Project Mama to Mrs.: Web'spired wedding

There are millions of ideas out there and the 'net has made them accessible - grouped together in logical little idea boards of someone else's design and inginuity. I typed in my colors, the term "wedding," and "idea board" and I had hundreds of what essentially were graphic designer or interior decorator's pitch boards for anonymous clients around the world. Then it was just a matter of determining my style preferences and executing.

{Picking my colors was tough. And narrowing those down to three? Impossible. I settled on those that "called" me whenever I saw them on display.}

My favorite place for finding must-haves? Etsy.

I ordered my bouquets from a wonderful designer named Michele (AmoreBride). I swear, she knows my taste and style so well it's sick... peacock couture? Perfection. And once we firmed up the colors for my custom bouquet, she offered to tweak my bridal party bouquets so that each will be unique. I collaborated on a second bridal bouquet set with Lindsey of Artsy Texas Design. She is AMAZING. First, she used my inspiration photos to draft a custom design incorporating my specific flower, shape and style preferences. Then she blended my color palette into a beautiful and realistic art piece that I'm in awe of. My daughter's bouquet mirrors mine and the maid's bouquets match, but are totally different to showcase what I've deemed the major two. The only issue now is which set to walk down the isle with, because I'm definately taking photos with each!

My boutonierres were custom designed by Kelly of WaterMeNot, who not only offered fabulous suggestions for matching colors, but gave me subtle variations for each member of the groom's party that are added surprises of personalization.

When it came to jewelry, I again turned to Etsy. I picked out a stunning Victorian-style teardrop pendant in the perfect shade of blue at AzureTreasures. Tear drop earrings and a pear and crystal bracelet complete the ensemble. I cannot wait to see it all with my dress at the final fitting appointment. Kristen of Guilded Shadows customized my veil and peacock feather fascinator. She helped me decide between two head pieces after looking at my gown styling. And the beauty of the final pieces is breathtaking. Now I just have to figure out my hair.

Groomsmen's gifts came personalized from LoversJewelry. And bridesmaids' gifts came from AllforBrides, who also has fabulous accessories in a variety of themes and color palettes.

I made my own centerpieces - with most of the materials coming from yet another online retailer: Save-On-Crafts. Beyond offering reasonable prices on their crafty supplies, there is an idea gallery and how-to section that was pretty helpful. And it didn't hurt that the customer service team was responsive and extremely accomodating. As a reformed scrapbook supply hoarder, I rarely visit JoAnn or Michael's anymore. But the wedding gave me an excuse to visit both again. With coupons, I saved a bundle on a stamp, some self-adhering bling, my guestbook, a "kissing stool," and some foilage for my alter pieces.

My bedroom has become wedding central - and as I scan the various boxes, I'm proud to see it all coming together beautifully. I can't wait to get it all out on display on I Do Day.

Oh, and my cake? Well, It's a variation of a cake I found online by The Pastry Studio... except we changed the colors and the number of circles. Oh, and added cupcakes. Yummy.

An aside: Somehow I established early on that I loved the color scheme naturally found on peacocks. Yeah, God; you and Mother Nature rocked that pretty cock. And while I stop short at saying I have "themed" my nuptials around a jumpy, flashy show off, there are nods to his fierce appearance everywhere.

Ever the student, I required research into the symbolism of the peacock. It was, afterall, taking over. Somehow the significance of the bird in worldwide religions and cultures just fits. The abridged version of symbolism is pretty impressive: good luck, wisdom, integrity, beauty, renewal, patience, compassion, royalty, pride, openness and acceptance. I'd say those are pretty good ingredients to a foundation.

Play it again (on competition among lovers)

I've never been much of a competitive person. Of course, I like to win. Who doesn't? But I would rather lose in a fair and fierce competition than win because someone felt I needed to be recognized. That kind of winning, frankly, sucks.

And so, when my fiancee and I began a friendly game of "Words with Friends" (Zenga's version of online Scrabble), it began as a, well, a friendly game. We'd play while on breaks at work. We'd play sitting side by side on my parent's couch (facing our phone screens away from each other under our "no peeking policy"). Fast forward about 50 days, and our amicable competition has become a cut throat past time.

As the English teacher with a penchant for and affinity to unusual words, I'd just expected to wipe out my competition. I mean, I have a word wall in my classroom of interesting words I find in my readings (making the list are words like perclempt, cacophony, erstwhile, and clairvoyance). How can I not kick butt in a game about forming words?

I tell you, I was on a role. Game after game I was winning (I even made a 150 point come from behind victory and clenched the win by two points). I was pulling out words I've not heard or used for years. I'd seen him play, trying out a letter here or there, rearranging at arbitrary random until the game was "sending" his word. He'd gotten me with a few good ones - - words I would not have believed existed (qi, quop, et, jape, yock, zu). But he didn't know the secret. You have to be conscious of the TL (triple letter), DL (double letter), DW (double word), and TW (triple word) squares.

I told him. He listened. And then, I lost.

Imagine the devistation. I considered the initial win a fluke, meerly a lucky handout of letters (I was denied consonants, for heaven's sake!).

And then, I lost. Again.

Half dozen losses later, I decided I'd play him on his own game. Beat him in something he loved. We made a simple wager. I picked up an XBox 360 controller and selected a comic character to battle against his Mortal Combat choice.

I mashed those darn buttons. I twirled the little joystick with my thumb. I mashed more buttons. I moved the controller for extra oomph on my button pushing frenzy.

I lost. Badly.

Every once in a while, my frantic and obscure button punching resulted in more than just sore thumbs - a special combination or a glowing figure with what seemed like temporarily better talent. But for the most part, I was just depressing buttons and my morale while my defenseless character was beaten to a pulp.

It started out best out of five, but I lost three matches (six deaths!) so quickly, that he revised that to best of ten. And suddenly, with a new character (because, you know, it was the character and not my playing that sucked), I won. And then I won again and secured a match.

On a sudden streak of success, I picked another character. I mashed those darn buttons. I twirled the little joystick with my thumb. I mashed more buttons. I moved the controller for extra oomph on my button pushing frenzy. I won.

But then I realized that he wasn't really moving his fingers on his controller. Instead, his thumbs half rested on the buttons while he pretended to be shocked at my sudden burst of playing genius. He moved his controller slightly for legitimacy (he couldn't very well set it down without me noticing he was letting me win, could he?). It was clear, though, that he'd allowed me the win.

Hmmm... so was he giving me the wins in "Words with Friends?" Could I have found my intellectual match in this guy? And if I did, can I handle these occassional knocks to my pride?

*** He insists he did not and has never "let" me win... I'm inclined to believe this a sweet attempt at making me feel better.

For the inquisitive minds
qi (aka chi) is life force or energy in Taoism
quop (usually spelled quob or quab) is to throb or quivered
et is a simple past tense way to say eat (as in "Mommy I done et it already")
jape means to mock or jest
yock, like yack, is to laugh loudly or obnoxiously
zu is an Italian instrumental trio from Rome usually consisting of saxaphone, bass and drums

Skittles: quite the contradiction

I'm not spontaneous, but I'm not a planner, either. I think I might just be a skittle.

As a child, my vision of marriage was skewed. Most of the adults I was close to had husbands or wives and yet the distance between them and their other halves seemed contradictory to the union. Disrespect, infidelity, and physical distance seemed the norm. There weren't a lot of positive examples of marital bliss I'd witnessed - save the Huxtables, of course. It seemed like marriage, as I knew it then, was more comparable to Peg and Al Bundy's: a contractual trap that was too hard to get out of, so the couple merely endured. Everything I'd witnessed made me dread the very idea of exchanging vows.

It took a high school sociology project to get me thinking about weddings. The assignment required me to set a budget based on my family's income. Then I was supposed to plan everything for my big day. As I often was the case with school work, I was consumed by the assignment. I purchased every wedding and bride related magazine on the shelves of the bookstore. I poured through brochures, called (or wrote) companies for samples, and dedicated my sparse free time to sketching out the ideal wedding dress. That dress was a corset-style top akin to those worn by Renaissance aristocrats, but was full of vibrant colors across the bodice and featured a straight skirt rather than the ball gown flair variety. It was divine. Suddenly I could envision myself a bride. I was obsessed with preparing the perfect event - right down to a tentative seating chart to scale with the venue's dimensions. I actually thought I might like to have a wedding, but the husband was optional.

[Narrator interrupts: She began to think, "Dare I say that I had much the same thought about children: pregnancy as an experience might be interesting, but I didn't fancy being a mother?"]

By college I had a simple time line: married by 24 - finding a husband is the main purpose for higher education, right? And kids - three of them - before age 30.

In the years since that project - quite a few more quickly elapsing than I cared to admit - the time line became a measure of failure. Despite several promising adult relationships, I found myself becoming the girlfriend just before the wife. But I wasn't worthy, it seemed of being propositioned with forever.

It can make a person somewhat guarded, this history of being the unchosen. If I commit unabashedly to a theory of "this is the one" in each new beginning, it could become the set up for a terribly heartwrenching break up (or worse, an obsession akin to "The Cable Guy" fame). But if I move at a snails' pace and keep a distance of at least two car lengths between myself and Mr. Maybe, am I dooming it from the start? It's relationship skittles: How can I be the devoted one in a relationship if it is "likely" to end in nothing but an experience to file away in memory? But how can I not give all?

I have relished in a not-so-secret obsession for watching "My Fair Wedding with David Tutera." Occasionally, I catch myself hypothesizing my own "I do," dreaming up themes and motifs and envisioning the photographs of my happiness yet to be created.

Insert big flashing "DANGER" sign: I suspect this could be a bit scary for someone not ready to plunge into a marriage even if my musing wasn't a sign that I was...

Mr. Right At the Time, I think, suffered countless bouts of agita from my frequent rap sessions with my almost-sister-in-law during the planning of her ceremony. I was taken to bridal shows, given magazines of ideas, and sucked into the vortex of the business of weddings. In being her sidekick, I had unintentionally created a ticking clock - a time bomb of sorts - for him. A trail of skittles led from my house to his car as he sped away slowly from fear that I might give subtle hints or grandiose ultimatums about "us."

Throughout the years, my visions of the pomp and circumstance of becoming Missus DotDotDot has become a vague nod to the teenage dream. Skittle that I am, I have the framework of the ideal and no doubt meticulously plot the details if given the opportunity. But planning the big event?

[Narrator interrupts: Her chest rose and fell as she sucked in a deep breath and released it slowly in a sigh.]

I want it amazing. I want it something to talk about. I want to be the center of attention. But I don't like playing hostess with the mostest.

Time... luxury... loss

Right now, as I sit watching the clock during my stint as a test proctor, there's a song playing on repeat in my head. I've forgotten the real lyrics and I hear it wrong, but the sentiment is there (don't ever drop my name for Don't Forget the Lyrics, okay?).

For the sake of accuracy (and to reduce embarrassment for my ad lib), I looked up the lyrics. Would you believe that even typing in my mistaken line, it produced the correct Steve Miller Fly Like An Eagle lyrics?

"Time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin'
Into the future
Time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin'
Into the future"

I think the funk I'm in has become ubiquitous - spreading through the internet like a dastardly virus with no cure and no way of containing it. Blame it on the weather - late sunrises, rain storms, gloom. Heck, blame it on the a - ah- ah- alcohol (or lack of it, in my case).

Did I mention my thoughts are surging like a BING search commercial that I can't escape.? I think 'funk,' and next I'm thinking Michael Jackson's Thriller (insert creepy narrator voice).

Anyway, now that I seem totally bonkers, I should find a point and stick to it. Or stick myself with it? Hmmm.
I'm thinking that time is a luxury that I'd really like to possess. I miss the lazy, carefree days of summer. We're a month into my work year, and I'm exhausted. And yes, I know that as a teacher I'm blessed to have that "extended vacation" with my kids.

I also know, firsthand, that there's a lot of sacrifice during the year that my children make - when I'm stressed with the operation of my classroom, with the feelings of failure I often am plagued with, or with the burden of being an inadvertant counselor (and praying that I do the "and other duties as assigned" role justice). I come home often feeling both terribly guilty and blessed. I'm sometimes so emotionally drained that I feel I fail as a parent, and I'm the only 24-7 parent my kids have.

There's also a monetary sacrifice being made. With my education and abilities, could I be pulling in some six-seven figures? I choose not to explore other options because I enjoy teaching. I also greatly value my precious, uninhibited time on breaks. I can't help but wonder, however, if the coexisting, constant struggle with finances is a good trade. And to do my job well, there are hours outide of my seemingly lovely "contract hours" spent planning, studying, training, reading and editing. With an average of 150 students on my roster, I read a book of essays every time I have a writing assignment - and we're not talking pretty, polished prose or carefully crafted and meticulously researched nonfiction.

My funky mood must be projecting, because I'm at war with my child's daycare. They've a seemingly personal vendetta against me concerning allergies and EpiPens that is both unnecessary and unnerving. When all is done, I suspect I'll be paying significantly more for care where my child is not being forced to acquire prescriptions for an allergy that has never been confirmed by medical officals. If someone had ever mentioned that playing precautionary mom and requesting that a child not be exposed to allergens known to cause issues to a good number of children would mean forever supplying medications I would never use at home for treatment, I'd have avoided this current ridiculous endeavor of Catch-22 type absurdities. I should've known not to Cliff Notes my way through that blasted novel in high school AP English. It might've warned me...

Alas, I find a little peace in venting in poetry and prose. Poor, poor unfortunate readers herein must now understand why I ramble on and on (redundancy purposeful) about topics no one but I truly care to know about.

And, once freed from the confines of the testing classroom, I shall seek further to loose this foul demeanor's hold by returning to those uber cool mushrooms growing in prosperity and abundance along the morning commute route. I hope they're still standing in little defiant bursts on that lawn. My camera and I need a little time to reconnect.

Signed,
Melancholy Mooded, Morose Mother.

It gets me sometimes

I am the invisible woman.
Blink, and you'll miss me completely.
That reunion? I was there.
Birthday party? Yes, there too.
Lazy day outside at the park? Uh huh, there.
But I stopped sticking my finger in front of my lens a long time ago.
Maybe I should start adding it to the composition.
A fingerprint to say "Rachelle was here."
I am the invisible woman.
It gets me sometimes.
Especially when I know that someday I wont be here.
And it'll be like I never was.

***

A debt of gratitude to Mom for snatching up my camera today and giving me myself.

Just me

Us.

Determined, concentrated faces.

Twirling a bit too much.

Bliss, a portrait.

Rambler

penned Friday, May 20, 2011

Have you ever sat down to pen something and felt so incredibly inarticulate that you just gave up writing?
I wonder sometimes why - with all the vocabulary jammed in my head from years of school and reading - I find myself at a loss.
There is Silence, deafening silence that crushes hopes of freeing thoughts that if contained, torture.
The blank page, or screen these days, likes to taunt and tease. A sort of 'ha! I've got you stumped, clueless, defenseless against my powers to block expressions.'
I long for a way to release what is pent up in my head - that which swirls around ferociously in my subconscious and peaks out momentarily like a lightening strikes in my dreams. Perhaps there is no escape to be found in tossing out misshapen shards of partially formed... nothings.
If shared, will they come together in absolute clarity like one of those 1000 piece puzzles made of pointalist paintings that only reveals itself when viewed whole and from a distance?
This is my plight.
A flawless page, a blinking cursor on pristine screen.
And I fear that if nothing ever tarnished this canvas, I'll forever be nagged by what if.
Somehow there must be a legacy of words to leave behind when my voice can no longer be heard.

Jumping into it

This weekend, my little trio is traveling to the family reunion.  We're pretty excited about going.  I've vowed to charge every battery, carry all the memory cards I own, and capture as many photos as I can.  I refuse to be the one who missed a picture.  (Too many have gone home from this life since last year's reunion and  I already feel like I've missed too many opportunities.) 

This is our legacy - - our family history revealed in oral tradition, in rememberance.  And it is going to be amazing!

Oh! So blessed

I received this poem from a dear friend at work today:

Your natural children are blessed to have your love envelop them daily;

Your knowledge poured into them in bountiful quantities;

Your creativity presented wrapped with expectation is given to them in hope;

And your prayers -- whispered or shouted  -- cried for them for a future that far exceeds your own

The Lord hears --- Oh what a mother!

Your adopted children are blessed to have your enduring devotion to their learning;

Your push even when they don't care;

Your words --soft or hard always needed-drive your children to give you their best;

Your best leads their best -- Oh what a teacher! 

Happy Mother's Day

And I am reminded that God places people in our lives that make each day so much sweeter.  My God, I love this woman! 

Countless times have I run to her room seeking consolation.  Others, I've come to lament about some trivial inconvenience of the job.  I've dragged her to a photo session knowing her strength would alleviate any apprehension I felt.  I've confided in her, laughed with her, shared memories. 
She has become a friend, and that is not a title I dole out loosely.

Welcome Home, Mommy

I'm taking a class right now.  It was free courtesy of a government grant. Aside from the cost benefit, it promises to inspire my efforts with my English Language Learners (or ELL, aka ESL, aka ESOL).  Thus far, the class has proven just how small this world really is.  A classmate taught at the elementary school I attended and remembered my name from a yearbook cover contest I won when I was ten.  The teacher found out a guest to the class (a school board member from the area) graduated from the same New York City high school.  And one student found out she is the replacement teacher of another at a local high school.  WOW.

Oh, the workload is killing me... It's been a long time since I've had homework. Lots of homework. Yadon says nightly,  "You have homework Mommy? It's too late for homework."  And most nights, I want to agree, close the lap top and just relax. 

I do, however, enjoy being a student again.  I appreciate the intellectual conversations.  I enjoy being in the midst of research on academic topics.  I like hearing the "trench stories" of teachers dealing with many of the issues I struggle with daily at work.

Oh, but coming home after class is also so sweet - - especially when the menfolk and my lass decide I can subject them to my camera.

It's rare when they go "on location" for me... MD doesn't much like the free spirits that are our children and he is easily frustrated by the relaxed chaos of any attempt at a family photo.  I think he purposely faked sick the last few times I tried to schedule photos, so I was shocked when he suggested we take some this weekend. [Nevermind that my hair was a mess, my clothes not ideal, and my make up non-existent.]  We were taking photos together!

It took a dozen shots to get one image we really liked. 

(Yadon insisted on holding the remote.) 

The bloopers are a crazy, silly mess - - especially since divalicious kept throwing funny faces and poses.  Occassionally, they were all "behaved."

My family

I'll pretend we were coordinated. There's always next time, right?  Maybe I should just buy solid clothes for the kids and I so we're always prepared?

Dear {Sweet} Poppy

Brittni mentioned this morning that today marks nine years since your spirit went to the heavens and your body took its rest.  I miss you.

Do you know that I begged Mimi for this piece of you?  You let me borrow your camera for my first photography class.  I was terrible.  I couldn't focus to save my grade, and I started to think I might be blind or something.  But you believed in me and insisted that I keep at it, learn the craft the way it was begun: in manual.

I called you that time in a panic. Remember?  I cried as I told you I'd broken it.  I was up on South Mountain in the reservation.  I saw this amazing dilapidated building nestled into the trees.  It was awesome.  And as I composed my picture in my head, I raised the camera to my eyes.  BLACKNESS.  My roommate insisted I push every button and turn every knob.  I was certain I'd moved nothing and that fiddling would only make it worse... 

I had locked the mirror (as though plotting a long exposure). Ugghhh. You knew it instantly from my inarticulate sputterings.

Oh, how you laughed at me.  Well, maybe it wasn't a laugh.  Like mine, yours was a soft snicker, a sucking of breathe and a gritty hehehe like Muttley from the Hanna-Barbera cartoons.

I've come a long way since that day in the mountains.  And though I don't quite have the discipline you had for learning the intricacies and inner workings of every craft you discovered an interest in, I am determined to master myself. 



One Little Word: Reach

At the totally sweet recommendation of Karen (author of The Beauty of Different and creative force behind Chookooloonks.com - and yes, I'm pretending we're quite familiar by using only her first name), I enrolled in Ali Edwards' year-long online course, One Little Word.

Ali's first month presentation included the following quote (though she didn't present it quite like this)

Confucius Says: words are the voice of the heart.

So the word used for this endeavor has to be one that represents a goal of some sort participants hope achieve.  Karen's using the word "inspire" and Ali's using "light." What on earth could I choose to encapsulate all that dream about happening this year?

And then it hit me.

REACH

1. to stretch out or put forth
2. to touch or grasp
3. to connect with
4. to extend as far as
5. to be extensive in influence or effect

and, finally,

   6.   to arrive at; attain

Yes, I think reach suits me just fine.

Where's the remote?

I'd like, just for a few days to live my own version of "Click." Rewind. Rewrite. Record.

 

Dec. 20:

The day had already been filled with leaky tear ducts and red eyes.  Yes, I was an emotional cliff hanger, dangling by one hand from a branch barely supporting its own weight against gravity.  I'd foolishly looked through the many entries surrounding my own for the SOAR scholarship.  And then I began the unfortunate process of berating myself for not doing enough - for not pleading for my worthiness and my desire, not presenting Rachelle to my best ability - and the regret I suffered kicked into over drive.

Around the time that I was completely losing my carefully crafted façade of cool and confident - albeit a sheer veil over a wicked jumble of modesty, fear, and self-doubt - I clicked over to Me Ra's blog and saw the most hideous screen shot ever.  Me.  Oh my. There I was featured on the blog as one of the entrants in the barrage of final weekend video submissions.  Really, God?  Was this your way of letting me know something about having and keeping faith? 

I dried my tears, ventured out to the copy center at work and dropped off the abundance of worksheets my students so abhor.  A unit designed for poetic inspiration? Nope, it never works. They'll dread it all.

Just when I'd thought I'd regained hold of my emotions, I get called into my administrator's office.  No sweat, I'm on top of it. Or not.  Turns out that my Dec.16 1:15 p.m. venture to scrape snow from my windshield and start a treacherous trip to pick up my life-lines was premature.  Never mind that I left in the heaviest of snowfall, while streets were essentially slip'n'slides for car wheels, visibility was terrible, and accidents were abundant.  Never mind that the forecast indicated there would be no quick end to the storm and that road conditions would steadily deteriorate as the day wore on.  And don't even consider the hike from the corner of a street where cars were swinging and swaying so much that it looks like The letter now in my file says I should've risked my own safety (and that of my kids) while waiting until all of the school's students traveled to their homes.

The waterworks put on a fabulous show then, and the administrator was a bit taken aback by my reaction.  I assured her it had nothing to do with her, and everything to do with my feelings of inadequacy in self promotion.  I don't think she believed me.

I returned to my classroom moments before fifth period. I set the students to task and then my cell phone chimed to indicate a text message. It was around eleven in the morning, then. Yadon's grandfather - my father-in-law, though I've never been married - was in a Fayetteville hospital on life support...

Evolution or Devolution? [stream of consciousness]

I used to scrapbook. 

Elaborate, paperfilled, detailed scrapbooks... painstakingly thought out pages replete with photos and handwritten sentiment. 

About my kids. About life. About adventure.

Begrudgingly I must emphasize this was in the past. 

Shortly after my son was born, the added responsibilities of one child in school and one totally dependant infant eliminated the "free time" I once enjoyed. 

Now, certainly, I enjoy most moments totally engrossed in my children, but it's not exactly creative time. 

So, seeking an outlet, I heightened my online presence and started regularly blogging.  It was for me, for my memories because my memory is no longer strong.  And because the kids kept "borrowing" and relocating my scrapping supplies. 

Someone out in this internet abiss mentioned in passing that she had published her blog to give to her family as a gift.  Hmm... so I did a little research and printed my own blog as a book.  I discovered that, through a process called "slurping," my photos could be included in the publication without any effort on my part. Though the pictures included are small, they're with the stories I've chosen to record. 

Sometimes I still print pictures. They sit in boxes waiting for me to get busy.  They call me from the corners of my abandoned scrapbook room.  Albums entice me with their pretty covers, their crisp clean pages shout "we're tangible, use us!"  And I wonder if the craft - the art I so loved just two short years ago - is still inside me.

And the thousands of digital pictures Canon and I take have been filling Tetra's belly regularly.  My little terrabite external drive is soon going to need a sibling.  Yet the photos are missing Mama.  I'm there experiencing it all, but I'm behind the scenes - - a voyer of the play, the living.  I'm getting a little better about getting in the shots (with Chi often insisting we put it on timer and take family pictures).  I advocate occassionally for others to grab the camera - - to feel free to click away, I want to be in the picture and to show my kids' kids that yes, I was part of the action. 

Sometimes I'm pictured.
Not as often as I need to be.
But I'm there... always.

This month I've been charged to start a self portrait project. It's part of Karen Woolrand's Own Your Beauty effort on her blog, Chookooloonks. It's a beautiful charge to get to it.

Make a memory!
Capture a memory.
Be the memory? 

So what if it may not make it to my scrapbook of me - - the abandoned book with six pages about me done almost four years ago and never again touched.  At least, on occassion, or maybe all at once, the portraits and a few thoughts about me will arrive in blogland. 

I owe it to myself.
I owe it to my kids. 
I get it.

In the Closet

Okay, perhaps this isn't the best title for this post.  I mean, you really can't get in my closet – even though it is a walk in and it's designed for two.  Yes, I know where my daughter gets her clothing storing habits from (though my clothes aren't on the floor, they're in little folded piles or on hangers on the door knobs).

But metaphorically speaking – and I can, because I teach what I prefer to call the art of language - I'm in the closet. 

What closet, then, if not the one in my bedroom?  I'm a closet writer.  Yes. I've said it.  I'm a writer.  Churning in my head at this precise moment are at least 10 unwritten story ideas, some started in classroom examples for my students, some just in the "grey matter" waiting anxiously to be penned.

The problem is that I'm stuck in the closet.  Confused yet?  I mean I just finished saying one could not get in my closet and now I'm saying I can't get out. 

My closet is big, it is full of ideas, and it is comfortable.  I sort of like hiding inside, buried under the suites of responsibility, the shoes of deadlines, and the scarves of other people's needs and activities.  Sometimes, though, I play peek-a-boo.  I dabble a bit in class, showing my students it [writing] can be done in the time allocated, at least in draft.  Occasionally, I even share with the outsiders of my "blog-universe."  Most often, though, I share ideas verbally in bursts of conversation embellished just so and lovingly thrust at the unsuspecting person who dared to talk to me. 

(Is it any wonder that my brother sweetly replied to my daughter's 'Mommy, are you gonna let me talk now?' with "Do you know your mother?")

I digress.  I'm a rambler.  A rambling writer.  Ooh, that has a ring to it.  And I think I'm making an October 12, 2010 resolution (because it is neither a new year or a new month or a new season).  I'm going to share more often here.  I mean, why not?  It's not like my blog is required reading.  Browsers can easily jump to another website when my blahblahblah becomes (or continues to be?) tedious. 

Oh my, I'm jumping out of the closet.  I hope it doesn't scare you.

(photo by Chi, 10.01.10)

inspired...

A letter to a blogging, photographing, writing giant:

I'm sitting at work procrastinating - oh how often I seem to do this - as  browse your chookooloonks.com site for the umpteenth time.  And every time I visit, I feel something inside my soul stir.  It's as though through looking at your pictures and your words I am being pulled to do something now.  Now, not a few years from now, not a few months from now.  Right now. I'm feeling this new sort of inspiration to find the self I lost in this jumbling of adult responsibility and necessity that has become daily life.   I've no idea why I thought I'd share, but here I am writing anyway.  You see, you have touched my life simply by living the life you want right now. I am especially drawn to your list project - by your photographing faces and leaving them just as God created them, and amazingly they are absolutely stunning. Anyway, I should be grading papers and planning lessons, not oogling over photographs and words that evoke a feeling of free verse poetry in their eloquence...

And shock of all shocks?  She wrote me back within hours!

THIRTY and ONE

Great way to spend a birthday:

1. 
   
   wake up to "Happy Birthday" texts from people I love
2. 
   
   have a great breakfast at a buffet
3. 
   
   feed ducks and geese at marina (hmmm, rethink Rice Crispies cereal as water fowl food)
4. 
   
   take pictures of kids just being themselves
   
   
    
   
   
5. 
   
   take a portrait of Chi that I didn't have to pay for
   
   
6. 
   
   actually get a great picture (taken by Chi) of one's self - and look, skinny jeans!
   
7. 
   
   visit the library and catch one of the special programs we never remember
   
   
   
8. 
   
   convince children that baking a cake is better left until after TaeKwonDo class
9. 
   
   log onto FaceBook (addicted, oh yes) and see wall filled with friends and family greetings
10. 
    
    realize just how blessed you are to begin another year of life

Still Learning, Still Growing

Years and years ago Mommy was in school to be a photojournalist.  She wanted to work for magazines - shooting editorials for some prominent publication; to travel the world capturing the awe and mystique of things foreign on film. (Yes, film.) And she wanted to spent her evening hours discovering what could be created in her darkroom, as light beamed through negative to produce amazements on once-white paper.

It seems like lifetimes ago - - in truth it's been at least the lifetimes of Chi and Ya.  Can it be that the last trip to pursue that passion was way back in 2001?  The expiring passport tells the story, yes, it has been that long.

The Language Arts teacher that I became out of necessity... she likes her job.  She enjoys trying to elicit creativity from students who really just want to pass a required course. And while she admires the grammatical gurus trained in all things English education, she firmly believes that her students aren't suffering from a little devergence from the traditional.  Ok. Weird third person references must go.

I'm reminded a bit of one of Langston Hughes's (many) famous poems, Dream Deferred.  Now it's not one I teach in 10th grade Language Arts, but it applies so well to my life right now:

What happens to a dream deferred?


Does it dry up


Like a raisin in the sun?


Or fester like a sore--


And then run?


Does it stink like rotten meat?


Or crust and sugar over--


like a syrupy sweet?


Maybe it just sags


like a heavy load.


Or does it explode?

You see, I think I know what happens to a dream deferred.  It doesn't disappear.  It doesn't diminish in its intensity.  It evolves, molded lovingly like a piece of clay by its sculpture.  And when it's finally kiln ready, it probably doesn't even resemble the vision originally conjured. I hope the fired piece is just as impressive as that creative plan - maybe it's even more so.  I can't wait to see.

Dear Langston, I think you, too, were a dreamer... how else would you have written this?:

Dreams



Hold fast to dreams


For if dreams die


Life is a broken-winged bird


That cannot fly.


Hold fast to dreams


For when dreams go


Life is a barren field


Frozen with snow.

I'm holding on to my dream... it involves wielding my camera.  I may never get to travel to exotic lands, but I will seek out the exotic wherever I happen to be. My dream is neither frozen nor broken-winged.  It's a dream that will be, very soon, reality.

Kissimmee: July 10

Thirty years.  For 30 years Dad (aka PopPop) has had two daughters.  One (me) living under his roof and the other (Z) living with her maternal family.  It doesn't take a lot of tough math to realize that my parents have been married for 36 years, and so the very idea that there are two daughters a mere four months apart from different mothers might be pretty hard to swallow.  It always has been for me.

But I'm trying to accept what the extended family has already deemed fact for years - I have a sister out there, and though I am still the oldest child, I am not really the only girl.  There.  I've said it.  Dad has never had a blood test (were they even readily available 30 years ago?) and he doesn't intend to get one.  I suppose that after accepting a child as your own this long they are whether by blood or contract, right?  It's kind of like a common law marriage or something.

Out of reverence to my Mom (aka Oma), I've never pursued an interest in this extra sibling.  I've declined opportunities for meetings.  I've refused to acknowledge that there is an extra name branching out on the family tree attached to my father and a woman (now deceased) that I don't know.  But at some point it's just not fair to my kids to deny them an opportunity for more family to love them.  And so I befriended Z (or maybe she requested me?) on FaceBook and we've maintained distant contact for over two years. 

When my trip to Florida became a real possibility, it posed an interesting opportunity to meet Dad's daughter and her four children.  I forewarned my mother, who gave her blessing to the event.

We chose Saturday - a great day for visiting family and keeping out of public amusement parks that would be ultra crowded.  Dad drove us to Z's cousin's house where she and her kids had arrived the prior evening.  And as we stood at the door to the blue house with light blue trim on the end of a cul de sac, it felt sort of surreal. I was meeting the daughter that Dad has been comparing me to all my life.

Thank God for children, because it is only these newly introduced cousins that could ease the awkwardness of such an introduction.  We went to breakfast with our combined six children.  Over pancakes, French toast and eggs, I became Tia Rachelle and she became Aunt Zoraida. Then we ventured to Downtown Disney to explore (where there seemed no relief for the oh-so-stifling heat).

We gathered up the half dozen grands and PopPop (aka Dad aka Grandpa) for a memorializing photo.

We let the kids play at LeggoLand. Z found a space inside the store with an air blower for two-month-old Gian, while we eyed the olders (8,7,6,3, almost 2 years), who busied themselves building cars to race.

We ventured into a themed restaurant called T-Rex, where Ya immediately clutched me tight and hollared "no, no, no."  The animated dinosaurs were too much for little man.

Later, we enjoyed icees, which in the heat of the day were hard to come by, as every vendor was out of flavors or of frozen treats altogether.  The girls played with their dinosaur figurines (each of Z's chose a pink one without knowing the sisters' selections).

Their play included an elaborately crafted storyline that I could not follow. And I've no idea how the dog factored into the dinosaur saga.

Dad spent some personal time with his youngest grandchild.

And then, when we couldn't bear the heat any longer, we ventured back to the cousin's house, where the kids took a dip in the family pool.

I can't resist sharing this little guy's picture. He was staying with the cousin (who happens to be his grandfather) for the weekend.

Finally, it was time to head home to the hotel and so I snapped a final few portraits and we left with a cordial, "It was nice to finally meet you."

Then, dinner from KFC and Taco Bell (yes, ordered way too much food) and bedtime for my kids.