The Organic Sister » memories

An Inner Memorial

TheOrganicSister — Thu, 28 Jan 2010 04:43:04 +0000

our prayers, originally uploaded by fubuki.

Life…and death…have sent me a reminder.

I sat at my kitchen counter as I waited for my macaroni casserole to finish in the oven, determined to finish The Omnivore’s Dilemma which was due back today. Justin came in, wrapping his arms around me in silence. I finished my paragraph, and asked if something was wrong as I looked up.

Something was wrong. My husband had tears streaming down his face. He told me he just got off the phone. A friend of his had shot and killed himself yesterday, leaving behind a wife he had recently separated from and his two small children.

I held my husband while he tried to wrap his mind around the pain this man must have been so deeply absorbed in. And as I tried to send my love to both my grieving husband and this man’s family, I silently admonished myself: My husband had come to me in quiet tears and I had to finish my paragraph before even looking up.

You think you know a lesson. It’s been impressed upon you countless times. And yet, in the every day minutes of life it is so easily lost.

It takes only a moment for our worlds to change. It takes a mere second for a trigger to be pulled and every wrong-spoken word up to that point to seem inconsequential, meaningless or unnecessary. It takes one fateful phone call to remind us that the true meaning of life lies within the actions of a single breath.

I don’t pretend to know what the experience was imparting on the father and husband in my arms, not to mention the grieve of the closest loved ones left behind. But the only thing Justin could utter was the humor and fun this man had brought to his life. He had made work worth going to on the days when no one wanted to get out of bed. His laughter left a legacy.

Earlier this morning, I had read a comment addressed to me about Zeb’s education or potential lack there of. And the words came swimming back to me as a reminder as I pressed my forehead to my husband’s and wiped away his tears. How can we wrap ourselves up in the things that will not matter in the end? Surely we can find a way to grow and learn and experience in this life without forgetting why it is we want to live in the first place? We chase those dreams for the hope of finding what we already have within our immediate reach – joy and happiness and peace.

We, our family, lives for love. We want to live in a way to never again hear about a person’s death and become overcome with regret over the last words uttered or the memories never made. (Please Gd, let it not be forgotten again.)

Let me repeat myself, if for no one else but myself: At the end of our lives, when the phone calls are being made from one person to the next, nothing else will matter but the memories that come swarming back into the hearts of the people we called friends, were lucky enough to call family.

Life…and death…have sent me a reminder. Gentler this time, but just as powerful. And I’m feeling impressed upon to pass it along to you.

In memory of Justin’s friend, Dave and his wife and most especially his babies: Put away your deadline or your goal. Set aside your pride or your impatience. Put down your book…and walk up to someone in your life right now with nothing more than unconditional love. Hold them. Tell them what they mean to you.

Give them something pure to remember you by.

Nothing else matters.

Oh Brother

TheOrganicSister — Mon, 10 Sep 2007 23:41:00 +0000

After checking emails and checking groups, checking blogger and checking forums, my mind sought a relief from the devil’s playground and I turned my idleness around to face her. Just two days after acquirement, she has already become a common fixture in the spare room. Sitting untouched and partially disassembled; the ominous presence of this twenty dollar lady all but hidden. There she was, as if asleep, among grocery ads and empty water glasses.

Deep breath. I can do this.

With inflated lungs and apprehension, I placed myself upon the beaten wicker chair in front of the extra desk and stared at this little monster. I cleared the space of its accumulated clutter and pulled her close, inspecting: knobs I had no names for, numbers and squiggly lines who’s meanings I can only presume. I twisted circular handles and flipped switches, absorbing, savoring the moment.

I sat thinking of what her purpose would be; what magnificent things would she help to create. I laid my head beside her and stared sideways at the needle, imagining it steadily jabbing with my digits nearby.

And as I inhaled with my head on the desk, time flitted away and I was my mother’s child again. An aroma of warm metal and fuzzy particles of thread; of industrial comfort and nostalgic craftiness. Of my mother holding a torn seam, flipping on a switch and whirring away as I watched in mild fascination. It was the scent of all being good and nothing being able to hurt, with the exception of that fearful needle.

I sat up, feeling a sense of placement, as if I was slipping on my mothers shoes and knew it was about time. I pulled the peddle from the plastic bag and searched for the plug-in. I flicked the On/Off switch to On and smiled as its small hidden bulb lit, suddenly recalling that forgotten but still familiar glow.

I paced across the house to find an old t-shirt wadded in the bottom of the plastic bin of rags and flattening it out to practice straight seams, I wondered how Z had ever fit into such a size.

I remembered my mom adjusting the fabric then flipping something before starting. Reaching underneath, I found the lever I memorized in my mother’s movements and secured the worn fabric.

Here goes nothing; line it up, press the peddle and watch your damn fingers.

And away she whirred; that old familiar sound, the comforting buzz that lulled me as I lay on the rickety trundle in what was the spare room. Propped on laced pillows, my cheek against the cold white rail of the bed; I remember now.

I’ve only attempted to learn one other time. Somewhere in my preteen years, I sat in front of my moms machine as she attempted to guide me through it. I managed approximately 2 minutes, before deciding I’d be content just taking my mending to her.

Now here I am, sitting under a sunny window as my mom had, fiddling with adjustments and sewing and resewing lines across the old shirt, trying to understand the differences between settings and getting nowhere fast.

I felt a connection to history as if suddenly I was every women before me, in generations past. It felt comfortable and steady, as if I were right where I should be.

Leaning back, slowly pulling my uneven stitches out, I tallied a list of needed supplies: scissors, fabric, patterns, thread…and more things I don’t have a name or known use for; words I remember but can’t place, like bobbins or spools and what about a thimble? Would I need a thimble?

I’m anticipating the opportunity to pick the brains of the experienced, anticipating something comfortable with a drawstring…anticipating band-aids.

I wonder if Z will share the same memories I share with my mom, or if some day I’ll be able to teach him.

I wonder if they now carry patterns not reminiscent of a school teacher…or my mother’s wardrobe.

A Boy and His Birthday

TheOrganicSister — Wed, 15 Aug 2007 00:14:00 +0000

Today, at exactly 8:10am, my little boy turned eight years old. At one time the perverbial Big Boy title was sufficient and proudly worn. But now it is an adament Big Kid status he demands.

He is a big kid. In ever-growing confidence, he is climbing rung by rung up a ladder of determination and showing himself unscathed and ever-ready for more.

Inch by inch his intrepidity has shown itself in brighter colors, more daring, more boisterous than the day before. He’s setting himself apart as a leader instead of a follower and is voicing himself with an audaciousness unmatched. With emotional growth and a careful ponderance, he’s clutching his fingers around life with inquistiveness quietly stirring within.

To think, these qualities were once thought bothersome or something to be tamed, even squelched. But when peered at in reverse, as if he were a man still maintaining such characteristics and remembering them in him as a child, still green, still growing…well, the perspective comes into light a bit clearer now doesn’t it?

He may be the person who cures cancer, fights injustice or simply helps a friend in a time of need. He may write a symphony or write a book. He may be the man others look to for help or for impassioned encouragement. But whatever he is, he will most definitely be himself. Untethered by fruitless obligations or conformity, he will seek out what has been put inside of him and be the person he was born to be. Perfectly, beautifully real. But for now, he’ll just be my 8 year old.

Mom and Dad: “Good morning, 8 year old. Happy birthday.”

Z in a sleepy haze: “Mom, Dad, It’s not my birthday…”

Upon reminding him of the purchase of a new DS game, he quickly realized it was in fact his birthday. Up, dressed, to the store and home again, he has been sprawled across the carpeted floor for nearly 6 hours, absorbed in the marvel of such freedom of choice. Our boy is certainly his own.

In my opinion,

TheOrganicSister — Sun, 05 Aug 2007 03:22:00 +0000

organic junk food is still junk food. It just doesn’t taste as guiltily satisfying…Z at the new “healthy” fast food joint, evos:

I was thinking today about something that happened shortly after Z turned 7 years old. It was around lunchtime and Z and I were tired, cranky and hungry. I wanted to wait until I got home to eat but Z needed something sooner and asked for the Evil Golden Arches. In a moment of weakness, I grudgingly said “Okay”. When he realized we were going through the drive-thru, I explained we needed to get home and didn’t have time to go in and play. He was not happy about this and proceeded to “let me know”. I told him if he continued acting in such a manner, we would just go home. Well, he proceeded so I left. He was furious and stated, “Every since I turned 7, I get NO respect!”

At the time it was nothing more but a funny Z-ism, but I realize now it was a boy growing up; wanting to feel as if his opinion mattered as much as those around him. Honestly, at that time it didn’t and he obviously felt it. In that moment all he saw was that I had gone back on my word. I had put my control over his life in front of his own self-control. I realize now how I could have managed the situation better, talking with him about our options before expecting him to accept them blindly and gratefully; perhaps making sure we eat before we get cranky and short with each other!

But at that time in my life, it was about MY needs and MY control and Z needing to bend to me instead of modeling compromise and generosity myself. It’s no wonder he felt little respect when I thought “respect was to be earned”.

“Respect must be earned.” Kind of a double standard, huh? An authoritative figure expects respect without question but then expects others to “earn” it from them. But if children live what they learn, what is an authoritative parent teaching when they don’t give respect and consideration freely?

I’ve stopped telling Z to say “please” or “thank you” but I make sure to say it plenty – to him and to others. I no longer expect Z to act a certain way to fit inside my parameters of respect, but I model respect every chance I get. And it’s true, children do live what they learn. Our relationship today is living proof.