A place to record story ideas and poems as I practice writing.
Thursday, October 28, 2004
My essay titled "Simple Abundance" will be published in the Dec.-Jan. edition of The Word Weaver, a newsletter published by the Writers' Circle of Durham Region (WCDR) http://www.wcdr.org. Located in Durham Region, which is in Ontario, Canada, east of Metro Toronto, WCDR and is dedicated to encouraging and promoting the art and skill of writing, fostering literacy and providing moral support to writers, poets, editors, songwriters, and illustrators through education and networking, both independently and in co-operation with existing organizations.
Feel free to see my entry for October 25, 2004 to read "Simple Abundance". Yippeeee!
A sound heard in childhood CRASH. The sound of glass breaking. A large piece of glass. A window or picture. I’m not sure. It’s followed by the repetitive thuds of objects randomly reach their target - the living room wall, I’m guessing. Objects fall on the keyboard of the grand piano making an eerie song, full of rage and disjointed.
The word ‘STOP’ and then my mother’s muffled, deep sobs reach my ears. I am one floor above and hidden behind my door that I’ve barricaded with a chair, the door providing a barrier of safety and dampening the terrifying sounds still reaching me.
"Why’d you do it", my father’s bellowing voice repeats over and over. Another object is thrown.
I fear his rage will find its way to my room and only then suddenly wonder where my two sisters are. I imagine they also are huddled behind doors barricaded by chairs and frightened, like me.
Suddenly the frenzy stops and the front door opens and slams shut. There is an eerie silence and I listen, motionless, becoming aware of faint sobs coming from mother. I guess she has hidden herself in the bathroom so we don’t hear her cries.
I want to go downstairs but I’m afraid to see what my father has done. Sudden exhaustion hits me and I think about giving in and curling up on my floor and sleeping right there. Maybe I’d find it was just a bad dream in the morning.
One tap, four taps, three taps. One tap, four taps, three taps. I hear the faint taps of my twins fingers on her side of the wall that separates our rooms - our own morse code. I know she’s saying ‘I love you’ and she’s OK.
Simple Abundance, the people, places and things that swell our daily lives with thanksgiving
My foot finds the spot where the floor creaks, coffee sputters and drips into the waiting carafe and our dog Cleo sighs occasionally, but otherwise the house is quiet at five am. I fix myself a coffee and listen, absorbing the unfamiliar silence. Soon, warm air sways curtains following the familiar click, clink, thunk as the furnace beginning its day’s work. I think of my children and husband asleep in their warm beds and take a another sip before returning the milk to the refrigerator where every shelf is full.
My husband sleeps one floor above me, his snoring almost imperceptibly audible through the ceiling. He’s been working long hours and I know he needs this deep sleep. I picture my daughters in their beds, the older one probably in exactly the same position I left her; the youngest, probably uncovered with an arm or leg protruding off the mattress. Everyone is safe and warm.
Cleo rolls onto her back when I pass her in the hallway, her greatest joy being those moments when one of us stops to pet her soft, warm belly. Yes, you’re the best doggie I tell her and she thanks me by excitedly tapping the tiles with her tail.
Coffee in hand, I descend the carpeted stairs into the basement and turn on my computer. It sits on corner desk unit made up of several tan wooden surfaces that are attached to silver, metal posts. My monitor sits on the largest of the wooden surfaces. This is my desk - a space of my own - not quite the ‘room of one’s own’ that Virginia Woolfe suggests for a woman wanting to write - but it’s mine, and I know that it’s more than many women, who also are wives and mothers, possess.
I look around and remember my husband marking out the boundaries for this portion of the basement we were going to finish; how frames were placed along those lines and then walls were positioned and nailed together. He set the boundaries where my desk would go and marked for the technician where to install the high speed Internet connection. I often forget that this area was a gift from my husband, who listened when I told him I wanted a space for me. Today I remember.
I stretch before sitting down, reaching one hand then the other toward the ceiling. The muscles in my arms and back are still sore, reminders of a new skill on the uneven bars mastered at my last gymnastics class. I feel fit, strong and proud. Returning to the sport after 20 years has been more rewarding than I ever anticipated.
I sit down at my computer acutely aware of the simple but abundant blessings in my life: A warm, safe home protecting a family I love; a refrigerator filled to overflowing; the devotion of a beloved dog; a desk of my own; involvement in the sport of my youth; today.
It wasn’t always like this. Ten years ago and four months pregnant I thought my future was guaranteed but a sudden miscarriage followed by the discovery of a tumour in my uterus and the heartbreaking words of the obstetrician that I might not be able to have children slammed the door shut on a dream of motherhood that had become as much a part of me as breathing. As challenging as it was to walk into The Bayview Cancer Centre once a week for blood testing, picturing a life without children was even more difficult.
Each day was an exercise in distraction, as I tried to ignore the grief and fear that accompanied me like an unwanted companion. I grieved for a future that might never materialize and feared what would happen if the tumour spread. I worried about dying and leaving so many dreams unrealized.
I didn’t recognize at the time the signs of depression but my boss noticed the change in me and fired me for not being the "bubbly person" he needed in the position. The loss of income seriously effected cash flow and had we not sold our house when we did, it’s likely bankruptcy would have followed.
It was a time of questioning, reassessing and most importantly, learning. Time brought healing and as the tumour slowly disappeared hope replaced fear and dreams replaced sorrow. I didn’t know what the future held but I no longer took for granted that there would be a future and began to appreciate each day in a new way.
I'm thrilled to announce that my first travel writing piece titled "Living the journey one day at a time" has been included in The Preservation Foundation, Inc.'s 2004 story collection at http://www.storyhouse.org/pamelaha.html. A story about my first day in Paris during a 3-month trip throughout Europe, this is my first attempt at bringing my travel journals to life and sharing my amazing adventure with others. Learn more about The Preservation Foundation, Inc. at http://www.storyhouse.org.
