A Lady Laments About... The Storm Of The Century
I have a memory starring me and my kids. It's a beautiful, sunny, early Spring day - too early to discard a jacket, yet warm enough to sport a classic pair of worn out sandals. A cool, continuous breeze ruffles my broomstick styled skirt, prompting my head to fall back, my arms to outstretch and my eyes to close. Embracing this baptism by Mother Earth, a slow smile creeps across my face. I welcome this feeling of ecstasy by mouthing various incantations, partly due in recognition, but largely due to my want for more. My need for more. Being hugged by the elements is a feeling so pure your soul pleads for more. As if in response to either my prayers or my desperation, She complies and the breeze doesn't stop. The kids partake by spontaneous outbursts of spinning and begging to retrieve our much beloved kite. This blessing is rare. It's a blessing that leaves you longing for more days like this one. Carefree afternoons in which we actually have a chance to play with the unseen; to befriend the wind and wait for its return.
Fast forward two years where a new memory is born. The kids and I sit around the dining table; eyes closed, hands clutching, and heads in a silent bow. Our circle of prayer is witnessed by a stick of burning sage, a snow-white illuminated candle and a blanket of darkness. The wind outside serenades our vigil with sudden gusts violently crashing into the windows. We all look out the the thin glass, now speckled with rain and bits of pine needles, waiting for a sign that Her wrath has subsided. We are asking for stillness. We are urging Her to silence the terrifying wind, to let the trees return to their upright positions and pray that their roots are strong enough to hold.
My friends, what came through our humble little state was one of the worst storms Vermont has ever seen. Following erratic paths like a tornado and supplying wind gusts like a hurricane, local meteorologists were trying to make sense of what we were experiencing. The six to eight hour ordeal was originally forecast as a Noreaster and most of us turned in the night before expecting to wake up to a blanket of fresh snow. Matt and I woke to a blinking alarm clock and flickering lights; the power not knowing if it should allow us to shower or not. It was only after the lightning quick showers and waking the children did we notice what caused our power to be interrupted. The trees were bending in the backyard; just like a bow being pulled to accommodate an arrow. The dog was frantically trying to chase uncatchable leaves, whining as though we were depriving him of the ultimate capture. Continuing with our normal morning routine, we left the house and made a mad dash for the car, side stepping downed branches and being pelted with the cold, hard rain. After safely reaching the car, I exhaled and watched in awe as the trees continued their graceful dance.
Exiting the driveway, the road ahead was littered with similar debris; pine needles, branches and leaves stretched as far as the eye could see. To our left, my neighbors mailbox was the first of many casualties we would see that day. In some fantastic dramatic style, it lay down pointing at its assailant; a large branch that had plunged to its own death from a massive oak tree. Looking up at the menacing oak, I prayed aloud to any deity who was within earshot. "Spare our home, I beg of you...." The ride was electrified with our thoughts and wonderment. The kids stared out their respective windows and I tuned the radio in hopes of finding any news on what we were experiencing. Daycare provided temporary relief from the silence and we anticipated what work would hold when we arrived.
Wind and water, earth and fire - elements that when tamed can nurture and provide. Adding comfort and warmth to homes, stability for our foundations and water for our bodies, these elements when respected simplify our lives. But outside of our controlled environments, these elements can cause mass devastation; floods, hurricanes, tornadoes, wildfires, earthquakes - leaving a wake of death and destruction in its path. Arriving at work, we cursed the elements. Scattered through our parking lot lay parts to storage sheds, turned over wheelbarrows and signage ripped from their posts. Fighting the wind that could knock a grown man to his feet, we gathered what we could find strewn across the parking lot, trying to make this impromptu clean up part of the daily routine.
It didn't stop there. The wind continued to rattle our aging store, lights and computers flickering on and off, the roof close to losing its corrugated protection. The heavy commercial doors slammed repeatedly, unable to halt the suction from the wind. Within an hour I was en route to daycare, now closing due to a power outage. Braving the drive again, I set off to collect my children. A mile into my journey, traffic ceased to move. Power lines were down, trees uprooted lay across countless roads preventing many from coming or going. After re-routing, the seriousness of the situation became quite apparent. The radio insisted that people stay home and off the roads. Arriving at daycare I caught my breath; not two houses away from its kid friendly yard lie a giant pine tree straight across my road home.
The wind died down approximately eight hours later, but enduring the aftermath of this weather phenomenon lasted well over a week. Trees from counties across Vermont were uprooted. Many homes were spared, though some were not as fortunate. Power lines lay destroyed, delaying any progress to return heat and electricity to countless homes. Miraculously, no one was hurt. Not a scratch on anyone was blamed on the storm. Spirits were up, people reached out to help those who needed, and our county praised the power companies and state departments for their ongoings efforts in attempt to return to normalcy.
Noraccane. That's what our meteorologists claimed we had experienced. A noreaster/ hurricane, bringing no snow as expected but instead wind gusts that reached a staggering 80 mph. Through fumbled explanations concerning warm and cold fronts, we accepted what we were told. Well, at least a little. I've since gone to my yard, arms outstretched, head back and eyes closed, respectively thanking the Gods and Goddesses. Our houses still stand, our children are alright and the wood stove will be sufficiently fed with remnants of pines and box elders. Valuable lessons are learned everyday and this storm was no exception. We learned what helping others truly means, we learned that we take for granted the "basics" that many countries still are without, and we learned that Gaia, when talking, needs to be heard. I can't speak for the masses, but you can bet that I'm listening.
Jenn can listen to Gaia and let you know when the train is coming.
A Lady Laments Archives
Millions upon millions of listeners religiously turned on their radios and turned up the volume to witness the daily tirades of the aging DJ whose sarcastic wit and quick temper launched his show into radio infamy. The four hour long broadcast seemingly ridiculed everyone from public figures to celebrities alike. Mock interviews and random tangents highlighted issues of both political and popular nature, contributing to his expansive listening audience. In addition to the sardonic undertone of his broadcast, Imus played host to musical talents and journalists, senators and political hopefuls, reknowned celebrities and literary giants; bringing faces and names from the spotlight to mainstream America at 6:00am, Monday through Friday.
As one contributor to the millions who listened to his show, I loved it. In the land of Imus, political correctness took a backseat to humor. Funny was found in subjects that plagued the nation, inadvertently bringing awareness to issues we chose to look away from and not read about. One of my favorites was a mock interview with Mayor Ray Negan, infamous himself after a public demand for accountablility in the wake of Hurricane Katrina. While engulfed in water and tragedy, New Orleans was submerged in controversy, Mayor Negan at the helm. In the land of Imus, Mayor Negan continously spoke of the levies and his assurance that they would be fixed. This three years and one election after the 2004 catastrophe.
Instinctively, we all open our windows and clean out the past seasons, readying ourselves for the new. The smell of the air is crisp and sweet. It’s easy to tilt your head back, close your eyes, and let go. I covet the Spring, holding it’s spirit and majesty in my heart and soul.
This depiction of heaven can mean a lot of different things to many. It may represent the glory of achievement - finally reaching the goal of quiet contentment. Perhaps it signifies an escape from the daily grind; the longing to step aside and just be. To me, this representation and the thought of alone symbolized my own private hell which, until recently, took the identity of my own worst enemy. Alone meant isolation, quarantine from the familiarities of daily life. Alone was downright frightening. If you break it down, alone has one letter as a saving grace. Just one letter, clinging to alone like a leash on a dog. Take away the A and you have the making of other words that don't correlate with the fantasy of paradise. Words like loner, lonely and loneliness. Everything I feared and never really wanted.
It hit me one night. I sat sipping my tea, entranced by the sound of nothing all around me. The children were fast asleep in their beds. The dog lay in his own bed, more than likely thinking of a way to catch those damn birds he sees everyday out the windows. The cat dreamt quietly on my lap as I stroked her fur. I took a deep breath in and slowly exhaled. And with that exaggerated breath, it all went away. Instantaneously, I was O.K. I was O.K with alone. I was O.K with not planning my next move or reaching for the phone to create virtual company. At last, I was O.K with me. I came to terms with the fact that I needed to stop running from me; my fears, my worries and my anxieties. I needed to face the demons I had created in my own mind and realize that just be-ing was fine. No, better than fine, it was great! It took me over twenty years to realize that my best source for reassurance, the best company I could keep, the greatest friend I had never known had been with me all the while.
Where and when did self take a turn for the worse? And what's more, can we ever redeem it to a more desirable status? In a society that desecrates the notion of self-love (i.e narcissism) and self-reliance (i.e "you mean you're not married yet?"), the outlook for redemption seems very bleak. Yet as we explore the fantasies of being comfortable with self and accepting to self, we find that a bright future is not unfathomable. In a perfect world we could collectively start to be O.K with who we are and how we look and knock society's standards and idealisms off their golden pedestals. But that's in a perfect world. How great would it be not to pay mind to the pages and pages of magazine models carefully orchestrating what most of the people in our surrounding environment don't look like? What a relief it would be to be proud of academic advances instead of how many dates we've been on or the amount of sexual encounters we've kept on our proverbial belts .
Self is defined by Websters as "an aspect of one's personality" or "what one is". I find it intriguing that numerous personalities seem very consistent with a myriad of others and if self is what one is, how is that possible? The amount of energy we put into our self-confidence and self-esteem through therapy, prescriptions and life-altering remedies, seems like a contradiction. To heal ourselves in order to be well-adjusted; just like everyone else.
Aside from partaking in voluntary war zones for my children as the wheel turns again to mark another year of growth in celebration, my home is transformed from time to time in order to participate in the delicate art of entertaining. It is an art I relish in. I like all four walls of my home to be hidden by bodies and banners. I enjoy the sound of chatter and laughter echoing through the vacant rooms and the eclectic mix of people, young and old, enjoying one anothers' company. I thrive off entertaining to the point where it should be classified as an addiction or behavioral problem, a bad habit perhaps to those who need a label. This issue, however, is one I would rather not take medication for or seek a therapists couch to correct.
The stories of glory days and days yet to come. The entourage of foods and drinks, games and music, the clinking of glasses as offering to the Gods and Goddesses of celebrations and festivities. It's hard to say; they all weave a wonderful web that embraces the very core of my soul, leaving me happy to be alive at that moment in time.
As I pulled into the lot, I felt like a million eyes were on me. I could hear the snickers and the disapproving head shakes as though I were a dead man walking. I envisioned that if a fruit stand were handy, my car would have been littered with fresh produce lunged by the passerbys. I pulled in behind the car I struck and awaited my fate. Worse case scenarios played out in my mind. Every law firm commercial I had ever seen played over like a recording; "if you or someone you know has been hurt in an automobile accident..." and I clutched the steering wheel harder, wishing I had paid closer attention to the names repeated numerous times in those classic advertisements. Then I saw a man emerge, cell phone in hand, from the struck vehicle.
While the simplicity in these ancient words appear to be more comical than profound, I ask you to keep an open mind so we can continue the trend of sharing this knowledge to our children and for generations to come. Think back to the times when you got bent out of shape because someone spilled beer on your jacket or your hair wasn't fixed to perfection. You got angry. Down right livid, if you're anything like me. You shouted and cursed, cried and whined, maybe stomped your feet like a five year old, but you emoted rage and frustration as though your bangs were out to get you. Had I known the ways of old, I would have shook my head, threw on a baseball cap and said aloud, "shit happens".
My family is peculiar, we almost have designated times to call one another for just a casual conversation; all other calls were for emergencies only. This was not our typical Saturday morning call, this was Wednesday night.
A flower for every season and towering maples that lined the driveway to the two car garage. It was situated in what many of us would refer to as the "ritzy" side of town and I fell in love with it. It was mine. It always broke my heart when the brief pause at the stop sign would end and we would exit the neighborhood that for years would be the object of our affections. Mom had a house there, as did my sister and even now when I make my infrequent trips back home, I tell my own children "there's my house, isn't it beautiful?" 
please inform your parents you're on-line and a twenty eight year old, unmarried mother of two is about to reveal all of the hushed subjects they've been putting off since your own conception. In lieu of you, of your now stressed parents, childless couples everywhere and to those anticipating cupids arrow this Valentines' Day, I dedicate this article.
Love is defined by Websters as "a strong affection or liking for someone or something". Marriage is defined as "the state of being married" (o.k...) or "a union". Now, I don't know about you, but I don't put merit into a definition that uses the actual word you're trying to define in said definition. Quite honestly, I never put much stock into marriage at all. Marriage to me seemed more like an establishment than a celebration of love everlasting. Aside from being introduced to the more patriarchal rules and regulations of marriage at a very early age ("My name is Jennifer and I'm a recovering Catholic...") traditions that were implemented thousands of years ago are no longer applicable, at least in mass quantities, to our society. Women no longer have dowries, monarchal and tribal mergings exists in a world far away from the small confinement of Vermont, and my personal favorite, arranged marriages, are seldom announced in your local paper under Weddings and Engagements. Despite having indisputable evidence that marriage is nothing more than a piece of paper and a blood test, Matt and I are getting married at the end of June this year. Settle down children, I'm not sewing on my scarlet letters rendering me a hypocrite just yet.
I am woman, hear me roar. A very notable line from a very notable song that was the anthem to womens' empowerment heard round the world 30 years ago. The last time I heard that song, I was watching television with the kids and after a forewarning from a dear friend, caught a glimpse of the remake; a Burger King ad focusing on a man who was "tired of chick food" and rallied a posse of other men who apparently were also tired of "chick food" and various other activities subsequently defined as "chick-like". I am man, hear my arteries clog as my waist-line expands in true American fashion.
I can't hold Helen accountable for being passionate about equality. I only wish her song came with a manual and an alternate version, "I am Man, Watch Me Iron". This way, once us women found our roar it would be loud enough for the men to be distracted from our now drooping breasts and bedroom eyes (only these bedroom eyes are from lack of sleep, not overactive sex drives). Womens' liberation certainly opened the door to a new frontier in career evolution, but it obviously forgot to point out the fine print at the bottom of the contract: equality in every aspect of life.
while still looking like Jessica Simpson (let the record show I do NOT look like Jessica Simpson after reading said article). And while 30 years ago not shaving was a sign of empowerment, not shaving these days reflects more of a motivational impairment or a severe lack of time.