Songs of Spring

imagesFlowers abloom and air filled with their delightful charms. Birds hatching their young and insanely excited. Outside my window, for the past four weeks, a mockingbird has been perched. She entertains me all morning, and reminds me of all the good things of which I need to remain mindful. She knows.


Musical Chairs

It is called “co-parenting.” More like code parenting.

I have had a fast forward flash that involves 2-4 parents and a bunch of grown kids. This is a form of “co-parenting,” but I can’t find a suitable label for this particular potential land mine. Hm. Land mind.

For now this way of being lies in the future present, and not the present, present. If I think about it now, my head will explode.

Filed under “Fun to Come.” It will be all right. It must be so.images


Misfiled Lyrics


I have misfiled again. I must, must learn to trust again. How do I change deeply rooted habits of thinking and behavior?

I have nothing to give, and my friends needs as much as I do. I will not increase the burden. It will  make me feel worse   But  my dear friends won’t like hearing that nonsense.

My biggest fear is being misunderstood. It’s one of those days.

I am in a self-imposed exile. Not for anything another has done or not done. Rather, despite some improvement in my adjustment to big life changes, I feel utterly lonely and increasingly depressed. I am so self-consumed that I’ve nothing much left to give; it is all I can do to get through a day and meet my children’s needs.

Maybe the meds aren’t working, or I need an increase.  Maybe it’s perceptions and not issues with chemical re-uptake inhibition.

At the same time, my old friends, careful of showing favoritism and the appearance of choosing sides politely avoid me.  After church, I approached four different people to go have coffee or lunch. Everyone running off to get on with their holiday. I am overly sensitive at present, and not fun to hang around.

So I took myself to a favorite cafe, buzzing with life and interest. There was a window seat, and I fired up the laptop and juggled food and computing, sharing space with other Singletons. I was alone in the crowd. It was both disconcerting and ironic to look around me and see that most of the tables had one empty seat.

Afterward, I walked up and back six blocks each way, window shopping. Trying to shake this feeling. Ultimately I returned home to my empty house. Bad idea.

And again, I am paralyzed. Alone and unmotivated.  Able to write here, yet unable to get my songs written or sung.

I will go to my piano now and just play. Maybe getting inside the music? Some days,  the only cure which can soothe and heal.



imagesOver the years, a few Mother’s Day’s have been misplaced. Conflicting performance schedules have been popular excuses. Too busy-ness, and a big job that requires travel (Three-quarters of the sum total of family birthdays have fallen under similar consequences.), and the refusal to write in a datebook such occasions which I take for passive-aggressive-sideways behavior. I could be wrong.

There was a golden time when Mother’s Day was a warm occasion celebrated with brunch or an early dinner. The days started out being special and fun. There was this feeling of “cool- I’m a mom! I baked these little people.” When the cards were drawn by small hands, the flowers wild and spiced with rosemary sprigs in honor of me and The Mother, those were happy times.

It was a time when more than motherhood was celebrated. What we were taking time to recognise was the joy of being a family. Despite all the underlaying unhappiness and frustration of the parents, we were a family of bright and beautiful young people who knew laughter and fun, and love.

Years passed, and small children grew as they must, but these special times of pausing to count our blessings became distilled into last minute mumblings of “Holy fuck, I forgot to buy the card. Did I buy the card? Is the flower shop near the corner still open, or maybe I can get to the grocery store before X wakes up and purchase the cake or flowers or card or chocolate croissaints or…? ”

On Mother’s Day this year, the first since my spouse moved out, I awakened to the sounds and smells of him making French Toast. By the time I’d dressed and opened my bedroom door, the kitchen was tidy as if no one had been there. Everyone gone early to church to vest for liturical duties.

On the counter in a drinking glass without water to nourish them, was a small bouquet of flowers, still in their wrapping. But there was no French Toast for me. No bread. All the eggs consumed. The traditional freshly juiced blood oranges were not present either. Perhaps worst of all: no coffee. None at all.

My feelings were multiple and weighed heavily on me. I quickly dressed and went to church. Maternal affirmation pervaded, and it made me both sad and angry. I was part of things, yet I was apart from things. I was not sure where I belonged.

One child went off with his father. Another went to see his girlfriend, and I went home to my kitty and made fresh coffee with a French Press. Then I went to bed and cried.

I miss being a family. It was something I treasured, something I put my whole life into creating and managing, and now I have fractured it because it was broken, and needed a remodel for all the members to be healthy again. It will take years.

On Mother’s Day, I questioned my judgment as I began the process of thinking, “never again will I know this.”

My first Easter in this new life was abysmal as well. I didn’t make baskets, or dye eggs, and the kids, knowing how tight the purse is, never mentioned anything.

I must remember not to let my grief interfere with the family traditions we created together. It is important that I keep these going. For them. For me.