Waves

The very air around me takes a breath
and hushing holds it.
Soft seeds of salt slide down my cheeks.
It’s dark.
So very dark.

I know there is sound in the world.
Somewhere
people hear words, music, laughter.
Thoughts find a voice.

Not here.
Syllables stick in my throat and cut my tongue.
Telling truth is torture.
Asking, sharing,  explanation: all is exhausting.

The world shifts under my feet.
That which was stable reveals itself sand.
What was sweet seems suddenly sour.
There is no satisfaction in taste or touch.

It’s coming.
I feel its rush and rumble
the rough and rapid tumult rising and roaring.
I cannot move although my silent self sends warnings
through my traitorous body.

My eyes closed; I brace for it.
The spray is first,
running on ahead to kiss my tight-closed lips.
The cold touches my toes and slides over my ankles.

I am consumed.
Cold, freezing, pummeling, overwhelming, ravenous.
There is no me.
Gone.
I am erased and now adrift under the charging tossing weight of it.

My mind remembers help.
My memories say: warmth, sun, the calm caress of confidence.
Fingers relax, unfurl, leading the hands then arms to drift upwards.
My heart opens ready for the touch of grace.

-Judey Kalchik, April 2020

(Image from @cargocollective.com )

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Holly Jolly?

As a young parent I had to be the one to go to my parents in order for my children to build a relationship with their grandparents.

Now as a grandparent I must go to my children in order to see my grandsons.

I have a full time job as does my husband, and my children live over 200 miles away, both from me and each other.

(Most weeks if I can keep up with laundry and we have coffee and eggs in the house I feel like a winner.
Making those drives takes me several days to catch up and physically recover.
I spend almost every day at the edge of exhaustion: this is on me.)

My children also have full time jobs, and the grandkids are heavily involved in team sports and music.

Especially this time of year I struggle with the situation.

–What is it about me that leads to this?

– How long can I maintain the juggling of where to go when?

– This must be my fault: a divorce, the turmoil in our home when they were young, I was so angry and sad all of the time- I broke our bond so I must deserve this.

I’ve stopped asking them to come here, inviting them to visit; it’s too hard to deal with ‘we can’t’.
(Again, especially this time of year I struggle not to hear it as ‘we won’t’ or ‘we don’t want to’ or ‘you aren’t worth it’)

And when I do ask them I can hear the edge of desperation in my voice and wince. I don’t want to guilt them into coming- I know what that feels like; I was there once.
And I do understand their lives, too,; it’s hard, so very hard, to pack up young children and drive somewhere for a short time.
I get it.

Much of the year I feel emotionally healthy enough to deal with this.

During the holidays I don’t.

Pretty sure I’m not alone in this.

If you feel the same way please don’t keep it locked inside; share how you feel with a friend.

Reach out to the people around you for community and support.

Don’t wait to recreate the feelings of close family you ( like me) are reaching for; they may never happen.

Be available to new connections.

Tie a firm knot in the cords of fraying family ties, and hold on to what you do have.

💕 

Living the Dream

I walked through Ann Arbor yesterday evening.
It was that just-dark time,
and the sidewalks were bustling as the comedy clubs,
music spots, lecture halls , and the like were just releasing people into the evening.

I kept a close look at the signs,
I seldom walk through downtown and don’t ever remember walking it at night alone.
For a person that considers North ‘up’ and East ‘to the side’,  paying attention to signs is very important.

I saw lighted windows everywhere,
the golden light spilling through the panes looked so warm and welcoming.
(I hadn’t brought a coat because last week was 80% and : unprepared.)
I could see people sitting around tables, laptops open.
I figured I was passing a library or study center or something.
Everyone had heads down,
frowns on their faces,
hands in their hair.
Intent.
Worried.
Focused.

And then I saw the sign.
It was a residence hall.
These people may have been studying but they were at home.
In a place that they were (likely) paying to live.
Studying something they were (likely) paying to study.
Courses that were likely of their choosing.
In a warm and golden room.
Surrounded by people with the same interests.

And they looked like they were SUFFERING.
They were in mental agony.
Pushed and pushed HARD.
But still, when you come down to it, they were something they chose to do.

I wonder- do I look like that everyday?
I have a job that I enjoy.
On good days I feel like I have accomplished good things,
worked with good people.

But  oh sweet baby Jane-
by the end of the day my hair is a hot mess from dragging my fingers through it so much.
I can hoard my bottle of Asprominacetaphin (or whatever)  like it’s the last bottle after the Apocalypse,
savoring the relief it will bring when chugged with my guilty-pleasure Diet Coke.
I don’t sleep enough on the regular.
I sometimes look up and realize that I am hangry because breakfast has bled into lunchtime.

Do I look like I am enjoying what I am doing?
Challenging, yes, but do I look friendly- or do I look like I am in pain?
Grateful- or besieged?

Listen, I have heard enough women
(and sometimes that woman is me)
told that I should ‘Just smile!’ to last me a lifetime.
My calling in life isn’t to put people at ease… or is it?
I mean, I can do that without a fake smile stretching my lips.
This I know for sure.
But letting myself enjoy my life?
I owe that to me.

(This post is part of the #31DayWritingChallenge2019 )

 

 

The Great Clothing Swap

Today was to have been The Great Clothing Swap.
Do you do that, too?
It’s when all of the exiting season’s clothes are put away and the new season’s clothing returns from the bins and bags where they’ve rested for the past several months.

In my case it means several trips up and down the basement steps,
hauling Sterlite bins from under the steps,
to the dressing/craft/office/sewing room,
trying on items to make sure they fit,
tossing some things in the fryer with a damp washcloth,
and relegating others to ‘The Basket’ to await ironing.
Then packing up the Spring/Summer clothes into the now empty bins and trucking them back downstairs.

While this is happening half of the house looks like a tornado touched down inside of it.
I usually exclaim over end-of-season purchases with happy surprise,
and puzzle over why I have so many unworn pairs of white pants,
and so many well-worn pairs of black pants.

When the process is done I am always always always surprised at how large the dressing/craft/office/sewing room really is.
How tidy the chair looks without clothing slumped over its back.
How appealing the items on the racks look (in color order, of course).
How nice the top of the desk is when it is polished.

Basically- I am both the mother telling the child to clean their room,
and the child that reluctantly does it
and is too stubborn to say how comfortable it is when it is finished.

But that will need to wait until tomorrow.
Today I woke up with a cold
and the most I finished was changing the sheets
and pulling together the white pants and Summer black shirts.
I have several HOURS of work to do tomorrow.

Do I have too many clothes?
Yes; I surely do.
I have clothes for the life I think I live,
the life I want to live,
the life the bigger me once lives,
the life the not-yet-thinner me will live,
and the me that will Go To Other Places Someday and Will NEED things.

And tomorrow,
when I make the decisions about what will stay for a season and what will be donated,
I will be making the decision about what future wishes I will still keep and what will be discarded.

(This post is part of #31DaysOfWritingChallenge2019 .)

Step Right Up!

During a performance review too many years ago my boss challenged me to do something different.
To show myself (and her) that I could do more to bring traffic into our store.
I told her I would do an event a week.
We normally did one a year.
I don’t really know why I said it.
First thing that came to mind, I guess.

Game on.

Our store was in a big mall, back when malls did really really well.
We were in a town that made steel; the mall was actually built on an excavated slag dump.
But the mills weren’t doing so well.
Unemployment was up.
Books are an easy thing to avoid when you need to buy food, buy school clothes.

But I did it.
In our little mall store that didn’t realize it was a little store, we had weekly events.
I hit the yellow pages (because; no internet yet), and looked up non-profits.
Looked up clubs.
Looked up groups.
And then I called them.

Come in, I told them, and I will give you a table at the front of our store.
You can tell people about your club/group/charity/special interest/hobby.
I’ll put a display of books that relates to the topic on display.
You can hand out business cards, do a demo.
Need electricity? No problem!
I’ll send press releases, you tell everyone you know, OK?

It worked.
Back when the Big Box stores (the ones we eventually joined),
were testing Community Events Coordinators, I was using Day-Glo paint to make posters for the store front.
Making little name badges that said “Special Guest’ with a place for their signature.

We had bass fishermen with a giant tank, fish, and rods at the store front.
We had the Star Trek club, complete with a sound machine that sounded ‘swisssssh’ when people crossed the leaseline.
We had my boss’ favorite: the We Remember Elvis Fan Club.
(They had a scale model of Graceland made of sugar cubes, an Elvis look-alike, and raised money for a juvenile burn center.)

We had girls scouts, gingerbread house demos, knitters, and a trail bike club.
I brought in a bread machine
(they were the instant pot of that time)
and made fresh bread and then gave out samples… conveniently placed next to the bread machine cookbooks.

We had story time,
valentine card crafts,
and made space for the entries into the local elementary science fair.

I got to go to a cool conference with ‘store event people’ at the home office.
That’s where the giant pencil came from (because I save, almost, everything).

We had fun.
We had traffic.
We had sales.

But we DIDN’T have the internet or social media.

Boggles my mind what I could have accomplished then with all of the tools we have now.

If you are in sales,
if you own your business,
if you are a writer,
a crafter,
and you aren’t reaching out to people around you using online tools and opportunities….
well,
if I was doing your review you bet you would get a Needs Improvement.

(This post is part of the #31DayWritingChallenge2019)

 

Come to See Me When I Die

Please.
Come to see me when I die.

Before the flames and heat make it impossible,
come and see me.

While you have the chance to see my face and touch my hand.

Not for my sake, but for yours,
tell my now unhearing ears all the words inside you.
Rage or weep.
Whichever helps.
Tell me your dreams and hopes.
Tell me of the regrets and memories you will share when asked about the visit.

Just ask me no questions
for the time that I could help you will have passed.

Sit awhile with me.
I’ll be quiet company,
and  in your mind place us somewhere bright together.
Feel my  gaze on your face as you tell me of your life.
Can you hear my laugh, still?
Or has it faded into the past?

Don’t let the miles be too far.
Don’t let your schedule make the choice for this visit.
Don’t be too busy for this last journey.
Just come to see me when I die.

Let the visit be the help I’ve always wanted you to have.
The time we spend,
together at last,
heal all hurts.
Perhaps now you are free to hear the words I’ve always longed to say.
Don’t stop yourself;
say whatever you need to say,
or feel free to sit in the silence we created together.

Just,
please.

Don’t let me go still waiting.
It will be the last chance.
Please come to see me when I die.

-judey kalchik (2018)

 

Spark

At least three times a day I have to make a choice about what kind of spark I’m willing to be.
Will I be a fire or will I be a candle?

Will I roar and rage?
Will I blast and scorch?
Behave like a seething Smaug and snarling-ly snort embers and steam?

Or will I take the controlled route?
Light a path?
Banish the foggy confusion around me?
Gentle welcoming light put to good use?

It’s not easy to reign in a dragon.
Many
many
many
times in my life I have not made the right choice.

I was not a patient mother.
As my frustration and panic at watching my future plans and marriage dissolve grew to a fever,
my daughters bore the harsh fire of my fear.
Not with golden talons but with flinted words and unpredictable emotions
I swept and tore through the house,
terrified that disorder and non-perfection
would be the straw that broke the tenuous peace in our house.

I spoke that they should always do their very best,
and then became the judge and jury, deciding where that level fell
and holding them accountable to achieve it.

Raised to count to 10 when my exasperation rose,
I would make it to three,
maybe four on a good day.
Then WHOOOOOSH– up in flames.
And singing the spirit of those around me.

What changed?
Well- agreeing not to fight to keep the sputtering heat of the marriage alive was a start.
Counseling helped.
Low-dose Prozac.
(Funny.
I still feel the need to describe it as ‘low dose’.
Like it hardly matters.
Trivial.
Like I take it just in case it helps.
As if there is shame in treating a chemical imbalance.
Deliberate distance established.)
Throwing myself into work.
Learning to trust again.
Re-creating myself.

I didn’t learn self-control as a child.
I learned to tamp down emotions, but not to manage them.
Learned to swallow the anger and fear, not to resolve the issue.
learned that LOUD VOLUME got you heard,
and silent watchfulness kept you safe.
These skills do not serve you well in a career.
These skills are not those taught in corporate conflict management courses.
These tenets are not found in best-selling self-help books.
I’ve learned whatever emotional control I may possess as an adult.
And I’ve learned it late.

Some skills I’ve acquired by my old stand-by: watching others.
I see them breathe deeply and exhale, then speak in a carefully modulated tone.
I’ve imitated the control other demonstrate,
and have learned ways to work through my fires without burning my surroundings.

Daily, I remember that ‘we take the high road’.
That I have been here before and I will be here again.
That the satisfaction of a biting comment is short=lived and that trust is not easily regained once broken.
That my skin in thicker than it seems,
and that other people may be fighting their own demons of fear and insecurity.

Peace and warmth come from fire,
just as can fear and white-hot rage.
It’s up to me what I will allow to emerge from my spark.
It starts with me.

(This post is part of the #Write31Days challenge.)

 

 

Flip Me

A not-guilty-at-all indulgence on Sundays
is to watch-listen to a Flea Market Flip marathon while
doing chores/cooking/laundry/and general putzing around.

If you’ve not seen this show, here’s the premise:
two teams of two compete to find stuff at a flea market
and create three items that they will re-sell for profit.
They are spotted the cash,
get a chance to have a pro group to help them with the carpentry and tools and paint and all,
and have Lara Spencer moderates the competition.
The duo that has the greatest profit wins.

They pack a lot into this show:

• buy dirty dusty stuff for a few dollars
• trash talk each other and abuse the competition’s artistic talents
• lots of ladders made into lots of unladdered furniture
  (seriously: I’ve seen ladder shelves, ladders coffee table, ladder chairs, ladder mirrors, ladder picture frames, ladder sofas)
• strange and wonderful lamps made from musical instruments and hats
• dressers torn apart and made into non-dresser items
• thrift store polyester fabric upholstered onto broken chairs that sell for hundreds of dollars
• watching people uncomfortable with selling try to close a sale is painful

From a crafty point of view it’s interesting, but not practical to duplicate.
Unless you have a totally stocked shop,
trained minions that can use the tools,
a savvy associate to tell you that a pop of color goes best IN the drawers not ON the sideboard,
an angel investor to get you started,
a skilled makeup artist for the close-ups,
and an industrial-sized pop-up tent for the flea market.
And a good supply of ladders,
milk canes,
irregularly-shaped safety glass that coincidentally fits your furniture in need of a see-through surface,
chalk paint,
and vintage maps, tea towels, aprons, and Mad Men draperies for that special touch.

Still, a girl can dream.

The thing that really draws me, though is watching rusty, weary, discards get burnished and brightened.
Given new purpose.
A breath of life.
The belief that THIS new form is the perfect use of the materials.
That it will be staged and cleaned,
celebrated and polished,
lovingly described,
stage-lighted,
praised,
and increased in value.

On my sluggish days,
(You know those days?
Your roots are staking a claim on the middle of your head,
the lines in your face look ironed on,
no matter how hard you try one eye looks a bit better when you put on mascara, so you compensate, and now you have clumpage?
C’mon, it can’t just be me.)
it can be easy to yearn for a make-over.

But I’ve had them before, and they rarely stop at skin deep.
Just like on the show,
sometimes a makeover means losing parts you once though essential.
I’ve seen dressers lose their drawers, tables ditch their legs, and countless other furniture mauling.
But in the end a new product emerges.
I’ve had that.
Destinations I’ve thought were certain-sure have been re-routed.
Things held dear to me have been removed.
Relationships I’ve cherished have rusted
(some from tears and others from lack of contact)
and contacts don’t quite connect anymore.
I’ve had periodic refreshes and deep cleaning to change into something new.

Like the lamp that needs to be re-wired ten times before it works,
the side table that just WON’T sit straight and level,
the sofa that needed all of the stuffing removed AGAIN to eliminate the lumps,
sometimes the change takes time.
I don’t think it could make syndication,
but for me it’s the show of my lifetime.
I can’t wait to see how everything works out.

(This post is part of the #Write31Days challenge.)

 

Well Well Well

                                                    Pulitzer Prize Winning Photo                                                       1988,  Scott Shaw photographer

31 years ago this week an 18 month-old little girl fell down an 8-in pipe, an unused well.

For 2 days a rescue crew that included oil-drillers,
paramedics,
and contractors worked to free her.
It took 56 hours before the hard dirt and rock of Midland Texas gave up and let her go.

CNN gave round-the-clock coverage of the rescue efforts.
Of the various methods used and discarded.
Of the volunteers that poured in to help.
A photo of the rescue by Scott Shaw won the 1988 Pulitzer Prize for Spot Photography.
A trust fund was set up for her, a movie starring Patty Duke was made about the ordeal.
People were glued to the TV,
cheering and crying when she was rescued.

For one child in Texas time stopped, and people came together to find her.
To release her.
To reunite her with her family.

A lot seems to have changed in the past 31 years.

Not one child, but many, are separated from their parents in Texas.
(And in Kansas, New York, Michigan, and on and on.)
It’s estimated that over 10,000 children
(and I’ve seen up to 13,000, but that’s hard to believe, isn’t it?)
have been separated from their parents and are in one of a hundred licensed shelters.
Many more, though, are in ‘Emergency’ shelters.
It’s an Emergency that we, the people, have created.
That we have allowed to happen to our children.

Oh yes, they aren’t ‘our children’, though, are they?
They aren’t like Baby Jessica, the girl in the well.
They are migrant children.
Illegal immigrants.
From families that sneak across our borders.
From families that seek asylum.
They are runaways.
Orphans.
Lost.
Loved.
Missed.
Hiding.
Frightened.
Children.

Like Baby Jessica, many of these children have no idea how they got where they are.
Like Baby Jessica, many don’t have the words to explain how they feel.
Like Baby Jessica, they need their parents.
Like Baby Jessica, they need to be cared for,
to be rescued,
released,
reunited.

Cameras are not encouraged, these 31 years later.
There is no round-the-clock coverage for the,
not 1,
but thousands of children that need help.
Perhaps it’s easier to help one child than to save many?
Perhaps it seems do-able.
One and done.
Maybe we can better comprehend that story.

There is so much rhetoric demanding our attention.
So many competing stories.
They buzz and nip and demand our attention.

Spare a little, please, this week.
A little thought as we hit October 14.
Remember (or hear about it for the first time and marvel),
how we the people rallied to save one precious child.

Can we do more to save thousands?
Shouldn’t we?

(This post is part of the #Write31Days challenge.)
 

 

 

 

Tired

‘I need a mental health day.’
I’ve said it.
I’ve heard it.
Sometimes I’ve even taken it.
Turns out we all get one.

Today is World Mental Health Day.
It’s a day for mental health awareness, education, and advocacy.
To remove the stigma of mental illness.
To make it clear that it’s OK to let others know that things aren’t OK with you.
To make it easier to ask for help.

The burden of carrying the load of illness is staggering.
It’s numbing.
It’s exhausting.
I know this is true.

Not only because I’ve seen it in my family; I’ve seen it in the mirror.

I am a survivor of bulimia.
Telling my doctor about this issue, which is in my past, earned me an entry on my medical file: Mental Illness.
Well, alright then.

I am a survivor of postpartum depression.
BAM.
That’s another entry.

My father committed suicide.
My grandmother suffered from ‘nerves’.
My brother.
Well, my brother has had a varied diagnosis, so I’ll say it’s complicated.
BAM.
Better keep your eye on me.

It’s tiring.
Always watching for the truth to seep out of a crack.
Moving on and showing up and cleaning and caring and trying and SMILING.
God, please.
Please help me!
ALL of the SMILING that is required to be non-offensive.
To keep everyone AT EASE.
Not to CAUSE a SCENE.
What will people think?

When your mind can’t help asking you why you are rushing.
Why be on time?
Why try?
Why even move forward when the light turns green?
What is the use?
What is the purpose?
Why even ask?
Who cares?

And yet.
And sometimes.
And just perhaps.
A change.
There is a light.
There is a hope.
A thread.
A memory.
A stubbornness.
A desire.
Heat.
Hunger.
Love.
You want.
You want… something.

And sometimes, you ask for help.
Sometimes you tell.
Sometimes you admit.
Sometimes you reach out and find a hand is there.

If it’s you.
If you need help: ask.
If that secret has you worn to the bone with weariness, put it down.
Or get someone to help you carry it.

If you can give help- reach out.
If you have the strength, look for ways to use it.

Compassion is a good start.
Compassion for others.
Compassion for yourself.

____________________________________________________________________________

Here are some places to get help:

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline – Call 800-273-TALK (8255)

If you or someone you know is in crisis—whether they are considering suicide or not—please call the toll-free Lifeline at 800-273-TALK (8255) to speak with a trained crisis counselor 24/7.

The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline connects you with a crisis center in the Lifeline network closest to your location. Your call will be answered by a trained crisis worker who will listen empathetically and without judgment. The crisis worker will work to ensure that you feel safe and help identify options and information about mental health services in your area. Your call is confidential and free.

Crisis Text Line – Text NAMI to 741-741

Connect with a trained crisis counselor to receive free, 24/7 crisis support via text message.

National Domestic Violence Hotline – Call 800-799-SAFE (7233)

Trained expert advocates are available 24/7 to provide confidential support to anyone experiencing domestic violence or seeking resources and information. Help is available in Spanish and other languages.

National Sexual Assault Hotline – Call 800-656-HOPE (4673)

Connect with a trained staff member from a sexual assault service provider in your area that offers access to a range of free services. Crisis chat support is available at Online Hotline. Free help, 24/7.

(This entry is part of the #Write31Days Challenge.)