Day One on the Island in Pictures

Wandering

Not all those who wander are lost.

-J. R. R. Tolkien 

Indeed. This adventure has begun. My friends and family sent me off into the darkness of an Iowa winter night, on a double decker bus to Chicago. 

Arriving in Chicago. Mornings are gorgeous in the Windy City.

Union Station actually had 1000 crockpots cooking lasagna. I was also there for the morning wake up of the homeless off the benches. Homelessness is not as visible in Iowa as it is in Chicago or Memphis or Atlanta.

My friend Evonne met me and took me out to breakfast! Note to self: learn to make crepes.
Seriously though, Evonne smells like heaven. Why? Because she is a master of olfactory psychophysical phenomena.

Leaving Chicago late morning. The city seemed to be thawing out and waking up. I'd like  to visit again, walk around a bit. Not this trip though.

Folks getting on the bus were buzzing with anxiety that we'd be stranded in Memphis is the Atlanta route was cancelled. Atlanta was dealing with a major ice storm. 2 inches of ice, snow, and more ice.  Our bus drive, Dennis, reassured us and was so much fun! He greeted each of us as we boarded and said something nice to everyone, made sure no one got left behind, was entertaining, and reminded us to call our rides an hour before arriving.

 Still, we travelled on. This is what Illinois looked like the entire trip. Until.....St. Louis. Oh that glorious arch! The grand Mississippi!

 The sun set somewhere near Arkansas. By then the bus was packed full. It was a tight and uncomfortable seat. My window was stuck cracked open and the air was nice once I realized the fresh air helped my new affliction: motion sickness. Oy.

 Then we arrived in Memphis! The road thumped in 4/4 time and poetry immediately flooded my head. You know how some songs talk about the ghosts of Memphis? This. Everything, even the electrical lines buzz with a musical quality.

 My grand plan had been to skip lunch and get dinner someplace lovely in Memphis at out 2 hour layover. Nope. Drop off was in the middle of a warehouse district with a local booze store the only thing open. There was a Subway inside, so I made an attempt....closing in 5 minutes out of everything. Ugh. I bought a lime soda and then it was a bottle top and I could not open it.

There is more. Oh yes there is...but for now, just know that I survived the next two hours and got my soda opened. Also, pro tip? A bottle cap can be opened with any lighter. ANY. LIGHTER. No worries. I will share that story later.

 Freaking tired. At this point, loaded up, headed to Atlanta by way of Birmingham, AL, I was done with being on a bus. Too bad for me, I had eight hours to go. Eight. Hours. I was sticky, hungry, a little jacked up with adrenaline from surviving the two hours in Tennessee. Sticky. Also, riding a bus with 30 people does not smell lovely.

Still, I fell asleep, twice I think. There was a bus evacuation around 2 am. For fuelling? I don't know. I was a zombie.

I was so grateful to wake up to a Georgia sunrise. Oh my sweet Georgia!

 Only the view I caught was startling. I saw a boot sticking out of this gully. Then I realised it was full of people. Sleeping people. By the time I got my camera out, there was not a good picture, but on reflection, I would not share that picture anyway. These were PEOPLE. Real people sleeping in an ice filled gully along the highway. People. Like you or me.

Then this view emerged. Then for a moment I thought I was delusional. This looks like IOWA. DES MOINES? NO. NO.

Then we pulled in by the Civic Center and a row of housing THAT LOOKS JUST LIKE THE ONE IN DES MOINES. PANIC. SLEEP DEPRIVED PANIC.

No worries. FEET ON THE GROUND IN ATLANTA.

 The very icy ice covered ground.

See? LOOKS LIKE DES MOINES. It isn't though. It is way better for an architecture nerd like me.

PS, I miss my babies back in Iowa so, so much. My chest hurts when I think about it.

 

Ticket To Ride

So, for this upcoming trip, I will be taking the bus. The Megabus, to be exact. I have never traveled by bus and certainly never for 36 hours. There are restrictions on luggage too, no checking a large suitcase allowed.

That got me thinking about travel and necessities. I'll be gone 10 days. The island does not have laundry

Lucky for me, I am very no fuss about my hair and don't wear makeup. I'll bring ballet flats that fit into a pocket and wear my boots and jeans and sweater and coat. Those are the bulkiest of things needing to be packed. The weather where I am going will be warmer than here. I managed to pack 7 outfits into one backpack with room for my computer and chargers and cords and a book.

Travel light.

I got some great tips from friends on how to do this. The best one was to use gallon ziplock bags. All my clothes fit into four, then I sat on them to vaccum seal. I could not fit an extra sweater, so I wore two. I have mixed feelings about how that is working out!

This is my knee room. Ouch.

This Otherness is My Superpower

Most people don't know.  I am a mermaid.

No not really.

I have gone my whole life feeling like I was not in this world, that I was alien, something too different to belong here.

Longing to be back in the water, wondering if I'd feel more at home there. Wondering if I was meant to be on dry land or if it was all a mistake. (Hey, no freaking out, just a metaphor...)

I get sensory overload. I get panic attacks when things change in a visual way and I am not expecting it. I cannot deal with large noisy crowds.

Sometimes I zone out. Sometimes I lose a chunk of time to daydreaming or just lose it to nothingness.

I hear all the background noise that others zone out and can't hear. All of it. Every appliance buzz, every light fixture. Every beetle click. Living in the city was so very hard.

Sometimes I can't sleep. I stay up playing over and over in my head things I wish I would have said or done. Undo social mistakes. Sometimes I wish I knew how to be a friend or how not to say just the wrong harsh thing at the wrong time. I wish my apologies would be accepted.

I get overwhelmed.

I sensory seek to cancel out. I run my hands under water to calm down.

I crank up music. I dance. I write. Then I hide it all.

When I burst into tears in the cheese aisle because Hy-vee has just remodelled and moved everything and the lighting is super bright and the new freezer cases are LOUD....I just feel like a failure. What is worse is someone seeing it. What is her problem, she can't find cheese?

I hold it together, moderate drama, softly soothe broken hearts, and generally know a lot about a lot of things....but I am not always put together and solid. I hate that about myself. I hate that I have this overwhelmingness that happens.

So when the man of steel locks himself in a closet in grade school? I get that. I used to hide in my own closet or under my own bed to try and make the world smaller. I try to practise and plan and make the world the kind of world I can be in.  I notice details though that others don't and sometimes that is just too overwhelming.

Somewhere along the line I realised that I can actually be different, this otherness is my own superpower. So, my apologies to the kind folks in the cheese aisle last year, I will get the hang of the new layout. I go in the mornings, and I almost have a comfort zone about it now.

Just know. Just know. Being different isn't something to be ashamed of, to medicate away, to pretend isn't part of my life.

My life is beautiful and overwhelming and wonderful and just big enough for now. I will continue to try and make it a world I can live in.

I began to understand this more as I have raised three children who are also experiencing this great big world and all of its beauty and noise and structures.

So, friends, be patient with each other, be gentle, be kind. Apologise when you can. Make this world better and not bigger.

Purple

The specs on this: Manic Panic, the lighter colour is Fuscia Shock, I used that on my dark roots because this colour lasts and holds its vibrancy longer than regular purple. The darker purple is Purple Haze, vegan MP. I applied, then used the hot blower dryer to set it. I braided up the length and wrapped my head with a headscarf over night. In the morning, I hot air blow dried it again to get the braid all the way dry. Then I rinsed and rinsed with cold water until the water ran clear. Towel and blow dry again. Now I have to be careful about shampoo and using products, even leave in conditioner, because each soap application will take some colour with it. Cool water rinses are ok. This is how I keep my colour really vibrant for longer.

Now, why my 36 year old, work at home, rural Iowa farmer self dyes my hair purple?

Because I love it. I love the way I look with purple. Some women like blonde or red or dye a darker brown, but I LOVE purple. What is not to love, look at the colour! This is the colour I had on my wedding day. This is the colour I wore in my hair when I used to perform on stage at a local coffee house. Why not put this back on reawakening my inner artist?



This. This is who I am.

Let me say this though, it isn't easy. Last Spring as I was dropping off my five year old at ballet, a minivan pulled up in front of the studio, loaded up two ballerinas, and then was waiting in line to depart the parking lot when I heard.....Daddy! That's Holly's mom, she's not a WHORE! She's nice!

Excuse me? What on earth?

Purple hair trumps that I am a mother of three, college professor, farmer, and married for 15 years to my high school sweetheart. Purple hair means that I am a sex worker? AND that a father of little girls gets to call me that in front of his children and in earshot of everyone waiting at ballet class? *I was in a long sleeve high neck sweater and a long skirt with boots, lest any of you think that my appearance other than purple hair warranted such a comment.

Way to stand up for me little girl. I hope that spunk and truth in you stays strong and being raised by a person like that doesn't damage you. No worries though, I got this. I own my purple hair and some random dude calling names only startles me, it no longer hurts me or changes my self value. May you be blessed with such fire of spirit.

I also get followed at retail stores. I get rude remarks from middle aged women. I sometimes have to remind folks in authority that I am an artist, college professor, and educated. I am not invisible, but purple hair certainly sends a message to others of many negative social codings. If I was someone trying to navigate social or economic tides, I would have a disadvantage. When I worked a minimum wage job, I was threatened with being fired. I called the corporate office and it was never mentioned again, though my hours were shifted. It didn't matter to me, but to many it would have been horrible. I know this. I dye my hair anyway because I can. If I can and do more people will start to see me and see that hair and other appearance markers do not tell the character of a person. I also have the safety of being able to change this about my look, back to something natural.

I can only feel the tinglings of what it must hurt like to be treated as dirt for something unchangeable.

So, know me. Know that I am not what you think. I am a brave mother, a farmer, a women with a voice, a writer, a really good and loyal friend, I do not play dirty ever, and I love so fiercely that it hurts. I am purple.

And just for the record, none of the sex industry workers I have known ever had purple hair but they certainly have more class than the dad in the minivan at ballet class. Just saying.

My Other Love

Last night I fell asleep wondering about my last 15 years. How did I walk away from poetry when I so clearly and deeply adore it? What happened? It wasn't motherhood. I had closed my books long before Lily was born.

Ah. Then this morning a picture of a lovely abandoned house, three storied, Italianate lines.....peeling paint, five gables, a hybrid Stick, Queen Anne style beauty. I wondered about the balustrade inside.

I fell for architecture. When I graduated college the first time, BA in hand, wisdom my adviser had given me casually, haunted me. Sure, you know how to write....but about what? What do you really know of the world? Don't write for a living, be a brick layer or farmer by day. Let the salt of the sweat of your days season the writing you do at night when the day slips away. Let writing be the mistress you run to, not the drudge of the mundane.

So, I fell forward into restoring houses. It was a family business but I am a solitary creature. We bought a three storied Victorian, plaster collapsing, floors unstable and moved in to live like homeless teenagers. It sometimes snowed and gathered drifts in the bedrooms. There were rooms we didn't know about when we bought it. Sometimes we would get lost inside the house. It was an amazing project. I interned at the State Historical Preservation Office. I got hired at a local museum. I spent my days and nights deeply immersed in old house restoration, history, and technology. I got so intensely involved in starting the restoration that I started taking graduate architecture classes. Then, easily slipped into the graduate programs for history, architecture, and non fiction writing. One thing flowed into another and I was in love.

Soon motherhood entered that world too. That was hard. Balancing my day job, a newborn, graduate school, and the house restoration. So very hard.

Why did I abandon poetry for the crumbling plaster and splintery fumes of the hard labour and physical work of house restoration? Because there is poetry in the grain of the wood, because the stories of the people who haunt these places with their lives are intoxicating, because the words of architecture filled my soul the way that Shakespeare and Leonard Cohen do. I was not without.

Even now, my heart quickens when I oil the hardwood of our old farmhouse. I mourn brokenhearted when I see an abandoned turn of the century barn that will soon fall with the seasons from neglect, slipping from our collective memories and memorialised with corn and bean chemical fields. Sometimes I break down and cry.



Now, as I re-open the poetry part of my mind, I have a life I can write from. That was not a waste, that time was not idle. I need not regret my chosen path, as sometimes I have in the dark when sleep is stolen by babies and frozen pipes.

Tell me, where is the poetry and beauty in your life?

Taking Myself Seriously

When I started reviving my wild mind, listening to the writer's voice again, and taking up the pen.....I was unsure. I still am. I am falling in love with word craft again. I know much more about love than I did 20 years ago though, and this time around I know that love is hard work and not all intuition and applause. So I set to work to learn this skill again.

I surprised myself. I was startled at how much of the vocabulary of poetry I actually remember. I was reminded of the parts I never understood and took to puzzling it out this time around instead of haughtily moving on, nose upturned.

I set a schedule. I stuck to it.

Then, I let go. I let other people read my work instead of hiding it.

At some point I was researching something for the farm, we raise Ossabaw Island hogs, and I came upon a website for the Ossabaw Island Writer's Retreat. Ah, that looks neat, I said. Aw, it is also way expensive and 2,000 miles away. I clicked the page closed and moved on.

A couple days later my father in law sent me the link to it. Again, I sighed heavily and closed the email.

A week later or so my dear husband Chad brought it up over dinner. Why this retreat? There are others close by! At better times of the year!

A conversation with a friend led me to the realisation that the piece I am missing to publishing is networking, is knowing people who publish, is being out there with published folks. I brought it up with Chad and he reminded me of the retreat again. I set aside money to travel later in the year, had almost reached my goal....why not use it for this instead?

No.

I went to bed grumpy.

I woke up thinking of an island off the coast of Georgia.

I brought it up with Chad again, we looked up travel cost. Well, that nixed it. Travel there was WAY expensive. Train, plane, rental car....all of it too expensive. So I lamented to a friend and she said, MEGABUS.

Wait, what is that? 5$ to Chicago from here is what that is. Another friend said once I get to Georgia she will drive me to the ferry (4 hours from her house!).

So.....I applied. I sent in the best work I had as an example for the application. I waited.

I waited. Waited. Days and days of waiting. I hate waiting.

Today, friends, I got the notification that I was accepted.

I nearly shook with fear. Yes, fear! To do this I have to ride a bus for 36 hours over the whole of the United States and take myself seriously as a writer.

The bus ride is easy compared to that last part.

Best of 2013: This is What Winning Looks Like

2013 was cruel. The year knocked me face down in the snow and ice and then stomped all over me. 2013 tried to take me down. 2013 tried to passive aggressively spread rumours and undermine my confidence. The year was persistent and mind boggling obsessive and mean.

I was not about to take this or that or anyone's shit anymore. I did not just get up and punch 2013 in the face. I did not use the same dirty tactics. Instead, I got my feet under me and went on my own way. I ran into the arms of my family, I leaned into my work, I was more giving and generous, I made a goal to write every single day, and I made sure that I was nourishing myself spiritually and emotionally daily. Every now and then 2013 would step out and remind me that it was all about her and she hated me, but I looked that self hate in the eyes and was terrified of the pain and suffering and the anger. That is not who I wanted to be at all, ever. That was enough to keep me on my feet and moving.

This is what winning looks like.

So, for you friends, those whose generosity and support walked with me on my journey.....Thank you. Thank you so much for your friendship, for reading here, for kind words, and for just listening. Thank you for being here. Thank you for not walking out on me when I needed you. Thank you for not standing by while life beat me up. Some of you are new friends, some I hope to meet, and some have been here for a very long time. All of you, thank you.

I present to you the best of 2013 on this blog. These are the posts that were shared and shared again. These are the most read of all time in the 7 years I have been writing here, aside from the blog post about rendering lard!

The Girls in the Locker Room
This post was about an experience I had at our local public pool with my daughters. It is still being read and shared almost daily, so it must have really hit home. Every now and then I get a private email asking if the girls I wrote about or their mothers ever got the message and the answer is I have no idea. I think they must have, being a small town, but if it worked, if my message made a difference to them, no one has told me. In the meantime, it has reached a lot of people and made a small difference in the conversations that have been created both in folks who disagree with what I said and in those who have been there themselves, self harming.

To The Universe I Say, Bring It.
This post is my favourite of all time. Chad wrote this one for a conference my friend Molly was speaking at and I cried when I read it and then asked him to share it here. We are blessed in so many ways by Chad and his role of father in Isaac's life is one of the crucial keys to Isaac thriving in the shadow of his 22q deletion diagnosis.

Why I Stopped Writing, Part Two
This was part of a series in which I write about why I struggle to find my creative voice. I never imagined anyone was reading it!

Something No One is Talking About, This post is about how children are treated in the medical world, the language we use, and how they are less than human in the way we address their fear and their bodies. My concern is that we are grooming them for victim hood. I have no easy answer, just observations.

Immunity
This post is about what we do for our own family in light of Isaac's 22q related immune deficiency. I was encouraged to write about these things because of how healthy Isaac is despite his lab work and on paper immune response. He gets sick less than other 22q kids and even less than a normal school child. Why? I have no idea, but these are the steps we take to help things along.

Mercy in a Ziplock
I wrote this post because I was being crushed by the holiday blues. I kept hearing folks say they were approached by someone in need but had nothing to offer on hand. Sometimes we need a list and a kit, so here you go.

Bonus:
This one did not rank very high, but was my most cherished post. This one, folks, was a long time coming and very hard earned. Way to go Isaac!
Surprise! 

Thank you again, friends for reading, for sharing, and for being so awesome. There were many directions and possibilities that stewed and bubbled and even festered at the beginning of the year, but without all the support and love that I was blessed with...... I would not be thriving.