I have a story to tell

I experienced, and am still experiencing, a fairly major life event. It began in mid-June, and I suppose it hasn't ended yet.

I am writing about it. My plan is to blog about it. Every time I sit down to work on the posting, I find that the story is too simple, too short and way to complicated to be told in just one posting. So I am working on a series of posts that will tell the entire story.

I'm not trying to be difficult or too mysterious. Rest assured that I am healthy and everyone in my life that is important to me is healthy as well. There are no worries about impending catastrophes or that kind of thing. This is important to my personal life, and I think interesting, but not life threatening. I don't think.

But I want to write this. This teaser post is a way to making a public commitment to writing the story.

I'll be write back.

-Ginny

Good News & Bad News

When given the choice, I always want to hear bad news first. It softens the ultimate blow, and even after hearing something I don't like, I know that I have something to look forward to.

So the Bad News:
The last 6 months have been heavily focused on finding a full-time tenure track teaching position at the community college level. Of all the applications packets I completed and sent off, none resulted in either an interview or a job offer. (I heard from the final one last week.) I sent a total of 6 out. That means six separate applications, supplemental questions, copies of my CV, letters of recommendation and transcripts. The average paper count was roughly 23 pages for each. As of now I do not have a full-time benefited job for fall.

Of the six schools, two rescinded their job openings. So in full there were only four true rejections. In all honesty the first three didn't bother me at all. After each I could easily see all the reasons why I didn't really want to work at that particular school or that particular district. It was very easy to look optimistically forward for the next potential school and interview.

The consequence of pushing disappointment aside for the first three rejections was that this last one really hurt. I pretty quickly fell into a metaphorical pit of despair (with no six-fingered man to watch over my suffering). Really old, old, icky feelings of worthlessness bubbled to the surface. My confidence level feel dramatically. I was embarrassed that my application packet could be so bad that no one wanted to meet me. Other feelings that I couldn't identify felt a lot like grief. I suppose in a way I was grieving the loss of the life I had imagined for myself at each one of these schools.

My wonderful husband consoled me with flowers dinner out. I couldn't bring myself to post my usual Facebook Job Hunt Update, so I waited. Then I discovered the good news.

The Good News
Now that the uncertainty of scheduling interviews and knowing which school to become an overnight expert about are no longer percolating under the surface of my thoughts every day, I feel revitalized.

I don't have to worry about a new commute, getting up to speed at a new campus, finding the primo parking spots or where the most reliable copiers reside. I don't have to learn a whole new set of course outlines, revamp my syllabi and struggle to make the books I like to teach fit into another curriculum.

I am really excited about teaching summer school at a college that I know and love. I am still employed part-time at two community colleges, so I do have work--work that I am very, very grateful to have. All the while I was putting together application packets I was also laying the ground work to make sure I have classes in the Fall at these schools. Although I only have two confirmed classes (when three or even four would be optimal) I can pretty clearly see more on the horizon. I have chosen a few new books for my classes, begun my reader for summer school and am well on my way to being very organized for the Fall.

And best of all I am excited about returning to my book project.

And yes, I realize that my initial reaction was really about old buttons and old issues. Logically I know that this is a lousy time to be looking for full-time teaching work. I was up against (literally) hundreds and hundreds of other applicants and that some of those colleges really wanted to hire from their adjunct pools.

So although I was initially disappointed, now I am quite relieved.

Renewal

Here we are in late April and Spring is finally upon us. The plants in my yard that survived the record freezes and deluges of rain are blooming or offering new leaves for me to gaze upon. Our renegade peach tree looks as though it might have a fruit or two slowly developing in the growing warmth.

I have no idea what the weather outside was like a year ago. I could easily check, but I choose not to. I do know that the inside of the house had been plagued by a long-term chill. It had been growing steadily colder over the course of at least three years, my husband would argue that it took longer, and had finally become unbearable. A sudden heated discussion shattered the ice that had grown between myself and my life partner and we were left to wonder if there was anything left to salvage or if we wanted to make the effort to rebuild our life together.

I would never have characterized my marriage as unhappy. Even in the midst of misery I most ofter prefer my husband's company to anyone else except my children. But suddenly we realized that the life we had built together was potentially not what he wanted. He had long standing issues within his own heart and his own head that he had worked around for so many years. He didn't like himself very much. He didn't believe he was talented. I don't think that he believed that he deserved to be happy. There were some deep, dark secrets that he was keeping, not just from me, but from himself. He had pulled inside of himself so deeply that he wasn't sure if he wanted to come out and participate in our life, or start a new one without me.

A year ago I was working on a book project. A memoir and research book that was meant to look outside my own experience at the historical and factual realities that surrounded my story. Unlike many of my writing colleagues, I can't write my way through my problems. I don't feel compelled to take notes or journal during crisis. I shut down for the most part and focus so mightily on surviving that I simply don't have enough energy left over for creativity. So when things fell apart at home, the book project stalled. As time went on it became clear that my story wasn't ready to be told in part because my husband's was still unfolding as well.

So when the ice was shattered, he had to decide. and he had to do it without me. So he went away. We had no contact except a few text message conversations. He said he would be gone overnight, but the next day he wasn't ready to come home. This went on for what seemed like weeks and weeks of waiting and wondering. I began planning my life without him. I was forced to look seriously and honestly at how my life would look and how I would move forward. I felt quite ill most of the four days he was gone. Those were the longest four days of my life.

This past Saturday was one year since he chose to come home to me and our life. The past year has been filled with a lot of work and a lot of pain and a lot of tears. He has worked very hard in therapy and with me. He is certainly not done with his work, but his growth has been tremendous.

To celebrate the journey behind and the road ahead, we renewed our vows on the anniversary of his coming home. It wasn't until after we chose the date that we realized it was the actual anniversary. We went public and invited our closest family and friends to witness the exchange of new rings (that he made), a restating of our original vows (and a few new ones). Then we had a party.

I've always enjoyed Winter in large part because I like cocooning in my house, wrapped in the warmth and listening to the storms rage outside while I am safely inside. More than ever I appreciate the necessity of the work that is done indoors when the weather outside is inclement.

This year I am reveling in the welcoming weather of Spring. As it brings a renewal of life, I feel blessed and thankful. The flowers look especially beautiful this year. The new leaves are brighter and the vibrancy of the days surprises me. I feel like writing again. It is suddenly clear to me that my book project needs to move forward, but with a different structure and focus.

Most importantly I am moving forward in my personal and creative life with the man that I love and he is, at last, comfortable enough in his own skin to go with me.

An Affair with Controlled Chaos

As I type this my dogs are playing. At this very moment they are downstairs; only a moment ago they were at my feet. Remarkably I didn't have to ask them to leave; they simply moved the action along to another spot as their play dictated.

At one point Max (the younger of the two) was running back and forth between my bedroom and my office. I am sitting in my office and so was mere inches from his fast braking, quick turning and launching back across the carpet to the hallway and the bedroom beyond. It is a manic movement because he goes back and forth and back and forth, his butt pushed up into the air as his hind legs wind up for the launch each new step requires. He runs the same way when he is outside. At the dog park he takes off and runs at full tilt until he is exhausted. Surprisingly that takes only about 10 minutes. When he runs full tilt indoors it is reminiscent of a cartoon dog winding up his hind legs, the whirly of his feet a blur just before he launches towards his sister (Molly the slightly older dog).

I really love being close to this manic display. I love the feeling of energy crackling off the two dogs as they run and wrestle. I enjoy the repetition of movement back and forth and back and forth between rooms. Even as they wrestle, taking turns dominating each other, there is a rhythm to their movements, their panting. I suppose it is a form of music that my body responds to.

They do no damage to property or each other. Occasionally someone mis-bites and a quick full-tilt snarl and bite fest ensues. It rarely lasts more than a few seconds, and I usually allow them to finish it themselves. If they don't, I yell once and they stop. In less than a minute they forgot what they were fighting about and resume playing.

As chaotic as the play is, it has a very consistent feel to it. I know they will play, maybe even tussle, how they will run and that eventually, as they are now, they will lie near my on the floor, panting and resting. I crave consistency; I always have. My life in the last several years has seemed like anything but consistent. It seems there is always a change in progress, a big change. One year it was several deaths, then my attempt at finding regular work meant accepting temporary positions one semester after another. Then a graduation, a wedding, a baby, a couple of surgeries, a revamping of my expectations of my marriage. I'm a grown-up and coping just fine overall, but I'd like a little more boredom.

The chaos of the life that surrounds me is so often beyond my control. Perhaps that is why the play of the dogs is comforting. It certainly brings to mind the chaos of children in the house. I miss having my kids around. The dogs help that a bit I suppose. Their controlled chaos offers me a predictable and comforting balance to my days. It doesn't hurt that they are darn cute and fun to watch.

Easing into Nana

It's only been eight months, but I think that I am finally getting a handle on being a grandparent.

As I have mentioned over and over again to any ears that will listen, I've been having difficulty grasping what my role as a grandparent is. In my own life a grandparent was a parent, swooping in and doing parent things: cooking, cleaning, playing, changing, feeding, losing sleep, etc. But my kids are really wonderful people and they take very good care of Memphis, so my expertise is rarely needed.

Although I do find that I have a knack for getting the baby to sleep. I think it is because I have been through babyhood already with my own kids, and know for a fact that a baby will eventually sleep. That knowledge is very powerful, once you believe it, and so I know that a few minutes walking around the house rocking him in my arms and whispering the occasional song in his ear will ultimately put him to sleep. Whether or not he stays that way is hardly my problem. That is one of the advantages of being a grandparent. I can put the baby to sleep, but I won't be there in the night when he wakes up.

When Memphis first came home I tried to give my kids some space. I wanted to see the baby, sure, and hold him and coo to him, but I didn't want to intrude on the cocooning that their new family needed to do. Then my son mentioned to me about six weeks later that they felt that I was giving them too much space, that I wasn't coming by enough. That of course kick started the old parent guilt (that apparently never goes away; I suppose it goes hand-in-hand with the ability to get a crying baby to sleep). But I am working more now than when my kids were growing up, and let's face it, there are reasons why I stopped working full-time as a young mother. I simply didn't/don't have the capacity to balance small children and a career. Back in the day I had to make a choice. Today it is not my choice to make. Today I work because my focus is different. And I have to remind myself that I am Memphis' grandparent. Not his parent. If I only see him once a week, I am damned lucky that I live close enough to see him that often. Although I do feel guilty that I am letting my kids down; that I am not helping them as much as they need. So I go back to square one, wondering what my role is.

Then this last week it occurred to me that being a grandparent has very little to do with my kids. They are adults after all, and have the verbal and mental capacity to ask for help. And they do ask. We babysit fairly often. I go to doctor's visits when invited. I feed them or give them money or rides. I have not disappeared; I'm just no longer available to be on-call for everything 24/7. And there are many other wonderful family members around that love and help take care of Memphis and his parents.

I think that my role as Nana has everything to do with my relationship with my grandbaby. My relationship with my kids has not changed, and I supposed that it shouldn't. I think what is important is that I let go of my guilt and embrace my special relationship with my very special grandson.

That I can do.

So I'm thinking that Memphis and I need to go on some adventures together. I think we should run errands and go to the park, and go to my work and show each other off. I think we should go shopping, and enjoy long walks together in the sunshine. I think that we will find special toys and books that we like to play with together, just the two of us.

Yeah, I am finally beginning to ease into being Nana to Memphis. And it is a wonderful feeling.

Burning in the New Year

(originally posted on my blog at Redroom.com)

I don’t make New Years Resolutions. It’s not that I don’t believe in them; I think that making a list of goals for change is a great tool and a healthy way to plan a new beginning that coincides with a new calendar. I simply don’t list all the things I want to do differently once January 1 comes around and post it on my refrigerator as a daily reminder. To me, this seems like a great way to fail as the meaning of the list can too easily change from hope to guilt. Like rules, resolutions seem to be made to be broken.
I do appreciate goal setting. I am a goal oriented person and so can see the value of knowing there is a deadline on its way. Yet, it is not a tradition I have bought into easily over the years, although I have tried. Like most people I knew in my twenties, I swore I would start a new diet or exercise regime after that last glass of champagne had finally worn off. Also like most people I knew in my twenties, I didn’t really need to lose weight. A bit more exercise would have helped, but I never did join a gym back then and so didn’t learn the value of that form of exercise until later in life.

The problem between myself and resolutions is that once I decide I want to change something, it needs to begin immediately. I am not one for delayed gratification when it comes to feeling better. I want it now; I want to begin whatever new routine will get me to my goal as soon as possible instead of waiting weeks or months. About five years ago I finally decided it was time to try a gym membership; I signed up almost immediately instead of waiting the two months for the calendar change. When it was time to find a more challenging atmosphere seven months later, I cancelled my membership the same week I completed the tour of the new gym. When that gym’s closed doors nearly two years later, the hubby and I had chosen one and signed up before I lost more than a few days of exercise.

I have been tweaking my eating habits since the birth of my second child and have had some real success. In fact when I decided to give up gluten products six months ago, it wasn’t difficult at all. I had become so dependent on other forms of nutrition, like fruits and vegetables, that giving up the bread was easy to do.

I realize that making dietary changes is really the cliché resolution, and that the important things that have to do with work habits and career changes and relationship issues are more often the focus for many folks.

So while I don’t really believe in making New Years Resolutions, I do believe in an end of year cleansing. My friend Celia told me that each year she writes on a piece of paper the things she wants to do differently on one side, and the things that she wants to continue to do on the other. She then burns the paper. My hubby and I have taken that concept a few steps further. We gather round a fire pit in our backyard and write the things to let go of and the things to hold onto on blocks of wood before throwing them into the fire. The fire grows as it consumes the good and the bad, releasing all into the open air of possibility.
We began this ritual the year everyone died. We lost four family members in the span of four months and so were delighted that the year of death was ending. We said goodbye to loved ones on that wood. We planned for a happier future. We attempted to let go of negatives and make promises for positive. We wrote our hopes and dreams and desires on piece after piece of wood. We invited friends and family over to do the same. It was a lovely ritual complete with tears and laughter and silence. And the warmth of the fire growing stronger symbolized our survival of a difficult year and the need to look forward to a brighter one.
Some of what we wrote looked far beyond one calendar year. Some was meant for the short term yet took more than a year to begin to manifest. Some of the pain loosened its grip a bit and allowed us to take in a few cleansing breaths. Some of the pain actually dissipated and flew away with the smoke.

I believe that New Years Resolutions are meant to be a kind of cleansing, of planning for the future. I do these things each year, but not with promises to myself made in the form of a list stuck to the refrigerator that has the great capacity to make me feel guilty. Instead the attempt is to reach beyond today and allow the new to grow into something more permanent and the old to fade away.

I don’t resolve; I burn.

Ghosts of Christmas Past (or passed)

On one hand I believe in ghosts. On the other hand, I don't believe that most people see them. I suppose part of the contradiction in my beliefs is the uncertainty as to origins, lore, and explanations of any ghostly presence.

There are numerous movies about ghosts or spirits or somehow corrupted beings that have either come back to earth from another place (that is generally unpleasant) or never left and are really pissed off, or suffused with evil, or some such thing.

I think that the reality of lingering or visiting spirits is simpler, and lighter.

A week before Christmas my daughter-in-law heard and saw some things in her house that frightened her. She heard footsteps in a room where there were no people, and saw a shadow cross the front door. When I lived in the house she is in, I never sensed any presence of any kind, and I consider myself pretty open to that kind of thing. People had died in that house long before I lived there. And since.

The interesting thing here is the date of my girl's experience. It was one day shy of the eighteenth anniversary of my grandmother's death. And Gram died IN that house. I do believe that if my girl really heard and saw something, then it was Gram.

This morning my dogs were looking out the sliding glass door and whining and growling at the fence top. When I got up and looked I saw a black cat sitting on the fence in one corner. A cat on the fence is not a common sight in our yard, but not unheard of. The slightly freaky thing is that the cat was the spitting image of our Sammy who died a year and six days ago, and who is buried in the back yard below the spot where the cat was sitting. When I brought my husband over to the door to see the cat, it was gone. Now, I'm not saying that I crossed the room to fetch him and when we both came back the cat was gone. I was standing looking at the cat, I motioned him over while I could see the cat. I moved out of the way so he could stand where I was, and when he looked the cat was gone.

Yes, the cat could very well have simply jumped off the fence in the moment it took for us to change places. And that may very well be exactly what happened. The dogs saw the cat before I did. And then it was gone. And it looked just like Sammy who we still miss.

The idea of loved ones coming back to visit is comforting. The concept that they loved us so strongly in life that they still feel connected to us in death makes the abandoned little girl in me feel special in a way my own parents never could.

Or this could all be a reaction to the brandy I put into my coffee this morning.