why things break

“if you force it, it’ll break.” he’d always say. i was clumsy, he’d remind me of this. “you always break my stuff.” he’d say, but it wasn’t true. well, except for that $400 fishing pole when river was four months old.

things broke by accident back then, from sleep deprivation.

since then i’ve learned that things also break from simply being worn out. things break from too much love, from overuse {or from lack thereof as well.} marriages break, teeth break, as do cars and windows and laptops. even relationships as we know them break, shatter, splatter, explode and erupt. 

everything breaks.

things break spontaneously without another thought for goodbye. things break and there’s no going back. things break to show you how much people love you, see you, feel you, want to fix you.  things break and you see other hearts reaching out to help.  and it makes the loss of things you love sting a little bit less.

things break to force the letting go. the giving it all up to something bigger, someone more trustworthy with tinkering and tiny screws and worn out old camera shutters. things break to make room for the next big step towards a career. i have to believe this. i do believe this.

things break to remind you that nothing is forever.  that mom will die. and so will i. that yes, there will be wheelchairs and hospice and empty shells of people with swiss cheese for brain matter where once there was joy and laughter. nothing is forever and people die too young and yet there is still so much beauty waiting to be seen. life waiting to grow and sprout up from all things rotting and decomposed.

i am not my camera but it’s the thing that partnered up with me when i felt i could do it no longer.  the thing that carried me through, gave me eyes. sparked a passion, a career.  so when these things break, it gets all up in my head and throws questions at myself like a sick and twisted game of dodgeball.  who am i? am i this thing i think i am? this thing that feels most right in existence? how do i keep it going and make it all work?

friday was a no good very bad day. one that turned around with river’s insistence on my photography. on that recognition of me. momma is a photographer.

“momma! take a picture of me! this picture can go in that gallery in houston! momma when i grow up can i be a photographer with you in that gallery? momma take a picture of me in this tree! you can tell your friends that i am your son and i am 14. because i look 14.” 

i believe in myself when he believes in me.
and then…

my camera broke. the shutter died of exhaustion perhaps. i have no idea. but if these are the last photos she gave me, she will have died happy. and i am thankful for all the beauty she has given me, shown me, shared with me.

so i’m a little sad and worried and anxious about what this means for tomorrow and the days beyond. and i’m a little distraught by how i’ll wrangle another camera out of the universe and into my hands.

we shall see…

one thing i know for certain today is that things break and mothers raise their boys single-handedly and grey hairs sprout and crows feet land and bad moods rise and love exists and things break and life moves on.

inside outside upside down

“That’s not my real reflection, she said. I’ve changed so much since then most people barely recognize me.” ~ storypeople

the release comes post-birthday. the freefall of lightness that enters a year anew with possibility and hope. it’s not just the time of year, the coming of spring … but the dreams that carry me forward, the intentions i set with new mantras that hug the power of positivity.

reflections are pure dreaminess. they are the beauty of childhood imagined, a life dreamed up in a flash of sunlight and sea sparkle. reflections are how to turn the world on its end, to dive inside outside, to peek beneath and beyond the ordinary that you face every single moment of every single day.

coping mechanisms.

that’s what they say. put a family in crisis and you’ll see coping mechanisms. they pop up like mushrooms after a rain. laughter becomes medicine. put a family in crisis and you’ll feel the floor shift and creak as everyone takes a step to the left, filling new shoes, bridging the gaps, taking on new roles.

i reflect. i abstract. i twist and contort my eye to make believe my reality just like when i was a kid playing house in neighboring trees.

“do you wish you were a kid, momma?” he’s truthful with his inquiry and i remember my knobby-kneed self wishing away the time until i was grown up so i could go to bed or eat ice cream whenever i wanted.

“you know what? i remember being a kid and wishing i was grown. and now i’m grown and sometimes i wish i was a kid again.” he nods solemnly in his way he has about him when he’s thinking of lego creations. he’s looking for connection. always. just like the plastic blocks with locking pieces. he fiddles with them, he’s looking for connection to know he’s not alone, in hopes to build something bigger and better and stronger.

i get that in him. i really do. he and i are different pieces of the same puzzle.

i look for reflection. because then i can be two. both selves connected at the ankle standing in the cold atlantic ocean. i look for reflection in my piscean way of swimming with my twin in opposite directions.

kid and grown-up.
grown-up kid.

inside outside upside down. i am the mediator. the go between.  the grown daughter holding the family ties together like a bouquet of flowers held with silk ribbons that float on the breeze.

~~~~~~~~

for more thoughts on worthiness and love and acceptance,
head on over to gypsy girl’s guide and say hello to alex to enter her giveaway!

 

in good health

a week ago i flew to the east coast and turned 35. visiting my parents. having a quiet birthday that goes unnoticed except for the cupcakes and frosting. life is bigger than birthdays these days. and that’s ok.

i’ve always wanted to be this age, it feels good to be in my skin.

i laugh at the message from a friend first thing in the morning last thursday… his voice across the miles knowing all the forgetting that is happening around me in a world of dementia deterioration. “hey, happy birthday meredith. i thought someone should say it to you today.” 

while digging around for linen napkins at dinner, i find a familiar sight i hadn’t seen since NJ 1984. blue and red. balled up and forgotten under the placemats. it appeared just for me, this day of days when i went unnoticed. when no one uttered “happy birthday to you” i pulled this treasure from the drawer and held it up to see. blinking remembrance of this, somewhere from deep in my subconscious of a childhood that feels very far away from me now.

“hey mom, look!” i hold it up to her. she blinks at me. i blink at her. 

“can i have this?” the question jumps out of my mouth before i can shove the greedy gimme gimme words back in my mouth. this, this thing that was once hers was meant to be mine. and we both know it.

“yes of course” she says. and suddenly i know that this will be my last birthday present from her. she gave it unknowingly on the day of my birth. and even though she never spoke the words, i know it was a gift.

this is the apron she wore in our east coast kitchen.  the one embroidered with two words: Wonder Woman

i tell her how much it means to me, how he, this child right here, my son, calls me wonder woman. a thought she cannot grasp. but she smiles anyway and tells me “wear it in good health!”

and depending on my mood and the weather and the weight of loss on that particular day, i find that statement ironic.

the gift of film

i sit cross-legged on the floor infront of the tv. like a kid, mouth agape head tilted back, the screen reflecting in my eyes. it flickers and jumps like old school projectors of my youth. except these are images from 1942… toys in the side yard, baby walks, family, home in massachusetts, home in maine.

these are people i never had the chance to meet. they die young on your side of the family, a tradition that will be carried on it seems. the still photographs of my life come alive on the dvd now, they walk and laugh and wave at the camera. i am seeing them in real life for the first time. and it’s as if they see me.

my mom as a baby. her mother, her father. those i never knew.  they gather at the beach. hike the maine woods with wicker baskets strapped to their backs. always at the cottage with picnics on blankets in suits and ties. hannaford cove.  cape elizabeth.  the lighthouse in the distance. my mom’s pageboy haircut and youthful grin surrounded by family who all resemble me in some way.

someone behind the camera is just like me, scanning the sea, the waves crashing on the rocks.  the silhouettes at the edge of the coast, the sun flickering and dancing on the water. someone holding the camera is just like me.

it’s almost too much for me, this cross-legged kid. i’m laughing and crying at the same time, wiping my eyes so as not to miss a single minute of it.

this, family.
this, happiness at the coast.
grasses in the wind.

this gift i am bringing to you, when i hop my plane to the east coast tomorrow before the sun rises. a week at home with family absorbed and sorting out the details, living zen like in the moment of dementia. this real life from long ago is where you live now. it’s black and white and will be shared between us. for a moment i hope we will sit together in the same head space, connected through family.

this gift i am bringing to you, but it is also for me. the final reel, the last two minutes show you grown into a mother much like myself. two years before my birth you are all pony tails and plaid bell bottoms. i see you and can’t help but see myself. the woman surrounded by children. holding hands ring around the rosie duck duck goose. you and i are more alike that i ever could have imagined. and it wasn’t until we reached this place that i could really see it.

and that is a gift to me.

dreamstate

it’s 4am here behind closed eyes.
what time is it where you are… across space and water.

when i am out in the world it brings me closer to you.  looking out into faces waking past; hands in pockets, i think of you … i look for you out there. your shape, your demeanor. it is familiar to me when you arrive in my dreams. always at 4am.

it’s so real when i see you. your eyes, your shoulders leaning in towards mine in some sort of secrecy. in some sort of laughter that floats between us with smiles.

you are real to touch. your voice, your presence. as we brush close my hands seeking warmth in your arms. our laughter, your face so close to mine. the curve of shoulder into neck and hairline. i can taste that you are real and it gives me joy upon waking knowing that i love you in my dreams.

hey mom

i climb those rickety attic stairs everytime i visit you. the attic holds treasures. they multiply each time i leave, always throwing surprises at me each time i go digging around in there.

what i found was priceless to me. dad’s slide film. all of it, perfectly preserved. hundreds and hundreds of them spanning 30 years of photography. and this… this was the very first slide i pulled out. i held it up to the light and it literally made me cry. it was you, mom. as seen through dad’s eyes. an image i had never seen before in my life. it is the most beautiful portrait. and behind it i learned so much about both of you. that itself, the learning and seeing, was such a gift to me.

dad saw me holding the old metal treasure box. he knew what it was. it was his afterall. he wasn’t sure he wanted to give me access to his images, all the places he’d been, all that he’d seen, the world of people he loved. 

i showed him this image. the portrait he took of you in the early seventies just before i was born. and he, being a man of few words, said nothing to my many questions. he said nothing other than, “well, now we know where you get your love of photography from.”

hey mom, i draft letters to you while i do the dishes.  my son is going to grow up thinking it’s mandatory to cry while steam fills the sink.  but he’s also going to grow up knowing that the kitchen fills with music and we hold each other through sadness.

hey mom, today i held him in my arms as he sobbed for 40 minutes and it reminded me of when he was newly born.  his head on my shoulder, sobs and tears and sounds unfamiliar.  and all that mattered to him were my arms around him.  embracing him while he cried.

hey mom, i miss you. i wish that i could talk to you.  you know, really talk. like we used to. not about groceries or calendar dates. you know, like we used to talk about life and sunshine and laughter, mothering and parenting and being so similiar in so many ways.

hey mom, today i said outloud for the first time “my mom is dyng” and i long for a conversation wtih you… but that time is gone.  there’s nothing there but disconnect. the time for mother daughter talks is gone, and i dont’ know when it left, and i wasn’t prepared to say goodbye to that part of our relationship so soon. it’s strange to still see you, your body standing before me, and me unable to access you as i once did. it’s heartbreaking. i’m your baby. your little girl. you’re my mommy still even though our roles are shifting.

hey mom, this is why i cry and draft letters to you while i clean. this is also why i talk to your friends. i gather them to me like the mothers they are.  they have known me my whole life.  they miss you too. but i am comforted that we have each other, all of us, to guide us through this grief. for this is what it is, we are grieving the loss of you. the slipping away from us even as you stand next to us. 

hey mom, they tell me they are proud of me. every single one of them say it. maybe they know i need to hear it. they know you are unable to witness me flying and soaring in this place i’ve come to be. they tell me that you would be proud of me too.  it sounds strange because you are not dead, although sometimes how we speak you’d think otherwise.

hey mom, i’m worried about you. i’m worried about us losing you. about what it will do to us.  you were the glue that held us together.  i don’t know if i can fill your shoes. your friends tell me they admire my strength but i want to pull back the curtain and weep like a child.  i just want my mommy like all those times i got lost in sears. my childhood nightmares of losing my mother are becoming reality. this is real now.  i’m not a kid so i’m expected to behave like i’m strong when all i want to do is curl up in your lap and have you stroke my hair.

hey mom, my son calls me wonder woman. and he really believes that i am. and i don’t want to break his heart and tell him otherwise.

hey mom, i wish you could watch him grow up. he’s going to be amazing.

hey mom, you’d be proud of him.

dear writer with camera

it’s how the letter started.
dear writer with camera

and it made me smile to sense that connection in another so far away. another i may never meet yet somehow know. another that shares a passion so strong that it begins to shape and take control of his life. steer him, guide him, lead him down the path he never imagined.

dear writer with camera.
me too.

it’s good to know we are not alone. those two short sentences i will not soon forget. the time that was taken to type it up, to send it out, to comment and nod his head in agreement for the love affair with photography. yes, me too.

when i look at this photo it makes me feel like a kid. the freedom that existed then. the belief in truth and honesty i had then. then is not now. but this photo is very good for my soul today.

recently a friend of mine threw out the question “do you still exist?” as he sensed my hibernation. (my turning toward the light to blind myself from reality. my way of coping. protecting. keeping what is sacred tucked safely inside.)

yes, i do still exist. in my optical illusion sort of way. good friend know that i always resurface, but they also know i can hold my breathe for long amounts of time underwater.

it’s pretty under there.

at midnight, twenty-three floors above the city lights of houston, someone asked me if i meditated. i probably should considering the weight of death and divorce i’m carrying with me these days. (pick your poison, they both taste nasty going down.) while staring out the window i had to admit the strong need for balance. for mental quietness. but i also had to laugh thinking of elizabeth gilbert saying “well, i nap. does that count?” yes, i let my eyes soften their focus, i breathe in breathe out, and i require alot of time lying flat on my back staring at the ceiling. 

it’s where i’ve been.
out gathering thoughts.

dreaming of being a writer with a camera.
or a photographer with a book.