Monthly Archives: May 2017

Roaring Girl

There are “always” we dolls do in Virginia Beach: a Sunday gathering to set goals for the week; a superhero movie and dinner out on Wednesday; dollbaby chocolate cake; craft Thursday; share something of our work on Friday.

We also do a reading of our Medicine Cards early in the week. It gives us something to reflect upon, whether in our lives or within our writing. A useful focusing tool, for anyone. This year seemed to be the year of various tarot decks. Besides the above-mentioned Medicine Cards, another doll bought a deck of Kuan Yin Oracle Cards. Absolutely gorgeous. Another great focusing tool. I recommend the method to anyone, whether you believe in the mysticism aspect of it or not. Pull a card, read what it has to say to you, and it will spark thoughts you’d not have otherwise had. The whole storyline for Heroically Lost was sparked by a tarot card

This craft-Thursday, we created cards for our own personal tarot. It’s was really fun, and informative. It relies on both the conscious and subconscious mind to create them. Simply, find images that speak to you, whether printed out from online or cut from magazines. Each card needs a background, and a focal point. You can add other elements, but overdoing it confuses the focus. The background and image get glued onto cardstock, whatever size you wish. Once you have done that, there are a series of questions you must answer without thinking too hard about it.

I am __?__. I am __?__. I am __?__. My purpose is__?__. I want you to know__?_. My name is __?__.

This is one of the two I made: Roaring Girl screaminggirl

She said, “I am wild. I am powerful. I am full of light. My purpose is to speak. I want you to know you are not invisible. My name is Tee.”

I had a dream last night. Someone (don’t remember who) pummeled me with disparaging remarks about my pink hair, my general appearance, my everything. A surge of confidence welled instantly up in me. Not even a second of pain or humiliation. I said, to the best of my recollection: “I am practically perfect in every way. I’m beautiful, intelligent, talented–very talented–and nothing you say can change that.”
It wasn’t the words so much as it was the feeling that welled up and radiated out of me. It was like my roaring girl, all those colors shooting out of her, the sparkle uncontained. She didn’t wilt, even for a second. She burst.
I consider myself a confident woman. I believe those things my dream self said. I really do. (See the name of this blog, if you doubt.) But creating this card showed me there still exists that little girl in black and white, roaring silently from my past, lingering in places, unexpected, but loved.
I love her, that little girl. I love her so much. She didn’t know what to do with all the brilliance inside her. The world didn’t want it, didn’t know what to do with it. But I do, and I’ll hold her hand while she roars.
Peace.
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Another Beach Week, Another Mother’s Day

VAB

Dollbaby Week is always the first week in May. It has been so for fifteen years. Fifteen years. It’s hard to believe that first trip to Bald Head Island was in 2002. There are ten of us now, sometimes eleven. Only two of us from that original week still head to the beach every year, and two more from year two. Some dolls have only been coming a couple of years. Some five, six, seven…it doesn’t matter. Once a doll, always a doll.

The week is sublime, restorative, and full. We count the days down starting the minute we leave the beach (347 days as I write this,) and yet we’re ready to go home when it’s over. Being together is all the more cherished because our time is brief.

2015 was the first time I went to Virginia Beach in many, many years that I didn’t go with my heart in my throat. Things were all-around good. We’d survived addiction’s turmoil as a family, and had come out a bit scarred but definitely on the other side. Chris was out on his own, working a job he loved, doing well, it seemed. The cycle of chaos that typically poised to spiral out of control every spring wasn’t hanging over my head. I went to Virginia Beach secure in the knowledge no doom would fall while I was gone.

I was wrong. Only I didn’t know it.

It had been building, but Mother’s Day 2015 started Christofer’s last downward spiral that ended–finally, completely–on Father’s Day. These “holidays” will never pass without that knowledge, those thoughts. I came home from Virginia Beach this year, last year, facing Mother’s Day, and the countdown to my son’s last days. I hope, in time, it isn’t as raw; I know it will never be blissfully, bittersweetly overlooked.

I have never been a huge fan of Mother’s Day. I’m a mother. I have a mother. My daughter is a mother. How does one celebrate Mother’s Day without disappointing someone, right? Forgoing the day was not a huge sacrifice for me to begin with. Now, I’m glad to ignore it completely. It doesn’t change the bookended countdown, or the knowledge of it, but it does remove some of the emphasis. My kids celebrate me every day, with phone calls and texts and messages on Facebook. I don’t need a day to know I’m loved.

Now I sit here at my desk, absorbing Dollbaby Week in my mind, my heart, while trying to be at peace with the rest that comes at me this time of year. Leaving it all here on this page helps me do that, even while it makes it seem as if I need consoling, or a Xanax. I don’t. Honest. It’s because I have a place to put it all that I don’t. It makes me wonder how people who don’t write (or paint or make music…) manage to uncrowd their heads, unburden their hearts.

We are the music makers,
And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers
And sitting by desolate streams;—
World-losers and world-forsakers,
On whom the pale moon gleams:
Yet we are the movers and shakers
Of the world for ever, it seems.

With wonderful deathless ditties,
we build up the world’s great cities.
And out of a fabulous story,
we fashion an empire’s glory.
One man, with a dream, at pleasure
shall go forth and conquer a crown.
And three, with a new song’s measure
can trample an empire down.

We, in the ages lying,
in the buried past of the Earth,
built Nineveh with our sighing
and Babel itself with our mirth.
And o’erthrew them with prophesying
to the old of the New World’s worth.
For each age is a dream that is dying,
or one that is coming to birth.

~Arthur O’Shaughnessy

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Refrigerator Tiles in Virginia Beach

I burn strange and silent words,

free of the memory manacle

certain to expose that holy rhythm,

the electric dance

imagined by my ghost.

Between dream end and story seed,

I howl genius,

whisper a precious curse

of truth bleeding time

from mind and bone and sleep.

TLD

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Quoting from the Moleskine

“The world is a rushing river, and I’m a rock in the middle of it.” Christofer DeFino

I am in Virginia Beach with beloved friends. This is the fifteenth year I’ve been following the need to connect with like birds south. Some of the faces have changed over the years, but most remain consistent. The dollbabies feed my writer-soul the way nothing else does, or ever can.

On this trek south, a 12 hour drive I look forward to every year, I sat on the ferry between Cape May, NJ, and Lewes, DE, reading through an ancient moleskine notebook I keep in my purse. Because I now write myself notes on my cell phone, I don’t use it much anymore; keeping it on me is habit. Of course, there are many notes from years past, among them the one above.

I’m not sure if I remember correctly, but I believe Chris and I were in the car, on the way to one doctor’s office or another. He said those words to me, during the course of conversation (I really miss those deep conversations, during the captive-audience car rides over the years) and they broke my heart a little. That’s how he felt, on so many levels. The world rushed around him, passing him by. It also exemplified how it felt to be trapped in thoughts most can’t grasp. He was always just a little outside of any group he was in, even when he hung out with his professors, who actually could understand those things he was so passionate about, because he was always so much younger than they.

Such thoughts he had; I don’t think there are many who could truly understand them.  After he died, the university Bio/Chem department had a memorial in his honor. Professor after professor got up and talked about how, though they knew they were in for hours of discussion they couldn’t spare in their busy days, they’d put away what they were doing to talk when they saw him coming. Chris made them remember what they loved about their chosen field. He made them remember what it was like to be that young and passionate. And every one of them said how HE showed them new things, new ways to see chemistry, because he never bogged down in what was supposed to be, but what could be.

He thought in abstracts and concretes, in chemical compounds like a synesthete thinks in colors. He could see the structure of a compound, just by thinking them. He could link this compound to another, seeing the ways they would combine, become something new. I, honestly, could never understand most of what he talked about; mine is not a scientific mind. I guess it’s the way I see story as building blocks, and can move them from place to place and see the whole it will make.

I didn’t just lose my son; the world lost a great mind. One that could have made a difference, actually did make a difference in ways he’ll never be remembered for. I’ll spend the rest of my life wondering what would have made a difference, what would have been that thing that pulled him out of his fate, and into a better one. I’ll never find that answer. Never.

One thing I do know is that Chris had a lot to give that he never got the chance to. Few were few willing to accept what it was he had to give them, let alone give him back in equal measures. His love was boundless, and demanded the same in return. His mind was infinite, and sought someone, anyone who could exchange thought for thought. He could make you his world, and begged for you to make him yours. Demanded it, sometimes. Most times. Maybe it wasn’t possible. Maybe people just don’t have as much to give, don’t feel comfortable about demanding the huge quantities he asked for. Everything about him was big, and overwhelming, I will admit.

I sit here, in this beach house, the sound of waves crashing on the beach, and Sara’s mixer whirring downstairs, and the silence of women writing all around me, and I realize I have what my son wished for, not just here but in my life as a whole. I, too, am a stone in the middle of a rushing river, but I have other stones nearby to stem the flow, to keep the water from wearing me down.

Peace.

 

 

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This Terribly Beautiful World

I’ve been watching Origins, on NatGeo. If you get the chance, watch it. Fascinating. It does an amazing job of showing both the beauty and horror of humankind. We are amazingly beautiful creatures, innovative, brilliant, kind, determined, courageous, selfless. We are also every opposite.

It has made me wonder how there can be so much beauty existing alongside equal parts horror. Some children are happy, healthy, thriving, while others are abused, hungry, angry or already defeated. There are police officers who put themselves in harm’s way to save a stranger, or a kitten. There are police officers who strangle-hold an unruly child, because the law is on their side. There are soldiers who go into battle to keep the homeland safe, and others who shoot at strays, just to while away some down time. There are politicians who truly want to serve the people, and those who only want to serve themselves. (Though I fear the ratio on this last one is kinda skewed.)

Narrow it down and narrow it down, and we all have the same horror/beauty in our personal lives. I wonder how I can be so happy, thriving professionally and personally, when I never get through a day without seeing what I saw, living what I lived. Looking at the big picture, knowing this is simply the way of things, actually helps. Some people’s personal horror is small, and others, big. It doesn’t matter. Our horrors are our own, and real, and painful.

It’s all a cosmic balancing act, really. Origins has helped me truly see that the horrors of war and pollution and corruption have actually BETTERED humanity as a whole, even if it was terrible for the individuals involved. It’s not pretty, but it’s reality.

Life is beautiful, and brutal. Accepting it goes a long way in being able to process it all rationally, if not emotionally.

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