Birds

I followed two birds for awhile 

my eyes fixed on them for quite some time

One flapped the full vertical wingspan 

up and down in a half circle

while the other coasted in the tailwind 

They descended toward the sand 

without touching down, then rose again 

to where the Gulf meets the sky

At once they flapped their wings in unison

off to their destination

Perhaps the flight, the birdseye view

is all they are seeking

I am lost in wonder and blink

then they are gone.

Anna Maria Island, FL 

November 27, 2020

Vulnerable

There was something poetic about my annual visit to the OBGYN this year. I know it's hard to believe there would be anything poetic about this most intimately invasive examination. But like so many doctors, this one runs behind routinely so much so I consider every visit whether it would be worth trying a new doctor. It's not. I like her. So I pack a book and expect delays, just like flying through DFW. Last week, I brought a book by Brene Brown. We're reading it in a book study at work. Doesn't matter which one it is, they are all grounded in the same major theme: vulnerability. For a brief moment, I was encouraged as my reading was interrupted two pages in, and a nurse brought me back for a temperature, weight, and blood pressure check. I was escorted to the room where I would strip down to adult sized paper doll clothes. You know the ones; the vest with no buttons or snaps or closures, made from the same crepe-like paper as the streamers you hang across the room at a party. Only my vest was not of celebratory colors. It was sterile, medical pale blue, almost white. It matched perfectly with my crepe wraparound skirt. You know, the almost square tablecloth-like sheet. I can never tell which direction to wrap it around. Heck it doesn't even wrap around unless you're smaller than a size 8, I'm thinking. I usually give up and just lay it across my lap like the tablecloth it resembles, leaving just enough space between the bottom of my vest and the flattened part of my ass on the exam table to allow an uncomfortable draft from the a/c. I leave my flip flops on. Not sure why, maybe to keep at least the bottom of my feet from being cold. My ass and my soles, the only warm parts left in my body. And when I'm finally settled- settled but not comfortable- I crack my book again, because I know there's more waiting. "To love at all is to be vulnerable," Brene says, and I am reminded why I'm there even though I hate every minute of this annual ritual. I love myself.  

Pen

hold me

wrap me between your fingers and I will 

give to you life

let it all flow through your veins and

out in ink

smooth and forgiving

together we will light up

the world

written from a word association prompt 

Writing Around the Corner, an online writing group 

7-11-2020

We

She

giver of life
the strongest person I know, though I'm not sure I ever told her
she carried me for 9 months, and in many ways has continued 47 years

giver of hugs
the real kind pulled close and tight and all the way around
she taught me how to do it right, and she's been reminding me for 47 years

giver of love
the kind she told me I would understand one day and I do now, I honestly do
she was a model of truly unconditional love, and she has been for 47 years

He

giver of love
the kind that lives in everyday actions and emotions, so completely
he has held nothing back for 21 years

giver of hugs
the kind he learned from getting, with all the weight of his body and his whole heart
he's never too old to offer one up even at 21 years

giver of life
the source of energy and aliveness to all he encounters
he is a lover of life and people, yes a lover of love even at 21 years

I
am the connective tissue, one-of-a-kind, embedded through DNA
and perpetuated through both nature and nurture
we are the cycle of love and of motherhood

We
are
one.

 

Pull

I woke yesterday
the weight of a heavy boot on my chest
and a violent force pulling upward
a reverse gravitational pull
I struggled to heave in a healthy supply of air
the pressure was suffocating

never once did I think
the plague that's consuming our planet
annihilating our humans
has come for me, no
it was a familiar breathlessness
fear and anxiety rising from the belly

up into the throat from below
it was a fear I had not faced
since this pandemic began its destruction
the fear is not physical vulnerability
or viral susceptibility
not toilet paper availability

my fear is educational responsibility
are we doing it right
are we doing enough
how do we know
how can we know
before it's too late

there's no plan for this, no research
to guide us on this unchartered mission
all we can do is the best we know how
we hope that it's enough
and that our children will be ok
that we will all be ok

Somebody

I once worked with a wonderful man
who had a way of "getting real" with kids
You don't need no man he'd insist to the girls
across a table in a disciplinary hearing
to tell you what to do
to make you feel good about yourself
to make you worth something
he said it so emphatically and yet with a supportive tone
like a parent clinging desperately to the hope
his daughter would find the inner strength
to realize she is smart, and beautiful,
and somebody. And he'd sit back and wait and listen
with patience and he never stopped trying
even if he found himself looking across the table at
the same girl twice or three times. It was as if the girl
across the table was one of his own, his daughter in the eyes
of every one of them. I don't know if he even had a daughter,
or any children for that matter. All I know is
many of the girls didn't know their fathers and he did
his best to be a positive man in their lives, sometimes
stoic, never emotional, but consistently there with the same message:
You are somebody. Start giving yourself, your body, your future
the respect and attention you deserve.

Note to Self:

You are enough.

You are not defined by a single action.
You are not the floating ash off the
fire set by others' gossip.

You are not the worst of your days
or the weakest of your moments.

You are not the knots in your neck
or the pit in your stomach or the
lump in your throat.

You are not infallible,
indestructible, immune to hurt.

You are not in control.

You are honest and caring.
You are the pride in your parents
eyes and the joy in their hearts.

You are the best of your days
and the brightest of your moments.

You are the air in your lungs
and the beating in your heart and
the force in your action.

You are resilient, sensitive,
willing to learn.

You are enough.

Bagels: A Micro Memoir

Jewish + Sunday on Long Island = Bagel Breakfast

An actual photo of the bagel I ate this morning. #noregrets #worththecarbs

When I was a young kid, few things were more thrilling to me than hopping in the car with my dad early on Sunday morning for "a bagel run." It was a brief outing, sometimes just my dad and me, and other times my sister came too. But she liked to sleep late, and I was always a go-go-go kid. We lived in a smallish town on the north westerly coast of the island. There were few chains or franchises, the businesses were mostly family owned and operated, and many of them were along the main drag that ran from the north end of town to the south. Middle Neck Road was the place to go for Cheeses of the World, Lazar's Chocolate, any number of real New York pizza joints, and lots of other shops and restaurants. But down on our end of town,  there was a section with a local pharmacy, Tabatchnick's, and The Bagel Store. That's right. We had a bagel store called The Bagel Store. And that's all it was, a counter with a register and a bagel-making operation. There was a neon bagel light on the front window, and you could smell each of the contributors to the everything bagel when you approached the door. Fresh bagels with onion, garlic, sesame and poppy seeds, salt, and caraway seeds. Our bagel shop was famous for the bagel twist, which was essentially bagel dough braided into a twist and coated with the everything toppings. It was even better than a bagel. We would untwist it into pieces, toast them, and schmear cream cheese on each little piece. Dads would wait patiently in line with the Times under their arms, some with children in tow, others solo. I would stand in line with my dad while he picked out an assortment of 13 bagels- always a baker's dozen- and a couple of twists. The 13th was usually a snack for me on the rest of the journey. If I was lucky, it was still warm. Then we would go next door to Tabatchnick's and my dad would pick out the reddest, ripest bagel-sized tomato he could find and a red onion, while we waited in line to buy lox, and sturgeon, a delicious smoked white fish. Occasionally he would allow me to pick out a treat too, a doughnut or deli-fresh baked item. Sometimes I would get a candy in a clear deli container, not the kind that arrives in the store packaged, the kind that sells by the pound. These were benefits you only got if you tagged along for the early morning bagel run.

The memory is priceless. I went to bed last night (Saturday) thinking about how much I'd like to have a fresh bagel in the morning, and I resolved myself to do a bagel run. With the low-carb movement, bagels are getting a bad rep these days and it's a darn shame. We don't need their doughy goodness everyday. But once in a while, maybe one Sunday out of the month, a bagel run is well worth the carbs. It wasn't quite a New York bagel, but I found one SWFL bagel store that comes pretty close. With fresh whipped cream cheese and a local sliced tomato, it really hit the spot. And after toasting an everything bagel in my home, I get to enjoy the nostalgic scent of my childhood all day long.

Grounded

I woke this morning, startled by the sound of my mom emptying her dishwasher. We had a nice weekend visit, but waking unexpectedly on a Sunday is a strange way to start the day. I shuffled out into the living room and plopped down on the couch, trying to blink clear my allergy eyes and my sleepy brain.

I leaned back into the couch and closed my eyes completely, placing my feet on the floor. I was wearing socks so the tile felt comfortably cool, rather than shockingly cold. And my shoulders dropped, and my breath felt relaxed, and the fog started to lift. There was something so satisfying about the sensation of the solid, cool ground under me at every pressure point on the bottom of my feet. It's difficult to explain, but in an instant I felt the origin of the word grounded.

My head cleared and I felt present. Here. Now. The ground beneath my feet, rising up under me and pushing against my feet will keep me steady, keep me strong. It was a seemingly simple, yet internally complex feeling. I felt in touch. I felt grounded. I was present.

Camping Haiku Photo Journal

Camping at Tomoka State Park in Ormond Beach, Florida
December 26- 29, 2017

I.

open air, carefree

hitting the road together

adventure awaits

temporary home

for a few days in the woods

snuggles and cuddles

our backyard view leads

down a wooded winding path

there, a trickling creek

relieved to find out

this mat wasn't theirs

we all stomped our feet

II.

Tomoka State Park

two rivers meet in the woods

nature at its best

peaceful, calm river

one boat, one sun, open water

perfect afternoon

Halifax River

meets the Tomoka waters

foamy bubble bath

mirror reflection

blue sky over blue water

you are beautiful

III.

I really did it

stood with my pole patiently

Yes! I caught a fish

finally success

a perspective I can reach

selfie from behind

IV.

clear and vast azure

home to the glorious sun

please watch over us

power from the sky

glow of light and energy

greater than us all

 

nature restores me

relaxing serenity

peace. no other words

a panoramic

my love on the shore

fishin' and chillin'

Contradictions

I am a teacher.

I have been in the field of education just shy of 20 years. I have an undergraduate degree in communications and three graduate degrees in education, including a doctorate. I work in the education department of a statewide educational organization serving at-promise youth and I adjunct for the local university.

As teachers, we secretly (or maybe not so secretly) hope all our students go to college. That doesn't necessarily mean all of them will, but we want them to have the opportunity to go, if this is what they want. Or maybe we just tell them that's what they want. After all, people who want to be successful go to college, right?

Over the past few years, the pendulum has swung back a little bit. Student loan debt countrywide, has climbed drastically, and trade-related jobs are more plentiful than other kinds of jobs. Students are shying away from incurring debt, and high schools are offering programs to try and prepare students to enter directly into the workforce after high school. After all, our standards explicitly state the goal of making our students college and career ready.

It's all good, right? There is absolutely nothing wrong with learning trade skills in high school and jumping into a job after graduation, especially if you need to support yourself or help support your family. It's perfectly respectable to go to trade school and learn additional skills that are immediately applicable in the workplace. We need tradespeople arguably more than we need college graduates. And if you can't afford college, there's nothing to consider anyway. Maybe some day.

I am a mother.

I was raised by divorced parents. My dad has a law degree, my mom an associates degree because she left college to be with my dad who was ahead of her in school. That's what women did back then. College was the expectation. My dad worked his way through law school and my mom, after the divorce, insisted my sister and I finish college before we ever considered getting married.

I kept that promise to my mom, and so did my sister. We both attended and graduated college. It was never something we considered. We just did it. And we both wanted to. My sister to study art, and me, well I thought I wanted to be a doctor and somehow discovered my true calling was to be a teacher.

I got engaged to my high school sweetheart in my final semester of college. Like my mom, he left after almost two years in college. But he didn't leave for me. He left for him. He never wanted to go to college in the first place. At least not the one his parents chose for him. He joined a fraternity, drank a lot, and floundered because they wanted him to declare a major. He had no idea what to declare, so somehow he became an education major. Even to this day, people are encouraged to choose teaching as a back-up option. Sad.

Three years after we married, we had our first and only child, Jacob. There were signs early on of his intelligence. Late walker, early talker, he seemed to love words. Teachers never want to be the ones to identify their own kids as bright, so I waited for a couple of teachers to point it out. And they did. When it was clear he wouldn't struggle to learn to read, I sighed of relief. As a teacher I knew this was the biggest hurdle of his school life. A wealthy relative set up a college fund for him, and by the time he graduated high school it was enough to cover all 4 years and maybe more. The second biggest hurdle of school life, done.

I've written about my son and the challenges we dealt with in his school career. There were lots of signs this day was coming. I'll leave that to the side for now. But by the time he got to his senior year in high school, he was less than concerned about applying to and getting into college. He put all his eggs in one basket, knowing that his back-up plan was the local university for which he more than met the admission criteria. Basket school sent a rejection letter and back-up school took him. School grades were never reflective of my son's learning so I was relieved when he got into college.

Fast forward through low excitability about moving into the dorm, last minute registration for classes, and less than informative chats about how things were going with classes. By Thanksgiving weekend, my son announced he didn't want to be in college. He wasn't depressed, or having trouble fitting in on campus. The social aspect was fine. He just didn't want to be in school anymore. Period. He told us it was a waste of money because he just wasn't motivated to be in school and go to classes. He wants to get a full time job.

The contradiction.

I was somewhat crushed. It took me a couple of weeks crying, on and off, to process and get through the notion that my son doesn't want to go to college. I'm trying. "Mom, it doesn't mean I never want to go," he said possibly to comfort me. I'm holding onto this and hoping he decides one day when he's ready. I can't help it.

But I got to thinking. It's really hard to be a parent. And I think there's a certain challenge to being a teacher and a parent. Pedagogically I may believe one thing, but when it's my own kid it somehow feels different. Let me give you a similar example, more relatable to more people. Most people in this country, despite what politics tries to say, support our military. We honor those who serve and have served. We support those who are on duty and in combat, whether we agree with the policies around where and why our troops are deployed or not. But if we don't come from military families, it's sometimes hard to accept when our children choose to be soldiers. Why? Not because of disrespect for the military, but for the safety and well-being of our children.

This is the contradiction I'm living through now. On paper, and as a teacher, I don't believe people must go to college to be successful. There are certainly plenty of examples out in the world of people who achieve great success without a college degree. Some of them return to school later in life, and others go on to be successful without ever going to college. But when it's my kid, it just feels different. I want him to be happy, and successful, and educated. I just have to accept that his version of this might be different from mine.

I'm not going to lie. I worry. I worry about how he will feel in crowds of people. I worry how women will feel about him. I worry about whether he'll hit road blocks without a degree. I worry that he will struggle financially. I worry that I have developed a bit of elitism in achieving my own level of education. The teacher in me wants him to love and value education as much as I do.

But here's the reality. My son is a learner. It may not be in the traditional formal schooling sense, but he's a learner. He's just a bit of a nonconformist and a risk taker. In this way, he is not like me at all. I'm a bit of a rule follower. I'm a bit of a people pleaser. I have to accept that we are not the same. And if I am to truly be the kind of parent I have always strived to be, I have to let him find his own happiness, not my definition of what his happiness should be.

The teacher in me is giving the mom in me a lesson.

Something Happens

Inspiration

Dorothy Allison:

Place requires context. Is is responsive? Does it notice me? Or is it porcelain, pristine, and just ignoring my passage through?

... Place is where the "I" goes. Place is what that "I" looks at, what it doesn't look at. Is it happy? Is it sad? Is it afraid? Is it curious?    


Henry David Thoreau:

You learn that if you sit down in the woods and wait, something happens.

Something Happens
by Laurie J. Kemp

If you sit down in the slough and wait,
something happens
     above you,
          around you,
               inside you

The swamp lives in all its glory
messy, beautiful
     bugs buzz, flit, and flutter
          birds bask, swoop, and soar
branches break,
     crack and criss-cross

Gators slowly glide and stalk
eyeballs just breaking the surface,

turtles line up along a leaning log
     necks reaching up to the sun

one anhinga dives down for a meal
     below the surface
While another spreads his velvety black wings

They all know we are here, don't they?

If you walk through the slough and wait,
something happens
     above you,
          around you,
               inside you

the ripples of the water
the rustling of the ferns
the calling of the birds

the whirring of the insects
the plunking of the fish
the oxygen in the air

all of it
breathing life
into my body
into my soul

I am alive.

Still

I went for a massage today. I almost cancelled because I wasn't feeling well yesterday. "Go," my husband said. "You'll feel better." And I did. I went. And I feel better.

In between my massage and a facial, I sat in the quiet room drinking cucumber infused water and nibbling on a chocolate covered strawberry. Once I finished, I set my plate down and looked straight in front of me. There opposite me on the wall, was just the reminder I needed. Be still. It was a simple piece of art, waves rushing at the base of a mountain, and the words Be still.

I took a deep breath in and pushed my chest out, let the breath out and allowed my abdomen to deflate. I closed my eyes and did it again. It was just what I needed.

Still
Beware of frenzied routines. Stop, inhale and
Exhale. Pull breath, life, in and out through your nose
Sometimes busy-ness is a self-created distraction from
Thinking difficult thoughts
I heed the warning on the wall, not a warning, a reminder
Listen to your heart and to G-d
Let the quiet bring you peace

Vocabulary Study

He stood in front of me apologetically, talking about his tumultuous marriage with a seemingly introspective expression on his face. He told me he finally figured out the problem, and I was anxious to hear what foolishness he came up with. We have had these presentations before. I'd like to call them conversations, but they rarely are two-sided. Mostly, I'm just listening and trying to get an intelligent word in edgewise. "I am a narcissist," he declared. It was as if he believed his problem was solved. Of course, now there was a label and an excuse, and a new word in his vocabulary. The only one who thinks labeling himself a narcissist is an excuse for his behavior, is a narcissist.

Wildflower

You belong among the wildflowers
You belong somewhere you feel free

I really don't know where I am, but it is always the same place. A cool, breezy early spring day. The bright and warm glow of the sun just enough to keep the chill away. I'm me, but I'm not quite me. My hair is a lot lighter, golden almost blonde like it was when I was in nursery school. And longer, looser curls that blow in the wind gently away from my face in tendrils. I'm a couple of inches taller and several pounds thinner. But I assure you it's me. I can feel her soul and I can see her clear as day.

I am not sleeping. The dreams don't visit me in the night while I sleep. They come to me in cinematic visions, through the windshield while I drive, or while I gaze wistfully out a window in the back seat of a car, in the waiting room at a doctor's office, or during long drawn out meetings in a conference room.

Run away, let your heart be your guide
You deserve the deepest of cover

I'm running through a field with my arms out to my sides like wings and my head tilted back so I can feel the warmth of the sun on my face. The grass is tall and there are wildflowers of different heights and colors all around me, in the field and on my dress. Small, delicate ballet slipper pink ones, paper thin, translucent. Bright buttery yellow ones that remind me of the buttercup flowers we used to hold under our chins while we sang. Pops of deep red color, puckered kissy lips. And purples, violet and lilac. The field is fragrant. I smell honeysuckle.

It's a beautiful scene really. Care free and youthful, running barefoot through the field. No ants, just bees and caterpillars and I'm not bothered by anything. Butterflies flutter by, and there may be a bird or a child in the distance with a kite flying high overhead.

You belong among the wildflowers
Far away from your troubles and worries

I don't know where I'm running or who, if anyone, I am running to or from. It's strange actually. I don't recall ever having run barefoot through a field of wildflowers when I was a child. At that age, I was uncomfortable being alone. But there, in the country field, I am all by myself. I am gleeful and at peace. I know because I can feel the tingle and exhilaration inside her as she runs, giggling and twirling.

She is me.




*Italicized verses are lyrics from Tom Petty's "Wildflowers."

Nosey Notes

Things I can't stand the smell of: Fresh cut grass, construction site port-o-potty, fabric softener, maple scented candles, new car, and tuna fish from a can. 

Things I love the smell of: Cotton candy, wood-burning campfire, fresh brewed coffee, salty sea air, cinnamon, and bread baking.

Sugar Sugar

I am here for a dark roast mocha iced coffee with coconut milk, no sugar. But there you are on the shelf, slanted ever so slightly to offer a tempting up-close and personal view of your powdery sugar, and your rainbow sprinkled sugar, and your shimmery crystallized sugar, and your pink and brown and white icing blankets of sugar and your glaze coat sugar. Your sweet scent wafts my way shouting, "This is a doughnut shop damn it, not a coffee shop!"

Morning Air

A blue heron soars above the surface of the lake
egrets and ibises dot the water's edge and
an ibis launches, chasing the heron
two birds fly overhead in tandem
I have no chance to see what type of birds
they are fast but they are the same
and their shape and color resemble kites
Across the lake an egret lifts off
from a branch in the cypress dome
and flies right toward my kitchen window
turning suddenly and sweeping back around the lake

I feel like I am looking into rather than out at

The sun is beginning to rise over the trees
lighting their broccoli tops and reflecting
them down onto the glassy lake
their skinny brown stalks in the shadow
Two ripples appear down below
never breaking the surface or
making an appearance
just circles expanding outward

There's an airshow
two egrets fly in a playful chase
landing lakeside in the wispy grass
they flutter about and retreat
high into the preserve
More blue herons soar, three or four
from front of the lake to the back
and the side of the lake to the tree tops
I sip my coffee and nibble on zucchini bread
from the best seat in the house
the one in front of the window.

Red Lobster in Some Town

I could feel her looking at me. You know the feeling. When you're not even looking, but you don't need to, because you know someone is staring right at you. I looked over the partition, separating my  booth from theirs. Yes, I was alone and she had a companion. She quickly looked away, trying to appear nonchalant. She was so transparent. I turned back to my meal and continued eating while her stare bored into me once again. I looked over, she looked away barely in time to avoid eye contact. We repeated this visual cat-and-mouse several times. Did she think I didn't notice her? She was either uncouth or dumb, because next I heard her dogging my meal choice to her companion. I'm not sure if she didn't realize I could hear, or if she just didn't care. I was alone and there was no talking at my table. Maybe it gave her a false sense of insulation.

"Uh, there's so much work." Her hands were flailing as she spoke. "Pulling and cracking and working. I don't know how people order..." She was talking about my crab legs. So fucking rude. Did she not realize I could hear her? I wiped my hands and my face with the napkin from my lap, and I stood up, looking in her direction. I waited for her to look back. And when she did, this time I looked right at her instead of turning away uncomfortably...

You want to know why I ordered them? Maybe it's because Red Lobster sucks and I'm only here because the only other choices in this shit town are fast food. Maybe it's because fried popcorn shrimp and dishes that all have "feast" in their names are not my idea of an enjoyable meal. Maybe a meal that's an activity is a way to kill a little time during a lonely dinner on the road. Maybe ordering crab legs was the only way I could keep myself from inhaling the unnecessary basket of four cheddar biscuits brought to my table for one. Maybe, just maybe, things worth having are worth working for.

I snickered to myself as I placed the napkin on the table and walked to the restroom to wash up. I glanced back at her thinking, "If only."

Sheltered

This is a response to an invitation to write posted by a friend of mine on her own blog. The idea was for those of us who are coming out of the chaos of Irma, to heal through writing.

Sheltered
By Laurie J. Kemp

In the final hours, two back-to-back advisories warned:
she's coming west and we were ready, but we evacuated
because we had somewhere else to go. Now we were home,
the day after with power and internet, no flooding or damage.
We were lucky, but so many others around us were not.
I couldn't understand how it was possible. I couldn't sleep
for three days, and I remembered what I learned about
secondary trauma. I did everything I could to open up my home,
providing hot showers, cold a/c, and a place for my friends
and family to sleep comfortably and do laundry. It wasn't enough.
I signed up with the Red Cross, volunteered at a local shelter
handing out snacks, serving meals, and keeping strangers company.
A Veteran told me how funny it was to see two volunteers taking
photos of MRE's, and he asked me if I knew what they were
and if I ever had one. I would be lucky if I could get my hands
on the beef stew, but the spaghetti and meatballs was pretty good.
I helped an elderly woman who didn't know how to operate
a computer to apply for FEMA assistance. I asked a World War II
Vet if I could get him anything, and he shook his head and said
he was amazed at the greed. He was dismayed by the young people
returning to the snack table multiple times for Oreos and Doritos
and Pringles and granola bars. They're just hungry, I thought.
And bored. I handed out lunch of ham and cheese sandwiches
and chips and bottles of room temperature Gatorade,
and they said God Bless You. Can you imagine?
They were blessing me. With nowhere to go, no family
or friends to take them in through the storm, this
was their last resort, and they were gracious and thankful.
I am blessed, and I am sheltered.

To volunteer or make a donation,
please click the Red Cross logo.