You have to go back to go forward

Somehow I ended up reading the perfect book for where I find myself right now.  Val, a friend from college and a kindred soul when it comes to book affinities recommended Katherine Reay's books.  I ended up reading "Dear Mr. Knightley" first and, a mostly light-hearted read, I thought it was lovely.

When I opened "The Bronte Plot" and expected much the same thing...I have been startled by the heavy-ness and truth there.  It's where I need to be.

One of the main characters, an 85-year-old woman named Helen, keeps talking about how she needs to "Go back to move forward," visiting places from her past to be okay with what comes next in her life.

One section where she talks about her life hit me especially hard:
  I'm working on my choices.  There are things I have to lay down and others I need to embrace.  Right choices that are good--they hit your heart.  We are wired to know what they are and they make us solid.  We can stand on them.  And that's what I want, Lucy.  I want to stand firm.  I want my family to know me, and I'm not sure they really do.  I was so bold and daring and then somewhere along the way, I shrank.  I became frightened, and I hid behind rules and manners and other things that weren't true." ( The Bronte Plot, pp. 151). 

Going back to go forward....When people ask about my family roots, well, I talk a lot about how I moved around as a kid.  It's not untrue--born in London, England, spent a few years in Oklahoma and then my formative years (K-5th grade) in Toronto, Canada until my dad took a job as a professor in Illinois.

But those aren't "roots," really--are they?  I like to pass myself off as British and Canadian first (I love you peaceable, measured folk), but the core of who I am through the generations of the Hartleys and Davis clan is more midwestern and southern in sensibility.  We are somewhat emotional people--and most importantly, drawn to good storytelling with heart and a bit of heat.

But somewhere along the lines, that girl who took "Oral Interpretation" in college and got up on stage in musicals and poured her soul out through acting and singing?  She shrank.  My kids have never heard me sing outside of things like VBS or in church or at home.

I realized today as I read those lines that I'd started hiding somewhere along the lines--I told stories while I was a youth leader, in charge of kid-friendly worship and I really, truly miss that part of the job. I MISS telling stories and sharing songs and in the midst of watching my grandpa pass and drift away from afar, I'm ANXIOUS to get HOME to Arkansas.  I never thought I'd feel that way--drawn to the south, wanting to listen again to the family stories I hear there--even with Granny gone, what? 13 years now? My grandpa's mom's stories and the home she made and the family she drew us into somehow feels present in my memory long after she's been physically gone.  I want to see my second cousins and hopefully my cousins and my aunts and uncles and to sing those songs we know so well (church songs and silly songs my grandpa taught us)...

and those stories!  Stories I never lived but could probably tell after hearing them so many times---Granny smashing the moonshine jars, but telling Great Grandpa "It musta been a bad batch-they plum exploded!" and Grandma and the switch tree outside of church where my father, as a sort of rascally sort while young, would pick out a branch for her to use on his backside when he couldn't quite sit still through the service.  And the ones I DID live--Grandpa teaching me to play dominoes (I'm not sure I still understand that well, but it was a good excuse to play with him and granny, killing some time until we could open presents at Christmas), and hearing the Christmas story in his tenor voice.  Having Grandma and Paw Paw whisper in my ear about the goody drawer and where to find the Little Debbie snack cakes if we didn't see our favorites in the drawer (and this is where the rumors of "Debbie in the closet" began). Getting to know my way around Grandma and Paw-Paw's church well and touring the hospital where Grandpa was an administrator--usually in clothes that matched with whichever of my cousins were there with me.  And the trip to "Myrtle Beach!"

You have to go back to go forward--embrace those memories, good and sometimes not so good (hey, I wasn't the most emotionally stable teenager when my grandparents had me stay with them the summer before the move to Greenville.  I'm not proud of who I was, but they loved me through that) and let go of other things--like not being able to record Grandpa on video the summer of 2012 when I'd hoped and found that those lifetime memories had already left him. I have to let go of the regret that I'd waited until I'd finished my dissertation to try and get family stories and in waiting those years/months had missed the opportunity entirely.

And something stirs in me when it comes to storytelling.  My mom mentioned this weekend that "most of the great storytellers (in our family) are gone," but that somehow felt like...I don't know--like an art I was meant to pick up?  Something that had shrunk in me after college and after having kids...that doesn't mean it's gone.  It's something that, if I'm bold I think I can reclaim.  When the time comes to rally around family in Arkansas, I keep hoping that going back will also help pull me forward, and bring that back out in me again.

Stories don't have to be lost forever--but sometimes we have to go back to who we were earlier in our lives to go forward with those pieces again.

I think.  Maybe.  That's just what I'm feeling and thinking as I sort through what has been, what was lost and I want to reclaim, and hopefully what can be.

Re-framing my photos

I had a privilege of spending Mother's Day weekend with my parents and my kids.  Because they're within a couple of hours drive of us, we usually do day trips only and have shorter visits but as my husband and his parents were redoing our bathroom, I took the kids to see Marmee and Pere pere for a few days--and I took LOTS of photos.

I LOVED this one--It reminded me of one of the last photos I have with my mom's mom who passed when I was 7, where she, my sister and I were out on our swing set.  I showed it to my mom and her response was her usual "well, my hair is bad and my thighs are big but other than that, it's a good photo."

I'm not saying this to slam my mom but because I think it's something a LOT of us do--we critique our appearances in photos with a very keen eye.  I mean I'll admit that there probably aren't a lot of photos of me with my kids (partially because 90% of the time, I'm the one taking photos), but when I do my eyes go to similar places.  But this time it gave me pause because as I've realized that I'm growing to look more and more like my mom and I'm always told that my daughter looks like me. I heard what she was saying differently this time.

I thought, "how would I feel if I heard my daughter who is 1 1/2, voicing things like this about herself?"  And I stopped. I feel very strongly that my daughter is beautiful and amazing and, well, I'm her mom and it hurts to think that some day she might not see herself the way I do. And I realized something about my lack of body confidence and fears of not being liked--unless I changed the way I talked about myself in photos in front of my boys, my daughter, too, would pick this up.  And she would feel and talk this way about herself.

SO I decided to reframe everything--I can like a photo or not and can even voice how I feel about a photo because whether it's flattering or not says more about lighting or angles than the individual's form.  What's more important to consider isn't a critique of forms but how a photo makes you feel, or what you felt in that moment.  I love that photo and my mom because she's here, she loves her grandkids and playing with them and I see that reflected in this photo.

In an effort to work towards this "focus on how a photo makes you feel" approach, I also took a lot of pictures when I did a 5k with my son yesterday.  It was his first...and my first in a couple of years (I didn't do them while pregnant with my 3rd child or for awhile afterward due to energy and time).  I was proud.  I felt strong and happy and it was a beautiful day and being there with him to see him work through it was fun and encouraging.  It was encouraging to me, too, to  press on and remember that I'm capable of this as well.  So this may well be my new favorite "me"--not at peace with my body, but working towards it and definitely someone not afraid to take pictures and remember that in working towards health, I feel empowered and happy and like I can help my kids develop positive attitudes about being healthy and their bodies, too.

I'm challenging you to do the same--let's change the ways in which we talk about our photos and ourselves.  We're not sizes and forms to critique, but people at moments in time that can make us (and others) feel a myriad of  emotions worth remembering!