With open arms
The thing that struck me when I drove into the driveway was how much the place had changed. The same fault line was destructively working its way diagonally across the asphalt but the line was almost at the other side now. Soon there really would be a border between two kingdoms. I smiled, remembering our game. White chalk had followed the fault and continued it to the other side of the driveway to mark out the territories my sister and I would defend. I couldn’t remember the last time I had seen her. Five years passed since I last stood on this driveway and it seemed that nothing remained as it was, not even san andreas driveway. Everything was worse.

Unloading baggage I was conscious of slight movement in the curtains behind the picture window and guessed my mother had heard my arrival. It still surprised me that she never came out to greet me but waited inside behind the door she’d keep locked until the exact moment I stood outside it and knocked. When I was younger I wondered what it meant, but now I didn’t care. It was how it was.
I was here because my mother hadn’t been returning my calls lately, and since my sisters weren’t talking to me the only way I’d know for sure she was all right was if I went there myself. So far she seemed fine, her modus operandi unchanged.

I approached the door and waited a minute before knocking, knowing she was waiting for me to knock. When the door didn’t open I knocked. Had you been standing where I was you would have thought the door opened itself but I knew better that my mother had opened it and was standing behind it. Even the way she opened the front door was quirky, I thought, shaking my head.

"Why are you here", she asked, studying my face from behind thick farsighted glasses that made her eyes look too large for her face. No smile, no hug, no change: the greeting was the same as I’d expected.

"Because you weren’t returning my calls", I replied, searching her eyes for some answer, anger, anything. I would have welcomed any reaction, even a slap in the face.

"Oh, I’ve been so busy", she said, indicating with her arm we should move into the kitchen. She explained "You know my hours have been cut to two days per week at the library and money is so tight." Then after a slight pause added, "I didn’t mean to worry you".

She made a pot of coffee and I sat at the kitchen table, our ritual, while I tried to assess the condition of the house without making it look too obvious. I had to admit to myself things certainly looked in order.

The coffee smelled good and strong and I enjoyed the familiarity of my mother’s footsteps on the linoleum-tiled kitchen floor. The same two squares were loose as last time and made a sticky sound when she walked over them. My finger traced a squiggle across the still perfectly white surface of the table and, smiling to myself, I remembered how I’d spill my milk on purpose and wash the table with the milk, thinking it would help keep the table white; apparently, it had worked.

I found the surrounding surprisingly comforting. My mind came back to the present and I silently questioned whether if could have really been five years since I was last here. My mother, placing two coffee mugs on the table along with milk and sugar, sat down across from me and motioned with her hand that I could choose a mug. A few degrees hotter and the coffee would have burned my mouth but it felt hot and soothing as I swallowed. "Thanks", I said, raising my mug like a toast. "You’re coffee is still the best", I added. "It’s just coffee", she shrugged.

There were a few moments of silence, not awkward though, and the clinking and sliding of spoons on mugs bridged it. "Mom, I got fired," I blurted out next. "I didn’t deserve it but I’m not going to fight it", I added. Then, looking at the table I asked quietly, "Would it be OK if I stayed here a little while until I figure out what to do? It would really help me out financially." I looked up at my mother and saw her eyes looking beyond me, toward a thought.

The truth was that I hadn’t been fired but had quit my job. I just didn’t want to go to work anymore. I couldn't find a reason to keep working, fixing my appearance each morning to make myself look as if I’d moved on, as if I could ever put the death of my baby daughter behind me. I felt relieved, as if I'd reached the end of a struggle and I was glad to finally stop pretending that anything I was doing was meaningful. I had been going through the motions for so long my emotions seemed numb now. Here I was sitting with my mother but at times I became the an observer, keeping a running commentary on our visit, even as we talked. I found it all exhausting.

"You know you are always welcome" my mother replied, her eyes meeting mine. I thought I saw happiness in her glance but the look disappeared quickly. "You can even take your old room", she replied.

"How pathetic", I thought, but thinking about it later, after bringing my suitcases up there, it seemed appropriate. Now that Brian and I were divorced I was kind of like that teenager I had been; similar except for the grief, or was it guilt, that like a shadow, was always present.

That evening we didn’t really talk that much. There were things I wanted to say - like questions about my sisters - but decided against it. I didn’t want my first night home to involve an argument. I figured my mother felt the same way or she would have been more vocal. She kept the subject to fairly innocuous, surface topics like her job, the unusually cold weather, the unexpectedly high price of gas. If I were to die tomorrow, I thought, now back in my squeaky, single bed after 22 years, nothing we spoke of today would have brought any comfort to her that at least we had re-connected when we had the chance. She'd tell people, "Well, I saw her the night before and she seemed fine to me, I mean, we didn't talk about anything upsetting or anything.....yes, we were very close". We had been once.

"It's so sad", I thought, as tears stained by cheeks. It seemed to me we were always speaking in riddles, never getting to the heart of the matter. "It’s not my fault dad died", I sobbed into my pillow, but I couldn't shake the conviction that my family held me responsible. "Why don't we ever talk about it", I worded through a silent sob that left me breathless and crying convulsively. "I miss you so much, dad", I told him, picturing him as he was the day before he died. "Hadn’t he looked happy?" I wondered, again, the question hot having been answered after five years. I imagined him happy in his life on the other side, wishing I could visit him there. I didn't want to let the vision end but eventually succumbed to sleep against my will.

In the morning, mom seemed more lighthearted to me and I hoped it was because I was there. "Maybe coming home was the right thing to do afterall," I thought, hopefully.

"Good morning," I said to her when I came into the kitchen. Her back was to me and she didn’t answer, so I said it again. She was humming a simple tune and seemed lost in distant thoughts but there was no mistaking the smile on her face. I walked up along side her and leaning into the perpendicular corner where the edges of the counter met, leaned toward her, giving her a kiss, smelling the scent of her pancake makeup and familiar Estée Lauder perfume. You look happy, mom," I told her.

I had obviously jolted her from some revelry because her back became rigid as soon as I touched her and it seemed to me it took a few seconds to register that I had spoken.

"You startled me", she said, embarrassed.

"Oh, I’m sorry", I replied, suddenly embarrassed, myself. "What were you thinking about," I asked, surprised at my boldness.

I was startled by her sudden movement after I asked that. She turned off the burner, put down the spatula and directly toward me, looking me in the eye.

"I spoke to your father last night," she said, smiling. "He’s fine and he misses you," she added.

Had you felt my chest at that moment or looked at my neck you would have known my heart began racing and my eyes grew wide. "She’s crazy", I thought to myself, concluding that was why she hadn’t been returning my calls.

©2004 Pamela Hamilton

Two of my poems, one entitled "Toward the end of day" (http://www.allthingsgirl.com/pp/as/000324.shtml) and the other entitled "Curtain fall" (http://www.allthingsgirl.com/pp/as/000373.shtml will be included in the Oct.-Nov. on-line edition of All Things Girl http://www.allthingsgirl.com. All Things Girl is a space for women to share their creativity and offers sections like poetry & prose, art & photography, around the world, women in business, etc. My poems will be in the Oct.-Nov. edition and then in their archives for at least one year. These poems are also located in this writing blog under the "August 2004" archives. Yippee!!!

Living the journey one step at a time
The living of a journey becomes the telling of a story the second you begin sharing it, but where does that story really begin or end? Wouldn’t the initial recognition of your own internal, insistent voice telling you to ‘see the world’ count as the beginning? Wheels are set in motion by allowing yourself to consider going, by asking the question ‘what if’ and finally concluding ‘I can’. To me, these moments, along with the first, flushed-cheek excitement as tickets are purchased are as much a part of the adventure as deplaning in a foreign land. Likewise, the memories of precious moments lived in other times and places remain long after suitcases are returned to basements; memories immediately accessible by the power of recall. The places you had once only dreamed of seeing become part of you and their memory keeps the journey alive.

I lived an incredible adventure when I travelled throughout Europe with my roomate. I’ve had the perspective of time to reflect on that journey and consider why it was so impactful and why I now whole-heartedly encourage anyone contemplating such an adventure to go. What I’ve realized is this: in going and allowing the journey to reveal itself to me one step at a time I changed, becoming someone who learned to appreciate another sort of journey, the one that would continue, after I returned home. Each day is an adventure and my realization of this began in Europe.

This is first day of my European adventure.

After my grandmother died I inherited enough money to make a dream come true and I suppose I did what any 24 yr. old would do who had just inherited eight thousand dollars: I quit my job against the advice of my worried mother and went to Europe with my roommate. The decision to go wasn’t made overnight but it started with what at the time seemed like an unrealistic question - ‘what if’ - but after much consideration ended with an ecstatic conclusion - ‘I can’. Even considering going remains a treasured memory and to me, is where the journey began.

Before I knew it quitting my job and leaving my country to return to no plan whatsoever made complete sense. I purchased a Eurail Pass and an airline ticket and turned ‘I can’ into ‘I am’. "I’m going to Europe", I kept repeating to myself and anyone who’d listen. This was the first time in my life I felt like I was choosing my destiny, in effect, making a dream come true. How I wished my grandmother knew what her gift was enabling me to do.

With a money belt containing $2,500 hugging my waist, a Eurail Pass, a copy of Europe on Twenty Dollars-a-Day and one overpacked backpack in hand, I left Gloucester, MA in September knowing I wouldn’t be back until Christmas and completely unaware that an unrepeatable adventure was just beginning.

I didn’t anticipate the joy I’d feel when the moment arrived and we said goodbye to family an friends who had accompanied us to the airport. I was excited to be going but was unprepared for our reactions after loved-ones disappeared from view and we had passed behind doors for security inspection and baggage checks. Overcome by convulsive laughter that left our abdominal muscles sore and tears streaming down our cheeks we collapsed against a wall and howled, releasing last vestiges of nervousness and unexpressed joy, conscious that we were living the adventure that up until that very moment had been just a dream. There was no need to pinch ourselves - this was really happening.

A college graduate with a Bachelor of Arts degree in Theology, I had considered myself well-educated until the moment I looked around after deplaning at Charles De Gaulle Airport. I was surrounded by words I couldn't recognize, with no idea how to get to Paris. I wondered why I hadn’t better prepared. All I knew was that I couldn’t lose Amy, so with one hand holding fast to her backpack, I followed where she led while she maneuvered us to Paris. I concentrated on looking disinterested in my surroundings so as not to advertise that we were tourists, not considering that our backpacks were sure giveaways. I had anticipated landing safely in France but had not foreseen running smack into culture shock.

An airport shuttle, two trains and several subway stops later, we arrived in Paris to begin our search for a hostel, thankful that our travel book was written in English. The day quickly reached 80 degrees and I made a mental list of what items would be jettisoned from my backpack at the first opportunity. Weariness followed us like a third companion as we made our way from one hostel to another in search of a room and at each location Amy recited the phrase she had been rehearsing during the flight: "Avez-vous des chambres disponibles?"

I couldn’t recognize much of the replies other than non which I understood well enough to mean there were no rooms at the inns. Our first official café -au-laits revived us and, after getting our bearings, we discovered we were near another hostel listed in the guide book, the Centre International on the Rue de Bernadines, near the Latin Quarter. We sighed deep relief when we heard "oui" following Amy’s rehearsed phrase. We sat on our backpacks with backs against the wall and dozed intermittently as we waited for our key.

Two hours later our slumbers were interrupted by a soft clearing of the throat and a few "pardonnez mois". I was glad the desk clerk smiled at us in our present states and she led the way to our room and handed us the key. I managed a "merci" after she said something I hoped wasn’t too important and we stepped in. Two bunk beds, two Spanish-speaking girls from Barcelona and a washroom common to 12 travellers would be home for the next six days - and it felt so good to be home. Giving no thought to the safety of our packs, we slid into our narrow spaces and fell into oblivious sleep.

I almost hit my head on the ceiling when I woke up with a start to silence and darkness about seven hours later. The room was unfamiliar and for a few seconds I couldn’t pinpoint where I was. When I remembered, I thought for sure I had wasted my first night in Paris by sleeping through it. I was glad Amy heard me fumbling around in the dark and then, with lights finally lit, she, like me, hurriedly primped and beautified for our first venture out into the City of Lights.

We emerged from the hostel just after dusk, hungry and ready for our first adventure, meandering away from the hotel toward the Seine River. Checking the map as we went we headed toward the Université, then St. Michel. We could see on the map that Notre Dame would be somewhere in that direction, but were completely caught off guard when glancing up, we realized it was Notre Dame illuminated in the distance beyond the Seine. Its immensity and serene, Gothic beauty and complete unfamiliarity were overwhelming and neither of us could stop ourselves from crying and laughing and hugging right there along the Seine, a moment in time still cherished.

We hurried toward the glorious vision and spent the next two hours sitting in the Notre Dame square amazed we were actually there and trying to remember what the guidebook had told us about the cathedral. I remembered something about flying buttresses and rose windows but didn’t know exactly what to look for. Looking toward the top of the cathedral I imagined gargoyles surveying the city, especially one I had seen in my guide that was holding his face in his hands and giving Paris a perpetual raspberry. I couldn’t wait until we could climb the 387 stairs to the Gallerie des Chimères when I’d meet them all face to face. We remembered that the Celtic tribe, the Parisii, had once lived on the Ile de la Cité and gave the city its name.

We would have stayed there contentedly marveling all night had Ali and Joucef not started chatting with us. Not surprisingly two 24-year-olds gaping at Notre Dame at 8:30pm was some kind of Parisian invitation; nevertheless, we delighted in the attention and accents.

"Ah, Pamela Ewing" Ali responded, smiling, after I introduced myself. Evidently, reruns of Dallas were still playing on TV and my first name had preceded me. Tall, thin, dark-haired and dark-skinned, Ali was the first Muslim I’d ever met. Originally from Algeria he was a student who dreamed of moving to New York City to one day join his girlfriend. He knew broken English and told us of the brutal war that led to Algeria’s independence from France in 1962 and the subsequent exodus of French settlers. Part of a minority population he resented how Parisians looked down on Algerians. Despite resentment over the remaining problematic relations between France and Algeria, however, he possessed an abundance of joi d’vivre, serenading us and anyone who would listen with Algerian songs, acapella, while we shook our heads in amazement, delighted that all this was really happening.

Joucef was quiet but his easy laugh showed he enjoyed, and was probably used to, Ali’s performances. A natural-born Parisian, his ruddy, rough features softened when he smiled, the squint of his eyes that it caused making him look especially kind. He wouldn’t sing or speak much English, indicating with a wave of the hand and a quick ‘ne pas’ he didn’t do either very well. I watched how easily Amy conversed in French with both Ali and Joucef and was determined to learn some French while in Europe. Ali seemed content to converse with Amy in either English or French but I could tell Joucef wanted to talk to me, but couldn’t. Smiles and delayed laughter, after Amy would translate for me something spoken between them, were all we could share. I was glad that at least we had the language barrier in common.

After 11:00pm we decided we should head back to the hotel and were thrilled when Joucef and Ali offered to walk us back, as if the first day of our adventure wasn’t perfect enough. They led us through the Latin Quarter, one of the liveliest areas in Paris. Voices, laughter, foreign languages and Greek music converged, hovering all around, while deliciously pungent spices hung in the air and mingled with lingering perfumes and smoke from filterless French cigarettes.

There were so many people it seemed that the only things not in motion were the buildings themselves and the uneven road beneath our feet. I wondered if we wandered into some kind of street festival. Where there wasn’t a continuous procession of bright, unfamiliar fashions and animated faces absorbed in spirited conversations there were arms reaching right and left, exchanging francs for fresh gyros from overworked cooks who leaned out from open-air kitchens to survey the spectacle. Perhaps they were contemplating jumping out and abandoning their posts to join the cavalcade. We each purchased gyros and devoured them eagerly.

We followed the parade, matching stride and spirit. I was intoxicated by it all and it’s no surprise I let Joucef kiss me. I was head-over-heals in love - with Paris.

Just one day since leaving Gloucester, MA, home to courageous fishermen, persistent seagulls and refreshingly sea-scented air, I’d experienced my first case of culture shock; first glimpse of Notre Dame; and first foreign kiss. My adventure was already more marvelous than I had ever conceived. To come would be other firsts, which the journey would reveal one step at a time, just as it had here during my first day in Paris.

Copyright © 2004 Pamela Hamilton

My first published piece!
What an amazing feeling! I just sent off 2 copies each of my article and a content provider agreement to AdultGymnastics.com, the site that will be hosting my article (see this link http://www.adultgymnastics.com/articles/rediscover.htm) for 1 year! After the site owner receives my contract he will upload the article and send me a check for $50.00!

You see? All you have to do is believe you can do it and then try!

With an inner critic like that…..
Many of us have been there at least once, searching frantically for that misplaced diary, worried that our most private thoughts would be exposed. Pillows overturned, drawers emptied, we looked everywhere trying to find that precious book before someone discovered truths we had so carefully kept to ourselves; who we liked, what we really thought of Grandma’s Christmas gift, along with our rants, stories or worse yet, poetry.

We loved writing in our diary and knowing it would always be waiting for us to return to it later, more like a good friend than merely paper held together by stitching and glue. We told it everything and when we finished an entry, we wrote "bye" or "good night", perhaps even decorating the page with a few stars and crescent moon, like I did.

Our writing didn’t start out this way. As children writing was unguarded and free, to be read by everyone. Look what I wrote, we’d say to practically anyone within earshot, proud to show them our ideas, even if only we could decipher the letters.

Maybe we were just proud that we had formed those words with our own small, fingers - or perhaps we really wanted to share our stories. Whatever the reasons, we wanted someone else to see what we created, our eagerness a declaration: I did this and it’s important - and so are my thoughts. There was joy in the creation and the sharing.

What made us change our approach to writing? Why is it that at some point we began to associate writing with secret keeping, bolting our thoughts, stories and poems safely behind a locked diary cover? Click. The sound of security. We even hid the tiny key in alternating hiding spots. For some, though, writing didn’t become a secret activity, it stopped altogether.

There have been volumes written about how a child’s creative voice is stifled. How girls, high achievers at age 10 stop raising their hands by age 12. I don’t understand the dynamics but I have experienced them. My own writing went undercover and then stopped completely by the time I was17, only to be rekindled in my early 30s and then squelched by my internal critic that convinced me I couldn’t do it and it wasn’t important - and neither were my thoughts.

At 41, I have finally silenced that inner critic, and have rediscovered the joy of writing and sharing that writing with others. Writing is much more difficult than I remember, and much more rewarding.
A diary is now a ‘journal’ and I still use it as a private place in which to record thoughts; but it is more than that. When read in sequence it’s entries display a common thread that helps me recognize who I am and what I want - and the sound of my unique voice. Today, however, if I choose to not share my writing with others it is because I don’t want to and not because I don’t think I can.

Copyright © 2004 Pamela Hamilton