Happy Birthday

Waiting for you. . .

Just after your birth. . .
One year old. . .

Two years old. . .

Three. . .
Four. . .



Five. . .
Six. . .


Seven . . .Eight. . .
Nine. . .

I love you, my girl. Happy Birthday.

head over heels

I was a feather of a girl for a while there. I could stand on my head in the middle of the living room floor for what seemed like hours. My mother would peer at me from the kitchen nervous that I would fall, but she did not scold or ask me to be sensible. She simply let me be.

She knew, I think, that those days were fleeting. She knew that someday the weight of many responsibilities would sit on my shoulders and my easy lightness would be replaced by a heaviness that would keep my feet firmly planted on the ground.

I've tried now, cautiously when no one was around, to spend some time upside down again. But I can barely lift my legs into the air, and my feet feel like lead weights. I've tried, too, in yoga class with plenty of prep and lots of help from the instructor, but I always freeze up. Fear washes over me and I convince myself that I will fall and break a leg or embarrass myself in front of the entire class. So I quietly move on to something else: a nice, firm warrior pose or a quiet, safe child's pose.

But I see the others do it and wonder at the ease with which they seem to turn their world topsy turvey even for a second or two. I see them and I remember those sunny childhood afternoons I spent with my feet in the air and my heart easy. There was no fear, just action, as I swung my legs upwards toward the clouds. Then there was a calm while I watched the world pass crazily by as I stood on my head, motionless and quiet.

My son seems to be taking after me these days and spends inordinate amounts of time with his feet above his head. I watch him as he hangs upended on the couch, his small, perfect feet drumming a rhythm on the wall as he watches Scooby -Doo, and I envy the carefree flexibility of both his body and spirit.

I should, like my mother before me, let him be. I should let him hang there upside down among the cushions where he is happy, free, light. But I feel compelled to turn him right side up, tell him to stop before he gets hurt. I earnestly warn him that he could fall at any second. Even as I stand there scolding him, hands on hips, I know I shouldn't. I should listen to the little voice telling me,

"Don't fret. He isn't about to fall. . . he is about to fly."

Neverland

Last night I dreamed of Italy. I was sitting in a small movie house watching a Fellini film while a rickety fan buzzed in front of an open window. Later, after the movie, I walked back to the small room I was renting on the second floor of a crumbling stone building in Rome.

I've never actually been to Italy.
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Last week, my dreams also brought me to Scotland.

It was nothing more than a small bit of land, really, surrounded by azure waters and covered in palm trees. It seemed more like a tropical paradise than the crisp, Celtic isle of lore. I drove around its perimeter several times in a sporty convertible with a girlfriend who has been absent from my life for years now.


I have never been to Scotland, either.
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Once I dreamed of riding a train through a forest in Thailand. I ate spicy bowls of soup as I watched the lush greenery of the forest pass by in a blur. My sleeping car rocked back and forth as the train lumbered on towards an unknown destination.

I've never traveled to any part of Asia much less to Thailand.

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I don't know why I dream of these far off places that I have never been to. Perhaps it is because the day to day dullness of the upstate winters wear me down and leave me hungry for something more, something different. Or maybe it is because I know that I will never actually visit these places in real life so my mind tries to comfort me somehow by creating these clear, colorful, almost lucid, night time dream trips.

I usually awake excited as I recall the details of one of my never-journeys. But the excitement always quickly fades and is replaced by a steely bitterness as I hear the scrape of the snow plow, and I realize where I really am.

Featured

I'm feeling all blushy today because I'm being featured over at Blog Nosh! Check it out. :-)

The Beach

She wore a white dress but decided, as she took one last look in the mirror, that she needed more. Something bright. She saw the vase on the nightstand and grabbed a single orchid. Her fingers trembled as she pinned the purple blossom to her loose braid. Shoes seemed just silly, so she kicked off her sandals and stepped outside. The sand was warm beneath her toes as she walked gingerly toward the shoreline so as not to step on a shell or jagged rock.

When she reached where he stood waiting she uttered simply and with conviction,

“I do.”

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This was a challenge by Velvet Verbosity to write a 100 word story based on the word "nervous." Go check out some of the other entries.

12 days of christmas music

I love Christmas songs. LOVE. THEM. I love them a little too much for my husband's taste. But, I tell him, singing along to "White Christmas" at full volume is part of my charm!

Anyway....I thought that I would share some of my favorite Christmas songs with you through the magic of You Tube. I'll spare you the sing along.



White Christmas is the best Christmas song ever. Do not argue with me, because you will never convince me other wise.


Now this is a classic, of course. Care for a chestnut?


Another classic by Judy Garland. I am cracking up right now because yesterday my mother lipped synced this song on Skype to my son. HAHAHA!! Trust me it was funny. Yeah, you had to be there.




This song reminds me of a friend in college who made me soup and bread and copied The Charlie Brown Christmas music to a cassette for me, which I have since lost. I hope she is well now and is still making warming, yummy soup for her friends.



This one gets me right in the heart. Ever since I moved East, away from my friends and family, I can't hear this song without bursting into tears. Oh no, here come the waterworks...



Now the King will croon...



I used to listen to this song as a kid and dream about life in The Big City.



I remember listening to this song on my tiny clock radio while wrapping Christmas presents for my grade school friends. I don't remember what the gifts were, but I can guess that they may have been florescent socks or big plastic earrings. I was probably wearing stirrup pants.



This one is for my son who when asked what the most common winter holidays are said, "Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Winter Solstice, and Feliz Navidad."

This one is all about nostalgia for me. I remember learning this song at school when I was very, very young maybe 1st or 2nd grade. I hear it now and instantly feel like a small girl eagerly awaiting Santa's arrival.



This one is for my daughter who thinks this is the greatest Christmas song EVER.



Another one that reminds my of being a little girl....When I was young my parents had lots of Christmas albums, but the album I enjoyed the most was the Perry Como one. I loved to sit by the tree with his record on softly in the background.

So there you have it--12 songs for the 12 days of Christmas. Have a joyous holiday my friends!

secret society

It's like a club. There isn't a secret handshake or a special password, but there is a unique look, a shifting of the eyes, a softening of the mouth, that will give you a clue. You'll be talking to someone, and when the word "father" comes up in conversation you'll see it and know before they say the words:

"He died."

Oh yes, you understand. You step a bit closer and ask, "When?" The answer is different every time, of course.

"Last year."

"In September."

"When I was in high school."

But you know in your heart that it doesn't matter how long it has been. You are all lifetime members of the same, sad society.

There are rituals, of course. On Father's Day, you may run into a fellow member in the store or on the street. A squeeze of the hand or a simple, "How are you?" takes on a special meaning. You don't need them to respond to know that they miss him today.

The birthday ritual and the passing date ritual are, of course, more private. Everyone has their own specialized routine. For some it is quiet prayer in church. Others crawl into bed and have a good cry. Some look at old photos or wear his old flannel work shirt around the house.

But you don't have a particular rite that you perform. Some years you simply think of him in passing and go on with the day as planned. Other years you are floored with grief.

So you write.

You write private thoughts into messy journals that no one will see. Or maybe you pen a birthday letter and share it with the world, your family, your friends. Sometimes you write thinking it will make it hurt less. You write and pretend it isn't real.

But no matter what you do, write, or say, you can't terminate your membership in the club. You may smile and say to the world all around, " I'm fine," but it is a lie. You are not fine. You have no father.

Your daddy is gone.

So you turn to the members of the club and wordlessly plead to be understood. They know you want to be heard but that you don't want to talk. They will let you feel what you have to feel without pushing you to share or heal or move on. Knowing they are near, that they will be there to hold you up when you just want to crumble under the sadness, buoys you.
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for Karen, Barb, Veronica, Lorraine, Sue, Sandy, and all of the daughters out there without fathers.

by christine green, member for 15 years