November Writings: Bleeding

There was never any blood that I remember from that deer strung upside down for slaughter on the tree every November when my then stepfather brought it home from his hunt. I'm sure there was some initial processing of the deer prior to bringing it home. I honestly don't remember it bleeding, but from the things I witnessed, it seems like their should have been.

My stepfather was a church-going, wife-beating, asshole of a man. He had a quiet, gruff voice, and the look of the devil when he got angry. My mother met him when I was in third grade. By fourth grade, they were married. My stepfather had a habit of beating the shit out of my mother, and somehow always relating it back to something I personally had done. He always reminded me that it was my fault. "I hope you're happy with what you've done," he told me.

Blood on the hands of a child, bruises on the body of my mother.

I knew then that I wasn't responsible, yet that went somewhere inside me. It's hard to wash away that stain of blame from one's soul. I mean, no one forced his fists onto my mother's body, but I was admittedly extra grumpy one day when it happened. Perhaps if I hadn't whined about having to load up more packed boxes for an impending move. If only I had just eaten the venison laced chili without the tears and complaints on a different occasion. Just maybe, had I remembered my place upon returning home from a wonderful month of joy and safety with my grandmother, if I had kept my mouth shut, it wouldn't have caused the chain of events leading to him pounding his fists against my mother. 

There was never any blood that I remember on my mother, left broken in the family room floor, bruises across her body, tears streaming down her face. I honestly don't remember her bleeding, but from the things I witnessed, it seems like there should have been.

Every time they fought, every time he escalated it into physical violence, he would end the discussion by cleaning his guns. One by one he would lay them out on the coffee table. Assembling them, loading them, handling them, polishing them. It was another form of intimidation, of course.

I always wondered, fear pounding loudly inside me, which gun it was that killed those deer strung up outside on the tree every November.

I always wondered which gun it would be that killed us, as well. 

November Writings: Sunny Days

I remember the summer I spent with my grandmother in Texas when I was 13 years old. It was one of the most enjoyable summers of my life, because my 13 year old ego was completely and utterly indulged by my Magaw. 

I had my own bedroom with a luxuriously fluffy queen-size bed. Sure, the room décor left something to be desired with the antique collection of stuffed animals surrounding a vast collection of thimbles lovingly gathered from all over the world, but it was quiet, it was peaceful and safe, and I was happy. Per my Magaw’s request, I made my bed every morning but Sunday, because of course, if God rested on the 7^th day, then so should we. I would take any opportunity she gave me to not make the bed – amen!  

My grandmother and I would sit out every morning on her patio, shaded from the beautiful sunny morning and eat breakfast while we watched the feeding frenzy of birds and squirrels devour their food she always set out for them. My favorite birds were always the hummingbirds who danced in the air around the hummingbird feeder. I always thought they were magical, and my grandmother shared my love. It was blissful on those warm Texas summer mornings, eating breakfast while planning our days together.

My grandmother would get the chores finished up mid-morning, and then we would typically spend some time with various projects. I busied myself sewing some shirts and vests with material and patterns I selected from her favorite fabric store. I listened to my favorite music in my bedroom, taking time to read some books I had checked out from the library. I was obsessed with a book on Eastern religions, and devoured that book while listening to Milli Vanilli or Faith No More on my stereo. I wasn’t the hippest 14 year old around, but I thoroughly enjoyed that summer. 

In the afternoons, no one was allowed to utter a word while we had tea and watched Jeopardy. NOTHING was to come between Magaw and her Jeopardy. She yelled out answers at the tv, “WHAT IS…”, cheering for herself when she (usually) answered correctly. Gasping, “OH NO!” when the contestant missed one, how could they not know that?

In the evenings, we would walk over to the pond and visit the ducks. I visited that duck pond every time I went to see my grandmother since I was a baby, and it held such exciting memories for me – especially those times when the ducks were feeling extra brave and would start to chase me or my younger brother. Once I was older, of course, I was not ever frightened of the ducks. 

On Sundays, we would go to church and her Sunday school class. It was a large class of people around my grandmother’s age. They all doted on me while I smiled shyly. I remember my grandmother had made this skirt out of rose material of which I was given the scraps. I looked at the scraps and told her there was plenty of material here to make a matching vest for her skirt. She doubted me, but listened, and we went to the fabric store to purchase some supplies and in a couple days’ time, I had completed a nice vest to go with her skirt. She was never more proud of anything than she was of that vest, and she told the story to her Sunday school friends every time we gathered. My Magaw loved to dote on me. 

I loved that sunny summer with my grandmother. It was such a special time with her. 

Today, my Magaw lives with my mother. She has little of her memory left because of dementia. She is still a ray of sunshine when I go to visit her, but she doesn’t really know who I am any longer. I often say she is a walking, talking “Chicken Soup for the Soul” book, she is full of smiles and sincere enjoyment of family when we are around her. She tells us we are all such blessings, but I truly think she is the blessing. I will keep those memories of that summer in my heart for the both of us. I miss my Magaw.  

November Writings: My Favorite Place

Mindlessly, I walk into my bedroom, my arms filled with laundry. As I set the stack of neatly folded towels on my bed, I am suddenly met with a scent that is forever linked to that space. I am whisked out of this mundane task and on a sensory journey to my most sacred place. My youngest daughter had just been playing in my bedroom minutes before, and I could tell she got into my juniper and sage herbal spray I purchased last August when I was there.

I often create strong memory-associations between scents and events or places. This one is forever connected: Michfest.

I can hardly bring myself to use this spray throughout the year, hoarding it, saving it so that I may savor it in those moments when I most crave that connection.

I close my eyes, standing over the stack of neatly folded towels, inhaling deeply; I am home. I can see the sun peeking through the trees, leaves rustling in the breeze. It is the smell of the woods. It is the sound of laughter of thousands of womyn, the smell of The Land welcoming with open arms, the feeling of connection, community, intention, safety and joy, and full body embraces. It is the scent of love, of peace, it is my safe haven. I am so grateful in this moment to my young daughter who unknowingly gifted me a quiet visit home.

It fills me with warmth knowing that this sacred space will always live in my soul.

I inhale deeply once more, slowly release a relaxed breath. I open my eyes with a smile, and head towards the bathroom with the stack of neatly folded towels. 

November Writings: Childhood Memories

Childhood memories
good moments overshadowed
My dark clouds moved in.

Sometimes I wonder
what will stand out for my kids?
Will they see the joy?

Snuggles and laughter,
the time spent being silly?
or does darkness loom.

November Writings: Food

"Today is going to be different. Today is the day. I will make better choices. I will succeed. This is the beginning of a new life. Okay, well, don't go overboard," I think to myself, inspired. "Small changes. You can do this. You HAVE to do this."

A little stress this morning, but it is manageable. I am hungry, but I'm busy. It can wait. I have control over you, over this. I can do it. But I should probably eat something.

I should have a snack. Just a small something. Oh, that hit the spot, maybe just a little more. I should stop. I will walk away, I'll have something more substantial soon. A fight, a squabble between my kids. Yelling, screaming. "GIRLS! That isn't how you treat one another. Find something else to do. Just leave each other alone!" They tell me who did what, both said the other one started it, of course.

Agitated, stress is seeping in. I'm feeling so hungry all the sudden. I don't know what to have for lunch, so I'll just grab a little something quickly. I'll open this package of crackers, just have a few.....

A phone call from my mother. Stress. My family is struggling. This situation and that, updates, updates.... "Things just keep getting better and better," my dad always says with a smile. On the one hand, I agree, on the other, day to day, it just seems like it won't ever end. I miss my dad a lot. And I'm hungry. I'm worried about my family. I'm across the country from them, by choice, but cut off. I have guilt. I miss my sister, I miss her a lot. I'm so hungry. I feel lonely, need something to fill this void. OH, those crackers. I'll just grab a few more. Maybe a handful of this, a handful of... GIRLS! STOP YELLING. Please! I understand you are bored, but yelling doesn't help that!

UGH! I'm going to sneak some of their halloween candy while they are busy. They won't miss it, I'll just have the one. Maybe one from each. Hmmm, that's my favorite!

Hell, that's not a small pile of wrappers there. Well, why did I do that? You really need a MEAL, Kirsten. But now I've eaten all this junk, I'll just wait. I don't need the extra calories at this point.

I'm so tired. I sit down on the couch, and just want to fall asleep. My youngest comes in from playing outside, she's crying. Problems with the neighbor kids. This moment feels like the Worst. Moment. EVER to her, she says she wishes she were never born. "Come here, honey. They didn't mean it. They just don't want to play that game right now. Maybe you could play there game for a while, take turns?"

She calms down, decides to go back outside. Crisis averted. Damn, I'm so tired... I have no energy. I'm still hungry for something, but I don't know what. Cheese? Oh, here's some nuts, I'll have some of those. And maybe I'll make a sandwich. Here are some chips. These chips hit the spot.

I just hit the bottom of the bag. Empty. I am NOT keeping it under control today. Oh, Kirsten. You failed again. It's 1pm in the afternoon, and you've already blown it, just like always. Way to go. Well, no more eating until tomorrow. You've had plenty of crap. When will you learn?

I'm depressed. I feel like shit. I feel empty and embarrassed. And hungry.

It fills that void. It calms me down. I turn to food, yet it has become the enemy. I am stuck in a power struggle, and I am losing in all ways but one.

I will start tomorrow. I'll just eat what I want tonight, tomorrow is a new day. Tomorrow, things are gonna be different. I can do this.

November Writings: Grace

When I was a child, we visited my grandparents often, and would gather around their kitchen table for meals. My grandfather would drink himself well-past-intoxicated to that point of inappropriate jokes that provided just enough "education" to my very young self. He was boisterous and loud, downright raunchy disguised in that jolly laughter. Later those evenings, unseen or ignored by other adults, he would expose himself to me or my sister. I celebrated Christmas Eve with his invading fingers fondling and groping my then nine-year-old body.

"God is good, God is great." I would smile and recite at the dinner table. It was my duty to say grace. 

A few years later, my mother and stepfather hosted huge family gatherings around our kitchen table. My stepfather was a church-going man with decades old suits and even older ideas about marriage. "A wife must obey her husband."

He would draw quotes from the bible as he beat my mother black and blue. 

"God is good, God is great." I would smile and recite at the dinner table. It was my duty to say grace. 

Now, I'm an adult with daughters of my own. No one says grace around our kitchen table, and I smile, my heart full of genuine love and gratitude. 

November Writings: Travel

She'd been on this journey her whole life.
She felt alone, with so many questions, answers unknown.
She was living her life by someone else's script
Until one sleep-deprived night when something ripped open inside her.

Her mind was a blur racing with this truth that stirred.
For so long, yet unknown, unnamed,
Just a thought, then a whisper
Hands shaking, breath caught in her throat as she continued on,
She wrote,

"I think I am a married woman who loves women."

Such simple words, and yet so true,
And in that moment, her soul broke through.
Finally, comfort, understanding of such a rough road she had traveled
Until this ode to her heart unraveled,
And drew a map to her truth,
with no more reason to wander and roam.
She had her soul path and spirit to guide her
Home.