*No edits*No structure*No worries*
Streaming live from my brain for later use, in no particular order:
We’d traveled to Coahoma County, Mississippi to celebrate the 90th birthday of my husband’s grandfather. He was sharp as a knife and had a love for every person as big as the wide open country sky. The cotton crop in mid-October left much to be desired. The farmer’s were going through a severe drought, an indication of their families’ financial future that year. The days were unseasonably yet delightfully warm, and the nights rather cool for the humidity I’d come to associate with the heavy atmosphere of the Yazoo Delta. We’d spent our first afternoon out at Papaw’s mobile home, surrounded by the good nature and ribbing of our southern relatives along with several pecan trees and swarms of no-see-ums in the air. I’d come to love these laid back southern style visits which always included fried chicken and a large dose of southern gospel wit and wisdom. While it wasn’t my home, I felt very much at home there, always learning something new about life from the wisdom of Papaw and the love of a great family. That weekend was no different. As the evening drew to a close and the coral-colored sunset disappeared between the run-down barn and towering pecan trees, we packed up the car and headed back to the casino hotel just a few minutes down the road. Not down the interstate; there were none close by. Just down the road. I suppose that’s why down there whenever you ask where something is, folks just say, “It’s justa thataway, down the road.”
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Thursday, October 4, 2007
One Down, 2.5 Billion to Go
Rejections. I got the first one today. No surprise here. So we read, rewrite, edit some more, and send to someone else. Incidentally, it was not the nonfiction piece published below; it was some poetry. So one down, 2.5 billion to go. Not bad for a complete freshman attempt...
Sunday, September 30, 2007
The First Lesson of Motherhood
I sat on the toilet lid with the tell-tale test in my hands. I’d thought about this moment for months, imagining some wave of contentment and indescribable joy washing over me at the sight of a positive result. In this less-than-idealistic experience, I gracelessly urinated on a narrow fibrous stick and found myself staring with cantaloupe-sized eyes as urine slowly progressed through tiny plastic windows. Two pink lines were left in the wake. There they were in all of their glory, proclaiming I was pregnant. I sat waiting for the maternal love to kick in; it didn’t. Instead, I was on the verge of hyperventilating, shaking in complete disbelief (and slight terror).
I had imagined from the beginning of my marriage that this moment would be much tenderer. I’d suspect I was pregnant and clandestinely take a pregnancy test. With absolute maternal bliss, I’d break the news first to my husband, Jamie. The revelation would occur with all the drama of a made-for-T.V. movie, ideally on a noteworthy holiday like Christmas or Father’s Day. We would hug and cry and kiss excitedly about our new future unfolding. We’d keep it a secret, I’d thought, and enjoy this knowledge just between the two of us for a while.
In reality, it was the end of July without a holiday in sight. Jamie was away at work, and I found myself immediately phoning a person with pregnancy experience – my sister-in-law, Sandy, mother of two. So much for my movie-script fantasy; I needed confirmation from a reliable source.
“Well, if there are definitely two lines, you’re definitely pregnant!” was her reply upon my speculation about the test’s accuracy. “You really don’t need to take another test.”
Sandy lovingly congratulated me, and I got down to business. Ignoring the advice I was given, I took a second test, then a third. I now had six pink lines of evidence (and no more urine to give for eight). Even the most skeptical jury would have found me irrevocably guilty of having a bun in the oven. So there I sat on the toilet lid, newly pregnant, alone, and disillusioned. I was painfully aware that the moment of a lifetime had come and gone without the anticipated fanfare. My first pregnancy was utterly entrenched in everyday life.
As a hopeless romantic, I’d spent time concocting fantasies about the manner in which extraordinary things should appear in my life. I would become disenchanted when life events failed to materialize the way in which I expected them. I lost a lot of joy from experiences because I couldn’t appreciate them simply for their unadulterated happening.
My pregnancy discovery occurred unceremoniously over three years ago, yet it is one of my most beloved memories. Looking back, I think I learned the first lesson of motherhood that day: genuine memories are entirely unscripted. The most magical moments catch me completely off-guard, appearing without my intervention.
Through my motherhood travels, I’ve learned that my most treasured memories are those that appear in the midst of everyday living. They sneak up on me and yell, “SURPRISE!” My daughter’s first steps, first time saying “mommy,” and first smile are some of my most precious memories. Yet none of these was arranged like a symphony; they all happened surreptitiously on average days in between diaper changes and breast-pumping sessions. I didn’t plan for them at all.
Over the last three years, the first lesson of motherhood has restored a sense of wonder and pure excitement in my soul. I spend more time enjoying the real life I am given, and less time directing it in Hollywood-style scenarios. I look forward to the surprises of each day without any expectation of how they should arrive. I hold no grandiose standards for how the truly wondrous must unfold.
The end result is untainted bliss at the exact moment a memory is revealed to me. My life has become so much richer, my memories more vivid. I am free from the false expectations that steal away my joy from everyday miracles. Instead of longing for the picture-perfect fantasy, I experience authentic happiness knowing the most poignant moments of my life can occur at absolutely any time. And they do when I merely let them.
I had imagined from the beginning of my marriage that this moment would be much tenderer. I’d suspect I was pregnant and clandestinely take a pregnancy test. With absolute maternal bliss, I’d break the news first to my husband, Jamie. The revelation would occur with all the drama of a made-for-T.V. movie, ideally on a noteworthy holiday like Christmas or Father’s Day. We would hug and cry and kiss excitedly about our new future unfolding. We’d keep it a secret, I’d thought, and enjoy this knowledge just between the two of us for a while.
In reality, it was the end of July without a holiday in sight. Jamie was away at work, and I found myself immediately phoning a person with pregnancy experience – my sister-in-law, Sandy, mother of two. So much for my movie-script fantasy; I needed confirmation from a reliable source.
“Well, if there are definitely two lines, you’re definitely pregnant!” was her reply upon my speculation about the test’s accuracy. “You really don’t need to take another test.”
Sandy lovingly congratulated me, and I got down to business. Ignoring the advice I was given, I took a second test, then a third. I now had six pink lines of evidence (and no more urine to give for eight). Even the most skeptical jury would have found me irrevocably guilty of having a bun in the oven. So there I sat on the toilet lid, newly pregnant, alone, and disillusioned. I was painfully aware that the moment of a lifetime had come and gone without the anticipated fanfare. My first pregnancy was utterly entrenched in everyday life.
As a hopeless romantic, I’d spent time concocting fantasies about the manner in which extraordinary things should appear in my life. I would become disenchanted when life events failed to materialize the way in which I expected them. I lost a lot of joy from experiences because I couldn’t appreciate them simply for their unadulterated happening.
My pregnancy discovery occurred unceremoniously over three years ago, yet it is one of my most beloved memories. Looking back, I think I learned the first lesson of motherhood that day: genuine memories are entirely unscripted. The most magical moments catch me completely off-guard, appearing without my intervention.
Through my motherhood travels, I’ve learned that my most treasured memories are those that appear in the midst of everyday living. They sneak up on me and yell, “SURPRISE!” My daughter’s first steps, first time saying “mommy,” and first smile are some of my most precious memories. Yet none of these was arranged like a symphony; they all happened surreptitiously on average days in between diaper changes and breast-pumping sessions. I didn’t plan for them at all.
Over the last three years, the first lesson of motherhood has restored a sense of wonder and pure excitement in my soul. I spend more time enjoying the real life I am given, and less time directing it in Hollywood-style scenarios. I look forward to the surprises of each day without any expectation of how they should arrive. I hold no grandiose standards for how the truly wondrous must unfold.
The end result is untainted bliss at the exact moment a memory is revealed to me. My life has become so much richer, my memories more vivid. I am free from the false expectations that steal away my joy from everyday miracles. Instead of longing for the picture-perfect fantasy, I experience authentic happiness knowing the most poignant moments of my life can occur at absolutely any time. And they do when I merely let them.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
PAGE IN PROGRESS
I'm trying to figure out which pieces of my brain I'd like to offer up first. Check back in often to see if I've revealed anything yet...
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