Fifth of Seven

I’m writing to you from the comfort of my warm home. I’ve got my precious three year old daughter asleep in her bed taking a nap. It is cold outside and the sky is grey with cloud cover. The autumn trees are lighting my view with their sharp orange and yellow leaves. I catch myself staring out the windows looking for something that won’t be found out there – I’m looking for a way back to last Sunday, when I didn’t know what I now know and hadn’t seen what I’ve now seen or done what I’ve now done.

It’s been a long week

It started out annoyingly enough. I was summoned for Jury Duty, and I was to report on Monday, October 19th at 8:30. This was my second summons in three years. I wasn’t dreading it necessarily, but I wasn’t exactly excited about it either. The first time I served, I found out that I was pregnant with our daughter during that trial. This time I was introduced to Lane Smiley.

When they called our group of 52 people late in the afternoon on that Monday, I remember feeling a bit anxious. I looked around at the large group and wondered to myself, “why so many”? I know the answer to that question now. I remember the walk from the jury room to the courthouse and enjoying the feel of the downtown atmosphere. I like the noise. I like the sounds. I’m a city girl in my heart. Having made it through the juror security check in the Criminal Courthouse, we reached the elevator. Once we were all on the right floor, we lined up in the hall with both sides filled by people in single file position. I remember feeling slightly faint for some reason and taking deep breaths to keep myself from passing out. Finally, we were instructed to come forward by last name in groups of seven, and I entered this chapter of my life unremarkably as the fifth of seven.

I saw only two people at first: a grey haired, tall, and slender man and a petit woman with thick, long blonde hair and an otherwise beautiful face blemished by grief. They sat in the back row of the courtroom. I then looked into the room and saw five people watching us as we entered: a female judge, a 30 something blond haired man, a 30 something dark haired woman with smoky eyes, an extremely well dressed, middle-aged, African American man, and finally, a very young African American man with little expression on his face – he just looked tired. I immediately felt heavy inside. As a result of my name, I sat in the front row of the jury box from the very beginning. On the first day of juror selection I said only six things out loud: my name, where I lived, where I worked, what position at my job, my husband’s name and his occupation. The rest of the time I listened very carefully, sat very still, and watched everything. The next day I only answered one more question…turns out it was the right answer to the wrong question... that I knew absolutely nothing about guns, nothing. Time inched forward as we waited to be returned to the jury pool. Eventually the lawyers struck jurors off their lists in numeric codes and I watched their juror diagrams to see if I could determine if my location was crossed out. I couldn’t tell. When they were announcing the rules for those of us about to leave, I grabbed my purse expectantly and I waited for them to ask me to hand in my juror button. The judge gave orders for the people currently seated in the jury box to stand as she called the names. She did not call my name. I was not going home or back to the jury room. I was there to stay.

I…sat…stunned.

Fear gripped me and tears welled up in my eyes. I remember how cold I was at that moment - shaking. I willed myself not to be there. I knew immediately that I was not prepared for this, but there I was and there they were, and there we all were in this giant, tragic mess together, a turn of events set in motion almost two years prior to our meeting. Of course, by this time I knew it was a capital murder trial; I knew that the woman with the grief stained face was the mother of a boy who was dead; I knew that the young African American man was being charged with his death. The realities of all of my hypothetical discussions about violence, race and poverty were about to unfold right in front of my tear filled eyes. I cursed my luck, picked up my pad of paper and pencil, and prayed for Solomon’s wisdom. It was on Tuesday, October 20th, that I first heard Lane Smiley’s name and was introduced to him by race, height, weight, and finally date and manner of death. He was 21 years old on the day he died and the boy who had confessed to shooting him was only 18 when he did it.

How's Life?

I’ve been stuck in this mental place for awhile. It’s not necessarily a bad place, but it’s a quiet, unfamiliar place. It’s hard when you can’t take anything at face value; when you keep looking at the zigzags of miniature black and white boxes, but you still don’t see the picture…but you know it is in there…you just know it!


I’ve started several posts about my daughter, who is about to turn another year older (please God let me tell you how this is breaking my heart). I have started several posts about life in general in an attempt to be funny (but really, how funny am I…seriously…). I’ve got a lot going on in my personal life that I can’t put into words (all good stuff). I’ve also got a lot of nothing that I want to write about too.

It’s mental constipation, and it feels as bad as it sounds.

you can all just thank your lucky stars that I settled on this as my picture representation




P.S. this little beauty lives on my desk and taunts me with her crooked, gaping mouth. It’s tantamount to office psychological warfare when I have a deadline.

Kudzu

You either know what it is, or you do not. I cannot and will not explain its dual role in our world. I will note that it has an absolute strangle hold on The South, and when I look at it, I feel ambivalent because it is lush and green with long, purple flowers that dot the sea of leaves; however, it is a selfish killer. I think about kudzu a lot because it has ravaged the creek beds, and banks, and the accompanying hillsides that I run each week.



Today however, as I ran up to the entrance of the trail, I could not help but be overwhelmed by its beauty. It was everywhere. In fact, I was overwhelmed by its beautiful smell. The afternoon air was thick and warm and in it hung the most beautiful scent. It was so sweet and soft. I pulled hard on the air through my nose and allowed my head to swell with the contents of each breath. It was as I lifted my face to take these fat breaths that my eyes wondered to the swirling, clouded sky above me with its speckles of bright blue. The breeze that had been blowing over my body carried the noise of the flowers over me. This wind gifted me with a rare and full sense of touch to less mindful parts of my exposed skin. It was so delicate that my arms and legs and cheeks tingled. In my thoughts I joyfully prayed in unison with each foot striking the ground. I could hear leaves rustling, crickets rattling, birds madly chirping, swollen waters rushing past each lazy rock, and at moments...nothing. Each of my senses becoming more refined; each moment more unforgettable. My mind at rest, but my body at play in its movement and purpose. I felt wholly alive.



I am ever more grateful for this time...for the physical ability to run...and today, for the kudzu.

Hyperbole

i will be ammending my original marathon post and substituting with the words half marathon

Silver and Gold

I ran into my old friend, Karen, last night that I haven’t seen since she was in the hospital room with me the day after Clare was born. Her daughter was around Clare’s age now on that day. Since seeing her, I have been flooded with emotions ranging from happiness to sadness that I let all of this time slip away. I think her about all of the time and I really started wondering last night, “How in the world did three years pass and we just didn’t see each other? How does this happen in life?” This is a good person, someone I’ve laughed with, cried with, and played with. I was there when her first child, who is now in the 3rd grade, was born. He was the first baby I had ever held. She called me on her way into the hospital that night – I probably drove 100 m.p.h to get to the hospital on time because I had to drive 3 hours from Mobile to Montgomery and didn’t want to start my journey until morning. I gambled on her delivery time and won. Were it not for her, I might not have run back into Mason so many years ago here in Birmingham. She was in my wedding. She is the keeper of secrets that are old now, but not old enough that I have forgotten then. She is that kind of wonderful friend, not at all the kind you want to lose.

I suppose it happened gradually. The phone calls turned into emails, and the emails got further and further apart and just finally stopped because it’s just too hard to respond, or too easy to make excuses?

I hope I don't let that time get by me again. I don't think I will. I feel like I've been given a present!

I lost the battle, but I'm still fighting the war (with a limp)

Sharing
This invaluable life lesson just smacked me in the face. I was drying my hair when I saw my precious daughter’s face round the corner.

I lit up, ‘Hey big girl, whatchadoin?’

She held up a cheap bracelet that I often wear to go out.

I asked with a bit of a puzzled expression, “Have you been in Mommy’s jewelry box?”

She shook her head up and down and says, “Yes.”

“Well, Clare, you really need to go and put that away, it’s Mommy’s and you’re not supposed to play in Mommy’s jewelry box.”

In a way only she can pull off, she looked right at me without any intention at all of putting that bracelet up. Without missing a beat she says, “Mommy Share. You have to share.”

Do what? No seriously, put those words right back in your smarty little mouth you are not allowed to use my own words against me.

“Seriously Clare, go put it back in Mommy’s jewelry box. You shouldn’t have been in there in the first place.”

“Mommmmiiiieeee, you say we have to share. You have to share!” (With little arm and hand motions accompanying this song and dance)

I was quiet while trying to figure out the best way to handle the situation. On the one hand, she was right. On the other, I could have said, “I’m your mother, do what I say. I told you to put it up.” I was stuck for a moment. You know what I actually did? I shared, and then made a mental note to move the jewelry box until she’s older and we can go through the nuances of sharing verses staying out of my stuff. It was early, coffee hadn't really kicked in yet.
Clare 1
Mommy 0

Painting
NEVER EVER buy crayola squeeze paint on sale at the craft store thinking that you’ll use it "one day, but not right now". No no, you can stuff that cat back in the bag. You buy paint, it’s coming out whether you like it or not.

A little back story, our craft boxes are now kept safely out of her reach due to a previous painting party while I was in Baltimore (it involved glitter and glue and pipe cleaners, and Daddy not knowing that we don't just sit the craft box on the table and say "Go Get 'Em").

So being the resourceful one that she is, and not one to really adhere to ‘no’ really well, Clare enlisted an innocent friend in her scheme to get to that paint while we were occupied after I had already told her ‘No’ for crafts and paints. Twenty minutes into our study, I hear the obvious sound of a tube being emptied of its contents. I excused myself to go check on the girls. Clare’s precious friend is trying to get her to stop, while Clare is sitting in a puddle of red paint literally covering her entire body from head to toe and wallowing in the joy of paint. When I say wallowing, I mean, no natural skin color left on her arms or legs and only a little left on her face. Oh, and she’s rubbing it into the hardwood floors like it’s a new fur coat. A few minutes later and an unexpected bath while friends cleaned the mess on the floor and she’s good as new and no longer resembles a future Burning Man Festival attendee.
Clare 2
Mommy 0

Friendship
Not fifteen minutes after she’s been cleaned of paint and gently scolded, she’s back in motion. This time I’m watching her bossy almost three year old self out of the corner of my eye. At one point during one of her many clandestine trips from her play room to the upstairs, I see her walking slowly from the room with something in her hand and a look of complete guilt all over her face. I call out her name and one of my friends sitting on the couch starts laughing. “What happened,” I ask. Apparently the moment I said her name, she shoved whatever it was in her hand over to her perfectly innocent companion, and came walking passed me like nothing had happened. Yep, that’s right; she was ready to throw her friend under the bus so she didn’t get caught. I apologized to her friend’s parents and made ANOTHER mental note to discuss what we do not do. Most importantly, we do not let our friends get in trouble for things we are trying to get away with (good grief).
Clare 3
Mommy 0

I decided on a good Christian book by Max Lucado for bedtime reading that had all of the elements of sharing, friendship, honesty, obeying and forgiveness in it. As she drifted off to sleep, she was smiling and I know she was not listening to me and my moral story, rather she was dreaming about her red paint.

No way!

A picture is worth a thousand words.

We took this little gem on our way home from picking Clare up at my parents yesterday afternoon. I don't believe you can read the sign to the right of the stuffed fox/coyote thing attached to the pickup truck (somehow), but it reads: "Mike's Mounts"

I mean really, what do you say?