Controlling My Narrative

Day 332, Year 11 in Glasshalfull

Peanut’s “Please, Mom, Give me a bone” Face

 No Way

No way
to push forward
through the mystic brambles
keeping me from my ragged dream
so long.

I cling
to words, the sap 
from piney green needles,
releasing the evergreen scent
of hope. 

Let go,
harsh thoughts like leaves
swirling into winter, 
unmasking clear paths, new branches 
to grasp.

I long. I hope. I grasp.
As I wait...

-D. Bryan

Poor little blog. It’s been so long since we’ve sat together like this, in the warm glow of my background screen, you with that lonesome blog look. I’ve not forgotten you, my friend. It’s just that…well…lots has happened, robbing us of our time together. Life things like summer, garden, home maintenance, fund raisers, family concerns. Hard things like grief, guilt, discouragement.

Also, blog, I’m slower these days, and need naps in the afternoon, which cut into my time. I’m trying to listen to my body more, learning not to push, prod, or wish for more than what each moment brings. To accept that I can’t control my narrative anymore, and really never could. But that doesn’t keep me from trying.

I’ve been thinking a lot about control lately, blog. How it’s always been a push/pull thing for me. Good and bad. Of how when we are little, others control us but gradually we take control of ourselves until time takes over and controls us again.

I was two the first time I remember taking control of something when I leaped off the porch in my snow suit, onto the snowman my older brother had spent so much time building. I don’t recall the scolding I probably got for it. But I do remember the freedom I felt when I made that decision to jump and how what I’d done upset my brother. I imagine that might have pleased me a little because he was four years older and I never got the upper hand.

A year later in that same house, I remember marching around and around the oval of the giant braid rug, puckering and blowing until I produced a magical sound! Soon, I could control it, make it go up and down like the birds. I was so proud when my dad came home, towered over me, and announced, “This girl can whistle!”

A few years ago I found a letter my mother sent to my aunt about how bossy I was at five. That’s also around the time I remember crying at the supper table one night because I knew kindergarten was looming and I didn’t know how to read yet.

Obviously, I learned and enjoyed school once I got there. I prided myself on following the rules and expected others to follow them, too. I did get frustrated with kids who broke them, though. Like the dumb second grade boys who put corn kernels in their ears, making the teacher speculate about what would happen if they got stuck and grew there. Or the ornery third grade boy who climbed up and walked along the chalkboard ledge when the teacher was out of the room. I challenged him to a fight after school, probably because my parents were teachers and I took his misbehavior as a personal affront. I don’t know what I would have done if he’d shown up.

But, I was no angel, either. Like that time I coerced the little neighbor girl into hiding under the bed with me. Oh, how we giggled as we watched our parents’ frantic feet scurry by as they searched for us. Until they found us and I had to fess up. For the most part, though, I thought I had my life under control. Until it wasn’t.

There are big gaps in my memories after they put my dog Fritzi to sleep because he nipped at kids who touched the scar from his amputated front leg. And after my mom died. I do remember feeling guilty about that, thinking it was my fault because I’d been too happy before and I’d jinxed things somehow by having happy thoughts.

I was in seventh grade before I sensed I’d have to take control of my life again, as much as I could, anyway. The adults in my life definitely weren’t helping. They were too busy treading water, trying to save themselves.

I found guidance and comfort in books, from the kid protagonists who struggled and beat the odds. If they survived, so could I.

Now, I’m finding comfort in books again. My own. By writing about the ordeals of my own protagonists, I can control what happens to them, protect them, get them into trouble and out of it. But control has become an issue as I try to release these books into the world. I have to make decisions about them and am constantly worrying whether those decisions are the right ones.

A year ago, I was preparing to self-publish my Hotdog novel which I’ve spent years preparing. I’d dotted all the i’s, crossed all the t’s to make it the best book I could. Then, joy of joys, an editor with a traditional publisher asked for it. It was hard to decide not to self-publish, to relinquish control, but I finally decided it would be best for the readers I written this book for. Now I’m back to waiting, feeling frustrated, wondering if I made the wrong decision, if this book will ever see the light of day, if I will live to SEE that day at my age.

Maybe I’m supposed to learn a lesson in this situation- that I’m not in control, never was, and never will be. That my time now is best spent continuing to try and encouraging other writers to persevere.

I live with a ticking clock-my husband’s railroad clock in the living room which he winds faithfully every Friday night. Most of the time that ticking is comforting, reminding me to be thankful after all he went through to be able to wind that clock again. But that ticking is also sobering in the wee hours of the night, pointing out with its antique hands, that I only have so much time to accomplish what I still want to with this book, that I’d better get cracking...

So, come here, little blog. Let me rub your ears while we wait. Snuggle in as I try to tuck this newest blanket of words around us just right. As I control THIS narrative at least, while I still can.

Hugs,

Dale