Memories

by Joy Hilsman Thomas

I want to be like Anne Lamott and/or Elizabeth Gilbert. That is, I would like my work to be often published and sold … sold a lot. But I’m me. I’m not either one of those fantastic writers. That’s how it turned out in the scheme of things, and I’m actually content with that. I do like myself in an OK way. I am not completely certain, however, if what I’m doing with my life is useful to anybody or anything. I guess we all come to that point in our lives sometimes and that’s where I am. I don’t want to be useless.

When Don (my husband) was alive, I sometimes wondered if I really believed what I said I believed or if I was simply a weakling, hanging onto his coattails as he moved through life, robust and full of strength and determination. Now I know that I do believe what I say I believe; I just don’t know what to do with those beliefs because my strength seems gone. He gave me strength to do. I give myself the right to believe, but without the strength to do, I give up easily.

As for writing, whether poetry, short stories or essays, or the screenplay that I keep considering, I think I need a pusher: you know, those people who get behind you and push you up a hill. Don did that for me one time, in reality he did that: pushed me up a hill. It felt like someone really cared whether I made it up that hill or rolled on back down it like a bowling ball. It was a time of exhilarating laughter!! I haven’t laughed like that in a long time.

But Don is gone and I have myself to deal with these days. None of my relations read what I write so that’s not an avenue to count on, no voices to support or teach, to let me know what’s good, what’s to be crumbled for the trash. It all goes back to when I was just a kid, writing my thoughts and feelings down on anything I could find to write on and having those writings found by a snooping mother. She knew there was something bad wrong with me, always had known it since I was born, what on earth was the matter with me, I needed help of some kind and they can’t afford a psychiatrist to see what’s going on in my head. Are you crazy, writing junk like this? Stuffing my little scribbly papers in my hands, all crumpled now instead of pristine and clean the way I’d left them under my mattress, she left me standing there and washed her hands of me. Hot little tears slid down the sides of my face. I was embarrassed — for what I didn’t actually know but whatever I’d done had to be worse than wrong; it had to be horrible. Wondering why it was so bad of me to write my feelings, I smoothed the papers and slipped them back under the mattress. All I’d done was write myself down. My soul was in those papers. I put me down on paper and the one person who found me and read me humiliated me to the point that I never let another person see what I’d written until Steve, some 30 odd years later. And he said “WRITE!!!”

I will forever be thankful for that one word from that one man’s mouth. Now I write. I put me down on paper and let you look at me in all my gruesome, complacent, lackluster ways. You can like me or not like me. I care. Unlike Anne and Elizabeth, I do give a shit. But I can’t do a thing about it. For some reason born into me, I have to write. It has to come out now and then whether there is a place to put it or not.

And when I make it free and it goes like pancakes, it no longer much matters if no one buys it. It isn’t the money; that’s what I’ve learned this week. It’s just that you picked me up … and maybe read me … and so far, you haven’t told me that I’m crazy.

Thank you. #You rock

Remember the Bee Gees?

by Joy Hilsman Thomas

There are some singers, some groups, some people in our lives who are too large to forget. The Bee Gees were one of those groups for me. Barry Gibbs, the oldest of four brothers, three of them Bee Gees, touches the soul with a spiritual growth even he is probably not aware of. Something deeper, more evolved, more touching and emotional crawls out of him when he sings these days. He is still here, large as life and grown by grief.

Grief does that to a soul.

How to be a Shadow Dancer

by Joy Hilsman Thomas

1. Dance in the mud. Ride a bike through mud, roll in it, hop in it.
2. Play hide and seek with your shadow.
3. Hide underneath the bed just for fun.
4. Play Hopscotch in the yard all by yourself.
5. Swing as high as you can and then jump out to see if you land on your feet.
6. Buy a coloring book and color outside the lines without fear of reprimand.

I thought 6 was a better number than 5 or 10 or even 3. Seven is better but I’m not sure what that would be just yet.

First, you ask, what on earth is a Shadow Dancer and why on earth would I want to do these things? I’ll tell you why and then I’ll let you think about whether this might be something good for you.

I don’t spend a whole lot of time caressing memories from my childhood. There are a few remembrances that have become mementos but most are recollections of harsh emotional weather conditions that I’d just as soon put on a shelf to draw dust and rot from disuse. Most of us can say about the same thing: some things were wonderful growing up, some things were dastardly deeds meant (we believe) to harm us. Most of us grew up and old jumping in and out of our shadows, running from them, screaming in terror at the sight of them. Now and again, however, some of us learned how to dance in them.

I learned that my shadow was my friend. It walked beside me when no one else would walk with me. It held me in its grip when I was afraid and needed a hug. It cooled me from the southern sun and cooled my tears as they streamed down my face.

But, as is usually the case, it left me when I turned around. Gone! Just that fast. Turn around and it is gone. I have walked out of my shadow and the sun burns on my head. Nothing surrounds me, nothing holds me close, nothing keeps me safe in its …. in its shadow!

Shadows are not always to be feared or dreaded. They most often are the comforting presence of yourself beside yourself. There is no one closer than the One who created you, or me. In your shadow you are safe. Safe to dare the mud puddles, crawl under beds and know they won’t fall on you. Your shadow hops right along with you in those hopscotch squares. It is the whisper in your ear that tells you … color outside the lines..

Dance. Move in and out of your shadow in full dance mode. More about this later.

Teapots

by Joy Hilsman Thomas

At the height of high tide and before dawn, the pounding on the rocks and the roaring of the ocean’s waters woke me from a pretty good sleep, scaring me enough that I got up and peeked out to see if a tsunami might be on the way. Seriously … that entered my mind.

The sea seemed furious, almost as if it had reached a frustration point that said it was going to come in and drown everything in its path or die trying. Like I do when I feel pushed into some illusory corner with no obvious way out. At some point, I am coming out of that corner and anyone in my path had best move aside. There is a danger to frustration that has reached a boiling point, and it seemed to me the ocean had cooked itself into that corner.

After a time of peeking out the window and seeing nothing but wrathful waves punching at the rocks, I went back to bed and finally fell asleep. The next morning, like the tide of a changed ocean personality now caressing the rocks instead of colliding with them, I spent some time in my own internal world, reflecting on the changing tides and thinking about how much like the ocean we are. At least, I am and would bet that you are, too.

I too often tend to view delay as something bad that blocks my onward movement toward whatever it is I want to do or have. Just like the ocean’s churning waves slamming against rocks placed in the way of its forward flow, I become angry and try to push my way on as if I could remove the obstacle or destroy it in high tide mode.

However, prayed up, meditated up, loved up, and full of harmony, I find myself able to sit back, resting in place, and let the sand bars of joy peek out from deep inside, even in the storms.

Wait a minute! That sounds like what others have said to me through the years. Oh, how wonderful to be prayed up, meditated up, loved up … but, think about it here, when was the last time I felt that way? How about you? Do I mean what I’m saying or am I parroting words I’ve heard? We do that, you know: parrot others. Christians are notorious for parroting. Not only Christians. Everyone parrots at some point in life. I don’t want to parrot anyone anymore. So, let’s see what I mean about being prayed up, full of harmony.

If I get up in the morning and do a few squats while I brush my teeth, I’m not going to have strong legs. I have to put some effort into training those legs, faithfully working them–squats, weights, walking, etc. It’s a decision I have to make myself and if I don’t work at it, they won’t be strong.

If I barefoot it to the kitchen, put on the coffee, take my daily pills, let the dogs out and in, feed the dogs, make the bed, check emails and Facebook, is that exercise? I’ve walked around the house; that’s exercise. No, it is not exercise. There has to be a concerted effort to exercise, over and over, day after day … faithfulness. It is a decision. One I really don’t want to make, either. So my tendency is to put it off. I’ll go to the center tomorrow and walk, I’ll do the squats and stretches later in the day.

Later in the day I’m dressed and don’t want to wrinkle my clothes or muss my hair, or streak my makeup. There’s dog hair on the carpet so I can’t do my stretches; I have on dark pants and the hairs will stick and show. I’ll do them tomorrow. I need to vacuum. Oh, I need to call so and so. I need a new top and today’s Tuesday, senior day at Belk’s. The sand bars can stay covered with salty water a little longer. They are always there even though we can’t see them, just like the sun is there on a cloudy day. On those hidden sand bars and in that peaceful calm grows a wonder that fills us up and pours us out, without struggle on our part.

I need to be honest with myself for a change and admit that I’m rarely “prayed up, meditated up, loved up, and full of harmony” and really don’t care if the sand bars are visible or not if it takes struggle. That’s the truth. And it’s a truth I don’t like. So, how do I get myself out of the water and onto the sand bars, looking at life through my own eyes instead of someone else’s? I’ll tell you what I do. I sing.

“I’m a little teapot short and stout,

Here is my handle; here is my spout.

When I get all steamed up, then I shout

Tip me over and pour me out”.

Annoyance is removed. Just that quickly … it is gone. The sand bars reappear. It is useless to try and change our lives by quoting the words of other people. We must admit our own failures. We also have to admit that we do get steamed up and shout because we all need pouring out. When we are poured out, we change.

Weariness slithers away to hide, the way our shadows hide when we turn around. Like the waves of the sea, we need to put one foot in front of the other and roll in to stroke the barriers in front of us, sliding over them and through the cracks between. We don’t need to pound at them. They are not blocking; they are guiding.

It’s in those times that we are beautiful to ourselves, and that’s who matters, not someone else. We become tranquil when we are true to ourselves, mimic no one, trust the Voice that speaks personally to us, and put that right foot in front of the left (or vice versa if that’s your inclination). That is when we are able to hear the smallest voice across the beach calling “Daddy!” That is when we understand deep in our souls what peace that passes understanding really is … and know that it lives in us.

That’s when we are one with the sea; one with the moon at night, one with the stars that shine their light on the dark water below, one with the daffodil waiting for the morning so it can shine its face right back at the world. That’s when we can sit with someone that we love and help them leave this world, finding it the most bitter yet the sweetest thing we have ever done, or will ever do again. We learn the deepest meaning of bittersweet.

Those are the times we flow with the wind instead of battering our way through it. It is in those times that we learn exactly who we are. Maybe even why we are. Our speech becomes our own.

Seasoning

by Joy Hilsman Thomas

From “Joy in Hidden Things”

I remember when my husband and I first moved to the little island known as Fripp that floats 18 miles south of Beaufort, SC.

On our first morning there, we rode the golf cart to the beach and walked to the end of the walkway, stood in the wind and gazed at the sea. As we listened to the ocean’s welcome rushing in to greet us, my husband smiled at me and, spreading his arms out toward the sea, said, “This is ours!”

We tasted the salty air that drifted over us in preparation for the day ahead, seasoning us the way one seasons one’s food before sharing it with guests. Our deepest joy at that moment came from an amazing peace that made us one with creation, and with each other.

Those kinds of moments are rare. They are fleeting, impossible to explain, but they are the moments that matter most in life.

In those quiet times, for one brief pause in the course of our lives, we know that we know, and we understand the wisdom of it all in the deepest recesses of who we are. Yet, when we turn around, filled to just about bursting and longing to share what we have experienced with the world around us, we find we’ve lost the ability to tell it to the core, or even understand it completely ourselves.

We never forget it, though, and so we walk away from those moments renewed and certain within ourselves. We just can’t teach anyone else how to experience that same knowing, no matter how much we want to share with them or how hard we try. It is an individual learning, a very personal moment that comes most often without warning. It touches us softly and then leaves us in that place to savor the passion and to know we have been in a wordless conversation filled with words of unbelievable power

Alone at the beach one recent morning, coffee in hand, I stood in the soft wind and gazed at that same sea to let it have its emotional way with me one more time. It is important for us to drink these times in, gulp them in as if dying of thirst. Whether we are with someone we love, walking the beach alone, with an animal who adores us, sitting alone or dreaming in a hammock, we need to stand by the sea and listen to it thunder its good morning, drinking it in … listening to the voice it brings with it, the one that drowns our own voices and clears our minds so that we stop talking and hear.

In the drinking, our lives are salted, the pepper is blown from our souls; we are seasoned. God manifests himself as all of creation, even as insignificant barefoot me, sipping my coffee and remembering. Allowing myself to be moored into safe harbor, I tell myself again … It is mine!

THE MORE YOU STIR IT, THE MORE IT STINKS!

by Joy Hilsman Thomas

Most of us are alike in that we tend to listen to loving advice and warnings, nodding our heads seemingly in agreement as to right and wrong, wise or unwise, and then follow our own desires despite those warnings, stirring sweet situations until they’ve lost their sweetness.

My mama had a lot of sayings, the one above being one of them which she used on a regular basis with me. Some of her sayings were good and some were bad, some sweet and some smelly. Some fit the situation well, others not so well. The rattling thoughts in my brain, however, knew that she was right when it came to matters that mattered in my life. If she said it, it was true, and so I learned early on to listen to her words. Of course, listening and following too often have opposite responses. Good at listening but horrible at following, my tendency was to stir … and stir.

If I wanted something, whether it be a dress or an orange, I let my wants be known. If they were ignored, which most often they were, I stirred. Sometimes by whining, others by bawling my eyes out as if life were over for me. I recall sitting on the couch hiccupping from sobbing too long and too hard, hot and sticky all over, unable to breathe from sobbing so violently, because of not being allowed to use my mama’s fingernail file to poke holes for the doodle bug.

Mostly, it was ripping the buttons off my one and only dress to prove the need for a new dress was real. As for the orange, I could smell where she hid them and searched in that spot until I found them. Then I’d eat the whole bag until a bright red, hot rash covered most of my body.

Then, there were the stirrings brought on by some young teenage boy that I wanted to like me before he even knew who I was. Mama constantly prattled on that I wore my feelings on my sleeve and that I should play it cool. First of all, I didn’t want to play it cool; that would mean my desire would have to wait and I was impatient. Waiting turned me inside out with frustration. I decided flirting was lying because it wasn’t being straight-out honest and to the point, which I felt was the right way to be, so I let my wants be known … too early and too widely known.

Secondly, wearing feelings on my sleeve completely escaped my reasoning. What did it even mean? And, so, I stirred … and chased … whichever cute boy I wanted at the time, and said cute boy ran in the opposite direction. Every single time, I lost what I wanted before I could get it because I stirred too much and things began to lose their sweetness.

Mama would place her fists on her hips, look at me and shake her head, saying, Joy, how many times do I have to tell you? The more you stir it, the more it stinks.”

I knew she was right but kept that stirring spoon in hand, ready to stir at the first chance I got. And life smelled worse the more I stirred.

My point? Where are you stirring when you should be waiting?

Crescendo

by Joy Hilsman Thomas

My mind’s eye often sees things my normal eyes don’t see. That’s how I saw the little girl. The one hunched in a corner as if she wanted to fade into the non-color of the light beige wall and crawl into her soul. Apprehensive eyes scanned the room, searching for nothing in particular, except maybe an escape route. Her hair was black as a night without stars or moon and no night light, straight enough to make you wonder if it would surrender if you took it in hand and tried to make it bend. Her ears poked through its thinness. I could tell it was clean, though. Homemade cut. I liked her right from the start of looking at her. I knew that what I saw with my eyes was not what my mind saw in that child and I wanted my mind to figure out the problem and fix it.

That girl dredged up another child from many years earlier, before as much compassion as comes with age. A small girl, I saw hunched in the bed of a pickup truck with a bleeding dead deer for companion. The huge white-turned-muddy Dodge RAM rumbled at a red light while I sat in my quiet blue Toyota behind it watching the deer and the girl, listening to the beer-drinking men catcalling every woman-driven car that sped past them, the way drunken men do. A tiny bony body, blonde hair mussed and tangled, not washed in who knows when, her face trying to hide itself against knobby knees as she wrapped her skinny arms around her skinned and bruised up legs. Shame flared at me that day … hers, and mine.

Some woman who lives in my soul and who screams at times for no reason it seems, this day raged so loud my mind almost burst like a balloon stuck with a pin and I wanted to ram that truck and steal that child, take her home to bathe and put clothes on her that were not torn and dirty. Even with that screaming soul within pleading with me, I waited for the light to change so I could get her out of mind because she reminded me of another little girl somewhere else at some other time. Besides, she looked like death about to happen, or death warmed over as my mother used to say, and death scared me.

Suddenly, the little girl lifted her head and stared straight into my eyes, just before the light changed and that truck escaped in roaring thunderous meanness, leaving me alone with her words. Eye contact lasted just long enough for me to hear what she wanted me to hear, not with my ears which are always hearing but never hearing, but with the essence of who I am, have always been. She knew me.

In her eyes, I heard an orchestra … horns and tubas blaring out to let me know that she was made of brass and not of summer-burned and withered grass. That is when I learned that my mind and my mind’s eye, though one, and the same, were not the same at all.

On the surface, had anyone else taken the time to look at either of those tiny figures of nothingness (as far as the world is concerned), they would have seen the same thing I first saw with two dismayed eyes. Scared little girls, abused in so many ways, by so many people, they could not tell you how, or when, or why they lived those lives, even if you asked them. Feeling lower than a coward ever feels, beneath the feet of everybody else in the world, shy and downcast, alone and lonely, confused at life, and maybe even a little bit angry; that is what we see and pity.

That is not what they are.

My mind’s eye saw on both those precious faces, brazen: bold and without shame, made of brass. I remembered that we use brass for decorating, especially at Christmastime when love surrounds and all is well and there are no little girls in corners hiding or in the beds of trucks with death, depending on adults to keep them safe, to give them love and peace, pretty dresses and shiny dancing shoes. At least, we pretend not within our sphere of influence or protection.

We use brass because of its bright gold-like appearance. It is beautiful and it shines. We use brass for locks and gears, bearings, doorknobs, casings and valves — low friction needs that protect us. We use brass in zippers for closure and in situations where it is important that sparks not be struck, in fittings or tools around explosive gases. It is powerful, but it is safe. We use brass as the metal of choice for musical instruments like the trombone, tuba, trumpet, tenor horn, French horn … the brass within an orchestra.

We use brass for candlesticks. Heat will not destroy them.

I used to check on my little girls during storms to make sure the wind was not frightening them. They would often have either stuffed animals, or real dogs, tucked in bed with them, sometimes pretend-reading to them. They were touching scenes … nothing like the little black-haired girl in the corner or the sunny-haired girl in the truck.

For some reason, though, those pictures of my girls brought those girls to mind. I felt like crying when I realized that my girls were the violins in my orchestra. My orchestra has no brass. It quietly plays without the timbre of metal and, though I have always thought that was important, the way our lives should be, my orchestra misses something very important without its brass section. Crescendo!

As I would stand silently and gaze upon my violins, my eyes touching one by one onto clear eyes, clean hair, pure skin without a bruise or cut, something deep inside softly whispered to me … you are the brass; you are those little girls in the corner and the truck; you always have been; you always will be. Memories may play hide and seek for a time, and to suit your life’s purposes, but they will never leave you alone. You are their very best friend. They need you to remember them, so be their friend.

Suddenly, from out of nowhere, music began to play deep inside me somewhere, far away in the distant places of my soul, so that I could barely hear it, but I could feel it. It was an orchestra, softly building in intensity but not in harshness. Then, I heard it, clear and true, pure and real: the brass section. It was the most beautiful music I had ever heard!

I lit the brass candlesticks that waited for me on my dining room table tonight, just to spend some time with them while I listened to the music of the orchestra and remembered a little girl so many years ago, who stared out a window and wondered about her life. I hope I am barely brazen enough that the heat will not destroy me. Either way, the crescendo grows!

Cracks in the Floor

by Joy Hilsman Thomas

 

Sometimes southern nights are cold.

There were nights like that when

he was late and she would cry;

when hearts felt weak and knees would crumble.

I’d run outside and call to God,

but it was late, I guess He slept.

While dishes broke and voices screamed,

bare feet ran down a dark dirt road,

past barking dogs and hooting owls,

tree frog sounds and rambling vines,

to my friend’s house with cracks

in the floor.

I’d sit on the floor and call her name,

cry in my throat, but not in my eyes.

She’d stroke my hair and calm my fears,

and chase the demons and pain away.

In those hard years we were secret friends,

but color was love and love never slept.

On cold, dark nights, the South’s still cold,

dogs still bark and owls still hoot,

frogs make sounds and vines still grow,

and memories break like dishes.

So, in my dreams my bare feet run

to a house with cracks in the floor.

Leaving the Post!

by Joy Hilsman Thomas

The house is sold, inspection has passed with flying colors, those who want certain items have let me know which items those are, and I have been packing, packing, packing for a couple of weeks or more now. I figured I’d better pack a few boxes a day, thinking I had so much time. Closing will be coming up in a couple of weeks, maybe a few days longer, and then I have to move, have the carpet cleaned so the new owners can walk into a sparkling clean house, top to bottom. I think that’s a fair trade for leaving the home that hugged me during, as, and after that man … who held me up for over 31 years, loving me so unconditionally I didn’t know I had ever had any personality problems … died and left me to wait for something. So I waited.

“Don’t make any big decisions for a year.”

That was the advice I got over and over from well-meaning and deeply knowing people who had been where I was now standing. So I listened to them. I waited over a year, almost two years now … two years October coming up. I think I’ve made the right decision. When someone or some spiritual knowing whispers in your ear, “Buy your sister’s house”, I pick up the phone and ask my sister if they would go along with me buying their house. Their house had been for sale, I don’t know how long, but they had been wanting to downsize and move from the house they’d lived in for 35 years. They said yes, they would go along with that, and the very next morning my realtor called and said to me, “We have an offer on your house!” It goes on and on, these whispers and secret movements that pull people together and open doors that are locked up tight. You know the whispers. You know them. Even if you don’t recognize where they’re from, you recognize them when they visit. And, so,  you follow those whispers and it all works out in the end. It is glorious! You’re scared half the time, following the human unknown, but you just keep walking because you know that you know … you’re going the right way.

My garage is growing boxes like flowers and I am still loading them, packing them, and taking more out. Next month I’ll unpack all these boxes and look at my life in another house, wondering if I brought that man with me. Or will he stay here? Will he stay here and whisper to the people living here? Someone said I would probably hear his voice in the new house, too. But will I?

Last night, I lay staring at a darkened ceiling, wondering things like this … I didn’t want to leave him any more than he wanted to leave me. I’ve heard him over these past months, sometimes warning, sometimes smiling, sometimes just wondering what on earth it was that I might be doing. Nothing much different than all those years before. Just letting me be me. Beside me. Guiding me. Helping me whenever I needed help of any kind. Big, big man washing dishes just because he noticed I looked tired.

So what if I never hear his voice in my new home? Does that mean he’s no longer with me? No, it does not mean that. That man infiltrated the core of who I am, made me the woman that I am today. Taught me how to train my heart to love the unlovely, forgive the unforgivable, smile as the tears rolled like skiers on slick ice.

“In 30 years, will this even matter? Then, don’t worry about it now.”

Thank you.

I need to write …

by Joy Hilsman Thomas

… something. Think something that belongs to me and not to somebody else. Have you ever felt that way? It feels at times as if I’ve lived my entire long life listening to some other one (in other words, not my decisions but someone else’s directions) who tells me, “Put your right foot in and shake it all about …”. Well, I’ve done that hokey pokey all my life and now I’m trying to stick my left foot in but it gets caught in indecision and I can’t shake it all about really well. Don’t you just love free writing? Try it if you want.

Turn your mind inward, think some thoughts that start your fingers typing (or writing if you don’t type), stare out the window at the squirrels hopping here and there, birds flitting at odd angles, leaves taking their time as they undulate around lazily in the morning’s wakeup call. Even the sun seems to yawn as it peeks one eye through a clump of trees in the east. The neighbor’s garden looks good. Squash from a garden is tasty … makes the best squash casserole. And that brings me to my mama … dead now over 20 years and I reached for the phone two days ago because I wanted to tell her something. Damn! I still hear Don’s voice calling my name from time to time. I wasn’t through tending him so that might go on for a long, long time … if I judge it by how long it’s been with Mama and I’m still wanting to hear her soft, drawn-out Georgia voice. When Daddy would call her name, she’d call back, “Whoo???” High pitched. When Don called me I just jumped up and ran, whispering to myself, “I’m coming; I’m coming.” Maybe I should have yelled back something … I didn’t, though, unless he called me more than twice. I could only run so fast.

I never realized how difficult it might be for people to rearrange their lives into the kind of games we play: hokey pokey being the main one that stands out in my mind. Life is a dance. It surely is. Sometimes a waltz, sometimes the shag … sometimes you just stand there thinking, moving your body side to side but your feet stay put. That’s when it’s good. You don’t have to do a thing but stand there and let the music move your body, and you feel loved. You don’t have to have huge brown eyes to look into; you remember them. You even remember encircling arms and the dance goes on. Life is nice when it’s a standstill dance. Nobody bumps into you and nobody pushes you.

That’s good.