For those of you who have been following it, here is installment four of my mini-memoir.  It stands alone pretty well for those who are picking it up now.  Earlier installments can be found on the 10/8, 10/10, and 10/11 entries.

     Lori grabbed my hand and seated me next to her, she at the edge of the soprano section and I at the end of the altos.  The sopranos were on the right, the altos in the middle, and the second sopranos on the left.  Debbie introduced me to the choir and I gingerly stood, gave a quick wave, and sat down.  Lori whispered in my ear, “don’t be shy doll, we’re all here to make music.”  Her effusive manner put me at ease and she laughed as she nudged me as if we were old friends.

     Debbie instructed us to pull out an arrangement of “For the Beauty of the Earth” by John Rutter.  I thought I would miss the shine and ring of tenors and the robust depth of basses, but there was an ethereal quality to the sound of three-part treble.  Lori’s voice was a wonder, lucent and pure with an aching sweetness.  My ears dissolved like sugar in the downpour of her singing, and my body melted, liquefied, and floated away.

     My instrument was brown velvet to her delicate lace, and I loved the way our timbres blended together.  I imagined us in evening gowns made of sumptuous fabric performing The Flower Duet from Lakme, her light against my darkness.  The sound killed me and brought me back to life.

     Soon my whole world was Lori as the summer went on.  Everything about her absolutely confounded me.  She could be so mature, unbelievably sophisticated, headstrong, confident, oozing self esteem and enigmatic cool.  Other times, she was a petulant child, wheedling, manipulative, and I would hate her just a little, but always gave in to her demands.

     Simple activities like getting coffee were suddenly glamorous.  She always managed to arrive before me.  I would find her seated alone, reading a book by someone like Ayn Rand, Jack Kerouac, or J. D. Salinger.  Her cornflower eyes would crest the horizon of her literature and her countenance radiated sunlight, illuminating the cafe.  Springing to her feet, she would lay the book face down and meet me halfway, absorbing me in an intimate hug before planting her voluptuous lips in a place that seemed to be made just for her, where the corner of my mouth and cheek met.  She would link her pinky finger in mind and we would swing our arms like little girls in pigtails.  As we made our way to the table, all eyes would be upon this creature and she would gush, “Janette it is so good to see you.”

My Algebra teacher took no prisoners.  There was much weeping and distress and varying degrees of emotional dishabile amongst the students.  The study guide had nothing to do with the exam, not even as examples…why do teachers do that?  Power trip?  Sadistic pleasure?

For those of you following my mini memoir, that should resume tomorrow or Monday.  In the meantime, here’s a poem…

Equations

We sit at other sides of
lines drawn in the sand,
a matter of quadratics
where the answer is nothing
and some other number
which we cannot deduce.

There is no agreement amongst the digits,
no viable way to draw from one side
without subtracting some vital piece
of what makes us individuals;
the x of me or the y of you.

Like mathematicians, we pour over
the complicated tangle of both halves
in order to create a new formula,
which may look messy in the end
but at least it all makes sense.

Last night, I went to the emergency room at 10:30 PM.  I thought I had a UTI, which are uncomfortable but nothing to worry too much about.  However, over the course of the evening, the pain got much, much worse.  I called my husband and made him come get me and take me to the hospital.  I got my diagnosis, was told I may also have diabetes, and was sent home with meds and strict instructions to see my doctor right away.

So I called off sick to work this morning.  My boss was upset but understanding.  Come the afternoon, I still didn’t feel any better so I had my husband call my boss to tell her I’d be ixed-nay for Friday and I called the doctor and made an appointment.  Apparently, my boss is none to impressed that I am taking a second day.  I’m not sure what else to do.  I hate disappointing people and I know this is a busy time of year for our office, but I am in considerable pain.  I’ll just have the doctor fax her a note or something and that should take care of any HR problems that might arise.

Not to mention, I called my Algebra teacher to explain the situation and see if I could rescheduled my midterm for Saturday.  After she finished with her maniacal laughter, she said…”Well, no.”  So this midterm, which was already going to suck, is apparently going to swallow, too.

So to keep myself entertained, here is a little list.  Would love to know you’re answers too!

1.  My favorite rock songs:  Photograph by Def Leppard, and More than a Feeling by Boston
2.  My favorite pop songs:  Somebody’s Baby by Jackson Browne (he’s my secret boyfriend) and High on You by Survivor.
3.  My favorite country songs:  You’re Gone by Diamond Rio, and What Hurts the Most by Rascal Flatts
4.  My favorite folk songs:  These Days by Jackson Browne (did I mention he was my secret boyfriend?), Fire & Rain by James Taylor
5.  My favorite Classical piece:  The Lark Ascending by composer Ralph Vaughan Williams (most beautiful piece of music in the world in my opinion.  If you have a taste for classical and haven’t heard this, you simply must.)
6.  Favorite Weird Al songs:  You Don’t Love Me Anymore and Amish Paradise.

Memoir on hiatus until after Algebra midterm on Saturday morning.  Wish me luck, pray for me, send me good thoughts, sacrifice a chicken…I’ll need help from every one!

In the meantime, to keep you occupied, consider yourself tagged and answer the following:

Who was:

1.  The one who got away?
2.  The one you probably should have loved but didn’t?
3.  The “what do you mean you had a crush on me? I had a crush on you!” person?
4.  The one who was so much fun but so much trouble?
5.  The one you settled down with, either marriage or ltr?

My answers:

1.  Chris from highschool or Curtis from college.
2.  Jeff from about six or seven years ago.  He was really into me, but something was missing.  Glad I held out for myself, but hated hurting him.
3.  Chris from highschool, Tony from college, Ron from middle school (my longest crush besides Jackson Browne! I adored Ron from K-8.)
4.  Dan, Curtis, Ronald, Robert…sigh…bad boys, but good…
5.  Garth…things are working well on that front, and we’ll probably be cohabitating again by the first of November…yay!

Have a good week!  Send me math brains!

Janette

Happy Birthday to me, Happy Birthday to me!  I am 34 today and to my surprise, I’m feeling pretty good about it!  My husband and I both took the day off and went out to lunch and then to an ice cream parlor in the Strip district and got banana splits….YUM!

Here is Installment 3 of Late Bloomer…Jake would be proud…as a poet, I usually don’t have the attention span to write something long-ish.  It’s double-spaced so its not as long as you think for those of you who don’t like to read long blogs.

Good night everybody,
Janette

That spring, I connected with Judy, one of the voice teachers at the college.  I talked my Mum into paying for voice lessons so I could get a head start on the fall.  Judy was this wild woman, thick blonde hair to her waist with a streak of snow white down the middle.  It was impossible to guess her age.  Her skin was flawless and her movements were animated and energetic.  Her flagrant use of the word “fuck” was shocking.  I loved her immediately. 

Before working with her, I never realized that my voice was something I had, not something that had me.  Judy was not one to mince words; I quickly learned I was not the most talented singer in Michigan.  Through tough love, tears, and reassurances, I began to learn that the human voice was like an artist’s palate.  There were so many colors, textures, moods.  Each note could be a masterpiece by itself.  I wanted to explore my voice fully, stretch it and use it in every possible way.  At Judy’s behest, I joined a women’s choral group that met at the school.

Judy accompanied me to my first rehearsal and introduced me to Debbie, the group’s choir director.  In order to work my lower register, Judy spoke with Debbie and had me placed in the alto section.  I had always sung soprano and loved the power of my upper register, but I trusted my teacher implicitly.  Elation at attending my first rehearsal soon gave way to panic as Judy made her way to the door.  Sensing this, she quickly scanned the room and made her way back towards me. 

“Janette, let me introduce you to someone.”

Judy reached her hand out to a young blonde woman.  Her smile was luminous as she stood and planted a kiss on Judy’s cheek.  She was so impossibly beautiful I could hardly breathe. 

“This is Lori, one of my students.  She has been in my studio since junior high.  She’ll be a freshman same as you come this fall.  You two should get to know each other.”

For those who are interested, I am writing a “mini-memoir.”  Here is installment two. Don’t worry; it’s not as long as it seems…I typed it double spaced.

           I loaded up my 1982 Pontiac Bonneville with my personal effects and drove across the flat, pastoral landscape of Michigan.  Delaying the inevitable, I often stopped and took pictures of bodies of water or picturesque scenery.  My camera was filled with pictures of what I had perceived as my failure as well as my longings for peace and serenity.  Twice I stopped and bought more film.  Nearly six hours later, I arrived home to a frantic mother.

            Her fear and wrath were tangible from the moment I opened the door.  After slapping me across the face for causing her such worry, she pulled me to her, cooing an apology, telling me how much she missed me and how good it was to have me home.  Completely miserable, I allowed myself to sink into her needy embrace, sobbing until bile filled my throat and I could hardly breathe.

            After a few days at home, it became clear that I was now an outsider.  My sister Joy and I had always been very close, but we were now strangers.  While I had lived on my own for nearly three years, the cloistered security of the camp and ministry had done little to prepare me for the world.  While two years younger, Joy seemed years older, so much more sophisticated and worldly than me.  She was seventeen, angry at the universe, a dropout attending vocational cosmetology program because she could no longer handle the structure of a private Christian school.  Mother was disappointed in Joy’s choices, but resigned herself to the situation as Joy had never excelled scholastically.  All my mother’s dreams for a successful life vicarious now rested in me.

            The first Sunday home, we went to church as a family just as we had done the entirety of my life up to that point.  Joy surreptitiously whispered in my ear that she couldn’t wait to turn eighteen so she didn’t have to go anymore.  During the service, as if we were still little girls, she pressed a note into my hand.  Scribbled on the paper were the words, “Loser…Why would you come back?”  I tore the note into tiny pieces, prompting a disdainful pinch from my mother. 

I rubbed the bruising skin and noticed for the first time a small handwritten sign towards the front of the church saying “Choir rehearsal, every Sunday after Church.”  I leaned to my mother and asked if I could stay.  Thrilled at the prospect, she said I could and gave me instructions to call her from the church phone when rehearsal was over so that she could pick me up. 

In high school, I had won awards for singing in state solo and ensemble.  I enjoyed it a lot but never took it seriously until I used it to fill the lonely hours outside of work at the camp.  I had not realized how much better I had become until the choir director gushed at me after practice.  For the rest time, I had a stirring of something and it felt good.  I think it was pride.

On the drive home, I couldn’t stop talking about the choir.  Mummy was smiling and laughing.  She said it was the first time she had seen me happy since I’d come home.  I told her that maybe I should go to school for music.  For once, we agreed on something.  She mentioned that Lansing Community College had a good program for a small school and would be a place the family could afford.  A seed of hope planted itself in my heart.

When my mother is given a task, she becomes a workhorse, researching it with diligence and fervor.  She found out the college offered music scholarships and called the arts department to find out the requirements.  Within just a few weeks of being home, I found myself standing in front of three serious looking women, preparing to sing.

The weeks in waiting were agony.  Mum had found me a job as a library page for the City of East Lansing Public Library.  She worked in the payroll department for city hall so we drove together every morning.  On Fridays, she would take my paycheck from me and put it into the family account.  I would get $20 spending money for the week.  My sister’s derision was nearly unbearable.  “That’s it; give your money to Mummy.  You’re so grownup.  You make me sick”

A letter from the college finally arrived.  I had been accepted into the Music Program and I was offered a full-ride scholarship. 

Last week on Featured Grownups, they had a challenge to write about a particular decade of your life.  I decided to write about the 1990′s.  Its turning into a mini-memoir.  I graduated highschool in 1990. 

Please feel free to post critiques, comments, whatever as I finish this up.  Its proving to be very cathartic for me.

Have a great day,
Janette

             There was a certain trepidation that pervaded the environment of my childhood home.  The mantra that held the family together in an uneasy truce was “what goes on in this house, stays in this house.”  Mother’s mood swings grew worse with each passing year.  Each descent became more melancholic, more violent.  The monsoons of rage and pelting of slaps would rain on for days, sometimes weeks.  Her staunch Baptist beliefs often exacerbated the punishment and onslaught of verbal injury.  The clouds always broke eventually, and she would soon be Mummy again, sunshine and smiles, fun and frivolity.  My sister and I clung to the hope of those days like drowning men in torrential flooding. 

            One respite from the fluctuating climate of mania and depression was the knowledge that soon I would be graduating from high school.  Commencement would mean freedom from the murky deep of mother’s illness, but the future held more questions than answers.  I was a tender sixteen, obscenely naïve and very sheltered.  Uncertain what I wanted to do for the rest of my life and fearful at the prospect of college, I found a job working full time as a data entry clerk for a Christian camp in Niles, Michigan, three hours away from Lansing and crazy.

            For two years, I typed the names, addresses, and telephone numbers of those individuals who sent their children to the camp or donated money to the ministry.  I was the youngest person working at the headquarters by at least two decades.  Married men and spinsters walked around with stacks of paper in monastic silence.  Whatever inherent badness that existed in my soul that my mother hadn’t already ascertained and later brought to my attention was confronted austerely in my veritable convent.  

            Deeply religious at that time, I would often pour my heart out to God through prayer, singing, and journaling.  Music became a passionate form of worship and escape.  My thirsty heart was parched for love and exhortation, and through my voice, I was able to get the affirmation I had long desired.

            Nearly nineteen, my life was tedious but safe.  However, like an earthquake, an unannounced meeting with my boss soon shook my foundations to their core.  The ministry was updating the computer systems and outsourcing their newsletter and mailing lists to a third party.  As such, I was being let go.  While employed there, the camp paid me a paltry stipend of $400 monthly while I lived on the grounds.  Having no money, no prospects, and no education, there was only one place for me to go; back to my mother.

For those of you who don’t know, my spiritual path is a bit eclectic.  While I have a foundation in Christianity, I also have explored other paths related to my heritage:  Druidism/Paganism (Irish & Spanish), Shamanism/Tribal (Native American & Spanish), and for me, I find that a blending works well for my spiritual well being.  Recently in one of my blogs, I made reference to Soul Journeying and Gullyjimson asked me to talk more about it some time.  Well, I figured now was just as good a time as any.

The way I understand it, Soul Journeying is a very specific kind of meditation that is used to see visions, connect with your spiritual guides or animal allies, meet with angels, get guidance and wisdom from the universe, or connect with Mother Earth/Father Sky.  I find it is easiest for me to get into a meditative state by listening to a rhythmic drumbeat.  Many times, I will have a specific question in advance and I go into the journey seeking guidance for that specific issue.  Once I’ve slowed down my heart rate through breathing and relaxation and cleared my head, I imagine walking through a forest/cave/beach/mountain/someplace natural.  As I “walk” through this place, I ask for a guide to come across my path that will show me the answer to my question. I also take note of my surroundings in the journey, for often I find my answers there as well.  Sometimes I’m “out” for 5 or 10 minutes, sometimes longer.  Always, I find some sort of answer or guidance.  It is very much like a journey.  You may meet someone interesting along the way.  Most frequently, I have an elephant “guide” that I meet with.  On the Christian side, I’ve thought of it as a really active way to pray.  God has many messengers.

I don’t usually talk quite so openly about my religious choices so I hope this hasn’t been off-putting to anyone.  Feel free to ask me any questions and I’ll answer them as honestly as I can.  Here is a poem/prose? I wrote after a recent journey:

Journey August 15

I walked across the empty plain alone
and the winds rustled through the tall grass.
The tree stood ahead, a shady respite
in the unbearable heat.
The elephant lifted his trunk
and his call echoed a warning
through the isolated grasslands.

I looked up as wolves surrounded me.
These were ancient creatures filled
with the anger and pain of dreams broken.
They filled their noses with my scent
and I feared the hunger in their eyes.

Growls rumbled low and deep as
they circled, waiting for a wrong step.
The elephant watched with knowing,
his steady gaze offering courage and strength.
My captors leapt upon me and
feasted on my tender flesh.
They devoured every last bit of meat,
licking clean the bones.

I now stood next to the elephant
and together we watched my destruction.
His trunk encircled my waist as he spoke,
“Do not be afraid, for that person
is now dead and the wolves can
hurt her no more.  Transformation
awaits you.  Accept who you really are.”