Never in my life have I been more grateful to see a year come to a close. Generally, I face the end of each year with gratitude and a little bit of wistfulness and although there is gratitude this yearend, the gratitude comes from a much different angle than it generally does. This year the gratitude stems from the fact that 2009 is over because this year developed into one of the biggest years of painful lessons and growth and ended up being nothing that I could have ever imagined.
In numerology, the number "9" represents completion and I do believe that this year fully lived up to the definition of completion. Things in my life completed in ways that I wouldn't have believed if I hadn't actually experienced it and, as I look back on what has been, I praise all that is holy that I made it through this year ALIVE.
As the year draws to a close, one thing has become very clear to me, clearer than it has ever been before: Family is of the utmost importance. Family isn't only the people with whom you share DNA or the people with whom you were raised. Family is more than that. Family is the people with whom you come to life and it may not even be the people with whom you share blood. It could be the people with whom you choose to surround yourself.
While I was in massage school, one of my instructors referred to the importance of touch based on the results of some studies of London orphanages in the early 1900's. Although each child's every physical need was met, the mortality rate was astronomical. Specific controlled studies showed that when a number of infants were placed in a group that was assigned care-givers who were allowed to hold, touch and cuddle the babies those babies thrived and lived. The only change in those babies' worlds was the fact that they were privy to human touch, while their peers who died did not have that gift. While my research to find the actual documentation of these studies was fruitless, I have a sound belief in the power of human connection expressed in this story.
If you have ever been sad and have had someone say nothing, but simply offer to hold you or give you "a shoulder to cry on" then I imagine you have understood - if only for that moment - the power of another human's presence in your life. Human beings are generally designed to congregate. Way back to the "cave man days" we learned that there is perceived safety in numbers and, if we work well together, we can accomplish a lot more than if we were to work alone. Additionally, it's a lot more fun to do a project together.
The yearend holiday season tends to be filled with get-togethers, parties and reunions. While this year for me has been dramatically different than any other year in my history, I am grateful these 12 months have provided many opportunities to be with my family - biological and chosen. I've had plenty of chances to get really clear about how much people mean to me, what they mean to my life and, sadly, what it means when they are gone. I've had chances to get clear about with whom I want to continue to grow my relationships and, with others, that it is time to say a definitive goodbye.
So, as this year draws to an end, I'm counting myself greatly blessed and recognizing the power of human connection. I'm relishing in the feeling of coming to life around my biological family - people who know me and hold my history in their memories - and that feeling of joy in being around them. I'm also cherishing the few loved ones with whom I do not share DNA that have brought such meaning to my life and who are being witness to my unfolding.
In closing, I invite you to take a moment to ponder your life and focus on the individuals who bring richness to your world. Then, take the time to let them know they've made a difference.
© Angie K. Millgate 12/28/09
How many years must go by before I stop remembering? Before I stop looking at the calendar and remembering the events? Before I stop marking time from March 31st until April 3rd? How many years must go by before I forget her sitting there all proper and tidily coifed and polished? Before I forget the baby blue and powder pink? Before I forget the sound of her tick-tick heart and the feel of her small hands on mine? How many years will I silently weep on this date and remember that it was this time "so many years ago" that I got the call? I'm a grown woman and, yet, I feel like a small child during this week and I miss my Grandma so. I miss the sound of her voice singing along with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir that blasted forth from the stereo or the television. I miss the mischievous and progressively less proper things she would do and say as she got older. I miss the way she would let me lay my head on her lap while we relaxed on the slippery brown leather couch. I miss the smell of coffee and bacon, sugar cookie dough and minestrone soup and her famous tomatoe-garlic-cucumber salad. I miss the sound of the birds in her trees, the vision of pink chiffon curtains floating on the morning breeze and the menagerie of knick knacks on every possible horizontal space. I miss my Grandma...
 I couldn't believe it when my eyes suddenly popped open wide and fully awake this morning and I glanced at the clock to discover that it was only 3:15 am. My creative life is so active now that it is as though I only get naps in. There seems to be so much to do and so much to create. I feel happy about that. My brother and his wife are amazing. They completed the process last summer to becoming foster parents and our family has already had the priviledge and the heartache of welcoming a little one in and witnessing the transition of the little one back to his mother. I watch these two and marvel at the capacity of their hearts. I feel blessed to be close to a process that has been both joyful and heart-rending. They called me early last Thursday to let me know that they were chosen to be foster parents again. Tomorrow, their new son arrives... a 3-week old baby entrusted to their care. The most incredible thing about this is that these two people are two of the greatest parents any child could have. I love that they chose into this process because every child that gets the opportunity to live with them will be forever blessed. (I'm realizing that I have a couple of unrelated items that I want to jot down so excuse the bumpiness of this post...) I wrote a letter last week. Actually, I wrote it on Friday. A day when I was ebulant and overflowing... it read: I am an artist that works in common, every day mediums. About five yearsago, I discovered your Pilot G2-07 pens and COMPLETELY fell in love withthem. They are my all time favorite writing utensils. I find myselffascinated with experiencing how the ink flows out of the pen as I useit. Your pens are an integral part in my artwork - each piece using theink in at least one entire pen! And, the most exciting news is that myartwork, created with YOUR pens is on display now in my first artshowing as a professional artist. My gallery opening is tomorrow nightand people from all over Salt Lake City, Utah and beyond will gaze atthe 20 pieces I have created. Thank you for creating such a qualityproduct! If you are curious about what sort of art your pens create, youcan visit my website here: http://www.momentsofawakening.com/Site/ArtworkDisplays.html For 4 years now, I have been saying that I wanted to write Pilot, but never have. I took the time to write them that day and received this email back: Hi Angie, Thank you for your email message regarding the G2-7 Gel Ink pens. We really appreciate your comments as they help us continue to provide quality writing instruments. We would be pleased to send a complimentary sample to show our appreciation for your business. Your artwork is beautiful and we areglad that we could be apart of it. We wish you much success in your endeavors. Thank you for your continuing loyalty to our products. Best regards, Melissa Hugger Consumer Advisor
WOW! A complimentary sample? Wooohoooo! Bring it on!
It has been a magical day. One full of love and beautiful people. The Reiki Party today was attended, in full, by a family. Seven members of the same family - male and female - here to support one another in their awakenings and I got to be a part of that. I am grateful to see the life I want actually unfolding before me. I am grateful to be living my life and feeling love. I am grateful for the moments I feel the intense sadness and anger from the past. I am grateful because I understand that it is showing up because NOW I am strong enough to hold space for it to move through. It means I am here, I am alive and I am becoming. This party today was such a blessed event. What an honor it was to place my hands on each of these people who walked into my space, trusting that I would be gentle with them. I felt such love and humility. And so much magic as these amazing people moved through my space. I love that this family chose to honor themselves and one another by taking a Saturday morning to spend together in this way. I wonder what the world would be like if more families did this. I wonder... How can I do this with more families?
  HE IS HOME!!!!!
HE'S HOME! HE'S SAFE!
I love you, Cousin! Thank you for being such an honorable man!
He served honorably in the 116th Convoy Security Company and has opted to make the military his career. He is almost halfway to retirement! Here are some of the articles about his troop... Jeff Fisher made it home. He is safe. All holiness be praised!
Tonight, when I arrived home, dad and his wife were in the kitchen. The house smelled delumptious and I was grateful for that because I was ravenous to the point that all I could think was, "I'm hungry. I'm hungry. I'm hungry." Dad kindly and lovingly said, "I'd like to talk to you about your..." His wife finished, "Blog post." I suspected they were referring to Marching Morons but held my tongue and waited. "The one about your cousin's daughter's blessing," dad offered. Ugh. It was the Marching Morons post. Damn.He smiled and paused. I imagine there was some sort of internal battle going on for him, considering that post did not put his religion in a very good light. And the person who wrote it was his very own daughter. I imagine there was some sadness and maybe even anger in there. If the roles were reversed, how would I handle it? Would I even address it? "Where you called ceremonies rituals." Definitely Marching Morons. Crap.I nodded. "I'd like to answer some questions you had and clear up some falsehoods. " Ugh. Not sure I want to be in this conversation. Breathe, Angie. Just breathe."I didn't really have any questions, Dad." "Well," pause, "Okay. About the circle. The father is able to be inside, in the center of the circle holding the child if he wants. He just isn't able to form the circle with the Elders." "Well, he was told he wasn't allowed to be a part of the blessing process." "He should have been able to." "Well, he wasn't." That topic finalized, we moved on to the next... "The Elders put their hands under the baby and bounce the baby to comfort the child, not because it is protocol. Also, the reason the Elders put their hands on one another's shoulders is to form an eternal circle of Priesthood power." "I figured as much. And that makes sense. I know the significance of circles and the symbology of eternity in them. I know about the strength of linking up to form a continuous circle of power. I have done it in some of the healing groups I have participated in." Next... "You had mentioned that you thought the religion was a cult." Shit. Not exactly that, but I can see how he thought that it said that."Actually, what I said, Dad, was that it was now easy to see why someone who does not understand the religion could see it as a cult. Especially anyone who has had any experience with witchcraft and occult rituals, all of which circle up in much the same manner. I didn't say it was a cult. I said it was easy to understand how others could view it as such now." The conversation in the kitchen was fairly level headed. Dad looked me right in the eye and we talked adult to adult. His wife, though, kept silent and seemed to vibrate in her corner. I don't think she was happy. But she didn't say. She mentioned that she didn't feel good, so perhaps that was the reason for her silence. I don't know. It felt like more than that. At the end of the conversation, Dad said, "And you said some other stuff at the end, which I am not going to address and just let you think about it." My daughter chimed in, "Momma, what did you write?" Knowing what the end of the article says, I felt trapped. It wasn't something I wanted to verbalize in front of them because it felt disrespectful of their beliefs. Yet, I have always told my daughter she would get the absolute truth from me, no matter what she asks. Cornered and a bit angry, I said to my daughter with a gentle smile to reassure her that it wasn't her I was angry with, "I will gladly talk with you about it. However, out of respect for your grandparents, I will not talk about it in their presence." She nodded and let it go. Now, three hours later, I sit here writing this and wondering... my family is getting ruffled by my words so do I begin to censor what I write here? This is my processing place. I have a commitment to my truths and the expression of them. I feel sad that I have bothered them and my brother (evidence of that in the comments of Left Out) with stuff I have written. Then I sit back and I look at the computer screen. This is my blog, which I have deemed to be my journal. I write out my heart, my dreams, my hopes, my fears, my anger, my love and whatever else hits my fancy. Whether right, wrong, good, bad or indifferent, it is what it is. And, I just decided... it is what it is and as it is, it is! And that is how it will remain.
Apparently my sister and her husband were in town from Idaho Falls last night before they flew out to Hawaii this morning. I know this because my father called to talk to my brother just now and brother told him he had gone to dinner with sister and her husband last night. I wasn't invited. This is a common occurence. What I don't understand is why I am still bothered by this, after all these years. But, I am.
So I posted a blog a few weeks ago entitled, "Family Weirdness." Since then, there have been tidbits that have materialized that explains it even further... Epilogue
Tonight my siblings and I will fill and seal the Time Capsule box for 2007. In 2002, we started this tradition, putting in things that we cherish and writing a list of burdens we wish to rid ourselves of and a list of things we want to accomplish in the next five years. At Thanksgiving this year, we opened the box and perused the contents. It was a tearfully fun experience filled with laughter and a few sighs of "wow... that's what I wanted to complete? Yeah... I so totally missed the mark." Because the opening of the box was such an incredible experience, we have decided to repeat the tradition with a new twist: every year, from here on out, we will create a Time Capsule to be opened in five years. That way, eventually, we will be able to repeat this eye-opening experience every year. I am amazed at the pressure I feel to "get this right" this year. Since I have had the experience of opening the box, I now feel as though what I put in the box this year needs to be important, substantial, understandable and well... doable! I am aware that, since Thanksgiving, my 2007 Time Capsule contents have floated in and out of my mind, usually accompanied with the thought, "I can do that later." Well... it's later. I have no more time left. Tonight is the night. I am aware that I am longing to write something about having a significant other in my life, a lover, a partner, a companion... someone who wants to be with me. I am aware that I want that with more and more of my heart every day and feel so scared to write that because I will be devastated in five years if I open up my packet only to discover that I had fallen sadly short of the mark. I am aware that I am giving into my fears. Therefore, I have opted to include a copy of A Life Without Fear. I am allowing them to decide what I do and do not put in there. Silly, really. It's only a box. Or is it?
I learned something about my father tonight that made me giggle and surprised me a bit... When my father wraps presents, he does so very methodically. He is an engineer, so I don't know why I am surprised. He measures the gift with a contractor's measuring tape. Then he uses his math skills to figure out exactly to the 1/16 of an inch the length of paper he will need to wrap his gift. Then, once he has figured out how much he will need, he measures down the length of the roll, marking the exact measurement required. Then he takes a ruler and a pencil and connects the dots, creating a straight line to cut along. This much of the process, apparently, takes about ten minutes.  Proof of this above process in this picture: LOL! So, now he is folding it precisely, to crease it appropriately so that it makes crisp, clean corners. Who knew he was so anal about the wrapping of gifts?!?! My father and his wife are now discussing the pros and cons of wrapping vertically versus horizontally. Scandal! My father's way is not the best way???  I don't know... I think the gift looks pretty damn sharp! And not one ounce of paper wasted on this first go around. Of course, it has taken him sixteen minutes to get this far and he has a total of four to wrap. It's gonna be a late night for him!!!
 Our family was started at a little local restaurant unlike any I have ever visited anywhere else. It is a proper place which serves a five-course meal of English fare. My father took my mother there on one of their earliest dates - a fancy affair of expensive food and ballroom dancing. They were dressed to the nines and she felt like a princess. She was impressed.
This little restaurant, The Five Alls, became a part of our family tradition, a legacy that carried on through their marriage - all "important" events being celebrated there - and on into the lives of their children as we have grown. Upon their divorce, my mother became sickened at the idea of attending this place that had become a part of her life. It was as if dad got custody of the restaurant and mom was choosing to give up her visitation rights.
For a long time, she would not even consider dining there. We tried to drag her there but every time we even mentioned it, she resolutely put her foot down saying, "Absolutely not. I will not go. Too many memories there and it makes me sad." So we left it at that. Five years later, without telling her where we were going, we made reservations and picked her up for her birthday. She was hesitant as we walked up the cobbled sidewalk toward the door, a visible sheen of perspiration standing out on her forehead. Once we were inside, though, the warmth and aroma ensconced her and she eased into her own experience of the place for the first time in her life. The years have brought us to this door many a time for birthdays and wedding parties and for those times that we have just wanted to enjoy an excellent meal. Tonight we will celebrate Mom's birthday there and this time, I'm sure, she will dance her way up the sidewalk.
Things I experienced this weekend... - Snowflakes as big as silver dollars and just as heavy. - Thick sheets of snow sliding off the roof and falling in a heavy wall of white over and over and over, creating a slide show effect of light and dark. - A ten-month-old’s delight in witnessing his first snow storm, the wonder as he turned his face to the sky and thrilled to the feel of the icy flakes kissing his cheeks and gathering on his eyelashes. - Driving northward and peering east and west across the valley, across endless open fields, being unable to see either mountain range which frame the Salt Lake valley and hearing my daughter pipe up from the back seat, “Toto, it appears we aren’t in Utah anymore.” - The feel of my daughter’s warm hand in mine as she leaned her head on my shoulder drowsily then looked up at me with sky blue eyes and sighed, “I love you, Momma.” - A snowman built in someone’s front yard all tipsy and skeewompas, leaning backward as if it were going to fall over, with his hat askew. At his feet was an empty case of beer and empty beer cans strewn about the yard. - A twelve-inch snowman frozen solid atop a taxi. - Laughing so hard I almost peed over family jokes that no one gets but us. - A seven-month-old baby fighting to figure out crawling, her frustration and anger when no one would pick her up and her determination to figure it out, although she continually landed on her face. - Feelings of responsibility for my mother and my aunt... I don’t want either of them sitting alone at home, feeling lonely. - A warm hug that was long enough I actually wondered when it would end and then wondered at myself for wanting to flee from the experience too soon. - A zit on my chin so big it felt like I was growing a goiter. - A silly text message that said: >8< >8< >8< These are money bees. Pass this on to eight people and you will receive hidden money in four days. I’m not kidding. And I actually read it and rolled my eyes before I hit delete. - Feeling so tired that I was certain I would be asleep before my head hit the pillow and then discovering, two hours later, that that was not the case. - The movie The Ultimate Gift for the fourth time and found myself crying, yet again. - A dream of yearning for the one whom I yearn for way too often and waking with tears standing in my eyes. - Gratitude for life, family, my daughter and love. I am a blessed woman.
It's official. My family is, without a doubt, incredibly weird. There are so many idiosyncrasies and bizarre personality traits in my extended family and they were all out in full force, full color and live today at the Millgate Family Christmas Party. It was meant to be fun, my cousin - who is exactly, to almost the minute, ten years younger than me - planned it to be like the "fun" Christmases she - and many of the other older grandchildren, including myself - remember from our youth. It was to be a Christmas Brunch - waffles, bacon, sausage, juice, milk, etc - and we were doing it all from scratch. Until we blew out every single outlet in the kitchen of the rec center we were in. Then we had to drag tables all over the gym to find separate outlets for the griddles and waffle irons until we had enough food - two hours later - that everyone got to have at least a snack. As "The Siblings" - as my father and his brothers and sisters are called - have aged, things have just gotten more weird. Arguments that have lasted decades have caused bad feelings that waft around the gatherings in this misty haze of malcontent, even though no one remembers what the original spat was about. The strong division of financial standings is practically visible - each family gathering reminiscent of scenes from West Side Story... with those from the East looking down their noses at those from the West... "Dahling... don't talk to her... she is a lower-class west sider... we do not associate with their kind." You think I'm kidding? I'm not. Predictably the group divides into small clusters of comfortableness wherein the people can be safe. Rarely do the groups intermingle. Today my cousin tried to shake things up a bit, though. We were doing a Sub-for-Santa and we had all donated money to the pot which was then divided amongst The Siblings which were also handed an envelope which contained the list of needs for the person for which they were responsible to shop. Then, my cousin, in her brilliance - and perhaps naivete - had optimistically designated The Siblings as the head of each of their teams, which were comprised of people whose names she had drawn out of a hat. She really wanted the family to spend time with one another in groups which they normally did not. It lasted all of about five minutes until, behind her back, the groups started changing. People dropped out of the shopping spree all together. Others whined until they were accepted into the team they wanted to be on - the team that had the people they "liked." Some people actually left the party and never returned. I ended up on a team with an uncle who has always given me the creeps, an Aunt who seemingly has hated me for ten years and has actually said horrible things about me and one of my male cousins whom I don't know very well but still adore. Thank god for him or I would have been miserable. My aunt insisted on taking money back with us. She was fixated on not spending all of the money we had been allotted for the five-year-old little boy for whom we were responsible to gift. She needed to return with money in hand. So, we had $70 and she would only allow us to purchase $61 of gifts. The adventure got better. When we all returned with our bounty - some of the family members truly believing that the process was a race in which they had to win - we were responsible to gift wrap the packages. Nightmare! Here was where all the OCD and Anal Retentive personalities rose to the occasion. Some teams took over an hour to wrap three boxes! Oh! My! God! Today, I slid into my detached observer mode, which I have done a lot as of late because it seems to be safe. And because I was observing, I was able to see all the bizarre behaviors. Some of which I giggled at. Others which I rolled my eyes at. And others which down right pissed me off. In times like these, when there are wars brewing all over the world and people starving and dying in the cold, I watch my family and I am appalled by their behavior. I am hoping that everyone's family is weird, but I fear that mine may just be over the top of weird. Epilogue...So... I found out some other interesting(?) tidbits that I had to post after the fact. Two of the people who left the party early were my father and his wife. They left because they had to go serve their mission down at the Church Historical Library in Salt Lake. Now, I know that The Church teaches "God first. Family second," however, if same said people are able/willing to take time off from their mission to attend the wedding of some obscure friend's (whom they haven't seen in over two years) daughter in Boise, Idaho (a five/six hour drive away) then couldn't they, for the love of all that is holy, take time off to spend with their family at the once-a-year Christmas ta-do??? We do not exchange gifts anymore as per my cousin, who is a week younger than me, who pitched a fit about seven years ago because they couldn't afford all the gifts they have to get for her family and his family and their own family and on and on and on. So the gifts have been nixed ever since. However, The Siblings still give gifts to their mother and they do it at the family Christmas party so she can open them in front of everyone. (Author's bitchy, judgmental sidenote here... they do it so everyone can see what they got her and know who did the better gifts.) This year someone gave her carry-on luggage. What the hell for? She never travels. But, nonetheless, she said she needed it and they could not think that through for themselves and got it for her. My father and his wife gave her empty boxes to unwrap to prove that they had given her gifts. She was wearing one of the gifts - her new shoes. And the other gift - a case of jam from the LDS cannery - was at home on her shelf. One of my uncles actually had the balls to ask my cousin - who had organized the entire event and collected all the money donated to the Sub for Santa cause - if he could have money back!!! Who, for hell's sake, asks for money back from a Sub for Santa donation pot?!! My mother attended with me at the behest of my organizer cousin. (Mom gave me permission to post this, so have no fear) She offered a beautiful gift of a poinsettia to her former mother-in-law. The thing was gorgeous! What Grandma didn't know was that the freezing cold weather had done weird things to the beautiful plant. It made it so fragile that, if you even looked at it, let alone touched it, the branches would fall off. Eventually, by the time we made it to the rec center, all of the branches, aside from two, had popped off. Rather than throw it away or not give it at all, Mom shoved the branches down into the dirt, fluffed the leaves and called it good. My capitalist cousin has named his youngest baby girl Corporate. God have mercy on us all!
 As a little girl, I longed to be a dancer. I loved the lithe beauty of the prima ballerinas and, although it was genetically impossible for it to happen, I longed to develop into the emaciated, willowy forms required to land a spot in the corps of Ballet West. As I grew, I realized that my short and curvaceous form would never make it into the realms of what was required. Therefore, I found other forms of dance with which I fell in love.  There were classes several times a week, required classroom uniforms for each, special dance shoes depending on the class, extra rehearsals for recitals, dress rehearsals, all day staging rehearsals. On and on and on it went. I remember that we used to drive forty-five minutes, each direction, several times weekly to go to my dance studio for classes, which usually lasted just over an hour. Having driven there so many times, I remember actually being able to lie in the back seat with my eyes closed and know exactly where we were by how many turns in each direction we had made. And when I hit high school, dance practice was a daily occurrence – early morning, afternoon, night and some weekends spent dancing in the school auditorium, gym and dance room.  As my sister grew up, she was enlisted in the dance regime. Then there were two of us to support, two dance class schedules to keep straight, two complete sets of unique uniforms. Then my brother grew up and I am sure he thought he was going to be roped into dance too. He had lived in the dance studio his whole life, so he could have probably pulled it off quite gracefully. However, dad had other inclinations for his son and baby brother joined a community soccer team practically as soon as he could walk. He became as proficient in soccer as his sisters were in dance. As you can imagine, the scheduling was insane. Dad coached the soccer team. Mom participated in the parenting teams at the dance studios. The two of them, I imagine, felt stretched really thin between all the appointments, as well as working enough to meet all the expenses. Through it all, they never showed any frustration or distress regarding scheduling or expenses. I remember my parents sitting on the edge of their seats watching my sister and me or running along the sidelines of my brother’s games. They were interactive, alert and... well... seemingly happy to be there. Either that or they faked it real good! I am grown now, with a daughter of my own who is trying on different dance techniques, as well. Now it is my turn to sit in the dance studio, which is only a moments drive from where I work and my daughter goes to school. The dance studio which my daughter attends is, apparently, one of the oldest and most renowned in the city. It is not as if it is just some random upstart without a reputation. It is the best – and lest you think I am bragging, it was her stepmother that picked the studio and was all excited about this adventure, not me.  In the beginning of this adventure, which started four years ago, I actually found myself groaning and moaning about the whole deal. First off, my daughter wasn’t really into it and had only started because her little sister wanted to try it out. My former husband thought it would be great for the two of them. I wasn't excited and felt a guilty rush whenever I selfishly thought about all I was giving up to support this endeavor. Then I would remember all that my parents had done for me and I would chastise myself, wondering when I had become a lousy parent. I began watching the other parents while I sat in the studio, waiting for my daughter to finish her one dance class that lasts only an hour. I see parents that actually shove their daughters through the barely opened door without saying “goodbye” or “have fun” as they bark into their cell phones and rush back to the SUV. Or I see bedraggled young girls shuffling in and dragging their dance bags and coats behind them without their hair fixed, wearing dingy and torn dance clothes. Some parents are yanking their girls by the hand and arguing with them the whole way. Some of the girls frown the entire way through the class and are disrespectful to the teachers. The parents that actually wait in the chilly lobby are complaining and grumbling. What in the world has happened???
 There is one mother who is there long before I get there and leaves long after we leave. Her daughter takes eight classes every week. Eight! She is the only mother who is not grumbling and her daughter is one girl who looks like she wants to be there, as does my daughter. Thank heavens, this year my daughter loves her dance class – tap. I think she loves it because it is noisy and fast and far from the strict nature of the ballet classes from her first two years. She enjoys it so much she actually stays after class for a half hour while the teacher shows some of them more advanced steps. She loves it and, therefore, I am finding joy in it too. Maybe I’m not a lousy parent after all.
I was raised in a family that chose to use sarcasm to express their every meanness. As a child, I did not understand why my heart hurt when someone would say something with a chuckle at the end. I didn't understand why I could hear the meanness, yet the person was saying it in a tone that belied the words and with a smile upon their face. As I grew, I began to recognize the weapon that my family wielded with such stealth that, often, victims would have no idea they had been hit. The victim would just be going down for the count, without any clue and wondering why they were face down on the mat. The realization of the inherent wickedness of my family member's tongues dawned on me in my late teens. My eyes began to open at one of our traditional Labor Day wilderness camping trips. In my earliest years, this trip was one we all counted the days to - aunts, uncles, parents, siblings, cousins and the entire kit-and-kaboodle. Year after year, we would gather in remote areas around our home state to practice "living and worshipping in the wilderness." The heads of the family wanted us to learn how to survive together for the day when the saints would be forced into hiding. As the years rolled on, however, the "Sisters" of the family began to complain about the conditions of the wilderness. There was no shower. There was no comfortable bed. There was no bathtub to soak in. Yes... that is the point of the wilderness, my dear Aunts... Oh, but I digress. This post is not about the quirks of my weird Aunts or the religion in which I was raised. It is about the tongues of those weird aunts and the rest of my family members... Around my eighteenth year I became fully conscious of their meanness. At the campout that year, I began to hear the under-rumblings of excitement going around the gathering about "The Roast." People were anxious. They were actually counting down to it. At first, I didn't know what the whisperings - or not so whispery whisperings - were about. The Roast? What is that?I was sad when it hit me... The Roast... the time each night that everyone gathers around the campfire to speak meanly about their siblings, their children, their parents, their neighbors, their childhood and each other, all the while laughing and smiling. Oh... my... God! Something is wrong with my family! They delight in hurting one another. It was so unlike anything I had ever learned in church... That year I did not join in the fun. I didn't laugh, as I could find nothing funny to laugh about. That year I made a commitment to myself to avoid sarcasm and to speak words authentically... to make sure that the words I speak are truly congruent with the laughter that joins them. At times, I find my innate acid tongue taking over and slinging wicked, wicked insults laced with venomous smiles. I feel ashamed when I hear it. I want to take it back, immediately. However, there are some things that a sorry cannot undo. Wounds inflicted through sarcasm are usually such things that cannot be undone. I never receive sarcasm well. A young man whom I thought to be my dear friend used sarcasm on me the other day to couch his own feelings and fling them at me, projecting his stuff onto me in a way that, unfortunately, he had no idea I am well versed in. Previously, I would have flung back with equal ferocity. However, I feel sickened when I activate my sarcasm skills, so I chose to step aside and let the dung he spewed in my general direction to land with a splat on the wall behind me. And, then, I quietly turned about and have decided to avoid interacting with him again. I will have no sarcasm in my world. It is unfair... to me and to the one who is employing it. It does not get your truth out and therefore I cannot hear it. It only serves to wound me without, some seem to believe, wounding your own soul or smudging your book of permanent records. Which, in reality, is only a false sense of security. Why is she on this rant, you may be wondering. I am ranting because my father's wife, with whom I now reside, is a Master of Sarcasm. She takes terms of endearment like Sweetheart and Honey and laces them with such corrosive acid that it sounds like a damnation instead. She is wicked good at it. She says the word behind gritted teeth and a forced grin and I watch my father roll it off his back. He has always let "it" roll of his back. No anger there. None. Ever. While I have lived with them these past three weeks, I have become particularly perfectionistic about everything being in its place. It's a weird quirk that I picked up somewhere between my last place and here... or while I swam in the Nile. I make sure my stuff is never left astray in places which are "theirs." Even in the guest room, where my daughter and I sleep, everything is put away. I clean up after myself. I put my dishes in the dishwasher. I wipe the counter and the table top. I leave the place as I found it. Of that, I am certain. This morning I washed my bedding. When it was done I took them out of the dryer to make the bed. In that process, I inadvertently dropped the Bounce sheet on the floor between the laundry room and guest room. I would have seen it when I went to exit my room and, at that time, I would have most assuredly picked it up and disposed of it. However, his wife happened by long before I was ready to leave. She bent to pick it up, held it out to me with that gasping chuckle that she uses to begin all of her sarcastic statements. My guards went instantly on defense. I actually felt my back stiffen. And, instantly, I wanted to strike back and she hadn't even said anything. "Leaving your stuff everywhere," she said and chuckled again, that sarcastic-full-of-shit chuckle. And I am angry for resorting to sarcasm to meet her, "Yep. Leaving a trail of my stuff everywhere around the house so I can find my way." She chuckled again, I think subconsciously jubilant that she had found someone to battle with because my father does not play on that battleground. She turned and walked away victorious and I steamed in the room, snapping the sheets extra hard as I placed them upon the mattress. Now, after finishing this blog, I am imagining that what she really wanted to say is: I feel uncomfortable having you in the space that I used to use as my storage room. I feel that my space is invaded and my space is no longer my own. I feel scared that you will never leave and I will never have my home back the way I like it.Yeah... me too.
|
