Where is this life I dreamed of? Part One

The other day there was a moth in my kitchen; the moth was very beautiful, strikingly so, actually. It was early in the morning; no one was up but me. I stood next to the sink sipping my first cup of coffee of the morning at watched the moth. It was still dark outside, so the moth fluttered here and there around the dim light over the sink, a tiny dusting of iridescent powder floated around the moth like pixie dust every time it banged against the light. I marveled at the tiny details on it's wings.

"How many people actually see such things," I wondered aloud.

The moth banged hard against the light, and seemed to knock itself off balance. Before the moth could right itself, it flickered and fluttered down to the sink, and landed in the casserole dish soaking from the night before. Covered in cold, greasy soap, the moth struggled, just getting more and more covered in the muck.

Suddenly overcome with sadness, I set my coffee mug down on the counter and my eyes filled. I shed hot, bitter tears for the dreams I had carried and somehow lost along my journey when life got in the way of living them.

What can you do when you wake up, I mean, really awaken with awareness that this is not the life you dreamed of? Is it possible to turn the life you are already living into the life you always dreamed of?

Going back to the moth for a moment; not accounting for the amount of awareness that a moth can or cannot have, do you think the moth expected such a disaster? I'll bet not. What "disasters" have we experienced in our life's journey that stopped our forward movement.

What knocks us out of our chair, or out of happiness?
Death?
Illness?
Relationships?
Loss of wealth?

The moment of awareness is different for everyone, as is the path to survival. I believe that there is hope, however, for everyone.

The first lesson that I am learning on my own path, is the importance of grieving loss. Whether it is the loss of wealth, material things, relationships, or even a life, it is crucial for us to grieve. While everyone will grieve in a personal way, there are some generally accepted "stages" of the grieving process: *

Shock
Denial
Anger
Bargaining
Depression
Acceptance

Shock: This stage began for me with the loss of colors, smells, and tastes. I still had my senses, of course, but I had no appetite for any of the things that brought me pleasure. I lived on coffee and auto-pilot.

Denial: This is where I hung out and justified... everything! I made up reasons that I thought made my loss acceptable, and even deserved. If it was supposed to happen, then nothing changed; "it is what it is!" I kept telling everyone. This stage, for me, tried to disguise itself as acceptance, but it wasn't really.

Anger: I thought I would break teeth here, from all of the angry jaw-clenching I was doing. I snapped at everyone, could often be heard muttering, "I hate my life!"

Bargaining: This was another stage of justification for me. Hanging on to false hopes and creating my own solutions that really weren't going to go anywhere. I think of this as my "busy-work" stage.

Depression: This stage really explains itself. I found myself muddling through days, just thankful that I had a child to take care of, otherwise I would not have found reason to even get out of bed in the morning.

Testing: This is where I started "tapping my toe out on the ice to check the thickness." I started to realize that no one could, or would, give me the decisions to make, no one would tell me what to do, or how, or when to do it; I had to try myself. So in small ways, I began to try little things to get moving, even just a bit, in a forward direction again. For me personally, I began to seek work, and in seeking work, I started to feel like I had my own purpose again.

Acceptance: I will let you know when I'm there. But the best part about this place, is that I know it exists!

There are no hours, days, or weeks that are set by grief. Depending on the type of loss, the process could take hours, or much longer. More important than the time it takes, is the direction that you're headed in.

One thing I strongly believe in, is that we should always endeavor to keep moving forward! The realization that we have lost sight of some of our dreams is a horrible moment; the realization that there is opportunity in that awareness is the moment where we gain freedom!

Until next time, Dream Prolifically!

~RR

*Kübler-Ross Grief Cycle

The Bob Dylan Experiment Continued...

Some time has passed since I started the Bob Dylan experiment, and what a time it has been!
What have I learned, you wonder, while on this musical journey?
Tons...
You probably want more.
Bob Dylan. What can be said for the buttery-smooth tones of Dylan's vocals? Nothing! In fact, if you were wondering what I was going to say next after I said "buttery-smooth tones" then you don't know Dylan. Some of his earlier work is better as far as vocals, but the older he gets, the worse he sounds.
So what!
If you DO know the work of Bob Dylan, you know that it isn't his singing that touches your mind and heart; the touch comes from the meaningful prose.
There is meaning, under meaning, behind meaning, and ladled with more meaning within the stanzas of Bob Dylan's lyrics.
My mentor, IB, told me when we sat in the coffee shop that blustery day over a month ago: "As a writer, you should study Bob Dylan." He was so right. There is so much that I have learned, and so much more to learn by studying Bob Dylan's work.
A few snapshots of wisdom that I have gained thus far:
1) Sing!
It doesn't matter what you sound like; if there is a song in your heart, sing it!
2) Be passionate about what you believe in!
People are going to like you, or not; don't let what other people may think about you, or about your work, dictate whether or not you move forward with it!
3) Be brave!
Say what you mean; mean what you say, and don't hide behind the ambiguous. It is interesting that even though there are deeper meanings within Dylan's lyrics, they can also be read or heard at face value. Just say what you need to say, and let others take or leave what they want. One of the largest obsticles that I have battled in writing is the desire to please everyone with what I write. It is a fact that not everyone can be pleased. Period. Bravery is the only way a writer can be successful.
I have a lot to learn about life. I have only been living my life for 33 years, and have done a lot of living in that time, but through something as pure and simple as music, I have learned much. I have learned how much I don't know, and that, my friends, is where wisdom truly begins!
~RR

The Bob Dylan Experiment:

Day One: Introduction

Friday afternoon was a stormy afternoon. The rain came down sideways pulling bright yellow leaves from the trees making a sunny blizzard outside of the coffee shop where I sat at a small table across from IB, my mentor.
We started out talking about our week, and ended up talking about a blog he was writing.
"It's good," I told him, taking a pull from the mug in my hand. I was referring to to his blog, not the coffee.
"You don't think it's too self-serving?" He asked.
"Nope; it's professional, inspirational, and has a call to action... I wonder, though," I said, pointing to the printout of IB's blog, "why do you always quote Bob Dylan? Who is he anyway?"
*Silence*
"What?" IB said. I could have sworn he lost some of the color in his cheeks. "You're kidding, right?" He asked me, incredulous.
"Well, no... I mean, I know he's a singer or something. Is he still alive?" I asked.
IB was silent across the table; he looked a bit ill.
"So...?" I said. He was looking at me as though I were a foolish little girl.
"I need a moment to process," he said; he leaned back in his chair for a second, and then leaned quickly toward me leaning his elbows on his knees.
"Okay," he said, "who is most influential in literature?"
"Easy," I said, "Henry James, Nathanial Hawthorne, Hemingway, a few others."
"Henry James; English author, hard to read, but highly influential, right?" IB asked.
"Yes; that's all true." I said.
"Now take Henry James and put him up against Salinger." IB said, tucking in for a true teacher/student session of education.
"There isn't a lot of depth to Salinger; his writing is what it is; each sentence means exactly what is written." IB is speaking passionately, still leaning toward me, his eyes shining.
"Sure," I agreed.
"Henry James wrote meanings within meanings; there was always something layered underneath." He said.
"Right, definitely!" I said. IB took a sip from his water glass, raised an eyebrow, and continued:
"That's Dylan!" He exclaimed. "Bob Dylan is one of the most meaningful and prolific songwriters in the world. He wrote meaning on top of meaning, and layered it with depth not seen in any other music or poetry!" He sat back in his chair again, seemingly spent.
"Wow," I said.
"Rebecca, I can't believe you are an author, and you don't know. You should know Dylan's work. As an author, you should study his work." IB said. He ripped a piece of yellow paper off of the legal pad he always carries with him and murmured bits of songs as he feverishly wrote:

It's alright Ma, I'm only bleeding
Forever Young
Lay Lady Lay
Blowing in the Wind
Positively 4th Street
Tangled Up in Blue
Just Like a Woman (he scribbled a star next to that one)
Gotta Serve Somebody
One More Cup of Coffee Before I Go
Shelter From the Storm
Maggie's Farm

IB looked up, satisfied, and slid the paper across the table to me.
"These will get you started," he said. "This is your homework; I'll bring you some CD's to borrow."
"Wow," I said again. I took the paper and folded it in half, and in half again and slid it into my notebook.
"I'll do it!" I caught his excitement, and I was suddenly resolute.
"I will do an experimental study on Bob Dylan; this will be fun!"

That, my friends, is how it started. "The Bob Dylan Experiment" is underway; I will be on a lyrical, musical journey for a while, and I'll let you know how it goes!

Live a great day!
~RR

Sometimes I don't even have to leave the house for the best dialogue gathering...

After the longest, most frustrating Sunday in history, I was getting Grover's uniform ready for school the next day...

Undershirt, polo, slacks, socks, check!

Backpack, check!

Shoes... shoes... where the heck is the other shoe???

Me: James! Have you seen Grove's school shoe?

James: Just one?

Me: Yes, just one, so you've seen the other one?

James: I saw you with one...

Me: Nevermind... Grove, where is your other school shoe?

Grove: Dunno

Me: You just wore them to church today, where did you take them off?

Grove: Dunno... (noticing the lone shoe in my hand) you have one, where'd ya get that one from?

Me: What does it matter where I got it... Where is the other one?

Grove: Dunno... Guess I can't go to school tomorrow.

Me: NO! You will just be going to school with one shoe... How about that?

Grove: Was that shoe in the bathtub?

Me: Um... No.

Grover: Maybe the other shoe is in the bathtub...

Me: Why is it in the tub???

Grove: Dunno...

The missing shoe was, indeed, in the bathtub, along with two soggy socks, and the business card of our family friend... What where they doing in the bathtub?

Me: Dunno!

My Mama Said...

Tomorrow will mark the five year anniversary since I lost my mom suddenly to cancer. While this is always an emotional day for my, this year I have decided to make a compilation of some of the wisdom that she gifted me with when she was here.

I am actually amazed at how often I think, say, or do something that I realize came from her. Even when I wasn’t actively listening to her, I was aware. I feel blessed to be able to share some of her with you.

The world was a better place when she was in it, but I am the woman I am because she was here. I wish I would have listened to mom more when she was alive; but I am surprised to find that some of her best stuff is still floating around in my head...

On Common Sense and Incredulity

“What onion truck do you think I just fell off of?”

Once, my sophomore year in high school, my mom and I were on our way to Lloyd Center on I-5 in Portland. I had skipped a class that day, and of course, mom knew (stupid automated school calling system!). She asked me where I had been during Political Science that day, and of course I lied… badly.

“I dunno.” Great! If I had been in class, wouldn’t I have stated that?

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Mom said.

“Well, I mean, maybe Mr. Beck just missed me during role call.”

“Becky, what onion truck do you think I fell off of?” She said.

No joke, there was a Walla Walla Onion truck on the freeway just ahead of us.

“That one?” I said, pointing.

We both laughed… and I was grounded for the weekend.

“When your potential is obvious, you just look irresponsible when you don’t live up to it.”

I think of this statement often when endeavoring to do things. I think I sometimes have the bad habit of pretending I’m doing all I can, and even convincing myself that I am, but this statement (which came from her the day she got my report card that included a big, fat “F” in biology) comes to me, and I really take a look at my task from a realistic perspective. What is my potential, and how conducive is my effort vs. ability?

On Love and Relationships

“We should, out of respect for ourselves, and our future husband or wife, work diligently to guard our heart. Whoever you are with will guard theirs and yours as well; if they don't, they aren't the one.”

This lesson came up again and again over the years. It’s funny that mom never really said to wait until I was married to have sex (although it was strongly implied). By “guarding my heart” she explained it as being careful not only how much of yourself you gave physically to another, but also how much you gave in emotional intimacy. It was a “heart-on-your-sleeve” lesson. As I learned (more than once) that what I reveal to others can often be used in hurtful ways later.

“Be careful who you trust with your heart… but when you choose to give your heart to someone, give it to them fully.”

This gem came after my divorce. Mom and I were talking about my marriage, and I told her how I felt that I had not really been open about who I really was with my husband. The truth was that I didn’t really trust him; that was my problem, not his. Trust is a choice. Love is a choice.

“Keep your eyes focused upward [on God], and if your future husband is doing the same, and you both keep moving forward, then you will eventually run into one another!”

This was one of the most comforting, and most logical pieces of advice she imparted. It helped me to take my focus off of looking for a mate, and on to making my own life better… She was right, and here I am!

Out of everything mom told me, the one statement that made the most impact was simply:

“I love you.”

Foster moms don’t have to love… Not to would have been inconceivable for her.

I loved her too…

~Rebecca Reece

The Scent of Grief

"Sorrow makes us all children again - destroys all differences of intellect. The wisest know nothing." ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

After helping James prepare for work on top of getting both myself and Grover ready for church, we are late. I hurry Grover to his Sunday school classroom and find a seat in near the back of the sanctuary. The first song is over by the time I am settled; the music ends and immediately the guitar changes key and the introduction to the next song begins. I take a few deep, calming breaths to prepare to sing to God; not two minutes earlier I was cursing under my breath for being late to church... again.

I take a breath in and open my mouth to join the song; a wave of grief swirls around me in an invisible shroud of vanilla. The sweet, musky scent of "Vanilla Fields" fills my senses for a moment then fades. The words of the song halt in the back of my throat, and for a moment, they block my breath from leaving my lungs. I swallow quickly against the words, the lump they form in my throat, choking me, the familiar scent of my mother's perfume pressing into me.

I close my eyes tightly and wait for the scent of grief to fade, and for a moment, it does, but then returns warm and sweet, yet acrid; it burns in my eyes, in my chest. This time, I cannot stop the stinging tear from escaping my eyelid; it runs down my left cheek, hot and painful, it burns a path to my chin and lingers there.

I don't know whether or not to wipe it away. I am about to, and lift my hand to do so when I feel a hand on my shoulder. The women next to me holds a tissue out to me, on the woman's face is a knowing smile, she assumes my emotion to be religious. I am, at the same moment both touched and frustrated by her kindness; I want to be alone in my struggle. I receive the tissue with what I hope to be a grateful look. She turns back toward the front, singing in a sweet, clear voice.

I touch the tissue to my cheek, to the corner of my eye. Grief once again swirls in on a wave of vanilla and takes its' permission from the arrival of the tissue to rise again. Anger, confusion, hurt... Pain. Grief sits on my shoulder and beckons me to embrace it. I can't breathe; my stomach seizes and I excuse myself to the ladies room. I am grateful for the small miracle of an empty lavatory. I slip into an empty stall and slide the latch into place. Grief, tired of waiting for me to invite it in, punches its' way into my stomach and I vomit into the lidless toilet.

Spent, heaving with sobs, I sit down and give into grief as it grabs on to me in a suffocating embrace releasing tendrils of sadness that wrap like cold fingers around my neck. I sit down on the toilet and finally succumb gulping for air, the tears flow as my breath is stolen from me.

Why does Grief take liberties where Peace, Love, and Joy are afraid to? How long will I be blindsided by the ugly beast of Grief, or perhaps it is as I fear: There is no end to the pranks Grief is allowed to pull at its' own cruel timing.

~RR

September will mark four years since my foster-mom, my mom, was taken from us by cancer.
Jan Schmitt 1944-2005

Guide to Perfect Parenting *(no actual guide exists, such a guide is a falacy of people who don't, in fact, have actual children)

There are two things that I have realized about myself:

1) I want to be a perfect parent

2) I am not a perfect parent

Trying to be the perfect parent can be a destructive process; since there is no such thing, it is a goal that can never be reached and as such I would either have to lie to myself, or I would have to beat up on myself for my inability to be perfect.

I have to wonder what my biological mother wanted when she was younger. Before she had children, what kind of parent did she want to be? I find it difficult (if not impossible) to believe that she wanted to be an abusive, tyrannical parent. Who grows up looking forward to parenting as being in total control of your own child so you can do whatever you want to them? No one, I would hope; and yet, how does one get to that point?

This past year, my son has come into the age that, were he my mother's child, would begin to get regular beatings and verbal abuse. I watch him grow, and learn, and I just can't imagine striking his face or pulling him by his hair. I have been frustrated with him to the point of putting him in his room so that I can have a time out, but I just can't fathom doing the things to him that our mom did to us.

I am so thankful that God blessed me with a child. Nearly daily I remember his birth and what a beautiful day in July it was when he came to be my son. That smooshed face with those big brown eyes were the most precious gift that I have ever received. I hope that I will be who and what he needs, and that God will, in the end, be as glad that he blessed me with my son as I am glad to have him.

Signs of a perfect parent:

Hmmm... I'll let you know if I ever see them.

Signs of an imperfect parent:

1) Too many toys

2) Too much tv

3) Ice cream before dinner

4) Jelly in the peanut butter jar

5) Happy, well-balanced children with great memories of childhood

The best thing I can remember when I try to be "just so," is that Grover thinks I'm pretty great! (At least for now, I may have to edit this when he is older!)

Happy Mother's Day!

~RR