Where Am I Going and How Did I Get Here
This evening, as I drove my three-year-old son through the park, I had a flashback to previous stretch of my journey -- this thing called life. We had deviated from the usual, looking for a new and more exciting playground, a different slipper side and shade. It's July in St. Louis, unbearable heat and wringing wet. This park is a jewel in the summer with mature trees that provide at least a 10 degree shade cover from the sun.
Driving to the playground, we passed a park bench that used to be a favorite. I spent many hours on that bench during many seasons, writing bad poetry, desperate prayers and musing about my hopes and dreams. Back then, I lived in a shotgun apartment only a few blocks away; an apartment that was infested with roaches but CHEAP. My rent was only $325/month, perfect for a single girl trying to make it on her own for the first time. The apartment was gross but I did everything I could to make it home. I covered the 1970's wallpaper with cheerful white and yellow stripe and hung bright curtains. If I was going to live there, it would be home and I would make the most of it. I would leave each weekend and spray bug bombs until the roaches realized I was serious and moved in with my neighbor two houses down, the tree hugger guy with dirty dreads and an apparent distaste for soap.
This is the park where I shot looks of disgust at the many wedding parties I would see (only months after my own divorce), where I accidentally attended my first Gay Pride parade (an enlightening education for a girl who only thought she was sophisticated) and where I was reunited with my beloved lab, Shadow, after she ran away during a storm.
For a tiny moment, I wanted to turn back the clock and sit on my bench with a journal made of paper instead of a computer, and a smooth pen, and write my hopes and my dreams. Just a moment to be in a younger, more fit body. Just a sliver of time to myself, that would be it. But then the tiny voice in the backseat shook me back to the present, "Where are we going Mommy?"
Oh, yes! Those dreams that I hoped for, sitting on that bench those many years ago, I am living them now. The invisible husband that I used to pray for, because I know that the Lord knew who he was, even though I didn't, now has a face and a name. And the child, the one who was only a faceless sliver outline in my dreams, he is mine now. His skin is creamy caramel latte and his hair, curly. When I watch him play, it get to see a glimpse of the past and remember what it was like to be innocent, when my only responsibility was to play and learn to navigate my way through the world.
It wasn't a glamorous life. I was more a Romona the Pest than a Shirley Temple but that didn't stop me from dreaming of being amazing. If only I had the right pair of shoes, that would be all I would need to transform me. What girls doesn't have the Cinderella dream? When I wore the go-go boots from the hand-me-down bag or the pink ballet shoes that I found in the dumpster behind the school, I was transformed because the shoes made the girl. If I sat on top my tree house fort and sang "Over the Rainbow" loudly and long enough, someone would inevitably drive by and discover me.
I am still a little more Ramona the Pest (or maybe today, Penny Marshall) than Shirley Temple or Mrs. Fields of mall cookie fame. But one thing is still certain -- the shoes DO make the woman. I have walked many miles in those drop dead hussy shoes, and sometimes running shoes, and today, sensible mommy shoes. And I guess that's how I got here -- one step at a time.
Driving to the playground, we passed a park bench that used to be a favorite. I spent many hours on that bench during many seasons, writing bad poetry, desperate prayers and musing about my hopes and dreams. Back then, I lived in a shotgun apartment only a few blocks away; an apartment that was infested with roaches but CHEAP. My rent was only $325/month, perfect for a single girl trying to make it on her own for the first time. The apartment was gross but I did everything I could to make it home. I covered the 1970's wallpaper with cheerful white and yellow stripe and hung bright curtains. If I was going to live there, it would be home and I would make the most of it. I would leave each weekend and spray bug bombs until the roaches realized I was serious and moved in with my neighbor two houses down, the tree hugger guy with dirty dreads and an apparent distaste for soap.
This is the park where I shot looks of disgust at the many wedding parties I would see (only months after my own divorce), where I accidentally attended my first Gay Pride parade (an enlightening education for a girl who only thought she was sophisticated) and where I was reunited with my beloved lab, Shadow, after she ran away during a storm.
For a tiny moment, I wanted to turn back the clock and sit on my bench with a journal made of paper instead of a computer, and a smooth pen, and write my hopes and my dreams. Just a moment to be in a younger, more fit body. Just a sliver of time to myself, that would be it. But then the tiny voice in the backseat shook me back to the present, "Where are we going Mommy?"
Oh, yes! Those dreams that I hoped for, sitting on that bench those many years ago, I am living them now. The invisible husband that I used to pray for, because I know that the Lord knew who he was, even though I didn't, now has a face and a name. And the child, the one who was only a faceless sliver outline in my dreams, he is mine now. His skin is creamy caramel latte and his hair, curly. When I watch him play, it get to see a glimpse of the past and remember what it was like to be innocent, when my only responsibility was to play and learn to navigate my way through the world.
It wasn't a glamorous life. I was more a Romona the Pest than a Shirley Temple but that didn't stop me from dreaming of being amazing. If only I had the right pair of shoes, that would be all I would need to transform me. What girls doesn't have the Cinderella dream? When I wore the go-go boots from the hand-me-down bag or the pink ballet shoes that I found in the dumpster behind the school, I was transformed because the shoes made the girl. If I sat on top my tree house fort and sang "Over the Rainbow" loudly and long enough, someone would inevitably drive by and discover me.
I am still a little more Ramona the Pest (or maybe today, Penny Marshall) than Shirley Temple or Mrs. Fields of mall cookie fame. But one thing is still certain -- the shoes DO make the woman. I have walked many miles in those drop dead hussy shoes, and sometimes running shoes, and today, sensible mommy shoes. And I guess that's how I got here -- one step at a time.
Ah, Marianne. I am grateful that I got to walk some of those steps with you.
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