An Elegant Refresher

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Last night, I spent the night at the West Baden Springs Hotel in southern Indiana, my first night far away from home (too far to get back at a moment’s notice) without Elizabeth in almost two years. It was fabulous! A real vacation away, if only for 24 hours. The resort was gorgeous, the food divine, the suite was luxurious – though the bed could have been a touch comfier – and it was a great night away! The property is sprawling and beautiful (West Baden Springs and French Lick Springs resorts are all on the same property) and I didn’t have time to explore but we are already planning on trying to save up to go back next year. It is not a cheap venture but they make the stay and cost worthwhile.

One thing I noticed last night, as I sat and enjoyed a nightcap with my husband in the gorgeous atrium was a feeling of wistfulness. ‘I miss this’, I thought. And what I meant by that was the elegance that I felt. We were n602298132_550114_9256all gussied up and it reminded me of the heyday of my larping, back several years ago when we would dress up for games, play in beautiful spaces, and have a wonderful time with friends. I miss those days. In my mind’s eye, I filled the gorgeous, domed atrium with well-dressed and creatively-costumed people having conversations here and there, a combat being run over there, an boon being negotiated at the next table. I missed it. I missed slipping into the skin of a character who wore elegance like the dress that covered my form. I miss those days. I miss the days of ladies gathered together, lacing corsets, pinning hair, tying ribbons, helping with make-up (a friend drew faint scars on my back once), complimenting costuming. It was not just larp, it was theatre, experience, community. And I miss it. I miss the me that I was when I was in it.

There is a line from a poem that I read lately, “Sometimes I Cry” by Annie Reneau, about being a mother and one line was a real gut-punch for me because it voiced a feeling that I often don’t know if I have a right to and so have been rather ashamed of:

“Sometimes I cry because in the process of gaining you, I gave up a version of me, and though I wouldn’t change that even if I could, sometimes I miss me desperately.”

I do. Sometimes I desperately miss the me that I was, the me that I am beneath the other mantles that I wear. And this short vacation allowed me to shed those mantles for a while and just be Mel for a bit. Not Mommy, not Industrious Student (I officially finished my summer grad courses two days ago), just Mel, and I got to take care of my wants and needs for a bit. And it was refreshing.

Fitting the Mask

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It’s beautiful, isn’t it? But you would do well to not earn one of your own. You know why I wear this mask. You know who gave it to me. It’s because of my face, my voice.  So I live behind it, within it. It is who I am now, the mask.

The scarring? Oh, don’t worry about that. It doesn’t hurt much anymore. It’s fine.

Can you touch it? Touch me? Well, that seems a little forward, a bit intimate a caress but, yes, you may. Why does your brow wrinkle when you look into my eyes? Yours are a fascinating green-grey. How lovely!

No, you would do well not to earn a mask of your own. Trust me. It is not for everyone. But this one is for me. This one is me. Smooth, perfect, flawless, a bit of gold to the pout, a bit of silver to the blink. Is that not why you came? Is that not why you are here? Why you paid your money at the door? Is not Perfection the god whose robe hem you came to touch?

If you think not, then you have tricked yourself, and you may be fit for a mask of your own after all.

Emotion: Another Four-letter Word

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Author’s Note: Sections in italics are quotes directly from the article “Men Can, Too“.

Can I just say that I LOVE The Well Written Woman? They always publish such excellent articles. Heaven only know what they see in mine. ^_^ But today’s really made my day.

We have heard so much lately about gender equality, feminism, etc., and I really tend to stay out of these discussions because people are just so…angry. So I stay out of the discussions and keep my thoughts to myself. But I very much appreciated this article that Tammie Niewedde wrote (“Men Can, Too”). In the article, she quotes her son, after asking him what he thought of an article that showed men screwing up various jobs,

“Being a man who has chosen to be a stay-at-home dad for part of my son’s life, and being that I was ridiculed and criticized by my in-laws, I don’t think these things are funny at all. These supposed jokes are why men try to stay away from being helpful and sensitive. If we are projected as being good at ‘women’s work’, we completely give up our man card. We’re only allowed to be violent and domineering, and that’s what ticks me off.”

And it breaks my heart. Why do we vilify this? Call it ‘unmanly’, ‘unmasculine’? Why do we not celebrate it more? For example, have male friends who put me to shame with the way they care for their homes and the mastery they show at cooking. I admire them beyond words and, actually, strive to emulate them in many ways.

I am not a strong voice in the crowd when it comes to social issues. I usually keep my feelings private or for one-on-one discussions with my spouse and friends. But this…this is near and dear to my heart as I have met far too many men whose hearts and souls are wounded by this. With everything that’s been in the news lately, it can be so easy to make blanket statements from either side.

“All men can be violent assholes/rapists/abusers/etc.”

“All women can be bitches/teases/ballbusters.”

There is nothing built from this! Nothing at all! On either side. I don’t believe in statements like this. I don’t believe in “I know all men aren’t like this but…” I know that the men that I have chosen to cut out of my life are the exception, the aberration in my world. On the whole, the men in my life are wonderful and caring, intelligent and loving. And yet I know that they still struggle with this. I have spoken to them about it, cried with them through it, and loved on them to try to combat it. Destruction of self-esteem and self-image is not a poison regulated to women only. Please don’t forget that. This is a poison that has become so internalized in our adulthood that the damage is often consistent and difficult to repair when it wounds again and again.

My husband is the most masculine man I know, though he might not fall into the damaging cultural stereotype of masculine. He doesn’t like sports, though he played his fair share as a young kid. He gave it up in a preference for poetry, languages, and culture as he became a teenager. He likes music and Swamp Thing, speaking in German, reading poetry to our daughter, playing on his Xbox, singing, and reading fantasy and science fiction novels. He doesn’t run/jog, lift weights, watch football, or things like that. He debates education reform, he’s a conscientious objector, he mows our lawn, teaches Outdoor Pursuits to young people, is an NRA-licensed rifle instructor, and he’s the most masculine man I know.

And that is because he cares for his family, he encourages and supports his wife, he loves on and giggles with his daughter. He calls his mother just about every night and tells her about his day; he seeks out the advice of his parents on his job and important decisions. And yet he struggles with this. I know he does. But he puts one foot in front of the other every day and does his best to be the man I know he is, to be as true to himself as he can. And I love him for it.

I have never been drawn to the posturing, macho, crowing men – the ones who see their ‘man card’ as needing verification. The ones who whistled at me, sidled up to and touched me uninvited in a club, asked me as I passed them if I believed in love at first sight. I am attracted to men with kind hearts, gentle eyes and hands, clever minds, and loving personalities. THAT is my idea of masculinity, THAT is a man to me. THAT is a good person to me.

But in this world, emotion/sensitivity/kindness are seen as weakness. My husband brought up a good point today. What do we do when we see someone crying in public? We try not to pay attention. We may tell ourselves this is so that we do not embarrass the cryer, but the truth is that we are trained to avoid public emotion. It is seen as unseemly or ‘making a scene’ to allow emotion in public. But isn’t that the point of emotion, the reason our bodies have physical responses to it, like crying? Crying is a way our heart cries out for comfort, for the need of someone else – their care, their love, their strength – even when we don’t realize it. Why do we wish to quash this? In men and women? Men who show emotion are considered weak or unmasculine. Women who show emotion are referred to as a ‘bullet’ to be dodged or, more often, we refer to ourselves as a ‘hot mess’, quashing our own freedom to feel. I’ve even noticed this behavior in some of my characters whom I write for, which I think I need to strongly reconsider.

In the Victorian age, displays of emotion were labeled as a medical/psychological illness; we called it hysteria. Hysteria was treated by isolation, which often led to depression (called ‘exhaustion’), when really what that person most likely needed was someone to recognize their need and answer that emotion’s call.

We – men and women – are not weak in our emotion. We are strong in the fact that we are given opportunities to minister to and love on each other. We are given opportunities to strengthen each other in our actions and in our hearts, regardless of what the stereotypical gender roles would have us do. I don’t think I would call myself a feminist (I don’t really like calling myself an anything really, as I’ve discovered lately) but I do believe in the need for equal support from both sides.

As much as there is a war against women with the SCOTUS decision about birth control and such, there is also war against men that orders them to never, ever act like a woman. It’s as if during this war, the male camp calls out its own members as traitors if they can cook or clean or change a diaper. Moreover, if a man shows sadness or weakness, even in losing a child, his admission to the Man Club is revoked, and not only by other men, but sometimes by women as well.

[…]

It’s not about superiority. It’s not about winning. It’s about being human.

Amen.

Weary Whelming

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Sorry about my absence, my dears. Life has been fast and fierce of late. We visited my family for a week and a half and, in the middle of our trip, my classes started. In order to renew my teaching license, I have to take six credits worth of continuing education. Therefore, I am in week two of two five-week graduate courses – Comparative Education and Development of Creative Thinking. It’s been eight years since I graduate with my Masters and I haven’t taken any college/graduate courses since then, so I am feeling more than a bit overwhelmed at the intensity of these courses.

So I will try to write and update as often as I can, but, until these classes are over, I just wanted to give you a heads up that it might be intermittent at best.

Thanks for your patience, my dears. ^_^

My Sandbox –

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Author’s  Note:  This was a discussion post written for my Development of Creative Thinking graduate class in response to reading several chapters’ worth of theories on creativity.

I have a sandbox. This is my sandbox. I like my sandbox because I can do anything I like in my sandbox. I don’t really know why I do the things I do, play the games I play, or pretend the things that I pretend in my sandbox. They just seem like really good ideas and I do them; they often end up turning out to be really great. I love my sandbox.  This was the thought that came to me tonight as I spoke to my husband and we worked through how to voice our creative processes.

Freud noted his theory that creativity is the extension of childhood free play and that creative writing, for example, resulted from the writer indulging in the “playing pretend” of his or her childhood in order to create these fantastic worlds within their fiction. With my larping, I have had people say to me, “You and Ben [my husband] didn’t get enough pretend time as children, did you?” And my response has always been: “Oh, on the contrary, I got a lot of pretend time. I just don’t want it to stop with childhood.” My very first larping game, I fell into so deeply the action of playing my character and interacting with the characters that others played, that the six hours of game flew by for me and I found myself very disappointed that it was over, as I still do at the end of a game.

It was quite a similar feeling to when I saw “Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Ring” for the first time. I fell head- and heartlong into that film, into its story, so much so that when a friend leaned over to me and asked, “Did you like it?” as Frodo and Sam crested the hill from which they could see Mordor, I felt my heart sink and I kind of squeaked, “It’s over?!” But I knew I was hooked. I read all three novels in a few weeks’ time, treated my friends to midnight showings of the next two movies over the next two years, wrote nine stories to fill in the gaps where there were things that I wanted to know, and wrote my undergraduate thesis on Tolkien’s language and use of Norse myth, saga, and tradition in the Rohirrim, and my Research Studies paper in graduate school on the Tolkien Hero. I published my papers in Parma Nole, the Journal of the Northeastern Tolkien Society while in graduate school and one of them will be republished in a book by those editors this fall. I worked until I finally exhausted my steam, my flow. I still love Tolkien and his world deeply, though my love doesn’t burn as hotly now as it did then. I still cannot explain what inspired me and drew me into Middle Earth so deeply, but I can tell you that I enjoyed every minute of it.

That’s kind of what my creative process is like. I cannot explain it. I cannot assign it stages of work or lay it out on a linear scale. My mind most definitely has“mysterious happenings”. In grad school, I woke up from a dream one night and had enjoyed it so much that I grabbed my notebook and ran into the bathroom so I wouldn’t disturb my roommate. In there, I sat on the edge of the tub for an hour and scribbled in my notebook until I had the dream down just as I remembered it, what I could remember. Dreams fade quickly for me and, often, I can only hang onto feelings, emotions, or sensations. This one, I remembered plot, causes, and people. It was rare, a white elephant amongst dreams for me. So I hurried to write it down while the “flow” was upon me. I cannot explain to you where the stories come from, where the characters come from, the costuming ideas, or the desire to write letters. “It just came to me” is my staple answer. I had an idea from…somewhere…and I ran with it. I love the process!

I love the writing. I love watching characters and their lives form beneath my pen or by the strokes of my keyboard. I love planning the pieces of a costume, parts from hither, thither, and yon that come together to make up a gorgeous whole with nary a stitch. I am in love with the Process! That doesn’t mean that I don’t enjoy the Product; I do. And then I want a new idea, a new something to work on. Sometimes I get it, sometimes I don’t. But, from whence it comes, I could never tell you.

A Notion of Fear

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Cross-posted from my “academic” blog – The Mind’s Vale –

studying-watercolor1The day after tomorrow, my summer courses begin. It has been six years since I have undertaken graduate coursework, and I find myself becoming very nervous. I am in a completely different situation now. When I was in college and graduate school, I could devote my full attention to my studies, without work or anything else that necessarily required my attention. I had my hobbies, friendships, and a romantic relationship, of course, but those were choices. Now I am a wife and a mother and those are high demands on my time, whether I like it or not. School must come second, naturally, but it must also be completed. I have five weeks in these two courses and all the expectations that come with graduate work, which will – most likely – include two 20-page papers at the end of this road. Not to mention that those papers will come due right when I am supposed to leave for my anniversary trip with my husband; so, naturally, I will need to finish them early.

So, altogether, this means that I will have to be focused and hardcore AND dependent on others to help me. That last one is not a trait with which I often like to truck. I am very independent and like to do things myself. However, I KNOW that I cannot amuse a toddler AND pay attention to a lecture on video or read dry academic writing and have it sink in to my brain  and memory satisfactorily. At least, not without losing my sanity. So, for five weeks, I will have to be dependent on my husband, my in-laws, and maybe even my friends to help me carve out the necessary time to myself to get my classes done and even to get ahead on my work. To those wonderful people, I say thank you in advance for your help.

I’d also ask ,though, that you keep me accountable with my studies. This is not an option; it is something that must be done, that I will be graded on, and I want to, if anything, push my GPA ever higher. So it will require attention, focus, and hard work on my part. This will not be easy, I am very nervous about being able to do it well, but I will do it.

Let Down Your Hair

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As I sat in my hairdresser’s chair the other day, I picked up the magazine that was on the counter – a back-issue of Hype Hair and began to flip through it. I realize now that I should have counted advertisements, meaning I should have counted how many advertisements for Remi hair that I saw in the half of the magazine that I flipped through. Its frequency was almost literally every other page. For those of you who don’t know, Remi is a supplier of hair extensions. The reason this sparked in my mind is because, a month or so ago, I posted this selfie on my Facebook page sans make-up or anything, on a whim and sense of feeling pretty. 968036_10152100165903133_807967466_n In the comments, someone asked me if I had Remi hair. Honestly? I had to look that up. When I figured out what it was, I alternated between laughing out loud and feeling a little insulted. For the record, though, I have never once had hair extensions, weave, or anything of the like. Every inch of that was my own hair (six to eight of which came off the other day). But what I also realized is that is not the first time I have been asked that. I have been asked if not only my hair is real but are my nails real? I like to grow out my nails a little bit, always have. They grow quickly and my cuticles have a curve to them that makes my natural nail growth graceful (at least, I think it does).

So, in my mind, this prompts a question. What is the expectation of beauty in a black woman that seems to predicate an assumption of falseness? False hair, false nails, false eyelashes, intense make-up, etc. Why must any part of me, or any of us, be false? Let’s be honest, the advertising would not be so intense and frequent if it were it not successful. What is it about current social expectations of beauty that would prompt people to look at me and ask if I am all ‘real’? I mean, the same thought is prompted when someone asks, “Is she a real blonde?” or “Are those her real breasts?” By the way, I am 5’2 and a D-cup; I’m pretty sure that latter question has been lobbed in my (in)direction a time or two. Next confession: I relax my hair. It’s easier to manage and care for this way. So, no, while this may not be my hair’s natural state, it is still my hair. All of it, every inch, every grey, every (sometimes broken and split) end.

I know that this an old debate but yet the question remains. Why is falseness assumed (or worse, expected) in certain standards of beauty, for both men and women?

A Change of Space

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When I arrived at my parents’ house on Monday, we let Elizabeth familiarize herself with the house while we got settled. Ben and I are sleeping in my old room, of course. The reality, though, is that it looks nothing like the room I grew up in.

Gone are the pink, then white, then blue walls, now a soft taupe leading up to an ivory ceiling. the bookshelves, the desk, the stereo, the shrine to boy bands on the corner shelves by the window. Gone is the window unit air conditioner, inserted and cemented into a cutout in the wall; the entire house is central air’ed now. The windows o the north and east wall are smaller, fewer. The closet contains my mother’s clothes and shoes (both of which far outstrip my own collections, I am fairly sure; the shoes, I am CERTAIN!). The furniture is all different and only a few years new (the bed is a thing of beauty and comfort from top to bottom). The dresser holds my mother’s clothing and several collections of knickknacks and crafty stuffs. Only one drawer contains a few articles of clothing of mine from my teenage/college years that either my mother could not bear to throw out, as they were my staples for around the house, or that she has kept on just in case I should ever desire or need to wear them again. As a matter of fact, I am wearing a pair of pj pants from that particular dresser right now.

In the corner is a pile of stuff that includes hand-me-downs for Elizabeth, craft supplies of my mom’s, a photo poster of Elizabeth to be framed and hung somewhere (and she always finds the room), and seasonal decor/gift items. There are few, if any, vestiges left of what made this room my room for 13 years. And yet…I don’t mind.

I don’t mourn the changing of this room, the changing of the entire house since I’ve been gone and married these almost eight years. It has been improved and redecorated from top to bottom inside and I think it’s great. The house is beautiful and clean and excellently-cared-for and I envy my parents that. I hope that I can do such wonderful things with my own home some day.

So it’s not my bedroom, technically. It’s the guest room (and mom’s work room) but I still find myself comfortable and safe in its space. I miss my own home, for sure, but no amount of change will ever cause me to forget that this is my home, too.

Locked In Here…

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Yesterday, I flew down to the Caribbean to visit my family and take my daughter to visit her grandparents. With all love and due respect to my family, I HATE traveling. Specifically, flying. Now, going to new places (or old) and seeing new things (or familiar), that doesn’t bother me. It’s the GETTING THERE that bothers me. Flying, particularly flying internationally, involves several layers of hell for me:

  1. Crowds of people who I don’t know. Crammed together, shoving, pushing, etc.
  2. Those same people I don’t know shoved into a confined space along with me and me forced to share even closer space with them.
  3. Being unable to get away from people to a place of my own; basically, having to deal with people whether I like to or not.

All of this grates on the introverted nature of my personality. My body language reads “Go away!” and “Leave me alone”. I find myself resentful of when strangers talk to me while I’m traveling, even when they are just trying to help. I find myself wanting to scream, “I have been flying since I was two weeks old. I know what the hell I am doing! I don’t need your help! Leave me alone!” I know that it’s unfair to them and so I put on a smile, say my polite thank-you’s, and try to escape as quickly as possible.

Now, traveling is great fun for people like my husband and my father, it gives them a whole new passel of people to meet and talk to, and those two can talk to ANYONE. I would rather let the earth swallow me up than approach strangers in the airport, truthfully, but they are fearless in striking up conversations and, it’s true, they tend to meet some very interesting people. In Ben’s case, he tends to find people, at the farthest reaches, who happen to be from just the next county over. It’s a little amazing.

On the whole, I’m glad that traveling is done for now. Have to do it again in ten days; I need to catch my breath.

Missing the Thrill

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She feels strange, standing here, in a dress instead of her silks, heels instead of boots, and, instead of a helmet, a hat more complex than a gig harness. She feels like a fool, all truth be told. The running of the Belmont Stakes and here she is, on the sidelines. Her muscles are amazingly relaxed and loose. Perhaps it’s being here, on the track, the scent of the dirt rising into her nostrils, mingled with the scent of the horses that will run it. They aren’t even in the gate yet but she can smell them, she can hear their nickering, the stomp and thud of hooves, and feel the ripple of muscles as they are loaded into the gate. She can practically feel Winchester moving and shifting beneath her, his muscles coiled, ready to run.

She had fought, bit, and clawed her way into that gate. She had been good, too. One of the best. Winchester’s Country Gentleman had never run better than when she was his jockey. She misses it, all of it. She misses walking him around the paddock, over the track. She misses counting out her eight pairs of goggles and layering them just so atop her helmet. She even misses the taste of dust in her throat.

Then, in the back of her memory, there comes the thunder of the track, the world tilting to the left, and the scream that haunts her dreams even now. But while she’s here…she can forget, at least for a little while, ironic though it might seem.

She smiles, hearing the bugle peel out over the Stakes, signaling the race is about to get underway. Turning from the fence, she begins to make her way up to the stands, though she moves slowly. Prosthetic legs and heels, a far cry from her jockey boots.