezing.

But before that, there was the weeding. The endless weeding.

I’ve heard people say that they settle into a calm state when they weed, that the methodical pulling out of the weeds, moving to a new area, pulling more weeds, is relaxing.

And I will tell you right now that I have never, ever experienced that (I wish). I remember the heat, the bugs, the sweat, the sunburn, the bugs.  The prickly okra plants. The smelly tomato plants. The bugs.

Though, it’s only fair to say, it didn’t kill me either. And now, all these years later, I actually yearn for a small (very small) garden.

We learned very well which plants were weeds, and we also knew that if we only pulled off the tops of the weeds, what was above ground, we would hear about it later. Sue would tell us time and time again that unless we pulled the weeds out by the roots, they would just grow back faster.

Today is an anniversary that I marked last year with this post. This year, it’s 30 years since we went to court so that Sue could adopt my sister and me. It’s not a day I try to remember, at all (and my sister tells me she doesn’t even think of it), but every year it still seems to cross my mind like a phantom train. Empty, invisible, loud.

One thing I realized today, though, is that this year does feel different than any year before. Changed, even, from just last year. I know that what I’ve written here about my family is the difference, as I’ve dug with bare hands through this soil of the past.

As though these things that happened to us are the weeds, and I have to spend my life trying to keep them from taking over.

And wouldn’t you know? Sue was right about one thing. It is important to pull them out by their roots. But in this case, to expose the dark underside of things that look completely different above ground.

I can’t stop these stories from reaching up through the soil, toward light, and I don’t want to. Do I wish they weren’t there? Sure. Weeding never was an easy job, in life or in metaphor.

My hands are still in the soil, and will stay there for as long as it takes. It’s past high noon, though, I know that much. The sun slides with every day, with every word, toward the place where sky seems to meet soil. And maybe one of these days - any day now - I will come to understand, without the need for a reminder, that the sky and the land are part of each other. The soil is part air, the air carries particles of dust to other fields. The moon reflects in the smallest pond.

And there’s nothing to keep me, not anymore, from flying away from this work whenever I need to, high enough that the weeds become indiscernible from a field of sweet, warm strawberries.

Of course, you’d turn on the car yourself, but you don’t have the keys.

Well, that’s how I feel right now. There’s even actual heat, thanks to the desert in the summer.

We’re just about ready to move, but not everything is ready for us to move. Mr. H’s mother hasn’t been well and needs constant care (but she’s eating better these days, so that’s really good news). Mr. H has work in Indiana, too, while the three of us are here in Arizona. (Those are reasons we should be there, but we don’t have a date nailed down, and there’s the pesky cross-country move to face.)

I’m considering setting out on the Santa Fe Trail and just winging it. Does U-Haul rent out wagons (air-conditioned, natch)?

And the summer rolls on…

The kids are glad, since they get to play with their friends here longer than they thought they would be able to. I’m happy, too, not to have had to say goodbye yet to my own friends here. But we’re ready, all of us, for the next step.

Ready and a little cranky.

I keep thinking of that Dr. Seuss book, Oh the Places You’ll Go!*, and this part about waiting…

The Waiting Place…
…for people just waiting.
Waiting for a  train to go
or a bus to come, or a plane to go
or the mail to come, or the rain to go
or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow
or waiting around for a Yes or a No
or waiting for their hair to grow.
Everyone is just waiting.
Waiting for the fish to bite
or waiting for wind to fly a kite
or waiting around for Friday night
or waiting, perhaps, for their Uncle Jake
or a pot to boil, or a Better Break
or a sting of pearls, or a pair of pants
or a wig with curls, or Another Chance.
Everyone is just waiting.
NO!
That’s not for you!
Somehow you’ll escape
all that waiting and staying…

Can I hear an amen to that last part? May it be so. And soon…

_______________________________

*reprinted with absolutely no permission whatsoever, so I’m linking to the book on Amazon…

Also, I want to ask you to take a moment to visit a new website. Lordy, I’m bossy today, but you’ll thank me, I’m sure of it…

The site is called CHEERUPNATION, and it’s the inspired creation of Brian Papa, who also blogs at PapaTV. (I met him through the T. Rowe Price website project not long ago, and he is one of the nicest, funniest, and most positive people I’ve met since I began blogging a year and a half ago.) We can all use a dose of happy, and I promise your day will get better if you take a look. Here’s what he says:

Every day we feature kids from all around the world holding signs with funny/inspirational quotes. Our goal: Make them the stars and create a movement of joy, love, and happiness!

It’s as fun and sweet as it sounds. You might even be inspired to get your own kids to make a sign and submit a photo.

All right, that’s all for today. Read chapters 12-29, don’t drink and drive, and is it necessary to TP my house every single weekend?

Class dismissed.

________________________________________

Thank you so much for all your kind words and encouragment about my last post. It means more than I can say, and when I tell you that it helps, please know that it truly does. xoxoxo

This: a photo of my stepmother - you know her as Sue - at a tea and silent auction to benefit a local organization in her city (my hometown). It was startling enough to see the photo of her after all these years, but there was more.

It took me about five seconds to discover that the proceeds from the event would go to a parenting skills center whose mission “is to provide a variety of quality preventative and treatment parent/family education programs to families at risk for child abuse and neglect and domestic unrest/violence.”

Yeah.

And there she stood big as life, posing for a photo like there was no reason in the world why she shouldn’t be there. As it turns out, one of the women in the photo with her is the founder of the center, and another woman is a therapist and adoption coordinator. You have to wonder what they would think if they knew the truth about the woman standing with them.

After that first moment of shock, I just became really calm. I wasn’t sure yet what I would do, but I felt as though stumbling upon a piece of information like this called for some kind of action from me. (Maybe it does, maybe it doesn’t.)  I felt like it’s time. Time for her to deal with me in a way she’s never had to before, as someone strong who has a voice and a pen.

So a couple of hours later, I sent a note to Sue through Facebook (relatives of hers are on my friend list, so she came up on my list of People You May Know).

My words were simple.

“I hope you made a large donation,” followed by a link to the page with the photos. And then, “You might be interested in reading this,” and a link to the series of posts I’ve written here about my family. (There are others, but those are a good start.)

It’s the first contact I’ve had with her in over 15 years.

It’s possible that she will come to this place to read what I’ve written, or maybe she won’t. There’s even a chance she won’t see the note I sent, so I plan to send the same thing to her by mail.

In any case, that’s not the point. What she does or doesn’t do now doesn’t feel as important to me as what I do.

I don’t expect anything to come of this, really, nothing satisfying, anyway. It’s impossible to drink from a broken cup. Any action on my part is bound to feel hollow and so long overdue that it’s almost irrelevant. If anything, maybe people who think one thing about her will come to see another, truer picture.  Maybe that’s something.

Or maybe all that comes out of this is that I say my piece and go on, which is what I started here. I’ve said what was and what is, and somewhere in there I’ve even hoped for something better in the future, certainly for my own children. And I know (I know) what could be doesn’t lie in the past.

But some things do lie in the past that maybe shouldn’t. So there’s a good chance that I will talk or write about those things in other places besides here, places closer to home for her. And she will know about it. Whatever I do, it will be measured and careful and without anger or any hope for justice of some kind. (The days for that are long past.)

It’s possible that some people out there won’t agree with me or see the point of reacting at all, and that’s fine. Sitting here, I’m not sure I can put words to what this is that I’m feeling, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have a solid reason for doing whatever I feel needs to be done, once I figure out what’s next.

There are a lot of reasons, and many of you have read them (many of you have lived those reasons yourselves, and have your own stories), why it’s not out of line for me to react on a bedrock-deep level (below anger, below pain, even) when I see this woman pretending to be an advocate for abused children. Whatever reaction I have to that isn’t outsized compared to the nerve she has to put herself in that place, in that photo.

It just isn’t.

________________________________

If you have a moment, Emily wrote a poignant, related post at her place today that - as she often does - inspired me.

This site is like the pages in your favorite magazine that give you great ideas about books for you and your kids, style, parties, and more. And one of the guest posts just ahead of mine was an animated post by Holly from June Cleaver Nirvana (if you don’t know about her animated stories, you’re missing out). I knew I was in good hands for sure.

Here’s the link: The Map by Jennifer Harvey Helps Me Make Peace With My Wrinkles

Image credit: basicallybekah

I’m not sure how to tell you what I’ve been up to these last few days, because it feels both small and big. (Yes, there’s been some packing, but our moving date has been pushed back a week or two,  so I have a little breathing room there…)

Last week, I signed up with a songwriting forum and jumped with both feet into the pool of this little dream I’ve had for a long time. I’ve been writing lyrics for years, but never did anything with them until now. (Just as well, since most of what I used to write should stay tucked away inside a binder.)

On songwriting forums, there are places to post one’s lyrics for review, so I posted the one that you’ve seen here*, and a few others. I dusted off and finished a couple of songs that were in my old files, and I’ve written a new one.

One forum led to another, and I’ve met some great, talented people in both places.

When I have more to tell (or for you to hear…fingers crossed, both hands, tightly), you’ll be the first to know. Or the second. Okay, at least third, I promise.

A lot of people have been doing this for years, but the chance to write songs with other songwriters is new to me and so exciting - and that’s the part that feels huge. Hearing music with words that I’ve written or collaborated on.  I know now that it can happen, soon or not so far off. Ten years ago, I don’t now that I would have had the nerve to even walk into this party where I don’t know anyone, in a world that’s so unfamiliar to me. But now, after seeing that what I thought were impossible things are possible, it’s so exhilarating. Just being around this kind of creative, positive energy has changed my outlook so much. There’s so much for me to learn, and it will take time. But I’m in a good place to learn from others and to be part of something that makes my heart beat a little faster.

It stuns me that, for so long, I didn’t realize that maybe the biggest step I might take was just asking to be let into the party.

Once I did that, I was met with so much generosity and encouragement. Like I asked the Universe for something, and it went into the back room and brought it right out for me. (Trust me when I tell you that’s not how it usually goes.)

My friend Suzanne at A View From Table One wrote a post a couple of days ago about that feeling of waiting for one’s life to begin, and about the moment she realized that “we have not understood that our lives have begun.” She continues, “That moment that we are waiting for is already here, we are living it now in this moment and all our plans are part of that life that has already begun. We must stop waiting and start doing.”

If I hadn’t already taken a couple of steps toward something I want, those two sentences would have kicked me in the ass, for sure. Even so, they still resonate within me, like echoes of thunder from a storm that’s just (finally) starting to move on.

And that’s how this feels. Things are brighter. The air is clean.

And I swear to god, I hear music.

_______________________

*the password for that post is thursday, if you need it

I came across a reference to his story just last night on a songwriting forum. A lot of great things are happening for him now, and it’s just cool to hear something like this, especially for anyone who plays or writes music. Had goosebumps and a stupid grin when I read his account of how it all went down. But then, I’m kind of a dork, and a complete softie for this kind of story.

Here’s the Boston Globe article about it: For this street musician, dreams are taking flight

If you want to read his account and hear the recording of the onstage moment (worth taking the time), go to http://stevenbacon.com. Click on the Glen Hansard tab at the bottom of the page (for Steven’s personal account).

And for the recording of his big moment on stage, follow the Songs tab at the bottom, and on that next page there’s a player under “Steven w/ Glen Hansard…live at Agannis Arena…” You can also hear more of his music on that same page. (You’ll find your way around.)

I loved this story for so many reasons. Hope you enjoy it, too.

Steven Bacon and Glen Hansard

She’s dancing around the living room, dressed in what can only be described as a  getup - a dark red and navy wool plaid skirt  and a bright print top in wild colors.

And around her right ankle, a bracelet that once belonged to my grandmother.

It’s not valuable, at least not in price, and when Elle found it in my jewelry box, there was no question of whether I would let her keep it. Let it circle her wrist rather than sit unused in a jewelry box.

Of course, if anyone kept track of its movements since it came into my daughter’s possession, they might think we haven’t taken very good care of it. I’ve found it under Elle’s bed, at the bottom of her box of dress up things, in my purse, in the bathroom, on the floor in the hallway, in a kitchen drawer, and in her own jewelry box. For starters. (The crown jewels get slightly better treatment, I’ll admit. )

And now, around her ankle.

The bracelet isn’t delicate, but it is decorated with flowers. With it around her ankle, below the plaid skirt, Elle manages to look like a  schoolgirl with attitude and a Bobbsey Twin in one stylish fell swoop. I think (I know) it would have made my grandmother laugh.

She stops dancing after a few moments. “This is bothering me, can you take it off?” I unclasp the bracelet. Hold it in front of me while I take a moment longer than I need to close the clasp again. I think of my grandmother.

“Is your grandma still alive?” Elle is watching me. She’s always known where the bracelet came from, and seems to read my mind.

“No, sweetie, she’s not.”

Except in this. She’s alive in this bit of her that I hold in my hands. In things as small as a bracelet. Or as big as the heart of a seven year old.

It’s not enough, but it’s a lot.

_______________________________________

I wanted to thank everyone for the kind comments on my last post, about that bit of writing. With all the packing and getting ready for our move, I didn’t get around to sending everyone a note by email.  I hope you will accept my deep thanks now - your words were so encouraging and lovely and they (you) made my day. xoxo