Today a mix of what I wrote in my morning pages along with a free write while I was sitting here, dealing with life and Emma.
Every morning I lay out the pieces of my life and watch for fire to descend, so said King David in Psalm 5. Rich, vivid. Those words.
From Wishcasting. What rules do I wish to make or break?
1`. Permission to be completely, unabashedly real. These are my favorite people, the ones who are 100% real.This is my favorite me.
2. Drop ins are always welcome.
3. Go wild and allow laughter and awe to fill you before molding. Sculpting, refining, not critiqueing.
I hear Emma crying. It makes slivers of glass form in my heart. Ouch. I wish I could make her life instantly better. There is one way I could. Maybe two. Increase capital for that. Yeah, I know, money doesn’t buy happiness but it sure could make several things easier. I remember how much I hated being her age and I remember how much I hated my mom telling me how much she hated this age. Blach. I didn’t have it easy and I always wanted my kids to have it easier. Why do I always feel like I have messed things up for my kids?
Do all parents feel like this?
She is crying a bit more quietly now.
“You’re going to be busy, Mom.” She said. Yes. I am. She needs to learn to take some responsibility for herself. She believes she can’t do anything and me doing everything for her just reinforces that belief. I can’t believe how much time I spend doing for her what she needs done because she hasn’t done what she should have done in the first place. She is a capable human being. Messed up by me, maybe, but capable. I don’t dare send her back to brick and mortar school, though, she’ll get eaten alive.
What a fabulous predicament.
No wonder we both feel like prisoners.
In a minute I will go check her.
I wrote my morning pages this morning, I am trying to type from there but I am so distracted. I will copy and paste my poem, which is getting some positive response on the Three Word Wednesday website. I am proud of it, actually.
Here it is:
Prisoner #712
She wants to escape
This place, her invisible
Container, like living in
A plexiglass prison that
Sucks out whatever vibrance
Was left, whatever remained
To not so suddenly “poof!”
Itself stoically away
Passion turns its face north
She is left with the droning
Hum of the grungy finger
Print covered refrigerator
Plates with remnants of
Last nights lasagna, crusty,
Splatter taunts on their rims
Acrylic paint stains lace her
Fingers, overflowing trash
Can and an assortment of
Torn paper which once held
Some semblance of something
The jay outside the window
Points his beak at her polyps
Of procrastination. He squawks
“Stop Stop STOP!”
Heartbeat whispers too softly
She misses completely the
Sonata sounds it offers
“Begin begin b e giiii n n n n”
So now I will think about checking on Emma. And know I only have 250 words left. I actually have them in my notebook, probably just about enough, so this should make up for my leaving now. Funny how random words can fill things up.
Every morning I lay out the pieces of my life and watch for fire to descend, so said King David in Psalm 5. It is hard to tell whether Emma wants me to come to her or would rather be miserable.
I am opting for checking if she wants my presence.
We had a longish talk. Distracted but worth it. She is angsty and in 7th grade. She will be ok. I just need to be patient and keep supporting her. I remember being in 7th grade. My Mom never had time for me. I try to be there for Emma. I will be better.
God, please give me strength.
I wrote, this morning, about my creative development as a director. Usually I leap in, discover I have a certain level of competency. Feel confident and then, I realize how little I know so I withdraw, judge, etc. Finally, now, after a couple years not directing, I am feeling better and better about my skills. It is amusing, actually. to watch. It has been challenging for me to be surrounded by MFA’s and people who teach this stuff and here Iam, no training, no means, just passion and a hell of a lot of gumption, I guess.
I’ve been apprenticed by the seat of my pants. If I were a circus act, I would be a plate spinner. Boot schoot plate spinner. I reached my 750 words. I’m done.
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