Parent, child, sister, wife, cousin, teacher, grandmother, friend – all me – yet none completely me.

What me do you see? Do you see the real me? Do any of us reveal our true selves?

Are we afraid to show others who we really are? Take time to know me.

Do you see the me I am? Or, the me you’d rather see?

Do we all disguise ourselves – letting others only see what we want to show?

Take time to see me as I am. Do we really need  approval and acceptance?

Do we honestly require that others find us sufficient?

I think not – I’m pretty much me – all the time – the sweet and the not so sweet –

if you see me as something I’m not – maybe it’s in how you look – rather than what I am.

I’m me – some good, some not so good – never intentionally bad,

but rather trying to get the most out of this phenomenon we call life.

Loving life, the people in it, and the world as I chose to see it, always looking

on the bright side, with my head held high, expecting the best; some say

I look through rose colored glasses. I say, just the way I’m made –

an eternal optimist. It’s the only way I can be; I would have it no other way.

Only in this teacher’s lunchbox would you find:

2 – AAA batteries

1 – AA battery

toothpaste, but no toothbrush

2 Tazo China Green Tips teabags

2 Constant Comment teabags

double sided tape in applicator

Command adhesive hooks (3)

a paring knife in its sharpener

another paring knife I found outside the school in the parking lot

4 plastic forks

3 plastic spoons

a mushed Ritz Crackerfuls

a bandaid

2 more plastic spoons – one broken

packet of Welch’s fruit punch fruit snacks

3 plastic knives

a package of citrus scent Wet Ones

an envelope of Starbucks iced coffee mix

and, various assorted napkins (are they clean? It’s hard to tell at this point)

Sadly, there’s no lunch, there’s only

Treasures found in a most unlikely place – treasures that only a teacher can understand.

How can you help your spouse when you’re lost in your own needs? When our two sons died, in 1982 and in 1985, my first husband and I were so caught up in grief that we couldn’t see the hurt in each other. I was sad beyond belief and at the time, all I knew was that I hurt on a level that is unfathomable to most. I felt like darkness was swallowing me everyday, all day, that I could drown in it, but I needed to deal with my agony because I had someone else who depended on me. This devastation could have made me collapse – it had a weight and power of its own. I could either succumb to tremendous misery, or I could keep putting one foot in front of the other. Will was almost 2 in 1982 and almost 5 in 1985, and needed me present for him. So, I talked to whomever would listen, and did what I could to work through some of my anguish. I kept stolidly moving forward and not collapsing under the weight of my sadness. My grief was compounded  in August 1985 when my father died unexpectedly. Mark on the other hand, didn’t talk about anything. He only criticized me at Christmas when I mentioned that I missed my Dad. We were lost to one another and never found our way back. I don’t know if he thought he was being brave for Will and me, or if it was just his way of coping with his feelings. I do know, that facing our heartbreak in such different ways was the beginning of the end of our marriage. I don’t think either of us was right or wrong, only that we handled heartbreak differently. I know it’s easy to look back on this difficult time now and be dispassionate. But, why couldn’t we have talked to one another – opened up and shared our pain?

As I was feeding my Mom her supper – trying not to feed her too fast, wiping her mouth and her nose  (which runs when she eats) – I couldn’t help but wonder – how many times she did this for me. With what tenderness and love did she feed me and try to get it just right?

Then I’d give her a drink, guiding the straw to her mouth, trying to leave it there as long as she was drinking, and I wondered to myself – when did I become the Mom to my Mom? Does she know how much I love her? So, I hugged her close and whispered in her ear that I love her, hoping to give just a bit of comfort in the otherwise bewildering existence  she now finds herself.

Who knew you had a number? You who now sport parallel yellow lines down your center, and crisp white boundaries down each edge.

You had no lines, and only crumbled edges when I learned to drive on you. Everyone drove down the middle since the edges crumbled away – maybe because you were gravel dredged from creeks in Stewart County, and pressed into hot asphalt.

When I drove on you in my youth, you were Jones Mill Road –  never highway 141.

It was driving on you that I first felt the urge to go fast and then faster. There was a short straight stretch where sometimes I would see how fast I could go before I had to slow down for the curves. 90-95 was about the best I could do. While traveling at such high rates of speed in my Mom’s station wagon, I dreamed that I could be a race car driver, or maybe that I was a race car driver. This is probably something we’d best keep to ourselves…

Take me back…

when time had no meaning –

everything was now or never, or maybe sometime.

to  sandy bottomed, spring fed, clear watered days of childhood

when time stretched  as endlessly as the creek.

to the rope swing my Daddy shimmied up the tree to establish – one time it gave me a blackeye.

to fish fries, picnics, and creek bathed cold watermelons.

to exploring upstream – all the way to the waterfall.

to a time when…

I’d always be young and carefree.

I’d always have my parents.

I’d never have any worries.

I’d always have everything I needed.

After all, you taught me so much…

Go with the flow – unless you need to go upstream – then fight like hell.

Always move forward – unless going back has something you wish.

Have grit – to you that was sand – to me it’s determination to live my life as fully as I can.

Stay on course – unless your soul becomes flooded with yearning to veer off track.

Be clear – let others know how you honestly feel.

Days of my youth, forever gone, yet always in the current of  memory.

River Road has the best dappled shade.

River on one side  – ridge on the other.

Trees overhang the road with

an occasional peep of sunshine.

Such riotous shade

the road willingly grows moss.

Asphalt with a leafy green hue – a verdigris finish.

I wonder if he knows how exquisite his feathers are –

those feathers with their mineral colors

and all those eyes peering back at me –

Does he wonder why I stare?

I’m bewitched by his dazzling plumage.

Fire incessant in

its need to be fed leads to

works of great beauty.

As the fire continues  begging the

Rising temperatures and heat suffuse

All who are near.

CHEMISTRY OR MIRACLE

Heat rises heavenward

As it transforms that which is inside –

chemistry? a miracle?

Isn’t chemistry a miracle?

A TOUGH MASTER

Fire demands more fuel

as clay glazed with color

transforms into functional art.

PYROMETRIC CONES

Pyrometric cones – made of

refractories such as silica and

melting agents – each carefully

formulated and assembled for accuracy.

(Written after I helped York feed his wood fired kiln on June 2, 2009.)