Alone With Myself on the Curb….

I was alone; left on the curb of the street.

No more than five or six-years-old, I sensed that they had lost me for a moment, for I was rarely alone as a child, and I questioned the uncertain adventure that was before me. I wasn’t scared, but it was a curious situation for the middle child of eight children. It was odd, and I knew it.

I looked up to the house only about 30 feet away. The windows invited me in with the yellow light of evening, the warm aroma of dinner cooking on a chilly autumn night, the little heads of my sisters moving about; I was aware of me, but were they?  No one called or came out for me, so I let go, for what seemed like a very long time, of the warm blanket of safety that was my family.  My timid, tiny self just stopped looking over my shoulder and decided to stay put.

“Being present” wasn’t a common term or practice in the late 1950s and early 1960s, and if it was a little girl like me wouldn’t have known it.  But even though I could not articulate what I was experiencing I sensed that this was a rare opportunity to “be where I am” and to listen to my own thoughts. Honestly, in a family of eight kids, the noise of so many opinions and thoughts got muddled up in my own. I could never be sure if my thoughts were mine…or theirs.  So I did what I already knew how do to, I “noticed” everything and decided it was important.

It was a fall evening and the sun was low in the sky, giving the world I knew a golden glow that was cinematic.  The white of picket fences and trim around windows popped with light. The colors of the tree bark richly darken from the day’s rain, fluttering gold and orange leaves released from their sleepy branches, the red of the fire hydrant and the sturdy brick on our northern houses all created a romantic luster of a magazine picture. I was in love. There was nothing I enjoyed more than beautiful images found in magazines and the movies, and I felt some innate need to capture the moment as if my eyes were a camera lens.

Through a series of thoughts about whether my grandparents and parents could remember when they were young, I made this weird little decision, out loud, that this was a moment to remember.   So, I set about the act of observing every detail around me.

I was a petite child, rather meek, and can remember looking closely at my small pink hands as I spread open my fingers in the air with the moody gray sky as a back drop.  I observed that I had my father’s hands, square and strong, but when I moved them like an Hawaiian girl waving her hands to the Hula, I had the grace of my mother’s long slender fingers.  She had once been a hand and foot model, and her hand always looked so perfect in my father’s. I resolved that my hands were the perfect mixture of both of theirs and suddenly didn’t feel so all alone, as if my parents were always at the end of my arms.

The cold breeze on that Michigan night swirled around me and flipped about the bangs of my soft, brown pixy hair (a standard little girl cut in our house) and I watched the silhouette of geese honking their goodbyes as they passed over our rooftop. I could smell the crisp chill in the air combined with the lingering smoke of the day’s burned leaves and dead branches.  My mother was making a simple meal of hamburger, onions, and gravy that was poured over rice; filler-food, for a lot of kids. It wafted from the partially opened windows, and even if no one else was calling for me to go in, my stomach was.  I closed my eyes, my little body wrapped in the natural and home-cooked aromas of the day, and I resolved that autumn would be forever my favorite season…the place I belonged…the season when I was most aware and alive.

I can stillAt Age Five see my shoes, brown oxfords scoffed around the toes (probably worn by my sisters) and loosely tied, below brown corduroy pants faded at the knees. Wearing a candy red cardigan sweater over a polo shirt with buttons big and shiny; I liked to finger the smooth edges of those buttons. They looked edible.  I recall liking that sweater a great deal, so I felt safely tucked into its familiarity that unusual night.  Where I sat on the curb, my oxfords were damming up the run-off rain water as it headed for the gutter.  Orange maple, red oak, and golden birch leaves matted the water’s edge and little ripples moved the fallen foliage to their final vibrant end under the street.  I remember a sense of sadness for their going away, layered with anticipation for the first snow of winter that so many people of the seasons feel and understand.

I seemed to understand the changing seasons, even at such a tender age, as the normal push and pull of life, the sentimental mystery of time passing. Blame it on the movies or my father’s songs; I already knew autumn was bittersweet.

Along with the sad leaves in the little river at the curb, sat three little toy boats in primary colors. Made of hard molded rubber, they were propelled by twisting a rubber band around a spindle at the rear of the boat.  They didn’t go far or make much noise, but they were a favorite water toy of ours.  I worried for a moment about their safety in being left outside, but moved passed it to observe the sparkly pebbles in the cement that made up our street.  I marveled at how the street could be made up of such jewels of pink and pearly-white stones…like a treasure just ignored as people walked and drove over them.

Only minutes passed, I’m sure, but for me it seemed like time just hung in the air like the aroma of cedar and smoke.  Before the urgency of getting called from the house, I took one last look at the pure radiance of dusk and decided that I was meant to remember things. It would be my job, my calling to notice and file away images, aromas, textures and expressions.  I would do this for everyone in my family, because I felt deeply that ‘someone’ needed to slow down and see things; someone needed to remember.

As many young children feel, I believed I was living in the cradle of a perfect family and that my love for my parents and sisters and brothers was unique and stronger that life itself.  I believed we would never leave each other; it was unimaginable.  And yet, something inside my innocent self felt that, just like the seasons, life turned too quickly. It left me thinking there was a great need to approach all things on a sensory level so to record them in my memory for all time.  From the spring time smell of lilacs in the alley, the new smell of vinyl toys at Christmas, the sound of my father’s deep base voice to the look of deep emptiness in my mother eyes staring out the window; I experience the world around me with an acute awareness. From the embarrassment of having to wear bread bags over our shoes inside our boots to keep the melting snow from reaching our socks, to the warmth of my sister’s legs tangled-up in mine on a cold winter night; I experienced everything with deep emotion, as well, and never wanted to NOT feel those emotions. Over time, very little escaped me.

On that day, alone with myself on the curb, I had an awakening and made vows to the God within my soul to see and remember everything that I thought was important. Little did I know then that the trees and colors of the neighborhood we once lived in would vanish, and that the family that was held together with super-glue love would one-by-one grow up and leave.  That I, too, would be so removed from the seasonal changes of my youth, and that I would never know autumn like that again in my adult life.  My memories at the curb were just the beginning of a lifelong need to capture moments with my senses, perhaps for the day when no one else would remember.

In today’s information rich world, choked by an over abundance of arm-chair psychology and philosophies, one would say I was ‘mindful’ or hyper-sensitive. I might have even been diagnosed with attention deficit, since I was so often distracted by my senses as to be called a ‘daydreamer,’ ‘lofty’ and ‘a quiet and shy sort of girl.’ But even in early childhood, though I failed to have the vocabulary and understanding to express what I was experiencing, I knew it was some sort of gift or calling, this intense alertness to things around me, and to hold on to, remember, and recall the details of what my senses brought to me.

No one really cared. In those days, our parents were not being trained to listen to their children or promote their special gifts. I had to fit in, do my chores, perform as well as my sisters in school, sit down, shut up, and get to bed! My parents certainly gave me a rich life of music, stories, and nature, but I think they were much too busy just providing for us to single anyone of us out and give us ‘extra’ attention. We would have to do that on our own.  I often wondered if one of my parents or a teacher along the way would have seen this intense perception in me, particularly this sensitivity to the natural world, how I placed value on them and connected them to some sort of quality of life; if they would have encourage me to write or express myself through art, what creative things would have sprung forth?

Instead, I have lived an ordinary life, restricted by conventions and low expectations and my own choices to shelf my sensory perceptions and memories, to be dealt with ‘some other day.’ Babies to raise, bills to pay, traffic to dodge, people to please; with no encouragement or acknowledgement of any special gifts; I grew up and into what society expected and was quieted by self doubt.

I felt guilty if I shared my perceptions, indeed wrong if I dwelled too often on them. Heavy company, overly dramatic, moody, distractible, highly emotional, too intense; these are the things I’ve been called. Many times, all bottled up inside myself, I just felt like I was crazy.

But, I wasn’t. I know that now, fifty years later. I was born with sensitivity, intuition and the ability to see how fine details affected the bigger picture and people’s emotions; the kind of gift that leads to a highly creative life, if nurtured. It wasn’t nurtured, so it didn’t flow or grow. I let down that little vow-maker on the curb, and I am sorry for that. She was my authentic self and over the years I betrayed her, disguised her to be something else, quieted and shelved her to the demands of other people and voices that discredited her. I was afraid of her.

Authenticity, though, doesn’t go away. When autumn comes to South Texas, I see things that people who have lived here all their lives don’t see. And I remember the detailed dramatic autumns of my youth, like a memorized movie running in my head. I am still at the curb, taking in every aroma and sound, only now I am not listening for anyone to ‘call me in.’ I am aware of me, and it no long matters if anyone else is. I am alone and letting the remembering flow like the water along the leaf strewn gutter…cluttered, rippled, and dotted with colorful objects. The only one who is calling is that little voice inside me, wondering when I’m going to respond.

Perhaps my five-year-old self understood something that took me years to comprehend, when she proclaimed that ‘autumn’ is my favorite season, when I am most alive; the place I belong. Not in the way of ‘time in the year,’ necessarily, but more in the way of life’s cycle. Spring and summer were too busy and binding for the little girl on the curb, and winter is yet to unfold. Autumn would be the place where my own dramatic changes would unravel and become revealing with images and memories flowing like the stream at my feet and sparkling like the road that no one noticed and just trend upon. Seasonality is not only choice for me, it’s a gift; an ability to see the beautiful struggle of changes, its entire splendor from life to death, and not only embrace it but yearn, indeed ache for it.grainy half face colored eyes

The poets and artists have always known that autumn is the most romantic and memory-inspiring time of the seasons, when trees can no longer keep their leaves and must let go, the shadows grow long, the light is illuminating, and when the changing air sends a little shiver down our sweatered spines.  As I let go of youth, the tyranny of convention and obligation, and the privilege of time, so it is that autumn has become my most vibrant season of all. I am most certainly in the season of change, awakened and alive; where the little girl on the curb knew I was meant to finally ‘be present.’

If Not For the Rain…

“Come to the door my pretty one. Put on your rings and precious things. Hide all your tears as best you can, try to recall what use to be.” ~Gordon Lightfoot, “Love’s Return”

I sat on the porch swing tonight watching the rain pour down on our poor dried-up lawn. We’ve been in a severe drought for several years now.  Spring often starts out relatively green and fragrant, the mountain laurels heavy with purple blossoms, the red bud’s perky show of pinkish red flowers, the Mexican plum near my front door welcomes me home with a sweet aromatic bouquet. But soon the leaves fade to grayish-green, the lawns remain spotty, and everything seems to turn to dirt brown long before mid-summer with the cicadas buzzing in the trees and the sun sizzling the day into a baked emptiness.

As I softly swayed on the swing tonight, watching the rain roll off the roof, hovering slightly when the cold wind picked up and blew the downpour near, a bittersweet memory emerged of a porch-swing on a rainy evening long ago, though the memory was as clear as a bright blue-skied day.

I was in McKeesport, Pennsylvania with my boyfriend’s family, visiting his Croatian grandmother in her quiet little neighborhood of 1940s brick homes, tree-lined streets, manicured lawns, little pocket parks of swings and merry-go-rounds; the family neighborhood of steelworkers and immigrants who had prospered and stayed on.  His widowed grandmother made the best apple strudel I was ever to have, and moved around her house of many up and down staircases with ease and surety; a soft-footed ‘angel of the house,’ as Virginia Woolf would have observed.

My boyfriend and I were young, only 18 and 16 years old, but old-fashion and certain that ‘we’ were meant for each other.  We found ourselves sitting on his grandma’s porch swing, high above the street and rich green lawn, watching a thunderstorm shower this old eastern town with a hardy spring rain. We were happy to be away from the kin-folk, at last alone to soak up the drama of the rain storm and the sweetness of our young love.

He was everything to me, as I was everything to him. Not unlike other first time loves, we couldn’t get enough of each other. We, of course, lived by the moral foundations of our times, and weren’t about to blatantly make-out or get carried away on his grandma’s porch, but we found delight in the subtle exchange of little kisses, holding hands, and my leaning firm against his arm as I curled up closer to him with every thunder clap and spark of lightening.

It was simply a sweet moment. The air was rich with lilacs and lily of the valley and the fresh aroma of rain-cleaned streets with the swish of cars passing by. We didn’t talk much on that swing, but we seemed dreamily in the same place. We were intoxicated for the first time on love’s sweet promise and both seemed happily anxious about what the future had in store. I loved the scent of his skin, a scent that every now and then I will encounter on a young man passing by, or even my own son, of sweat and denim, Carhartt jackets and leather boots. He was not a boy of words, but he made it clear that he loved my bright eyes and rosy lips, and the feel of my little hand in his. That was enough for me, and I thought I could live on that complete feeling for the rest of my life.

But life had other things in store.

We were to marry four years later, but little did we know that we did not have the resolve to move through the challenges of life together. Perhaps we were too young and hadn’t really found out ‘who we were’ before we pledged our hearts to each other, but the road led us to faraway places and unforeseen sadness that our love simply could not shoulder. After nine years of marriage it was officially dissolved, and I never saw him again.

Forty-four years have gone by.  New loves, new places, many houses, marriage, babies, and grown children, and yet something as simple as a rainy night sitting on the porch swing transported me back to that place where I once felt completely loved and cherished, full of hope and possibilities. It has been so long since I’ve felt any of those feelings, that it was easy to rock in that image, to see it all again through the sheets of pouring rain, and to recall the warmth of an innocent time.

I don’t pine for him anymore, though I did for many years. He went his way and found what he was looking for, and for better or worse, I found my way in the world as well. But, I can’t help but wonder, maybe hope, that on some stormy night, when he, now gray and showing the years on his face, finds himself sitting on his porch watching the rain, that he might think of me in passing and remember how much we once loved each other.

I am surrounded by young people these days, all holding hands, gazing at each other with adoration and desire, happily making their plans and enjoying this time in their youth. It’s a joyful time, as it should be.  And yet I feel compelled to tell them secrets; secrets about love and how it can go right or wrong.

For love can be like the rain. It can be fickle. It can come in with gusto, be exhilarating, rolling and pounding away on your emotions like a thundering storm.  Or it can be torrential, flooding your thoughts and overwhelming you until you feel like you are drowning and need to save yourself. Or it can be a soft, constant shower, drenching you slowly with a gentle watering of pleasure and consistent nurturing.

But love, like the rain, can slow down, tapper off, come to a slow pensive drip off the house you built together and …stop, as well. And like the trees and plants in your garden, it can dry-up for lack of watering and subsidence. Love needs to be refreshed; carefully cultivate and gently re-planted, if need be, with the things that make it grow and blossom. Love does not continue on its own, and once it has been neglected long enough, it is like a plant that has not been nurtured, it’s stem gnarled and ugly, dried to a crisp, it’s roots detached; it most likely will not come back to life again.

It is unfortunate for some of us, now older and wiser with broken hearts that have been glued back together, that we should be so aware of this little secret about love when it is, well, almost too late. But perhaps, if the young are listening and watching carefully, they will learn from those of us who have lost. Love is not a stagnant emotion. If it is to remain alive, love must flow and breathe and be born again and again. Lovers must be vigilant. They need to watch their partners like a mother watches a child; know what it needs before it asks. They need to give each other space to grow, affection that never turns away, and words that produce more smiles than tears. Sometimes, in the depth of trouble and disappointment, that will be hard, almost impossible. But, do it anyway. Not because some piece of paper tells you that you must lawfully bind yourself to this person, or your church says your love was sanctioned by God.  Love begets love. This is a simple truth that is so easily tossed aside by pride and resentment. Don’t let the flower of your youth dry up for lack of love. Water it. Let it flow in sheets of passionate down pours or gentle, consistent showers, but let it come. A drought isn’t pretty. It’s a painful slow death from want and thirst.  If not for the rain, there would be no hope of life, or love’s longing to stay alive. Do it to hold on to the love you once had. That young love that sat sweetly on a porch swing watching the rain, hand-in-hand, with tender kisses between the threatening claps of thunder.

My swing is empty, the rain has stopped, yet my memories of love have taught me well. There is always hope for showers again tomorrow, a quenching of thirst after a long drought, a green garden and fruitful boughs and the promise, with nurturing, of sweet love’s return…and, maybe, a piece of apple strudel shared from a grandma’s old recipe box, on some soft rainy day.