It’s a Fred Eaglesmith kind of night. It’s kind of gritty, dark, cloudy and chilly, too. Like story, or a train, or a storm’s rolling in.

Over the past few years, I’ve been thinking about a lot of things: I’ve been thinking about boundaries and limits, and desires, and truths. And it’s taken me a while, but finally I feel like I am understanding what they mean–for me. For starters, a truth: After decades playacting, I am finally becoming me. Wild, young and free, me. The me who had never had a haircut in her whole life til she was 12. The me who loved horses, dogs, and calligraphy, intrigued by the shapes and “personalities” of all three. The me who was always pleasant, silly, friendly, and kind. Decades after abandoning her, being instead, who I believed everyone else needed me to be–I am returned. 

My day started in a meeting of women from across two continents, sharing their stories, feeling the feelings, and owning their lessons. One of them asked if I’d read Untamed, by Glennon Doyle? (I haven’t, but I absolutely will.) My friend had heard a podcast of Brene Brown’s, with Glennon being interviewed about her book. I listened, too. And was blown away by what I heard. Truths about womanhood and motherhood so painfully accurate that I began to tear. I recognized myself in so much, but especially in her story about the trained cheetah: The one who did what it knew, but always, deep, deep inside, had a sense that what they were meant for something, but whatever it was, was not this. I have spent nearly my whole life playing a role, a really, really good role, mind you, when I knew, deep, deep down inside me lived a spirit screaming to break free. That was the first time today I was leveled with realization. 

In this morning’s group, we women also talked about boundaries, what do they mean? And whether they aren’t just a more polite means of being controlling? What are my boundaries? Where do I end and you begin? Who, and how many do I want on my island, and how do I want to treat, and be treated on it? Now I know just how good I feel when I enforce my newly realized boundaries. Like I’m someone who is worthy of protection. Like I’m a kid who wants a parent who will tell me what time to be home at night. Like I’ve got someone who loves me enough to teach me when to say, “We’ve had a really good time, but now it’s time to go home.”

I am learning what I really want: To give myself permission, to take alone time, to play. I want to live a life that’s real, and messy, full of accidental mistakes, and with amends with great intention. 

I want a life that comes with joy and with pain, and some lessons are hard-learned. Like the one when you see your hand heading slowly towards the stove and though you know exactly what’s going to happen next, you’re unable to stop. You can see the burn before you can feel it.  

Fred Eaglesmith is an alternative country singer songwriter. He writes gritty songs about gritty people. I’m a gritty singer songwriter from an alternative country. The one-woman land known as me. 

Wilder Than Her, Lyrics by Fred Eaglesmith

Well I’m wilder than her, what else can I say?
But I guess that’s why she fell in love with me
She’s a house on fire, she’s got all those charms
I’m a house on fire too, but I’ve got four alarms

And I’m wilder than her, drives her out of her mind
I guess she thought that she was just one of a kind
But she’s a summer storm, I’m a hurricane
One just blows through town, one blows the town away

And I’m wilder than her

When we go driving in our cars, racing through the night
She can drive as fast as me but she stops at all the lights
She says it’s ’cause I’m crazy, she’s probably right
But I think the reason is that I’m twice as wild
Because I’m wilder than her, drives her out of her mind

I guess she thought that she was just one of a kind
But she’s a summer storm, I’m a hurricane
One just blows through town, one blows the town away
And I’m wilder than her

But when she takes my hand and she looks me in the eye
I see something that I’ve never seen in my life

She takes the fire and turns it down low
She takes the night and makes it not so cold
She takes the distance, breaks it into miles
She makes my life just a little less wild

Because I’m wilder than her, drives her out of her mind
I guess she thought that she was just one of a kind
But she’s a summer storm, I’m a hurricane
One just blows through town, one blows the town away

And I’m wilder than her


Note: I would never have known about old Fred or this song if it weren’t for Dar Williams. The attached video is not either Fred nor Dar. Title and lyrics borrowed without permission. I hope Mr. Eaglesmith won’t mind.

Halloween

We walked along the path leading into the woods the leaves on the trees so vibrant it almost hurt to look at them the same way I felt when I look into your tired eyes it’s been a hard year but you’re hanging upside down in a batman suit I love you crazy throw me and I will return

New Years Eve

You fell asleep and I was all alone with my friends who were awake but not here with me and even though we rolled on the floor with the dog and drank bubbly wine when we kissed at midnight it felt more like resignation than resolution in the morning you were gone yet again I’ll return 

Easter

The cherry trees are blooming despite the sudden cold the sun shone just above the river where you held me the jumping fish scared us until we laughed the dog enjoyed romping in the woods tonight even though you weren’t here to see it so much that you won’t see you’ve apologized and thrown me again

Halloween

The days have truncated but the sky is still blue I recognize this path faithful dog by my side I picture the gap in your bottom teeth as you’d smile and realize it’s been months since I’ve awakened thinking of your face I see myself reflected in the puddled water and know to whom I’ve been returned

It’s nearly April and the Bradford pears are in bloom. In normal times, that would mean that we’d be heading to Jammin Java in about a week’s time to hear our friends, the Nields, play their it’s-spring-break-in-New-England-so-time-to-visit-the-Grandparent’s-in-VA annual show. Of course, this is not normal times.

Instead, I’m sitting here in my kitchen watching Nerissa, and Katryna (and Dave) play to an audience on Facebook. I’m grateful I still get to hear and see them.

Nerissa said she’s working on a new song, called “When I Was a DJ”. Just so happens that at one point in my life, I was a DJ…this song is true.

When I was a DJ, I was tall and blonde

And when I was a DJ, everyone loved my song

They adored my lilting voice 

And my witticism interspersed

And tuned in every Tuesday to hear my thematic verse

When I was a DJ, they asked if they could see me,

If they could come to the studio door?

And I said that if I looked like I sounded

Wouldn’t you think I’d be on TV?

When I was a DJ, every Monday night 

I’d write out my playlist, I wanted it right

I picked A sides and B sides and then in the morn

I’d come in the studio and a new show’d be born

No two were the same, 

Two for Tuesday in northeastern Ohio

No two were ever the same…

When I was a DJ I was Queen Bee

Stories to tell and no one to see

the signal barely extended beyond the campus walls

That didn’t really bother me

Cause when I was a DJ, 

I was blonde and tall…

I talked to my dad on the phone this morning. He sounded tired, but still was chatty. My dad doesn’t hear very well anymore. If anything, that just gives home more reason to do most of the talking. 

“Dad, how are you doing? What are you guys up to today?” I kicked off with, he took it from there.

I bought a corned beef the other day. $17, you know, the kind of roast beef that’s packaged in the brine? All you have to do is put it in a pot on the stove and cover it just barely cover it with water. I cut up cabbage too and put in potatoes. It’s not hard to make. You simmer it on the stove. 1 hour per pound, that’s what they recommend. It was so good! Sandy loved it. It was a lot of meat tho. Do you ever make that? Make a corned beef? It’s delicious, and it’s not expensive, we got 3 or 4 meals out of it. Today I’m going to thinly slice the rest of the cabbage, very thin, add some mayonnaise, make a little coleslaw. You know, you can pay $4 for a half lb of premised coleslaw, but it’s so easy to make.”

I noticed during the conversation how many details my dad included, the price of the meat, the detailed cooking instructions. My dad was a teacher, and I suppose at 89, that’s what he still is. Every conversation, an opportunity to explain, to illuminate. 

He started talking about current events, I’d interrupted his Sunday news show with Farid Zakaria. He was listening to them talk about China and that led him to explain to me the history behind the settlement of Taiwan, what it was called first, how it came into being and what the Chinese perspective is about it now. “They won’t go to war over it, he exclaimed calmly. They threaten to every decade or so, but they won’t.”

Then he spoke about education and how teaching a kid to memorize facts and figures does nothing to teach them how to think. “You have to teach the context, don’t just say the Civil war happened x. Explain the circumstances that lead up to it. The south didn’t just attack Sumpter, they were provoked. Did you know that? Their food was cut off so there was a response. You have to consider what lead up to the things that happened.” He’s absolutely right. These days, pressure to adhere to curriculum and perform for standardized testing has dissipated the kind of learning our kids get. My dad says, “It’s a shame.” And he’s right. I have a college degree, but my knowledge of world history, politics, language, religion, it all pales in comparison to my dad’s. And he’s likely forgotten 50% of what he once knew.

My dad goes on. He loves food, has always loved to cook. Like me, he’s a peasant cook, “a little of this, a little of that, cook it till it’s done.” He doesn’t just say, we had fish, he shares with me that he bought a thick slice of orange roughy, from Joseph’s market. Orange roughy, he explains, comes from New Zealand. He goes on, sharing the seasoning he used, the sides he prepared with it. How long he cooked it. How delicious it was.

My dad loves details, he loves to share. Mostly though, he loves his family. It’s been over a year since I’ve seen him. Thankfully my middle sister and I made a quick visit to Florida 18 months ago for his 88th birthday. I know each one more he gets now is a blessing. He mentions he’s coming up north for a week in May. I am caught off guard by this news, grateful. I realize that I am tearing up at the thought of seeing my father again. I miss him, the stubborn old dude.

“They opened the pool area back up again,” he shares, with a sense of relief in his voice. I recognize how hard the isolation has been for this extrovert, head of the classroom guy. “I wrote a very strong letter to the community management, a very strong letter. I told them, look, we’ve all been seeing one another down here for nearly 20 years, and most people don’t stay all year. They go back to NY before Passover, so we don’t have much opportunity. These are our friends. We can socially distance and wear masks. Why can’t we gather at the pool?” There was a sadness in his voice. I could tell that he’s been lonely. And also, perhaps, that he recognizes there may not be that many days left to tell his stories, to recount the details. 

I will listen.

As I traveled down that lonesome road

The one where you end and I begin

I found that what once was lost–

The forgotten mile was me, my friend

The forgotten mile was all it took

To take me away from what I knew

And deliver me into someplace else

Where to myself I’d be true

When I was small I’d ride my bike

Count all the sidewalk cracks

Dream about my future life

Laid out in concrete maps

The distance between your head

and your heart

Is the distance from proof to faith

As I’ve veered from what made sense

I found a strength I never knew

It took a forgotten mile to remind me 

Or to teach me for the very first time

That the road to peace inside 

Is the one we don’t think to try

Yesterday I searched 

for a way to merge 

the disparate lanes 

of motherhood

One, where I didn’t miss a thing. 

And this. 

Compressing the moments between 

Sundays and Wednesdays

into memories. 

Quickly, 

before the custody clock ticks away. 

When I want to feel sad 

and proud

I return to old videos 

where my daughters are themselves

and I am all theirs.

Lucy’s lanky legs dangling

from the edge of my old bed. 

Radiant as she sings 

and strums guitar.

Annie Rose spinning 

on the beach, arms extended 

in inherent grace.

Today I am thankful 

for movies 

and brief exchanges.

Both remind me

They once were 

and still are 

mine.

I’d failed to make a proper plan–
one where we wear ironed shirts and share an enviable meal.

Instead I’d allowed you to sleep, and to sleep,
because you were tired (and to be honest, I was enjoying my own company.)

And when you did finally wake you blamed me
for ruining the evening (actually, I was having the time of my life.)

Your email this morning said you’d rather not get hurt
I know exactly what you mean.

So, tonight, I am eating the bacon-wrapped scallops,
sautéed spinach, baguette warmed and buttered.

And I am drinking what’s left
of Thursday night’s Prosecco

I’m sorry you were hungry and that you’d slept more than you’d wanted.
But I’ve found that caretaking and carousing don’t have to be paired.

A toast! The lessons were delightful; I am going to be fine

I am enjoying this meal, in my kitchen alone
and the peace and the quiet, and the dog by my side.

Should Old Acquaintance be forgot,
and never thought upon;
The flames of Love extinguished,
and fully past and gone:
Is thy sweet Heart now grown so cold,
that loving Breast of thine;
That thou canst never once reflect
On old long syne.

Title and final stanza borrowed without permission from Robert Burns. I hope he doesn’t mind.

And just like that they’re gone again, my daughters.

You’d think by now I’d be used to the Wednesday evening departures, leaving my house with the same great gust of energy that they arrived with last weekend. Taking with them their dimples, rosy cheeks, the better half of my heart.

They’ll be back again, of course. On Sunday. But by then it will be a New Year. What if everything changes before I see them again? What if when the ball drops to the empty streets in Times Square (thanks to Covid-19) some great shift will occur? Will they be the same girls I said goodbye to in my living room? My arms wrapped around them, their arms at their sides, too old, too teenaged and beyond to hug me back.

They will.

We all will be the same. And yet, somehow, in the cold breeze of anticipation, it feels like things might be a little bit different…

Happy New Year, Loves. I’ll miss you.

[Title borrowed from Bob Dylan.]

How is it possible--
That these two women,
One, all limbs, the other, all torso, 
Sprang from me?

I have nursed and diapered, 
Filled sippy cups (“More juice, Mama!”)
Read stories out loud and in different voices,
Rocked them to sleep

I have coached soccer, 
commuted to Hebrew school,
Braided hair and 
shopped for fancy 
school dance dresses

Now, they drive themselves home

My wish for them: Gratitude.
(It’s taken me too long to realize that is the secret)
See what you are and express thanks--
Invites much more joy than wanting, waiting, 
for something different 
(so that happiness can begin)

My work is nearly complete...
A few more dinners to prepare
A few more tears to console
Until, someday, perhaps? There is a new babe 
to soothe.