Zinga

I was napping the other day ... in my daughter's room, since she's been away at a friend's for a few days and I told my husband I just wanted to be in a room with a little extra light from the window.  We all know I was lying.  I missed her.  Anyway, I had a dream during my nap of a young woman with a secret and a man named Zinga from whom she seeks help.  (That was his name in the dream and I just can't change it, because, well, his name is Zinga.)

If you know me, you know I hate to "work" and if I were to get paid to write, I'd probably hate to write.  So I'm posting online as the story unfolds!  Here's the first installment ... we'll see where it goes :)  Please comment if you want ... it'll fuel my own thoughts for the story!

It won't have an official title until it's finished, but this is for my daughter, Macy Lauren.    

Zinga    

     Zinga was sipping his third cup of coffee for the morning, trying to prepare for a day of work with no rest the night before. He’d never been able to sleep well during the routine electrical outages the housing management performed once a week. As he fueled up on the caffeine, he pushed his silvering hair out of his eyes and peered through the back glass door. His housing unit sat on a small hill that allowed him a view of the tree line about a hundred feet just beyond the fence of his yard. Sometimes he’d wander out on his days off of work; walking up to the woods, then taking a few more steps into the leafy darkness. He only cared about the peace and quiet. He didn't explore. He’d had enough of discovery in his forty-three years to make him feel much older.

     Sliding back the industrial grade glass to step out into his patch of garden, he pulled his eyes away from the tree line and sat on the scrap of a wooden chair.  He recalled the first time he saw the young woman appear out of the trees, recognizing her from their interaction, or lack thereof, when they happen to meet a few months ago at the mailbox unit. She was just leaving the mailboxes and made no acknowledgement that she noticed his presence at all.  Zinga wouldn't have been bothered by that fact except that she smelled faintly of clean cotton – a scent he hadn't had the pleasure of enjoying for a long time and one that distinctly belonged to clothes freshly dried in a dryer. An odd occurrence, considering not many residents owned clothes dryers anymore. Most laundry was hand washed and line-dried these days.  Because of his fascination with the fresh scent, he watched as she passed him with her head down and expected that she’d continue on without concern for him. She stopped after putting a few steps between them and turned her head slightly as if to check behind her, but she didn't look up.

     Since that first encounter, he'd spent considerable effort to ascertain a pattern in her mailbox outings. He wanted to ask her about her walks into the trees, but after checking the mail a few times when he hoped she’d be there, he decided making the trip more than twice a day was just ... suspect.  Plus, Zinga realized he was spending far more energy on such an activity as he’d spent on anything he'd anticipated in a long time, and she was never there when he went anyway.  Although he entertained the idea of following her into the woods, he thought better of it. That wasn't the way he wanted to begin his first conversation with her, either. He could just see it now.  On the off chance that she'd hear him approach and wouldn't bolt in a dead run, and if he was actually able to walk up close enough to speak to her, he’d need to explain that he only wanted to smell the fresh scent of clean cotton lingering on her clothes. Ridiculous.  And he certainly wasn't going to ask her out to dinner after following her into the woods.  Oh, how he missed the days of breaking the ice over email!  Sighing, he rubbed the stubble on his chin and challenged himself to be content with the small relief he felt when he saw her appear out of the trees in her usual way. As far as he could tell she seemed in her element and at ease when he happened to see her sneak in from the forest a few times a week, mostly in the mornings before he left for work, which actually filled him with more questions instead of simple relief.  Besides wondering what she's doing out there, another question comes to mind every time -- how does she find her way in the darkness just before dawn?

     So at the mailbox yesterday, he was just as surprised to see her as she seemed startled to see anyone. Standing under the awning of the structure, pushing her hat down with one hand on top of her head as if it would fly away otherwise, she was craning her neck to look up as she read the announcement of the additional, unscheduled electrical test to be conducted that evening. Zinga was prepared with his key in hand as he stepped up and around from behind the mailboxes.  She was caught off guard with his abrupt intrusion and she hopped back a little; her eyes darted all around with a need to check everything and everywhere until they finally met his in a silent gaze.  They stood together on the steps, locked in a stare.  The young woman held her breath until Zinga gave a slight nod of his head and reached his key to his box. Something inside told him to move slowly and show her he was only there for his mail. Because of the uniform he was required to wear for work, sometimes he was mistaken for one of The Keepers. But he couldn't understand why she’d have a need to worry about The Keepers. He glanced at the base of her slender neck covered in the single fold of a gray turtleneck sweater. Once she took a breath and he saw her chest rise again, he was able to finally turn his eyes away, but only to ease her discomfort. He much preferred to gaze at the beauty before him that could never be camouflaged in colorless gray.

     Lost in thoughts of her crystalline eyes, he raised his coffee mug to his lips and wished he could advise her in making every effort to appear less startled over everyday interactions. It saddened him to think she may need to change anything about herself, even her most vulnerable expression. To him, in all of her startled beauty, he hoped she was one of those natural mysteries you only wanted to discover, and not feel a need to cover over. Even protecting her would be to cover over her. All of the sudden, Zinga was tired and the caffeine was useless. As he stood to go in and get ready for work, he glanced at the tree line and there she appeared once again.

     With shaggy, golden wisps of hair gone awry, framing her face to her chin and desperately needing a wash and a hair brush, she quickly stepped through the trees into the open field separating the housing units from the forest. Looking around to ensure only typical daily activity was taking place, she slowed her pace to her usual walk with her head down and her hands folded under her chest. He had never seen her direct her eyes beyond the next step in front of her feet, save the one moment he happened upon her when she was reading the notice on the board above the mailboxes.  Watching her look around amused Zinga until he remembered looking around wasn't one of her tendencies.  As she tracked closer to the housing, he could tell she was wearing a dark overcoat but her hat was missing. If she was trying to blend in with her drab surroundings, she should at least wear that ugly hat, Zinga thought to himself. That one with the ear flaps so he wouldn't be forced to watch her wild, dancing locks fly around her head in what seemed to him a beautiful, blinding glow and then maybe he could just pretend she was some teen-age boy gone exploring in the woods instead of, if his suspicions were correct, Ol’ Evie’s only granddaughter. Crazy Ol’ Evie. Damn. Well, at least Evie’s granddaughter seemed her usual self today, except that she walked with her arms folded over the front of her coat instead of in her pockets. It was colder today than usual; maybe she needed the extra warmth. Suddenly Zinga felt the chill in the air and an uncomfortable ache in his chest. “It’s just cold,” he thought to himself as he walked inside, “I’m just cold.”

Q: Can I still have kids? A: Sort of.

I'm hiding out with my laptop in a dark corner of the dining area in my home.  The "kids" are finally settled here with me now after their last day of school and they're already in summer break mode, taking over the big screen TV with video games, sprawling out on the lounge chair with the massage at full tilt and let's not forget the ever present evidence of their continual feasting: paper plates supporting only crumbs, water bottles, empty wrappers ... etc.  I use the quotes in the aforementioned reference to my offspring because "kids" they will always be to me but unless I clarify, you might envision short people of ages in only the single digits.  That was the case here at the Fuller house a few summers ago, and even as I remember last summer in my sentimental motherly way, even though they were going full force into adolescence then, their physical growth over the last four months is unnerving me today.

Because today, as I hover at my keyboard, secretly recording this memory, I glance over at them after I type every two sentences, wondering what happened.  There's not a day that has passed in the last three months that my son hasn't found me in the kitchen to hug me ... or what I think is only going to be a hug actually turns out to be a complete interruption of my kitchen duties so he can pick me up a foot off the floor and swing me around in circles until he decides I may be placed on terra firma once again.  I've given up any protest at all.  He thinks he's showing great affection and that it's funny that I appear defeated and annoyed after the experience.  I think it's funny too ... or I thought it was, until today.  When I realize he's not the only one who changed on me because, 'lo and behold, all of his friends have also betrayed me!  I'm watching them as I write and they have no idea the about the mini panic attack I'm having about what the coming summer months hold for us now.

It wasn't like this last summer. Last summer my daughter didn't have boys asking for her number on the last day of school.  Bazinga!  Exactly.  Now I'm just waiting for that moment when I look over and she's smiling and blushing and ... texting THAT BOY.  Ay yay yay.

Scott and I have never been the parents who limit our kids' time with technology.  Whether it's time on the phone sending texts or playing video games, we just don't believe in the "control the technology" strategy.  We figure our best bet to keeping them safe and healthy is to let their phases (whatever they are) run their course and teach them how to "do it right" as we go.  So far, so good.  That being said, can I just say that these kids have progressed far beyond my technology skill set in many areas?  They teach us now.

That's why I'm looking at them all so strangely today.  These are adult sized people that have preferences and knowledge and skills that, get this:  I DID NOT IMPART TO THEM.  And that's the way it should be.  They need so much more than me.  But, suffice it to say, this bittersweet reality is hitting me all at once since I'm about to spend each summer day with them, looking up at them, or eye to eye as it is with my beautiful daughter, shopping for her and wishing I could still fit into some of those cute outfits she gets to wear now, but seriously ... every day I spend with them is, at the same time, one less day I have to fully be "their mom".

I understand it's "once a mom, always a mom" ... but I have the foreboding sense that as a mom, I'm in my prime ... and my prime is fading.  Slowly, but surely.

Last summer, my son spent most of his time on video games.  Fine with me.  This summer, since he told his dad he'd like to look into architecture, he'll hit construction sites and talk to project managers and maybe other architects.  In between these events he'll keep in shape by running in the heat for cross-country in the fall and probably catch a few video games too, of course, and don't forget the endless steak dinners.  And you know I'm proud, otherwise I wouldn't brag about all of this in a blog ... but at the same time, there's a small part of me in total TERROR!

Now, it's just a small part of me in terror ... but it's the part of me that has fallen completely off the cliff.  I'm trying to keep it all in perspective.  But if I'm going to be honest, that small, terrorized part of me giving into the panic represents the HUGE part of me that senses the ripping apart of my own being as these "kids" step closer and closer to the time in their life when they will spend more days without me than they ever had with me.  I remember in the doctor's office a couple of days after my eighteenth birthday being diagnosed with insulin-dependent diabetes.  Strangely, the news of my deteriorated health wasn't what I was concerned with.  The first question out of my mouth was, "Can I still have kids?"  I was young, but being a mom was my big dream.

When I was in college (I went back to school after both of my kids were in elementary), a few semesters into it, my friend and software programming mentor asked me what I was going to do with all of my new found technical skills.  Would I go to graduate school?  Would I step out as a consultant?  Would I work for a large firm?  Take on a few internships?  His last question ... What was my dream?

I remember my answer bringing him to tears as I talked about my kids.  There will never be another dream that I have that tops them.  EVER.

I'll spend this summer getting to know them as young people.  I'll cry a little at night after everyone goes to bed because my "kids" left me at some point this last school year between Graham's district cross-country meet and Macy's first pair of heels, and I didn't even get to kiss those sweet cheeks good-bye.

My Ticket Out Of Here

Connecticut.  Boston.  West.  That's how it all began to spiral down for me, in that order.  I won't go back and relive the details, as you are probably aware of the recent tragedies.  More aware than maybe you'd like to be, in fact, given our ease of access to information today.  Really, when tragedy strikes, the "ease of access to information" is more like an onslaught of media coverage that morphs into a recurring nightmare from which you cannot wake.  It's overwhelming ... though I remind myself it can't be any worse for me than it is for the victims themselves and the loved ones, families, communities, and towns left to bear their sorrow in the aftermath.  I do not compare my despair to theirs ... I've faced no tragedy yet that has caused me so significant a loss in one fell swoop.

This is only my attempt, virtual as it is, to connect with anyone else out there who might feel like I have felt these last few months.  Just knowing someone else might read this and say, "Yeah, I know how she feels ... " helps me somehow.

Since the Connecticut school shooting, I've been afflicted with dreams that leave me sad when I wake, recurring more often after Boston and West.  They don't come every night, but not knowing when they'll happen is difficult to deal with.  I'll have a few consecutive, better days, and then it happens again.  I wake up trying to comfort myself by grasping for the bed underneath me and searching for the floor to stand on.  Anything tangible, concrete.  Then the rest of the day goes on with a heaviness.  A silent grief inside, released only with deep sighs, because until now I haven't really been able to express it in words.

In the waking hours, I've dealt with my grief by imagining ways I might prepare myself for such an awful occurrence, should it arrive.  Needless to say, the greatest temptation I face at this time is not giving into the depression that comes with my conclusion that I will never be prepared for anything like that.  Creeping in with the depression is a coldness that slowly freezes my heart and maybe even my body, come to think of it, as sleep is the easiest way to entertain that temptress.  I confess to sleeping more than usual lately, only to realize that I sleep because I've allowed the despair to settle in, slow me down and before I know it, I've bowed low to hopelessness instead of freely believing in Hope.  That line of thinking is so far outside of my typical mindset that I understand a little better now what a powerful poison sadness can be.

I'm not trying to preach "positive thinking".  I think that's mostly a crock, anyway.  I believe if you're sad, be sad and don't try to cut it off and act happy.  I'm not "happy", but I've caught my mistake in believing in the hopelessness.  No one asked for these tragedies to happen and I certainly didn't expect to be so affected by them since they didn't happen in my town, or my community, or my home.  But if there's any way I can honor those who did suffer such loss and not allow the tragedy to continue, I need to turn and take up with Hope again.  For me, for us.

Some of my favorite lines of poetry are the last three lines in the lyrics to a song by Mumford & Sons, "Not With Haste".  It's definitely a hopeful song, but I'm taking the last three lines as my ticket out of my own despair.


"Do not let my fickle flesh go to waste
As it keeps my heart and soul in its place
And I will love with urgency but not with haste"


I speak this to God in Heaven, to every particle of the Universe, to my deepest, saddest feelings:

No more will my flesh waste away in sadness and sleep.

 I will let Hope thaw my heart and ignite my soul.

I will love deeply, fervently, with great care.

And I will give others reason to hope in me.

Yeah, that's not the kind of funny I'm going for ...

     I was shocked they said that.  How could they think that about me?  I do their laundry, make their lunches, drive them all over the place, take them to the doctor, and yada, yada, yada ... But still they both agreed I am that woman on the funny little plaque hanging on the wall in our favorite diner that says, "I can only choose one person to please per day ... and today I choose me."  What the ...?!?!?!!

     After I completely flipped my wig, lost all sense of propriety, left the table and then returned a few minutes later as only furious instead of irrationally irate, my kids did their best to clarify exactly what they meant by comparing me to a less than considerate woman on a decorative plaque.  It was a difficult moment for all of us.  Apparently, they think it's amusing that I communicate in a direct manner and usually go after whatever I want.  This characteristic of mine, they say, is not selfish ... just obvious.  And they think it's funny.  Like the plaque is funny.  Humph.

     Apologies were made for misunderstandings, hugs were exchanged, I assured them I wasn't angry with them and then I went home and sat and stared at the wall and let a couple of tears get by without brushing them away.  My thoughts were reflective.  Have I been a tyrant of a mother?  Do I not listen to what they want?  Are my standards for their behavior too high?  Do I seem aloof too often?  I know I have a tendency disappear into my mind ... have I really shut them out?  Is my discipline too harsh ... too pointed, too extreme or simply unwarranted?

     Maybe they don't have the ability yet to express what they really think of their mom and when they get older, these are the things they will say about me.  Maybe I overwhelm them with my own personality extremes and all they know is that they think I'm selfish.  My husband lovingly assures me I am not these things that I worry about.

     And as a friend, I bet you'd say to me, "Nah, Melody, listen.  You're just being a good mom.  It's not an easy job.  Your kids are bound to disagree with your parenting from time to time.  They're preteens for crying out loud!"

     And if I could just depend on reason, I'd agree with you completely.  But I worry.

     I was sitting outside on the drive tonight after my walk.  The evening air was crisp with a little breeze.  I turned to my right to look up at the beautiful moon and stars and confessed to God that I'm so worried.  I'm worried about my kids in ways I can't even express in words.  As I felt the weight of the emotion, I just said the words, "God, I'm so worried about them."  And a little breeze blew across my face right then ... mainly because the rest of my body was covered from head to toe, but the little breeze caught my attention anyway and I remembered something encouraging my son said in the car earlier that day.

     He had just called off a "relationship" with a sweet little girl a couple of days before and he said, "You know Mom, I just realized something about dating girls.  Her personality is way more important than her looks.  You've got to be able to marry someone you know you can be the best of friends with."

     Maybe it was my "selfish" side that reminded him that looks are still kind of important (as I grinned slyly) but I was certainly relieved to hear this particular thought on dating, that this was his latest conclusion.  I'll willingly take emotional punches to the gut all day just as long as he keeps coming up with these kinds of revelations.

     Anyway, this parenting stuff is tough and it's wearing me out.