The other day I was arguing with my pardner about my name. Really, in this instance, I was bemoaning the fact that since my mother — Constance Jean Lewis Miller — died, the number of people who call me "Annie" is dwindling. In fact, only a handful of folks still use this name when referring to me, and only under special circumstances: when they are asserting their relationship to me, when they are feeling playful and/or especially loving toward me, and/or when they are the recipients of my adoration.
In case you were wondering . . . Losing a name is a big deal! It's like losing a major piece of one's identity. And really, I didn't lose it; it was stolen from me by a band of thieves who go by the names of Silence, Memory, Heartbreak, and Ciao. These badass bandits not only took "Annie" from me but ripped-off years of my existence, my youth, part of my personality!
Things are a little spooky sometimes.
Shortly after this discussion about my name, my daughter — Cecelia Helen Barrett — informed me that my granddaughter — Orion Constance Barrett-Sims — is calling me "Nanny." I, of course, am tickled, as not only is it nice to be called something by those that we love, but "Nanny" — especially from the mouth of babes — sounds very much like "Annie!" Making this appellation all the more meaningful is the fact that Orion's middle name — Constance — honors my mother, Cecelia's grandmother, and the last person to consistently call me "Annie" (Cecelia's middle name — Helen — honors my grandmother, btw, and my middle name — Lewis — recalls my maternal surname).
Orion's use of language is coming on fast and furious. Every single day, she has a new word at her command, and her developing fine motor skills include those tasks dependent on her lips and tongue; her pronunciation and her enunciation improve daily as well. Days after first hearing "Nanny" from Orion's perfect rosebud lips, I could have sworn that she called me an outright "Annie." I acknowledge my desperation to hear this name again, and I admit the possibility that my ears may be deceiving me, but O! Dear darling Orion Constance! Please, O please, continue to call me Nanny and/or Annie or maybe, for the moment at least, "Nannie Annie!"
Helen, Constance, Lewis, Connie, Ann, Lewis, Annie, Cecelia, Helen, Cece, Orion, Constance . . . These are the names of strong, beautiful, intelligent females! I am awed by the association established and reinforced by these shared names!
9/23/14
Emergence
"I don't think you understand what I'm saying."
Cece has that certain look in her eyes — a black stillness that terrifies me. For over twenty minutes now, she has repeatedly asserted that she "can not do this." The midwife, on the other hand — sitting in the lotus position on the corner of the bed — smiles and blithely assures Cece that she can.
My mind reels back twenty-six plus years, to November of 1987, to Cece's birth — an emergency c-section performed by a male OB-GYN entailing terrifying complications in the aftermath; forward eighteen months to May, 1989 and the successful natural birth of Sebastian by midwife; forward to April, 1994 and another emergency c-section for Dante. In the first instance, I blamed the doctor; in the second, I credited the midwife; and finally, I blamed institutional incompetence and Dante's whopping ten pounds of birthweight.
Despite the first crisis with Cece, I entered the next two labors with confidence. The midwife I rushed to when I became pregnant again assured me that Cece's situation, with her cord round her neck like a noose, was incredibly rare. "It's like being struck twice by lightning" Patsy claimed, "and it should have been handled differently."
'Handle it differently' is exactly what Patsy did when she discovered Sebastian in a posterior position and (GASP!) also wrapped in his cord: a twist, a turn, a change of my position, and of course patience — something sorely lacking during Cece's birth — and VOILA! A healthy, howling Sebastian! Dante's birth — miles away from Cleveland, where Cece and Sebastian were born — was also attended by a midwife, but she was nothing like Patsy! However, I don't think even Patsy could have prevented the panic that characterized Dante's delivery. Just minutes into my labor, Dante flatlined, and an anesthesiologist was nowhere to be found! Nurses, midwife, emergency staff, all scuttling around whispering, looking toward the door, waiting for the phone to ring and/or for an anesthesiologist to finally appear. Not only was I sure that Dante was in trouble, I was positive that my own life was on the line as well.
"I can not do this." Cece says it again.
Trying to hide my concern from Cece, I peek from the midwife's face to the nurse's, looking for reassurance, but their expressions are vague, their voices silent.
Cece has that certain look in her eyes — a black stillness that terrifies me. For over twenty minutes now, she has repeatedly asserted that she "can not do this." The midwife, on the other hand — sitting in the lotus position on the corner of the bed — smiles and blithely assures Cece that she can.
My mind reels back twenty-six plus years, to November of 1987, to Cece's birth — an emergency c-section performed by a male OB-GYN entailing terrifying complications in the aftermath; forward eighteen months to May, 1989 and the successful natural birth of Sebastian by midwife; forward to April, 1994 and another emergency c-section for Dante. In the first instance, I blamed the doctor; in the second, I credited the midwife; and finally, I blamed institutional incompetence and Dante's whopping ten pounds of birthweight.
Despite the first crisis with Cece, I entered the next two labors with confidence. The midwife I rushed to when I became pregnant again assured me that Cece's situation, with her cord round her neck like a noose, was incredibly rare. "It's like being struck twice by lightning" Patsy claimed, "and it should have been handled differently."
'Handle it differently' is exactly what Patsy did when she discovered Sebastian in a posterior position and (GASP!) also wrapped in his cord: a twist, a turn, a change of my position, and of course patience — something sorely lacking during Cece's birth — and VOILA! A healthy, howling Sebastian! Dante's birth — miles away from Cleveland, where Cece and Sebastian were born — was also attended by a midwife, but she was nothing like Patsy! However, I don't think even Patsy could have prevented the panic that characterized Dante's delivery. Just minutes into my labor, Dante flatlined, and an anesthesiologist was nowhere to be found! Nurses, midwife, emergency staff, all scuttling around whispering, looking toward the door, waiting for the phone to ring and/or for an anesthesiologist to finally appear. Not only was I sure that Dante was in trouble, I was positive that my own life was on the line as well.
"I can not do this." Cece says it again.
Trying to hide my concern from Cece, I peek from the midwife's face to the nurse's, looking for reassurance, but their expressions are vague, their voices silent.
9/2/14
An adult, As far as I'm concerned . . .
is someone who makes an adult decision and lives up to the responsibilities of that decision. Of course, it's not that simple. Think of the astronomical number of people who fall outside Arnett's proscribed age range - who do not qualify as "emerging" - yet have failed to live up to one or more of their responsibilities.
8/30/14
"Emerging Adult"
I can't help thinking of larvae, pupae, bugs.
This term, "emerging adult," coined by Jeffrey Arnett, refers to folks between the ages of 18-29, people who haven't quite found themselves, who are perhaps still on the parental dole, who have every intention of becoming an adult but have thus far failed to make the cut.
The Cut - a matter of definition, I suppose. What exactly constitutes an "adult?"
My daughter was once an "emerging adult," but when she made the conscious decision to have a baby, she grew up, or rather hatched.
This term, "emerging adult," coined by Jeffrey Arnett, refers to folks between the ages of 18-29, people who haven't quite found themselves, who are perhaps still on the parental dole, who have every intention of becoming an adult but have thus far failed to make the cut.
The Cut - a matter of definition, I suppose. What exactly constitutes an "adult?"
My daughter was once an "emerging adult," but when she made the conscious decision to have a baby, she grew up, or rather hatched.
Tick Tock
Time travels with her tail between her legs.
Three plus months ago, I witnessed a miracle.
I still see the moment as if it were now.
I will remember that moment as I do
the birth of my daughter and both of my sons,
now adults themselves, or well on their way.
I still see skinny legs, unsteady steps.
Sidewinding, submissive—the years slink by.
The past is in the present, but where am I?
Three plus months ago, I witnessed a miracle.
I still see the moment as if it were now.
I will remember that moment as I do
the birth of my daughter and both of my sons,
now adults themselves, or well on their way.
I still see skinny legs, unsteady steps.
Sidewinding, submissive—the years slink by.
The past is in the present, but where am I?
8/25/14
Home is where I hang my hat.
Damn it. I am doing it again. This is the last time I will make a home out of mere material structure. If this house ever becomes less than a home, "home" will just have to become a space inside my head, a state of mind. In fact, isn't this really what home is?
Day after day, I travel between hardware, paint, and furniture store, click through pages on the web, spend countless hours and too many dollars gathering various and sundry goods that might "make this house a home." I moan over my failure to acquire or accomplish an item on my list, argue over someone else's incompetence, tally time and effort and lament a glaring lack of return. And for what? So that at the end of the day - after I have put away tools, assembled an evening meal, and finally kicked off my shoes - I might feel at home?
Day after day, I travel between hardware, paint, and furniture store, click through pages on the web, spend countless hours and too many dollars gathering various and sundry goods that might "make this house a home." I moan over my failure to acquire or accomplish an item on my list, argue over someone else's incompetence, tally time and effort and lament a glaring lack of return. And for what? So that at the end of the day - after I have put away tools, assembled an evening meal, and finally kicked off my shoes - I might feel at home?
8/24/14
Oh O!
My darling granddaughter, O, has just recently discovered that her feet are with her wherever she goes! Not only are they apparently attached to her body, it seems she might have some actual control over them (wide-eyed gasp)! Credit to her O-so-obvious genius, O (at the very tender age of three months) knows a good thing when she sees it. Those toes do indeed look delicious! No doubt it is only a matter of days before they find their way into O's mouth.
8/22/14
5/17/14
Nomad
Empty-nesting has made a nomad of me.
The last place I could honestly call "home" was the last space I cohabited with my kids — a big old house in Asheville with aggregate walls painted mango, fire-engine red, scarlet, aqua, and teal. Now I live in Atlanta in an off-white town home with views front and back and long stretches of drywall in-between. Two of my three kids live minutes away, but I left one in Asheville, out of daily reach.
My books and art — the only belongings that help make a "home" — have been in boxes or draped for almost two years. They are stored with other stuff in what I call a "way station" — a mistake I made along the way, a place to stay while on the way, a house that is devoid of color, yard, and kids and is on its way to market.
The Way: Twelve Steps to (extremely privileged) Homelessness
1. My eldest child and only daughter left home.
2. My first son left home.
3. I adopted a very territorial dog simultaneous to my first acute feelings of homelessness.
4. In anticipation of my younger son's departure, I moved to a house that can never be home.
5. My youngest left the house that can never be home.
6. My partner and I drove out West and back, pulling a twenty-three foot trailer that was essentially home for over 7200 miles.
7. My cat, Elmo, died while my partner, dog, and I were out West and way too far from home.
8. I sold the last place I could honestly call home while searching for a home in Atlanta.
9. I began seriously debating building a house in the woods of NC.
10. My daughter announced she was pregnant.
11. My dog and I acquired skin conditions and nervous habits while living in the house that could never be home.
12. My partner and I determined to make Atlanta home.
The last place I could honestly call "home" was the last space I cohabited with my kids — a big old house in Asheville with aggregate walls painted mango, fire-engine red, scarlet, aqua, and teal. Now I live in Atlanta in an off-white town home with views front and back and long stretches of drywall in-between. Two of my three kids live minutes away, but I left one in Asheville, out of daily reach.
My books and art — the only belongings that help make a "home" — have been in boxes or draped for almost two years. They are stored with other stuff in what I call a "way station" — a mistake I made along the way, a place to stay while on the way, a house that is devoid of color, yard, and kids and is on its way to market.
The Way: Twelve Steps to (extremely privileged) Homelessness
1. My eldest child and only daughter left home.
2. My first son left home.
3. I adopted a very territorial dog simultaneous to my first acute feelings of homelessness.
4. In anticipation of my younger son's departure, I moved to a house that can never be home.
5. My youngest left the house that can never be home.
6. My partner and I drove out West and back, pulling a twenty-three foot trailer that was essentially home for over 7200 miles.
7. My cat, Elmo, died while my partner, dog, and I were out West and way too far from home.
8. I sold the last place I could honestly call home while searching for a home in Atlanta.
9. I began seriously debating building a house in the woods of NC.
10. My daughter announced she was pregnant.
11. My dog and I acquired skin conditions and nervous habits while living in the house that could never be home.
12. My partner and I determined to make Atlanta home.
4/10/14
Ciào Frannabella
When Words Will Not Suffice
I sit fireside on the Homestead in Spring,
the trees still bare but budded branches promising
an explosion of green. Knotted leaves, like fists,
warn away bad weather, but Winter insists
on a proper farewell. Bleeding hearts bow in homage
at the wind’s retreat. Rooted in rotted plumage,
trillium and columbine tremble. The clouds compete
with a ripening sun. Charged with the sweet
smell of fermented earth and rain, the air
swells. Leaves, like fingers, unfurl. As if in prayer,
lady slippers’ pointed plumes aim toward sky. I tend
the fire. Like stars, sparks wink and ascend.
Above the webbed branches I let my mind drift.
Thoughts of Fran in this haven I let my heart lift.3/21/14
Home is
where the heart resides
where breathing flows easy
where relief welcomes
where bare feet belong
where gardens grow
where sunlight shines
where hands hold
where projects proliferate
where dogs sleep soundly
where trees shelter and screen
where birdsong soothes
where quiet blankets
where love luxuriates
paper and pens
a perfect pot of soup
the smell of fresh-cut grass
a tree-lined street
a certain slant of light (thanks Emily)
where breathing flows easy
where relief welcomes
where bare feet belong
where gardens grow
where sunlight shines
where hands hold
where projects proliferate
where dogs sleep soundly
where trees shelter and screen
where birdsong soothes
where quiet blankets
where love luxuriates
paper and pens
a perfect pot of soup
the smell of fresh-cut grass
a tree-lined street
a certain slant of light (thanks Emily)
3/13/14
Held Hostage
I am free, or at least I think I am.
I think I have just rescued my blog from a custom domain.
Good Bye GoDaddy.
I think I have just rescued my blog from a custom domain.
Good Bye GoDaddy.
10/12/13
Bad Land
The hills — wearing thin skins of green
and sprouting random pine — seem ready to shed
their grassy garments. Weather-beaten and gray,
the range folded, creased, and crumbling,
like the rugged terrain of a warrior's face
eroded by wind, work, and sorrow.
and sprouting random pine — seem ready to shed
their grassy garments. Weather-beaten and gray,
the range folded, creased, and crumbling,
like the rugged terrain of a warrior's face
eroded by wind, work, and sorrow.
10/10/13
Elmo
Sweet, mischievous cat of mine—
eyes like sky on a day divine—
your fur still covers the couch and the floor.
I still look for you guarding the door.
You were the best pal that a heart could hold—
loving, playful, forgiving, and incredibly bold.
Our house is empty since you went away.
The sun shines yellow but my mood is gray.
eyes like sky on a day divine—
your fur still covers the couch and the floor.
I still look for you guarding the door.
You were the best pal that a heart could hold—
loving, playful, forgiving, and incredibly bold.
Our house is empty since you went away.
The sun shines yellow but my mood is gray.
9/11/13
9/10/13
The Hunt
Three adolescent cheetahs rise from their resting place among a cluster of papery blades of grass. These particular cats are siblings, Girard, our guide, informs us. Very recently parted from their mother, they are young and inexperienced, and very, very vulnerable. We follow them closely as they walk up the road, the jeep's engine purring at barely more than an idle. They are so close that I am able to notice the texture of their fur without the aid of binoculars. Having observed a mother and two cubs the day before, I recognize the telltale fluff around their faces and on the back of their necks, yet their bodies are stringy and lean. Like our cats at home when agitated, their tails flash back and forth as they walk. I worry that the wheels crunching gravel and our whispering behind them are the cause of their departure, but Girard insists that they are "used to the vehicles." They are up to something, he tells us. The siblings are on the prowl.
9/8/13
to qualify
my definition of "divine" . . .
In short:
What I don't know.
What I can't know.
What I don't necessarily want to know
yet feel an irresistible urge to ponder.
In short:
What I don't know.
What I can't know.
What I don't necessarily want to know
yet feel an irresistible urge to ponder.
My heavy limbs.
A delicious dessert.
The amber eyes of a cheetah.
Photo by Cecelia Helen Barrett
9/6/13
Singita
"Singita," reputedly a Burmese term meaning "place of miracles" — or, according to Webster's, "divine intervention in human affairs." Hmmm ...
I like to think that what I witnessed at Kruger was divine because of my own irrelevancy, but I suspect this is not the case. As I bumped and bounced along the very carefully mapped two-track roads of the Singita Lebombo concession, I was acutely aware that I was trespassing — intervening in the affairs of animals. Only the vehicle in which I rode, and the rifle mounted above the dash, permitted such adventure. Although we tried hard to be respectful, we humans — myself, my family, the trackers and guides — imposed.
It's true, humans have existed among these animals for a very long time; however, whether on foot or on wheels, armed with spear, intellect, or camera, humans have always intervened in the affairs of animals. Some assert that this dynamic is divine — that humans, like animals, are governed by forces beyond our control. Certainly I admit this possibility.
Certain mornings, my limbs are heavy as lead. The result of poor diet — the bag of chocolate Kisses I consumed the night before — or perhaps it is gravity, the moon, or high tide. Whatever the cause, my limbs are still lead. It is this feeling — the physical sensation, good or bad, along with the astounding array of possible causes — that for me is divine.
I like to think that what I witnessed at Kruger was divine because of my own irrelevancy, but I suspect this is not the case. As I bumped and bounced along the very carefully mapped two-track roads of the Singita Lebombo concession, I was acutely aware that I was trespassing — intervening in the affairs of animals. Only the vehicle in which I rode, and the rifle mounted above the dash, permitted such adventure. Although we tried hard to be respectful, we humans — myself, my family, the trackers and guides — imposed.
It's true, humans have existed among these animals for a very long time; however, whether on foot or on wheels, armed with spear, intellect, or camera, humans have always intervened in the affairs of animals. Some assert that this dynamic is divine — that humans, like animals, are governed by forces beyond our control. Certainly I admit this possibility.
Certain mornings, my limbs are heavy as lead. The result of poor diet — the bag of chocolate Kisses I consumed the night before — or perhaps it is gravity, the moon, or high tide. Whatever the cause, my limbs are still lead. It is this feeling — the physical sensation, good or bad, along with the astounding array of possible causes — that for me is divine.
8/31/13
Bedazzled
On the ride to Singita lodge, we spotted numerous critters out the windows: warthog, giraffe, impalas (always impalas), wildebeast, kudu, water bucks, a "dazzle" of zebra.
Dazzle is a term referring to two or more zebras. Indeed. Seeing these beauties — with their black, brown, and white striped hides — tucked in among blonde blades of grass, one can well understand why.
Dazzle is a term referring to two or more zebras. Indeed. Seeing these beauties — with their black, brown, and white striped hides — tucked in among blonde blades of grass, one can well understand why.
Photo by Cecelia Helen Barrett
8/28/13
Safari
From Swahili meaning a voyage or hunt, sometimes expanded to include all the accouterments of such (a caravan — two or more vehicles traveling together with a common cause — of land rovers, trackers, guides, tourists, rifles, cameras, binoculars, blankets, hot water bottles, radios, thermoses, snacks, notebooks . . . )
Day 1
Arriving from Nelspruit airport in a small propeller plane, we make a surprisingly smooth landing on a patch of dirt on the northeastern boundary of Kruger National Park — Satara airstrip. As we crawl out of the plane, we are met by Collin — my brother Amos' guide from a previous visit. Amos and Collin have kept in touch, and they greet each other as old friends. Nearby, there is a small bamboo hut housing a single bathroom and supporting a roof that extends over a concrete veranda. Members of the safari crew have arrived before us and set up a reception — linen, real glass, drinks and snacks.
We munch wasabi peanuts and dried fruit while our baggage is loaded into the van.
Day 1
Arriving from Nelspruit airport in a small propeller plane, we make a surprisingly smooth landing on a patch of dirt on the northeastern boundary of Kruger National Park — Satara airstrip. As we crawl out of the plane, we are met by Collin — my brother Amos' guide from a previous visit. Amos and Collin have kept in touch, and they greet each other as old friends. Nearby, there is a small bamboo hut housing a single bathroom and supporting a roof that extends over a concrete veranda. Members of the safari crew have arrived before us and set up a reception — linen, real glass, drinks and snacks.
We munch wasabi peanuts and dried fruit while our baggage is loaded into the van.
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