pelicansandprose

Ever since I returned from Wales, I have been avoiding writing. Feeling utterly inadequate to express or describe the beauty I saw, the spirit of the people I met, and the sense of homeland, I just haven’t written. I’ve thought about trying to write to convey those experiences hundreds of times over the last few months. Paralyzed.

I decided tonight to put all that inadequacy aside and simply begin again. Perhaps at another time and place I will be able to write about Wales, but not yet.

It is amazing to me how feelings of inadequacy can keep me from doing things I enjoy and how often I have to fight back to do the thing I enjoy. (In this case, write.) I’m sure I’m not the only human being who struggles with this, but it is a fierce struggle. Beginning again and again and again seems to be what I do.

That makes me think about my students. How many of them are feeling inadequate and what could I do to help them want to keep trying? I realized writing this that it sounds funny to want to be “adequate.” So why is “inadequate” so powerful a label? If I work so hard to not be “inadequate,” will all I find is being “adequate?”

So I had to go to the dictionary to check word origin: Maybe adequate isn’t so weak after all. I like the idea of being equal to what is required. I’ll keep working on that.

Word Origin and History for adequate Expand
adj.
1610s, from Latin adaequatus “equalized,” past participle of adaequare “to make equal to,” from ad- “to” (see ad- ) + aequare “make level,” from aequus (see equal ). The sense is of being “equal to what is required.”

A week from now I’ll be in Wales.  I can hardly believe it.  My sisters and I are going to see the birthplace of our grandfather whom we never knew.  It may seem hard to believe, but as the youngest child of a youngest child, my grandfather was born in 1864.  He died at age 90 just before I was born.  He came to the United States at age 12 with only his sister.  His parents stayed behind in Wales until many years later.  He was a coal miner all his life.  It’s hard to imagine the changes he experienced in his lifetime, 1864-1955.  My sister has been making inquiries with genealogists in the family who are putting us in touch with cousins. The pull of family is very strong, and we feel the promise of a certain sense of home, of roots, of being grounded in the place we came from.  

As a knitter, I can hardly wait to see the lambs frolicking in green, green valleys.  As a musician, I can hardly wait to hear a Welsh choir.  As a nature-lover, I can hardly wait to walk the Brecon Beacons, see the spring flowers, and hear the birds.  As a granddaughter, I can hardly wait to have a real picture of the place where my grandfather was born.  

To be with my sisters for more than a few hours will also be a delightful treat.  Siblings are usually life’s longest relationships.  I’m so grateful for mine.

To the Grass

Under weight of snow,

Send down roots.

After winter’s dark night,

Awake and stretch toward warmth and light.

With your fellows,

stand thick and close.

When nibbling grubs tickle

And ants race through your feet—

When horses,

Cows, sheep, or lawnmowers

Shear your lush green-ness,

Rejoice that you give life

And cool my

Tired feet.

by Marilyn, April 1, 2014

For people who know me well, the idea that I could do ANYTHING for 31 days in a row would be preposterous.  I have rarely passed Day 10 on any diet or self-improvement plan, housekeeping routine (that would be more like Day 3), or child-raising routine.  I have structure in my life, but not necessarily routine.  It is HARD for me to do things at the same time each day, or even each day.  Even things I enjoy are not easily sustained on a daily basis.

So what was different this time?  I’m not sure, but I feel that the supportive community was a BIG motivator.  I found that I looked forward to writing and I looked forward to receiving comments and feedback.  This was my first year slicing and I entered the challenge with a friend.  I’m sure the friendship helped support the effort, too.  

But I think there’s more.  I think that I recognized that this was important work for me to do.  It was work which brought meaning to memory and voice to feelings and thoughts that have been quiet a long time.  I loved the “Be inspired” section and often I was inspired and my imagination was challenged.  I found “flow” at times – that optimal place where engagement and challenge are just right.  I realized that living like a writer is a good way to live.  It’s a reflective, active, observant practice that made me happier. 

I thank ALL who participated.  You have touched me and lifted me up.  I hope I have been able to be a support for some of you, too. Perhaps we’ll meet again on Tuesdays this year.  Remember Wimpy (Popeye’s friend)? “I’d gladly pay you Tuesday, for a hamburger today.”  Well, I’d gladly write on Tuesday to be a part of this writing community.

I drove by Nottoway Park today and saw a banner advertising an Easter Egg Hunt coming up.  My mind immediately went to an Easter season around 1985.  I took my 4 children to the Easter Egg Hunt at Nottoway and arrived just a few minutes after the advertised start time.  I was shocked when we were turned away and told that all the candy was gone.  

“Why did they not plan better?” I thought. There were my 4 young ones with empty baskets and very sad faces. I tried to use consoling words as I drove home, but inside I was angry at the event planners.  My anger was fueled by feelings beyond the moment.  I didn’t understand why things couldn’t be carefree for once.    

At some point during the day, my Dad called.  When I told him what had happened, he said, “Give me an hour and then bring the kids over.”  It was around 5:00 p.m. when we arrived at my parent’s apartment. I hadn’t said anything to lead them to believe this was anything other than a usual visit.  We lived close by and stopped in often.  

My dad had a twinkle in his eye.  He loved surprises.  He could barely contain his excitement.  We sat down and began to visit as usual.  Then he suggested that Danny might want to look around a bit in the living room.  Something might be different.  Then he said he wondered if they should check other rooms in the apartment, too.  Slowly, the kids began walk around.  Nothing looked changed.  It was a small apartment and they had been here many times.  My dad gently encouraged more investigating. Soon, they discovered candy under chairs, on shelves, in drawers, or on the piano keyboard. The search gradually sped up and squeals of happiness filled the room.  I now had 4 very happy kids.  

It was fun to watch my kids search and find the treats, but it was even more beautiful to see how happy it made my dad.  He derived his own happiness by making others happy.  I love that about my dad and miss his huge capacity to nurture, love, and care.    

Right now, I’m . . .

     :: trying out this new form of writing

     :: listening to my daughters talk on the phone

     :: feeling grateful for generations of mothers and daughters

     :: thinking of this satisfying Saturday spent with my sisters

     :: planning to do dishes

     :: wishing the fairies would come to do them

     :: chewing on a cherry Twizzler

     :: ready to call it a day.

A spring peeper choir–

Sweet promise of warmer days.

Swamp-joy at evening.

Did you know that spring peepers can be heard up to 2 1/2 miles away?  I heard them this evening on my way home and was glad.

This short description is from the Cornell Lab of Ornithology:

The Brown Pelican is a comically elegant bird with an oversized bill, sinuous neck, and big, dark body. Squadrons glide above the surf along southern and western coasts, rising and falling in a graceful echo of the waves. They feed by plunge-diving from high up, using the force of impact to stun small fish before scooping them up. They are fairly common today—an excellent example of a species’ recovery from pesticide pollution that once placed them at the brink of extinction.

Pelican-watching is one of my favorite things to do at the beach.  I watch as they flap and glide in odd-numbered patterns:  flap, flap, flap, flap, G-L-I-D-E.  They fly in synchronous rhythms without rush or panic. It calms me to follow their journey over the breaking waves.  If I look further out to sea, I often see the brown pelican making its unique head-first dive into the water.  It seems to stop mid-air, turn 90 degrees to the ocean floor, and plunge to catch a fish.  The splash is a clean entry that any diving coach would be proud of.  Sometimes it makes me laugh.

It was while watching brown pelicans off the Outer Banks of North Carolina that an impression came which saved my family.  At least saved us from one kind of pain. The impression was simple, “Don’t leave.” The kids played in the waves and sand.  My husband and son played paddleball.  I watched and knew I had been given a gift, an answer.  We would stay together.

Now, thirty years later, I still remember that day, that decision, made while watching pelicans.  

When five young cousins sleep over in a small living room, sleep isn’t usually on their minds.  One particular night, Jeff, Dan, Tim, Katy, and Mark were supposed to be getting settled down for the night.  Sleeping bags and blankets covered the floor as they claimed their territory.  Teeth were brushed and jammies on.  I turned off the main lights, “Goodnight, everybody.”

It was calm for a few minutes.  Then I heard, “Steamroller!”  Jeff began the game they had made up which basically had no rules except that the one who yelled, “Steamroller” got to roll over everyone else on the floor.  Arms and legs flailed amid giggles and occasional “Ouch!”  Soon everyone was on top of everyone else with blankets tangled up like spaghetti.  “Go to sleep!” I hollered from the basement.

Quiet again, I think.  I breathe and listen.  The rowdy sounds slowly start to grow again – then bedlam!  Who had called “Steamroller” this time?  I marched up the stairs, ready to read the riot act.

“Listen, you guys, it’s time to go to sleep and I don’t want to hear a peep out of you.”

“Peep,” said Tim.

I gave up and suppressed my own giggle all the way downstairs.

My son, Tim, makes me happy.  Today he turned 34. He has a beautiful, kind wife and a wonderful 9-month old son.

Tim achieved recognition before he was even born when the nurses saw that his hair was going to be white blonde. I remember the nurse went to get the other nurses to come see the white hair.  It was as soft as baby duck down. Tim was a very upright baby; he didn’t cuddle much except with my mother.  She liked to say, “He’s my boy.”  

From a very early age, Tim loved baseball and has an incredible memory for sports facts and statistics.  He was an avid collector of baseball cards.  In fact, his only real reading for years was the sports page in the paper, Sports Illustrated, and the backs of baseball cards.  His writing was mostly lists of players, line-ups, statistics, and his predictions about the World Series.

Tim’s tender side wasn’t widely known, but I knew that he grieved when his tadpole died, just before it was fully a frog.  We buried it in the vegetable garden.  I knew he was sad when his asthma made it impossible for us to keep Snowy, his guinea pig.  One day, Snowy got loose in the house and ended up under my bed.  I had to shut the door and wait for Tim to get home from school.  He was the only one who could get Snowy to come out.  He had a sweet relationship with Snowy – even when Snowy made his eyes water and his nose stuffy.

Perhaps Tim’s tender side wasn’t as visible because he also had a bit of a temper.  It was a justifiable temper in reaction to difficulties in some family relationships, but I think he also got a bad rap sometimes.  I didn’t realize until my older son went on a trip one summer that perhaps Tim was getting the blame for things that his brother may have provoked.  

One hot, humid Virginia summer day, I was driving my four kids in our Chevy Celebrity station wagon.  It was more than hot.  The kids were tired from doing errands with me.  Tim was sitting in the front seat with me.  He really wanted a Slurpee.  In an arbitrary moment of parental control, I said, “No.”  Actually, I think that I was afraid that if I took all the kids to get a Slurpee, my husband would have been angry at the “waste” of money.  Tim asked again, and protested when I said, “No.”  We argued back and forth and then, in frustration, he kicked the windshield.  The windshield had already been pitted by a rock a few weeks earlier.  Tim happened to connect with the weak spot. The windshield was suddenly a spider web of cracked glass.  He sucked in his breath.  He was sure his life was over.  I tried to assure him that the windshield was already cracked, but we were all afraid to go home to dad’s potential wrath.

So we went to see Grandma and Pappy.  We had Grandma’s homemade cookies and Pepsi as we cooled off.  I decided to call dad and prepare him for the state of the windshield. Thankfully, we all lived through that one.  Happy Birthday, Tim.

I’ll share my favorite Tim story in tomorrow’s slice.