The Diary of A Lost Witch

Too attached, not here at all

2011-12-26T15:49:00.000-05:00

"It's hard being a grown up," he said.

He was sitting on the couch, slouching and looking more like a kid than his almost 40 year old self.

It was good to hear him say that, because he makes it look so easy.

I had to grow up first. At 22 I had a choice. Be a child raising a child, or separate that part of me altogether.

Even now, as my children play, and the puppy nips at my feet. Even now as the responsibility piles up and weighs me down... I don't pay attention to the child I used to be. I just do what I have to do.

So I suppose it's better, the way he's done it. Bit by bit. Letting pieces of him go each year. Not like me, I just threw it all up in one day.

And so I'm not attached. There's a part of me that doesn't even believe this is my life. That I'll wake tomorrow in my mother's bed, and curl next to her warm body...only my toes won't reach hers. I'm too little to be tall yet.

It's night and I have a fever. This whole life has been a fever dream. She's got Vick's and a tall glass of ice cold juice.

"Shhh," she says, "Mommy's here."

Only she's not here, and I'm the mommy.

It's hard being a grown up. Harder still when you have one foot squarely in your past.

Lunch With Jane

2011-12-09T19:35:00.000-05:00

A few weeks ago I was privileged to have lunch with Jane Green. We met in Westport, and I as I held a table for us in a busy restaurant, I looked with admiration at the other lunching women gathered there, with perfect hair and clean iphones.

I felt pasty, and nervous. As though I'd walked into a world in which I did not belong. Now, usually I'm not the nervous type. But meeting Jane Green? An author I read and admire? This was not a normal situation.

And then there she was. She breezed in, face flushed, dressed in writerly clothes. Hair held back with inviting wisps escaping in all the right ways. I'm sure I looked at her with a kind of solid desperation, and that's how she recognized me.

Warm does not begin to describe her. Earth mother writing Goddess? Yes, that's closer. After my initial groupie dithering, we began to talk. We talked about her stories and my stories. About our characters and how we write.

And then we talked about yarn, and cooking, and gardens. Before I knew it I was sharing my life with her. Details that I hold back. But you see... Jane was immediately a safe place. A writer's haven.

Too soon we had to leave. I didn't want to go. I wanted to linger in that safe place and make sure I soaked up every detail so I could revisit it when I needed it later on.

She said I was fearless. I fell in love.

If you have not yet read a Jane Green novel, you should. She weaves stories that steep you in atmosphere and explore the inner meaning of love and friendship. Pick up a book and get lost with Jane. There's no safer or lovelier place to be on the planet.

I'm not ready to let go of you

2011-11-03T07:38:00.000-04:00

What used to seem like forever is quickly coming to its natural end.

I've never been the kind of mother who ached for what was. I've always been eager to see you grow, and change, and attack the world with a ferocity that made me laugh when you were small. Only now I look at you in awe as you became a young woman. A determined, proud, beautiful young woman.

The person I've always wanted to be. How amazing you are, my Rose.

But I have to say, this last year, with your leaving imminent... I've been unable to shake the streaming slideshow in my head. The reliving of your childhood.

How your hand fit into mine. How you always wanted me to hold you. I can still see the betrayal in your eyes when I was pregnant with Tess and you were too big to hold. Do you remember? I took you swimming almost every sunny day that summer just so I could hold you, weightless in the water. Your wet hair clinging to my shoulder. Salty kisses. Your never ending chant: Mommy, mommy, mommy.

Each halloween costume, even the one you stole when you were 18 months old-- simply grabbed it from a lower rack and I didn't notice until I put you in the car seat. When did you leave the car seat? There you are in my head, a flip book of years as you grew older and taller than me.

I wasn't scared to be your mother. The moment you were born, I was born. I took you, all swaddled up and ran this marathon of life. And at every turn, I had the comfort of knowing that I was doing things so I could spend more time with you.

Time that slipped away. We've done okay.

Oh, babe. Please remember that even whey you fly, I'm still doing all of it in order to be there for you. And know that all this growing up can be cushioned by the fact that no matter how old you get, or how far you go, I'll always take you swimming.

And I'll hold you, weightless in the water... so close to me. I'll hold you and give you salty, mommy kisses.

XO
mommy

The Sticking Place

2011-11-01T13:58:00.000-04:00

We were in New York City and the lights made me feel like there was a dome over the earth. With a little space carved out for you and me.

You and me under the dazzling lights of modernity. Two people wandering around, aimless, attached at the shoulders by companionship. The knowing of you makes me love you more.

Alone is where I'm comfortable. I've made a home in alone. Books, yarn, watercolor. Soup, gardens, diaries. I've often wondered if that is why we found each other. Because we were so damned happy to be alone.

Only we're not alone, are we? We are together. That's the sticking place.

Stuff and Nonsense....

2011-10-27T13:15:00.000-04:00

So many things! Okay, first thing: Do you read my blog? And do you have your own blog? Why not add my new button? Grab the code right there on my sidebar and add it to your HTML widget. Then you can be a Lost Witch too!

Second: I had some professional photographs taken. What do you think?

And last but not least, I'm thinking of doing an interview series... Agents and Editors. Any questions you want to add to my list? Something you feel isn't covered in most interviews?

Okay, that's it!

XO
S

Photo Credit: Jammi York Photgraphy

"Mommy, mommy, mommy..."

2011-10-19T17:57:00.001-04:00

*photo of me and my Gracie last summer in Rockport Mass.

Grace wakes up in the night day that is early October mornings. She's found our bed (like she always does) in the middle of the night. I'm sure that's why my dreams improve... she steals in and snuggles close, as babies do, and sunshine pours into my abstract, anxiety riddled dreams.

I'm already getting ready for work. I leave early these days and come home late. I'd not seen her off to sleep the previous nights. It makes her waking up demand that much harder on my heart.

She's in the rumpled down comforter. She's warm and bathed in the orange glow of the salt lamp night light we keep on for them. (When they all leave us, I'm sure we'll keep it lit. The ghosts of their little selves should not be allowed to trip on the way to our bed.)

She wakes and sees me in the closet getting dressed. Fumbling in the half dark with a pair of too small tights.

"Mommy, mommy, mommy..." she whispers. But it's a whisper laced with dreadful need.
I toss the tights and go toward the bed. I have to be careful not to get too close, because if my head finds her sweet soft, still baby fine hair, I'll never leave. I'll stay with her entangled. Mother and daughter. A perfect Picasso.

I give her my hand, though she's straining to pull me into her arms.

"I love you,"I say.
"I love you too, mommy. Come back to bed. It's still night."
"No, darling. It's early morning and mommy has to go to work."
She lets my hand go without a fight. She understands it's no use. Mommy and work are the same thing.

And I didn't want to let her hand go. I wanted to scoop her up and run away to a place where time stops and she never gets bigger. Not forever... just a few years of make up love. Make up mornings. Make up snoozy, lazy, entangled rainy days.

I'll be home after she's asleep. Another day gone. I miss you Gracie.

Love mommy,

To Ozzi (Uncle) Mike on your first day in Heaven

2011-10-10T19:41:00.001-04:00

(A Eulogy)

Dear Ozzi Mike,

The day after you died was a beautiful day here on earth. The sun was shining in that New England October way. You remember, an Indian Summer sort of sun. Blue skies and white clouds hovered over us. I could practically feel you in the air all around.

And though I don't know exactly what you encountered on your first day in heaven, I think I can safely guess a few things you might have been doing.

I'm sure you were greeted by your sisters and brothers. I'm sure your mother and father were on hand to congratulate you on your amazing one hundred and five year run.

And then, there she was, your lady, your wife. Carmel the beautiful. And you didn't miss a beat, did you? You grabbed her, young again both of you, and you waltzed her right through the gates. Thirty years is a long time to wait holding a dance card. But you always knew she'd be there. And she was.

I hope, as you danced, you turned around. Pulled by all of us down here missing you. Did we warrant just a momentary glance? I hope so.

Because...

Look, there are your sons. Both like you in different ways. Michael, who learned from you to love the outdoors and who shared your unwavering faith. And Robert, whose artistic brilliance and dapper dress were surely a hand-me-down from watching you. You were quiet in your parenting, but substantial none the less. Your loyalty and responsibility are qualities that shine in them as well. Robert, at twenty three years old, took on the responsibility of helping raise a child that was not his. (And you, in turn became my surrogate grandfather with a grace I'll always thank you for) and Michael? He's followed and supported nieces and nephews over the years with a fierce yet subtle presence.

And look, do you see your nieces and nephews, grand nieces and grand nephews, and all the great great Grands? All grown or growing and all accomplished in their own way. You were always there for all of us. Always the first (with Uncle Tony) to be at the hospital if one of us was sick or needed you. Always around at holidays with an envelope and a kiss.

All of us, even the littlest, have fond memories of you. But I'd like to take a moment to share a few of mine. Because you must be very busy up there... and I'm a selfish girl who wants to make you remember me too.

When I was just a little girl, I watched you garden. You had a path out in the back yard of your house on Evergreeen, that was made of bottles inserted into the ground so that their spherical bottoms sparkled up from the manicured grass. There was magic there.

And when I came to your house on Thursday evenings, you and Auntie Carmel always had things for me to do. Things like drawing perfect patterns on light boxes and coloring in enormous coloring books, bigger than me. I was scared, when I was small, of being away from my mother. But not at your house. It was safe there.

And when you were the director of the choir at St. Brenden's Church, you asked my mother and I to join. We did... and the music that we made.. it made my own heart soar. Ozzi, your voice brought so many people joy.

And when I got older, and Rosy was born. You supported me with a quiet understanding that spoke volumes of your commitment to family. Sunday dinners at my grandmother's were punctuated by you and little Rosy watching TV together. And you never got mad when she woke you as you dozed. You only smiled and nodded at whatever she wanted to tell you in her little girl way.

When I got married, you told me how proud you were. How you approved of Bill and thought he was the perfect choice for me.

You've always done that. Said things at the right times. A quiet man with loud things to give.

The things you gave! Just by your actions you showed us all how much life had to offer. At all stages. You paved the way for all of us to chase our dreams no matter how long it takes, or how old we are. Possibilities are endless because of you.

Your sister Fay, my grandmother is the last one left. The last of all Rosalina's children. Watch over her, Ozzi. She's lonesome here.

I'd like to say what most people say at times like this. I'd like to say Rest In Peace. But I can't. Not when it comes to you. Peace, yes. I wish you peace. Freedom from the body that jailed your incessant movement in these last few years. And peace to be with the ones you've loved and lost and now found again.

But rest? Oh no. Not you. Stay busy. Maybe you can help those angels and saints up there. I'm sure they could use what you have to give. You are a builder. Help them, Ozzi. Help them create a better world for us down here. I know you can, because you proved, here on earth, that nothing is impossible.

10/2011

Honeymoon

2011-10-06T16:00:00.000-04:00

On the sailboat, with the blue Caribbean stretching out in front of us and behind, the captain listened to an endless game of cricket, and we lingered. Five days blurred by.

No shower, no restless nights, no crying children..yet. The future was the sea and it was beautiful.

You stretched out on the hull of the boat, looking like a Kennedy. I stayed safe on the deck, preening in my two piece bathing suit. Royal blue with light blue piping like the one I wore in high school-- only smaller.

The stars out there.
The deserted beaches and jade green rocks. We brought them home, but they dulled when they figured out that they'd been stolen.

Did we dull too? Me and you? There's a busyness about the days since then that reminds me of stolen things. Hurried and hushed, panicked and hidden. We've done so much in so little time. But what have we lost?

Our words speak volumes. "I miss you." "How was your day?"

My day was lonesome. My day was away from you.

Who and what would we have been if we'd never left the sea? If we'd stayed on that beach and left the rocks alone. Let them live there with us, visiting them in their own habitat so they could keep their shine?

I can't remember what we talked about or even where we went. But I remember salty kisses. And I remember that cricket game.

Only I don't remember who won, or how it ended.

Book Deals... book deals. BOOK DEALS!

2011-10-05T10:15:00.000-04:00

From Publisher's Marketplace:

Suzanne Palmieri's THE WITCH OF LITTLE ITALY, in which a troubled senior at Yale returns to her estranged, magical family in the Bronx and unlocks secrets dating back to WWII, as well as her mysterious, lost memories, to Vicki Lame at St. Martin's, in a nice deal, in a two-book deal, for publication in April 2013, by Anne Bohner at Pen & Ink Literary (World English).

And yesterday, in case you weren't reading below my little poem:

Suzanne Hayes and Loretta Nyhan's I'LL BE SEEING YOU, a story of unexpected friendship told through letters shared between two American women on the home front during World War II, to Erika Imranyi at Mira, in a two-book deal, by Anne Bohner at Pen & Ink Literary and Joanna Volpe at Nancy Coffey Literary & Media Representation.

Yes, for those of you who know me well, you know I write under both names. That's FOUR BOOKS.

I can't thank enough people. YOU GUYS! For always being here for me. My blog readers. I do love you.

And Agent ANNE the wonderful. And Vicki Lame the AMAZING GLITTER GIRL EDITOR OF ALL THE THINGS. And Loretta Nyhan and Amanda Bonilla and Joanne Volpe and Erika Imranyi. All the people who read both manuscripts (At Saint Martins and Mira...)

I just couldn't be happier. Even if this post sounds a little gratuitous. I promise I'll be humble tomorrow!

Dear Loretta, 2011 (Dreams Come True Post)

2011-10-04T18:18:00.001-04:00

I see you still

standing in a field of sunflowers,

even though it is October now

It will always be summer with you

Your tall self and confident gait

Waiting for me,

making me better than who I was

I've lived many lives with you

in worlds only hearts have seen

not heads

heads like large sunflowers

that never droop

or fall prey to squirrels

But stand,

like you

turning beautiful profiles

ever so gracefully

toward the sun

*it is with all the joy in my heart that I announce the following. From Publishers Marketplace:

And thank YOU dear readers. You've been with me all along. Stay tuned... there might be more news tomorrow....

Laughter from another room

2011-10-02T11:42:00.002-04:00

There's laughter in another room. It starts off quiet, and grows until it rumbles and rambles through the house. It floats like a ghost into the corners. It rises like heat. It lingers like the scent of good cooking.

The laughing comes from them. Those girls who grew inside me. Their arms and legs and sweet, sweet cheeks. Their angles and edges and peculiar ways.

There are pillows piled in the middle of their bed. Prints and rainbows, clowns and pink... piled and placed specifically for their dolls to have spots all their own. A world in pillows.

Malls, bedrooms, beaches, buildings, amusement parks. All pillows, all laughter, all day.

I'm on the other side of the door. I place my hand on the knob and change my mind.

It's theirs.

I'm MESSY! Rule number 736

2011-09-04T12:09:00.000-04:00

Rule number 736 of relationships. Don't try to change too much of who you are to please someone else. (Note: you must change a little so you do no harm. That's rule number 735)

The reason for rule number 736 is that it's dangerous. If you lose yourself trying to please others-- and the others don't notice or appreciate the change--you run the risk of becoming a Martyr. And PLEASE do not afflict yourself with that. It's the affliction of another generation altogether. Also, you'll hate the person you love. Also, you'll be hated in return. So it's the definitive NO WIN SITUATION.

That said:

I'm MESSY.

Oh god. I'm so messy. Have we clarified that I'm not dirty? (Okay, my car... and the bottom of my feet...)
But I don't think dust is dirt. I think it's time warn and wise. YES I THINK DUST IS WISE.

And I love piles of books and piles of buttons and bits of jewelry all over the place. I love stacks of clothes and coats because they are colorful and interesting. I do not like hoarding... but piles can be pretty if they are well managed.

I like bottles and bottles and bottles of things on my sink because I can find things and also they remind me of other things that I need to remember. And I like the mermaid doll hanging half out of the glass with my toothbrush in it because it's funny. Like she can't get out or in....

I like a clean sink, but I like stacked dishes in the dish drainer. We have pretty dishes.... I like seeing them there.... sue me.

I like my shoes to be where I left them even if it's in the middle of the room.

I like dead flowers (if they dry well) because they remind me of Mrs. Havisham. (Who I secretly desire to be.) Don't know who she is? Read. By the way is it Haversham or Havisham?

I like my hair messy and big. My clothes rumpled and my bed unmade so that the comforter welcomes me back in at night.

I like messy food. Mixtures of textures and sweet and salty and colorful.

Messy relationships are complex and layered and IMPORTANT. If it isn't messy-- it isn't interesting.

I'm a mess. I make messes. It's true. But I've cleaned up a lot for you.

Goodbye Summer

2011-08-25T15:44:00.000-04:00

This year, I'm not ready to let it go. Usually I'm done with summer by now. Longing for sweaters and smokey air. Ready for the world to take on jewel toned hues. Marking off days on the calendar dedicated to simply staring at the blue October sky.

Summer, stay.
Wind chimes, lavender, roses and chlorine. Crickets, cicadas, wind in the full green leaves. Swimming in the ocean. Salt in my hair.

Dirty feet.

Candle light nights on the porch. Suntan. Cut flowers and vegetables from the garden.

Summer Dreams. Long and lingering. Technicolor.

Summer stay.

Looking back into the beautiful wild wilderness....

2011-08-03T12:46:00.001-04:00

For many years I thought I couldn't look back. That I'd be frozen into salt like Lot's wife. And anyway, I had to trudge ahead for survival's sake.

Looking back was first a luxury, then a fear, then a rule not to be broken. I wonder if that's how most things get outlawed? First it's JUST TOO YUMMY. Then you become afraid of tasting it again, and then... you outlaw it altogether to obscure any temptation you might have.

Last year, I did a terrible thing.

I broke the law and looked back. It was a dizzying, death defying act. I couldn't adjust my eyes, at first... but then? Looking through the prism of what was I discovered something extraordinary.

If you don't float around in the waters of what was, you can't figure out what is.

I just got back from a weeklong stay in the past. I snuggled into its warmth. Dove into its ocean. Drank wine from its jam jars. Smoked from its pack of Winston Lights.

I gazed at myself through mirrors that watched me grow up all those summers long ago, and they sighed with happiness to see me older, now. Able to look back, now. Those mirrors. How lovely. They softened my wrinkles and deepened my smile.

In the soft hours of yesterday there was joy mixed all up inside the pain.

Find the joy.

OH! But there is a punishment for breaking the law. You also have to open some old wounds. But you know what? I have a really high pain tolerance. How about you?

XO S

Craft me a moon out of seaglass

2011-07-22T14:04:00.002-04:00

Craft me a moon out of seaglass
teardrop, not round
and hold it cupped in your hands
your universe palms
your too good to be true mouth
speaking oceans of love in different languages.

Cast me a spell with stones
throw them out into the night garden
make them vine through my veins
take me deep into a flower bed
love me with leisure in your arms.

And legs
and torso
and brow

Don't be timid now.
Craft me a moon made of seaglass.

Love in the Laundry

2011-07-18T10:09:00.000-04:00

Marriage is hard. I teach a course called "Marriage and the Family" and still... I can't seem to get it right. It's a never ending battle of forging ahead and giving in, at the same time as you both yearn for the people you were when you first met.

But do you? Really?

Yesterday my husband asked me if I could put his clothes in the dryer. I know this may sound odd to many women out there who are entirely responsible for their husband's laundry.... But I'm not usually allowed to touch his. I do mine (eventually) and the girls (poorly) and the sheets (from time to time). He does the towels and his clothes and the sheets (way more frequently than I'd think of it.).

I'm no good at laundry. I can't wash right or fold right or even get the clothes from the baskets back onto the shelves. It's an almost impossible task.

He likes his things a certain way, so I don't mess with it.

Back to yesterday: He needed to go to work and ran out of time, so he asked me to finish his chore.
"No problem," I said.

Then I forgot.

Then I remembered. I ran down the basement steps and threw open the washer. I grabbed an armful of his wet clothes out of the washer and bounded over to the dryer. (It's on the other side of the basement, don't ask..)

Halfway across the basement I stopped. His clothes smelled so clean. How does he do that? All mine smell musty when I forget them in the washer. I hugged the clothes. Man clothes. His pants and t shirts and boxers. I held them until my own shirt was wet. God, I love him. I love who he is now much more than who he was when we were younger.

I love how I know his ways. Bad or good.

I love how clean and perfect he is.

I love how much he cares about the yard and the house and the plants.

I love his damned clean laundry.

Sometimes, it's the craziest things that bring us right back where we are supposed to be.

XO
S

When you were still mine

2011-07-13T21:20:00.002-04:00

A long time ago (a second, a moment, a breath ago) you were soft and small with golden curls. And you demanded to sleep with me even though you had your own room. We were poor, but I'd made a sweet room for you. I put fancy Laura Ashley bedding on layaway for months before we moved into our new (ancient) apartment. And even though I was able to create the room I'd always dreamed about (for you, saw it in a magazine), it didn't sooth you.

You wanted me.

My room was a mixed up mess of Indian bedspreads and novelty lights strung against a mantel. My bed was on the floor and there were low lamps on the floor too. Stacks of books lived in dusty layers on the radiators. You loved that room.

"I sleep with YOU mama!" you'd say (yell, stomp, whisper)

And I held my arms out, because I couldn't sleep without you, anyway. Stupid layaway.

But there was always one condition. I was in school so I had to read my books out loud to you. We didn't have a television then. Nothing but each other for distraction. Four pages in to "Sociology and the Law" you'd be asleep.

But you know what?

I didn't stop reading out loud. I read the whole chapter through. Safe with you in the crook of my arm, one hand stroking your forehead, the other fumbling with a clumsy textbook. All the while you're little chest rose and fell in a sleeping way that made me think of Heaven. (Heaven Stay)

I ruined it all while I fixed it. This is how the world works.

And I can't take back any of the decisions I've made, and I don't think you'd want me to, either.

So all I can give you now is this. I remember.

I remember when you were still mine. Only mine.

XO

Fear

2011-07-10T08:40:00.000-04:00

I used to be afraid of many things. When I was little there was a never ending list of things that scared me silly. I was terrified of the woman who lived in the closet under my stairs. She could only come and eat me if the lights were off and the doors were left open. I made sure, with a constancy that resembled OCD, that those two rules were NEVER broken. (Thus, she never ate me.)

Dogs made me sick with panic. My mother bought me one so I could conquer my fear, but that poodle was scared of dogs too... so we cried together every time one came near us on walks.

Spiders, snakes, bugs of any sort. Strangers, darkness, thunder. Failure, success, people in general. All these things scared me.

So what happened? My daughters will tell you that I'm not afraid of much. I dive off cliffs. I collect spiders in jars, I let all sorts of creepy crawlies skitter on me. I've walked with packs of dogs. I jump at the chance to face what I'm afraid of.

If I feel any fear, I take it as a dare and I DO IT. That's the key. Do what you are afraid of and then you push past it. It's thrilling, really. Almost addictive.

But let's have one qualifier here: People always mix up fear with instinct. I can tell the difference, can you? Fear is a rush of adrenaline that feels irrational. Instinct is when your mind, heart, and gut come together in a trifecta of total rationality and scream at you not to do something.

I always listen to my instinct. But I defy fear.

When we write and we put ourselves out into the world we have to be unafraid. If we're scared we won't survive. Overcoming fear is essential to the process of publication. Failure? Bring it on. Success? Have at me. Criticism? Take all the shots you need.

BUT there's one VERY IMPORTANT RULE: Don't mention the lady under the stairs. She still scares the bejeezus out of me.

How about you? What are you afraid of?

Mermaid Moment

2011-06-30T13:12:00.000-04:00

The other day while I was going about all the usual things... (you know, the washer and dryer and dishes and groceries and mothering and such) I suddenly had an unexplainable and seizing urge to be inside the sea.

And so I did something that was uncharacteristic of the me who is an adult. I NEVER drop anything I have to do for what I want to do.

But I did!

I went straight to the beach and dove into the sea. I swam and floated for hours.

Still life in mermaid.

XO
S

Captain Pap and his amazing adventures at sea

2011-06-18T11:29:00.000-04:00

Captain Pap

You lived
buried inside the why and the wait
and the late, late night moths stuck to porch lights
left on

And if you'd found your way
back, back
to me and to her
you'd find no hair on my head
just moths

Enough to fly me backwards
exploding out from little girl ears
and nostrils and sockets where eyes should be

Not to forget the mouth, wide open with your promises
too full of regret and rage for moths to light there
Sweet things come out instead

Your stories tattooed on my lips
choking down my throat
lotus and butterfly
mermaid and siren
Pirate and conch

Staring out at sea
You were it
and it was me.

Dear Tess

2011-06-13T23:25:00.000-04:00

Lovely Tess,

I never had a sister, and I won't tell you I wanted one, because I didn't. I didn't want to share my toys. I didn't want to share my mother's attention. I didn't want to barter over radio stations or squish three deep in a shower. No. Who would want that? Not me.

Only... if someone told me that my sister could have been YOU? Well, then I'd have to change my mind. Sometimes you get yelled at because we want you to be "Nicer, Sweeter, More Patient, blah blah..." and of course, there is always room for improvement.

But today, when I heard you quietly demanding something of you baby sister (Gracie who is five) and both of you were crying, but it wasn't a sound meant for me. And then I found you holding onto one another and your eyes found mine... and the two of you looked at each other and she reached for you again. And I saw the plastic bag on the ground and knew what happened. But you told me anyway, you darling thing.

"Mommy, tell her never, ever put a bag on her head," you whispered, still holding her.

"Never ever EVER put a bag on your head, sweet Grace," I said. And then "How lucky you are to have a sister who wants to keep you safe."

I suppose, if I'd had a choice. I would have wanted a sister. But only if I could have chosen you.

XO

Mommy

PS: She's not crazy. It's genetic. I too put a plastic bag on my head when I was her age. Ah... she's got a lot of me in her, that Grace. Now see? You have to be EXTRA patient. She probably thought a hobbit lived in there.....

Heaven Stay

2011-06-09T22:28:00.001-04:00

I used to be afraid to die. When I was a teenager and even through my early twenties I lived with a constant anxiety about the existence or not of an afterlife. My mind sort of, cracked, at the idea of an endless sleep. And even my semi religious upbringing couldn't answer (well enough) the timeless questions of the cosmos.

And then somewhere along the road of life I learned something so very, very important. Heaven is all around us. Okay... give me a second to explain.

Part of my problem with the whole idea of death is this crazy concept of eternity. I mean, what can you do for an eternity? It seemed like a prison. It used to make me claustrophobic and sweaty.

Until I experienced moments that I knew I could exist inside forever. Really. Moments of perfect heaven. Places where I could stay and never leave and always be happy.

Laying on the couch with my mother when I was a little girl watching black and white movies on PBS. Candlelight flickering, cigarette smoke in the air. My mother's Chanel #5. I could stay there, heaven. You can put me there.

Holding my third baby. Grace. When everyone was gone and it was just us. Holding her sweet, tiny body against mine. She was all swaddled and pink and round. I was comfortable and pretty. Her breathing made my heart beat. I could stay there, heaven. You can put me there.

Sitting on my father's back porch in Florida. Drinking strong coffee and talking about nothing. Just being there and being wanted. Our feet up, relaxed... nothing but time in front of us. I could stay there, heaven. You can put me there.

And so I'm not afraid of that anymore... that thing that ends life. Too many people live with fear. It stops them from living. I've learned not to be afraid. Press on.

Onward.

Oh, and before I get a slew of comments worried that I have some terrible disease. I DO NOT. I am REALLY HEALTHY! Just thinking about fear. That's all.

Perfect is already here

2011-06-05T17:21:00.000-04:00

Somewhere during the chaos of a new baby and a renovation, my sweet husband lost his mind. And I know him well enough to know why.

Our finances were low. Our future? Not secure. The house was over budget, The new baby would not. stop. crying.

And did I mention we were living with my godfather? The man of curious curios (all breakable)and fine art, and a guest bedroom that also houses a baby grand piano. (My middle girl, Tess, has the distinguished privilege of being able to say she slept under a baby grand for three months of her life.) Stress times four.

Only I wasn't stressed. I remember that time and a warm kind of tingle spreads across my body. The coffee was hot. My laundry was done and folded. I watched my children set against lovely gardens and amazing baubles. They shone like stained glass. My babies bathed in a tub, red ceramic, from Italy with a german faucet. Fancy doesn't do it justice.

And the house? OUR house? It was being bettered. Fixed up. Fancied too. I went there all the time and marveled at the beams and paint and new kitchen backsplash.

My baby cried. But I nursed her. And her crying helped the other two adjust. I can't explain it. I think it was because she was flawed and that somehow made her newness not so threatening. Whatever it was, it was a golden time.

I'm not afraid when we don't have money. I'm not afraid when we don't have OUR stuff around us. Nothing scares me but being without my family.

I'd live with my husband if we had to live in a van. As long as we parked it in a meadow. And as long as he wasn't yelling at me.

It doesn't take much for me to feel like things are perfect. In reality, perfect's already been here and then gone.

XO

S

The memory of a lost princess

2011-05-30T10:55:00.000-04:00

When my oldest daughter was seven years old we moved into our home. She'd lived in four places already. That's a lot of moving for someone so small.

Seven was a big year for her. I got married, we moved, she switched schools. I can recall the weight of all that change on my shoulders. There's only so much a little girl can take until she breaks right in half. (And the stuff of princesses is not pretty. It comes out like snakes and dragons, not the fluff that comes out when you break a prince.)

But she didn't break. She soared.

The night before our big move I had one thing only on my mind. Her bedroom. I'd chosen the prettiest one for her. The one with the trees tapping on the windows. But it was also the room that wasn't quite finished. Only primed in pasty white primer.

I went to a paint store and picked out a soft, soft pink. And then a bunch of colorful enamels and a few of those sponge stencils. You know, the ones that don't LOOK like stencils. I stayed up for the whole night painting and then carefully applying colorful, eclectic flowers in a random array on her walls. My fiance was annoyed, I'd left him to pack up the rest of our things himself... but I didn't care. The only thing on my mind was that my Princess needed a room that spoke to her greatness. That she would find it a safe haven for many, many years. That it would usher her into an adulthood free of the worries I'd had as a child.

My friend Maryfrances came to help and we took a quick walk in the deep dark night, down to the sea where we discussed princesses and kings, and kingdom finances. (It's stressful to be a Queen these days.)

With the morning light I could see the room was ready. And like most things that are good... I felt her happiness in my bones before I saw her eyes light up. And I live for that still... her eyes shining. No eyes shine brighter in my world.

When she was thirteen she asked if she could paint her room. I said: "Yes, but don't forget that the room won't be the same. It isn't like you can visit it again." She changed her mind.

My beauty is seventeen now. My other daughters are still little. But Rose? Rose is grown. And there are so many times that I fear I've lost her, my princess.

But then I walk into her room. She's never changed it. It still bears the paint and flowers. It still makes her feel safe. I see her there, all the incarnations of her. Lost inside the flowers and the pink. Peeking out at me.

May you have pink rooms wherever you go, my love. And if you ever feel like you need an errant flower, remember that you are one.

XO S

Afternoons With Oprah

2011-05-25T10:00:00.017-04:00

Today is Lady O's last day. She's on to bigger and better things, and though I don't know her, I'm happy for her.

Because that's what's made Oprah famous. We (most of us on the planet) feel as if we know her. And in turn, that she knows us. When she looks into that television camera she peeks right into our homes, into our eyes. Right into believing we are special to her. She's been doing it for twenty five years. That's a long time.

Long enough for me to remember what the afternoons were like when I was a teenager and she arrived in my living room.

I didn't like high school. (The irony that I'm a high school teacher is NOT lost on me.)I was popular, but the thing people don't understand about those mean girls is that it's HARD WORK! And I wanted out almost as soon as I got in.

My mom didn't really mind it when I told her I didn't want to go to school. She took frequent breaks from life, so it seemed the norm. I was aided in my quest for absences.

The mornings that I chose to skip school were easy. I slept. But by the time 4pm rolled around (on the east coast) I was already regretting my decision to stay home. There was a lazy sort of quiet in those lonesome afternoons. No one was calling me. My mother was at her shop. The pretty house was still and choreless.

So I'd turn on the TV and try to "tune out" the rest of the world. And there she was. With her big eyes and shining smile. Her determined face and her screaming audience. I got lost in those Lady O shows of the late 1980's. Less about celebrity and more about "real person" issues. And that's what I needed. I learned from them. I wasn't attending high school. I was at Lady O school. Some of the things on her curriculum follow:

HOW TO LOSE WEIGHT: Stories of sucess. These were great for me because I was on the verge of an eating disorder, well--even now.

I WAS AN ABUSED WIFE: Stories of love gone bad. Thank you Lady O. I had my own foul boy and even though I fell into the madness I knew the symptoms. Education is half the battle.

STRANGER DANGER: Stories of child abduction. My children are far safer because of you.

And there were many more. Those are the ones I think about daily. Really. Every day.

I have to admit, even though I enjoyed the shows. Even though I learned SO MUCH... I ache when I think of those afternoons. Because in reality she didn't know me. And she wasn't talking to me. I was alone.

Desperate for attention and sad. Filled up with loss and shame and regret already at 17. An hour of Oprah gave me some time to forget that too soon it would be the dinner hour and I'd be by myself. Too soon I'd be back in bed trying to figure out a way to make the rest of the next day bearable. I'd remember that I couldn't play the guitar properly and that the boy I loved didn't love me back. I'd remember that I was mean to someone I liked or that I failed a test even though I knew all the answers. I'd remember that I'd never be a virgin again.

An hour isn't long enough to help a sweet, sick teen get out of the thick mud of her life. But an hour is better than nothing. So thank you, and goodbye Lady O. I'd kiss you if I knew you.

Okay! So now I want to invite you to comment and leave your own bits of nostalgia here about that hour she gave us every day!

AND THEN be sure to visit my new and amazing blogging friend for another walk down Oprah memory lane. The best kind of tribute to our divine Lady O. I introduce Jana: at An Attitude Adjustment. I know you'll love her! Sometimes you find a blog and you fall in love, you know? :)

XO
S

I can't WAIT to hear your stories!