That Perfect Story

I'm thinking a lot about R right now. I'm remembering that he isn't beside me when I wake up. I'm remembering that it's only six months until he returns. His arrival gets closer.

Mom was here last week. There were good times. She decorated my apartment. She said, "It's too plain." She said, "I needed to add personal touches." So now I have a gold table cloth and decorative napkins that aren't for use only for looks. I have plastic fruit in a red bowl. I have fake green plants in the bathrooms. Everything I haven't gotten around to is done for me. She did it for me. The night before Thanksgiving I come home to small personal touches. At first I thought, "This isn't what I picked out." But it made Thanksgiving festive. I can bring the stuff out on the holidays. Later I can pick out everyday things to decorate my home. For now, it'll do.

When Mom left, the atmosphere changed. I am reminded of the emptiness all over again. I'm used to it. I've found a routine. Not a good one, but a routine. I get up just to allow myself enough time to get ready in the morning, go to work, come home, eat, work on the computer (mainly writing), then sleep. It starts all over again the next day.

What throws me off are the weekends. No distractions. No obligations. I know, I need to take the initiative to plan things and to meet new people. A lot of the times I want to wrap myself in my light blue bedspread and curl up on the couch and read a book or work on my laptop and create that perfect story.

A perfect story?

Well, sitting on the couch and living in my head isn't creating my story.

There was a trip Mom and I took last week. We went to a small island nearby and walked the old streets of a small beach town. I went into shops. I found two bookstores. The first was an expensive bookstore which carried first editions and autographed books. I feel in love with it. Two blocks down was another one. This bookstore was more relaxed and welcoming. I went inside and came across two local authors promoting their books.

I found myself browsing the children's section looking for books for my classroom. I went to the register to purchased my items and the cashier was a sweet lady with and Irish accent. We chatted. She shared a piece of her life with me and some history of the place. I shared a piece of my life with her as well.

Experiences like this help me find my perfect story. Most of all, those I love helps me thrive.

A Dying Art

I read my mom's letter on blue stationary this evening. She started off by calling me "Sweetie." Then it went on to talk about my grandmother and how she used to call her and her sister "Sweetie" at the end of each phone call. Tears released after reading about her. It's been years since her passing, but still it takes the simplest of memories to remind me of Grandma and set me into a whirlwind of weeping.

The smell of coffee makes me think of the time she had made coffee for the family. That one memory leads to an onslaught of a dozen more memories.

It's a good cry, though. I miss my family. I miss my husband. Being thousands of miles away from them hurts, but I get to read their letters, hear their voices on the phone, or chat with them via internet.

I find letters comforting. Reading the words written by hand is almost like talking to the sender in person. A piece of them goes into the letter. It's personal, unlike the internet. Yet, I don't write letters as much as I should. Like I've heard before, "Letter writing is a dying art." It's about time I pick up a pen and write a few letters using the stationary that sits on my shelf collecting dust.

Deployment

With my husband on deployment, it gets a little rough coming home to and empty place.

I prepared myself a few weeks before he left to see what it would be like on my own. When he left for work and leaned over the bed to kiss me goodbye I paid attention to the feeling I got when I he went out the door: the locking of the door; the sounds of his footsteps as he walked to the car; the starting of the engine. All were profound.

Then I focused in on that sunken feeling. It was slight, but enough to know what it would be like when he was away.

When I couldn't hear the sound of the car anymore, the room seemed to get darker, quieter. Our home was different. An occupant of two now enclosed one person. Our home isn't used to that. I'm not used to that.

I closed my eyes and went back to sleep.

I countdown the days he's gone and anticipate his return. That's a given. I want him home, but at the same time I'm happy for him--for us.

We both are now employed and it feels wonderful to have a job that I really like. I'm not the unemployed wife anymore. I'm a wife and a preschool teacher. I can contribute to something instead of feel useless. If it wasn't for the preschool it would have been difficult to force myself out of bed and out the door.

Still, I wake up to a pillow on the left side of the bed instead of my husband. It won't be long until he is back again for me to reach out to and hold.

The Right Thing

Yes, it has been a while since I've written something. My dad brought it to my attention. I was really touched to hear that he missed reading my stories. So, here I am. Back on track.

After several interviews and applications I felt like I was at a standstill. I lost confidence... motivation. But I had to drive myself forward no matter what. If I let those losses overcome me I would have buried myself too deep that it would be all the more difficult to dig myself out.

Then my mom's words ran though my mind, "The right thing will come at the right time."

Over and over she told me this. Over and over I grew tired of it. It played in my head like one of those scratched up records on a turntable that had been overplayed. But, she was right.

Two months ago, I had an interview at a preschool. I took a tour of the school, met some of the students, and went through the painful interview. (OK, it's wasn't that painful.) I was nervous as can be and most likely showed during the interview. Afterwards I was able to observe one of the classrooms. I felt a sense of belonging.

A week passed...

Then a few more days...

I was so nervous I was about to peel like a steaming kettle. So, I contacted the preschool to express my interest and within hours I got a response. I was in the top three being considered for the position!

A few days passed...

Then a week...

And the wait went on...

My heart was set on getting the job. My deep feeling of certainty was omnipresent, rooted to the core. But as the wait continued I started to doubt. My certainty vanished. I was back on the computer searching for jobs and going into shops and asking if they were hiring for the holiday season. "Come back next month," was the most common response I got.

"The right thing will come at the right time," I heard my mom's voice in my head.

"Yes, Mom. I know!" I argued with the voice in my head.

She had said it to me so much I was beginning to tell myself that. I got tired of think of those words over and over. But, she was right.

(Don't you hate it when mothers are ALWAYS right?)

I waited a little over a month. And then I received a short email from the preschool. "There is an opening. Can you start Monday?"

It's not hard to guess what my answer was.

Nada

I received a phone call yesterday, one that I’d been anticipating since last week, and I was rejected from another possible job. I had high hopes, but still I felt that it wasn’t the one. So I diligently, continuously, and almost obsessively searched for jobs and applied to everything I thought I was qualified for, even if it seemed out of my range.

Still is discouraging...

Funny, these past two weeks I’ve been compelled to write on rainy days. The rain is falling hard, beating against the windows, the slick pavement and parked cars outside. A part of me feels like putting on my boots and scarf and dance around under my polka dot umbrella. That is the kid in me. The adult in me just imagines the idea, but continues to stay inside.

I remember splashing in puddles on seldom days it rained in my little desert town when I was a kid. Sometimes it would be nice to go back to those days, only sometimes.

Submitting My First Story

My step-mom (my other mother) cut out an article from one of her magazines. The glossy page was flat and new, barely handled. The first thing I do was read it. It was for a short story contest. R and my dad were talking which I had been a part of the conversation but was distancing myself from it because of my deep focus on the article. (It was nice to have R home after seven months of basic training.) A smile spread across my face. I smiled because my step-mom took the time to think of me and my writing. Her thoughtfulness really made me happy. Sometimes I don’t think about it, but people do believe in me. I was determined to write something for the contest.

I folded the glossy paper in half and placed it in my purse, where I knew where to find it. Throughout the course of the week, I took it out of my purse, read it, folded it back up and put it back in my purse. I carried it around with me wherever I went. The more I handled it the glossiness wore off and the page wrinkled, like a well loved teddy.

I went onto my computer many times and dabbled with some ideas. None of them spoke to me. I was looking for that WOW factor. Without that WOW factor, the story wasn’t right. But I wrote. I didn’t stop. Then I got fed up. I took breaks. I deleted paragraphs, pages even. I walked away completely. But I came back.

Then life decided to test me and the rest of the family. We’re tested every day, but sometimes life wants to throw a wrench into a running engine just to see if we’re paying attention. R and I were ready to move to Florida. Boxes were packed and the movers were coming that Friday.

Midweek, R and I woke up to plans for our first date in seven months. Our plans were put on hold when I saw my mom (the mother who gave me life) curled up in pain on her bed. She told us later that our faces were twisted with worry. We rushed her to the ER and she was admitted, X-rayed, and told she had a broken arm. It would be a week before an orthopedic doctor would “have the time” to do surgery on her arm. R had to leave the Monday after the movers came in order to make to Florida to report to the base on time.

R left as scheduled and I stayed for another week to help my mom. The numbing separation returned, but it would be a short one this time. My goodbyes were stretched out to another week and it made it harder on everyone. I saw how much my mom, dad, and step-mom really meant to me.

I drove for four days, from California to Florida, and at a stop I rummaged through my purse. I pulled out the folded piece of paper I’d reread so many times. It was more crumbled from the last time I saw it because it had been living at the bottom of my purse waiting to get some air. I unfolded it and smoothed out the creases. I traveled the rest of the way with ideas for a story.

When I arrived in Florida I spent the first week putting together the apartment, waiting for the movers, waiting for the cable guy, waiting… You know, this whole year had been a bunch of moments of waiting. I was used to waiting. I didn’t mind waiting some more.

R and I finally got settled. We finally went on our date, and plenty more. And finally I was able to sit down at my computer and write. The ideas I developed on my cross country trip were put into words. I spent several days just writing. I didn’t bother to edit at first. The words were raw and there were a plethora of errors. It took a few more weeks to edit. I got fed up. I took breaks. I walked away completely. I ignored it for a day or two. Yesterday, I came back to it. With a fresh mind, I worked on it, determined to turn it into a WOW factor.

By nighttime, I had finished. In addition to my editing, I sent my resume to at least six job postings. Then from the other room, R calls to me, “Log onto MSN.” I did. Then he sent me link after link of possible job offers. I was so happy that he scanned the ads with crisp eyes and found job offers that I had glazed over during my search that day. He believed in me.

R’s faith gave me the confidence I needed to submit my short story. I looked over the 3,484 words I had written, attached it to the e-mail and clicked SEND.

The story is out there ready to be looked over by a panel of judges, one of whom is a favorite author of mine. There is more waiting ahead. Patience, be my friend?

Even through all the wrinkles in life, good things can come out of them.

A Chance of Rain

Rainy day…

My thoughts scramble around with the ideas that I don’t have what it takes to I’m a confident, talented woman and I can do whatever I want. I’ve remained in the dark for so long that I’ve allowed myself to not really believe I can go for something I want. Whether it is in a social situation or looking ahead in my career, I’ve become a hermit too afraid to come out of her shell. For many things I’ve obtained that “can do” attitude, like finishing college. With that attitude I have proven to myself that I can work hard and that I have something special inside me.

One rejection after the other, I being to doubt and then doubt some more. Those countless no’s have blocked me from moving forward. Those who’ve told me no aren’t to blame. I’ve learned it would be wrong of me to blame others for what hasn’t happened for me-yet. I’m accountable. I’m accountable for being stuck in my tracks. I’m accountable for not believing. I’m accountable for not thriving.

I’ve taken some first steps these past few weeks. I’ve applied, applied, applied. Yes, it’s tiresome filling out your name, date, address, etc. repeatedly. My hand cramps from filling out paper applications. My eyes glaze over from applying to positions online. Yet, they are steps-my steps-to stepping out the front door of the apartment and facing the world.

I’ve taken further steps, interviewing. My first interview was a bomb. I went in dressed professionally, but my attitude repelled confidence. I carried on through the interview with sweaty palms and forehead. My voice was high and shaky, but I kept on going. Afterwards, I felt great! I was horrible, but I still felt like I accomplished something. That day was a rainy day, too, just like today.

My second interview went better. I faked a positive attitude. But, I noticed halfway through the interview that all my nerves had focused in on my hands. I noticed I still held a pen in my hands, the pen I had filled out the application with. My hands twirled the pen around and around. “How long have I been doing this,” I asked myself silently. I stopped and placed the pen in my lap, still keeping eye contact with the lady across from me. When it was over, I felt good! I could picture myself in the position. Again, I had doubts.

Just a few days ago, I had a third interview. (And now I’m thinking about that cliché. You know what I mean.) I drove to the town center. I had left early enough to arrive at the interview on time. I followed the directions I was given, but I got lost. The place was beautiful, but confusing. There were right turns and left turns. All the stores looked the same, trendy and petite. I blinked at all the white buildings that surrounded me, confused. A tear was about to spring from behind my eyeballs. I really didn’t want to miss a chance. I felt like giving up.

I drove around, listening to instinct. When I rely on instinct, it usually helps me out. When my brain said to turn left, I did. When my brain said to turn right, I did. When my brain said the store is on the left side of the street, it was. I read the sign above the store. I screamed, “Thank you!” Then I looked for a place to park. Every spot was taken. I looked at my clock inside the car. Five minutes to two o’clock. I had five minutes to find a spot to park and then haul my tail into the interview.

The only parking I found was several blocks away. I dashed across the parking lot in uncomfortable ballet-style shoes, rushed across the street, and power walked several blocks. I made it to the store. My hand reached for the handle on the glass door. For a split second I looked inside. The store was small, trendy, and welcoming. The walls were white with built in glass shelves and florescent lights illuminated the shoes that were on display. I opened the door and walked in. I greeted the sales associate and filled out an application. I really felt at home.

The interview was 100% better than the last two. I remembered how I used to interview for jobs during my time in school. Then, I was more optimistic and willing and developing my confidence. Now, I’ve let that confidence slip after hearing so many no’s. That day I dug for that confidence that was deep inside me and tired to hang unto it until the interview was over. Surprisingly, some of the confidence hung around afterwards.

I’m looking at this move as a way to reinvent myself… Wait, no. I’m looking at it as a way to improve myself. I guess there’s nothing wrong with the person that I am, although I think so at different times in my life. I just need to rebuild some of myself back up. How long will that take? I don’t know.

I do know that as I look outside at the rain, I find it cleansing. I hope some of this rain washes away some of my doubts and negativity.