Introducing Annie True

Posted on 10/27/2011 by Jane Devin

I spent three hours at the Pima Animal Control Center visiting with dogs, both those newly arrived and on death row. There was an adorable lab mix puppy who seemed to instantly connect with me. There was an American Bulldog who was cute but very high energy, and a huge mixed breed mutt named Goliath who seemed like he’d need an acre or two of land to call his own.

Then there was Monster. The volunteer who led me to her thought she might be the kind of dog I was looking for — a dog that would be content with a quiet home life but who’d also enjoy road trips and outings to dog parks, coffee shops and other people’s homes. A dog who’d keep me company as I wrote my next book, who’d be content with 3-4 walks a day, but one that I could also trust on off-leash adventures.

Other than her lethargy, I don’t know why the volunteer thought that Monster was that kind of dog. She didn’t even get up when people walked by to look at her, or the two more exuberant dogs she was kenneled with. She was curled up in a sad red ball, as if waiting her turn to die. When the volunteer leashed her, she seemed reluctant to go outside.

I read her intake sheet. The people who surrendered her said that she was an outdoor dog who was let inside “never”. They listed her bad habits as digging, chewing and jumping the fence. They had nothing positive to say about her and were giving her up because they were being evicted. The volunteer told me that Monster had a brother whom she thought might have already been euthanized for being ill. The PACC doesn’t have the funds to treat dogs beyond a minimal level, she explained, and because they are so crowded dogs who are ill or who have been at the facility too long are euthanized unless there’s a rescue organization or individual willing to save them.

In the pen outside, Monster laid at my feet. That’s no name for a girl as pretty as you, I told her. She leaned into my ankles and closed her eyes. I held a treat in front of her nose and she ignored it — she didn’t seem to care about food, sunshine, the other dogs, or people. She just wanted to sleep and seemed to like it when I rubbed her head.

“I’d name her Annie if I took her,” I told the volunteer, “but I don’t know . . . maybe I should look at some other dogs.”

The volunteer nodded and put Annie back in her kennel, where she immediately resumed her fetal position. She tugged at my heart, but so did all my doubts. A two-year old dog that had never been indoors might be difficult to potty train. Her personality was buried under her illness — there was no way to know if she was docile or aggressive. She could be depressed because of her situation or she could be gravely ill. A dog who spent the whole of her life outdoors could have all kinds of diseases. Diseases that could cost a lot of money or result in death.

I walked a few doors down from Annie and found Sasha. The Shepherd mix at PACC is everything anyone would want in a dog. Balanced, playful, sweet and with such an interest in treats and people that I imagine she could be trained to do almost anything. I played with Sasha for a good twenty minutes and probably had as much fun as she did.

“Well, what do you think?” the patient volunteer asked.

“Sasha’s such a great dog,” I told her. “I imagine she’ll have no problem getting adopted. Annie, on the other hand . . .”

“Sasha’s one of our favorite dogs, too. In fact, there’s a volunteer here who loves her so much, he keeps threatening to bring her home although he’s already got four. If she’s the dog for you, don’t worry about Annie . . . someone will rescue her, I’m sure.”

I looked at the sad red lump in the kennel and wasn’t as confident. In fact, I was sure that as sick as she was, she’d follow her brother into a fatal ending. Suddenly, I couldn’t let that happen.

“I’ll take her,” I told the volunteer. “Annie’s the dog for me.”

Another volunteer took over and told me I couldn’t take Annie home until she’d been spayed. Although her paperwork said she was already altered, he thought that was a mistake. She’d be taken to the clinic the next morning and I could pick her up at 4:00 in the afternoon. I expressed concern about her being operated on while sick, but was told she’d be given a check-up before the surgery.

A little after ten the next morning, one of the vet techs from PACC called to tell me that Annie was verified to have been previously spayed but was, indeed, quite ill. Outside of worms, they didn’t know what was wrong with her, but if I wanted a refund or to come get another dog, they’d let me do that.

“She’s my dog,” I said, more possessively than I intended. “No, I don’t want a refund.”

“Well, then you have to agree to take her to a vet and get her treated within 72 hours at your own expense. You’ll assume all liability for her illness.”

“Yes, I’ll do that. When can I pick her up?”

Three hours later, I was at the clinic with a new red leash and collar in hand, and an emergency appointment scheduled with Annie’s new vet. Annie sheepishly met me, her head down and her tail between her legs. I had to lift her 57 pound body into the car, but once she was inside she seemed to relax. She even stuck her head out of the window for a time on the way to the animal hospital. We arrived a full half-hour early for our appointment. Annie wanted to greet a puppy that was in the waiting room, but since she was sick, we were sequestered in an office to wait our turn. Annie plopped down on the floor and barely moved while we waited. As I was petting her, I felt a lump on her shoulder. It was a big, fat tick. I used two tongue depressors and an alcohol soaked cotton ball to remove it and then checked her entire body for others. While the volunteers at the shelter had cut a lot of mats off Annie, she really needs to be shaved in areas — whoever had her before didn’t brush or groom her and the mats are thick. Luckily, though, I didn’t find any other bloodsuckers.

Annie True was diagnosed with kennel cough, coccidian worms, and probable giardia. When the meds she’s on have had a chance to do their work and she’s a little less ill, hopefully this coming week, she’ll be tested for Lyme, heartworm and other diseases.

Right now, she’s a very sick girl, but she’s lying on the bed I made for her and seemingly comfortable. She’s drinking water and eating food and although she’s come back from our two short, slow walks exhausted, she did walk. She seems hesitant to do her business while on a leash, but she did finally go. And she takes her meds like a champ.

It’s hard to guess what kind of dog Annie will be when she feels better — I’m just hoping she does get better. It’s heartbreaking to watch her like this . . . with no interest in anything other than sleeping and being petted. I’m looking forward to the day she’ll show me who she is. Will she be a tennis ball catcher? A dog park lover? An oversized lap dog? Will she be eager or slow to learn? Will she like being groomed? I have no idea.

All I know is that tonight I’m very grateful that she’s here in my living room, looking very much at home, and hopefully on the road to recovery.

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Skin & Soul

Posted on 10/24/2011 by Jane Devin

I catch sight of myself in a mirror on a Sunday morning, with dark circles under my eyes and my hair a mess of untamed waves. My naked face, with its freckles, crow feet and laugh lines, doesn’t look at all like I remember it — I’ve got fine hairs on my cheeks and when I smile, my eyes crinkle. There’s a scar and three skin tags on my neck.

When I brush my teeth, the two lines between my brows furrow. When I wash my hands I notice that they are as strong and square as ever, but the veins are more prominent and the skin is looser.

Naked in front of the mirror, I am sundark, timescarred and agesoft. I am a woman of Skin and Soul. Skin/soul. Skinsoul.

I am a dichotomy of memory and being. I am the sharp collar bones, long rows of ribs, and jutting hips of my youth. I am also the full breasts, protruding belly and thick thighs of womanhood.

I am nineteen on the inside, nearing fifty on the outside, and most days I don’t feel a minute over 25 except in experience.

It’s a sweet trick my soul plays: A sleight of years, a vanishing decade or two or three. You will go on, my soul says to me, feeling young and often innocent. You will keep dreaming the biggest of dreams and believing in the most fantastic things, because you are my child and you will always be younger than me.

Skin, though, refuses the heady smoke of the soul and faces the mirror head-on. It wants to be recognized for its long history of accommodation. For the many times it has been stretched around the twin swells of pain and joy, and been pushed to its limits by circumstance and choice. For the thousands of hopes and burdens it has carried — the stillborn dreams it has grieved and the living ones it has nurtured — for all that it has raised up, clung to, chased after, let go of and run away from, skin wants to be acknowledged. For all the joys it has housed, the secrets and fantasies it has harbored, and all the loved ones it has sheltered like a protective mother, skin wants to be honored.

Skin says remember. These age marks and accidental scars, these generous arms, thick hips and wide feet have lived through the experiences that helped create soul.

Skin carries the handprints of rage and violence as well as the fingerprints of tenderness and affection. It is layered in sensate memories of love and cruelty, vulnerability and passion, beautiful wants, desperate needs, and thousands of human-to-human connections.

Skin has been warmed by lovers who have been accepting of its faults — who found solace in its uneven planes, tender breasts and soft belly — who have kissed the calloused palms that caressed their faces, rested their heads on the slopes of weary shoulders, or settled into the open arms that held them while they slept.

Skin has offered up comfort to children, friends, and even strangers. It has been a sanctuary and a blessing and, on occasion, a prison and a curse. It’s been shunned, starved and humbled. Sought out, desired and lusted after. It’s been burnt, cut, scraped — but it’s also been healed, bathed and cherished. It has forgiven everything but time and forgotten nothing except, on occasion, its own limits.

The soul and skin together hold all the stories of the human world — stories, that if laid out feeling by feeling, touch by touch, word by word, could fill the bookshelves of heaven and hell and all the spaces in-between.

The skin-soul of the heart has been filled up and deflated so many times that it’s become a thing of lightness, a blood red cloud hanging in a colorful sunset to be lit or cooled as it pleases, shifting as it needs to either bask in the waning sun or seek refuge behind the mountains.

I am not the woman I ever imagined I’d be, but now that I’m here, face to face with a mirror on a Sunday morning, feeling both old and young, wise and naïve, experienced and innocent, I think this must have been the plan all along. To be not too much of one thing or the other — to neither fly too high or be grounded too long, but to give equal time to both body and spirit. To dream as well as to do. To learn to live skinsoul instead of skin/soul.

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Love, Purpose, Openness & the Lessons I’m Learning.

Posted on 10/15/2011 by Jane Devin

I loved you on purpose. I was open on purpose. – Ntozake Shange

Sometimes it feels like I have pocketfuls and pocketfuls of love, but nowhere to spend more than a penny or nickel of it at a time. As a currency, my love has always fallen short. I am a pauper. . .holding out an abundance of spare change—an embarrassment of coins—in a world of clean, crisp checks torn from a book I’ve never owned. – Excerpt from Elephant Girl

Could it have finally happened?

Have I have learned to love myself on purpose? To be open with myself and others on purpose, without fearing failure? To spend my pocketfuls of love wisely instead of tossing all my coins into a murky wishing well?

A few months ago, I surprised myself with the realization that, even though my life is as unsettled and uncertain as its ever been, I haven’t felt unhappy for quite a long time — not in a way that diminishes my sense of self or that shakes the foundational core of who I am — not in any significant way.

This revelation was surprising to me because the past two years have been filled with new challenges and life experiences, including a few that were painful, and that caused me to question my most deeply held beliefs about love, loyalty and relationships. There was a time that I nurtured, breathed, imagined and exalted those beliefs. I held onto them as if they were sacred ideals that would somehow, one day, tangibly fill a vacancy.

I cherished those beliefs and still do in some ways, but the difference between now and then is that beliefs aren’t all I have. The wide gap that once existed between my reality and my beliefs has narrowed considerably. I’m living the life I want to live, even if it’s sometimes difficult. Like children that have grown up and left home, wishes aren’t my sole focus anymore — I carry them in my heart, but they’re no longer my biggest reason for getting up in the morning. I’m excited about possibilities now — things that stand a chance of becoming real.

I’ve grown in the last two years, in the last few months, and even in the past few weeks. It seems I’m on a path of quick turns, slow transformations and gradual realizations. I’ve made some life-altering personal changes — too many to recount here (and reason enough to write another book) — and the ones that have come the hardest have also been the most gratifying. Here are three of them:

I’ve Let Go of My Expectations of Other People.

For years, I wasn’t secure about anything in my life. I never knew what tomorrow would bring and had great, big fears that my carefully patched together world would unravel at any minute. I think this is the reason I held tight to my expectations of other people. I felt like I needed some sort of anchor — something I could count on — and if it couldn’t be a stable home, a paycheck, or even my own life, then it had to be other people. I expected friends, family and even acquaintances to share my beliefs about loyalty, love, truth, respect and consideration. If they did, then I felt valued as a person. If they didn’t, then I felt defeated in a very personal way — as if I’d been betrayed or totally disregarded.

There’s no question that people can act poorly and be hurtful, sometimes in surprising ways. In the last year alone, I’ve been lied to and about, been the target of someone else’s need for internet drama and had someone I deeply care about show me how very little they cared about me. At one time, these hurts would have consumed me. My fragile sense of security with other people would have felt broken. And all that was truly good in my life — all those people that had shown love and support — along with all of my bright moments and achievements — would have faded into some distant background.

I can’t pinpoint the exact moment of change because the process was gradual, but my expectations of other people no longer exist on a grand, all-or-nothing, thought-consuming scale. If someone acts in a poor, dishonest, or unloving way, I no longer consider it a reflection of my own worth. If someone lies to or about me, I don’t wonder what it is that I have done to make them uncomfortable with telling the truth. If someone is disloyal, I don’t internalize it to mean that I failed to do something to engender their support. In other words, I stopped thinking that the choices other people make are really about me. They’re not — even when they think they are, they’re not. Character is character, caring is caring, and love is love. How other people choose to act, think and express themselves has everything to do with their own spirits, and not a thing to do with mine. It’s a lesson that took me 49 years to learn, but I’m finally free from the self-made burden of having my sense of personal value or security hinge on people’s actions or approval.

I’m Speaking My Heart & Then Consciously Moving On.

I used to debate interpersonal issues and argue for my beliefs — a lot. I’ve always been a very passionate person, especially where it concerns fairness, relationships, love, social structures, empathy, thought processes, politics — well, everything really. And it all felt so very important to me that I not only wanted to share my beliefs, but also to convince others that hey, I’ve given this considerable thought. . .and this is why you should agree with me.

The passion that has served me well in writing has worked against my personal relationships. While I’m very fortunate to have close friends who love me despite my occasional philosophical outbursts (or rants if you prefer), when it comes to the rest of the world I’ve realized that trying to change someone else’s already made-up mind serves no higher purpose: it’s simply an exercise in frustration and futility.

I’ve learned to speak my heart, share my feelings, and then consciously move on. It feels good now to say whatever is on my mind — to release my thoughts and emotions — and then choose not to dwell on the matter. After all, I know my passions inside and out. I know why I feel the things I do. I know how I’ve reached whatever thoughts I have. As I’ve become more self-aware and confident, it’s become less important to debate with others. I am who I am because of my own life, spirit and experiences and others are who they are because of theirs. Live and let live. It seems we all learn what we need to learn, when we want to learn it, and not before.

I’m Setting Boundaries & Realizing That Being an Open Book Doesn’t Mean Being Open to Everybody.

I’ve made some really bad decisions in my life, but I don’t think that being open about my life is one of them. As a blogger and writer, I’ve put the worst of myself out there as well as the best. I keep the book of my life open for the most part, because I believe that keeping secrets adds to a sense of shame. So I’m gay and out of the closet. I’m fallible and talk about my many mistakes. I’m a woman who’s had a lot of experiences and when I feel compelled to write about them, I do.

There’s a difference though between putting the stories of my life out there for public consumption and letting myself be daunted by the criticisms and beliefs of other people. For the most part, writing has been an affirmative experience for me. I have the privilege (often sacred) of hearing personal stories from other people, particularly women, who resonated with my work in some way. I am humbled nearly every day by my interactions with readers, some of whom have become good friends.

It wasn’t always this way. As in other areas of my life, whenever something “bad” thing happened with my writing, it overwhelmed the good. I used to pretty much cower when I was hit with harsh judgments or hurtful perceptions about my writing. My tendency was to absorb criticism rather than to consider its meaning and source. If someone told me I was a lousy writer or human being, part of me believed them.

In the past couple of years, though, I’ve come to realize that the most wounding critics are those who don’t really read my stories (or other writer’s stories) at all. Maybe I was naïve, but I never knew that there were people who read articles on domestic violence just so they can tell women that they brought it on themselves with their poor choices. Or who seek out posts on poverty so they can rail against the laziness of the poor. Or who troll the internet for stories about obesity just so they can tell overweight people how gross and undisciplined they are. Instead of reading for understanding or knowledge, the wounding critics search in-between an author’s lines to find something to bolster their own preconceived beliefs and sense of superiority. If someone’s in pain they must have a victim mentality; if someone is sad or grieving, it’s because they don’t have the right attitude; if someone is sick it’s because they didn’t take care of themselves. All of which provides the wounding critics with a narcissistic ego boost that’s meant to convince themselves that they’ve done a better job at life than other people.

I realized I turned a corner in the way I view criticism when a reader of Elephant Girl wrote me to tell me that I’d gotten it all wrong. She was raped by a family friend when she was 15 and didn’t turn promiscuous like I did. She also found all sorts of support for healing when she screwed up her courage and told her dad about the rape. “Your book sends the wrong message to other survivors,” she reprimanded. At first, I didn’t know how to respond. The account of my rapes is factual — they occurred decades ago and I was a child — and the past is already done. Even if I could rewrite my history, I wouldn’t do it just to make other people feel better, or to make them like me more as a person or an author. Elephant Girl is my story and I own everything in it, even the ugly and uncomfortable parts. Other people’s stories, thoughts and experiences are their own.

I finally wrote the woman back. “Tell your story,” I encouraged her. “There’s room in the world for all experiences, including yours and including mine.” And with that, I was done. I didn’t dwell. I didn’t absorb her words, take them to heart, or feel like I had to apologize for her disappointment.

I’ve learned that being an open book doesn’t mean I have to be open to every judgment, perception, or criticism. It took me all these years to finally “get it” but this basic lesson has taken root. Take whatever is valuable, meaningful, and well-intended and leave the rest behind.

Much of my life has felt like a game of roulette. I’d bet on as many people and situations as I could afford and wait to get lucky. I’d give my heart, love, efforts and even possessions to anybody who expressed an interest in them and hoped that I’d win loyalty, love and care in return. I’d throw all of my chips into a game of chance and pray that at least one would hit the right number.

I’ve learned that the best odds of being happy don’t come by way of accident or luck, but by having a clear and strong sense of purpose. It’s late in the game, but I’m beginning to see the value of my own life and spirit, instead of relying on the words and actions of others to tell me what I’m worth. By loving myself on purpose, with a fully conscious mind, I can love others on purpose, with reason and intent, instead of haphazardly or by chance. I can love more fully, more openly, and with more just cause.

By choosing to be open with myself and others on purpose — instead of by accident, impulse or passion— I’m less likely to feel stung by hurt, rejection, or misunderstandings.

I’m owning my own life, bright and dark, triumphs and mistakes, scars and beauty. I refuse to be a pauper anymore.

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A Beautiful, Scary, Uplifting and Uncertain Time

Posted on 09/23/2011 by Jane Devin

It’s an unsettled time. A beautiful, scary, uplifting, hungry and uncertain time. – September 21, 2011 Journal Entry

“Can you do addition?” the White Queen asked. “What’s one and one and one and one and one and one and one and one and one and one?”

“I don’t know,” said Alice. “I lost count.

* * *

The correct answer to the White Queen’s question is ten, but like Alice I often lose count. Of numbers, time, and time between posts. My blogging has been sporadic lately. There’s just been a lot going on — as many as six impossible things before breakfast — but I’m hopeful that all my work and worry now will eventually have a happy ending. In the meantime, there’s:

Faith & Belief. 80 people made my Kickstarter publicity campaign for Elephant Girl a success. 40 people have left reviews on Amazon. Several readers have sent me personal messages letting me know that my story was also theirs in some way, or moved them, or made them see something in a different light. None of this makes me feel proud or redeemed. I feel, instead, incredibly humbled and slightly overwhelmed by the sense of unity. I’ve walked alone most of my life. Someone told me last year that I should be used to it. I never did get used to it. I had just reconciled myself to a certain amount of solitude and “blamed” it on being different — on being a writer, on circumstances, on being me. To have this level of support now, at 49 years old, feels like the gift of belief. I am believing in myself more because other people have expressed their faith in me and I am determined not to let them down.

Imperfect Focus. My lease ends in 6.5 days. I have no idea where I’m going next. I had hoped to have a car by now, but it doesn’t look like that’s going to work out this month. I’m scrambling for quick solutions while at the same time really wanting some kind of longer-term security. With the support of friends, I put everything I had into writing this book and getting it published, and I don’t regret one minute of it, but its time now to come up with a more sustainable plan for the future. In the meantime, I’m filling up spreadsheets with the names of newspaper editors and book reviewers. I’m scouting out printers who can get my book into brick and mortar stores. I’ve begun my own, somewhat scattered process of outlining my next book which will be, I think, different than anything I’ve ever written before.

A Want of Space & Balance. I want to write until I’m exhausted and fall asleep in my clothes, or until I notice the world has suddenly changed color and I’ve stayed up to greet the morning sun. That time isn’t here yet. I’m not in the right space, physically or emotionally. My anxiety level is high and my paragraphs are full of stutters and distractions. I write drafts and throw them away, sometimes embarrassed by how much effort I put into stories that end up in the trash. I miss in-person friends and human-to-human companionship, but I also know I do my best work when I’m alone. One day, I hope it’s possible that I have not only a “room of my own” but also the balance I seek.

Hope & Doubt. I have a long way to go and reasons to be both excited and discouraged. Janis Ian, one of my favorite musicians, (a few lines from her song “Lover’s Lullaby” are excerpted in Elephant Girl), took the time to write me a note and say my story was beautiful. (She could have said it was brown paper plain and I would still be grateful she took the time to read and respond. What a gracious artist and woman). Sheri Salata allowed me to send her a copy. A film agent in L.A. has promised to read the paperback as soon as she can. On the other hand, some reviewers, online and off, won’t even consider a self-published book. Due to the subject matter of Elephant Girl (poverty, child abuse, single parenthood, Aspergers and more) it’s going to be difficult to find corporate sponsors for a book tour to visit indie bookstores and social media clubs.

Reminders That It’s Not Just About Me. Like many people, I find it easy to get wrapped up in my own life and challenges. And sometimes, just when it’s needed, something comes along to alleviate my myopia. This past week, it was watching a small group of internet thugs unjustifiably attack Mark Horvath, founder of InvisiblePeople.tv, his supporters and his sponsors. I wrote this article about the “I Can Do Betters” who don’t really seek to do better at all, but merely wish to hurt those they feel have gotten too successful or who have gained too much attention for their hard work and efforts. I encourage you to read the post and the comments. I’ve been attacked online before. It’s hurtful and frustrating. I’ve learned: There’s no arguing reasonably with unreasonable people who are determined to find fault in everything you say or do. It’s just a fact of living life openly and somewhat publicly that some people aren’t going to like you, but a campaign of personal destruction, replete with fake accounts created to spread misinformation, is particularly ugly. Mark spends his days and nights serving those most disenfranchised by society. He has worked tirelessly to bring awareness to the plight of homelessness and to give visibility to those society has left behind. In the name of goodness, and of countering hostility with support, I’d like my readers to think about helping Mark and his InvisiblePeople.tv mission here or here. I will do the same. In October, I will choose a week when all proceeds from the sale of Elephant Girl will go towards Mark’s continuing mission. Stay tuned for more information.

Strength, Trust & Feelings. I know what it’s like to move forward even when somewhat tied by circumstance. To push and scrape even when it all feels impossible. I know how to recover my spirit when it has been crushed. To pray my way into a sense of well-being. To write my way out of despair and into the best of possibilities. I know all of this, yet it’s never made me feel particularly happy. There are times I just don’t want to have to be strong, or work against the odds, or try to heal something. Times that I’d just like shed my well-worn muscles and expose all that’s vulnerable— to fall and know that someone is there to catch me. The older I get, the more urgent this need feels. . .which makes me afraid of getting old. More than that, it makes me think of how many elderly people are homeless and hungry, with no loving family and no where to go. It bears repeating. These are among the people covered by and helped by the friends and supporters of InvisiblePeople.tv, both in the United States and Canada. Please go watch the stories as told by the homeless themselves, be moved, and consider doing what you can to help.

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Our House. Two Dogs, A Sunday Paper & Thumbtacks

Posted on 09/13/2011 by Jane Devin

Our house is a very, very fine house. With two cats in the yard, life used to be so hard, now everything is easy because of you. – “Our House” 1970 – Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young

I was about eight years old when the song Our House hit the airwaves. It was a song that promised tranquility, love and happiness and I glommed onto it like a prayer. As the years went by, I rebuilt the lyrical fine house with my own visions. The cats became dogs. Instead of flowers in a vase, there was colorful fruit in a wooden bowl. And of course, it was near an ocean.

When I was in Key West last year, I found a small, yellow house that struck me as being just the sort of cozy home I’d envisioned for the past 40 years. I paused across the street from it and let my imagination drift past the patio and into the front door – the color of which is the only thing I might have changed, from seashell pink to cloud white.

The first room I stepped into was the living room, where sky blue pillows rested on a soft, rainy day gray couch. The dark wood of the floor was like the earth, covered in the center with a wave of ocean-colored carpet. A muted seascape, sea foam green with hints of blue and silver, hung above the fireplace, while another wall held a shadow-box map of the world, with red thumbtacks marking all the places I’d been, and green for the places I’d yet to visit.

In the dining room, a bowl of apples and pomegranates sat upon a cherry wood table, where a Sunday morning paper waited to be read. While the sun was streaming lightly through open windows and a slight breeze was billowing white curtains, fresh Kona coffee brewed in the kitchen. A cupboard was open, ready for the hands that would take out thick blue coffee mugs and breakfast plates. On the wall to the right of the gas-lit stove, there was a corkboard, where handwritten recipes, notes and grocery lists were tacked with cheerfully colored pins.

Down the hall, past the bedroom with its four-poster bed and thick down comforter, was my small writing room. In the center, there was a mahogany desk with an amber lamp on one side and a filigreed silver box on the other, containing pens collected on my travels. The white walls were made colorful with art, most of it painted or drawn by friends — a watercolor by Kaitlyn, a pen & ink drawing by Suzen, a collage by Tasmi — and on the left wall, aligned with my desk, another corkboard filled with notes, some written on paper napkins, others on index cards or scraps of paper.

A sanctuary of skin & mutuality…a love of hope.
The 7 words that changed me.
4248 and other strange commonalities.

Dozens of notes overlapped one another, some sharing the same thumbtack, some buried under others. There were sparks of thought ignited in cars and coffee shops — feelings that surfaced while half-dreaming under white sheets or a blue beach awning — small epiphanies had while engaged in work or conversation.

Standing in front of the little yellow house, I let my mind wander. I dared to dream of a home that was full of love and belonging. Although weathered by age and jaded by 40 years of experience, I was suddenly eight years old again on this street in Key West, praying for a happy ending, and choosing to believe that nothing, ever, is impossible.

Come to me now, and rest your head for just five minutes
everything is good
Such a cozy room…
the windows are illuminated
by the sunshine through them
Fiery gems for you
only for you…

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Maybe Someday, Baby

Posted on 09/09/2011 by Jane Devin

In desperation, we scrambled to make it to bus stops, factory doors, and daycare centers. We carried our heavy loads, balancing children on our hips, and tried to forget there was a time when we would have stopped to pray for, or at least consider, the lives of those less fortunate.

We lost many things on our journey. School pictures, cherished albums, love letters tied in teenage yarn. We had no place to store the proof of our memories, so we left them roadside, along with our burned-out cars, or gave them away like we did the bright, youthful clothes we no longer had occasion to wear.

We traded dreams for practicalities and tucked our stubborn hopes away in empty pockets. Our skin grew pale as we traded iron for baby food and protein for something that was 10-for-a-dollar. In parking lots, the women with their late-model key chains and freshly styled hair scurried to move their children away from ours, as if poverty, with its day-old bread and generic boxes of rice cereal, was catching.

We shielded our children from glaring or sympathetic eyes and, with never-enough guilt twisting in our stomachs, somehow always managed to find an extra dime for the gumball machine or a quarter for the merry-go-round outside. At night, as they rested in the crooks of our arms, we read our children fantastical stories of faith and transformation: ugly ducklings that turned into swans and earnest frogs that became princes. Wanting to believe in miracles ourselves, we read with animation, perfecting the voices of wicked witches and wise fairy godmothers. It’s never too late, we taught them, to become the person you were meant to be. At the same time, we feared our own lives were cautionary tales with no assured ending. We knew that hope without any real, tangible possibility was futility. We prayed that it would be different for them — that the things that had proven impossible for us would not be our children’s curse to bear.

We taught them to read and write, and drilled them on spelling, numbers and songs so that when they went to school with the sons and daughters of the women with the late-model key chains, they would not feel the weight of their hand-me-down clothes or five-dollar shoes, but take pride in their achievements.

Under a set of fluorescent lights or out in the elements, doing tedious work that required no special skills except the labor of our hands or the strength of our backs, we tried to grow numb, thinking that if we could sever the nerves that attached emotion to circumstance, we might not feel the depth of our own despair. We might not feel the empty space left behind by lost potential, or the oppressive pain of not being fully alive — of being nothing more in the working world than a nine-digit number with 10 expendable working fingers or a strong, replaceable spine.

Yet, we knew the feeling of half-dead wasn’t dead at all. It was only a shrunken, dried-up sponge of emotions waiting for the next disaster, reflective hour, or inescapable conclusion to burst its cells open and overflow. At unexpected times, while in the middle of work or staring out of a bus window, we often found our eyes watering with the pressure of a spirit looking to find its way back in — to be heard, acknowledged and perhaps even nurtured.

And when our children asked questions about the future, all we could tell them is the same thing we told our spirits. Maybe Someday, Baby.

Maybe someday the cupboards will be full.

The night will not be frightening.

We’ll find a car that runs.

Our hopes will turn into possibilities &

the ugly duckling will turn into a swan.

It is also what we told ourselves in the hours we were alone, when we were not only resourceful mothers or strong-spined workers, but women with soul-needs of our own. We told ourselves that everything that we never had or that we lost along the way would be found or rediscovered. That there would be new pictures to frame and set upon a mantle — a future full of love letters, ticket stubs and pressed flowers to revisit on a sentimental winter’s day — and a little black dress with no practical purpose to hang in our closet.

Maybe someday, baby, we promised ourselves

There won’t be as much to fear.

The panic will subside.

We’ll pick up the guitar or paintbrush again &

walk barefoot along an ocean shore.

Maybe someday, baby, we’ll find love.

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