Unexpected Gift

My birthday was earlier this week - Thursday. I love birthdays. Mine for certain, but mostly I just love the idea of celebrating the day someone came to be here and celebrating who that person is. I also love presents and cake and attention.

For a number of reasons, this year was not offering strong possibilities for any of those things.

We're on a tight budget. I'm on a sugar fast. I don't have a classroom or a workplace where attention is guaranteed.

This was also not a landmark birthday - two more years before the next one of those, thank God! Fifty-eight is not a number that excites me, although I do like the eight in it. And Thursday is not a day that speaks celebration necessarily.

I actually woke up Thursday and was in the kitchen before I remembered it was my birthday.

Here is how the day unfolded:

Walt honored the no-gift mandate, but made two cards of photographs - one of Toby and Emma and one taken of us on vacation this summer. And wrote sweet loving messages as he always does. And kissed me good morning in a way he hasn't for quite some time. And cheerfully sent me into a full day that didn't include him at all.

My middle brother Mark called as I was getting ready for class. We had a fun and satisfying chat at the end of which he told me he had written a blog post for me. The light of love in his words is so bright, I have to close my eyes from time to time to really be able to absorb it.

Carrie made sure everyone in class knew it was my birthday, led the singing, treated me to lunch and a sweet card and a gift. A lunch that was shared with a new friend who feels like a very old friend. During class an unexpected connection was made with a fellow student that has the potential to become much more.

For the first time in all our years together my time with my counselor fell on this day. It was a session full of celebration of all the gifts this year has brought already - gifts completely unconnected to my original goals. A stronger connection to Walt. A more peaceful home. A quiet but amazingly strong confidence and trust and faith in the face of lots of information suggesting I should be feeling otherwise.

From there it was coffee with a friend who started this path of seeking the light a little later than I did, and whose loving energy feels like a warm day out of season.

The day's grand finale was dinner and attending an author presentation with three friends - two of whom are brand new friends to me. We were an eclectic group, two attorneys, a doctor, and a writer. Laughing together about the fact that with all our collective education and ability we couldn't figure out the GPS on the loaner car we were in. Laughing at ourselves looking for row "G" and being told by a patient woman that the "G" stood for general seating. Laughing hysterically on our way home at our imitations of the author whose trademark "WooHoo!" and (to us) over-simplified recipe for achieving abundance were off-putting.

And finally home, to cards and phone messages and a husband happy to see me.

So, there were presents. There was even a cupcake from my counselor, which Walt enjoyed tremendously. I got lots of attention.

However, what I got this year that I've never felt before was the full experience of being loved. I know I've been loved, but growing up with love that always had a price attached made me wary. And the warier I got, the more I protected my heart from the pain of love withheld, the less I could feel. I felt loved every single minute of this amazing birthday. So loved in fact I was almost overwhelmed with it. I think, though, I will get used to this new feeling. It will become my new standard, as Carrie suggested. My heart likes her new freedom.

Who knows what magic and power will grow from the fertile ground of a heart finally fully loved?

photo from Flickr

Homework Revision

This week's homework was to choose a previous piece and revise or expand it. We were also challenged to include the color red, a description of the weather, and a specific kind of bird. I've worked the story that begins my first meeting with Aunt Bea and Cousin Sal.

After more than a decade of unexplained silence, Mommy recently renewed her relationship with her aunt, Bea. As part of my twenty-first birthday present, we are driving from my home in Spokane to the home Bea shares with her daughter, Sal, just south of Seattle. Although my brothers drove to Portland last spring to meet Bea and the cousins for the first time, this visit to their new home is my chance to get to know these female relatives who until now have only been quirky characters in reluctantly-told stories. Catching Mommy in a talking mood is as hard as pleasing her.

Tension rides in the car between us like a bomb that could go off if the car hit a bump too hard. It’s always been there, as long as I can remember. Mommy says it’s because I’m so intense and refuse to just accept certain things. I think accepting things that hurt you is wrong. Mommy’s favorite saying, “If God intended for things to be different, they would be,” just makes me mad. But I want us to be friends now that I’m an adult, so I start asking questions.

“So, you grew up in the same house with Bea?” Even though I already know the answer, I can’t get enough of this story, and sometimes Mommy seems to really like telling it.

“Yes. Granny and Granddaddy took my brother and me in. They had three kids: Mahlon, my father, who dropped us off on his way to Texas with his new wife; your Uncle Joe who was in high school then; and your Aunt Bea who was twelve. Because I was only eighteen months old, Bea took care of me like a little mother. She used to tell me that she and Granny would fight over who got to feed and dress me.

Because her voice is friendly and sort of wistful, I allow my curiosity to override caution. “If you and Bea were so close, how come you didn’t talk all those years?"

Mommy doesn’t say anything for a minute, lights a Pall Mall, inhales deeply and exhales a sigh of smoke through pursed lips. As she picks a bit of tobacco off the tip of her tongue, I worry I’ve gone too far. Before I can divert her with a different question, she starts to talk. “I’m surprised you don’t remember when the whole Mayo family came to visit us in Sandpoint. Bea and her husband wanted Sal’s brother Bobby to come live with us so he wouldn’t have to go to juvie. Daddy said no. They were really embarrassed and mad because they believed he would get to stay. We just sort of drifted apart after that.”

“Really, I was there? I don’t remember it at all.” I actually remember very little of my childhood, but for some reason not remembering this bothers me a lot. Coldness grips my chest, making it hard for me to breathe, like it does when Mommy lets me know God is not happy with me. I frantically poke around in my brain searching for the memory, but it’s nowhere to be found.

“They were only there for a couple of hours. Didn’t even stay the night. Sal read to the four of you, though. I’m surprised you don’t remember that.” Mommy’s voice is mild, not accusing, so I swallow my feelings and laugh, hoping to extend this time of truce.

I can’t believe we’re actually having a real conversation. I wonder what information I might get from Mommy before her mood shifts and decide to ask about Sal. She fills miles of our trip with stories about my cousin, told in a voice full of love and humor and admiration. I find myself wondering if my mom sounded like that when she told Bea about me.

“Darling, look at you! You look so much like Velma. You’re so beautiful. Joycie, you didn’t tell me how gorgeous she is.”

Bea’s hug engulfs me with so much affection, energy, and fragrance I can hardly breathe. The fact that her perfume is the exact same Tabu that Mommy wears makes my head spin a bit. I hug her back hard, inhaling the scent – amber, nicotine and scotch - that will forever after put me right back in the center of Bea’s generous love.

She pushes me away, keeping a firm grip on my shoulders. “Let me really look at you. The last time I saw you you were a freckled little girl in braids and bangs and dirty clothes. Now you’re a stunning grown up young woman. You have your grandmother’s Cherokee looks. Don’t you think she looks just like the pictures of your mom, Joycie?”

I look uneasily at my mom. Bea calls her Joycie? And she talks about my dead Grandma Velma as though it were no big deal? Mommy hates that nickname and refuses to talk about her mother: the beautiful, mysterious Cherokee princess who died when Mommy was just a baby. I become very still, waiting for the inevitable flash of icy anger, curious to see Bea’s response when it comes. Mommy shocks me by laughing at Bea and agreeing with her.

Really ? I want to say and don’t. You always told me I look more like you, which is so not true. I’m not prune-skinned with poor fitting dentures, too dark drawn-on eyebrows and over-dyed, shellacked beauty shop curls. I don’t have ugly whiskers sprouting from my witch chin, and I never will.

Tall, chesty, thin-hipped – Bea is the most elegant and sophisticated woman I’ve ever met. It’s love at first sight. Her hair is a soft wavy silver, styled in a chic cap that frames a beaming carefully made-up face. Her eyebrows are perfectly arched and just a couple of shades darker than her hair. Dressed in black pencil-thin slacks and a bright fuchsia silk top that matches her lipstick, her feet bare, she exudes sensuality that matches perfectly the elegant Siamese cat twining around her ankles.

I am related to this woman. Finally I meet someone whose blood I’m thrilled to share. For the first time ever I have a relative I want to be like. I feel disloyal as this thought takes up residence in my brain, but exhilarated with the relief of it as well.

Mommy and Bea are giddy in each other’s presence. Chattering like magpies. Lighting each other’s cigarettes. Drinking more than I’ve ever seen old women drink before.

My mom, whom I’ve never seen drunk one time in all my twenty-one years, becomes red-faced giggly with Bea. Alcohol was never allowed in our home and I’ve only ever seen Mommy drink sherry with Grandma. I learned to escape into the magical comfort of beer and scotch at high school keggers. Since then I’ve come to prefer the smooth and gentle warmth of wine. More than anything, I love that moment when whatever I’m drinking takes me completely out of my self and my life. This time though, I’m more interested in watching the relationship between these two women reveal itself. I don’t want to miss a moment of it, and sip my wine with unusual restraint.

“Joycie, you’re so thin. Are you sure you’re taking care of yourself?” Bea and my mom have settled side by side on the couch. Bea takes Mommy’s hand and pats it tenderly.

“Oh, you know I never could keep any weight on. I only eat to live; I don’t live to eat.” I consider mentioning the diet we went on together when I was fourteen, but stay quiet.

“Well you know how much I love to eat, Darling. Food is one of those pleasures, like Scotch and sex, I see no reason to deprive myself of.” I can’t believe how matter-of-factly my aunt talks about things Mommy considers sins against God.

I especially can’t believe when Mommy giggles and says, “Well you know how Daddy is, so I guess one out of three for me is better than none.”

Their sisterhood excludes me, leaves me feeling confused, alone, and jealous. I was so sure Bea and I were kindred spirits, but how can that be if she feels the same way about this woman I hate at least as much as I love? I want to tell Bea some real truths about her niece Joycie (her weight issues would just be the beginning) but I’m not sure she would believe me.

I excuse myself to go for a walk in the biting gray mist of the late fall Puget Sound evening. Before the door clicks shut behind me I hear Bea ask Mommy if I’m okay, and my mom’s reply that I often go off by myself – that I’m a very private person and it might take me some time to warm up to her.

You don’t understand me at all. I’m not okay, and you should know that. Once I’m around the corner from Bea’s sweet little ranch house, I pull a pack of Salem Lights out of my jacket pocket, light one with shaking hands, and inhale the smoke as though it might save my life. I’ve only been smoking for a couple of weeks, so the first few drags make me so dizzy I have to stop walking until my body adjusts to the chemicals. Cool moisture from the saturated air collects on my hair and shoulders, providing an odd sort of comfort. I tip my face skyward, a few tears escaping to join the misty caress lying soft on my cheeks. I refuse the tears, chasing them back inside with Salem smoke.

No one in my family knows I smoke. I’m not ready yet to tell them, because they’d ask why I started. Telling them the truth, that I was trying to fit in with my heroin-shooting black boyfriend, will not help my standing in the family. I’ll also be compared one more time to Mommy. The fact that I will never be caught dead smoking unfiltered Pall Malls won’t matter to anyone (like my brothers) making the comparison. I briefly consider switching to the elegant Virginia Slims Bea smokes, but decide they fit her much better than they do me – at least for now.

I’m curious if or what my cousin Sal smokes. On the way over from Spokane my mom talked about Bea’s daughter as though she were the daughter Mommy was meant to have, so much more like her in personality than I am – tomboyish, serious, mechanically inclined, athletic, pragmatic. I hope Bea might return the favor and wish I were her daughter, the two of us sharing traits the exact opposite of Mommy’s list: feminine, happy, creative, sensual, romantic.

I wonder if, when we met for dinner later tonight, I will like my oldest girl cousin on my mom’s side of the family. Will Sal’s two-year age advantage, her famous refusal to follow social conventions like being polite if it doesn’t suit her, and our opposite personalities leave any room for us to like each other? Can I like someone so much like Mommy? Is it possible for her to like someone who has made such a mess of her life.

Photo by Stephen Mitchell from Flickr

Toby Turns Two

Toby turns two today. He turned our life upside down when he came to live with us that first Christmas. As a grown dog, he's turned into a wonder of a being whose presence in our home feels like a gift that grows every day - much like the trees we've planted over the years. Stronger, more beautiful, more clearly evidence of a loving God.

Toby's first year in our life was marked by uncertainty (maybe we should have waited) and disappointment (he's not like any other Golden we've known, and he's not what we thought we were getting) and frustration (won't he ever learn to walk on a leash without dislocating my whole being?).

He was almost impossible to wear out. He wouldn't stop chasing the cats. He preferred chewing and tugging to cuddling. He barked. He wouldn't sleep through the night.

This second year has been something else altogether. He has a perpetual smile lit by bright brown eyes that are full of fun and challenge and doggy love. His smile widens to a heartbreaking explosion of joy that motors a wild wing of a tail every time one of us comes home.

He is only completely happy and relaxed when we're both home. After his full body greeting, he will bury his head into the legs of the most recently gone and stand leaning into that person while we pet him. If we try to move away, he pushes harder.

He is Emma's favorite being on the planet. My going-on-eighteen, demented, snooty tabby adores Toby. She starts yeowing for him from rooms away, then rubs all of her all over his face and chest, eventually settling between his front legs. He allows it, all the while on alert for her frequent changes of mood during which she might turn and slap him. Then our eighty pound boy just blinks, looks at one of us for rescue from that eight pound monster, but never even considers slapping her back.

He is the perfect companion for my new at-home life. A little bit of playing with the tug toy in the morning, lunch together on the patio - me with a book, him with his ball and bird shadows to chase, him napping quietly on the rug behind me as I work in the afternoon.

Toby loves everyone, regardless of the species. He's not bothered if they don't love him back. He's really good at asking for what he wants - his low growly voice persists until someone understands what he's asking for. He's affectionate and independent and curious about new things. He loves to run with abandon.

He sleeps on the bed with us. A fact that is so rich with irony considering the hell we went through trying to crate train him in the early months.

I am so in awe of the fact that this is the dog we've attracted. This is the dog of our healed lives. This is our teacher and companion and playmate.

Happy Birthday, Puppy Dog. I can hardly wait to see what the next year with you brings.

What's In a Name

This week's homework is to write a story about how a name in our family came to be. Mine starts at the end of last week's story.

Sal walks into the house, as cool as the late fall air that follows her through the door. Her hawk-sharp eyes take us all in, then narrow on me. “Hi. You must be my cousin. So has Mom kept you entertained?” There’s no hug, handshake, or chance for me to respond - just a wry look and cryptic grin before she turns to Mommy. They hug like long lost friends. “Joycie, you look great. You haven’t changed since that last time I saw you when I was, what, eleven or so? I’m so glad you came.”

“Sally Jo Mayo, you are a sight for sore eyes. What a lovely young woman you’ve become. Your mom told me the men in Europe all wanted to marry you, and I can certainly see why.” Mommy is glowing, smiling, resting her hand gently on the arm of Sal’s black leather jacket.

“I’d forgotten how sweet you are, Joycie. You sure did a great job raising your boys. We had so much fun last spring.”

Joycie again. She is an entirely different person here than the woman I call Mommy. If calling her Joycie is what it takes to get her to smile and laugh from a place I didn’t even know existed before now, I wish with every part of me that I could call her Joycie.

Mommy and Sal continue their conversation while Bea watches quietly with her bright blue eyes dancing above a happy smile. I wonder how it’s possible to feel so alone in this circle of women whose blood I share. I didn’t realize it until just now, but I was expecting Sal and I to fall in love with each other and to become instant best friends. I didn’t expect her to choose Mommy over me.

I study the person who has just gone from potential sister to possible enemy. She is lovely: tall, thin, with thick curly black hair, milky Irish skin, and the most expressive eyebrow arch I’ve ever seen. She looks like Bea, with a wilder, less cosmetic-assisted beauty. Her voice holds a hint of Bea’s huskiness and her words hold the power to put her at the center of the universe.

“Mom, did you get Joycie and Debbie’s room ready? I’ll drive us to dinner, Joycie, so you don’t have to deal with the traffic around here. Are you guys about ready? We need to get going before it gets too crowded.”

I’ve had it with being ignored and left out. “Mommy are you sure you’re okay with Greek food? I’m sure it’s not too late to go somewhere else.” Sal chose this restaurant because it’s one of her favorites. I’ve never had Greek food before and have really been looking forward to it. Mommy, however, is not an adventurous eater, and I’m willing to forego the adventure to get her back on my side.

She looks at Sal, beaming. “I’ll try anything once. I can always get a hamburger if nothing else on the menu looks good.”

With one eyebrow cocked and that closed smile, Sal’s eyes find mine. I smile my wide smile back, determined not to let her see weakness, not sure how to read her face. Is she acknowledging how stupid Mommy sounds, or is that an I-win-and-you-lose look?

I’m not sure just how much Sal knows about me. Whatever it is came from my mom through hers. Based on what Mommy said driving over from Spokane today, I would say I didn’t come off looking good, which might explain Sal’s coolness toward me. By the end of the conversation, I was sorry I’d started it.

“Mommy, have you told Bea anything about me?”

“Of course. She’s like a sister to me. We don’t have any secrets.” Mommy stubbed out her Pall Mall in the overflowing ashtray, making it clear she meant to stub out any further questions.

I risked one more anyway. “What did you tell her?”

“I told her all those things I couldn’t tell Daddy and the boys to protect both them and you.” Her voice was developing an edge I wanted to step far away from, but my need to know was far greater than my need for safety in that moment.

“So she knows about my baby, and the adoption?” I kept my eyes focused on the road ahead and my voice as soft and even as possible. I would not let her anywhere near the pain those words threatened to explode to the surface.

“Yes. And she knows you flunked out of that fancy college you insisted on going to. I did decide not to tell her about your baby’s father being black – and married. I don’t want her to think I didn’t teach you anything at all.”

At that point, she turned on the blinker, punched in the lighter and pulled out another cigarette from the crumpled pack in the overflowing purse next to her. “This is the exit to their house. We’re almost there.” Conversation over.

Riding shotgun as Sal drives us to the restaurant with our moms chattering away in the back seat, I’m thinking how glad I am about all the things Mommy doesn’t know about me. I’m also remembering Bea was really glad to see me, so maybe she doesn’t care the same way Mommy does. I read judgment in Sal’s silence behind the steering wheel, and I try to cushion myself from its chill with words.

“Mommy and I have been looking forward to this trip for a long time. I can’t believe I have all these cousins I’ve never met. What are your brothers like? Mommy’s been talking about them both a lot since she and your mom got back together. What did you think of my brothers? I really want to hear about your trip to Europe. I’ve always wanted to go, but Mommy says I’m too young.”

“You call her Mommy?” Sal doesn’t take her eyes off the road, but her eyebrow goes up and her voice drips with scorn.

Really? This is how she wants to start things? And with our moms in the back seat?

I glance over my shoulder and realize I could confess every single one of my sins to Sal and neither of our moms would hear. They are so involved in some story about Grandaddy, Bea’s dad and Mommy’s grandfather, it’s as though nothing else exists.

I turn back to Sal wishing she’d brought up anything, even my baby, instead of this. The best I can do is to try to sound nonchalant and not defensive. “I’ve always called her Mommy. So do the boys. It’s what Daddy calls her, too. They call each other Mommy and Daddy.”

“You know it’s weird, right?” I hear a shift in Sal’s voice, although her eyebrow stays up. The scorn softens to something I can’t quite identify.

“I guess so. But it’s the only thing I can call her. Believe me I’ve tried other things. Nothing else works.”

“What do you mean nothing works? All you have to do is say Mom instead of Mommy like your brothers do. Or even Mother. It’s not that hard.” The scorn is back in full force and Sal’s eyes bore into me searching for intelligence it’s clear she’s sure she won’t find.

Tears I refuse to release sting my eyes, and words I can’t say in this car glue themselves into a great lump I try to swallow away.

I tried Mother - once. What I got in return was, “Don’t you take a tone with me young lady. I will not stand for your disrespect.” I’ve tried Mom a number of times. She smirks at me when I say it, and I can’t stand giving her the satisfaction. No, I don’t know what she’s smirking at, but if I call her Mom it feels like I’m giving in to something I can neither define nor accept. I can’t do it.

“What do you call Bea?” I push the question out, hoping to divert the tears I’m barely managing to control.

“Mom or Betty Jo. I’ve never called her Mommy and I never would. It sounds too babyish, too much like I need her to take care of me. Besides I’ve always been the one to take care of her. I don’t need to be taken care of.”

Her unspoken words hang in the air between us, blaring, “You are a baby. Only babies call their moms Mommy. You need to be taken care of.” I want out of this car. Now.

“Are you girls having a good talk up there? Wouldn’t it be wonderful if you could be friends just like Joycie and I are? Then the four of us could have all kinds of fun together. Wouldn’t that be great, Joycie? You and me and our girls?”

Saving both of us the embarrassment of coming up with a good lie to answer Bea’s question, Sal says, “We’re here. I hope everyone is hungry. The stuffed grape leaves and baklava here are better than I had in Greece last summer.”

Painting by Katrina Christofferson from Flickr

Migration Miracle

We were stopped, the car turned off, listening to the silence of the refuge while crisp autumn air, softened slightly by the distant sun, wafted through open windows. Occasional trilling warbles of incoming Sand Hill Cranes reminded us where we were.

This was our first visit of the season to the wildlife refuge that is our refuge from the world's noise and demands. We've been coming here for years, and have grown accustomed to the rhythms of this place. The four mile loop offers different possibilities, different ecosystems at different places. Every single time we've been here, every time, we witness some new miracle of nature.

I trust this with such certainty that the near empty ponds and dearth of avian life didn't bother me. A few coots, an occasional heron, ordinary raptors here and there. I watched, and enjoyed, and waited. For my gift.

We were in a stretch where in the winter swans can be seen swimming on great shallow lakes. On this day, however, fields of dried grasses stretched empty before us - until I spotted a row of gray egg-shaped lumps in the distance that looked out of place. They were too big to be Canada geese, and besides we hadn't seen one goose (despite the fact there were hunters on the perimeter of the refuge). They were too round to be herons, and herons don't hang together like that. Before I got the glasses, my mind tried to make them emus or guinea fowl, both ridiculous choices for a refuge in the Pacific Northwest.

And then I knew. The glasses gave just enough additional detail for me to know without doubt I was seeing Sand Hill Cranes. They are among the first migrators to find their way to this place, and we'd seen a few in past seasons, but never as many as this, and never grazing in a goofy conga line along a dike. While we watched, several more flew in to join their friends on the ground, unmistakable for their wobbly, leggy landings and the dashing red streak on their heads.

I was satisfied as we drove on, sure I'd had my gift for the day.

So when we stopped near the end of the loop to soak up the silence and listen to even more cranes flocking in flight behind us, I was happy-to-overflowing with a successful visit. Walt and I were arguing mildly about whether a gray-white duck in the midst of a flock of brown-gray ducks might be albino. While he had the glasses and was trying to confirm one way or the other, I scanned the sky ahead of us, hoping for a Bald Eagle.

What I got instead was thousands of Canada geese writing their migration across the sky in ever-shifting hieroglyphics. Wave after wave, charcoal letters on blue silk, at first so faint as to be imagined. Then overhead and around us, some continuing past, one group of hundreds circling in front of us, filling the air with urgent honks and cackles. They spiraled in a vortex to the ground until they filled completely a small pond.

I'm not sure when I became aware that I was witnessing the arrival of these magnificent birds from their summer grounds. Canada Geese are a common bird in my life, much like robins. I enjoy them, appreciate them, but am not moved by them like I am many other birds. But to be in that place, at that moment in time, to see the end of a migration - I felt like I was in the presence of an enormous miracle.

I've been thinking since about what makes a miracle a miracle. I had no doubt I would receive one. It seems that maybe I got two. I wonder if it isn't a bit of a miracle that I know for certain of a place I can go when I'm in need of a miracle. Some people might consider my miracles nothing but a bunch of birds doing what birds do. I guess they might be right. But I know that only a miracle could fill my whole being with such crystal pure joy.

Photos from Flickr. The bottom picture was actually taken at "our" refuge.

I Didn't Know It At The Time

Here is this week's prompt for class: I didn’t know it at the time, but everything was about to change.

“Darling, look at you! You look so much like Velma. You’re so beautiful. Joycie, you didn’t tell me how gorgeous she is.”

And so began my relationship with Aunt Bea.

My mom and I had just driven hours from Spokane to the home Bea shared with her daughter, Sal, just south of Seattle. After more than a decade of unexplained silence (how could women raised as sisters stop talking to each other?) Mommy had recently renewed her relationship with her aunt. The boys drove to Portland last summer to meet Bea and the cousins for the first time. This visit to their new home was my turn to get to know my mysterious aunt and my even more mysterious cousin.

Bea’s hug engulfed me with so much affection, energy, and fragrance I could hardly breathe. The fact that her perfume was the exact same Tabu that Mommy wore made my head spin a bit. I hugged her back hard, inhaling the scent – amber, nicotine and scotch - that would forever after put me right back in the center of Bea’s generous love.

She pushed me away, keeping a firm grip on my shoulders. “Let me really look at you. The last time I saw you you were a freckled little girl in braids and bangs and dirty clothes. Now you’re a stunning grown up young woman. You have your grandmother’s Cherokee looks. Don’t you think she looks just like the pictures of your mom, Joycie?”

I looked uneasily at my mom. Bea calls her Joycie? And she talks about my dead Grandma Velma as though it were no big deal? Mommy hated that nickname and refused to talk about her mother: the beautiful, mysterious Cherokee princess who died when Mommy was just a baby. Daring to breach either of those taboos could easily have triggered an angry freeze – would have for sure if I’d been on the other end of the conversation. She shocked me by laughing at Bea and agreeing with her.

Really ? I wanted to say and didn’t. You always told me I look more like you, which is so not true. I’m not prune-skinned with poor fitting dentures, too dark drawn-on eyebrows and over-dyed, shellacked beauty shop curls. I don’t have ugly whiskers sprouting from my witch chin, and I never will.

Tall, chesty, thin-hipped – Bea was the most elegant and sophisticated woman I’d ever met. It was love at first sight. Her hair was a soft wavy silver, styled in a chic cap that framed a beaming carefully made-up face. Her eyebrows were perfectly arched and just a couple of shades darker than her hair. Dressed in black pencil-thin slacks and a bright fuchsia silk top that matched her lipstick, her feet bare, she exuded sensuality that matched perfectly the beautiful lilac point Siamese cat twining around her ankles.

I am related to this woman. Finally I meet someone whose blood I share that I feel connected to and want to be like. I felt disloyal as this thought took up residence in my brain, but exhilarated with the relief of it as well.

Mommy and Bea were giddy in each other’s presence. Talking over each other. Lighting each other’s cigarettes. Drinking like I’d never seen grown women drink before. My mom, whom I’d never seen drunk one time in all my 21 years, became red-faced giggly with Bea. Usually eager to lose myself in the soothing comfort of any form of alcohol, this time I was more interested in watching the relationship between these two women unfold. I didn’t want to miss a moment of it, and sipped my wine with restraint.

Their sisterhood left me out, and after the newness of it wore off, left me feeling confused, alone, and jealous. I excused myself to go for a walk in the soft gray mist of the late fall Puget Sound evening. Before the door clicked shut behind me I heard Bea ask Mommy if I was okay, and my mom’s reply that I often went off by myself – that I was a very private person and it might take me some time to warm up to her.

You don’t understand me at all. I’m not okay, and you should know that. Once I was sure I was out of sight of Bea’s sweet little ranch house, I pulled a pack of Salem Lights out of my jacket pocket, lit one with shaking hands, and inhaled the smoke as though it might save my life. I’d only been smoking for a couple of weeks, so the first few drags made me so dizzy I had to stop walking until my body adjusted to the chemicals.

No one in my family knew I smoked. I wasn’t ready yet to tell them, in part for fear I’d be compared one more time to Mommy. The fact that I wouldn’t be caught dead smoking unfiltered Pall Malls wouldn’t have mattered to anyone making the comparison. I briefly considered switching to the elegant Virginia Slims Bea was smoking, but decided they fit her much better than they did me – at least for now.

I was curious if (or what) my cousin Sal smoked. All the way over from Spokane my mom talked about Bea’s daughter as though she were the daughter Mommy was meant to have, so much more like her in personality than I was – tomboyish, serious, mechanically inclined, athletic, pragmatic. I hoped Bea might return the favor and wish I were her daughter, the two of us sharing traits the exact opposite of Mommy’s list: feminine, happy, creative, sensual, romantic.

I wondered if, when we met for dinner later that night, I would like my oldest girl cousin on my mom’s side of the family. Would Sal’s two-year age advantage, her famous refusal to follow social conventions like being polite if it didn’t suit her, and our opposite personalities leave any room for us to like each other? Could I like someone so much like Mommy? Was it possible for her to like someone who had made such a mess of her life?

Photo from Flickr

Jay Wisdom

Sometime in the last few days all the big leaf maples turned from tired green to soft pumpkin gold. As the skies faded to infinite shades of gray, the space between above and below began to glow with the light of thousands and thousands of leaves in their last moments of glory.

Jays, both Steller's and Scrub, are the predominant birds in the yard right now. Raucous, imitative, fractious creatures whose flight pattern is balletic. Flap, flap, soar - with tail feathers fanned behind like a mermaid's tail - repeated over and over until they land with firm confidence in a tree or on the ground.

Mostly invisible just a few weeks ago, the jays now spark against the lowering clouds like leftover slices of the summer sky. In some mythology jays are bestowed the ability to link the heavens and the earth. In my yard they weave through big leaf maples, silk cyan ribbons whose blue vibrance makes the gold of the leaves intensify even more.

I can't seem to take my eyes off these magnificent birds, and something about the explosion of color when blue shimmers across gold tickles my awareness. I've been watching jays for weeks now, spotting them far in the distance with an inner nod to their distinct silhouette. I find myself watching them dip from tree to tree, all of my senses, not just sight, responding deeply to the flashes of blue. Their ratchety chatter frequently breaks through whatever fog of concentration has me in its thrall.

Are they trying to tell me something? Had Bald Eagles been gathering in my yard for weeks, I would have paid attention immediately. New messengers for a new life?

Before seeking outside wisdom, I explore my own response to these jays. The words flow as easily as their flight: happy, confident, fearless.

Research reveals many other symbolic traits, all of which sing power: clarity, voice, assertion, curiosity, truth, endurance, patience, loyalty, vision, strength. And it offers these meanings, which sooth a heart hurt that grows with each new rejection and each new day of no clear direction: My visiting jays apparently are here to "teach me how to develop great talent." They represent "a time of greater resourcefulness and adaptability" and remind me there will be "ample opportunities to develop and use my abilities."

Unlike many of the other birds in my yard, the jays don't leave for the winter. They'll be here during the long dark cold months reminding me of our connection when I forget where to find my light.

And for good measure, one of the primary symbolic meanings of the maple tree: Balance.

Message received.

photos from Flickr