New Beginnings...

I'm not pregnant.

Just in case anyone was wondering about that.

I suppose, technically, it is possible.  And, really, you can read about women much older than I having babies if you just pick up a copy of Star. Whatever. Possible or not, were I to turn up pregnant, I'd certainly have some 'splainin' to do.

Realizing this may be more information than anyone wants, I only bring it up because of a series of dreams I've been having. Dreams in which I have the starring role. Pregnant.

I believe in the power of dreams. It was through a series of recurring, evolving dreams which took place over more than 20 years, that I came to a point of forgiveness and reconciliation with my father after his suicide. Because of those nocturnal psychotherapy sessions, now when I dream, I rarely shrug it off. I almost always take the time to deeply consider and analyze the meaning. Which is why I have been paying attention to this latest round of dreams where I show up pregnant. Very pregnant. And old. Well, for a pregnant lady, anyway.

In these dreams I'm distressed. I don't really want to be pregnant, or at least I don't want to raise the child I'm about to give birth to. Not in an "Ohmygawd, I'm preggers," Snookie, Paris Hilton, Kardashian sort of way. A baby wouldn't disrupt my life of parties and shopping.

It's just....I've already done that.

For the past 24 years I have loved being a mom. It has been the primary focus of my life. Yes, I've worked off and on and earned a PhD during that time but, first and foremost, the focus of my time, identity, and resources has been in the raising of my children. I'm thankful that I've had the choice of working or staying home when it seemed best for both my family and me. I wouldn't change a thing.

But, I'm about to turn the page on this part of my life story and when I do I'll see, 'The End' in large script type. I know, in much the same way I feel when I finish a really good novel, there will be a sense of loss. A sense that I want just a little bit more. I will always be a mother, of course, but the time when my children live with me, depend on me, and need me for the day-to-day is nearing its end.

Then what?

In my dreams, I don't want to re-read that book. I don't want to raise any more children. But, at the same time, I feel anxious about what's coming. I'm about to give birth to a new future and I can't anticipate what that will be. If I'm being honest, that is exactly what I'm feeling on many days. Anxious for the future. Not because once my children are grown and gone I'll have no purpose but because I and my purpose are changing and evolving and I don't have a clear vision of what is next.

And then I remind myself that feeling anxious accomplishes exactly nothing. I am, in fact, between the parenthesis. Not quite in the past. Not quiet in the future. It is uncomfortable but I'm having to learn to relax with it.

I can't go back to the past and I don't have to know the future. All I have to know is the present. I can be thinking about the future, dreaming about the future, even exploring ideas about the future. But what matters is right now. And right now I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be doing exactly what I'm supposed to be doing.

When the time is right, my future purpose will show up. I'll know it when I see it. I suspect it will hand me a pretty bouquet of flowers and tell me it is happy to finally meet. I look forward to that day.

And mostly I'm glad I won't be wearing maternity clothes.

Ladies (Room) Aid

Last week my sister and I travelled to our brother's home in West Virginia for our annual sibling weekend. We call it an annual event although in reality it ends up, for various reasons, happening only semi-annually. Regardless of how frequently we get to do it, the time spent is always refreshing and renewing. Plus, our mother can't make the trek so we are free to be in one another's company without her organ recitals and tedious conversational loops about how her life has no meaning because I won't take her to the mall and how she can't drive herself because we made her sell her car three years ago. Never mind that she is unable to walk more than a few feet without becoming fatigued and we insisted she give up driving when the likelihood that she was going to kill someone topped out at 100%.

Details.

Regardless, the time the three of us spend together is not only bonding and soul filling, it is also very fun. Every time we are together some sort of theme emerges, not because we plan it, but just because it happens. Over this sibling weekend we looked at old family slides on an antique projector my brother had restored. We weren't really sure what we would find in the boxes of musty, deteriorating slides but, it turns out, there are deeply layered stories hidden in those faded images. We discovered that the voices of the past will soon be lost if we don't somehow find a way for the stories to be told.

Fodder for future writing.

Anyway, all of this makes the journey from my house to his house (which isn't easy) worth it. Even in these days of streamlined transportation it takes a good bit of effort to make the trip. Lots of herding, shoe removal, body scanning, and general dehumanizing just to board a plane with no personal space, land in a different city, and do it all over again. Granted it isn't travelling by covered wagon but, given the vast numbers of people crowded together, I do worry a little about contracting cholera. Maybe the real problem is all that talk of reaching my final destination. I guess not that many people get cholera at the airport. Nevertheless, I do employ quite a few 'germaphobic'* practices in an effort to try and avoid the seemingly inevitable and slightly more common head cold.

I really don't enjoy air travel.

Last week the flying leg of my trip ended in Charlotte, North Carolina. My sister had flown to Charlotte from Detroit and my brother, after confirming my plane had left Denver, drove from his house to Charlotte. Our sibling weekend would begin by meeting up at the airport and driving four hours back to my brother's house.

Anticipating the lengthy car trip, I stopped in the ladies restroom after getting off the airplane, before meeting my siblings. Upon entering the restroom, I was met with the booming voice of a woman, employed by the Charlotte Douglas International Airport, who smiled and greeted each woman with a hello as she entered. She kept a running commentary going as women entered and exited the restroom. Her voice echoed against the blue tile walls and her words reverberated with exclamations of "Hello all you beautiful women!" "It is a wonderful day to be alive!" "Safe travels!" "You are all so beautiful!" Each woman was offered a blessing as she exited.

After all the unpleasantness of security checks and cramped airplanes this woman's cheerful greeting was a welcome return to the world of 'human-style' interaction. No matter where I was in the restroom, I could hear her affirming words. I couldn't help but smile.

I'm sure some people were uncomfortable with her boisterous outpouring of goodwill. There may have been a few curmudgeons who thought she was annoying. (Why does my own mother come to mind?) And, undoubtedly a few cynics found her message a bit too schmatlzy. But my sense is that, largely, recipients of her message were encouraged and calmed by her positive energy and loving message.

I don't know why she was doing it. I don't know if the Charlotte Douglas International Airport takes their southern hospitality seriously enough to hire someone to stand in the restroom and offer a generous greeting or if she was doing it of her own accord. I don't know if she had a counterpart in the men's restroom doing the same thing. I sort of doubt it but, lacking a ticket for admission, I didn't check.

But I do know that I appreciated her efforts. Although she was some distance from me, I smiled directly at her to let her know her salvo of cheerful words was welcome.

All this made me think about how I might offer my own version of generous restroom greeter to the strangers who cross my path. I might not stand in restrooms bellowing out blessings but I can offer a kind word, a smile, a polite 'you first' gesture.

It isn't hard to be kind. It just takes being mindful. We forget, in our hurried and harried culture, to slow down, breathe, and be kind. A little gesture goes a long way.

Everyone benefits if we all just take time.

*I guess the real word for this is mysophobia but I prefer the made up version better.

Centipede Humor

It is always a little disconcerting when I find things, familiar from my childhood, in antique shops. This is happening more and more often. Not because I shop for antiques a lot but because I, personally, am becoming an antique.

Recently, I went shopping for antique doorknobs. I have a thing (a negative thing) about matching doorknobs which are, in my opinion, dull and unattractive. I'm afraid I'll die of boredom if all my doorknobs match. I realize, in light of record unemployment, a fragile global economy, and an emotion filled upcoming election, doorknobs might seem a teeny bit trivial. They are. I recognize that. But, the antique ones still make me happy.

Anyway, the last time I was canvassing antique shops I came across a number of items that were familiar; things I played with as a child, a few appliances we had when I was growing up. I was particularly drawn to a portable record player made of heavy pressed cardboard, covered with decorative paper. It had a lid that closed over the platter, volume knobs, and stylus arm. The lid was secured by a sturdy metal latch situated under a hinged, plastic handle.

I had a record player just like that, along with a few recordings that I listened to tirelessly. My favorite song was, 'The Thousand Legged-Worm.' 

Said the thousand legged worm as he gave a little squirm, has anybody seen a leg of mine? For if it can't be found, I shall have to hop around on the other nine hundred ninety nine.

Okay, so I'm guessing the author of that lyric didn't get a Nobel prize for literature, but, like antique doorknobs, those words made me happy. They were my first introduction to humor. Not uproarious humor, maybe. But secretly, I thought they were funny and especially enjoyed the irony.

I kept my delight a secret because humor was something of a foreign concept in our family. Life was awfully serious. I honestly don't remember anyone laughing about anything. The effect of our humorless home was that I thought something was wrong with me when my quirky, offbeat sense of humor reared its head. It happened often. I couldn't help it. Humor became my guilty little secret. Sort of like porn. But funnier. And with fewer naked people.

As a teenager I started to notice other people who had a sense of humor and I realized maybe I wasn't so odd after all. I was fascinated by those who said things I found funny. Although by this time my psyche has been badly bruised, I discovered that laughter had extravagant healing powers.

When I was a senior in high school my mother's new husband decided he wanted to move to another, larger, town. Not wanting to be bothered with pesky mothering responsibilities, my mom went along with his plan (which did not include me) and the two of them moved off and left me to fend for myself. I was 17 and homeless but, fortunately, my best friend's mother graciously allowed me move in with them. Their family had experienced its own share of tragedy but, unlike my own family, this family allowed laughter to permeate the pain. I watched as they joked and shared in a familial humor so foreign to me. The presence of humor and laughter calmed my spirit.

Within their welcoming embrace, laughter became something I did every day and, freed from the oppression of my own humorless family, I unleashed my oddball humor into the world. I'd like to say my humor is universally appreciated. It isn't. But, it doesn't much matter. Like mismatched doorknobs and centipedes making the best of missing appendages, it makes me happy.

In my world, a day without laughter is a day wasted. I wish I'd said that originally, but I didn't. Charlie Chaplin did.

I think he was on to something.