Day 7: Angst in a Lockbox OR Seven Gifts from my Younger Self

I'd call my attic stairs "rickety-tricky". Rough-hewn and narrow they ascend to attic from the closet in my home's third floor front room. One side of the stairs is bordered by an exposed brick wall and the other side is unplastered lath. Carrying down a large box may require me to either scrape a hand raw on the bricks or fill my knuckles with splinters from the lath on the other side. Recently I had a box that was so heavy and large I just couldn't get it down myself without risking major injury, so I dropped it at the top of the stairs and peered inside (the light is a little better there). Appearing to be filled with several smaller boxes, I hauled one of those out and made it down the stairs without requiring a first aid kit.

In the box was yet another box, a metal lock-box. I wiped off the dust and wondered where the key might be. It turned out to be unlocked and it was filled with these:

This is gonna be great, I told myself. A few days later, not having to be anywhere early I settled back into bed with a mug of coffee nudging the dog and cat for some space. Move over you two!  Opening the small red diary I eagerly anticipated pearls of wisdom and profound insights from my younger self. 100 pages later I realized my journals were like a train wreck. The pages were terrible, but I couldn't look away.  The little diary was followed by the steno book and finally the spiral notebook, I kept reading until everything came to an abrupt halt with this:

What? I turned the page. Nothing. The rest of the notebook is BLANK. Too fat to write? Too self-conscious that I might be fat to write? I was 15 when I scrawled these words. I don't think I wrote in a journal again for years.

Who was that girl? I was really disappointed. She had no wisdom and precious little insight, wrote endlessly about boys (especially certain boys) and hanging out at the mall, worried about being liked or fat or both, cried a river and ate mountains of ice cream at the now-defunct Alaskaland. And then there was the whining. Some of my angst about certain boys went on FOREVER. Enough already. Get over it! Like Bill Murray's character in Meatballs I wanted to chant, "It just doesn't matter!" Oh, but it did when I was 14. Its a wonder that metal box didn't explode embedding its emotional shrapnel into the attic walls!

While she didn't have the insight or wisdom I expected, my younger self jumped forward from the pages with gifts. I wasn't always comfortable with the packaging, but I receive them now with grace, humility and gratitude. I share with you seven of them.

1. Writing it down helps. It seems that my diaries served as a sort of teen "morning pages" that Julia Cameron talks about in The Artist's Way. I didn't censor myself. My handwriting was terrible. I seldom corrected grammar, spelling, or sentence structure. I got the crap out on the paper and I did so almost every day for several years of my young life.

2. Simple things are important. Yes, sometimes I wrote about the clothing or other stuff I bought, but mostly it was the gatherings with friends or family. We baked cakes together, made a silly movie, stayed up all night at Barb's house reading parts of Sisterhood is Powerful out loud, went to school dances and plays, enjoyed camping, retreats, hiking, flea market and beach trips.

3. Some friends endure. Many of the people who were my best friends in Junior High and High School are still my friends. Sure the closeness of our relationships has waxed and waned over the years complicated by distance, marriages, children, and illnesses. I am struck by the strength of some of them. My BFF Tracy was wise beyond her years then as she is now. Still one of the kindest people I know, she called me recently after the sudden death of one our high school friends and as we talked the years melted away. We were girls again, laughing and crying and talking about those certain boys.

4. Risks are necessary for growth. I signed up for drama class as an elective in High School. Drama, well not the acting kind, was never on my radar before that. I didn't record why I said yes (perhaps so I didn't have to take art), but there are lessons I learned in that class that stay with me still. I had a growing political awareness (this was 1970-73) and I must have been a bit vocal about it. In History class we were assigned group projects. I went to the teacher, Mr. Miller, telling him that most of the students in the class didn't share my politics and asking if I could have a different assignment. He let me do one on the history of protest through music. I got an A. We wore black arm bands in May 1971 in solidarity with the May Day Protests against the Vietnam War. There was some discussion about whether we should be sent home from school or required to remove the armbands. In the end, neither happened.

4.1 Some risks aren't very smart. We were a group of good (mostly) kids who had some fairly decent parenting, but that didn't stop us from doing dumb or risky things. One Halloween my friend Nancy and I visited mischief and mayhem upon the neighborhood. We filled mail boxes with corn, toilet papered trees and bushes, and soaped windows. My father found out and I had to apologize to everyone on our street and clean up the mess. My parents argued about this and in the end I was also grounded for a couple of weeks. (It must have been significant on many levels since it is the only time I record a disagreement between my parents.) I liked to sneak out at night. Another time when Tracy was staying at my house we slipped out to meet a boy she liked who lived on my street. It appears here on October 8th:

The word DOG is missing between "the" and "started to bark." It's all the dog's fault!

We didn't really DO anything bad when we were out at night. Mostly we chased each other through the fields and woods. I liked feeling free and pushing the envelope. We talked a lot about sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll, but we didn't do much. I am sure none of us thought there was any risk. We were invincible. Although we never met anyone out there except each other, nowadays I think of assault, abduction, and murder. After the night my mom caught us I didn't sneak out at night as much, not only because I was grounded (again), but also because I started to think about the consequences.

5. I like fire. Candles and sealing wax (hey it was before the internet and cell phones) were a big part of my life. With the amount of sealing wax and number of candles my friends and I gave each other as gifts, coupled with our irresponsibility with fire (one journal details hiding a burn hole in the rug), it is a miracle we didn't burn down all of Colonial Park. Plus I write fondly about sitting up late around a campfire with cousins and friends. I still like fireplaces (my father had one added to the house about the time I was in high school), camp fires, and bonfires.

6. I love,  and was loved by, my family (even when I thought I wasn't/didn't).  I called my sister "Jolly Julie" for entertaining me with bad jokes. My friends thought my dad looked like Fred Astaire.  My parents made it possible for me to go to school and church dances, after school activities, the library (it was conveniently located at the mall), church youth group, choir rehearsal, and school plays. As a family we went to beach, camped with extended family at state parks, went on day trips, and had unusual pets including a skunk and a goat.

7. It gets better. Yes, it does. Although it was hard to see when I was 15, high school doesn't (and didn't) last forever.  My first day in 7th grade homeroom the kid behind me nicknamed me "Moby Moose." Since his last name followed mine in alphabetical order he sat behind me for the next five years, kicking my chair and calling me that name every morning. I escaped only by the creation of a newspaper staff homeroom for the students who worked on the high school paper. I loved working on the paper. It gave me a sense of freedom. I was extremely self-conscious about my weight (see photo above) and really believed that people would like me better if I was thinner. Thankfully, that got better, too. And that kid who gave me the nickname, we are still in touch, too.

I'm not sure what I'll do with those journals now. I am using the (unlocked) lock box to hold some cards and photos I want to keep.  For the moment I put them on a shelf, but I'm not sure I'll ever need to read them again. Perhaps I might indulge my love of fire and burn them. I am more responsible with fire now.  

Day 6: Transformed into Something more Useful than It's Original Self

I have a sorting system on my third floor. There is a series of boxes, bins, and garbage bags that items from the attic boxes go into: recycling, using elsewhere in the house, craft item boxed up for later, freecycling/re-gifting, donations, trash, etc. You get the picture. When a container is full it goes downstairs for final disposition which usually involves stumbling down the narrow stairway with my Quality Control Specialist underfoot.

On one such trip my husband looked at the box I'd been using saying, Here, let me help you with that. I think I can make that better.

What? Make this old box better? I was thinking of breaking it up for recycling. It's kinda ugly and not very sturdy. It's been in the attic awhile and a little worse for wear.

Sure, he continued, I can fix it up. Just give me a few minutes.

Here is that box 10 minutes and lots of duct tape later, transformed into something more useful than its original self. Previously the box had no handles, Keith cut these out and reinforced them with duct tape. Sides and bottom were reinforced, too. See, just lay some newspaper in the bottom and you've got a great box now. Use it until you finish your project.

I'm sorta like that box. Right now I'm a little worse for wear. I am tired. I don't mean physically tired, although I am that, but I mean WEARY. Weary, that tiredness that goes down into your soul. Some days I'm not very sturdy since I have a bad knee. My hair isn't the color it used to be and my face has more than a few wrinkles.

BUT, I am reinforced. DAILY. The duct tape that covers me comes by the grace of God in the form of my extended family, my long-time friends scattered across the country, (actually around the world - from Joshua and Micalagh in Belize to Dan, Roxanne, Destiny and Meg in Africa) my church family at St Paul's Episcopal my (second) church family at New Hope Community (with whom I work), my Dream Team artist community, my (mostly) younger friends and neighbors at The Makespace and my other work colleagues. Their prayers for and with me, hugs, jokes, notes, random acts of kindness, encouragement; all become the duct tape that reinforces me. Their tape intertwines with the tape of light from those I loved that have passed from this world, forming not only reinforcement but giving me handles to carry my burdens more easily. I transformed into something more useful and far stronger than I would be alone. I fall on my knees and give thanks at the knowledge of how richly blessed I am!

A nod to my Quality Control Specialist Lady Jane Grey. Nary a box comes into or goes out of our home without her detailed inspection.

Day 5: We were Young Once and Brave

Over the weekend a yellowed piece of paper fluttered to the floor, falling out of the back of the book. It was a letter to the editor of the Harrisburg Patriot News and the text of a telegram (yes, a telegram) a group of high school friends and I sent to President Richard Nixon on News Year's Eve 1972.  Reading those names on the bottom of the letter was bittersweet. Some of the people I barely remember, some I haven't seen in years and some have died. And some are still the type of friends that I can call at any time, the years dropping away as we talk, picking up where we left off the last time.

Bittersweet, too, was the realization how far we'd come since a telegram, but also how little things have changed. The Vietnam war may be over, but the state of world affairs remains as complicated as it was 41 years ago. I am now a "responsible adult" and still I begin each new year thinking of hope, understanding and lasting peace. 

Day 4: Liminal Space - Guest Post by the Rev Rebecca Myers

In the midst of a bustling New Year's Eve party my long-time friend Rebecca Myers and I were talking about the idea of liminal space. It was an appropriate discussion for New Year's Eve since liminal space  is defined as a place at or on both sides of a boundary. To put it another way, it the space between what was, what is, and what is yet to come (or the place we found ourselves at 11:35 pm on December 31, 2013.)

We soon drifted away from the discussion, our focus being drawn instead to cake for a friend celebrating his 60th birthday and over tired children amped up on sugar in anticipation of the big noise event at midnight. Fast forward to a few days into 2014 and I read (The Rev) Rebecca's sermon she preached at the National Cathedral in Washington, DC on December 29, 2013. Liminal space, that place where the Celts say the veil between the worlds is the thinnest, is where I and most of my family seem to be living right now.

For Day 4 Pastor Rebecca and I share her liminal space sermon with you at the excerpt link below. I pray it will shed some clarity on the liminal spaces in your life, too.


You see, this liminal space is useful and necessary…. Because we usually don’t like change nor eagerly seek it. We want to hold on to our life as we’ve known it, even if that life is killing us – think the Exodus where the people wanted to go back into bondage rather than be out in the wilderness.

In addition to being Priest-in-Charge of St John's Episcopal Church in Corbin, Kentucky, Pastor Rebecca is also Executive Director of St Agnes House in Lexington, Kentucky. St Agnes House
provides free housing to patients and their families who need treatments and surgeries done at Lexington hospital and medical care facilities.

Day 3: There's a Hole in my Sole

Once upon a time I had a nice pair of dark brown slingback pumps. I remember them as being fairly comfortable and they went with almost everything.  For some reason I stopped wearing them, because a week ago I pulled them out of one of the "Squirrel Party" boxes. They now look like this:

Here is my reconstruction of the crime or,  how the slingbacks went from beloved shoes to squirrel party fun. I was, most likely, doing a quick clean-up a couple of hours before company arrived. You may know the clean-up I am talking about here, the one where you walk (jog really) through the house picking up all the clutter, everything that is out of place and tossing it into a box or other container because you don't have time to put everything back into it's rightful place. Then you shove the aforementioned container into a closet, in the basement, under a bed or as in this case, I carried it in the attic. My husband calls this type of cleaning "committing a neatness," as in, Okay I can't find my (fill in the blank), because someone committed a neatness!

I am certain we were having overnight guests because normally I would not have wasted precious vacuuming or bathroom cleaning time by climbing another flight of stairs to the attic.  Further analysis indicates it must have been winter, because I didn't miss the shoes. They weren't in wearing rotation or I would have quickly retrieved them.

Several alternate theories also exist. I, or someone like me, boxed them up with random items when we moved in the 1980's and the box was put into attic storage along with many others.  (WARNING: Never move across the street. It's much easier to empty one house into a truck, drive truck to new location and the unload truck into the other home. Moving across the street takes FOREVER and its harder to get people to help you. Hey its only across the road, you'd don't really need us.) Or theory #2, I simply own too many pairs of shoes and therefore I never missed this pair. Like most crimes I'd venture to say that the truth probably lies not just in one place, but in parts of each theory. In the end, the dark brown slingbacks were forgotten like an outgrown teddy bear until the squirrels re-purposed them into party favors.

Those partying squirrels chewed right through the sole of my once favorite shoes, exposing all the layers underneath. No telling what those little squirrel brains were thinking. They didn't leave a note. When I see this photo I am reminded of the hole in my own soul. It's just as jagged as my shoe with softer bits of grief and regret showing through the hard angry shell.

When I visited my sister a few days ago and my brain was shouting, more time, please God, I want more time. My sister Julie and I never had one of those lovey-dovey, my-sister-is-my-best-friend relationships. We didn't hang out together much. We took different paths in life. Disagreeing on many things, especially when we were younger, we fought a lot and in the ways that only siblings can. Julie was first diagnosed with her rare form of cancer around the time I was starting a business. She interpreted my busyness as not being interested in the details of her illness and I assumed her tight-lipped approach to everything meant she was a private person who had everything under control. Ah, you know what they say about assumptions... They were our modus operandi for years. We had an occasional heart to heart talk, but mostly we went on as we always did. It never occurred to either of us to check out our assumptions, to ask if we'd gotten it right.

In the past year I prayed that we'd have a reconciliation, a deeper relationship. I prayed continuously for her healing, for her medical team, and for her husband.  It wasn't until my mom began to have some quirky problems as she was packing to move that Julie and I realized that we needed to work closely together or our entire family would lose their minds. And in the process we learned we were each others' biggest fans. Julie is the bravest (and most elegant) woman I know under truly horrible circumstances. She would probably never use either of those words to describe herself. We say I love you a lot now. We hang out more, too, even if it in is only by her chair in the family room as she dozes. My time with my sister is a gift. I am struggling not to complain about the wrapping, the timing or the ragged hole in my soul.

Day 2: Preparation

I'd love to tell you that I jumped in with both feet and spent an entire day clearing the room of boxes. Yep, I'd love to tell you that, but if I did I'd be lying...

There is some prep work that has to happen first. When there was a roof leak (see yesterday's post) the hole was large enough for some squirrels to get into the attic and PARTY! Although the squirrel party is long over, the mess remains.

The insulation has been shredded. I love chewing fiberglass, don't you? There weren't a lot of boxes there, but the squirrels went through them. Hey, lets try this on. Color looks great, but no room for my tail. Anybody find a party hat? Where did you find those great shoes? Hey mom, can I sleep in this purse? 

Of course I probably should not have left the boxes in there since we moved into the house in the 1980's. Out of sight, out of mind - until the squirrel party.

So I am hauling the boxes down from the attic one by one to go through them. There isn't enough light or space to deal with them properly where they are. Once they are emptied, we'll need to redo the insulation and repair the holes permanently. It's a first step. Sometimes the prep work has to be done before you can get to the heart of the matter.

2014 - The Year of the boxes

I never thought I'd be gone so long. I'm sorry if I left you hanging, waiting for more.

What I thought would be a brief hiatus for my niece's wedding in early June quickly morphed into  a "trail of tears" through boxes; family dysfunction; more boxes; relocations; still more boxes; acute, chronic and terminal illnesses; even more boxes, and finally; reconcilations followed by... wait for it... BOXES. Although it doesn't seem possible, if you somehow missed the trail marker boxes you would certainly stumble over piles of laundry, uneaten veggies in the frig, small mammal-sized dust bunnies, unanswered emails, unreturned phone calls, unopened mail and broken promises "to get together soon."  I never saw any of this coming, as I guess most of us don't, and was neither prepared to parent my parent nor to talk with my sister about fear, courage and death. 

The past half year has taken an incredible amount of energy. Despite doing my best to eat well, I have lost 15 pounds. Yes, there was some physical labor involved: packing and unpacking boxes, loading and unloading vehicles and moving furniture (again & again). However, it was the emotional toil that caught me off-guard. I felt, and sometimes continue to feel, afraid, overwhelmed and deeply exhausted much of the time. Oh, and then there is the guilt. Guilt because I can't make my mom happy, my sister well, work enough hours, pay all my bills, honor all my commitments, or even get together with my friends. I just can't seem to do enough OR do enough RIGHT.

Since July I have read little, misplaced my unfinished collage, painted only when I could clear enough clutter from the dining room table, and written NOTHING other than necessary emails and a few Facebook status updates. Then I went on retreat, returning with the knowledge that I needed to carve out a place in my house, a creative space/sanctuary/studio/workshop. Clearly this space is now as necessary to my survival as food, water, and air.

My third floor has a front room that is crammed with STUFF.  In its piles of boxes and assorted clutter are the remnants of every job I've ever had, every unfinished project, every "not-so-bright idea", every item I thought I'd repair or repurpose. Hidden among cartons are bins of "left-behinds" from guests and friends who have passed through the room, along with remembrances of those who have passed on from this world. And it's truly UGLY, too.  Boysenberry (looked much better in the can) walls, windows that don't fit well, and a hole in the ceiling from an old roof leak. Not a place, in its current state, where you'd want to spend much time. For the moment it is dubbed THE ROOM OF SORROW AND BROKEN DREAMS because it is the place where I have STUFFED it all, literally and figuratively, for decades. 

Yes, (insert nod to Jenn here) I know the title must change, but for now it is important that I acknowledge the role that room has fulfilled both in my house and my psyche. It is a metaphor for my life, serving as a kind of physical "serenity prayer," changing/fixing the aspects I can, accepting the parts of the room that cannot change and the wisdom to know the difference. Some of this I will only learn as I go, but I must go. Hence I decided to challenge myself with writing nearly everyday about  unpacking; sorting and deciding what to keep, discard, repurpose or give way. I am hoping, insha'Allah, the next 365 days will transform both my life and The Room of Sorrow and Broken Dreams into a place/space beyond my wildest dreams. Both dangers and surprises lie ahead, of that I am certain. On the journey I look forward to hearing from you.