This is Just to Say

This is just to say

I had read
your email
when we talked
the other night

Forvie me
I didn't want to
talk about it

It was so fun
to see you squirm
and dance around
the subject

A box in the basement

1 Stock certificate 1917
2 Tithing receipts 1922, 1930
1 Package of letters WWII
1 Travel Log 1965
1 Journal 1978-1983
1 Funeral program 2004

Joy

Joy
A busy week
Go
Go
Go
Teaching
Learning
Reading
Writing
Substituting
Go
The Praxis
A paper
Gotta do good
Stake Conference
Temple
Pancake Night
Go
Go
GO
No sleep
Eat
Change
Go
Sunday--
Joy

Regret

Adolescence is a hard time of life, and it seems that everyone thinks that their adolescent experience was worse that anyone else’s. I don’t pretend to hold the prize for ‘Worst Adolescence Ever,’ but I did experience my share of sadness. Just as I was coming into my adolescent years, my life fell apart. The details aren’t important now, but everything I had known my life to be was turned on its head. I was confused and scared and very lonely. I still haven’t completely gotten over it. A large part of my raising from that time on was done by my Grandma Jean.

If it was embarrassing for other young teenagers to have their parents around, it was utterly humiliating for me to be seen with my grandmother. I hated it when my friends knew that I couldn’t come hang-out because my grandma was making me practice the piano. I didn’t like having friends over because it was my grandma’s house and had grandma furniture and grandma decorations. Church was an embarrassment every week. Grandma used to be a soloist and sang in Sacrament Meeting as if she were singing for an audience. Everyone in the ward knew when Sister Driggs was in church and where she was sitting. I would slump down on the bench next to her, hoping beyond hope that I could disappear into the burgundy pew.

Not uncommon to my age, I wasn’t a very pleasant person to be with and didn’t treat my grandma as well as I should have. I resented Grandma Jean; I didn’t want her to drive me to the dentist or come to parent-teacher conferences or take me to buy new shoes. I wanted my mother to do those things. In my immature mind I seemed to think that if Grandma weren’t there my mom would be. I thought that she was the cause of my problems, that somehow she was to blame for all that was difficult about my life. I wished she would leave me alone; I was sure life would be easier without her.

I was so wrong. It pains me to think of what I lost by being resentful and not recognizing what I had and what my grandma did for me. I guess that saying is true: you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone. Grandma Jean passed away while I was on my mission. I remember the last time I saw her; I stopped to visit her in the hospital on my way to the MTC. She was so happy to see me already set-apart and dressed as a missionary. I made her proud. When I hugged her and said goodbye, I knew it was for the last time. In the last months of her life, Grandma Jean put a lot of effort into writing me letters. The letters never said much and were hard to read because of her shaky, old hands, but I cherished them because I knew that it was a challenge for her to write them. I knew that she loved me. President Lewis called me on a Thursday night in February to convey the news that my grandma had died.

Grandma Jean seems to be as much a part of my life now as ever. I miss her terribly and think about her often. At Christmas, at the monthly family dinner, at my cousin’s wedding I expect to see Grandma and my spirits fall when I remember that she’s not here. Now my mom is the organizer and the family gathers at her house; Grandma’s paintings cover the walls. Ironically enough, it feels wrong that Mom has taken over Grandma’s role. I tear-up when I realize that my husband and children will only know Grandma Jean through the stories I tell about her.

Last week at Family Home Evening we told about our heroes; I talked about Grandma Jean and missed her again. “I admire my grandma’s ability to forgive,” I said. “It’s because of her that I knew my grandpa.” I eat toast and peanut butter every December first—Grandma’s birthday; my mom says that makes her day. I hear my brother say “one of these first days” and I smile; he got that from Grandma Jean. Out to lunch, my mom and I laugh when I say that I want to take a piece of cornbread home in my purse; Grandma did that and liked to eat it with milk for breakfast. I love to listen to Handel’s Messiah; Grandma loved to sing it. I visited the Sistine Chapel and I cried; Grandma Jean would have loved to have gone there—I’ll have to enjoy it for her. I apply to take the Praxis exam and I remember her: Name (Last, First Middle). The Bishop asks for my full name; “Rebecca Jean,” I say proudly. I look at my crooked pinky fingers, see my eyes in a mirror, notice my high forehead, hear my own surprised laugh, and I know that Grandma Jean will always be a part of my life.

Collide

The dawn is breaking
A light shining through
You're barely waking
And I'm tangled up in you
Yeah

The thin fabric of the tent diffuses the already soft morning light like a screen at a photo shoot; you look heavenly. I reach my arm above my head and take your hand as you reach out to me. We lay in peaceful silence listening to the birds, the river, the quiet breathing of the others in the tent, all of us laying in sleeping bags neatly fit into a small space like pieces in a human Tetris game.

I'm open, you're closed
Where I follow, you'll go
I worry I won't see your face
Light up again

After breakfast we go for a walk and end up on the banks of the Colorado sitting on the same rock. It's small, so you're sitting on the rock and I'm sitting on you. You want to play the staring game. I lose; I hate that game. You say you like to look into my eyes, that I don't let you do that enough. I'm embarrassed because I know you're right. I was hoping you wouldn't notice.

Even the best fall down sometimes
Even the wrong words seem to rhyme
Out of the doubt that fills my mind
I somehow find
You and I collide

We get dusty, dirty, and sweaty on our morning hike. You carry our water and snacks in your camel back. I'm free to run about without any extra weight. I offer to take my turn with the pack but you never let me, and I love you for it. When I get thirsty I come back to you like a bird to a feeder; I like being close as I sip from the hose at your shoulder. I am scared of heights. I shut down and withdraw. I wish I wasn't like this. I'm sure you think I'm wimpy; you won't want me now.

I'm quiet you know
You make a frist impression
I've found I'm scared to know I'm always on your mind

Ken's Lake is the last stop before we head home. We want to wash off the red sand and sweat before the long drive ahead of us. I'm nervous to wear my swim suit; I don't want you to see me in it. I'm uncomfortable, so I make jokes: my underwear covers more skin than this! I don't want you to touch me, but I don't understand why. My reaction is more visceral than cognitive. Your hand on my bare flesh makes me uptight, my muscles contract as if my abdomen were to collapse in on itself. "I don't know what you're worried about," you say, "you look great, really."

Even the best fall down sometimes
Even the stars refuse to shine
Out of the back you fall in time
I somehow find
You and I collide

We drop the others off and head back to your apartment. After transferring my gear from your trunk to mine, we stay in the parking lot talking. I'm wearing the same red Edinburg shirt and pink scrubs I was wearing when we woke up this morning. My hair is pulled back in a messy pony tail and my face hasn't seen makeup for days. Now that we're back to a familiar setting, I'm feeling pretty uncomfortable and embarrassed about the way I've acted. I apologize, and so do you. We laugh. We hug. You whisper in my ear, "Becca, I love you."

Even the best fall down sometimes
Even the wrong words seem to ryhme
Out of the doubt that fills your mind
You finally find
You and I collide

I'm surprised and scared. I don't know what to do. I'm so paralyzed by my fear that I don't recognize what a big risk you are taking until it is too late. "I wish I could say the same to you," I say, "but I'm just so scared." "Don't worry," you tell me, "there's no hurry. I meant what I said."

You finally find
You and I collide

So much hurt. So much pain. Why? How could you love me and swear that you meant it and not want to be with me? Not this, not again. I have to confess; I can't let you think that you loved me and I never loved you back. I know what that's like and I won't let you experience it too. I gather my courage and tell you through tears that I love you. You stagger back and ask why I didn't say anything before. All I can say is that I was afraid. I'm sorry. I love you.

You finally find
You and I collide

I think of you when I hear this song--sometimes in sweetness, sometimes in pain. I wonder if you still love me, if you ever had second thoughts. I wonder if we will ever find that you and I collide.

Some thoughts on The Dating Game

I'm frustrated with The Dating Game. I know I'm not unique, but part of my frustration is that we don't talk about it. Everyone is playing the game. We're all looking for a mate. It's a basic human need--we want to be loved and validated. Why does playing the game necessitate denial that I am playing it?

I feel lonely. I want to get married. I would like to do that soon, and by soon I don't mean tomorrow. I mean that I want to try being in a relationship that is moving in that direction; I want to feel like I'm making progress.

Why is there shame attached to such an admission? I feel that in expressing these feelings I am consenting to my own pathetic and pitiable state. A stigma: I must be desperate indeed to vocalize that I want a husband.

Not only is this ridiculous, it also leads to the idea that the desire is somehow wrong or pathetic or pitiable. That's just not true! It's natural, right, and good. What I want most in life is to be part of a happy, normal, slightly crazy, and loving family. I want to get married. I want to have children. That's what I want, and I feel really good about that.

The One Syllable Paragraph

This is an exercise from my writing class:


What can I write with such small words? This is a day when I do not want to get up or leave my house. Some days are like that. Things do not go well and it seems better to just stay at home and sleep it off. I did not come to class last time--I was sick--so I thought that I could not miss class two days in a row. I came to class. When I saw the snow it was too late to not come. I had left the house and since my coat was on, I went out in the snow. On the walk to school there were some slips in the snow and on the ice but I did not fall. That was one good thing about this day.

Velcro Shoes

Tennis shoes with velcro make me sad. As I sit trying to figure out how I will put my feelings into words, I get teary-eyed. I don't know why but hope to discover it here. I see an adult wearing shoes with velcro and no laces and my heart sinks; it seems to fall back into my chest, as if it might make contact with my spinal column, the muscles and organs keeping it there giving out, giving up.

You know the kind of velcro shoes I'm talking about. They are all white, or all gray, or all tan, but most commonly, they are all black. They curl up a little at the toe and have two giant velcro buckles where the laces would normally be. The sides around the ankle are thick like a skate shoe, the swollen tongue protruding at an angle, as if constantly mocking the wearer. More often than not these shoes are well-worn--unevenly, one side of the heel noticeably thinner than the other.

Why would someone wear velcro shoes? Don't they know how sad they are? I wonder about these people. Did no one care about them enough to sit with them, and patiently teach them to manipulate the laces into a bow? Maybe someone did, maybe lots of someones did. Maybe those fine motor skills or remembering that many steps is beyond ability. If so, who cares for them now? Does no one love enough to help the potential velcro shoe wearer find some nice clogs or loafers; Vans always has very stylish slip-ons.

What are these people's lives like? Why would they wear velcro shoes? Maybe life is overwhelming. Maybe finding the motivation to get out of bed and get dressed in the morning is such a challenge that tying shoes with laces would simply be too much. Maybe velcro shoes are a survival technique. Maybe they think so little of themselves that they don't believe they deserve to have respectable shoes.

My heart hurts for these people. I want to anonymously leave them pairs of new shoes. But how would I find them? And how would I know what size and color to get? I want them to feel the difference a nice pair of shoes make. I want them to leave the house confident in themselves because someone loves them enough, life is good enough, they are good enough for good shoes.

For now, velcro shoes make me sad.

How the Blog Came to Be

I never thought I was a writer. I wrote for school because I had to. I started journaling and liked it. It was nice to have someone to talk to--no, not someone, somewhere to talk. It was therapeutic. I have since found other places to talk and sometimes even a person to talk to. Expressing my thoughts and feelings has become so important to me now that I can't do any other kind of writing (a gigantic term paper or even small response for class) if I have things on my mind or in my heart. I have to journal first, and then I can perform a literary analysis.

Two and a half years ago my mentors, my Mission President and his wife, had to move unexpectedly, almost over night. I didn't find out until they were already gone. I was devastated. We kept in touch through letters. When I got home and frequently since then they have commented on how much they enjoyed my letters. She tells me I am a wonderful writer, that I have a gift. I guess I do enjoy it.

Maybe I should write, but what do I have to say? I read books and am fascinated by the craft of expression through words. I want to do that, but I don't think I can. I am no Robert Frost; I haven't been to war like Tim O'Brien; I don't have an imagination like Miguel de Cervantes. Who would want to read my writing? These thought paralyze me. I have the desire but never even try. I keep thinking that I should. I am in a class called 'Teaching Composition in Secondary Schools.' The readings for the class are interesting and connect with the desire I have in me.

Could I really do this? It seems like I should try. I mean, I 've got to start somewhere. I consider starting a writing notebook or keeping a folder of writing experiments in my 'Documents' file. That doesn't excite me. It seems sad, wrong somehow. It denies the social aspect of writing. Why pour myself into writing something, creating something, that only I will read? Writing for myself: I do that in my journal.

Saturday night. I come in from work and seated at my kitchen table is a most attractive man who becomes increasingly interesting the more I talk with him. He's an English teacher at a local high school. His fame has preceded him: professors in my education classes told us about problems created when single female students were placed in his class to observe. Not developing a crush on this man would be a challenge indeed. (I met him at my kitchen table, no professional conflict there!) He captivates me as he talks with passion and love about his students. He has them write blogs. He gets online and reads from some of them. Incredible! I really could do that. A blog. Yes! A blog! I never thought I would find a use for a blog. It is, I am hoping, a suitable outlet for my creative impulses and my desire to experiment with writing which does not deny the essentially social component of writing. Even if no one reads my blog, the possibility that someone could is enough to make the effort worth while.

I hope you enjoy my adventures in writing.