Scars

My life is a tapestry of scars.

When I was nearly eight, the top item on my birthday wish list was my very own pocket knife. We lived in the jungle. There were so very many things I could do with a knife in the jungle. My brothers had knives. I needed one. So I pleaded and begged and my birthday arrived and my parents gave me my perfect, silver pocket knife – and a caveat. If I cut myself, I had to give it up until they decided I could handle a knife properly.  

They had good cause for imposing that caveat. I have a long history of unwittingly inviting harm to my person. When I was three, my brother was using a machete to cut weeds in the yard. I thought it would be fun to sneak up and surprise him… barefoot. That scar is still faintly visible.

When I was five, my other brother’s pet monkey bit me. I was nearly six before I learned to crawl under a barbed-wire fence without tearing up my backside.

I was thinking about scars the other day (as I held my finger in the air, stanching the flow of blood). Embracing life is almost an invitation to accumulate scars, both inside and out.  I was thinking about free choice (as I rummaged for bandages), and how it means we get to choose our response to the things life throws our way. We can roll ourselves up in metaphorical bubblewrap, too frightened to walk out the front door. We can arm ourselves to the teeth – literally and figuratively – determined that we will get before we are gotten.

Or we can incorporate our scars and keep embracing life. Messy, painful, rewarding life.

On my eighth birthday. I took that beautiful, silver pocket knife and ran out to find something to carve. Less than two hours later, I tried unsuccessfully to sneak back into my room to hide the knife before Mom or Dad could see the trail of blood behind me.

Losing my knife didn’t stop me. There’s the scar from the chisel, from when Ruby and I tried to make wooden shoes (we couldn’t.) That’s next to the scar from the butcher knife, on the hand with the scars from sailing off my bike into a pile of sand and gravel. Dogs, plastic boxes, car doors, turtles: there was no malice and yet I bear the scars that prove our paths once crossed.

Scars create texture in our stories and I don’t regret my collection. I actually cherish a few of the ones you can’t see. Scars form when there’s healing, and I’m grateful for healing.

As I stood there wrapping my latest wound, I thought about my parents and how they could have only protected me from harm by keeping me from life. I’m grateful they didn’t.

My finger will soon sport a new scar. I must be slowing down, though. This time I cut myself on the soap dish.

[canstock csp21011106 / Milo827]

Toast to Tradition (sort of)

Tradition.

It allows us to dance in the streets at Mardi Gras and demands a sacrificial turkey at Thanksgiving. It reflects culture, history and our personal stories. And of late, it has been on my mind.

This particular chain of ruminations was sparked by a casual encounter in the bank lobby a week or two ago. I was seated, waiting on a bank officer, when three women walked in: two in traditional Middle Eastern garb and one not.  I waved at the seats near me, commenting, “You might prefer sitting over here – if you sit in those chairs (gesturing to the other side), you'll be in the sun.” The woman not wearing a hijab smiled, sat down next to me and countered, “But I’m from Kuwait. I’m used to being in the sun!” 

We laughed and fell into conversation. With one bank officer on duty and half-a-dozen customers waiting, there was plenty of time to chat.

My new acquaintance shared that she had come for the wedding of a nephew and was reveling in the chance to spend time with her sisters, whom she had not seen in a while. Then she said something profoundly gracious. “I love that my first visit to your country happened during your Christmas. As a Muslim, I respect Jesus highly and think your traditions celebrating his birth are beautiful.”

My first thought was that she must not have gotten stuck yet in the madness of a sale-induced frenzy at the mall.  

But on the heels of that thought was appreciation for the ease with which she let me know “This is who I am. I see who you are. I respect your story.”  

When the bank officer called my name, I kind of wished he’d delayed a little longer. There was a certain delight in that casual, unguarded encounter of two people from very different traditions.

Thus, my current line of reflection.

Tonight, our tradition dictates that we restart the clock. Over the past 12 months we have filled the stage of 2015 and tonight, on the stroke of midnight, we are supposed to let it go. In the tradition I grew up with, we set fire to the stage on which we have placed our memories of the unforgettable, missed chances to fix the unfixable, and the failed certainty that those 10 pounds would never find us again.

Tomorrow will rise from the ashes, a clean slate, complete with resolutions with which to fill 2016.

Except that I already made my resolution before Christmas. I even blogged about it.

And I don’t really want to let 2015 go up in smoke. Even the painful moments are part of my story.

So tonight, I’m bending tradition a little. Instead of letting go of the old, I’m learning something new. (Or will, as soon as I quit procrastinating. Honestly, the tutorial for my something new is 4 hours long!)

Not a fan of black-eyed peas, I generally opt for the Spanish tradition of eating 12 grapes. But I’m out of grapes and the grocery store was too busy for comfort, so I'm bending that tradition, too.

I'm thinking 4 grapes per glass of wine should be about right. 

Happy New Year, everyone!

Wishing you a very sticky Christmas

I know what Christmas smells like, and it isn’t pumpkin pie. It’s Scotch tape.

When I was a little girl, there were noises that meant Christmas - like the crowds and vendors in the streets and the bustle of the Tía department store in downtown Quito. There was the taste of ice cream in Aloag on our way back down the mountains. And finally, once we were home and scurried to our own little corners to wrap gifts, Dad would pull out the good tape. The Scotch tape with its own distinctive smell. 
 

Over the years, that smell came to mean home and family and excitement around the corner.

Over the more recent years, I have become a master at losing the tape.  Every Christmas I buy more, not because we use it up but because I’ve lost the tape purchased the year before. It simply disappears into the multitude of boxes and drawers of things “I’ll put away someday”.

As I’ve gotten caught up in the rush of work, of keeping up with friends and family, of always moving from one project to the next, one event to the next, the toe-tingling excitement of things around the corner is also often missing.

As my family has settled, each in our own pocket of the world, there’s no more dashing down a different stair in Tía so my brother won’t see what I bought him, or waiting till my sister leaves the room so I can wrap her present (which is in a super-top-secret hiding place under my bed). My children are grown and have their own lives, my parents have passed away.  

Someday, I want to sell my house and move to something a little less permanent.  I don’t like geographic roots. If you look around my house, you’ll find few pictures on the walls. There are several boxes that have never quite been unpacked. 

It occurred to me recently, though, that by never fully moving in I haven’t avoided roots; I’ve avoided a home. I’ve failed to truly live where I am.

So I’ve decided. In the spirit of Christmas and life renewed, this is my season to reset.  I’m emptying boxes, pulling out pictures to hang. Tomorrow, my kids and grandkids are all coming together for our Christmas celebration and excitement is starting to lap the edges of my toes. It’s time to make “home” a way of life, no matter where I live it.

And if inspiration to keep my reset on track is ever needed, all I have to do is look at the stacks of Scotch tape in my desk. I have Christmas in a drawer and plenty to share.

In fact, so far, I’ve found seven years’ worth.

(c) Can Stock Photo

Panic and a can of spray

Just call me Slayer.

Early this morning I was sitting at my desk when I saw a bug wander across the papers in front of me. It looked like a “kissing bug” – you know, the kind that spreads chagas disease. Unsure of its identity, short on sleep and even shorter on patience, I grabbed the bamboo backscratcher from its place by my desk and brought it down with a mighty whack.

I’d forgotten that the borrowed pugs were underneath my desk.

Instantly, the air was filled with the sound of panicked pugs. Stella scrambled out and barked into the air, uncertain where the threat was.  Jake started sliding on the wooden floor, his little paws frantically trying to gain traction. He twisted and turned until he somehow slid into a slow, backwards circle. Stella stopped barking to watch.

As I laughed, I was struck by how often we humans do the same thing.  The more vulnerable we feel, the more we bark at imagined bogeymen, trying to gain traction as we slide in hopeless circles.

Late this evening, I was back at my desk for a bit. The exhausted pugs were in their kennel in the other room.

Suddenly, movement caught the corner of my eye. I turned. Skittering across my floor was another bug. (I’m seeing more of them lately and the culprit is me. It just seems silly to close the door every time I let the dogs out.)

This bug, however, was a cockroach. A really big cockroach. The kind guaranteed to give me instant heebie-jeebies.

I glanced around me. No shoes, of course; not in my house. The only things in reach - that were hard enough - were my favorite law dictionary and my external hard drive. I went digital and lobbed the hard drive at the beast.

And missed. The cockroach had a few heart palpitations and skittered in a different direction. I picked up the hard drive and threw it again. Missed again. I forced myself to stop and actually think.

Bug spray! There was some under the kitchen sink. The can promised that it “kills on contact”, so I wrestled with the top, took aim and sprayed.

The cockroach ignored it. 

I sprayed again. This time the roach slowed just a smidge.  At the rate we were going, it was a toss-up as to whether the roach would make it to the vent or I would run out of spray first. So much for death on contact.

Or maybe not.

Grabbing the spray once again, I snuck up on the slowing monster. Taking careful aim, I slammed the can down on top of it. Twice.

And that’s another thing about us humans. Once we let go of panic, we can usually find a way to make things work.

Even if it takes a back scratcher and a spray can.

Anthropomorphosis and common ground

The other day my son and I were discussing our culture’s tendency to anthropomorphize our pets.
 
On an intellectual level, I see the pitfalls of reading human expression into our pets’ faces, ascribing human emotions to their sounds, and otherwise blurring the lines between person and creature. It almost suggests that our love is dependant on finding common ground, speaking the same language. Then, of course, my intellect looks at our dysfunctional human relationships and how often we are loathe to seek any common ground all with our fellow man.
 
Intellect aside, I understand the blurry lines. After all, I am convinced that my dear Goofy Pooch herself thought she was human, and she didn’t seem far wrong.
 
At the moment, I'm dog-sitting. My friend is in the hospital and her pugs are temporary residents of my home.  Jake and Stella do not believe they are human.
 
Instead, they think I'm a pug.
 
When they put their heads together and make their little pug sounds, I suspect the conversation goes something like this: “Poor dear, she’s useful to have around, but she’s no show dog! Too tall, walks on only two paws, and - that nose! It’s as long as a terrier’s!”
 
My physical imperfections aside, they seem to like me. While I work, Stella stands beside my desk, staring off into space. Jake sits, tongue at the ready, in case something needs tasting. (When my son leaves the bathroom after a shower, Jake rushes in and ecstatically licks the air.)

Sometimes they sit on each other.  Sometimes they include me and sit on my feet. 
 
But despite my intellect and the pugs’ conviction that I'm one of them, to me Jake and Stella are the quintessential siblings on a road trip. “Mom, she looked at me!”  “Mom, he’s breathing on me!” 
 
I gave them each a rawhide strip. Stella took hers and wandered off to enjoy it. Jake took his, raced into my office, put the treat on the floor and prepared to defend it from Stella - who was three rooms away. When she finally made her way to the office, Jake fairly trembled with vindication.
 
In the end they ran off to play together, ultimately happy the other is alive.
 
That comraderie ends at suppertime.
 
While I fill their food dishes, Stella waits placidly, almost sleepily. But the moment the bowl is on the floor, she transforms. She attacks her kibble with singular focus, body quivering, snuffly sounds rising from the depths of her dinner until every last morsel is gone.
 
I'd been warned that they didn't eat well together, so the first night they were here, I put Jake’s bowl in the dining room. As soon as he saw me filling his dish, Jake leapt into the air with excitement. He made loops around me as I carried his bowl out of the kitchen and set it down. Then he, too, transformed. Suddenly blasé, he sauntered over to his dish and casually took a bite or two.
 
I found this hilarious.

Then the determined snuffling in the kitchen stopped. Stella had finished her food. Like a little wind-up toy, she came waddling around the corner and made a slow-motion beeline for Jake’s half-full dish.
 
Jake’s hackles raised. He growled.  Stella didn’t blink. 
 
Jake's growling got louder. His forelegs stiffened. Stella didn’t even pause.
 
When it seemed apparent that the pugs were on a collision course with no happy end, I stepped in. After all, I am their current human and therefore the alpha in their canine world.
 
“Stella, stop!” I commanded.
 
“Stella, stop, or you’ll be in time out!” 
 
Stella never even paused.
 
Jake started forward, stiff-legged, teeth bared.
 
Reacting on instinct, I swatted Jake with a firm “No!”, turned to Stella, bent down until our faces were level, and did the only thing I could think to do.

I growled.
 
I didn’t say “Grrr.” I growled. A full-throated, deep canine growl.
 
Stella stopped. She blinked.
 
Then, faced with this alpha response from her human, she turned around, found a corner - and put herself in time-out.
 
It seems that in our blurry lines, we found our common speech.
 

 

Reality Check

In the past couple of days I've posted a few things to social media. Light-hearted things, for the most part: travel notes, a comment here or there to someone else’s message. 

Reality is that my return to the U.S. was accelerated by a day so that I might desperately try to get back to Texas in time to tell my dying mother-in-law how much she meant to me.

This was the woman who was ready to love me for no other reason than that I was important to her son. She was the queen of instant and sometimes accidental quips. Her ability to listen without censure was legendary. Her laughter was quick, comfortable and often at her own expense. 

My mother-in-law had the ability to quietly shine her light on any and every one. You could not come within her orbit that she wasn’t willing to welcome you to her life. And this week that life suddenly began to ebb away.

Reality is that my flight touched down in Dallas around midnight and after a couple of brief stops I drove to the nursing facility, arriving just before 3 a.m.

Reality is that for the next 22 hours, my world revolved around that sweet, frail woman in the hospital bed.

And for those of us who sat with her, holding her hand, telling her over and over how much we loved her, sometimes Reality became too heavy to bear.

In those times, I would check out of my reality and visit yours. Your posts and pictures became little breaths of relief, a reminder that Reality is fluid and multiplaned.  

In the small hours of this morning, my beloved mother-in-law gently took her last breath.

Reality is, I miss her.

On Cookies and Concerts

At the grand old age of 5-years-11-months, I made two significant discoveries. The first of these was Grandma.

We had come up from Ecuador to visit family, of whom I had no prior memory. I walked into this house and people were hugging my parents and siblings and me and this brunette lady gave me a squeeze and someone said, “This is your grandma,” and I didn’t believe them. At 5-years-11-months old I was a very good reader and the grandmothers in my story books always had grey or white hair. Always. Therefore, this brown-haired woman was an Imposter. I proceeded to tell her so.

My mother was mortified but Grandma just laughed and told me to go get a cookie from the jar in the kitchen. “I always keep some in there for your cousins,” she said. It was the right thing to say. In my story books, grandmothers always had cookies.

But that led to the second discovery: while I was off living my normal life, there were other children who also called this woman Grandma and those children got to raid Grandma’s cookie jar often, while I - because my parents had chosen to move to Ecuador - did not.
 
Over the years and on subsequent visits, I found that this life of parallel tracks had a lot to offer. In the U.S., there were Saturday morning cartoons and root beer. In Ecuador, I got to throw water balloons at strangers with impunity just because Lent was around the corner.

I had no complaints. Except one.

Living life on one track created gaps on the other. Where others had cultural references, I had blanks.

But we all have those blanks.  

It is the divergence of roads in Frost’s yellow wood.  Taking one path always means not taking another. Every road means a choice both to do and to not do.

There will always be places we didn’t go, things we didn’t do. And we can’t go back to fill in the blanks.

At least, not usually.  

I never went to a rock concert when I was a teen. Not a significant loss, perhaps, but a blank nonetheless. From Aerosmith to ZZ Top, the mega bands of my generation existed for me only in vinyl. I never stood in a large venue with thousands of fans and the heavy tattoo beat of a bass guitar.  

Last week, my friend Arline invited me to a rock concert. When the noise level allowed, she described the missing pieces, filling in the smoky haze and ubiquitous vendors of another era. Sure, in today’s version when we all stood up, our knees popped in unison. The only pills being fished out of pockets were not only legal, many were necessary. But it was a bona fide rock concert and I was there, filling in a blank.

That leads me to rediscover something else. Sometimes, we get a second chance to catch a glimpse of that other road, the one we didn’t take, and we appreciate that glimpse precisely because it was not part of our chosen path.  

Sometimes we get a little bonus.

We get to say “Been there.

"Done that”.  

Sometimes we may even get to buy the t-shirt.