When I was eleven years old, I wrote a poem. I worked for days to perfect it. I searched the thesaurus in the school's library, I read it aloud in front of a mirror. I worked harder than I had ever worked on any assignment. I labored. I shared it with exactly one person. A trusted teacher. I remember the butterflies in my stomach when I left it on his desk and shyly asked him to read it. "I wrote this thing." I said, unwilling to even label it as a poem, because, in my sixth grade mind, poems were for professionals.
Two days went by, I studied his face during every class. He gave no indication that he had any sort of reaction at all, and for little while, I wondered if I had actually left the paper, or if I had somehow dreamed the entire thing.
On the second day, during the last class, during the last minute of the day, he requested that I stay after the bell rang. I spent the next few minutes in a kind of frozen hell. I wanted to throw up, and then run, or run while throwing up.
After the last classmate had left the room, he said that he had liked my poem, that he could tell that I had worked hard on it. My spirit lifted. Then, he said, "Do you know what the word 'plagiarize' means?" I said that I did. Then he went on to detail what happens when a writer steals another writer's work. That passing someone else's work off as one's own is dishonest and hurtful to the person who put their best efforts into whatever they were writing. I got the message. The poem was good, so good, in fact, that my trusted teacher didn't believe that I had written it.
The poem found it's way into the trash can, I faced a long, sad walk home. I hadn't copied anyone's work. The words had been mine alone. I couldn't be angry with him. He had been as kind as an adult could be who was crushing the inspiration of a preteen girl. I am nearly forty years old, and all it takes is a second to remember the shame I felt, needlessly, sitting in that empty classroom. Words matter.
Two days ago, I shared a post about my father's death. A teacher I trusted and adored (and still adore!) in eighth grade commented that I should write more often. Her praise of my words lifted me up and made my feet light for the rest of the day. She had that effect in the eighth grade, as well. Words matter.
I write all the time. I write long, elaborate stories in my head. I write while I am reading and cooking and folding laundry. I write because it's how my brain works. I just don't share because that is also how my brain works. Sometimes I sit at the computer typing for hours. I reread what I wrote, and then I wish for anonymity because writing is a whole different animal from sharing. Sharing doesn't come anywhere near as easily as writing. Every single time I have shared a blog post, I feel like vomiting. Or running. Or running while I vomit. I always, without fail, want to take it all back and shove it back inside my head for another day. But the words matter.
I am happiest when I am putting thought to paper (or screen, as the case may be). So, I just wanted to say, thank you for reading my words. Thank you for your comments. Thank you for your 'likes' on Facebook. Thank you for the texts you sent. Thank you for what you said to me out loud, with all the world around us to hear. Your words? They matter. I carry them around with me, sometimes for YEARS.
There's a great quote, "Be sure to taste your words before you spit them out". This week, all of your words tasted sweet and light- and I am really and truly grateful.
Wednesday, August 23, 2017
Monday, August 21, 2017
Post Game Analysis- Eclipse Edition
Let's clear this up right off the bat- I wasn't excited about the eclipse until the tenth article I read, WAY too late last night. I didn't get special glasses. I didn't intend to keep the kids home. I was pretty ambivalent about the whole thing until I started reading online articles describing how rare and beautiful of an event it was going to be.
I woke up this morning, I signed the permission slip allowing Zoe to watch the show, I drove her to school, came home and poured my heart out in a blog post that had little to do with the eclipse, but also, everything to do with it. I was exited. I was observant and watchful of the sky, which, in truth, was pretty cloudy in my little corner of the world.
Here are some of my observations.
1. My dogs were acting very strange. From about 10am until 1pm, they paced, and repeatedly went to the door and barked. I don't think it really had much to do with the eclipse, though. They're pretty strange on any given day. Also, they like to go outside and play with the cats. There may have been a leaf blowing in the yard that they were barking at? Maybe I witnessed the effect of the celestial event on their behavior, but I think it was far more likely that I witnessed Just Another Day With The Abramo Dogz.
2. The cats outside could not, and probably would not, have given two craps about what was going on in the heavens. Not that I saw, anyway.
3. As the time approached what was said to be nearest to totality, it gradually got pretty dark. Crickets and the like were chirping. The light around my house was kind of eerie. I went back inside to check on the weirdo dogs and when I came back out, low and behold, John came gunning down the driveway, back from an extended weekend in Buffalo, NY with family. He pulled in two minutes before the maximum moment of totality. He likes to push the envelope.
4. We BOTH stared up at the sun, sans protective eyewear, despite all of the warnings. It should be noted that I did keep the dogs inside to protect THEIR eyes.
5. We didn't see much. It was pretty cloudy.
6. It gradually started to get lighter again.
7. I felt off-centered and jittery. At first I thought I was having some kind of "One with the universe" moment. A psychic/medium, who's page I like on Facebook (don't judge me!) said that if you were to feel anxious before, during or after the eclipse, you should 'ground down'. Literally, go outside and stand on the ground, barefoot. So, I was heading back out to do just that & figured the dogs needed to go potty by this point, and took them out, too. Then I realized that I was standing barefoot in what is my dog's bathroom, so I stepped back up onto the deck and waited for them to finish their business. While waiting, I realized that I had drank a cup of coffee, my first in almost two months, on an empty stomach. So, I went inside and ate some cheese crackers and I felt a lot better.
8. John and I watched part of the latest episode of Game of Thrones, I went and picked up Zo, he fell asleep.
The whole thing was kind of anti-climatic but I checked out Facebook and I saw a lot of very, very cool pictures of other people's eclipse experiences and something occurred to me. While I stood outside (unwisely) staring at the heavens, an awful lot of people were doing the same. A number of my fellow humans were out there, searching the sky for an experience. Waiting for the light to fade, and then shine again. Maybe some of us were frightened of it not shining again. Maybe some of us just wanted a break from the work day. Maybe some of us are fascinated by the fact that we know so much about the universe, and yet so very little. But, we were all out there, looking. Democrats, Republicans. Conservatives and liberals. Black and white and every color in between. Men and women and everyone in between. We were rich, and poor, and middle class, and we were watching.
"No matter how dark the moment, love and hope are always possible." -George Chakiris
I woke up this morning, I signed the permission slip allowing Zoe to watch the show, I drove her to school, came home and poured my heart out in a blog post that had little to do with the eclipse, but also, everything to do with it. I was exited. I was observant and watchful of the sky, which, in truth, was pretty cloudy in my little corner of the world.
Here are some of my observations.
1. My dogs were acting very strange. From about 10am until 1pm, they paced, and repeatedly went to the door and barked. I don't think it really had much to do with the eclipse, though. They're pretty strange on any given day. Also, they like to go outside and play with the cats. There may have been a leaf blowing in the yard that they were barking at? Maybe I witnessed the effect of the celestial event on their behavior, but I think it was far more likely that I witnessed Just Another Day With The Abramo Dogz.
2. The cats outside could not, and probably would not, have given two craps about what was going on in the heavens. Not that I saw, anyway.
3. As the time approached what was said to be nearest to totality, it gradually got pretty dark. Crickets and the like were chirping. The light around my house was kind of eerie. I went back inside to check on the weirdo dogs and when I came back out, low and behold, John came gunning down the driveway, back from an extended weekend in Buffalo, NY with family. He pulled in two minutes before the maximum moment of totality. He likes to push the envelope.
4. We BOTH stared up at the sun, sans protective eyewear, despite all of the warnings. It should be noted that I did keep the dogs inside to protect THEIR eyes.
5. We didn't see much. It was pretty cloudy.
6. It gradually started to get lighter again.
7. I felt off-centered and jittery. At first I thought I was having some kind of "One with the universe" moment. A psychic/medium, who's page I like on Facebook (don't judge me!) said that if you were to feel anxious before, during or after the eclipse, you should 'ground down'. Literally, go outside and stand on the ground, barefoot. So, I was heading back out to do just that & figured the dogs needed to go potty by this point, and took them out, too. Then I realized that I was standing barefoot in what is my dog's bathroom, so I stepped back up onto the deck and waited for them to finish their business. While waiting, I realized that I had drank a cup of coffee, my first in almost two months, on an empty stomach. So, I went inside and ate some cheese crackers and I felt a lot better.
8. John and I watched part of the latest episode of Game of Thrones, I went and picked up Zo, he fell asleep.
The whole thing was kind of anti-climatic but I checked out Facebook and I saw a lot of very, very cool pictures of other people's eclipse experiences and something occurred to me. While I stood outside (unwisely) staring at the heavens, an awful lot of people were doing the same. A number of my fellow humans were out there, searching the sky for an experience. Waiting for the light to fade, and then shine again. Maybe some of us were frightened of it not shining again. Maybe some of us just wanted a break from the work day. Maybe some of us are fascinated by the fact that we know so much about the universe, and yet so very little. But, we were all out there, looking. Democrats, Republicans. Conservatives and liberals. Black and white and every color in between. Men and women and everyone in between. We were rich, and poor, and middle class, and we were watching.
"No matter how dark the moment, love and hope are always possible." -George Chakiris
Eclipsed
Today at 11:37am, the moon will begin to cover the sun. At 1:03pm, it will reach maximum coverage, and will continue to move across the sun until 2:29pm. For a few minutes the day will become night. The shadows will take over. An event that astronomers say hasn't occurred in the United States, in this capacity, in nearly a hundred years.
But I know better.
Seven years ago today, on a hot afternoon, surrounded by people who love him deeply, my father died. The light hid in the shadows of grief and I couldn't feel the sun shining. I remember the beginning. I remember when the shadows began their journey across my sun, but the details surrounding it grow murkier every day. Because I have learned that it wasn't all about the darkness. Seven years ago on this day, my sun indeed went dark, and it was incredibly painful, and it was hard to navigate in the twilight, but with time, the sun began to shine again, if not quite as bright as before.
In the beginning, I had a difficult time just walking around with that darkness hanging over me. My grief was heavy and weighed down every moment of the day. My world seemed to constantly exist in a perpetual state of gloom. Inky blackness threatened everything. I couldn't remember anything but the darkness. Seven years later, I chose to remember the moments when the sun shined so brilliantly. I chose to remember, not the moment of maximum totality, but all of the moments before that, when I lived with his laugh and the warmth of his smile.
Last week, I was shopping in a local store. The cashier's phone began to ring from her pocket and from an aisle close to the registers, I heard her say, "Hi Mom", and then she let out a big laugh and said, "Sorry, Dad!" When I put my purchases on the counter, she apologized to me for taking the call. I told her that there was absolutely no need for an apology. When I got to my car, I nearly wept with the knowledge that my phone isn't going to ring. And then, that night, I had a dream about a house on west 10th Street, with my father peeking over the top of a cup of coffee. We didn't speak. It only lasted a moment. But for that moment, the sun was bright.
He was funny and sarcastic and flawed. He cried when his dog died, he smoked like a chimney. He drank his iced tea with no ice. He liked his coffee black and his jokes R-rated. He worked hard to have a beautiful lawn. He was a night owl. He hugged me like no one ever can, or will again. He drove slowly. He listened to country music. He hated potatoes. He shook his head when words escaped him, and you could understand exactly what he was saying. He was stubborn. He could be cold and unmoving. He could be warm and welcoming. He liked socks that reached his knee caps and tee-shirts with pockets and western shirts with pearly buttons. He was lightness, and darkness, and all the shadows in between, and I love him deeply and I miss him the same as the number of stars in the sky.
Seven years ago, when the shadows moved over the sunshine, I could not fathom a moment where I would not feel broken and lost. I have since learned not to fear the shadows of my grief. Shadows exist because there is light nearby.
But I know better.
Seven years ago today, on a hot afternoon, surrounded by people who love him deeply, my father died. The light hid in the shadows of grief and I couldn't feel the sun shining. I remember the beginning. I remember when the shadows began their journey across my sun, but the details surrounding it grow murkier every day. Because I have learned that it wasn't all about the darkness. Seven years ago on this day, my sun indeed went dark, and it was incredibly painful, and it was hard to navigate in the twilight, but with time, the sun began to shine again, if not quite as bright as before.
In the beginning, I had a difficult time just walking around with that darkness hanging over me. My grief was heavy and weighed down every moment of the day. My world seemed to constantly exist in a perpetual state of gloom. Inky blackness threatened everything. I couldn't remember anything but the darkness. Seven years later, I chose to remember the moments when the sun shined so brilliantly. I chose to remember, not the moment of maximum totality, but all of the moments before that, when I lived with his laugh and the warmth of his smile.
Last week, I was shopping in a local store. The cashier's phone began to ring from her pocket and from an aisle close to the registers, I heard her say, "Hi Mom", and then she let out a big laugh and said, "Sorry, Dad!" When I put my purchases on the counter, she apologized to me for taking the call. I told her that there was absolutely no need for an apology. When I got to my car, I nearly wept with the knowledge that my phone isn't going to ring. And then, that night, I had a dream about a house on west 10th Street, with my father peeking over the top of a cup of coffee. We didn't speak. It only lasted a moment. But for that moment, the sun was bright.
He was funny and sarcastic and flawed. He cried when his dog died, he smoked like a chimney. He drank his iced tea with no ice. He liked his coffee black and his jokes R-rated. He worked hard to have a beautiful lawn. He was a night owl. He hugged me like no one ever can, or will again. He drove slowly. He listened to country music. He hated potatoes. He shook his head when words escaped him, and you could understand exactly what he was saying. He was stubborn. He could be cold and unmoving. He could be warm and welcoming. He liked socks that reached his knee caps and tee-shirts with pockets and western shirts with pearly buttons. He was lightness, and darkness, and all the shadows in between, and I love him deeply and I miss him the same as the number of stars in the sky.
Seven years ago, when the shadows moved over the sunshine, I could not fathom a moment where I would not feel broken and lost. I have since learned not to fear the shadows of my grief. Shadows exist because there is light nearby.
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