When I was about nine, I saw the movie Kramer vs. Kramer. It was probably the first adult movie I ever saw and I found it devastating and cried uncontrollably. I don't remember it clearly now, except that the mother seemed to have left her son and husband and they had to struggle along without her, and did. * * * Okay, that is the plot, essentially, except she eventually returns, they battle for custody, she wins, then when she goes to pick up her son, she decides to leave him with his dad.
Now, thinking about my previous entry, I can't help but believe that at some level my young self knew that divorce and custody would figure prominently in my life. I remember returning home from that movie and falling into my mother's arms.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
I could barely speak. I know I finally sputtered, "Promise me that you and dad won't ever get a divorce."
My mother didn't answer right away and I cried harder.
"Promise me," I pleaded.
My mother hugged me, "I can't promise you something like that," she explained. "I just don't know."
Was it the temper of the times in 1979 or my mother's own reservations about her marriage or life in general that led her to answer that way? I'll never know. I do know that the movie struck a nerve with me . . . and now I know why . . .
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Harriet's House
I was scrolling through my writing file last night when I found this story. I wrote it in advance of the purchase of the house with my horrid-ex. I wrote it anticpating the house that we would buy for our family. Interestingly, reading it yesterday, I realized that the house we bought was not at all the house described in this story. The house we bought was a very nice house, but it had a shared laneway and no yard at all. It wasn't the house I described in this story. Incredibly, the house I described in this story is pretty much the house I have now, which seems uncanny. It makes me think that we know more than we are able to acknowledge . . . that perhaps I do have intuition and I can trust it to guide me through what seems impassable.
"Harriet’s House"
When Harriet was born, her parents lived in a big apartment in an old building. It had stained glass windows, large rooms, wide hallways, and hardwood floors. It was beautiful. But when Harriet came home from the hospital, her parents realized that the apartment was no place for a baby.
Music blared from the apartment below them. Dogs barked from the apartment above them. Poor Harriet couldn’t sleep! It didn’t take long before her parents decided to move. They wanted Harriet to live in a quiet house where she could have her own room and a yard. Most of all, they wanted Harriet to be able to sleep.
Harriet’s parents began to look for a house, but it wasn’t easy to find one.
They looked at one house that was far too small. Another one was far too narrow and tall.
Still another was far too big (and expensive). Her parents took Harriet along with them too see the houses, but she was still a baby and couldn’t tell them what she thought. While they looked and looked, she waited.
Except one day, at one house, Harriet waved her arms and cried, “Hey!”
Her parents jumped. They looked at Harriet.
“Did you hear that?” said her father.
“I did,” replied her mother.
Harriet’s parents didn’t expect to hear from Harriet again, because she was still a baby. They looked around the house one more time, and as they did they realized that it wasn’t too small. It wasn’t too tall. It wasn’t too big, and it wasn’t too expensive. It had big glass windows, large rooms, a wide hallways, and hardwood floors. It was almost like their apartment. Except that this house had something special -- a big back yard.
While Harriet’s parents looked and looked, Harriet did too. She waved her baby arms.
“Do you like it?” asked Harriet’s mother.
“Could you live here?” asked Harriet’s father.
They waited to see what Harriet would do. It was so quiet in the house, and so familiar, and her arms were so sore from waving them, that after giving her parents a big baby smile, Harriet fell asleep.
“She likes it,” said her father.
“She can sleep here,” agreed her mother.
And they decided right then that this was the house for them.
Harriet was happy in her new house. There was no music blaring below her. There were no dogs barking above her. Harriet could sleep. And she did, most of the time, because she was still a baby.
"Harriet’s House"
When Harriet was born, her parents lived in a big apartment in an old building. It had stained glass windows, large rooms, wide hallways, and hardwood floors. It was beautiful. But when Harriet came home from the hospital, her parents realized that the apartment was no place for a baby.
Music blared from the apartment below them. Dogs barked from the apartment above them. Poor Harriet couldn’t sleep! It didn’t take long before her parents decided to move. They wanted Harriet to live in a quiet house where she could have her own room and a yard. Most of all, they wanted Harriet to be able to sleep.
Harriet’s parents began to look for a house, but it wasn’t easy to find one.
They looked at one house that was far too small. Another one was far too narrow and tall.
Still another was far too big (and expensive). Her parents took Harriet along with them too see the houses, but she was still a baby and couldn’t tell them what she thought. While they looked and looked, she waited.
Except one day, at one house, Harriet waved her arms and cried, “Hey!”
Her parents jumped. They looked at Harriet.
“Did you hear that?” said her father.
“I did,” replied her mother.
Harriet’s parents didn’t expect to hear from Harriet again, because she was still a baby. They looked around the house one more time, and as they did they realized that it wasn’t too small. It wasn’t too tall. It wasn’t too big, and it wasn’t too expensive. It had big glass windows, large rooms, a wide hallways, and hardwood floors. It was almost like their apartment. Except that this house had something special -- a big back yard.
While Harriet’s parents looked and looked, Harriet did too. She waved her baby arms.
“Do you like it?” asked Harriet’s mother.
“Could you live here?” asked Harriet’s father.
They waited to see what Harriet would do. It was so quiet in the house, and so familiar, and her arms were so sore from waving them, that after giving her parents a big baby smile, Harriet fell asleep.
“She likes it,” said her father.
“She can sleep here,” agreed her mother.
And they decided right then that this was the house for them.
Harriet was happy in her new house. There was no music blaring below her. There were no dogs barking above her. Harriet could sleep. And she did, most of the time, because she was still a baby.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Sweeping
I was browsing my favourite design site when I heard it coming. Down the street at 3 am came the street sweeper. Who drives it? Who are the people who sacrifice their nights to maintain our city streets - snowplowers, streetsweepers, construction crews - and why do they do it?
Reminds me of . . . how some of us want to sweep things under the rug.
This has come up in relation to:
-my daughter's habit of hiding toys and her feet under our living room area rug
-my own resistance to change and avoidance of one recent most stressful, most important issue
-how a couple of my friends have avoided speaking to me after I've wanted to talk about said stressful, anxiety-provoking issue
-my recent reading in Hold Me Tight about how intimate partners avoid addressing vulnerabilities by masking them with anger and how troublesome this can be to good relationships
I suppose it is all about managing anxiety. So is writing, to a certain extent - because it contains and structures experiences, difficult or troublesome, or otherwise. It allows a critical distance. It offers consolation. Which is why I gravitate to writing.
I ask my boyfriend, "Can I complain?"
And he generously listens.
I knew we would get along on our first real date date when he launched into a story that figured him as an awkward observer to his own experiences, complete with emphatic hand gestures and rueful looks. I can't remember the story, but I remember noting the performative aspect of his telling and how he looked framed against the window of the Italian restaurant and how good it felt to be sipping red wine on the verge of intimacy with this intriguing stranger.
What I appreciate about this man is his ability to hold and contain difficult emotion, even if it scares him. He is someone who deals and that is a rare thing. That's the only thing, really.
Reminds me of . . . how some of us want to sweep things under the rug.
This has come up in relation to:
-my daughter's habit of hiding toys and her feet under our living room area rug
-my own resistance to change and avoidance of one recent most stressful, most important issue
-how a couple of my friends have avoided speaking to me after I've wanted to talk about said stressful, anxiety-provoking issue
-my recent reading in Hold Me Tight about how intimate partners avoid addressing vulnerabilities by masking them with anger and how troublesome this can be to good relationships
I suppose it is all about managing anxiety. So is writing, to a certain extent - because it contains and structures experiences, difficult or troublesome, or otherwise. It allows a critical distance. It offers consolation. Which is why I gravitate to writing.
I ask my boyfriend, "Can I complain?"
And he generously listens.
I knew we would get along on our first real date date when he launched into a story that figured him as an awkward observer to his own experiences, complete with emphatic hand gestures and rueful looks. I can't remember the story, but I remember noting the performative aspect of his telling and how he looked framed against the window of the Italian restaurant and how good it felt to be sipping red wine on the verge of intimacy with this intriguing stranger.
What I appreciate about this man is his ability to hold and contain difficult emotion, even if it scares him. He is someone who deals and that is a rare thing. That's the only thing, really.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
River
One of the beautiful things about this new neighbourhood is the river. We've been walking by it for the past week and in just that time have seen it transform from slushy snow and chunks of ice to glittering, ice-free paths and water.
My daughter loves swinging high above the grass and gazing out into the river.
She asks me, "Why the swings are in the middle of the park?"
"What do you mean middle?"
"Why they are in the middle?"
"You mean close to the river and not with the play structure?"
"Yes. The middle of the park."
"That's so you can swing and look out across the river and know this is a special place."
"Oh, yes," she agrees, and throws her head back, small face turned to the sun, while the gulls and geese and ducks and red-winged blackbirds call and cluck and feather themselves in the background.
Life flows on despite all the obstacles. That is the lesson.
My daughter loves swinging high above the grass and gazing out into the river.
She asks me, "Why the swings are in the middle of the park?"
"What do you mean middle?"
"Why they are in the middle?"
"You mean close to the river and not with the play structure?"
"Yes. The middle of the park."
"That's so you can swing and look out across the river and know this is a special place."
"Oh, yes," she agrees, and throws her head back, small face turned to the sun, while the gulls and geese and ducks and red-winged blackbirds call and cluck and feather themselves in the background.
Life flows on despite all the obstacles. That is the lesson.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Sleep?
There is no such thing as sleep, it seems, not for me. I rest, fitful, and slide into dreams, but the deep, restorative stuff? Not sure if I ever get there. (I realize I must or I wouldn't be able to write this, but it doesn't feel that way.)
From across the world he suggests I get it over with.
Why?
I'm an ostrich and my head is buried deep in the dank, dark sand. That's the way I like it, thank you.
How do you move beyond avoidance? I'm not sure. It must just take time. As long as I ignore the question, I think it'll work out fine. (I realize I'm likely wrong, but it doesn't feel that way, it feels comfortably dark and dank.)
Last evening, in front of the faux fire, new IKEA rug cozying the hardwood, snuggled into a lovely soft brown sofa (from a dear, departing friend) with my girl, I began reading Hold Me Tight while she read Blueberry Girl. These were two perfect books for Friday night after the movies (we saw The Princess and the Frog).
I got up just know with a plan to read more about adult attachment. It makes perfect sense to me. Without a sense of love to rest in, someone at our back and strong, without the comfort of an intimate bond, how can we sleep at all?
From across the world he suggests I get it over with.
Why?
I'm an ostrich and my head is buried deep in the dank, dark sand. That's the way I like it, thank you.
How do you move beyond avoidance? I'm not sure. It must just take time. As long as I ignore the question, I think it'll work out fine. (I realize I'm likely wrong, but it doesn't feel that way, it feels comfortably dark and dank.)
Last evening, in front of the faux fire, new IKEA rug cozying the hardwood, snuggled into a lovely soft brown sofa (from a dear, departing friend) with my girl, I began reading Hold Me Tight while she read Blueberry Girl. These were two perfect books for Friday night after the movies (we saw The Princess and the Frog).
I got up just know with a plan to read more about adult attachment. It makes perfect sense to me. Without a sense of love to rest in, someone at our back and strong, without the comfort of an intimate bond, how can we sleep at all?
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Safe
My first obligation is to my daughter. I have to continually come back to her. This little person is being pulled in two directions and I have to try my best to comfort her. On Tuesday, a friend,
child of divorce said, "It sounds like you are saying the right things."
I shrugged, because I do not know. I try, but you can never tell . . . especially when what you say is necessarily a reaction to what someone else has said, filtered through the emerging consciousness of a three-year-old.
My friend said, "What I needed to hear, what I didn't hear, was along the lines of what you're saying."
I couldn't remember what I'd told her, "What?" I asked, foggy, perplexed.
"You are loved. You are going to be okay. You are safe."
I nodded and the fog shifted. I know I say, I love you. The light filtered through. I know I say, I will always take care of you. I know I say, I am always with you, in your heart.
But there was something dense and difficult still sticking there. "The safe part is hard," I explained . . . "When I don't know . . . if she will be safe." How can I let her go? And to him?
"Or if I'll be safe myself."
My friend's face, so beautiful and sad in that moment, froze. She nodded.
I realize how challenging it is to say, to believe, to ensure that those we love, that we, are safe.
child of divorce said, "It sounds like you are saying the right things."
I shrugged, because I do not know. I try, but you can never tell . . . especially when what you say is necessarily a reaction to what someone else has said, filtered through the emerging consciousness of a three-year-old.
My friend said, "What I needed to hear, what I didn't hear, was along the lines of what you're saying."
I couldn't remember what I'd told her, "What?" I asked, foggy, perplexed.
"You are loved. You are going to be okay. You are safe."
I nodded and the fog shifted. I know I say, I love you. The light filtered through. I know I say, I will always take care of you. I know I say, I am always with you, in your heart.
But there was something dense and difficult still sticking there. "The safe part is hard," I explained . . . "When I don't know . . . if she will be safe." How can I let her go? And to him?
"Or if I'll be safe myself."
My friend's face, so beautiful and sad in that moment, froze. She nodded.
I realize how challenging it is to say, to believe, to ensure that those we love, that we, are safe.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
5 to 6 am
Crystaline grass
silver shopping cart (inexplicably left on my front lawn)
a hobbling skunk
no one hears the bang and clank
of coffee and dish
raging
alone
there is no one to wake
but eyes everywhere
especially mine
framed by orange lace
over dishes
steam rising and softening
my edged gaze
Couples come, confer, approach and pause, enter . . .
I image swinging sex or
church confessions
come late to my role
of gossip and snoop
moved
my daughter marches and stomps
"Why I can jump mommy? Why I can?"
she lays down later on the grass
hugging it
we run round and round
monsters creaking at our backs
silver shopping cart (inexplicably left on my front lawn)
a hobbling skunk
no one hears the bang and clank
of coffee and dish
raging
alone
there is no one to wake
but eyes everywhere
especially mine
framed by orange lace
over dishes
steam rising and softening
my edged gaze
Couples come, confer, approach and pause, enter . . .
I image swinging sex or
church confessions
come late to my role
of gossip and snoop
moved
my daughter marches and stomps
"Why I can jump mommy? Why I can?"
she lays down later on the grass
hugging it
we run round and round
monsters creaking at our backs
Sunday, March 7, 2010
One of my fav Ottawa blog finds . . .
This blog has been inspiring me through my post-purchase haze. I love scrolling through images of beautiful homes and imagining mine could be so lovely . . . if only I had the money . . .
Housing m(ar/rac)ket
I was reading yesterday's Ottawa Citizen Homes section at my local Starbucks this morning. They featured three types of recent buyers in their spread: an investor, downsizers, and first-time buyers. Their intro anticpated that March would be a busy time for homebuyers in Ottawa with mortgage rates still low and demand still high because of the relatively stable economy.
As I sit in my new home, enjoying the view of my yard (must plant something), the quiet of my space (no centretown truck traffic), I hope that I have made the right choice to buy. Bills have started pouring in (water, hydro, property taxes) and I do feel somewhat overwhelmed. Meanwhile, my hoped-for upgrades are also costly (floors, electrical, roof). Can I afford this? I'm trying to keep expenses down. I'm leaving the thermostat at 20. I've decided not to buy new furniture. I haven't gone out in I don't know how long (moving week pizza and coffee excepted). I suppose my challenge will be how to transition to a more modest budget after living a year of post-thesis material therapy. I've never been extravagant, you can't afford to be as a grad student, but I've also never had to spend any large amount of money. Can I just coast along in this little cottage and not upgrade it? Will its property value rise without necessary changes? Not sure. I planned to do a lot, prior to moving in. I guess things change once you realize how much it all costs.
Still, just having privacy, the yard, the basement, the laundry, the walk-in tub (which, as it turns out, doesn't leak if shut properly, so I keep it shut and A and I climb in and out of it with the help of a stool), the extra bedroom, and faux fireplace - all these extras feel like they are worth how much more we are paying. Now, I don't have the granite counters and molding and dishwasher and who-knows-what of Barrhaven buyers, but I'm walking distance to downtown (it took me a mere 40 minutes to get from my old apartment to here on Monday morning, and it was a pleasant walk).
So, here I am, trying to decide . . . have I just responded to cues from the media and launched myself into something risky, or am I making a sound personal investment?
As I sit in my new home, enjoying the view of my yard (must plant something), the quiet of my space (no centretown truck traffic), I hope that I have made the right choice to buy. Bills have started pouring in (water, hydro, property taxes) and I do feel somewhat overwhelmed. Meanwhile, my hoped-for upgrades are also costly (floors, electrical, roof). Can I afford this? I'm trying to keep expenses down. I'm leaving the thermostat at 20. I've decided not to buy new furniture. I haven't gone out in I don't know how long (moving week pizza and coffee excepted). I suppose my challenge will be how to transition to a more modest budget after living a year of post-thesis material therapy. I've never been extravagant, you can't afford to be as a grad student, but I've also never had to spend any large amount of money. Can I just coast along in this little cottage and not upgrade it? Will its property value rise without necessary changes? Not sure. I planned to do a lot, prior to moving in. I guess things change once you realize how much it all costs.
Still, just having privacy, the yard, the basement, the laundry, the walk-in tub (which, as it turns out, doesn't leak if shut properly, so I keep it shut and A and I climb in and out of it with the help of a stool), the extra bedroom, and faux fireplace - all these extras feel like they are worth how much more we are paying. Now, I don't have the granite counters and molding and dishwasher and who-knows-what of Barrhaven buyers, but I'm walking distance to downtown (it took me a mere 40 minutes to get from my old apartment to here on Monday morning, and it was a pleasant walk).
So, here I am, trying to decide . . . have I just responded to cues from the media and launched myself into something risky, or am I making a sound personal investment?
Thursday, March 4, 2010
In
I am writing on a slope, my new leather office chair is edging into the middle of the room from the side of my desk. I don't think there is any fixing this. I've moved now and my mind has shifted its focus from how to get everything in to how to make everything work. However, a house on a slight slant is just something I'll have to live with.
Why must everything work? No reason. It can't. Impossible to do after a huge move, unless you are my friend B, who makes perfection her mission and whose home was immaculate mere days after her belongings arrived. This place in a work in progress, like everything else in my life.
The joy of here, already, is the space around me, even if it is mostly filled with boxes. The beauty of a basement is that it holds boxes out of sight. Ditto for the garage. Imagine, a garage! I never, ever imagined I would take such pleasure in such a place, but now I enjoy the smell of oil and the old tools hanging on nails, and the rakes and baby food jars filled with odd screws and nails, and the pails and shelves and tarps and everything unrecognizable to a former apartment dweller.
Why must everything work? No reason. It can't. Impossible to do after a huge move, unless you are my friend B, who makes perfection her mission and whose home was immaculate mere days after her belongings arrived. This place in a work in progress, like everything else in my life.
The joy of here, already, is the space around me, even if it is mostly filled with boxes. The beauty of a basement is that it holds boxes out of sight. Ditto for the garage. Imagine, a garage! I never, ever imagined I would take such pleasure in such a place, but now I enjoy the smell of oil and the old tools hanging on nails, and the rakes and baby food jars filled with odd screws and nails, and the pails and shelves and tarps and everything unrecognizable to a former apartment dweller.
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