Shouldn't…but Do

From: Ground Level, October 10

“Even without more physical violence, my oldest child is close to deciding, given more required time with his dad, that he would take the younger one’s hand and walk out the door, leaving them on the road somewhere between here and there.”

Last evening, I dropped my children off for dinner with the Confused Soul. Some bit later,  my oldest called, they were on the road, could I come get them?

I retrieved them, talked to them, returned them to his house with no further incident that evening.  The Confused Soul called and yelled at me until I pushed “End.”

I wish I could push “End.”

Read Full Post »

The sunrise is stellar this morning, even an hour or so ago, the clear eastern sky hinted of the brilliant palette to come.  Small tufts of nighttime clouds yawn their way west.

I had hoped to be above those clouds about now, had plans stretching back a couple of years to be nestled into seat 11B, watching the dawn, finally wending my own way  somewhere else, instead of from ground level, watching planes and all those clouds, pass me by.

A matter of possession, as always.  Key is whose possession?  Do my children belong to their father, the Confused Soul, to be required to stay with him for the week whilst I was on pleasure bent?

Or, are my children entitled to stay where comfortable, with dear  family friends, yucking it up and knoshing on good times and foods that only staying with loved ones can provide?

Court documentation sides with the entitled view, that the children would be required to attend the Confused Soul only if I were hiring them out.  $600 of attorney time sides with the entitled view.  Even the custodial court investigator I met with this week for two hours, sided with the entitled view.

But, as ever, the Confused Soul does not see it that way – and being in possession of them this weekend – well, he noted last night, he would just defy the Court Order and keep the children for the rest of the week.  Despite the fact that their relationship is in fair shambles at this point, even given months of therapeutic intervention.

During their last of three required weeks together in August, the Confused Soul became so enraged he ripped books, yanked arms, locked the objects of his possession out of his house on a hot day, and refused to give them water until they did what he said. To be fair, loss of temper, mean spirited comments, and lots of screen time is more usual for the Confused Soul – he only resorts to physical force when completely “loses it.”

What would you have done?  Even without more physical violence, my oldest child is close to deciding, given more required time with his dad, that he would take the younger one’s hand and walk out the door, leaving them on the road somewhere between here and there, while I relax on a beach far away, unwind from a hellish year, and bury my head in the sand.

Would my children survive another week with the Confused Soul at this point? My guess is yes.  Is surviving the point of childhood?  Or is thriving?  Did my real need for  time away, with friends who remember me,  trump the emotional state of my children?  I could have tousled heads, kiss kiss, you will be fine.

I had already checked in online, had my boarding passes,  packed, arrangements made, every detail covered.  Everything.

I canceled the reservation late last night.  With attorney fees to discuss the issue, the plane ticket and such, economic damage of $1200, plus untold lost energy in discussions, meetings, arranging, trying to handle things right.

My favorite ball cap notes women who behave rarely make history.  I would have given a lot to be aloft right now, but not  the well being of my children.

The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, or the one, the man said.  You pay your money, you take your chances.   That seems to be the view from the ground these days.

Read Full Post »

…should dress in the basement.”

I admit defeat by a window shade.  Woe betide she who seeks to replace Levelor with shade.  Instructions followed, holes drilled, frustration ensued.  Further consultation, proper installation. Undone.

Defective shades – they will be returned.  Wrong fit, providing no shade, no cover, no retreat.  The sun pounded in all summer, unknown eyes invade by night.

No where to go but up.  Just like the shades.

Read Full Post »

Two weekends a month, and one night a week, I drive past Constant Street.

Shuttling my children to visits with X, it is on my left.  Though I never notice it on my way to drop them off,  the sign fairly shouts each time I drive out.  It has been trying to tell me something for months.

Constant what?  Turmoil? Attack? Fatigue and economic ruin?  Thanks, I know already.

The common definition of “constant”  is changeless, unvarying. The thought leaves me disturbed, breathless.

But the etymology of “constant,” the original premise of the word, is from com meaning together, and stare meaning  to stand.  Together, to stand, as in standing firm, steadfast or faithful.

I understand now.

Read Full Post »

Yesterday I deleted all my text messages.  All of them.  The one that said “Merry Christmas,” the ones that said “Happy Birthday,” the ones from near, and from far.  The ones I kept to bolster my spirits, in waiting areas,  the middle of the night, or just because.

It was a mistake.  Learn from me.  Do not delete texts with a defiant attitude about reading glasses.

In this day of electronic wizardry and perpetual back-up – when you must purposefully delete material twice to rid yourself of it – erroneously erased text messages cannot be recovered without some serious muscle along the lines of a  court order.   Like accidentally sent email, you cannot take it, or get it, back.

Maybe I am the only one (futilely) eschewing the use of reading glasses, or the only one who treated texts as memorabilia.   My cell phone is cold. History is cleared.  No reflection in that mirror.  My phone can make connections but it cannot hold them.  Or rather, I can’t.  Ouch.

Read Full Post »

The Neighbor made the mistake of phoning me Saturday morning to inquire after my being. Some half hour later, following a guided tour of the concentric rings of hell currently forming my universe, we hung up. I am sorry Neighbor.

It is that way with friends. From concern they ask, from my vivid response, I regret.

The ground these days shifts and slips easily. Ambiguity, the breaker and maker of souls, a constant companion. The Blast Zone nurtured by X, ever-present.

Later Saturday, making escape by car, a glance captured the Neighbor, absorbed, improving her garden. For the briefest of moments I understood the illusory nature of ground – even the firm looking stuff.

Ground does not uphold life, it is a felt web of connectivity, pulsing points – agents, friends – that supports this world. Swinging over a precarious landscape its pattern forms anew when damaged, pathways renewed by those who remember, even when I do not. Steely strength in seemingly fragile threads, the calls, the cards, the quiet help from the background.

That web, that many-colored tapestry, I suspect, is both the answer and the secret reason for my travails. New patterns, unfolding, no matter where you go, there you are.

To the many points of my web – the Neighbor, the Great Old Friend, Gal Pals, the Systems Wizard, the Mentor, the Artist, the World-at-Large, the Cosmos – some of you do not read this bog, but I appreciate you nonetheless. And to the faithful Writer…who gathered the energy of others dear to me in a place called Brattleboro…I will never forget that kindness. My heartfelt gratitude to all and my apologies for the tears and trauma.

Read Full Post »

Redaction.  Looks like it was only a touch and go.  Don’t hold supper.

Read Full Post »

A life well lived, and loved.

“Nola Garrity was born on June 26, 1917 in Leamington, Utah. She was raised in Salt Lake City and graduated from Westminster College. On September 4, 1938 she traveled to Seward Alaska to be married to her childhood sweetheart Gene Garrity. She enjoyed travelling, spending time with friends, playing cards, watching sports, and being a mother and grandmother. She was a lifetime member of the Mizpah chapter of the Eastern Star in Salt Lake City. Was proudly a member of Presbyterian Women at Puyallup First Presbyterian Church. She is survived by her beloved husband Gene Garrity; her children, Dennis & Jeanie Garrity, Pat Garrity, Margaret (Markie) Garrity; 7 grandchildren; 12 great-grandchildren; and 1 great- great grandchild. She is preceded in death by her parents Delmah and Fred Crowton. Surrounded by family, she left to be with the Lord on April 24, 2010. Services will be held at Puyallup First Presbyterian Church at 1:00 Saturday, May 1.”

Read Full Post »

Dysphonia has me again. Laryngitis. Voice, aural expression reduced to a whisper. Walking into an office, and known to be a gregarious sort, I was hailed with a hearty “hello,” today. The uneven squeak representing my intended response gave great merriment, to myself included.

How often do our words come out differently than expected, even with our best intentions? When misunderstanding, not merriment, holds sway.

Pivotal moments of human interaction turn on finely grained cues – tone, a word too many, two words too few, a weightless pause. Words are fickle tools, especially in an uncertain voice.

Read Full Post »