Sandwich

Making a sandwich
is a constructive proposition.

Gracefully spreading the condiments,
lovingly placing
the meat,
the cheese,
the fluffy green leaves of lettuce.

Finally the two sides meet.
An arranged carbo marriage.

My mother,
who no longer makes sandwiches,
still relishes them.
Her favorite
is peanut butter and jelly.
She has its name written
on a small piece of paper
by her bed
in the rest home
so she won't forget.
Again.

My daughter prefers jam
with her peanut butter.
Or pasta, and no sandwich at all.

The "sandwich generation" is a misnomer.

I'm not a symmetrical union
of bread and whatever.

I'm torn in two.

Leavin'

When I was in elementary school, my sister Janet was a huge John Denver fan. She'd go in her room, shut the door, put him on her little blue record player, and turn it way up.

I'm leavin' on a jet plane . . .

Janet wished she could be the one flying far, far away.

During my toddler years (the chapter of my book I'm working on now), my dad was the one thinking of leaving. He would talk for hours to his friend Dave about how the Bible says we should "leave all to follow Jesus." Both Matthew and Mark tell the story, when Jesus said to his disciples, "everyone who has left houses or brothers or sisters or father or mother or children or fields, for my name's sake, will receive a hundredfold, and will inherit eternal life." Dad was convinced, as early as my own bubbly toddler years, that this was his calling. Leave it all for Jesus.

When I try to divorce this idea from my emotion--when I banish thoughts of my curly yellow head and chubby baby hands, when I try not to think about how hard Mom was working to hold our family together in those troubling times, when I don't think about all that my sisters endured for the sake of Dad's callings--the irony remains.

This is The Book of Family Values? Have those people who wield the Bible Belt even read this book?

Leave All.

Love All.

Just the difference of a couple of vowels. Jesus was somehow preaching both. But as the one left behind, it sure didn't feel that way.

Jesus' next line, in both Mark and Mathew's versions of the story, was "the first will be last and the last will be first."

So those of us left behind--are we the first or the last?

But either way, though there was no question that I felt abandoned when my daddy finally left for good, in retrospect it is pretty clear that we were better off. Safer. Saner. Happier.

So . . . last-first, first-last, irony or no, I guess it's possible.

Love all.

Leave all.

But I like it better when I can have the loving without the leaving.

Resolution

Happy New Year!

I used to have the same resolution every year: No Resolutions. I didn't like setting myself up to fail. But last year I tried a new tactic. My resolution was:

More cussing in 2007.

It worked out pretty well. I definitely did better in the first part of the year, rediscovering the days of my youth by letting it fly on a pretty regular basis. My children were agog. By the end of the year, the joy of the four letter word was wearing off, so I sort of fell off the wagon. So this year I have a new one:

More rhinestones in 2008.

I started early, actually, buying myself a lovely rhinestone souvenir while we were in Texas over the holidays. It brightens my world. And I feel confident that my sparkly keychain is only the beginning.

In addition to my resolution, there are changes I'm making in my life. They're not resolutions. They're changes. Course adjustments, perhaps. Like f'rinstance, I've cut back on my paid work time so that I can get back to focusing on my writing. I have a book to finish, so I'm clearing space for it. First I need to make room, I figure, and then maybe I can begin to remember how to be creative, be open, tell the story.

But as I sat quietly today (something I almost never do--this is all part of making space), I remembered about the knowing part of myself. The part of me that already knows what I should be doing, how to open myself to the story, how to get to where I'm heading. That quiet little part deep down in there that never gives advice, but gives an encouraging nod and a twinkle when I'm on the right path. The part of me that just feels right when I land on what I've known all along.

Resolution doesn't just mean deciding, after all. It's not only about our grandiose plans--to lose weight, quit smoking, sparkle more, or whatever. Resolution is also about clarity. We change the resolution on our computer screens when things don't look right. We change the resolution of our digital images to make them less pixellated, clearer. Resolution is about seeing things more clearly.

Maybe my own resolution is simply that "this is it" feeling of heading the direction that I knew was right all along.

Listening for that quiet voice that never speaks, but just nods, and gives a little twinkle.

Like a rhinestone.