Summer Sun

As I open my eyes, the sun is quietly peering through the half open blinds and gently casting its warmth across my bedroom floor.  I lie in bed for a while watching the sun move slowly across the floor and slide over the little red and blue flowers on my comforter as if it wishes to say hello.  I reach out my hand in greeting, and as I trace my finger around the flowers’ edges, I muse about the particularly profound beauty of the early morning sun peering through my window on a summer’s day.   Oddly enough it’s not the same at any other time. Perhaps because there is a simple delight in knowing that I don’t have to get up, there is pleasure in the softness of the sheets; a warmth that envelops not just my body, but my soul as well.   The winter sun does not shine into my room until my day is glaring at me and demanding I give it my full attention.  The spring sun is shy and hides behind the lampshade.  No.  It’s the summer sun that knows me best, and it is not long before its soft light gently nudges me out of bed.  As my feet touch the cool floor I am reminded of how happy I have been since my husband and I had the carpet pulled and the floor resurfaced and stained a milk chocolate brown.  With a smile, I sit at the edge of the bed, running my foot along the floor’s textured surface admiring how the light changes the color and reveals hints of red—it’s beautiful. It doesn’t matter that it took weeks for the men to complete the job of laying the floor, and I don’t mind that there is a chip on the edge of the tile floor in the bathroom where the tile and the concrete meet (though it wasn’t there before the men came).   It is of no consequence that the sink has a crack in it and the water leaks out a bit from the side of the faucet, or that the shower door does not slide smoothly from side to side as it once did, or that the paint is peeling a little on the door jam where the cat has been clawing at it.  As I stand looking in the mirror with the summer sun warming my room, it means nothing that I have failed and fallen short at times in my life, or that my feet and hands are beginning to show that I am getting older.  I take in the imperfections: each nick and scratch, each freckle, each wrinkle and line, and for one brief moment I accept where I am and who I have come to be.  The summer’s sun has this effect on me. 

 

            Since I am a teacher, a wife, and a mother, I hardly find the time to stop and truly enjoy all of life’s experiences, but the summer affords me moments like the one I previously described, and it gives me the opportunity to slow down and appreciate even brief moments of clarity. 

            One day while in class I remember thinking as I stood for the national anthem, “I don’t feel my life.” Looking around my classroom at all of my students I realized, “Everything I do is for someone else.”  I could not hear my inner voice that used to tell me that life was beautiful, meaningful, and worth all the effort.  I know I should have been gazing at the flag and remembering those who have given their lives so that I could be free, but instead I read the posters on the wall. The posters in my classroom have always reflected sentiments of hope and belief in oneself, but as I stood there I questioned—who am I now?   It’s not to say that at that moment I did not believe that life was worth all the effort, but I couldn’t feel it.  I couldn’t feel anything.  It’s one thing to have an intellectual belief that life has meaning and that you, as Walt Whitman said, may “contribute a verse;” it’s quite another to have that belief radiating in the heart, giving one an illuminating faith. 

            When I was younger, I believed in what the classroom posters said, and I thought I always would.  Life has a way of changing one’s perspective—and of giving one perspective.   For me, perspective came in the whispers of a summer morning sun. 

Some works I've Created

  

TEARS

            From the time I first heard that my mother had cancer, until the time that I received the call that she was admitted to the ICU, and even after that, there were no tears.  There was only the desire to fight along side of her.  To do anything that she needed. To “be there” for her—whatever that would mean.  No tears. 

            When I watched her go from a vibrant woman to a silent shell, no tears.  When I tried to hug her and she pushed me away because she could no longer take the feel of things touching her skin, no tears.  The technical term for her action was given to me, but I swallowed it, like the lump that formed in my throat and forgave it as my mother had forgiven me so many times.  

            When my father and I had to make the decision to admit her to the hospice room, I didn’t know what that room entailed, but I knew once my mother entered it, she would not be coming out.  No tears.  We all—my father, my Uncle Mike who was my mother’s brother, and my two older brothers, Lonnie and Todd—gathered in the small hospice room and tripped over one another, and slept on recliners and makeshift bed chairs, and sat on window sills and waited.

            The dreams I had while waiting for the inevitable were grotesque and disturbing.  One woke me up, and everyone around me as well, for I jumped out of my recliner and yelled out something.  Through blurry eyes I saw my dad standing in front of me and felt the light touch of his hand on my shoulder, “It was only a dream.”  I explained to him that my dream had been of my mother.  “She was struggling to breathe.  The whole bed was shaking from her convulsions and I couldn’t help her.”  It was only a dream. 

            My father explained to me that her passing wouldn’t be like that, that she would simply and quietly slip away.   Reassured by his comment and lulled by the sound of my mother’s breathing and the small click of the oxygen machine, I fell back to sleep. 

            It wasn’t long before the sound in the room changed.  It was slight, but startling and we all got to our feet.  My father moved closer to my mother’s frail body on the bed.  I saw my uncle who had been on the hard chair next to my mother cover his mouth and heard him breathe hard and quick through his fingers. My father turned to me, took a few steps in my direction and said, “She’s gone.” 

            Tears.  It was as if every painful moment came crashing in on me at once.  I couldn’t breathe and my father held on to me so I wouldn’t crumple to the floor.  My brothers watched us and wiped their eyes.  We were crippled by tears, and my mother was free.  

One of our first actual writing assignments was to write a factual account of an emotional event and then an emotionally true account.  Once the pieces were written, we were asked a few questions regarding the differences.  Here is what I came up with...

FACT VS. TRUTH

            I was standing in the hallway at school when I received the call that my mother had been admitted to the Kingman Regional Medical Center’s Intensive Care Unit.  My dad told me that I didn’t need to come to Kingman right away, that I should finish out the day and he’d call me later to let me know how things were going.  I walked up to the front office, for that was where I had been heading before I got the call, to drop something off at the principal’s secretary’s desk.  Paula, the principal’s secretary, took one look at me and knew that something was wrong.  I calmly explained that my mother had been admitted to the hospital and that I was waiting to hear back from my dad.  She told me that I needed to get a substitute and leave for Kingman immediately. “Don’t worry about a thing.  If I have to, I’ll cover your classes.”  Those were the last words I heard though I know others were said before I left her desk. 

            I called my husband to tell him the news and that I was leaving immediately.  I didn’t even go home to pack any clothes.  I dropped everything and left. The drive to Kingman seemed surprisingly quick.  I walked into the hospital and took the elevator up to the ICU.  I saw my dad sitting in a chair across from the elevators as if he was waiting for me. He told me that he had hoped I would come, and he held me so tight and for much longer than he usually would.  The doctor appeared behind him and looked rather intent on talking with the two of us.  He led us to a room with a large conference table.  What came next and in what order things were said, I can’t remember. All I remember is my dad looking to me for an answer to a question I had never thought that I would have to answer —should we let my mother die?  In peace and comfort, or continue this losing battle with cancer? 

 

THE EMOTIONAL TRUTH

            I was standing in the hallway at school when I received the call that my mother had been admitted to the Kingman Regional Medical Center’s Intensive Care Unit.  That unsettling feeling of being in inescapable trouble gripped me.  It was like being at the top of a rollercoaster just as it tips downward for the fall, but I knew this ride was not going to end with joyful laughter.  My dad told me that I didn’t need to come to Kingman right away, that I should finish out the day and he’d call me later to let me know how things were going.  Though he said these words, I didn’t fully believe him. There was something in his voice, a small indication of insecurity and doubt.  I knew that he was considering all the days I had already taken off from work to help him care for my mother—all the times I left Phoenix on a Thursday and didn’t return until Monday morning for work.  He knew I had already used up my sick leave.  When I hung up my cell-phone, my mind was racing—what could I do, what should I do, can I afford to lose more of my pay?  Perhaps he was right, I should finish up the day and then go.  Not going was not an option for me,

and I consoled myself with the thought that I’d leave right after school.    I walked up to the front office, for that was where I had been heading before I got the call, to drop something off at the principal’s secretary’s desk.  Paula, the principal’s secretary, took one look at me and knew that something was wrong.  I calmly explained that my mother had been admitted to the hospital and that I was waiting to hear back from my dad.  I could feel the tears beginning to form as she looked into my eyes.  She had recently lost her mother, and there was a part of me that didn’t want to bring up painful memories for her, so I tried to seem nonchalant about the situation—I didn’t succeed.  She lectured me, though gently, telling me that I did not want to wait and that I should leave for Kingman immediately. “Don’t worry about a thing.  If I have to, I’ll cover your classes.”  Those were the last words I heard though I know others were said before I left her desk. 

            I called my husband to tell him the news and that I was leaving immediately.  He had questions for me, and I believe I had answered them all, but honestly I can’t recall what they all were.  I just remember explaining what he needed to do for the baby: when to pick her up, where he could find her clothes, about what time I put her to bed.  Fathers don’t often concern themselves with such things when the mother always does it, so I felt the need to clarify. Once my daughter was taken care of, I dropped everything else and left.   I didn’t even go home to pack clothes for myself. 

            The drive to Kingman, though it is a three and half hour trip, was surprisingly quick.  I remember getting into my car and getting out at the hospital.  As if on auto- pilot, I simply drove.  I must have recognized the scenery and I must have thought about things as I was driving, but it all escapes me now, just as it did then.  I walked into the hospital and took the elevator up to the ICU.  I saw my dad sitting in an armchair across from the elevators as if he was waiting for me, though I had never called to tell him I was coming. His face was full of emotion as if he was trying to hold back years of tears. And there was pride as well, pride in me to know just what he really needed and wanted, though he would never say.   With lips trembling he told me that he had hoped I would come, and he reached for me, hugging me tight, not wanting to let go.  The doctor appeared behind him and looked rather intent on talking with the two of us.  He led us to a room with a large conference table.  It was obvious to me that this was not the first time my father had been in this room.  I felt the chill in the air as the doctor closed the door and we took our seats around the table.  I imagined my father sitting alone in this room listening to all that the doctor had to say and I silently thanked Paula for convincing me not to wait a moment longer. What came next and in what order things were said, I don’t know.  All I remember is my dad looking to me for an answer to a question I had never thought that I would have to answer —should we let my mother die?

 

Response to Questions:

            The difference between factually accurate and emotionally true, at least for me, is that much of the emotion or the thoughts going on during the factually accurate events is left out.  I didn’t feel the need to include all that I was thinking while events were taking place or much regarding the details of faces or looks.  I simply wrote what had happened.  In the emotionally true piece, I added more of what was going on behind the action and I enjoyed (well as much as one can enjoy sort of reliving a painful experience) writing the emotionally true version.  It’s hard to capture the emotion of those moments, and there is a certain numbness that I still feel while reliving the event.  I experienced it all in a fog.  I remember thinking I have to be strong for my father and so I was; I didn’t allow myself to cry during the whole ordeal.  

I think my emotionally true version captures some of that numbness, though I teared up a little while writing it, especially the part where I saw my father and he held onto me.  I can still feel that embrace.  I enjoyed writing this piece because it is the most emotionally significant event in my life, next to giving birth to my daughter (in the warmth and comfort of my own home).  Losing my mother, and in the way that it happened, has changed me forever.  Writing about it, I am hoping will, in some way, help me in dealing with it.  Even after 7 years, I cannot say that I am over it.  I’m not sure one can ever be “over it.”  I left off the last line from the factual version in the emotionally true one because I felt that the question was what really mattered.  It made no difference what was killing my mother—the emotion lies within the question of whether we will allow her to die.  

I am taking a non-fiction creative writing course this summer and I figured I'd post some of the things I've been writing for the class on my blog as well.  Here are a few...

AN ANSWER TO HOW DO YOU WRITE

            Let’s see.  How do I write?  Well, when I was younger I wrote all the time, especially when I was in high school.  I wrote in a journal even when I was not assigned to do so.  My first experience with writing in a “diary” (mine was a small red one with the word DIARY embossed in gold letters on the front) was when I was around 11.  I wrote about silly things really; however, our neighborhood bully somehow got a hold of my diary and wrote some rather obscene things in it about me and my stepfather, really inappropriate things that I would not repeat.  I stopped writing in a diary for about four years after that rather traumatic experience.  I suppose I should be somewhat grateful to the young man because it was that defiled diary experience that enlightened me on the power of the written word. 

            I never felt “forced to write.”  Even when assignments were given, I enjoyed the process.  When I entered the ninth grade and had to keep a journal for my English class, I was reminded of the joy of writing once again.   I began keeping a personal journal throughout my high school years.  I wrote volumes upon volumes, and I still have them.  Many of them are filled with ridiculous love poetry.  Sadly, once I hit college, I only wrote when I had to for classes.  Occasionally I would scrawl poetry or short quips on a receipt or a restaurant napkin, but for the most part, my personal and exploratory writing disappeared. 

            Now that I’m a teacher (have been for fourteen years), a wife, a mother, and a graduate student I barely find time to wash clothes.  However, when I do find time for myself, I tend to work on my altered book/art journal.  If writing something for class, I use my laptop; if it is for me, I tend to use a smooth writing pen—usually colored, but sometimes black.  It has to be smooth writing or I’ll none.   If I’m writing for myself, my works are short—most often poetry.  If for class, they tend to be longer, and I revise as I go.  In fact, I tend to revise as I go whether I’m writing for class or for myself, but I do not feel assaulted if further revisions are requested or needed.  I do not have superstitions regarding writing, but I do have fears—the usual kinds I suppose, about not being deep enough or interesting enough to capture anyone’s attention. “Who would ever want to read this…” pops into my head frequently when I think of beginning a creative writing piece.  All fears aside, I am looking forward to this class.  

In Response to Reading like a Writer:  

            I truly enjoyed Francine Prose’s chapter “Close Reading.”  I laughed out loud at the part about Milton enrolling in a graduate program for help with Paradise Lost.  I was imagining Swift doing the same thing for A Tale of a Tub, which is also a bit ironic in light of the fact that he desired to enroll in a university but was denied because of his status—this denial put a rather large chip on his shoulder and acted as the inspiration for his success—the whole “I’ll show them…” and I believe he did. 

            I could relate to much of what Prose said regarding the process of revision and the satisfaction that comes with watching a “sentence shrink, snap into place, and ultimately emerge in a more polished form: clear, economical, sharp.”  I wish I could feel that satisfaction more. 

            As far as how I read literary works, my response would be it depends on the purpose of my reading it.  I teach AP English —close reading is the focus of the course.  Most of what I do involves teaching kids how to be close readers, to really dissect the writer’s craft and discuss the effect of the writer’s choices, and how those choices help the writer achieve his/her purpose.  We spend the majority of the time analyzing others’ works and writing essays that reflect upon a writer’s craft.  It is rather exciting to watch students’ own writing style change and develop. As the year progresses, they begin to apply some of the same techniques that published authors use, and I don’t have to tell them to.  Of course not all reach that stage of application, but many do and I can safely say that every student improves his/her writing during the year. Even if it is minimal, there is still growth, and I believe much of it is due to the process of close reading and practice writing.  I would say, without reservation that reading and writing go hand in hand and close reading is an important part of the process. 

            I don’t believe I’ve ever been turned off to reading, but I believe escape reading has practically died out in my life.  I read mostly because I have to for a class that I am taking or for one that I am teaching.  I have so many other responsibilities in my life that reading for the simple pleasure of reading has faded.  If I do read for pleasure, it is usually a magazine and in quick spurts.  My husband reads all the time, and I do mean all the time.  He is always escaping, but I am always doing something that needs to be done around the house or for my daughter, or for the pets, or for school, or for a friend…the list goes on.

            One author I find inspiring to read is F. Scott Fitzgerald, mostly because of The Great Gatsby.  I love the style of Gatsby more than any other book I’ve ever read—it’s a stylistic feast and every line is dessert to me.  I am particularly fond of the Romantics—British and American.  When I was in eleventh grade, Transcendentalist writers, Emerson and Thoreau, captured my attention.  I was the only one in my class thus moved by these authors, but I took solace in their words, and I felt that they understood my heart and my ambitions.  Overall I find reading to be quite an enjoyable experience.  I read to my daughter practically every night, and I’d say the only thing that I don’t enjoy reading is Disney princess stories or fairy tales that I’ve read 100s of times—I practically refuse to read Disney stories to my poor child anymore.  I joke with her about the pain of having to read such works over and over and how I will simply gouge my eyes out if she has me read any more Disney stories.  She laughs at my pain and I often give in.  It’s the cute factor that pushes me over the edge.  Sucker.

This is Ariel Foy.  She is one of my creative writing students, and she has just informed me that her hard work and my help editing and revising her portfolio has paid off.  She has been accepted to the best fine arts high school in the nation.  She's been awarded a 27,000 dollar scholarship and she is off to Interlochen Arts Academy.  I'm so excited for her.  I can barely sit still—I just had to write about it.  The only bummer in this whole situation is that I will not have the privilege to work with her this next year, and she will not be the Co-President of our Lit. Club,  nor the Editor-in-Chief of our school's literary magazine.  She is a go-getter and our magazine needs a go-getter.  Oh well, she's off to get things elsewhere and I'm so very proud of her.  What a great kid! She deserves better than GHS, and I'm glad she is going to get what she deserves—an inspiring education that will require her to use her talents that would other wise be wasted upon the mindless masses that roam the halls of GHS.  GO ARIEL!

I have always loved this picture of my grandmother.  She looks like an angel to me.  I have wanted to do something with the picture for some time, but I don't know exactly what I want to do yet.  One thing for sure would be to drop the background of the bathroom.  I don't particularly want a toilet in the picture.  I wonder why whoever took the picture decided to take it in a bathroom.  That would not be my first choice.  The best part and the most troubling part to work with is the light coming from behind her.  In photoshop, because I am rather inexperienced, it is hard to manipulate the light to keep that angel like quality that I love about this picture, yet I want to be able to see her facial features a bit better.  It doesn't print as well as I'd like.  I'm thinking of taking the actual photo to one of those kiosks to make it larger.  The photo I have is actually quite small.  I was thinking I would create a piece for my brother and sister-in-law using this picture.  I'll have to post what it turns out like in the end.  Right now, I have ideas, but they are vague and I don't know if I can pull it off.  We'll see.    My classes start today so I don't believe I will have much time for artistic creations.  I hope I will balance my time well. Since I have started my master's program I have only taken one class at a time, but I am a bit anxious to be finished so I've chosen to take two this summer and my last one in the fall.  It is not that I want to be finished with my personal education so much, because I'd like to go on for a doctorate, it's just that I'd like to not have a class in the spring.  I am an advisor for our school's literary magazine and the spring is when we publish.  It gets very hectic and stressful and I'd just like to have one less thing on my plate.   Well...as my brother Todd would say, "I'm checking out."