Too many dreams... not enough roads

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;



Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,





And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.



I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

Robert Frost (1874–1963)

This poem has always inspired me to be different.  Drunk with power from non-conformity.  Brilliant beyond my years with my incredible evolution.  I'm almost relieved that Mr. Frost does not see our colloquial society today.  Follow your dream?  Follow your heart?  Ahh... is there any true path to both?  I'm not suggesting we prostitute our souls out to have cell phones, designer jeans, and a gi-normous mortgage.  Or we must live in a cardboard box by the river to demonstrate our quest for justice.  Life is all balance.  And balance, as you know, is hard to achieve.  When do we make concessions?  The quest for financial freedom isn't fair.  Does true love exist?  Are dreams reality or... well, dreams?  Here's to Robert Frost, who I believe earnestly wants us to find our path.

Anxiety

March 2010


I have always been the strong one in crisis. Bring on the blood, tornado, or angry neighbor, and I will have my bandages/survival kit/pitchfork ready. Enter the new chapter in my life: my daughter Ripley. Oh, she seems all blond and sweet, but under that lives her asthma and peanut allergy. (Here’s where I enter deathly allergic to peanuts, but I just don’t care much for drama).

One wheeze from her, and I have heart palpitations. A child at the park eating a peanut butter sandwich sets me into full panic attack. I have bothered my friends and family with questions like: Does this jello have peanuts in it? Would you mind sanitizing that peanut butter covered counter in a natural cleaner as to not set off her asthma? I finally have found that panic feeling mothers all over the world experience. At an after school meeting recently, she was running around the playground, then came to me, with slightly discolored skin under her eyes and around her mouth with the fateful words: I need my nubby (name attempted to make an abuterol inhaler seem less scary). Searching frantically, this turns out to be part of that 1% of the time I’ve left it at home. I run to my car, hoping for the lost “nubby” under the seat. No. I call my husband to see if he had by chance decided to leave work an hour early and be standing ready with medication in hand. No. Then I look up and notice a light on in the school. Here’s where we chime the heavenly revelation sounds--- the secretaries hadn’t gone home. Nearly out of breath from sprinting, I beg them “ can---I get--- Ripley’s inhaler--- from---- the health room?” Yes?!  While it would not make a good screen play for an end of the world, earthly destruction movie, it sure feels like that for a moment. Ripley uses the inhaler, then throws a ‘bye’ over her shoulder as she heads for the swing set. Huh- I guess it’s just me.

edit.. editti...editting...editing!

February 2010

I love all my modern word processing friends. The abc-check, the big book with magnifying glass thesaurus, the googly eyed paperclip that is so much more interested in my work than anyone else. The question mark man. Red squiggly underline that has yet to learn my last name.

Watching my son work on his advanced third grade work takes me back to learning about the dictionary. The dictionary that will always appear in my mind the way it did in third grade, at Sacajawea elementary, divided on the cover as dic-tion-ary. My face book friends from Sacajawea will remember. Then comes the doomed sound of my hateful third grade teacher “look it up in the dictionary.” Line---oh, that’s right. The same line all third graders across the country, across the world say -- “how can I look it up in the dictionary if I don’t know how to spell it?” I was trying to use the word emphasis in previous writings. Infases? Inphaces? infasses? Enfases? Unphases? Did you notice that in the history of the world, no third grade teacher has ever had an answer to that question?

Tenacity

January 2010

I didn’t do well in school for most of my life. I wasn’t stupid, I just didn’t care much. My parents never put any emphasis on grades, so why bother? I took in what I felt important in high school, community college, and then at the big state U to stay out of academic probation to enrich my mind.  I finally started getting good grades at the end of my higher learning stint because I actually found it interesting! Then came my masters. Here’s where my dad says “It makes a big difference when it’s your money.”

My first summer taking grad classes at PSU I got all A’s. It felt great! I became obsessed. I checked my grades online for minute updates on posting day. Then I would see all my AAAA’s in a row, and do the “YES” dance. Enter professional and personal journal keeping. Piece of cake, right? I did the work, I did the reading, I humored the class with my brilliant and witty observations. I dazzled with my lighthearted and at the same time awe-inspiring musings. Then came judgement day. A… A…. A…. AMINUS!!??  I practiced my speech to give the instructor on how she must have accidentally looked at the wrong line in her grade book. Or how I secretly had food poisoning or biopsy surgery during the quarter. My long departed grandma had died? She had a secret oppression against…. Educated middle income women? I had nothing. I had to face the fact that I had messed up and in so earned *shutter* an A- Shortly after, I gave birth to my son and left the academic world indefinitely. Several years later, I decided to finish those last few credits and complete my action research/ master’s thesis project. I worked with my previous journal keeping professor on a paper I wrote entitled: Personal interpretation of journal keeping.  SAME TEACHER. SAME TOPIC.  I got an A this time. So the next time my little man looks me square in the eye and tells me no, then rattles on the universe of reasons as to how I have served injustice, I will remember this. And fear for his future teachers.

the reality of reality

January, 2009
Reality shows. Hmmm. I’ve never really understood the popularity of them. They seem drawn out and boring- even the cliffhangers are just, sort of, real. I enjoy a good scripted laugh or cry. I enjoy the audacity of stupendous things. When the reality show drama happens, it’s just too believable. Of course it is-- it’s real (barring the obvious editing and camera angle, of course) After stewing about it for awhile, though, I realize this actually happened to someone. If these things happened to my friends, I’d be showing up on their doorsteps with ice cream and Kleenex. Where are the reality shows shoulders? Are they in the many blogs, with unknown authors, ridiculing and demeaning them? Is it their own mother, whom they call, while all of America watches the tearful call? And what about the fact that as spectators, we WANT these bad things to happen. To real people? Seriously? Clearly happiness and calm do no make for good TV. So, if you’ll excuse me, I have to finish my Harry Potter book before Desperate Housewives comes on.

the naked facebook-er

December 2009
Ahh, facebook. So ruthless, useless, hurtful and spectacular at the same time. I originally didn’t include my maiden name, so my former ghosts couldn’t catch up. After finally being outed by someone that still recognized me, I gave up and included the Williams. This is the name I was burdened with before I knew who I was, was responsible for all my actions, and found essential happiness in my life. I’m typing this knowing I can go back and edit. And rewrite. And edit. And finally publish. When I was a Williams, everyone saw this. These people saw my rough drafts, and could judge me by them. They could give opinions and criticism on every potential idea I had. It was hard, and sometimes painful. Then I realized-- I saw their rough drafts, too. Remember people-- this is like those horrible middle school forced PE showers we had to take. Sure, I’m naked, but so is everybody else.

So now that we’ve all gotten dressed, I think we can put this behind us. I’ve delighted in seeing all the amazing adventures life has given my long lost friends. And enemies. I’ve enjoyed finding out that we’ve all been in love, had broken hearts. I’ve relished in finally feeling that if I sat at the popular table, I would not be disgraced. So here’s to adulthood. May we all enjoy the ride.

Peace Prize Outrage

December 2009

Perusing face book, I find endless comments concerning Barack Obama receiving the Nobel peace prize. Why do people speak out with such fierce cries over what is basically a good thing? I say hooray for peace. Hooray for pushing global boundaries that exist to hurt. Hooray for recognizing that politics and money are not the same thing. Hooray for finally defeating the ideals we received in elementary school that the most popular should win instead of the smartest, bravest, or gentlest. Hooray for disbelieving that “they don’t count because…” is a suitable way to live. Because they are poor? Wear a veil? Are hungry, homeless, illiterate, gay, mentally ill, or surviving abuse? Because they are a woman?  This is a large world, and instant peace is not attainable. Perhaps the belief that breaking social, political, religious, and racial barriers doesn’t seem worthy of a prize. I believe that the momentum is enough.