When I'm Old...

Each day for a week, Zeca and I walked to the neighborhood music store where she was taking a class and making a cigar box guitar.

On the last day, it was hot and humid as we walked and the cicadas buzzed incessantly and her sweaty hand felt hot and gritty in mine. I carried the almost finished guitar in my other hand because she didn't trust herself to carry it the few blocks that we had to walk.

I complained about the heat but she said nothing until the music store came into sight and then she said, "Someday, my cigar box guitar will break and I'll be sad. It will break when I'm old and I'll think about my childhood and say, 'I remember when I made this and used to play...'"

I stopped and looked at her and suddenly felt the weight of the guitar in my hand.

She looked up and said, "It's very special to me."

Of course.

She'd cut the neck herself and sanded it until she could run her hands up and down without feeling a nick or splinters. She'd carefully drilled holes into the top of the neck and made grooves in it to place the tiny brads that served to mark the frets. She'd glued those markers in place and carried it home in both hands to make sure that everything dried as it should. She'd attached the cigar box with help from her teacher, the box she'd chosen because it was plain and she liked the deep color of the wood. She'd run the strings to the wing nuts that serve as tuning pegs and tightened them as best as she could.

She made something.

She made something that could make music.

I'd spent the week grumbling internally that the timing of the class was inconvenient. It interfered with getting to the pool when it opened. I'd considered sitting in the music store waiting for her a waste of my time. I could have been writing or returning emails. I could have been doing something.

To me, it was just a class to help pass the summer days, something she would forget about in a month.

That may still be true but, as we stood on that hot city sidewalk, I realized there was honor in the work, unseen value in those pieces of wood and steel strings. It mattered and I hadn't known until that very minute.

When we reached the store, she went into the workshop to put the finishing touches on her instrument and I sat in the front of the store surrounded by guitars and violins and ukeleles. I took a guitar down from the wall and played and took in the smell of the wood and relished the feel of my fingers on those steel strings.

I thought about my daughter and her quiet mind. I thought about her childhood and all the ways we are making it together. I thought of my place in her life and vowed as I often do to be more mindful, more present.

And I thought about the future and wondered about all that is still to come. There will be many moments that bump into each other and pile up over the years until I am old, until she is old.

I think it will be me who sits down with her someday and says, "Remember when we walked to the music store? Remember when you made that cigar box guitar?"

The unspoken question will be, "Remember when you reminded me about reverence?"

This post was written for Just Write. Check out Heather’s post and all the posts of all who joined in this week.

Hundreds of Miles

His bags were packed; he was ready to go. Yes, we sang "Leaving on a Jet Plane" a lot in the days leading up to his departure. We actually sing that any time someone is packed and ready to go somewhere.

Luisa and the kids were heading out the door and I looked in the mirror and noticed my bed head - "My hair!" First Luisa, then Miguel said, "It's fine." The "Let's go!" was unspoken.

An hour later, he stepped onto a bus with the rest of the junior high students and teachers and we waved goodbye. We stood with all the other parents trying to catch the last glimpse we'd have for 15 days. The bus windows were dark, however, and we couldn't really see him.

Luisa thought she saw him waving, thought she saw his watch. I couldn't see the watch or him but waved in that general direction. Then, the bus finally pulled away and headed down the street. I turned to look at all the parents and some were crying but I didn't feel sad. I couldn't even claim mixed emotions. I was just happy for all that was to come for him.

As we drove home, I mentioned that I wasn't going to miss him. Luisa said, "That's a little weird."

I felt caught, like I was doing motherhood wrong. How is that I've been a mother for 12 years and still feel that I may not be doing it right?

[pullquote]I felt caught, like I was doing motherhood wrong. How is that I've been a mother for 12 years and still feel that I may not be doing it right?[/pullquote]

Luisa must have sensed something in my silence, "What do you mean?"

"I mean that I won't pine for him. I'm happy for him and, of course, I will think of him but I won't be counting the days until he comes back." She nodded, "Okay. That's not weird. I feel the same way."

There is still that part of me that wonders if I should pine. Is that what a mother should do?

From the moment our kids could walk, they often walked away from us and I made peace with that. The world is waiting for them and they know that I'll be waiting for them when they return.

When Miguel first went to camp, he said, "I'll miss you." I said, "I'll miss you too. Just make sure you don't miss me so much that you don't make the most of the experience."

That's our thing now - miss me but live fully.

I have thought of him often in the days since he left on that bus, have wondered about the heat and whether he has been able to get his sleeping pad back in its bag. I've wondered if he's working hard and studying and learning as much as he can. Yes, I have thought of him often but I don't want him to come home, not yet - not until it's time.

This past weekend, Luisa, Zeca and I went to the cabin and spent the days outside, holding onto and letting go of summer. On Sunday night, the phone rang and it was Miguel. They had reached the gulf coast and were able to call home.

"Do you know about the Trail of Tears?"

"I stood on the balcony where Martin Luther King was shot. Usually only presidents are allowed to stand there but the rest of the museum was under construction so let us go up there and it felt so sad but so special to be there."

"There is so much work but I am learning so much."

"Mom! I am standing here watching the sun set over the gulf and it's amazing!"

"Can you believe that I'm looking at the gulf, Mom? Can you believe it?"

I blinked away tears, not because I was sad, not because I missed him, not because I wanted him to come home. I blinked away tears because I could imagine his small body, so compact and full of energy, standing there watching the sunset. I could almost feel his body vibrating with excitement, the hundreds of miles between us a conduit.

This is exactly how it should be.

"I miss you."

"I miss you too."

I no longer need to say "But don't miss me too much." We're past that. He's watching the sun set over the gulf while I stand in a cabin in Wisconsin and stare out at a lake.

"I love you."

"I love you too."

He doesn't mention home and neither do I. Why would we? There is the gulf and boats that will take him out on the water and so much still ahead.

This post was written for Just Write. Check out Heather's post and all the posts of all who joined in this week.

All The World's A Stage

When I quit my job in November of last year, I told myself that 2013 would be the year of saying "yes". So, when I was asked to be a part of the BlogHer13 Fashion Show, I did just that - I said "yes".

In the days that followed, I had to have measurements taken, had to figure out dress sizes and ring sizes and had a conference call to discuss bra color and foundation garments. There were moments when I felt that I was visiting a foreign country and didn't speak the language.

On Friday, I arrived at the Sheraton in Chicago for my fitting and the style team went to work. I tried on several outfits before they chose one for me  - a long white suit jacket, a silver, satin fitted camisole, cropped white pants and black and silver oxford shoes. It's an outfit I never would have chosen for myself but, as I looked at myself in the mirror, I did my best to make peace with it but then they added large black earrings and a long black, beaded necklace and I thought for the first time, "I can't do this."

Pushed over the edge by accessories.

I left on the verge of tears.

Throughout the day, I talked with my friends and told them I didn't like the outfit I would be wearing and didn't want to wear the accessories. The conversations were short - quick words in passing, filled with emotion because I felt raw and vulnerable in a way I hadn't in years. It is one thing to step outside the boundaries you've set for yourself. It is another thing to do it in front of hundreds of people.

But quick conversations do not allow for nuance or depth and, without those things, people make assumptions. In this case, people assumed the source of my discomfort was that I was being asked to be more feminine than I normally am, more feminine that I felt comfortable being.

But it wasn't that at all.

People look at me and think that I don't have a sense of style but I do. I care about the fit of my shirts, about the color and feel of the material. I care about the type of cuff and the look of the buttons. I care about the way my shirt looks tucked into a pair of pants, about the way the belt sits on my hips. I care about the way the pants feel when I run my hands down my thighs, the way they fall on my shoes.

People look at me and see my short hair and notice that I wear no make-up and think that I don't care much about my appearance. But let me tell you, I am as vain as they come.

And this is what I know - the world is a stage and we wake each day and decide the character we will play.

We reach into our closets and choose our costumes.  We dress for effect, to project to the world the person we want to be. We dress to impress, to intimidate, to seduce. We dress for comfort. We dress to conform and we dress to stand out. Some people do it without thinking but I do it with great intention.

My objections to the way I was being dressed for the fashion show came down to style. I felt the color was wrong for my skin tone. I was concerned the satin top was not good for my body type. I didn't think the cropped pants were flattering. As for the accessories, they just weren't hip enough for me.

None of those things have anything to do with femininity.

So, there are some things I need you to know...

I told the  woman who was doing the base that I hadn't worn make-up in 30 years and her eyes went wide and she said, "I won't do too much." I told her, "Do what you do. Don't worry."

I told the woman who did my eyes that I would be walking without my glasses and wanted my eyes to stand out. She smirked, "You have beautiful eyes. Let's really make them pop." I said, "Do it all." Her smile got bigger, "Even false eyelashes?" "Yes, even those."

I told the woman who did my lips that I had never worn lipstick in my life and she said, "Well, um, let's go neutral then." I held up my hand and said, "What color do you think you should use? You're the expert." She smiled and said, "Mulberry?" I said, "Do it."

When it came to my hair, I simply said, "If we're going to do something, be bold."

By the time I was done, I was ready - hair, make-up, suit and none of the accessories that had bothered me so much.

I spend too much time worrying about what other people think of me but, by the time I took my place in line and waited for my turn on the catwalk, I was over it.

I'd said "yes" and when I stepped on that stage, it felt pretty damn good. Of course, who wouldn't enjoy hundreds of women screaming for you?

Since then, I've seen comments about me being in drag. If you think I was in drag on that stage, then you don't understand what drag means or don't understand much about me. I am very feminine though the way I present in the world may not fit that image for some. I did not feel that I was performing as someone I'm not. I felt like I was playing with my own ideas about femininity.

Because sometimes, femininity looks like this:

And sometimes, femininity looks like this:

Photo Credit

At least it does to me.

Later that night, when the party was over and we had returned home, Deborah stood with me in the bathroom and we leaned into each other and stared into the mirror at my face that was familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. I will always be grateful that she was there with me in that moment because she knows me and I didn't have to explain why the moment felt both celebratory and sombre, like saying hello and goodbye. I peeled off the lashes and Deborah helped me scrub my face and we took our time and laughed and talked about my hair and what it might be like for me to wear eyeliner from time to time. And when we had done all we could do, there were still faint traces of eyeliner and, somehow, that felt right.