Loss of a Mother

I only know what I have experienced, and that is the love between a mother and a daughter; I do not know the love between a mother and a son, nor can I pretend to understand. This is why I feel of little use to my husband. I have met death, I have felt death in the room, I have seen what death destroys, I have seen what death fosters, I have screamed at death, I have forbid it come, I have heard death delay and I have seen it rush. Yet death does not hear me nor see me nor feel me; for this should I be thankful?
I do not know that first breaths pain inhaled after losing mother. I have not walked upon this earth without her presence; I have not awakened to the silencing of her voice. Do you hear her still small voice as you shiver under cover? Do you feel her soft cool breath as you bandage up a knee? Do you see a glimpse of her as you stand affront the mirror? Do you recognize her in your child as some distant memory?

Why?

Why the hell are children starving when the earth has provided us with so much damn food?Why aren’t we outraged? Why aren’t we feeding them? Why are we throwing food away when there is someone who needs a sandwich? Why aren’t we clothing those who need a coat for winter? Why are we allowing men to rape women with rifles and worse, why? Why are mothers losing children to shrapnel while we drive our own children to music and tap and soccer and orchestra? Why… Why… Why… do we see the atrocities and horror on TV yet we go on making dinner? Why aren’t we protecting our sisters and mothers? Why do we allow a bomb to go off in a playground full of children? The next time it may be the playground where our children play.

Van Gogh Starry Night

Anyone so fortunate as to reach the age of puberty has heard the adage ‘mile high club’, it needs no explanation. I never understood its appeal – the broom closet at home is twice as wide, and the value per square foot…what is all the hype about? Then I recognized my own reverie – quiet whispers down another hall, long leather benches, soft lights – my own mile high club – a museum, perhaps after close, maybe under Starry Night.

Vietnam

I asked my father about Vietnam. I told him that one of the few things I knew about his life was that he had gone to Vietnam. I explained to him that I used to visit the Vietnam Memorial and stand where his name would have been, thankful that I never found those letters engraved in the cold black stone, knowing that I would not be standing there if they had. I asked him how you shoot in the direction of a child. He cried. He told me that you hear a comrade shot, watch him land at your feet with his guts spilling out yet you don’t think, you move your body forward while shooting into the dark. He said the jungle is always dark. He told me that most of the men in his unit stayed numb using drugs and women, he was often sent into the villages to pull men out of huts and back into the jungle.

Strange to refer to him as father, I found myself hesitating before using his first name, yet unable to stammer out dad; I spent the week calling him none of the above, opting instead to speak face to face.

My letter to the editor

I am writing to ask for more media coverage of the genocide occurring in the Darfur region of Sudan. At least a quarter of a million people have been murdered; over two million people have been displaced from their homes; villages have been burned; thousands of women have been raped. Yet six men who die in a mine receive ongoing media coverage for weeks, when hundreds are dying daily - lives we have the resources to save. Are their lives too insignificant to receive 30 seconds on the 6 o’clock news or a 2” x 6” article in the newspaper? If I drove into the next town and murdered one individual based on the color of their skin I would probably headline Channel 5 News for a week; yet a nation killing men, women, children, fathers, sisters, brothers, mothers, because of their ethnic background, does not warrant media coverage.

Even more disturbing than the lack of media coverage is the lack of public outrage at such atrocities. We have evolved into a nation more knowledgeable about the underwear deficit of a celebrity than the national deficit of our country. We need to show concern for someone other than ourselves. The front page of CNN.com gives no mention of Darfur although it has multiple articles posted about the Emmy’s. MSN.com has photos of OJ Simpson, the Emmy awards, and a plethora of articles on everything from finance to football, yet it offers no links to the genocide in Darfur. FOXnews.com has no mention of the increasing death toll or rising number of displaced refugees; it does, however, dedicate several lines to the ongoing custody battle of a has-been music starlet.

We cannot effect change unless we have an awareness of the problem. That leaves the lives of those still living in our hands. What can we do? According to the Committee on Conscience (http://www.ushmm.org/conscience/) created by the Presidential Commission, there are five things that we can do to fight genocide. The first is to educate ourselves about genocide. Information is available at the Committee on Conscience website; if you are fortunate enough to be in Washington D.C. the Holocaust Memorial has an entire library dedicated to Darfur as well as other regions of the world where genocide has taken lives. Second, write to the media and ask for an increase in their coverage of Darfur. This includes radio, newspaper, and television. Third, contact your leaders in government, both local and national; let your elected officials know that you expect them to take action against the violence in Darfur. Fourth, make Darfur a topic of conversation; many of my friends and family believed that genocide ended with WWII. Use your voice and educate others about the importance of ending genocide. And fifth, help sustain groups and individuals who are working towards ending genocide.

We can denounce genocide with words.

We cannot save lives without action.

Megan Van Pelt

Duncan Phillips

I found my rainbows end. Whether I stumbled upon it a third of the way into life or yesterday, my footsteps carried me, desire led me. Gently moving doors of glass proffered a glimpse of the treasure waiting for me inside. Mine did not take the shape expected, no round or oval object, no golden pot or kettle. Mine was a room, a perfect room of perfect proportions – a room of Rothko’s. Rainbows are unpredictable by nature, some guide us forward while others direct us left or right. Of course all of this is dependent upon where we are standing at the time. I happened to be standing at the Dupont metro station; early autumn hues led me up Massachusetts and 21st and into the Phillips Gallery. I had been meaning to come here for years, Duncan Phillips, the museums founder, is perhaps my favorite collector, choosing works that I would choose for myself, had I been born at the right time with the right resources. Unlike so many collectors who view art as an investment, Phillips saw art as life, as history, as expression....Duncan Phillips believed in the art of creating, he lived for it, as do I.
The room - intensely saturated with color. It felt deeply intimate. Alone I sat, in the center of the room, on a bench placed there as an afterthought, at the suggestion of Rothko himself. I am alone in this part of the museum, hearing only the faint sound of footsteps in the distance. The Rothko’s are mine. My heart is full.

A few words from last week...

I have been painting more frequently. My schedule has not changed, with two exams last week and a paper due next week my time is more limited than before – seconds are lost into minutes that turn into hours with haste. Time incessantly stumbles forward, yet I uncover the occasion to paint. Perhaps it’s a matter of self-preservation; perhaps its inspiration from others who seek their passions daily (Perrie’s piano melodies, Clarissa’s travels through the pages of a book). Perhaps it is nothing more than having the materials available at my fingertips; I have acquired quite a bit of canvas and oils recently, even splurging on a roll of un-stretched canvas and a half dozen frames on their second or third life.

happiness

What makes one happy? Do we simply choose happiness in place of regret or loss or disappointment or guilt? Do we need to choose happiness at all? Perhaps it’s a point of perspective; rather than choosing to be happy we simply need to change the lens through which we view our own lives.

Painting Under Stars

Sneaking out in the middle of the night, in lieu of candles, stars. Darkness proffers moonlight. Armed with easel and brush, canvas and oil, I lie in the grass; let the brush move my hand. The movement, fluid. The colors acquiesce. A woman in red emerges.
Last night I found time, time to be alone, time to create, time to express, time under the stars in mindfulness. My body lies under sky. I finish two canvases. The passion dripped from fingertips.

So Much For Promises

There are two subjects of which I self advised to never plague upon my blog. The first is infertility. The second is politics and religion (as a demonstration of my patriotism I treat them as one and the same). I found it imperative to avoid these subjects as their discussion has the tendency to bring out my bitter bitch; every woman has an inner bitch (if you disagree you are: A. not a man B. not a man married to a woman or C. not a man who has ever met a woman). I, however, have replaced my inner bitch with a bitter one.

So much for promises made to thy self . . .

I hate pregnant women. Is that statement too biting? My teeth seethe when I walk in front of a maternity store, its patrons’ rosy with anticipation “oh how wonderful, my genitalia will stretch to accommodate an un-ripened cantaloupe, what wonderment, my nipples suckled till raw and red, losing all resemblance of their former shape!” Much worse than the maternity store is the never-ending parade of pregnancy walking down my block; these are the women announcing with each step forward their refusal to gain a pregnancy pound, electing instead to move fat from their ass to their firm round belly. Is my bitter bitch beginning to show herself? In the presence of the expecting I am expected to give up my seat and preferred parking; I’ve been carrying around an extra 20 lbs far longer than nine months, where is my reserved parking spot?

Living ‘childfree’ in Utah has frequently made me a target for questioning. No-orgasm Nancy’s feel it their God ordained duty to “be fruitful, multiply and replenish the earth”. Amazing they even find the time to cast judgments. Questioned in the lobby of my doctor’s office I responded . . . why my husband says my pussy is far too pretty to go through childbirth . . . at once Nancy shut her mouth, in fact, every mouth in the lobby shut . . . or fell open . . . as if I were watching synchronized swimming.

Into the wood...

I have spent the last two weekends amidst a castle of trees. The Manti La Sal mountain range lies two hours south of here, its forest dense with life untouched, unharmed. At home there is nothing to suspect that I am anything other than a city girl…painted toes and silken scarves perfume behind my ear…but in the forest I am Ianthe, a river nymph come home to her wood. Lain back, my eyes are captivated in the luminosity of the night sky, falling forward as the background darkens the stars appear as night has given birth. The flames begin to smolder; the glowing red ash casts obscure shadows at my feet. River rushes over rock, my lullaby into sleep. Thoreau went into the woods to inhale life; I go into the woods and exhale.

She stands quite alone among the most distinct and luminous stars.

- m. sambrani

I have more than a dozen blogs to post. During my trip to the DC area as well as NYC I scrawled my thoughts and ideas onto small steno pads, their little yellow pages now everywhere... my purse, wallet, coat pocket, book jacket, luggage...there were even a few in my toiletries bag! I would also like to post excerpts from the Me Book I compiled last spring for a class. So maybe, just maybe, I can overcome the fear that prevents me from posting my thoughts...better to wait and see before making any promises.

On Solace

I am never alone. And on the very rare occasion that I selfishly insist on being alone, I find myself in the presence of guilt and thereby am still not alone.

I keep listening to the same song…something one can choose to do in solitary while hurting those that we love. Here I sit, at last, alone in my own home, repeating the Foo Fighter’s song “Razor” over and over and over again, all the while asking myself… how did I get here? At this very moment there are thousands that await to be fed, emaciated for lack of companionship, while I, undeservedly I assure you, I am in the presence of at least one other 24 hours a day seven days a week. Where one soul finds isolation another finds solace; how strange that both should occur in the same place.

Maybe the desire one has to be alone is merely an illusion; I question myself, do I yearn for quiet moments that I may hear the sound of my own heart beat...or do I need to hear the beat of another in order to recognize my own?

This seems like big news, and perhaps it is, my birth father called me. How strange and unfamiliar it feels to be typing those words as I hear them resonate in my mind.

untitled

I am living in my own private hell. A place I have created, a space I alone fill. My voice is not heard, each word not projected. My thoughts are mere whispers on a far away hill.

The Gift

Jim surprised me yesterday with a very early birthday present. Neither one of us has the ability to hold back a present until the approaching holiday; the excitement of seeing another’s expression as they open a gift to which you gave so much thought always wins out! Everyone who knows me is aware that my favorite book is “To Kill A Mockingbird”; I read it every year. This summer I am reading it page by page to Perrie, at the end of each page illustrating with words the scene that just took place and emphasizing what I believe Perrie will find the most joy and familiarity with. This summer I am seeing the book for the first time through Perrie’s eyes. Befittingly, Jim surprised me with a copy of the 40th Anniversary edition, signed by Harper Lee. I was stunned; to know that Harper Lee held my book and it bore her signature made me feel giddy, it was Christmas morning and I am looking at my shiny new bike, it’s pink and white streamers glistening in the sun’s reflection off the snow.

Neglect

I have been neglecting Perrie’s blog, and my own; it feels as though there is always something impending, something more that I have to, need to, should, must, ought to be doing; cognitive distortions race through my mind as if flipping through the pages of a dictionary. There is so much I desire to write down, countless ideas and thoughts and ramblings; some of importance, but these are few. The same desires I have for writing engage my need to paint; the same feelings and distortions prevent me from accomplishing both.

Summer Reading

This summer I have made reading a priority; not my first priority, but nonetheless it has proved fruitful. I began the school break with the Pulitzer Prize winning “Middlesex” by Jeffrey Eugenides. I was astonished at my reaction, joining the world of Eugenides characters was swift, easily facilitated by his beautiful prose and superb character development. I felt despondent at the books end; I longed to keep the characters alive, their journeys going forward beyond the turn of the last page.

“The Memory Keepers Daughter” was not what I had expected. This book, more than anything, is about the unravelling of a relationship between husband and wife.

I next read Nora Ephron’s “I Feel Bad About My Neck”. This book was a light read into the vanities of women, spun through the memoirs of Nora Ephron. I could not understand who the author was writing too; she claimed to be writing to ‘everyday women’ (you and I) however, I do not personally know anyone who does not wash her own hair, yet alone travels to Paris to purchase a $3000 purse!

I read “The Hours” last week after watching the movie version of Michael Cunningham’s Pulitzer Prize winning book. Both the movie and the book were exceptional. I felt such a strong connection to the character Laura Brown, played by Julianne Moore in the film. The heaviness of waking and fulfilling the role of wife, mother, housekeeper; the burial of dreams and aspirations; as Laura Brown I too feel heavy and burdened, and ungrateful for having these feelings at all.

"Stumbling Upon Happiness", "What's Worth Knowing", and a collection of short stories were enjoyable to read, but not good literature.

"Tender at the Bone" was surprisingly delightful! A memoir of a childhood reminiscent of mine - life that surrounds the kitchen table.

This past week I finished, "The Madonna's of Leningrad". I would recommend this book to anyone who has a friend or loved one with Alzheimers, or the art lover who enjoys a good period piece. To hear a narrative from a character with Alzheimers stunned me, it was lovely and sad and terribly real. As the Alzheimers progresses the early memories of the narrator's life become more clear while the more recent memories all but dissapear. The narrator lived in the lower vaults of the Hermitage museum in Leningrad for the long cold winter months during the war with two thousand other refugees in her late teens, it is here where much of the story takes place.

I just finished reading "Snow Flower and the Secret Fan". It is a period piece - 19th century China - from footbinding and the secret written language of nu-shu to the eating of the pigs penis and sharing of the chamber pot - the author transported me into the room with Snow Flower and Lily, I partook of their customs, felt their joys and sorrows, I sang their daughters laments; through the writers purposeful scribe I became woven into the lives of these two remarkable women. This is what a good book does after all; it offers its reader the opportunity to take up temporary residence in a foreign land with a brand new pair of eyes. I know that I've read a great book when I arrive at the last few pages and desire to go no further, I stall, not wanting to say goodbye.

I am now reading "Mrs. Dalloway" by Virginia Woolf; Perrie and I are reading "To Kill A Mockingbird".

Early Morning

I love the quiet of early Saturday mornings, it is just after 7am and the neighborhood is still in slumber…by 8:00 the sound of children and lawnmowers and golf carts on the green will signal the beginning of another day. It is then that I retreat back to bed, early morning clatter resonates its lullaby as I drift once again into sleep. It is Saturday – I have no responsibilities until half past noon, this time is my own…how lovely it feels to type those five little words.