My Subconscious Drinks Riunite and Watches Daytime TV

During that writers' conference I attended in April, there was one session advertised in the brochure as an opportunity to mine one's subconscious mind for writing material using relaxation techniques and guided imagery.

That's code for "hypnosis" if I ever saw it, so naturally I signed myself right up. If there's anything I love more than looking up an old boyfriend on Facebook to see if he's bald yet, its New Age religion.

Now, in the past I've had no success getting in touch with my spiritual self. I was the person at your high school retreat who kept one eye half open and peered surreptitiously at her peers during quiet prayer. I've tried meditation, and found it nearly impossible to shut off the running commentary in my head. But I am desperate to try, and darned if I was going to miss an opportunity to mine the old spiritual quadrant, and for writing material, to boot.

The presenter, Suzette Martinez Standring, began the session by speaking very eloquently for some time about the writing process, about the kind of writing that resonates most with readers, and the importance of evoking all five senses in one's work. I took copious notes, and before I knew it, it was time to go under.

The process was familiar, one I'd tried to follow countless times before when awake with insomnia or in the throes of an airborne panic attack.

The room was darkened, and we were encouraged to breathe slowly and deeply.

To still our minds.

To get centered.

To tune in to faraway sounds.

And to relax each part of our bodies in turn.

Next, we were to imagine a cord of light extending from the bottoms of our feet down to the center of the earth. We were invited to visualize ourselves at the top of a staircase. We would take three steps down. With each step, we would journey deeper and deeper into ourselves so that when we finally reached the bottom, we would be "in trance."

I was skeptical, but earnest. When I got to the bottom of my visual staircase, I was supposed to enter a place of great beauty and serenity. It could be anything I wanted it to be, as long as I felt at peace there, and comfortable.

I didn't see much. So, I pictured myself lying face down on a patch of lush green grass in a forest clearing. I have always enjoyed lying face down in grass because - and you didn't read it here - it is just like hugging the earth. Zero degrees of separation! To me that is very profound.

Anyway, I'm lying face down on the grass and trying to conjure up the feeling of sunlight on my back. It seems as though a babbling brook should be there, so I install one, and spotty sunlight beaming through the trees, as well.

The problem is, I know I'm not really in a forest. I know I'm still in the Torch Lounge at the University of Dayton. My hyper vigilant brain has failed me again, but I keep on visualizing the heck out of that forest clearing because I am going to get hypnotized if it's the last thing I do.

After a few more minutes of this, we are told to let a memory come to us, anything at all.

I get nothing.

After a little while, though, I see a red ball with a faux weave pattern, the multi-purpose kind every kid whose ever gone to school in America knows well. And that ball brings me back to Mr. Finneyfrock's gym class on President's Physical Fitness Test Day, like this:

I am ten years old. It’s President's Physical Fitness test day at school and I am hanging from the playground chin-up bar in a test of endurance. My size 2 feet, encased in white Keds with rainbow stripe friendship pins beaded through the laces, dangle several feet above the loamy ground. The mustachioed Mr. Finneyfrock, in soccer cleats, shorts, and yellow jersey, is standing next to me with his timer. It is warm out, and a soft breeze is blowing. I’ve been up on the bar for almost four minutes now and am barely showing signs of fatigue. My classmates stand in a semi-circle around me, cheering for me and my freakish strength.

I continue to hang there, wondering how much longer I should stay. My arms are not very tired. In fact, I like the slight burn, the sense that by the strength of my thin, tanned, arms alone, peppered with the golden threads of hair I detest, I am being held aloft. When I finally lower myself down, I am an elementary school hero. "IT'S A GODDAMNED RECORD!" Mr. Finneyfrock bellows.

Granted, this was not an unfamiliar, buried memory, but it was unbidden and true. Thing was, I couldn't for the life of me figure out what it was supposed to mean. I thought about it in the context of my current situation and the soul searching I've been doing to find my calling in life, about how I hoped that calling would include writing in some form of another. (Ironically, being at a writer's conference was unearthing all the self-doubts that have always plagued me in this regard.) I decided it meant that I was strong, stronger than my outward appearance belies. And then I didn't think about it again.

But last weekend I was sitting on my couch, staring at the wall and picking my cuticles. The kids were asleep upstairs, and my husband was down in the wine cellar, updating his inventory. I was considering making myself a cup of bedtime tea and taking a stab at some prophetic dreams, when suddenly it hit me.

Hang in there.

I'm supposed to just hang in there, it's as plain as the nose on my face, as obvious as the chin-up bar in my waking dream.

And . . . as cliché as a Hallmark card. Apparently, my subconscious mind has been drinking Riunite and watching Lifetime TV.

(But something is going to happen.)

I know it.

Yoomur

You don't often think of a humor writers' conference as the place for somber introspection. I had a fabulous time swinging from the chandeliers with a great group of fun loving and talented people at the Erma Bombeck Writers' Workshop last weekend, but in fact I left with a few tough bones to chew.

I learned from author Wade Rouse that really good writing - and especially the humorous kind - is often borne of heartache and comes from a place of deep vulnerability. (A place where I rarely venture.)

I learned that if you are writing something for entertainment value alone, it better be devastatingly funny. Better to write well and have a deeper message so if the humor bombs, at least the piece will not. (Ooof!)

And I was reminded that an essential element of success is daily discipline. You have to write often and copiously to hone your craft and get better and better at it. There is no such thing as writers' block. You just sit down and write, even if that means getting up at five o' clock and staring at the wall.

Finally, I witnessed firsthand how people who come to conferences prepared with business cards and armed with 30 second pitches, as well as those who network confidently with everyone they meet instead of, for example, donning a cloak of invisibility and going to bed early, end up hobnobbing with published writers. (Note to self: next time, bring business cards, stay up late, wear Louboutins.)

But don't get me wrong. I had a great time and met a lot of fabulous people, like the brilliant and multi-talented KC, Choonkooloonks, Wendi Aarons, Smacksy, and Jennifer from These Are the Days, just to name a few.

I heard New York Times columnist Gail Collins rock the house with her keynote speech, listened to hilarious USA Today columnist Craig Wilson read his work, and watched live stand-up comedy expertly executed by Late Show writer Bill Scheft.

I had the chance to stand up in front of a full auditorium and read a piece I'd written.

I was hypnotized and learned how to apply guided imagery techniques in my writing.

I was mistaken for a girl scout while earnestly trying to network one day at lunch. That was a total bummer.

I got carded at a college bar with Classy Chaos. That was fun!

And . . . one more thing. My nagging suspicion that this blog I started almost three years ago as a creative outlet and a way to pass the time while the kids napped doesn't feel quite right anymore was confirmed.

Since I had no business cards with me, I said "RimaRama" out loud a lot. And it sounded kind of stupid. I also spent about ten minutes trying to explain to one person what the suffix "rama" means. And here I always thought it was pretty self-explanatory. (She also wondered why I was wearing a crown in my header and I was like, "because this blog is my alter ego and my alter ego wears a crown." And she was like . . . "Hmmmmm." Then I thanked her and ran away.)

So I'm thinking - just thinking - about killing RimaRama off and starting anew.

But I'm not going anywhere just yet. I will keep you posted!

Hands Free

Next week, after the J-dog completes his neverending Montessori orientation period, both my children will be in school together all morning.  In other words: the moment I've been anticipating for the past six years of my life has arrived.  This post isn't about me not knowing what to do with my time now that I finally have some to myself, or about how much I want a third child now that two are flitting about the periphery of my nest.

I am happy.

But it's increasingly difficult to remember now how their baby bodies felt: the V-meister spare and birdlike; the J-dog pillowsoft and round with a steady, humming core. I lay in bed this morning post dream, chasing the essence of their infantness as quickly as it receded in smoky wisps from my morningscape. There was an ache, as there always is, and then a quick surrender to the reality that I am best as mother of two.

I'm still occasionally startled by this fleeting, vicelike grip on my gut, a selfish longing for their baby selves. It's not another child that I want - just the J-dog and V-meister for a moment fresh and new, unsullied by the desperate, anxious imprint of a new mother and her constant longing to have two hands free.

I want, of course, to correct my naive babymothering mistakes. But also, just once again, to lift their soft, malleable, diaper-clad bodies into the air, little toes and feet ensconced in the pods of footed pajamas, to walk with them feeling warmth nuzzled in the crook of my neck, and to hold them there with full knowledge of the moment's brevity in time.

Whistleblower

We were all in the car yesterday heading to a Labor Day picnic and the V-meister was chattering about What She Wants to Be When She Grows Up. She's enamored of the P-Dawg lately and alternates between wanting to be a doctor or a veterinarian.

She could not have been more impressed on the handful of occasions when he's taken her to the office or the hospital, where the V-meister was allowed to color in the physician's lounge and granted unlimited access to cookies and PBSkids.org at the nurses' station while her father finished up rounds. (I was home eating bonbons and watching The View, of course)

***************************************************************************

V-meister: "When I grow up, I'm going to be a veterinarian and I will take my children with me to work."

Me: "That sounds excellent!"

(pause)

V-meister: "Mama, I really want YOU to be something when you grow up, too!"

(!)

also:

(Crap!)

P-Dawg: "Mama is something. But she's taking a little break from it now to help you and your brother grow up."

V-Meister: "Well . . . what is she?"

Me: "I'm sitting right here, you guys."

P-Dawg: "She's . . . a writer!"

V-Meister, skeptical: "Does she still know how to write?"

Me: "YES! YES, I DO!" (Probably. Maybe.)

V-Meister, unconvinced: "Well. That's good."

*****************************************************************************
Ouch.

You know what? I wasn't really stung by the fact that my daughter does not yet (will she ever?) recognize mothering as valuable work, but rather because dammit! I still want to BE SOMETHING when I grow up.


"This is total bull$hit."

Seconds

My parents took the V-meister on a day trip to visit her out-of-town cousin yesterday and the P-Dawg was working, so the little J-dog and I were left to our own devices. Before my parents pulled out of our driveway Sunday morning with our daughter, I made sure to remind my mother not to let V-meister out of her sight for any length of time, especially in the highway rest areas. "And if she touches anything - anything at all - don't hesitate to bathe her in this," I said, slipping her a trial size container of Purell.

A short fit of hysterics ensued when V-meister and I discovered that my dad had jerry-rigged her booster seat into his vehicle using an elaborate pulley system that did not at all match the diagram provided by our Owner's Manual. But this was quickly sorted out and then off they went, the V-meister radiating all the energy of a loaded spring at the delicious prospect of an entire day with her grandparents and sans the little brother.

J-dog and I spent a pleasant Sunday morning together. We braved eleven o'clock Mass and afterwards treated ourselves to lunch at the Nordstrom cafe. He was a perfect gentleman: coloring his menu quietly, making pleasant conversation, eating with utensils.

It was so easy, this out-and-about-on-the-town with only one kid business, that I decided to walk around the mall for a bit after lunch. We hurled some pennies into the fountain and darted into a store or two before arriving at Baby Gap, where I began perusing sale racks while J-dog peeked and poked around a nearby display as per his usual custom.

A minute later, he was gone.

I didn't panic at first, sure that he was just hiding. I had been standing at the entrance to the store and watching out of the corner of my eye, so I knew he couldn't have left. I combed the floor, looking for little croc clad feet poking out from behind a rack somewhere, but saw nothing. The store was connected through a door in the back to the regular Gap and so I did a cursory check of that (much larger) store, even though I was positive he couldn't have possibly made it that far in such a short period of time. It was a really short period of time.

Still no J-dog.

I went back to the Baby Gap and started calling his name loudly, starting to panic a little now because it was getting obvious that he wasn't in either of the two stores. I looked in the dressing rooms, the stock room, behind the counter, everywhere. People started to notice my growing hysteria and asked what he looked like, what he was wearing, what name he answered to. Before I knew it, one of the sales associates was radioing security with a bulletin and his description.

I peeked out into the mall, then ran back and forth between the two Gap stores, sure that he would appear momentarily. No longer a person anchored in time and space, I scurried frantically about and thought, "This is how it happens."

An eternity few minutes later, the sales associate, who was still radioing back and forth with mall security asked me to follow her out of the store. I was hesitant to uproot myself from the general vicinity where I had last seen the J-dog, but she was an authority figure and I a brainless creature on a fruitless trajectory.

"They think they might have found him" she said as the two of us walked-ran towards a mall cop who was standing by a fountain in the main atrium talking to someone on his radio. "I am not a bad mother," I said.

When we finally reached the atrium, I planted myself in front of the giant mall cop. "DID YOU FIND HIM? WHERE IS HE???"

"Just hold on, Ma'am!" he snapped, still talking to whoever it was on the other end, beads of sweat popping out over his brow. "Okay, now. Up that way, past the fountain, just by the main entrance."

So I ran.

And he was there. He had made it halfway across the mall, apparently following a woman he'd mistaken for me. As hokey as it sounds, in my mind's eye our reunion happened in slo-mo, me running with tunnel vision, blurry storefronts in the periphery, towards a still oblivious J-dog who was being held by a kind looking grandfatherly sort.

He hadn't been crying, probably had only realized he had been lost when I scooped him up and wept. I sat down on a bench with him wrapped tightly around my neck and that's when he started to sob. Even on the drive home, after we had both calmed down, he'd hiccup periodically and fight to catch rapid breath. I decided we would never set foot in the mall again.

Thing is, I honestly believed it couldn't happen to me. Because I am hyper-vigilant - I've caught the J-dog from falling backwards out of an open deck door with one hand and less than a second to spare while looking in the opposite direction. I regularly intercept falling sipping cups in mid-air and, until yesterday, believed that I had an infallible second sense with regard to my childrens' position in the universe.

And I will admit to you now that in the past, upon hearing the line, "I only let him out of my sight for a minute," I shamefully assumed that "minute" really meant "five" or maybe even "ten."

But it doesn't. It's a minute, maybe even seconds. And while I know that the little J-dog was probably in no real danger at any point during our little ordeal, those moments of not knowing were a loaded eternity. I almost didn't write about this because doing so is admitting that it actually happened, that I let my guard down long enough to allow my three-year-old to wander away.



Since we've been home, the J-dog has gotten a wad of Play-Dog jammed up his right nostril and squashed his index finger in a door jamb, which just goes to show you that home is not that much safer than the big bad world.

But still. SECONDS.

I Don't See Dead People, But I Wish I Would

I subscribe to a daily writing prompt, but I never do it. Putting that much thought into what I'm going to say, rather than just writing about my supermarket trials and tribulations, causes nervous beads of sweat pop out all over my brow. Today's prompt, however, was to write about what I'd like to dream tonight, and I didn't have to think much about this one at all - I want to dream my grandmother. But I don't just want to dream about her, I . . . want her to visit.

There have been many reminders of the transiency of souls lately, in real life and on the Internet. Consequently, as I always do at times like these, I've been ruminating about the sweet hereafter. I like to think that I don't need hard, empirical evidence of an afterlife, but I often find myself seeking out hints. I've been devouring books - about people who've had experiences that help them believe, and about NDEs (Near Death Experiences), during which individuals claim to have physically died and gone, if only for a moment, to another place which confirmed (for them) that there is something more.

I think it's fascinating. And while I'm inclined to believe that some of these experiences are drug induced or fabrications, I think that many are authentic. And I get a little jealous. Because I've been waiting for a dead person to visit me for years. (Just kidding! But not really.) When I've really looked, I have picked up on signs that help me believe. There are things that have happened surrounding the deaths of my grandparents and uncle which, if I detailed them here for you, would seem inconsequential, but have proven mystical for me. Alas, I can't say that I've ever glimpsed anything truly otherwordly, and I just want a little peek beyond the Veil.

Have you ever felt the presence of a loved one who has died in a dream? Have you had any experiences that have given you good goosebumps? I'd like to hear about them.