Unexpected

Backward Glance by Angelina Mosley

The Chicago marathon is in full swing. The El whirs above a mass of runners and the crowd roars. They round the corner and the camera moves in on a brunette woman as she makes the turn. She glances to her left where her family is cheering. The camera cuts to her exuberant 9-year-old daughter yelling, "Mom! Mom!" – a huge smile on her face.

I shut my eyes.

A singer stands on a stage and the lights go down. Anxious family members watch from the sidelines. They grab hands in excitement, anxiousness and pride. The lights go up, the music starts and the singer sings. A judge hits a button and their red chair swings around. The family goes nuts. Shouting, crying, laughing, hugging.

My throat clenches.

Both of these scenes quietly remind me that I will never experience the pride of a daughter cheering me on, or a family yelling from the sidelines because they believe in me and want to be where my dreams might come true.

Something I didn't expect about infertility was that it carries its burden into middle age. I did not realize the pain would intensify and shift. As I move through my 50's, my friends are starting to have grandchildren. Their beautiful expressions feel like a blade in me. I long to be comforted inside a family who knows me. But most of my siblings live on the opposite coast and have families of their own. My husband's siblings also live far away with their own children and grandchildren. We have dear, sweet, wonderful friends and we are loved, but there are unexpected moments I cannot dodge. Like the marathon commercial and the singing contest.

I admit it's not hard to wallow in self-pity, which is why I escape in front of the television, but it seems even there, I am not safe.

----------------------

{As waves of anger take my breath, I gasp. I wail. I shake my fist. And then I reach...my fingers stretched. And He is here, holding me tight and whispering, "I know."}

Loss

When my best friend's mother died, I watched her go through the tunnel of loss. It's a helpless feeling, to watch. But having lived through it myself, I could look her in the eye. People often call you brave when you're in the tunnel, as if you had a choice.

The day my dad died was the strangest day of my life, and it broke me. I was only 29. Years later, when I lost my mom, the dark cloud of her followed me for a year.  Now, I’ve lost my brother—my gifted, frustrating, inspiring, angry and passionate brother. 

Loss is isolating and surreal. You wander through days, out of body. As in an Escher drawing, you are the figure repeating into itself. You're a body in the Matrix. You rise each day, you move, and it really does feel as if you could jump off a building and live. 

Reminders are everywhere—as nebulous as a scent or as tangible as the shoes you're wearing. Denial burns in your throat and in your stomach. Tears don't come and you want to cry. You want to feel. You cling to the grief because somehow, it keeps them near.

My dad Jack

My dad was a no nonsense guy with a tremendous sense of humor. He had an answer for everything.
Me: "Hey, we're out of milk!"
Dad: "We have milk we haven't even used yet."

Dad: "Hey get down here."
Me: "Wait..."
Dad: "Weight broke the wagon down."

My personal favorite, when leaving a party or somewhere else...
"Don't think it ain't been nice...cuz it ain't!"
He would drop off the end part because after a while, everyone knew it so well.

What I really appreciated about him was his willingness to sit down and reason out a thing instead of yelling or getting mad or punishing.

Once, when I was in college, he sat me down and told me my mom had been reading my journal. I was incensed! He said my mom thought I was going to kill myself and couldn't I write something positive in there. How dare she! was all I could think. I eventually did write something in there, but not without a statement about invading one's privacy.

The thing I love about that story is that despite my mom's reaction, and despite whatever it was I wrote, he knew I wasn't going to kill myself. He knew it was just teenage angst. He was so practical and straight to the point. I loved him. Now, I adore him. And miss him.

Common Courtesy Series: The Elevator Man

Once upon a time elevators had captains.  The Captain sat on a stool by the number panel. "Floor?" he'd say, as you stepped aboard and pressed the number for your floor. He always held the door for his passengers to step out before the ones waiting got on.

Without the Elevator Man, common courtesy has gone down the shaft. These days, getting on and off elevators is a free-for-all. When an elevator door opens, it's a rush to get to the other side, bodies dodging and pushing and rushing, pushing buttons to close the door. Are we in that big of a hurry? Another elevator is seconds away. Step aside people.

Dear Otis, please bring back the Elevator Man.

Love,

Claustrophic Passenger

Creative Style Inventory

1. When did your creative awakening or re-awakening occur?

The first time was seeing a play when I was six. The reawakening has been recent, tapping into other creative talents and desires and actually being in them.

2. What talents do you have naturally?
Acting, writing, graphic design, art (mixed media, collage, oil pastels), singing, expressing.

3. Which elements draw you toward them? (Fire, Air, Wood, Water)
Wood and water.

4. Where and when do you create?
In my home studio/office.

Where and when do you wish to create?
Write at home and create at the Loft, spread out on tables.

5. What activates your creative energy? And what drains it?
I get inspired by other artists, talking with them, seeing their work, going to galleries and museums, the ocean, being outdoors, water, visiting artisan shops, movies, reading great books & great articles in great magazines.
Drains: Medication changes.


6. What creative rituals do you have?
Open the window next to my desk, light a candle and/or lavender incense. Corny, but true.

7. Does nature influence your creativity?
Yes, everything about it. Colors, textures, movement, all of it.

8. Biggest creative hurdle so far?
Being not enough in the process & too focused on the end result. Can paralyze you.

9. What time of day are you most receptive to inspiration?
Late at night!

Risk:
To sail around a cliff.

Sarah

How could you be a mother?
I am not a mother.

You were 12 when I met you, looking out at the snow-filled forest,
up to the mountains, full of confidence.
You never seemed to waver, stood strong like the trees before you.
I envied that.

Now you mother two beautiful girls, you engage
in it, you breathe it.

It is strange at once for me, but fascinating,
riveting. I read your elegant stories about your daily
challenges. I see the strong hand and soft heart.

I long for the experience, but knowing it's
behind me, I embrace yours.

Take My Hair

At
the
end
of
the
day,
wine swings
in its clear
bell
glass.

My head is flung back,
letting the breeze take my hair.

The Burgundy is perfect,
warm.