A Sandcastle Night
(melted dreams built of hasty regimes)
Good morning, good day, good good to you!
It would appear as though my survey last week came back quite well-rounded, indeed. It sounds like there’s a little something for everyone here, and personal stories, poems, and clown are at the top of the list.
That makes sense! They are the most personal, and perhaps that means unique, offerings I have to give.
During our Thanksgiving stay here in Dallas, we’ve been playing a game I got for Chanukah a few years ago called Paint Chip Poetry.
It’s a delight, really. I highly recommend it for the casual board game player. You can even make your own from the paint sample cards at the hardware store!
You just need a small stack of those paint sample cards with the color names and a stack of pre-made prompts. Each player gets 12 paint chips, you flip a prompt card over, and everyone makes a poem with their cards based on the prompt. You share your poems, hold space for each poet, and do it again.
Quite easy for all ages! All ages, indeed.
The box of Paint Chip Poetry sits now in the other room, waiting for its queue.
The cold this time of year brushes against my skin like a soft fern, a gentle reminder that I am awake and that I can move through space. I sit perched on a wooden stool in the corner of the kitchen, ankles crossed, sipping a glass of red and talking out my work dramas with Alan and his dad, David.
It is time I leave this managerial position. Oh, how I believed in bigger things with them. Alas, the misalignment has become all too clear. I need to quit this job.
The axe must fall swiftly; this song it sings scares me.
Alan and David’s eyes and confidence both mirror each other. They implore me to prioritize myself and my core values, to take heed of the red flags, to not wade into the waters of grief and hesitancy, over-explaining myself, and muddying the waters in my attempts to resolve the unresolvable.
You gotta let it go!
I clutch my stomach in pain. The stress of this looming departure has been gripping my insides for a week.
Masculine energy is so downright straightforward sometimes. I appreciate the clarity these two have about my dilemma. So cut and dry! It isn’t working out? Leave.
I suppose the dilemma, really, isn’t in all of the messy inner workings of this small business. The dilemma isn’t why I need to quit; it’s that I have to. Rather, it is in the emotional attachment and sense of loyalty I’ve established over these short two months. As I’ve been managing this small mom & pop shop, I’ve spent a good amount of hours with the owners; I like them as people. Having seen the lack of honesty whirling around at the center, however, has bred resentment and distrust, and frankly, I can’t find the thread of encompassing virtue that I’d need to see to rightly move forward with them in the long term.
I want to commit my 32nd year of life, as western astrologers call one’s “Christ Year,” to building the career I want. Western astrology links the decisions one makes under these particular constellations at this point in life as a significant time to setting up a person’s career.
I was willing to give that one-in-a-lifetime juuj to this business. I see now that it is a toxic endeavor. One that reflects the toxic relationships I’ve dallied with in the past.
I allowed myself to get incredibly involved and committed so terribly quickly! Now that I am not playing out this pattern in my love life, it is coming forth in the career realm. Opportunities to work through whatever karmic life-lesson this is truly are abound. sigh*
Our lessons in this life are inescapable, and we expand so brilliantly when we work through them. With this expansion, we can hold more space for experiencing the awesomeness of life. Growth is circular, and I’ve been caught in the want for it to be a ladder. Here we go, again.
I’ve never quit a job before unless life circumstances demanded it, drove me to it. I’ve never had a clean relationship break-up, either. I tend to let these threads of loyalty waste heaps of my time and energy as I navigate the unruly waters of untangling what cannot be delicately untangled.
Snip snip, it is time I confronted this lesson and get my scissors on out.
Unnecessary loyalty to random things I’ve thrown my heart into be damned! I’ll get over it. They’ll get over it. Ah, how I wish things could have been as they seemed, but that’s life and loss for ya.
Alan’s mom, Carolyn, comes into the kitchen as our conversation finds an end. I’m exhausted emotionally, preparing myself to let this topic go in an attempt to enjoy the weekend. Carolyn joins us at the kitchen counter and leans over to see what’s what. Her white hair and clear glasses catch the light. Her bright eyes and interest in me exude compassion. She is physically quite able, her small frame bopping around the house throughout the day with ease as her memory and mind dissent from her person, kindness, and cleverness.
Alzheimer’s is difficult for every family in different ways for different reasons. That’s part of what’s so isolating about it; the nuances make each experience so specific, even though the disease itself is so widespread.
As Carolyn tries to re-instate our conversation while it aims to find its end, I feel her disconnect from our shared reality water the seeds of frustration fairly planted in her son. After a persistent, calm, repetitious back and forth, “Can’t you appreciate that you’ve entered a difficult conversation as it is ending?"
I aim to soothe them both. “Yes, Carolyn, thank you, but they’ve been giving me great advice for a while now, and you’d agree, and it’s all good. I just need to move on.” My stomach tightens.
“You can talk to me, you know.” She leans over the counter to create intimacy, woman-to-woman, shutting out the men in the room. Her journey in the hand of Alzheimer’s has unearthed a significant dissonance between her and the male gender. Her struggle with control manifests as animosity towards the patriarchy's unmistakable, ever-present control and power.
Alan attempts to snuff the smolder of her stubborn intentions, “Mom–Do you think I give good advice? Where do you think I got it all from?”
Her punky attitude claps back, “Well, I’m a woman, and I have different advice. How do I know you gave good advice? I probably have something different to say!”
We express our understanding and appreciation and console her want to be a part of a conversation that really needs to be laid to rest.
My glass is empty.
My employer calls,
I hold up the phone to show them where I’m off to
and sneak to the living room to put out another fire.
The call ends, and I lose myself for a moment scrolling through Instagram, finding a brief vacation from the present stressors. I can hear the family get heated in the other room. “I care so much about your opinion, Mom, and take it all into consideration, so it is really frustrating when you claim that we don’t care about what you think. We absolutely do.”
I am very proud of how Alan never dismisses his mother when she confronts him. When she says hurtful things or gets stuck on a loop, he’ll not let her run away from the bombs she plants but will try very hard to talk it out and explain his needs and discover how he can meet hers. His attempt to maintain a genuine relationship with someone who is becoming so unrecognizable to him is not an easy resolve to stay true to.
I admire him for this.
We gather ‘round the dining table and I drum my fingers. We are only visiting for a bit, and we cherish all the time we have left with his folks. Hopefully, it is years, but years seem to go by quite quickly.
“We could play Paint Chip Poetry?”
“We could do that.”
Heartbreak
a sand castle night.
When I Was Little
heartbeats
blushed
with a breath of fresh air
One of these Things is Not Like the Other
fire under the sea octopus chamomile tea!