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Week 2/ October 10-17 - Page 2

post #21 of 76
I posted last week's projects before I found the Week 1 thread to read. Wow, lots of intimidating talent out there in MDCland!

Before I chicken out, here's my next post:


The time of my life...

The time of my life when my mother would play Strauss waltzes, and I'd close my eyes and be carried away to the ballroom of a palace, wear an opulent dress, and swirl with a handsome partner under glittering chandeliers.

The time of my life when I still dreamt of college and achievement, but resigned myself to being the cook, cleaner, and caretaker for my father, grandfather, and uncle. The time of my life when I made the clearheaded decision to marry the eager young man who offered a proposal, because it was the only alternative.

The time of my life when I realized I'd grown to love him. The time of my life when our daughter was born, and I saw that there was nothing else I really ever wanted. Everything that had happened to me led to this family, my reason for living was for this baby, and for the ones who I imagined would follow.

The time of my life when I opened my front door, baby in my arms, to one who brought news that my beautiful husband had been killed. The time of my life when drop by drop, I lost everything I knew, but I still had my spirit because I was a mother.

The time of my life when a warm gentle hand reached across a canyon to me, but politics and prejudice built a wall between us...and walls within us.

The time of my life when I could do nothing to prevent my daughter from being snatched from me by the claws of hate. The time of my life when she was gone and my soul was so shattered, there was nothing left inside of me to live, so I lay down and died.

The time of my life, before I was born.
post #22 of 76
can I join...I am so excited about this...I read the rules..

Thank you
post #23 of 76

to Mamabeca

Great to have another Cap. reg. writer here! Good to be writing with you!
post #24 of 76
The time of my life for bearing children is drawing to a close~38~how did I get to be 38? A blink ago I was 24 and trying not to laugh too much because it created lines in my face. I feared aging at 24 but then again, what did I know, I was only 24.

Then my first daughter was born..and of course I couldn't STOP laughing. There was too much joy! To hell with lines! I breathed her breath and she breathed mine and I thought I was complete.

Then her sister made more lines! She is my spirited child, my genius in short pants who challenges me, loves me and keeps me young somehow as the lines grow deeper around my eyes.

But I was only 29 then so there was lots of time for more babies!

But oh how long I waited for my newest joy! 9 long years between babies. She is a different sort, a child whose mother has deeper lines and that is to her advantage. She chose me as her mother because she needs the mother I am now not the mother I was then!

Please one more! Just once more to feel that child inside and keep it all to myself for a while. Once more to push life into the world and feel that awe-inspiring moment of becoming a mother!

A 4th child, unlikely as I quickly approach forty. The lines are deep, the furrows and wrinkling beginning. I know the reality is I a am unlikely to be mama to four.

But I need another baby! Those beautiful pursed lips at the breast, large eyes looking at you from your cradled arms.

What I have learned at 38 is that the lines do not matter, it's how you earn them that counts and in joy I earned each and every one!

I believe a lot more joy and few more lines would be entirely welcome!
post #25 of 76

The last time...

The last time I smoked a cigarette I was two days pregnant. I haven't told anyone that before (my husband knows it though). Sometimes I feel like I care too much about what others think of my parenting style (smoking two days pregnant included) and other times I feel like I did the other day at Old Navy when I told the woman who called Banyan "the chubbiest baby I've ever seen" not to pinch his cheeks. Becoming a parent really elicits a LOT of never before dispensed opinions, doesn't it? Banyan is fine, of course. No negative effects from my one lapse in willpower. That also was the last time during my pregnancy that I drank wine or smoked herb either. At least the toxins all filtered in at the same time, before my placenta was attached. (I'm good at making excuses for myself!)

Banyan is more than fine. He is every cliché I can think of all rolled into one. You know, ray of sunshine, bundle of joy, light of my life…He really is all of those things. I can't wait for him to wake up from his nap right now. He has been sleeping for two and a half hours…He should be especially happy when he wakes. His eyes will open, then slowly close again to teeny slits. I will go and sit next to him and tell him good morning (even though it's 5:33 in the afternoon) and touch him and smell him and kiss him. He will give me a big, gummy, uninhibited, perfectly perfect smile. I will nurse him and then take him to the beach to watch the sunset. Last time we went for sunset, he found a pelican with his eyes and followed him as he flew across the water, talons touching gracefully down every other wave.
post #26 of 76

10 mins. The Time of My Life...

The time of my life is still looming in the distance. I don't think I've had it yet. But when I do have it I want to experience it with my husband and my girls.

Some say that high school is the time of your life. Yeah, right. Not unless you really enjoy peer pressure, homework, gossip, being bullied, ar getting your heart broken.

Some say college is the time of your life. And maybe it is... if you get a chance to go. But if you don't go and instead, get married and start a family, have you missed out on the time of your life? Hmmmm. I wonder. No, no I don't think so.

The time of my life is slowly unfolding. Closer now than it's ever been. I've surrendered to motherhood. I know who I am. I know what my family's needs are. But the time of my life won't happen until my needs are met.

What is it that I need now? Perhaps more free time? A clean home? The dishes put away? A new haircut? Maybe some new jeans? No. No. That can't be it.

I need to feel content. To know that I am secure. Secure in my role as a mother, a lover, a friend, a woman. Security in myself.

The time of my life is approaching. I can see it in the distance.

And like the sun rises to shine its light across the dew-drops on the grass, the time of my life approaches.
post #27 of 76

10 mins. "My Best Day..."

My best days were during my childhood. Before marriage, kids, housework, and war were a concern. Before any heavy burdens were placed upon my back. My best days were, by far, during my childhood spent on family camping trips.

I recall coming home from school on several occasions to find that my dad had arrived home from work early. Always such a pleasant surprise. I would find him sorting through various boxes in the garage, looking for camping gear. Tent, tarp, stove, rope, sleeping bags. And don't forget the big green lantern! He would load our gear into the van. We would find some extra things to take (Barbie, blankie, markers) and off we would go. Usually a state park. Sometimes with a lake or a stream. Always with tall trees. The smell of the campground still lingers in my memory.

What is it about nature that would bring out the best in our family? I remember being so careless and utterly happy the entire time. Swinging from the thick vines like we were Tarzan. Collecting acorns. Looking at fallen leaves. Following strange bugs. Standing statuesque as a deer and her fawn entered our sight. Perhaps there was no better cure for pety sibling rivalry than a weekend campout.

I can remember curling up in my sleeping bag in the tent, wearing extra layers of clothes, so as not to get too chilled. Without fail, I would have to wake up in the middle of the night to go pee. Always scared that a strange "creature of the night" was waiting for me.

And when we awoke with the first gleamings of the morning sun, we all felt so refreshed and alive. Cleansed. And victorious that we had made it through the night outside of our home and cozy beds. I remember that the tent was always on a hill of some kind, and feeling slightly off balance as I stood up. Dad would set up his green camp stove and make pancakes. "Eat them before they get cold!" This, accompanied with too-hot hot cocoa. And bacon and eggs - Dad's staples. Always a small campfire going with marshmallows to roast. And after breakfast, it was time to explore some more. More deer to watch. More bugs to follow. More vines to swing from.

I hold these memories so sacred and dear. When my daughters are old enough to embark on such adventures, I will be there to let them. I will give them their "best days".
post #28 of 76

my best day

My best day is made up of days. They started before puberty, all in a group, all full of freedom. Days and days of summer camp, with friends and bug juice and a slimy-bottomed lake. Days and days of winter vacation, snow outside and TV and blankets inside. Days and days of visiting Grandma in Southern California where the sun smelled sweet and light, just like my grandma's body powder. Days and days of springtime bike rides all over town, up and down the neighborhood streets where my friends lived, until a caravan of kids were riding around like nutcases, no helmets (of course) and the warm spring air finally making its way into our world after a long hibernation.

Before I cared who cared about my clothes, shoes, haircut. It seems once I realized that some people actually DID care how I wrote on the board, what kind of shoes I wore to the 7th grade dance, or whether I had a pair of Jordache jeans tight enough to choke lemonade out of a lemon, the fun ended. And for a long time, it was really over. I hated myself, the kids around me, my parents. It all seemed so vague and unreal. And then, somewhere in California, it became real again. The drugs wore off, maybe, and I had a new best day, a grown-up best day when I enrolled in school, got a regualr part-time job, and enjoyed my life without caring, once again, what people thought about my clothes, shoes, haircut. I enjoyed the temperature outside, the posters I chose for my walls, the comfort of shoes that were slightly ugly but fit me well. I never did mind, ever again, whether someone was inspired by my clothing, or my haircut. I left it behind, left it with the self-abuse and the anger at the world that was so characteristic of my late teens and early 20's. I lost something, then, a spice - a fever - and I gained back my happiness. And now, through the frustrations and discomfort and even downright neglect of motherhood, so long as I remember not to care about what other people care about, I find happiness. And new best days are creeping together, full of afternoon bike rides with my daughter, snow days full of Bedknobs and Broomsticks, summer days full of crummy HiC and slimy-bottomed lakes. I only hope they are part of her best days.
post #29 of 76
I would like to join too.
post #30 of 76

mothering... 15 mins. freewrite

We're out of Brillo pads again...no way to get the gunk off the frying pan. I fill it with the hottest water and some soap and let it soak.

What I really want to do is to take a Brillo pad to you--to strip away the leftovers of life; brittle, closed, concealed. I want to make you raw, vulnerable and clean. You'd balk--never allow it. You prefer SOS pads, anyway.

I want to scrub away years of bitterness like particles of dried egg or drippings from a roast. I want to rinse you under scalding water until that hardness around you cracks, blisters, peels away.

What happened within you that turned life's events sour and ugly? You see the world and everything (everyone) in it as a disappointment. You see your children as your own failures--stacked up like so many dirty dishes.

You've said aloud that if you knew then what you know now, you'd have never married nor had children. You'd have become a teacher or a missionary or a horse farmer...done something so drastically different...done something "useful and worthwhile".

Now, you age. Particles of leftovers stuck to you, dried and caked and part of your material. You are "too old" to make a difference or to care or to reflect on things. Too hardened and brittle to consider letting go. There is no scrubbing vigorous enough, no rinse effective against the years and your choices. Your choices and the events of your life, not much different from those many made, and make. Yet yours leave a residue, built up over time. You are so encased with these remnants--having neglected to clean as you go. No chance or choice to reflect, to change, to grow, to incorporate experiences into your being in a way which makes you better, not bitter.

And I cannot make you clean. I cannot give you a fresh start. My scrubbing is futile and wears me out.

I can only tend to my own dishes with more care.
post #31 of 76
How do you join? I just seen this thread?

Should we wait for the next assignment? Or do we just write here?

Steff
post #32 of 76
Sorry
I am also wondering is it 10 min each topic or 10 min to do all 3 topics?

Steff
post #33 of 76

Mothering...

Mothering is an honest, ugly business.

Each morning, I lay bare
beneath my son’s watchful gaze
the pages of my untold stories.

An abandoned thesis in the unfocused
way I fix his breakfast. A fear of strangers in
the tentative way we cross our street. A
love of jazz in the syncopated way I hang
his laundry.

Like an ancient abacus,
he reveals to me
the balance of my gains and losses.

This is the source of my cognitive dissonance:
That in every small embrace,
I am giving him the tools
to leave me one day.
post #34 of 76
May I?

Here's what I came up with...

The time of my life I felt happiest was when everything was the opposite of how it is now. Which is strange, because even now I am happy. It is a different happy. An on-track happy. Then, it was a freedom happy and being taken care of. It was when the spring turned to summer and I was there at the house with the family around me, working, going to school and in love with someone who loved me back with an intensity I have not found since.

We were together every night, breathing slowly and silently, due to the importance of sneaking because what we were doing was immoral and certainly illegal. Me, divorced at 21, and he a teenage foreign exchange student. We held each other. He taught me to say “I love you” in his language. We explored each other's geography. It was all in the present and we refused to think of the future. We knew we had no future. We refused to acknowledge that time was passing. We rolled ourselves into a blanket cocoon on the deep green lawn which I never had to mow or even think about, we lay there under it holding each other and hoping nobody was looking out the window and loving the sunshine but ignoring the turning of the sun's rays to the north, whispering to us that summer was upon us and his departure date was drawing near.

We walked. We met at the park. We tiptoed silently down the hallway past the parents' room night after night as his departure date drew near. We never slept. And we became careless. We threw caution to the wind and when were were at the amusement park we grabbed each other, held each other, held hands, let all the touching come out into the air and the sunlight and the vision of those who held the keys to the house, the ride home, our lives. We sneaked sideways glances at their eyes. They were smiling. My mom later said she knew for quite some time. How couldn't you? When he left my world fell apart. I built it up again, and it is now a more real, a more true happiness. The colors are not as bright as those days perhaps but they are beautiful and I remember those days as the time of my life.

(edited to add some paragraph breaks--I just couldn't stand it!)
post #35 of 76
Steff -

Welcome! It is ten minutes for each topic. Join by posting at least one topic from this week here.
post #36 of 76

The last time she was at one with the universe

The upper left corner of the jigsaw puzzle is nearly complete. It shows a small white house with dormer windows, two on each side, the back ones looking out over a lush green grassy yard and then a large field with wildflowers, lupine and columbine packed in densely, reaching to the edge of the forest. Where there stands, still in the meadow, a twin birch tree, its white bark papery delicate, the green leaves fluttering. At the base of the tree, where the twin trunks merge into one and then plunge underground, there is a small hand hewn, wooden cross, tied at the x with some twine and a small clear glass bottle holding some flowers. A woman stands nearby handing her daughter with long stringy dirty blond hair another crysanthemum.

The puzzle though is missing a piece, the woman's face and so I don't know her expression. I want to ask my mother to help me find it. But I don't know if she would make a piece if she couldn't find the original, and maybe the woman's expression would have a bit more sunlight in it.

[Husbands cell phone rings...]

The girl with the stringy hair and the too arched eyebrows and too big front teeth that she gets from her father is holding a very soft furry angora rabbit. A baby bunny she cuddles as she walks around the small yard, her feet sinking in the cool green grass, and her mind saying, here and here and here are the edges of the yard you must not go beyond.

And she sets the rabbit down and it nibbles the green blades and hops and nibbles and hops but never ventures beyond the edges of the yard. And the girl with the stringy hair and the brown arms knows she is one with the rabbit and the universe and holds the golden ball of joy in her heart breathing the air from the atlantic ocean beyond the forest at the end of the meadow where the twin birch stands.
post #37 of 76
There are a few pieces I've felt compelled to return to, mull over, sleep on, twiddle, what I mean is, edit.

Must the posts here be in the original form (nearly impossible to really do with retyping), or is the worked over form acceptable?
post #38 of 76
Okay, First time. LOL

The time of my life........


The time of my life is just beginning. I feel strange things happening and I am not sure why. How did this happen? Was I meant to be? Am I going to like what I become? As I patiently wait till myself develops I can't stop wondering what I am to look like. Something’s growing. A simple feeling of warm and comfort, a soft sound here and there. This is exciting.

What is this I can move? It looks funny. What are they for? I like them they are fun. I hear something so soft and sweet. It is like my own thoughts in my head but on the outside. Who is it? What is it? I don't know. I wish I could hear it more often than not. The peace it brings inside of me I just don’t want to let go.

I am tired of here, I have been here for a long time. I am too curious what’s out there to stay much longer. I am crowded and frustrated and it’s so dark. Is this what I am to be? Here forever in darkness. Now I am scared, what am I going to do. Where can I go? I know there is something more. But what?

Wait! There it is, that soft sound that makes me smile. I love to hear it, yes, I do. I wonder what makes that sound, I wish I could see it. It must be something beautiful. It has to be. A sound that can do so much to me.

Ouch that hurt. What is going on? I am moving. But where? I don't want to leave any more. I like it here. That sound, where is it? I need it now. Oh no.

It is no longer dark. It is no longer safe. It’s cold, and bright. So many noises, what does this mean? Have I become something different? I liked what I was, what I became. I am scared and tired. I have pain I never felt before. Oh I don't think I like this place very much.

Oh there it is that sound so sweet and soft. It is so close and clear. Here is my chance to see what makes this sound. Oh wow. I was right! It is beautiful. It is so warm. I am safe again. This isn't so bad here with this sound. As long as, this sound stays. I think I'll stay.
What should I call this sound? For all it makes me feel.
I know!
I 'll call it Mother.
post #39 of 76
The last time I cried was when I was out running errands because I just couldn't take it anymore. To be trapped and wanting to be free. I know how to fix it but I don't. I don't really want to. I like the pain, I guess. I won't cry in front of him anymore because the pain then becomes unbearable. My pain must hurt him more than it hurts me. Why, then, would it cause him to push me away instead of pulling me close?

The last time I cried before that was when my cat, my beloved friend of 13 years, died. I had to make the decision to put her down. I cried the night before, as I had cried the night before that, and he had watched me with a sort of detached wondering. I cried that same day it happened as we walked in the open grassy fields searching for some kind of peace. I wrapped my long black sweater around my shaking and closed my eyes in the breeze. I felt as light and cold and gray as the clouds as I drifted down the trail with my eyes closed. I was a mess. I missed my gray friend. I wanted to blow away in the wind and meet her on the other side. The others were silent and they were there around me but I only now remember me feeling deeply alone, feeling unacceptably emotional. Feeling empty.

The days after were white and disturbing. I cried at odd moments. All this for a cat. Feeling so alone in my tears I hid around corners and stopped talking about it. I wished he'd cared. I wished for holding, for touch. I wished for connection. Now I cry alone. I can't cry only to be left alone, the alone will be of my choosing. I can cry while driving. I can cry in the shower. Nothing is worse than the alone you feel when there is someone right there beside you.
post #40 of 76

Mothering...

When you become a motherthe world changes. But mostly your own mother changes. She is no longer just your mom. I always viewed my mom as a mom and nothing else. She was ALWAYS my mother, she had no other roll in the world except to be my mother. So when I became pregnant I realized that once upon a time my mother was not a mother she was Joan. I imagine from what I've heard that she was quiet, intelligant, troubled, hopeful, and a little rebellious.She had plans, and I still don't know what they were. When my mother was in elementary school, in High School I don't know who she was, or what she thought about.When you think about who you were before becoming a mother, , and then you think of how your own child will view you it really makes you want to KNOW your mother I know a few stories of my mother, but I wish I could know Joan.
When I call her to ask advice or resolve a problem I now know that she doesn't always know the right thing to do or say. She isn't All knowing as I have always thought, as I thought until I became a mother myself. Mothering doesn't come with an instruction book, but hopefully it comes with a good example, and a lot of support from someone who's already done it herself. My mother didn't have either, but somehow raised 5 great kids. Now I have the best example of motherhood and she's willing to take my calls 24 hours a day.
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