We have to write an essay for our final in English. The topics on the list we get to pick from are very vague and general. Looking at the list I tried to find something I was qualified to write about since it is an opinion paper. Here is the list:
1. War in Iraq
2. Stereo types-tattoos and piercings
3. Toys that children play with
4. Changes in lifestyles
5. Homelessness
6. Economy
7. Car seat safety
8. Teen Pregnancies
9. The way that children deal with death.
10. Drunk driving
11. Abusive relationships
12. Road rage
13. Prejudice
14. Former Felons
15. Gay marriages
16. Gangs
17. Anger management
18. Country vs. City living
19. Domestic Violence
20. Internet
21. Competitive sports
There are a few topics here that unfortunately I know a little bit about through personal experience. Gay marriage isn't one of them, so it was immediately excluded as a possible topic, as well as Gangs or the Economy. I know they are there and I know they both suck. That's my opinion on that. Unfortunately that's not enough to woo my way past the essay committee in Flint and pass the class. The other things I know a little bit about, but still not really enough to fill up three pages double spaced. This sounds awful, but I tend to shield myself from much of what is going on in the world. I rarely watch t.v., and I only listen to NPR if the radio stations aren't singing my tune. That being the case, I picked the topic that I have the most personal experience with. Naturally I picked "The way children deal with death."
After starting this paper, I instantly regretted picking it, because I really don't know how they deal with it. I know how I dealt with it, but the paper is an opinion paper not a personal experience paper. Here's my experience. Form your opinions as you wish.
My little sister and I went to church that Sunday with my friend Michelle. Michelle and I were in seventh grade. We didn't go to church as a family when I was a kid, so going with Michelle was kinda spooky, but I liked it. She went to a full Gospel church that met downtown in an upstairs loft near the restaurant my mother worked at. I really wanted to learn more about this Jesus character whose name my mother screamed a lot. So, we would steal her mom's cigarettes, puff them down, go to church, get slain in the spirit and everything was cool. On this particular Sunday we watched a film on the Shroud of Turin. People sang in tongues afterwards. They sounded like angels. It made me cry. I got caught up in the emotionalism of it all. The pastor asked me if I wanted to be baptized. I said yes.
This wasn't the first time I had said yes to Christ. Occasionally a Sunday school bus would come by to pick us up when I was very little. I must have been 5 or 6. It was all milk and cookies cool until they herded us Little Lambs to the basement of the church. My sister and I clung together. The Sunday school teacher looked like the guy from the movie "Phantasm" with a 40 watt bulb swinging over his head. He said if we didn't ask Jesus into our hearts we were going to burn in hell. Frankly I didn't think things could be much worse than they were above ground, but the thought of burning for eternity didn't appeal so much to me,so I said yes. With every fiber of my being I said yes. I have wanted to be good ever since. I thought by doing this it would make me good. I was wrong.
So after the pastor laid his hands on me that day in Michelle's church, and I was "born again" for the third time in my life, we set off for home to steal more cigarettes. Michelle lived just down the street from me. If you turned on our road you went up a big curvy hill. You could see my house straight ahead as you crested it. It looked like the road actually dead ended into our house but it curved around it to the right. Michelle lived on the right hand side of the road about an eighth of a mile away from me. As we were pulling into her driveway I noticed there were tons of cars parked in my yard. I said "Someone is dead." Why I would say that, I have no idea. We went inside. Kay (Michelle's mom) called the house to see what was going on. I remember her silence just before her hand covered her mouth, and then the short choppy sobs of disbelief. I just kept thinking, "If I don't go home then none of this is real." Kay said "Marty is dead." I asked if I could stay at their house. She said our mom wanted us to come home. All the way out to the car I was screaming inside for God to take it back. Make it not real. Take me instead. Whatever. I didn't care. I just knew he didn't deserve to die, because he was good.
When we got to the front porch my mom came out. My little sister took off running. My mom chased her. As I stood there I thought I saw Marty walking toward me. For a brief second God had answered my prayer. My heart swelled. I couldn't wait to tell him that everyone thought he was dead. As he got closer I could see it wasn't him after all. It was my cousin Perry. He had on a shirt exactly like one Marty owned. My brother died twice that day.
I remember someone taking me into the T.V. room. I had gum in my mouth. I remember thinking how absurd it was for me to have gum in my mouth, because if I hadn't have gone to church and been baptized my brother wouldn't be dead right now. Maybe if I never chewed gum again, this would all stop. It's funny how the mind actually loses touch with what is real in it's feeble attempts to try and grasp it. All these thoughts ran through my head as I demanded the details of how he died. Evidently someone had pulled over to pick some flowers in a little gully betweeen two hills. They were parked in blind spot on a country road. He died for flowers?
Nothing made sense.
Something got extra broken inside of me when he died. During this whole process, the viewing and the funeral, I would hear people talk. They would come up to me and say things. I've comprised a short list of what not to say to a grieving child. The list differs if it is an abusive parent who dies. That one is especially grotesque, but this one isn't much better:
1) "You are so strong!"
2) "It won't always feel this bad."
3) "God wants the good ones with him."
4) "Marty can see everything you do now."
Number one is a sore spot for me to this day. They were stupid and wrong to say those things, but people do stupid and wrong when they don't know what else to do. I was absolutely fragmented inside, and I can still feel that initial ripping away of a part of me when he died, like skin coming off with the band-aide of my soul. He was my brother. He was sixteen. He taught me everything from riding my very first bike, how to hit a line drive, how to jump rope, how to wrestle, how to climb on top of the school next door and jump back down, how to swim, and most importantly how to throw a punch. Whatever he was doing I wanted to do too. It didn't matter what, because he was always proud. He always told me I could do it. The "it" I was doing was not relevant. He believed in me. He never gave up on me. It didn't seem to bother him that I was around. He grew up in the same house as I did, and suffered the same things we all did, but somehow, in my eyes he was untainted by it all. I didn't know what I was going to do without him.
Nine months later my mother died.
When I was sixteen I was a passenger in a car that crashed on the same road Marty died on. The police said we all should have been dead. I broke my ankle instead.
Two years later my brother Matt died two days before my nineteenth birthday in a drunk driving accident on the same road. He was twenty three.
When I was doing the research to support my opinions for my paper I was kind of taken aback. There are volume after volume of case studies of the effects of trauma on children in the developemental years. I'm pretty sure I got stuck. At fourteen I felt like I was 40 years old. I'll be 40 this summer. I don't feel like I am a day over 14. Although my responses to trauma and abuse were horrific, they were absolutely textbook. My picture could have been in every article that I read. If I don't learn anything else over the next 2-3 years, my education has been worth this small bit of information. I didn't expect to learn so much about myself. It's very freeing. It's another step toward love, whatever that is.
I'd say this is a particularly hard time of year for me. It is riddled with death anniversaries and dead peoples birthdays. I've spent much of my life trying in very unhealthy ways to "Get over it." It is a struggle to not be defined by it all. Maybe getting over it means finally telling the truth about my experiences and the shitty things I did in response to them; not to excuse my behavior, but to be able to see it for what it is. Inspite of the counselors and psychiatrist I have exhausted, I still hurt. I also still believe in Christ. I still want to be good. I still cry every Sunday in church, and I haven't stopped being reborn, which is a good thing because when I was young I was far too old. And every spring when the flowers bloom along side of the road, I think of my brother and how he died for them. The miracle is this~I can't think of anything better to die for.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Sweat
I wondered
if anyone could tell
the difference
between my sweat
and the tears
that dripped off
the end of my nose
to puddled
between my feet
that just spun
in place
with the ryhthm
of every song
that played
reminding me of you.
If we
should ever ride
I wonder
after all that
I've done
at the end of the trail
will you take
my face in your hands
and say you love me still?
Brush away
these tears
and bring me back
to that innocent place
I don't remember
ever
forgive me...
I'm sweating tears
my whole body
cries for you.
if anyone could tell
the difference
between my sweat
and the tears
that dripped off
the end of my nose
to puddled
between my feet
that just spun
in place
with the ryhthm
of every song
that played
reminding me of you.
If we
should ever ride
I wonder
after all that
I've done
at the end of the trail
will you take
my face in your hands
and say you love me still?
Brush away
these tears
and bring me back
to that innocent place
I don't remember
ever
forgive me...
I'm sweating tears
my whole body
cries for you.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Princess Water
I went to bible study this week. I didn't go the week before because I had to try to find something to wear to my friends funeral. I considered not going this week because every other week we watch a video, do the lesson during the week, and discuss it the following Tues. I didn't do the lessons cause I didn't watch the video. Not that I would have done the lesson if I had. I've got more important stuff to do; like write blogs and obsessively check my e-mail. Ladies and gentleman you can have all this and more under the umbrella of homework. Not to make light of my lack of discipline but it's not so much about the bible study for me. It's about the relationships I have established with these women. They have been slow to grow because....I don't like women.
My first female friend from church was Nancy. She got me by default. She worked on the Helps Committee, and boy did I need helps. Bad. She played the role of mentor for a while. Now she is like an older sister/mother when I can leave myself vulnerable. Nancy invited me to join the study several times. I used the excuse that it cut into my biking, which it does; and I'm a freak, which I am, and I wouldn't fit in. The truth is I still sometimes view the people I encounter at church as the Shiny Happy Christian People. Hence my reluctance to subject myself for more than just a Sunday service. The church that I go to is huge, 3,000 per service and the pastor gets alot of bad press. If you google his name you'll find people that actually think he's the anti-christ. Awesome I say.
This is what I've learned about judgement. I'm not fit to. Especially from far away. The dichotomy between what happens in that church and the negative press it receives is a chasm large enough to swallow this fuzzy mitten I live in. I attended for 5 years before I became a member. I didn't want to do anything impulsive. I mean I was trying to break old habits right? So when the invitation for bible study came again, I reluctantly said "I'll go check it out, but I can't promise you I'll stay". That first night I wouldn't even tell these women my last name and I wouldn't write in the book because I wasn't coming back. We were laughing about it Tuesday night, because things certainly have changed. My judgement was way off.
I'm still not entirely comfortable there. Nobody is I've noticed. You can tell. The study begs us to answer personal questions and lays out the opportunity to share. This is where I've realized just how much a symphony of crickets resembles some of Vivaldi's work. My desire to share usually burns under the surface, but I've never been one to jump first, especially with the Shiny Happy Christian types. This week a woman got honest. I'll try not to go into the details of her story, but I'll tell you what I shared with the group in response.
In '97 I tried to kill myself. I swallowed enough Klonipin to kill a horse. I wanted this young woman to know that no one could have stopped me, for a few reasons. One, I didn't tell anybody my plan. Two, I didn't tell any body my plan. It was obvious she was in a great deal of pain. Her veil was wearing thin. I asked her if she felt responsible for keeping him alive, and of course she did. Our leader asked me who stopped me from killing myself. To which I replied, "Nobody did. That's God's job." This poor woman is being held hostage by the living dead. I looked her in the eye and told her that no matter what happens, she is not responsible for the actions of an irrational person. I told her that people like that are sick and need help. I know. I told her the most loving thing she could do is call the authorities. There were no dry eyes in that group of women during prayer that night.
I don't mean to sound calloused about the suicidal. Experience seems to breed compassion. That state of mind is not foreign to me. Sue asked me how I recovered from it. How did I become willing to live again? Meet someone who really wants to die and succeeds. Watch in horror as his sister cleans his brains off the couch. Sort through his things and imagine you can still feel his presence in them. See the despairing relief in his mothers eyes. She doesn't have to worry about when it's going to happen again.
This is the thing with me. I can't see myself. It's hard to see the picture when you are the star of the show. When my dad came to see me in the hospital I saw that look of despair in his eyes too. It never occured to me that if I succeeded, I would have been the third child he buried. It never occured to me that my children might actually be better off if I was alive. It never occured to me that God loved me inspite of everything I had done, and was probably going to do again.
At Gregs funeral I made a descision. I decided that his life, although over in the flesh wouldn't be wasted. It could at least keep me alive even if I didn't think I deserved to be, and it did, until I wanted to be.
I want to live like I have never wanted to before. I don't mean anything spectacular like fortune and fame. I mean loving people in general. It's hard because honestly, you guys suck alot of the time, except for my few select friends of course. I went to the bike shop to pick up the love of my life tonight. As I was driving home I pondered who I was going to love besides him. I stopped at Marnies on the way home before I could delve too far into self pity. Her brothers were there doing the things her husband would have been doing. A business called asking for him. "My husband passed away" she said. I wonder if she will ever get used to saying that. I got to love on those two beautiful boys and help get them ready for bed. I loved someone today. It was a good day. Look, I realize that my knight in shinning armour will never show up with the princess water. Not in real life anyway. I might not get the kind of love that I want. I get the kind I need.
Oh, I almost forgot. My boyfriends back and there is gonna be trouble. I took him across the street to the park and ran him through the mud in the dark. I think he liked it.
My first female friend from church was Nancy. She got me by default. She worked on the Helps Committee, and boy did I need helps. Bad. She played the role of mentor for a while. Now she is like an older sister/mother when I can leave myself vulnerable. Nancy invited me to join the study several times. I used the excuse that it cut into my biking, which it does; and I'm a freak, which I am, and I wouldn't fit in. The truth is I still sometimes view the people I encounter at church as the Shiny Happy Christian People. Hence my reluctance to subject myself for more than just a Sunday service. The church that I go to is huge, 3,000 per service and the pastor gets alot of bad press. If you google his name you'll find people that actually think he's the anti-christ. Awesome I say.
This is what I've learned about judgement. I'm not fit to. Especially from far away. The dichotomy between what happens in that church and the negative press it receives is a chasm large enough to swallow this fuzzy mitten I live in. I attended for 5 years before I became a member. I didn't want to do anything impulsive. I mean I was trying to break old habits right? So when the invitation for bible study came again, I reluctantly said "I'll go check it out, but I can't promise you I'll stay". That first night I wouldn't even tell these women my last name and I wouldn't write in the book because I wasn't coming back. We were laughing about it Tuesday night, because things certainly have changed. My judgement was way off.
I'm still not entirely comfortable there. Nobody is I've noticed. You can tell. The study begs us to answer personal questions and lays out the opportunity to share. This is where I've realized just how much a symphony of crickets resembles some of Vivaldi's work. My desire to share usually burns under the surface, but I've never been one to jump first, especially with the Shiny Happy Christian types. This week a woman got honest. I'll try not to go into the details of her story, but I'll tell you what I shared with the group in response.
In '97 I tried to kill myself. I swallowed enough Klonipin to kill a horse. I wanted this young woman to know that no one could have stopped me, for a few reasons. One, I didn't tell anybody my plan. Two, I didn't tell any body my plan. It was obvious she was in a great deal of pain. Her veil was wearing thin. I asked her if she felt responsible for keeping him alive, and of course she did. Our leader asked me who stopped me from killing myself. To which I replied, "Nobody did. That's God's job." This poor woman is being held hostage by the living dead. I looked her in the eye and told her that no matter what happens, she is not responsible for the actions of an irrational person. I told her that people like that are sick and need help. I know. I told her the most loving thing she could do is call the authorities. There were no dry eyes in that group of women during prayer that night.
I don't mean to sound calloused about the suicidal. Experience seems to breed compassion. That state of mind is not foreign to me. Sue asked me how I recovered from it. How did I become willing to live again? Meet someone who really wants to die and succeeds. Watch in horror as his sister cleans his brains off the couch. Sort through his things and imagine you can still feel his presence in them. See the despairing relief in his mothers eyes. She doesn't have to worry about when it's going to happen again.
This is the thing with me. I can't see myself. It's hard to see the picture when you are the star of the show. When my dad came to see me in the hospital I saw that look of despair in his eyes too. It never occured to me that if I succeeded, I would have been the third child he buried. It never occured to me that my children might actually be better off if I was alive. It never occured to me that God loved me inspite of everything I had done, and was probably going to do again.
At Gregs funeral I made a descision. I decided that his life, although over in the flesh wouldn't be wasted. It could at least keep me alive even if I didn't think I deserved to be, and it did, until I wanted to be.
I want to live like I have never wanted to before. I don't mean anything spectacular like fortune and fame. I mean loving people in general. It's hard because honestly, you guys suck alot of the time, except for my few select friends of course. I went to the bike shop to pick up the love of my life tonight. As I was driving home I pondered who I was going to love besides him. I stopped at Marnies on the way home before I could delve too far into self pity. Her brothers were there doing the things her husband would have been doing. A business called asking for him. "My husband passed away" she said. I wonder if she will ever get used to saying that. I got to love on those two beautiful boys and help get them ready for bed. I loved someone today. It was a good day. Look, I realize that my knight in shinning armour will never show up with the princess water. Not in real life anyway. I might not get the kind of love that I want. I get the kind I need.
Oh, I almost forgot. My boyfriends back and there is gonna be trouble. I took him across the street to the park and ran him through the mud in the dark. I think he liked it.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Love and Pretzles
I drove Jimmy Jam's kids back to his ex in Fowlerville this after noon. I call him Jimmy Jam because he is always in a jam. He called at 7:30 this morning needing to go to the store. Last week while he was in court the judge asked him what it was going to take to get him to stop driving. I guess the $600.00+ in fines added to the thousands he already owes was enough to get him to stop. For a minute anyway; but as always the pain wears off with Jimmy Jam and eventually his thinking lulls him into the false belief that it will be different this time. Jimmy Jam baffles me.
In the shower this morning getting ready for church I was contemplating the lessons I learn from whatever is presented to me in a given day. In the midst of this my brain is spinning on how I'm gonna ride my bike, go to yoga, and spend time with the two teenagers under my roof that could care less, plus homework. My mind focuses in on yoga. I love yoga. I love pretzles as well, but I don't eat them any more because I'm gluten free, so it stands to reason that the next best thing is twisting myself into one every Wed. and Sun. The only thing I dislike about yoga class is my ex-boyfriend shows up when he is in the mood for some self inflicted punishment. His lack of flexibility is a direct reflection of where he is mentally and spiritually. I throw up in my mouth a little bit everytime I see him. I especially hate when he tries to talk to me. Last week before class he approached me and stuck out his hand as if I would shake it. Just seven days prior I told him it wasn't neccessary for him to check up on me. I pretended like he wasn't there. He left class. This is what I mean by self inflicted punishment. He tells all our mutual friends that he misses me. He believes this. It's been roughly 18 months since he broke up with me. That was the most loving thing he did for me during the course of our time together. I mean that. It set me free to really love someone someday.
I start thinking about all the people I know who are coupled. I have very few good examples. My loneliness diminshes. One example is Josh and Marnie.
At first glance one might think that this is just your average "Bald guy marrying Barbie" photo. Not too long before this photo was taken Josh was told he had six months to live. If you look closely at the photo you can see the scar on the side of his head where surgeons removed a stage 4 glioblastoma. Look even closer and you can see that what one might mistake as cake in this photo, is actually nothing but love. He stayed alive for 6 years on one bite alone. This is what love does. It gives life. They could see the end from the beginning but they were in it together. There is something sacred in the cry of a young widow beating her fists in her lap, begging God to bring back the love of her life. Perhaps the tears of true love are holy. I've seen them one other time in my life.
Her name was Grace and although she was confined to a wheel chair, she did her name justice. I used to work in a nursing home. Grace was one of my patients. She was always very composed and dignified; that is until her husband would come to see her. Everyday around the same time he would come to visit, and find Grace primping in the bathroom like a teenage girl getting ready for prom. I was in the room one day when he showed up. Her countenance melted like butter as he reached down in his eagerness to embrace her. They burned for each other. You could feel the heat coming off them I swear. Her husband was leaving one day as I was approaching the next room. He glanced my way and bowed his head a bit like a gentleman does. He was crying. Holy. "I hate leaving her here" he said everytime someone was near enough to hear him as he left. Grace was 50. She had Mutiple Sclerosis.
Someone told me yesterday that maybe inspite of my circumstances I have it pretty good. I am becoming more and more aware of this with each day that passes. I still tend to look at life through the lenses of what I don't have though. I don't have someone laying next to me at night that doesn't love me. I've grown to prefer that over the alternative. I'm grateful for what I don't have today. I'm still not entirely sure what love entails exactly. You don't survive the life I've lived without things getting warped, but I recognize it when I see it. I'm convinced it is not a noun.
On the way home from Fowlwerville I thought about Jimmy Jam. Jimmy Jam doesn't talk much about the break up. I think the pain got great enough for him to be grateful for what he doesn't have. I thought about what he lost. I don't know the whole story, but from what I know, I don't think it was love. I can't wrap my mind around love looking like that. Now, if he will just stop driving...
The pretzles were good in Yoga today. Thank God.
In the shower this morning getting ready for church I was contemplating the lessons I learn from whatever is presented to me in a given day. In the midst of this my brain is spinning on how I'm gonna ride my bike, go to yoga, and spend time with the two teenagers under my roof that could care less, plus homework. My mind focuses in on yoga. I love yoga. I love pretzles as well, but I don't eat them any more because I'm gluten free, so it stands to reason that the next best thing is twisting myself into one every Wed. and Sun. The only thing I dislike about yoga class is my ex-boyfriend shows up when he is in the mood for some self inflicted punishment. His lack of flexibility is a direct reflection of where he is mentally and spiritually. I throw up in my mouth a little bit everytime I see him. I especially hate when he tries to talk to me. Last week before class he approached me and stuck out his hand as if I would shake it. Just seven days prior I told him it wasn't neccessary for him to check up on me. I pretended like he wasn't there. He left class. This is what I mean by self inflicted punishment. He tells all our mutual friends that he misses me. He believes this. It's been roughly 18 months since he broke up with me. That was the most loving thing he did for me during the course of our time together. I mean that. It set me free to really love someone someday.
I start thinking about all the people I know who are coupled. I have very few good examples. My loneliness diminshes. One example is Josh and Marnie.
At first glance one might think that this is just your average "Bald guy marrying Barbie" photo. Not too long before this photo was taken Josh was told he had six months to live. If you look closely at the photo you can see the scar on the side of his head where surgeons removed a stage 4 glioblastoma. Look even closer and you can see that what one might mistake as cake in this photo, is actually nothing but love. He stayed alive for 6 years on one bite alone. This is what love does. It gives life. They could see the end from the beginning but they were in it together. There is something sacred in the cry of a young widow beating her fists in her lap, begging God to bring back the love of her life. Perhaps the tears of true love are holy. I've seen them one other time in my life.
Her name was Grace and although she was confined to a wheel chair, she did her name justice. I used to work in a nursing home. Grace was one of my patients. She was always very composed and dignified; that is until her husband would come to see her. Everyday around the same time he would come to visit, and find Grace primping in the bathroom like a teenage girl getting ready for prom. I was in the room one day when he showed up. Her countenance melted like butter as he reached down in his eagerness to embrace her. They burned for each other. You could feel the heat coming off them I swear. Her husband was leaving one day as I was approaching the next room. He glanced my way and bowed his head a bit like a gentleman does. He was crying. Holy. "I hate leaving her here" he said everytime someone was near enough to hear him as he left. Grace was 50. She had Mutiple Sclerosis.
Someone told me yesterday that maybe inspite of my circumstances I have it pretty good. I am becoming more and more aware of this with each day that passes. I still tend to look at life through the lenses of what I don't have though. I don't have someone laying next to me at night that doesn't love me. I've grown to prefer that over the alternative. I'm grateful for what I don't have today. I'm still not entirely sure what love entails exactly. You don't survive the life I've lived without things getting warped, but I recognize it when I see it. I'm convinced it is not a noun.
On the way home from Fowlwerville I thought about Jimmy Jam. Jimmy Jam doesn't talk much about the break up. I think the pain got great enough for him to be grateful for what he doesn't have. I thought about what he lost. I don't know the whole story, but from what I know, I don't think it was love. I can't wrap my mind around love looking like that. Now, if he will just stop driving...
The pretzles were good in Yoga today. Thank God.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Private Name / Private Number
I didn't sleep well last night because the "What if" scenarios would not stop playing in my mind. I hate “What if Hill.” It doesn’t matter if the images are positive or negative. I never seem to make it to the top. I was tired when I woke up, but I was fully prepared to trainerbate (yes, I just said that) when I got home from dropping my daughter off at school. I turned the computer on to do just that, but the door wouldn't open so I could put my trainer video in. AAAUUUGGHH. This whole trainer thing has been a major production for the past 4 weeks. Finally everything is in place and BAMB! I can’t play the video. Have you ever seen one of these things? My friend Eric gave me a copy. I laugh when I'm watching it. It's like they hired a low budget porn production company to film it; complete with slow motion shots of the riders from an upward angle. It looks like they are looking down into the camera, with glistening brow and bulging veins galore. One dude is actually wearing his riding glasses indoors with the dark lenses in. I imagine he is high. Some things are so sad one has to laugh at them.
My frustration mounts because I didn't have time to ride out side or go to the gym. I shoot out an S.O.S via email and phone calls. It's too late now. I left for my hair appointment hoping one of my geek friends will call in the mean time. As my girl was washing my hair I started thinking how she is one of the two people who have come remotely close to touching me in an intimate manner in...Let’s just say a very long time. The other is my gynecologist. I pay them both. Contemplating this made me sad.
I had to drop my SS off at the shop to make sure it’s all good for the warm weather that is coming. This is difficult for me. It’s worse than having a pelvic exam. Although I have only been on this bike about 7 times, we know each other. I don’t like strange hands roaming all over my bike, especially if they are inexperienced. It’s like the equivalent of knowing someone else is touching your significant other. Maybe I should add “knows a bit about working on bikes” to my list of who I’d like to meet. http://ransomedtoride.blogspot.com/2008/10/who-id-like-to-meet.html.
I automatically hold any young pimply faced tech in contempt, and I have preconceived ideas that they don’t know what they are doing. The tech started asking me questions about gearing, which I know nothing about, when Brian the shop manager came out. Thank God he was there. We’ve ridden together before and he is a SS fixed gear freak. I really have no clue about this gearing stuff for a few reasons. One, because I’ve only been on the bike maybe 7 times: two, I am brand new to single speeding, although all last summer I pretty much road in one gear (big ring) fantasizing about a SS bike. Finally there is the reason that beats all reasons. I don’t care. I just want to ride my bike, and I know me. I will acclimate to whatever is put on the bike anyway and possibly do serious injury to myself in the mean time. He said although I’m an animal (we’ve ridden together) I probably should go 34 until I get really familiar with single speeding. With my ego in check I reluctantly submitted to his advice. I left the shop with one last glance at the love of my life. My dining room looks empty without him, and my morning coffee won’t be the same until his return.
I didn’t get to ride today. “What if Hill” is looming large on my pillow. Of all the important worthwhile things my mind could be contemplating it hones in on the unknown calls I’ve been getting since I was published in D.R. Maybe it’s a coincidence, but I typically don’t get these kinds of calls. One came tonight when I was on my way home from Fowlerville. They’ve always come at times when I am not home. I’m sure my mind will calculate the millions of different scenarios that could transpire if Private Name Private Number or Unknown Caller ever gets a hold of me. What if....
My frustration mounts because I didn't have time to ride out side or go to the gym. I shoot out an S.O.S via email and phone calls. It's too late now. I left for my hair appointment hoping one of my geek friends will call in the mean time. As my girl was washing my hair I started thinking how she is one of the two people who have come remotely close to touching me in an intimate manner in...Let’s just say a very long time. The other is my gynecologist. I pay them both. Contemplating this made me sad.
I had to drop my SS off at the shop to make sure it’s all good for the warm weather that is coming. This is difficult for me. It’s worse than having a pelvic exam. Although I have only been on this bike about 7 times, we know each other. I don’t like strange hands roaming all over my bike, especially if they are inexperienced. It’s like the equivalent of knowing someone else is touching your significant other. Maybe I should add “knows a bit about working on bikes” to my list of who I’d like to meet. http://ransomedtoride.blogspot.com/2008/10/who-id-like-to-meet.html.
I automatically hold any young pimply faced tech in contempt, and I have preconceived ideas that they don’t know what they are doing. The tech started asking me questions about gearing, which I know nothing about, when Brian the shop manager came out. Thank God he was there. We’ve ridden together before and he is a SS fixed gear freak. I really have no clue about this gearing stuff for a few reasons. One, because I’ve only been on the bike maybe 7 times: two, I am brand new to single speeding, although all last summer I pretty much road in one gear (big ring) fantasizing about a SS bike. Finally there is the reason that beats all reasons. I don’t care. I just want to ride my bike, and I know me. I will acclimate to whatever is put on the bike anyway and possibly do serious injury to myself in the mean time. He said although I’m an animal (we’ve ridden together) I probably should go 34 until I get really familiar with single speeding. With my ego in check I reluctantly submitted to his advice. I left the shop with one last glance at the love of my life. My dining room looks empty without him, and my morning coffee won’t be the same until his return.
I didn’t get to ride today. “What if Hill” is looming large on my pillow. Of all the important worthwhile things my mind could be contemplating it hones in on the unknown calls I’ve been getting since I was published in D.R. Maybe it’s a coincidence, but I typically don’t get these kinds of calls. One came tonight when I was on my way home from Fowlerville. They’ve always come at times when I am not home. I’m sure my mind will calculate the millions of different scenarios that could transpire if Private Name Private Number or Unknown Caller ever gets a hold of me. What if....
Monday, February 23, 2009
Brother
February 23, 2009
I was in English class today not able to concentrate. I thought about staying home, but it would have only made matters worse. Now I am so jacked up on caffeine I couldn't sleep if I wanted to; my brain is full from studying and my heart is breaking with grief. I don't know how I'm going to pull this off. I've tried suspending these feelings until the weekend without much success. I end up emoting at inappropriate times, but I'm fine when I'm by myself. My instructor called on me. I still couldn't tell you what the question was, but I responded. "I'm sorry Mary, I'm not really here. Could you repeat the question?" I'm usually like Horshack, "OOOOH! OOOOH! OOOOH!" with my arm stuck up in the air, chomping at the bit to contribute. It's very frustrating because she always calls on people that don't know the answers. I think my lack of response took her by suprise. I was praying she wouldn't ask, but she did. "How are you?" I was able to maintain an appearance of normalcy for a minute, but as the class started laughing I started crying, and I was forced to say it. "My friend died Saturday." Only a few tears escaped until the lady who sits behind me handed me a bunch of tissue, then the flood gates opened. The rest of the day at school was waves of grief and tears.
I came home to a voice mail of a lady telling me she was thinking of me. She said she was sorry she couldn't get to me sooner, but she's been kinda busy. She said she was sorry that my friend died. I started weeping all over again.
This is the lady on my voice mail. She's been busy making funeral arrangements for the father of her two boys that you see in the picture. That's Gabe and Jake with there Momma Marnie. Jake is one now, and Gabe just turned two on Friday. The pic is a bit old.
This is their Daddy. He is her husband. They love each other with a fierceness I have never seen before.
His Face book page is flooding with comments from lives he touched. Most of the people say things like "I'm a better person for having known you!" Josh was one of those people that as soon as you stepped into his presence you knew that you were loved and accepted. As is. No warranties. No refunds. That made my life better. Whether or not I am a better person having known him remains "too be seen."
February 25, 2009
8:00am
Some time has passed since I started writing this. I went to the funeral home last night. There was no where to park. The line for the viewing was leaking out the doors. He is being buried today. The funeral is at the same church they were married in. That was a beautiful day.
9:23pm
I just got back from the party that was thrown for you. Remember on our rides how we talked about this day? One of our many conversations was about funerals in general. I told you that no matter what, I didn't want anybody blowing sunshine up my ass at my funeral. I wanted them to be able to honor my life with the truth. You agreed. Well,they had an open mic and several people spoke. Some had funny little stories, and some poured their hearts out. Your little sister made me cry, the way she described how you loved her as only you could. She talked about how you told her she was beautiful and that you loved her no matter what, especially when she couldn't love herself. It wasn't so far of a stretch to imagine what it must be like to be your sister. Listening to her I realized you did the same for me. I didn't say anything because I can't talk much without crying. I didn't think it would be cool to blow snot rockets all over the mic at your funeral. Other people wanted to use that thing too ya know? They went on and on blowing sunshine up your butt. One thing is for sure; no one lied about you.
The girl who was sitting next to me in English on Monday during The Great Flood is in my Tuesday math class as well. I guess she told our instructor that I may not be in class because I had a family memember die. When I walked into Class late this week my instuctor told me he was sorry to hear about the loss of my relative. For a brief second I considered correcting him, but he wasn't wrong. I love you brother.
I was in English class today not able to concentrate. I thought about staying home, but it would have only made matters worse. Now I am so jacked up on caffeine I couldn't sleep if I wanted to; my brain is full from studying and my heart is breaking with grief. I don't know how I'm going to pull this off. I've tried suspending these feelings until the weekend without much success. I end up emoting at inappropriate times, but I'm fine when I'm by myself. My instructor called on me. I still couldn't tell you what the question was, but I responded. "I'm sorry Mary, I'm not really here. Could you repeat the question?" I'm usually like Horshack, "OOOOH! OOOOH! OOOOH!" with my arm stuck up in the air, chomping at the bit to contribute. It's very frustrating because she always calls on people that don't know the answers. I think my lack of response took her by suprise. I was praying she wouldn't ask, but she did. "How are you?" I was able to maintain an appearance of normalcy for a minute, but as the class started laughing I started crying, and I was forced to say it. "My friend died Saturday." Only a few tears escaped until the lady who sits behind me handed me a bunch of tissue, then the flood gates opened. The rest of the day at school was waves of grief and tears.
I came home to a voice mail of a lady telling me she was thinking of me. She said she was sorry she couldn't get to me sooner, but she's been kinda busy. She said she was sorry that my friend died. I started weeping all over again.
This is the lady on my voice mail. She's been busy making funeral arrangements for the father of her two boys that you see in the picture. That's Gabe and Jake with there Momma Marnie. Jake is one now, and Gabe just turned two on Friday. The pic is a bit old.
This is their Daddy. He is her husband. They love each other with a fierceness I have never seen before.
His Face book page is flooding with comments from lives he touched. Most of the people say things like "I'm a better person for having known you!" Josh was one of those people that as soon as you stepped into his presence you knew that you were loved and accepted. As is. No warranties. No refunds. That made my life better. Whether or not I am a better person having known him remains "too be seen."
February 25, 2009
8:00am
Some time has passed since I started writing this. I went to the funeral home last night. There was no where to park. The line for the viewing was leaking out the doors. He is being buried today. The funeral is at the same church they were married in. That was a beautiful day.
9:23pm
I just got back from the party that was thrown for you. Remember on our rides how we talked about this day? One of our many conversations was about funerals in general. I told you that no matter what, I didn't want anybody blowing sunshine up my ass at my funeral. I wanted them to be able to honor my life with the truth. You agreed. Well,they had an open mic and several people spoke. Some had funny little stories, and some poured their hearts out. Your little sister made me cry, the way she described how you loved her as only you could. She talked about how you told her she was beautiful and that you loved her no matter what, especially when she couldn't love herself. It wasn't so far of a stretch to imagine what it must be like to be your sister. Listening to her I realized you did the same for me. I didn't say anything because I can't talk much without crying. I didn't think it would be cool to blow snot rockets all over the mic at your funeral. Other people wanted to use that thing too ya know? They went on and on blowing sunshine up your butt. One thing is for sure; no one lied about you.
The girl who was sitting next to me in English on Monday during The Great Flood is in my Tuesday math class as well. I guess she told our instructor that I may not be in class because I had a family memember die. When I walked into Class late this week my instuctor told me he was sorry to hear about the loss of my relative. For a brief second I considered correcting him, but he wasn't wrong. I love you brother.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Clearing Out the Cobwebs
It’s really happening. I’m going to school. I started January 12. I sat down to write about how this whole surreal, terrifying, exciting experience started, so I got out my journal. You should know that I absolutely suck at keeping a journal, but every now and then something I deem remarkable happens and I write it down. Here it is:
January 16, 2008
I was looking through one of those gossip magazines at work the day before yesterday. I casually glanced at my horoscope for kicks. It said to write down my career goals on the 14th. It happened to be the 14th. It seemed strange. I rarely look at these things and the one day that I do, it tells me to do something on the very day it just happens to be. I almost didn’t do it because I don’t believe in these things, and I don’t have any goals. After careful consideration I came up with nothing, so I wrote down “Call SSD and ask them to send information on the “Ticket to work Program.” I tossed the paper in my purse and forgot about it. When I got home the information was in the mail box. *SHOCK* Thank God Thank God Thank God! So I get up yesterday. I look in the mirror. My eyelids are baggy. I sigh, turn around and look at my butt. It’s four inches lower than it was before I went to bed. I turn on the shower. No hot water. It’s going to be one of those days. I call Eric and tell him. He says “I was just meditating and praying about how fortunate we are to have water at all. Poor countries don’t have any water.”
“I’m a poor country” I say. “No you have water. It’s just not hot” “Thanks a lot you Ass!” and I switch the subject to him and Deb. He’s feeling unworthy or something similar. He doesn’t think he’s good enough for her. I start to tell him that I think he deserves a woman that will be good to him. I tell him I think he’s a good man. I can tell he’s crying. He says he values my opinion. We hang up. The whole conversation lasted about 2 minutes. As I get off the toilet I ponder showering in cold water. I wash my hands. The water is hot. I dial him back. “Your water is hot isn’t it!” he says before I can tell him. Again I say Thank God, Thank God, Thank God!
Now, some may say the horoscope thing is absolutely coincidental. I’ll allow them that, but for me these kinds of “happenings” usually set into motion circumstances that I couldn’t have orchestrated, that are beyond my control. It gives me that feeling that Life is living me instead of the other way around. Feeling a bit like Neo in The Matrix, I do the next thing put in front of me. I called about the “Ticket to Work Program.” They did lots of evaluations, ability, and interest test. This process took months. Once I got things narrowed down I did a job shadow at a rehab hospital. This sealed the deal for me. What I saw during my time spent there was nothing short of progress in seemingly hopeless situations. It reminded me of…my life. I was hooked. Given my circumstances mobility is pretty fricken important to me, which would explain why I get frustrated by people who don’t move when they are perfectly capable. Do you know the type? I’m talking about seemingly physically healthy individuals that just don’t like to move. I don’t like it that I am judgmental like that, and I really try not to be. I certainly don’t know each person’s circumstances, but it’s like watching someone waste food or water when you’re not sure how long your own supply is going to last.
Anyway, it appears that you have to be a math magician to be accepted into the PTA program. Algebra is a requirement. I’m missing that chip, so I’m starting at the bottom of the mathematical mountain and I’m grinding my way up, only now I don’t have any gears. (I don’t just mean that metaphorically. I did finally get a Single Speed! WoooHooo!) Math is painful for me. Even the basics frustrate me to the point of tears. Just when I think I’m going to stall out, that I’m not going to stay on top of that pedal stroke, it breaks way underneath me, and understanding floods my mathematical muscles, but only momentarily. That old saying, “It’s just like riding a bike” isn’t true for me and math. Every time I get back on it I seem to have no memory of the rules it laid down on our last ride. Come to think of it I’ve never been good at following rules. I think my brain actually exploded in class today. We are forever destined to be strangers, Math and I, wondering what makes each other tick.
Math, along with everything else in my life reminds me of when I first learned to ride single track. I was always in the wrong gear. I picked the worst lines. I crashed a lot and I lost sight of what was in front of me frequently. I’d have rather walked down a hill than ride it for fear of crashing. Flow was rare and I needed new brake pads after every ride, and the soreness of, well you know… EVERYTHING was too much to bear the next day. This is how math makes me feel.
Sometimes when I’m in class I think about climbing the double at the ski area on my geared bike. I used to sit at the bottom of that hill and watch the crazy SOB’s that climbed it. I thought I would never be able to do it. Thank God I’m usually wrong about my abilities. I think about how it never gets physically “easier” to climb that hill, but the accomplishment and satisfaction that is felt when I’m at the top is worth the pain. I can’t put into words the confidence that is built just by riding a bike up a hill. I tried to recruit Eric into climbing it. I’ve never actually timed it but I bet it takes an Eternity to get to the top, if not five minutes. He followed me once about a third of the way up, called me crazy and went back down. The funny thing is he’s the one who told me the secret to climbing. He said my only concern is the five feet in front of me. That’s what he told me, so that’s what I do, and I make it… every time. I pray that the same will hold true with math.
Enough about math mountains; here I am a year later going to school. I’m excited and terrified about the decisions I’ve made. It’s taken some adjustment. Juggling kids, school, work and exercise is a double time job, and just as things start to feel right, my car takes a dump. The transmission died on the last day of the first week of class. Things just tend to work out for me like that. It did however carry me all the way back from Muskegon to my apartment in Grandville. In my mind this new development serves as confirmation that I won’t be going to school after all, and how could I be silly enough to believe that I was supposed to? I mean this whole thing developed from a random reading of a horoscope right? Psycho! So I do the next right thing. I discard the idea that I might be able to commute on my bike, and then...I panic. I realize how alone and wrong I am about pretty much everything. I call the ladies from my bible study to inform them that God answered their prayers by killing my car. I had just asked them the week before to pray for it, because it’s old, and I have to drive 80 miles a day for school. While I was telling Sue (our bible study leader) about my predicament she says “Well Jody, my Jodi is in Europe this week. You can just use her car.” Here I go chasing the white rabbit again.
I decide it’s too late to withdraw from classes and get a full refund. My car is too old and the transmission is to expensive fix. I don’t know how I’m going to finish the term, let alone my degree. I’ll never pass math anyway, and I could be in a chair any day now. I may as well give up. It was never realistic for me to go to school. I hate that my thinking takes a nose dive like this. I can chuckle now, but at the time this is all that is real to me. Fortunately instead of succumbing to what my head tells me I jump on her offer. Along with the relief comes the next wave of panic. What am I going to do after Jodi gets back?
I call my friend Speedy, who is a partial quadriplegic. He is in part what inspired my program choice. This guy is incredible. He does more than most able bodied people I know. He used to be a car salesman. He has connections. He said he would try to help me out. As he is hanging up the phone he tells me not to worry and he adds “Think Toyota!” Whatever, I’m just thinking wheels at this point. I don’t care what kind. I spend the next several days looking for a dirt cheap car, and putting the word out that I need help. Fortunately for me, my niece who isn’t allowed to drive lets me borrow her car for the time being while I try to figure something out.
In the midst of all this I get a call from a friend of mine who just broke up with her fiance`. She is very upset and just needs to talk. She goes on to tell me that before she met him she made a list of what she wants in a mate. He fit that description to a “T”. There is only one problem. She’s no longer attracted to him. I did what I do in these types of situations. I said something highly inappropriate but hilarious. “Yeah I feel your pain. The next list I make I’m going to ask that he not look like Yoda!” It worked. She laughed. The only reason I even mention this is because it loosely ties into my next coincidence.
At the end of January I received an email from my friend who works at the church. She told me that she had a friend who had a car he wanted to donate. She sent me pictures. It was a Toyota and the pictures were titled Yoda! It’s a stretch but my brain will make the leap if it means a good laugh. He’s ugly but he’s got a really good heart. The cool thing is the rust feature. The spots are bi-laterally symmetrical. Michelle gave me a “LOVE WINS” sticker when I brought in a thank-you card for her to give to her anonymous friend. On my way to bible study Tuesday night I stopped at the wash so I could put the sticker on a clean surface. Another bonus feature of the car was revealed. I no longer have to wash my left breast or pit on days that I take it through the wash. This could save time in the mornings. I’ve decided to keep toiletries in the console. As I get out of the car to put the sicker on the bumper I am literally overcome by the beauty of rust, and I know as I peel the backing off my sticker I am once again blessed beyond my comprehension.
I was taking my daughter to her friend’s house last night. She’s an 18 yr old Hippie living in 2009. She’s been performing at a coffee house with her friends. She sings to me because my car doesn’t have a radio. She sang “Who Knows Where the Time Goes” by the Fairport Convention. I know …right? She sings from the back seat to the music on her I-pod. When her own voice breaks through her attempts to sound like someone else, I tear up. She’s good.
I briefly wonder if we have the same effect on God.
I got an obscure email from a stranger yesterday about cobwebs on my blog so I logged in. Sure enough there were cobwebs and much to my surprise new followers. I checked out his blog. I love this guy’s dedication to his family and his creative struggles with time. I’m thinking about a picture of his daughter in her bike helmet and the content of this particular entry as mine is singing. It makes me think of her at that age. The song she is singing is so fitting to what is going on in my head although she is unaware. Who knows where the time goes? My little girl is 18. A year has passed since a wish cast into the universe is manifest. My best friend is getting married. It’s been 3 months since I posted a blog. Who knows where the time goes? All this is running through my head as I offer her words of encouragement on her singing. I give her a few pointers on breathing that I learned in choir back in school. As she is getting out of the car she leans down and peers in at me. “I like how you encourage me mom. You’re good at it.” I cry all the way home knowing it’s been far too long since I’ve cleared out the cobwebs. It’s time to use my “voice” again. Just saying.
January 16, 2008
I was looking through one of those gossip magazines at work the day before yesterday. I casually glanced at my horoscope for kicks. It said to write down my career goals on the 14th. It happened to be the 14th. It seemed strange. I rarely look at these things and the one day that I do, it tells me to do something on the very day it just happens to be. I almost didn’t do it because I don’t believe in these things, and I don’t have any goals. After careful consideration I came up with nothing, so I wrote down “Call SSD and ask them to send information on the “Ticket to work Program.” I tossed the paper in my purse and forgot about it. When I got home the information was in the mail box. *SHOCK* Thank God Thank God Thank God! So I get up yesterday. I look in the mirror. My eyelids are baggy. I sigh, turn around and look at my butt. It’s four inches lower than it was before I went to bed. I turn on the shower. No hot water. It’s going to be one of those days. I call Eric and tell him. He says “I was just meditating and praying about how fortunate we are to have water at all. Poor countries don’t have any water.”
“I’m a poor country” I say. “No you have water. It’s just not hot” “Thanks a lot you Ass!” and I switch the subject to him and Deb. He’s feeling unworthy or something similar. He doesn’t think he’s good enough for her. I start to tell him that I think he deserves a woman that will be good to him. I tell him I think he’s a good man. I can tell he’s crying. He says he values my opinion. We hang up. The whole conversation lasted about 2 minutes. As I get off the toilet I ponder showering in cold water. I wash my hands. The water is hot. I dial him back. “Your water is hot isn’t it!” he says before I can tell him. Again I say Thank God, Thank God, Thank God!
Now, some may say the horoscope thing is absolutely coincidental. I’ll allow them that, but for me these kinds of “happenings” usually set into motion circumstances that I couldn’t have orchestrated, that are beyond my control. It gives me that feeling that Life is living me instead of the other way around. Feeling a bit like Neo in The Matrix, I do the next thing put in front of me. I called about the “Ticket to Work Program.” They did lots of evaluations, ability, and interest test. This process took months. Once I got things narrowed down I did a job shadow at a rehab hospital. This sealed the deal for me. What I saw during my time spent there was nothing short of progress in seemingly hopeless situations. It reminded me of…my life. I was hooked. Given my circumstances mobility is pretty fricken important to me, which would explain why I get frustrated by people who don’t move when they are perfectly capable. Do you know the type? I’m talking about seemingly physically healthy individuals that just don’t like to move. I don’t like it that I am judgmental like that, and I really try not to be. I certainly don’t know each person’s circumstances, but it’s like watching someone waste food or water when you’re not sure how long your own supply is going to last.
Anyway, it appears that you have to be a math magician to be accepted into the PTA program. Algebra is a requirement. I’m missing that chip, so I’m starting at the bottom of the mathematical mountain and I’m grinding my way up, only now I don’t have any gears. (I don’t just mean that metaphorically. I did finally get a Single Speed! WoooHooo!) Math is painful for me. Even the basics frustrate me to the point of tears. Just when I think I’m going to stall out, that I’m not going to stay on top of that pedal stroke, it breaks way underneath me, and understanding floods my mathematical muscles, but only momentarily. That old saying, “It’s just like riding a bike” isn’t true for me and math. Every time I get back on it I seem to have no memory of the rules it laid down on our last ride. Come to think of it I’ve never been good at following rules. I think my brain actually exploded in class today. We are forever destined to be strangers, Math and I, wondering what makes each other tick.
Math, along with everything else in my life reminds me of when I first learned to ride single track. I was always in the wrong gear. I picked the worst lines. I crashed a lot and I lost sight of what was in front of me frequently. I’d have rather walked down a hill than ride it for fear of crashing. Flow was rare and I needed new brake pads after every ride, and the soreness of, well you know… EVERYTHING was too much to bear the next day. This is how math makes me feel.
Sometimes when I’m in class I think about climbing the double at the ski area on my geared bike. I used to sit at the bottom of that hill and watch the crazy SOB’s that climbed it. I thought I would never be able to do it. Thank God I’m usually wrong about my abilities. I think about how it never gets physically “easier” to climb that hill, but the accomplishment and satisfaction that is felt when I’m at the top is worth the pain. I can’t put into words the confidence that is built just by riding a bike up a hill. I tried to recruit Eric into climbing it. I’ve never actually timed it but I bet it takes an Eternity to get to the top, if not five minutes. He followed me once about a third of the way up, called me crazy and went back down. The funny thing is he’s the one who told me the secret to climbing. He said my only concern is the five feet in front of me. That’s what he told me, so that’s what I do, and I make it… every time. I pray that the same will hold true with math.
Enough about math mountains; here I am a year later going to school. I’m excited and terrified about the decisions I’ve made. It’s taken some adjustment. Juggling kids, school, work and exercise is a double time job, and just as things start to feel right, my car takes a dump. The transmission died on the last day of the first week of class. Things just tend to work out for me like that. It did however carry me all the way back from Muskegon to my apartment in Grandville. In my mind this new development serves as confirmation that I won’t be going to school after all, and how could I be silly enough to believe that I was supposed to? I mean this whole thing developed from a random reading of a horoscope right? Psycho! So I do the next right thing. I discard the idea that I might be able to commute on my bike, and then...I panic. I realize how alone and wrong I am about pretty much everything. I call the ladies from my bible study to inform them that God answered their prayers by killing my car. I had just asked them the week before to pray for it, because it’s old, and I have to drive 80 miles a day for school. While I was telling Sue (our bible study leader) about my predicament she says “Well Jody, my Jodi is in Europe this week. You can just use her car.” Here I go chasing the white rabbit again.
I decide it’s too late to withdraw from classes and get a full refund. My car is too old and the transmission is to expensive fix. I don’t know how I’m going to finish the term, let alone my degree. I’ll never pass math anyway, and I could be in a chair any day now. I may as well give up. It was never realistic for me to go to school. I hate that my thinking takes a nose dive like this. I can chuckle now, but at the time this is all that is real to me. Fortunately instead of succumbing to what my head tells me I jump on her offer. Along with the relief comes the next wave of panic. What am I going to do after Jodi gets back?
I call my friend Speedy, who is a partial quadriplegic. He is in part what inspired my program choice. This guy is incredible. He does more than most able bodied people I know. He used to be a car salesman. He has connections. He said he would try to help me out. As he is hanging up the phone he tells me not to worry and he adds “Think Toyota!” Whatever, I’m just thinking wheels at this point. I don’t care what kind. I spend the next several days looking for a dirt cheap car, and putting the word out that I need help. Fortunately for me, my niece who isn’t allowed to drive lets me borrow her car for the time being while I try to figure something out.
In the midst of all this I get a call from a friend of mine who just broke up with her fiance`. She is very upset and just needs to talk. She goes on to tell me that before she met him she made a list of what she wants in a mate. He fit that description to a “T”. There is only one problem. She’s no longer attracted to him. I did what I do in these types of situations. I said something highly inappropriate but hilarious. “Yeah I feel your pain. The next list I make I’m going to ask that he not look like Yoda!” It worked. She laughed. The only reason I even mention this is because it loosely ties into my next coincidence.
At the end of January I received an email from my friend who works at the church. She told me that she had a friend who had a car he wanted to donate. She sent me pictures. It was a Toyota and the pictures were titled Yoda! It’s a stretch but my brain will make the leap if it means a good laugh. He’s ugly but he’s got a really good heart. The cool thing is the rust feature. The spots are bi-laterally symmetrical. Michelle gave me a “LOVE WINS” sticker when I brought in a thank-you card for her to give to her anonymous friend. On my way to bible study Tuesday night I stopped at the wash so I could put the sticker on a clean surface. Another bonus feature of the car was revealed. I no longer have to wash my left breast or pit on days that I take it through the wash. This could save time in the mornings. I’ve decided to keep toiletries in the console. As I get out of the car to put the sicker on the bumper I am literally overcome by the beauty of rust, and I know as I peel the backing off my sticker I am once again blessed beyond my comprehension.
I was taking my daughter to her friend’s house last night. She’s an 18 yr old Hippie living in 2009. She’s been performing at a coffee house with her friends. She sings to me because my car doesn’t have a radio. She sang “Who Knows Where the Time Goes” by the Fairport Convention. I know …right? She sings from the back seat to the music on her I-pod. When her own voice breaks through her attempts to sound like someone else, I tear up. She’s good.
I briefly wonder if we have the same effect on God.
I got an obscure email from a stranger yesterday about cobwebs on my blog so I logged in. Sure enough there were cobwebs and much to my surprise new followers. I checked out his blog. I love this guy’s dedication to his family and his creative struggles with time. I’m thinking about a picture of his daughter in her bike helmet and the content of this particular entry as mine is singing. It makes me think of her at that age. The song she is singing is so fitting to what is going on in my head although she is unaware. Who knows where the time goes? My little girl is 18. A year has passed since a wish cast into the universe is manifest. My best friend is getting married. It’s been 3 months since I posted a blog. Who knows where the time goes? All this is running through my head as I offer her words of encouragement on her singing. I give her a few pointers on breathing that I learned in choir back in school. As she is getting out of the car she leans down and peers in at me. “I like how you encourage me mom. You’re good at it.” I cry all the way home knowing it’s been far too long since I’ve cleared out the cobwebs. It’s time to use my “voice” again. Just saying.
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