A Thousand Words — And Then Some

It's not our intention to only post on holidays, despite the fact that the merry-merry header went up today, and we haven't been heard from since 'round Halloween.

Really.

No. It's simply that we've been speechless. 

Really. 

There is much truth to the the cliche "a picture's worth a thousand words," because I have been trying to come up with the proper ones to accompany the following images since November 1. Yes, All Saints Day, another day of observation, and from 2010 on here in Halfglassistan, Mr. J. Celebration Day, as well.

The images that follow are posted in no particular order, have not been edited, altered or enhanced in any way, and are all ©2011 caryn bowen/halfglassistan. The only common denominator, to me, is that they make my heart swell every time I look at them. But every time — every time — I see something different and different words and ideas come to mind. And none of them seem worthy of what my eyes see and my heart feels.

So I'm just going to stay out of the conversation and let them speak to you, too.

I hope as many — or more— words came to you, too.

Up, Up and Away ...

"This one's for you, Uncle Jamie ..." - Caryn Conley Bowen
©2010 cliff bowen/halfglassistan

Sometimes truth just happens. It just happens and can be a beautiful accident. And it just sucks at the same time.


This unprompted photo of my nephew J.C. was taken last year on Halloween night in Atlanta. His mama, my baby sister Caryn, was 300-something miles away in South Carolina, fielding phone calls, fetching fast food, giving Nurse Tilly much needed breaks and — along with my big sister, Chrisie — basically making sure whatever was happening around me just happened. If without my knowing, at least without my worrying about it. Because in less than 24 hours, Mr. J would be — I choose to think — in the heavens where the above almost-two-years-old John Conley Bowen is looking. And, it must be noted, saluting with a Tootsie Pop, my favorite simile for describing Mr. J's personality. Hard outside. Soft inside. Meltable parts always much closer to the surface than he'd ever have you believe.


Caryn didn't caption this photo until a week later, November 8, what would have been Mr. J's 48th birthday. Mr. J did not like to celebrate his birthday, but as he was reminded every year, " ... you knew what you were getting into when you married me. Birthdays are not ignored in my world ..." Last year, it was celebrated on Facebook, where still-stunned friends and family posted simple messages.


Mr. J's death was surrounded by what I am choosing to call — instead of cruel coincidences or circumstance — beautiful accidents of truth. He died two days after our 11th wedding anniversary. He died the day after Halloween (Trust me, there's a story here and it's coming, too. Soonish.). He died on his father's birthday. He died on All Saint's Day. (I would have gone to light a candle for him for the rest of my days regardless. Way to go, baby, dying on a Holy Day. Now every year, you're gonna get that full-blown ritual of Mass that you dug so much.) He died a week before his own birthday. I choose — I very definitively choose — to see poetry rather than pity in these coincidences.


Except the truth that just sucks. My brilliant, beautiful nephew J.C. will only know his brilliant and beautiful Uncle Jamie through stories and pictures — as will so many of our Munchkins. And the eerie poetic quality of this undeniable circumstance of suckitude? When I had just turned three, my Aunt Betty Ann died of cancer. She was, as my beloved Uncle Ray has so often expressed without anyone contradicting him, "The best of them all," meaning my mother's siblings. That phrase repeated itself a year ago when my beloved brother-in-law Rob said many times of Mr. J, "He was the best of all of us," meaning his siblings.


I'm not equipped to pass judgment on either declaration. But I am all too familiar with the pangs of loving — deeply and desperately — someone you never knew. The blessing in Betty Ann's death ... Wait. What's that you say? Yes. Yes, more coincidences. ... Betty Ann left behind a teenaged daughter, Lynn. Who just happens to be my godmother. And as a too-early-widowed woman herself, she is also a guide, a comfort and everything I've needed a second mother to be. Lynn is also the mother of the mothers of many of my oft-mentioned Munchkin tribe who has given me so much joy over the past year — Mommies and Munchkins alike. And finally, no coincidence at all, her latest grandchild's name, James. Whose two-month birthday does just happen to be today.


So. I've decided that every year, the November chapter of The Ballad of Uncle Jamie will be about happiness. About love. And I will think to myself about the way all of these independently unconnected dates and details are pressed into a imperfectly perfect tale.


November 1 marks the one-year anniversary of Mr. J's departure from this world. I'll be Atlanta for the week, receiving very much needed sister, parent, puppy and J.C. therapy. And the opening page of the story to come will be a sky filled with bright, free-flying symbols of weightless — and painless — shiny, happy messages to Mr. J.


I know, without a doubt, even though he's another place, he's with me. With all who love him. But when I think of him, when I talk to him, when I stop whatever I'm doing to just breathe, I look to the sky. So that's where the messages are headed.


With J.C.'s help, I'll be releasing 50 balloons — 49 for Mr. J's birthday that I still will never ignore — and truly one to grow on for Baby James. To them, I'll tie names, messages, anything that's light enough to float and from whomever would like them attached.


CatCon will be fielding and organizing any requests. (I know. I've already had to tell her three times: "No. Glitter.") Comment here on the blog. Click on the e-mail the author link below. Email me here. Post it on my half-glassed life's Facebook page.


As I've said before, here in Halfglassistan, we welcome all. And as we say here in South Carolina, "Y'all come." Bring on the love.

The Wonder That's Keeping The Stars Apart

Every child of the military knows where home is. Our mothers taught us that "home is wherever Daddy is."


That's been true all of my life and luckily, still is today. The SGM has been retired for decades now but just as Mom did for 30 years all over the world, she has maintained that one constant security for her children.


I've also been blessed to have the comfort and love of many others whose doors are open to me, providing not only safe haven — but also that undefinable, yet instantly recognizable essence that is home. Sisters. Cousins. Aunts. Friends. Even the familiar voices of faces I'd not seen since adolescence — one in Memphis, one in Phoenix and one in Kentucky — can reach through a cell phone and wrap me in a cloak of solace as surely as if they were tucking a blanket around me as I curled up on their couch.


But as safe — and perhaps much more importantly, loved — each of these make me feel, none has erased a singular longing.


I want to go home. My father holds me and tells me in his living room, "You are home."


I lie with my head in my big sister's lap, as she strokes my hair while I weep and long for home.


My baby sister holds me tight, both of us crying in her driveway. "You have so many homes. So many people who love you."


"No. I want my home." She holds me tighter.


I look at my godmother, who 15 years ago was also widowed in her early 40's. "I want to go home," I sob. Her shining eyes mirror mine.


And she says: " I know."


On a quiet November afternoon, in the home we had made, I peacefully held my husband in my arms as I waited for the gentlemen in the dapper suits to arrive. I calmly walked outside with them as they prepared to take him for one last ride. I kissed his beautiful face and watched as they closed the heavy black door. I turned to walk back inside, still determined and head held high. I summoned the same posture of dignity I'd tried to maintain throughout every challenge of the previous years.


I stood straight and tall until I recrossed the threshold of what was now just walls and floors, windows and doors. Just a house. Mocking me. I have no idea how many steps I took before I hit the floor. I have no idea how quickly, or how many, arms wrapped around me. How many I reached for and clutched.


In the moment, I had no idea where the grotesque sounds I heard were coming from. Sounds I'd never heard and hoped I never would again. I soon realized they were coming from me, and all too soon, realized I would hear them again. And again. And again as the months passed. Even if only in my mind as my mouth formed silent screams. It could have been at 3 p.m. and I was locked in the restroom in my office, hoping the running water would mask any gasp that escaped. More often, it was 3 a.m. and I couldn't stop long enough to catch my breath, much less think — or care — about what my neighbors might have thought if they heard. 


More days than I care to admit, at the end of the day, I'd pull my phone out as I walked to my car and punched 2 to tell Mr. J that I was on my way home.


But there was no home.


Because my best friend, my confidante, my cheerleader, my protector whose eyes and arms could erase fears in an instant and my playmate who could make me laugh and sing just as quickly was no longer there.


Over the past year, it's taken me a long time to realize that the same metaphor that marked the first twenty-odd years of my life is still true.


Now Jamie's heart equals home. And home is, was, and always will be where he is.


"... and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart. i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart.)"


And as long as I can keep sight of that wonder, I'm safe at home.


excerpt from i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart) ©1952 e.e. cummings 

Wordless Beginning-To-Turn-A-Corner Wednesday

(... and breathe X3, and repeat ...)

Procrastiperfectionation At Um, Work

Consider this post a coming attraction.

[Insert booming announcer-guy voice here ... aw crap. He died. 

Rest in peace, booming announcer-guy voice man. (sigh) Go ahead and and use your own voice.]

"In a world full of uncertainty, 

and a mind filled with chaos, 

she sought just one thing — 

to go home ..."

Trust me when I say there's something coming worth tuning in for, but it's currently trapped in a rampant but-not-so-random bubble storm in my head.

As soon as the procrastiperfectionator who also lives up in there pops all the bubbles, catches all of their splashes and organizes them,* the feature presentation will begin.**

Until then, eat your popcorn and stick around.

*It's both easier and harder than it sounds

**No, my annoying dear literalists, it's not actually a movie, just a metaphor, 

which is also both easier and harder than it sounds. 

What's that? 

Yes. Yes, even for me, the self-declared ruler of my own kingdom, 

rampant neologismist and self-important chronicler of all of the perverse 

most thoughts that hopefully won't get her committed to a psych ward 

that pass through my head.

With Apologies to Misters Simon & Garfunkel

"Hello bronchitis, my old friend. 

How I detest feeling you again, 

With your hack-ing a-a-nd wheezing,

You pre-vent thinking o-o-or sleep-ing ...

But now with two shots in my bum, 

z-pac and codiene on its way —

It's safe to say (I pray),

I'll hear the sounds ... of silence."

This post has been brought to you by CatCon,

who is quite used to finding herself among 

"people talking with-o-o-out speaking (to her), 

people hearing without-o-o-out listening (to her),

and people writ-ing songs that her voice should never share, 

and yet she dares, disturb the sound of of silence."

Wordless "Yes. Yes, I Am Happy You're Home"* Wednesday

©2011 ccw/halfglassistan

*"Are you done playing with your new toy? 

I'm behind on my 19.7 hours of daily required beauty sleep."

©2011 ccw/halfglassistan

*"Until you have iFood in that hand, I'll thank you not to wake me."

Back Home Again In Indiana

I do love me some gritty city:

[picture the El platform with folks bundled up in hats, boots, coats, gloves and scarves. I'd actually post the pic I had to take to capture the 40-something degree weather on May 26, but I can't actually figure out how to do it yet on this itty-bitty iPhone. Quite frankly, I'm amazed I've figured this much out. The bundled up pix are not of me. Oh, no. I was wearing khaki capris, an adorable little cardigan and open-toed flats. I'll choose cute over comfort every time. I did throw on a windbreaker (um, stylish...not stupid.) but I promptly checked it upon my arrival at the Art Institute.]

And some not-gritty city:

[picture the green patina of the iconic lions standing guard over some of the world's greatest masterpieces. And, my favorite place in which to lose myself. Beyond them, picture pot after pot after pot of brightly bloooming flowers following the same line of perspective as the just-lit spherical streetlamps.]

But today? Today I may as well be in a whole other world: Northwest Indiana. Imagine, if you'd like, steel mills and small-town life. I don't see any of that. Well, I do, but not right now and not in my heart when I depart the Calumet Region. Today I see a rolling pasture, a red barn, flowers and the rich green leaves of hardwood trees. In. Every. Direction. I. Look.

And I see this, too:

[picture the majestic Leo, a Palomino whose blond mane is whipping through the wind as he comes in to nuzzle my neck. And the petite Scarlett, who shyly comes over for a carrot only after Alpha Horse has had enough and decides that, yeah, this little solid black mare with a tiny white star on her forehead can have a snack, too.]

I hope you can picture it, because it's pretty freakin' awesome. And who knows when the hell I'll figure out how to load pix through this portal?

Oh, and Jen Lancaster? I told you I wasn't a stalker. I know there's no way in hell I'll see you in Indiana.

Cathleen Day 2011 Is Here

Today marks the 43rd anniversary of my arrival on this planet.

In 1968, my Nana received (her words) "the best birthday present ever" when my mother delivered me on the date of her mother's birth, a happy twist of fate that has always made me feel a little more special, a little more lucky and a lot more blessed.

The date of my birth is also only two days prior to my mother's, which has also always felt like a gift, as well. The symmetry of a mother and daughter each birthing a daughter within two days of their own birthdays has always felt, to me, like a multigenerational trifecta. The fact that the three of us look exactly alike (Yes. Really.) is, in my not-so-humble opinion, no accident. Although I chose not to have children, I do admit to wondering if Mr J and I would have created a brown-haired, green-brown-eyed, Dorothy-Judy-Cathleen clone. And born on May 30, of course.

So. With all this magical thinking, is it any wonder that I treat my birthday like a national holiday? It doesn't help matters that it always falls within close proximity to summer's first fireworks, parades and hamburger/hot dog event (Which, bee-tee-dubs: three of my favorite things. Next to cake, anyway, but we've covered that topic...)

Or maybe I'm just a raging narcissist. Hmmm...

I'm gonna call it a draw.

Cake. It's What's For Dinner. (And Breakfast. And Lunch.)

HRH Princess Snarkerella has declared today the official start of Birthday Week 2011. Typically all of May is Birthday Month, but everything in Halfglassistan has been wonky these past six months.


(CatCon and Tilly, however, would like it noted that they began celebrating my existence at 12:00:01 EDT May 1 and haven't stopped. Which isn't much different than the way they act every day. So I've got that going for me. Which is good.)


I may be getting a bit of a slow start, but by the order of HRH (you might not think so, but she can really be a bitch when she wants to), I am commanded to have fun. So a little less than 36 hours from now, I'll be with one of my ATL munchkins, who just happens to be the most awesome boy one of my siblings has ever birthed. The fact that I get to watch the eerie reincarnation of my sister as a toddler giving herself hell is just icing.


Then less than 24 hours later, I'll be on my way to my Midwestern tribe of munchkins in Chicagoland — provided the TSA, ATL and MDW all cooperate. And no random atmospheric activity mucks it all up. (Iceland? I'm talking to you.)


You can call it running away from home. It's OK. I am and I'm lucky enough to have my choice of awesome homes to which to run. I need tickles, giggles, oohs & ahhs, sister, cousin and munchkin therapy. And lots and lots and lots of love.


And cake.

"cake." (c)2002-2010 natalie dee

Are You There Jen Lancaster? It's Me, Cathleen.

Yes, I know the device has been done. It works. So I'm using it.


Are You There Vodka? It's Me, Chelsea was a best-seller for comedian Chelsea Handler (big fan, BTW). Colossal success. I turned to vodka (even bigger fan of it) to get me through my current crisis. Colossal failure. (Although Chelsea still gets me through the insomnia. Thanks ... girl.)


Are You There God, It's Me, Margaret? was every adolescent girl's dog-eared coming-of-age primer. In it, and her other bestselling young-adult-all-human-no-vampire-or-wizards (no offense, Twihards and Muggles — I just didn't grow up in the days of sparkly skin and quidditch) fiction, Judy Blume taught me what I needed to know. I wasn't afraid to get my period or a bra — and I knew it was normal to be confused when talking to God.


Even though I never knew why He did or didn't let something happen — I knew enough to know I wasn't supposed to know — I never stopped talking to Him. I didn't stop while Mr. J was sick. I didn't stop when Mr. J was healing. I didn't stop when Mr. J was well. And I sure as hell didn't stop when Mr. J was dying.


And I still haven't stopped. But I still know enough to know I'm not going to get any answers from God. I get strength. I get patience. I get comfort. Every now and then, I get a little peace.


But I don't get answers. No one tells you what to do when you're only 42 and your husband's cancer returns and he's dead within two weeks. Two days after your 11th wedding anniversary, which he remembered even in a haze of Dilaudid. One week before his 48th birthday — and on his father's birthday. November 1st. All Saints Day.


Judy Blume didn't have a book about that. Chelsea Handler (thankfully) never talks about it on the Round Table. And it's not in the bottom of a bottle (or two) of vodka. Or pills, for that matter.


I started writing this blog while Mr. J was going through an excruciating cancer battle. But I never doubted he'd make it through. I was scared, but I always believed that he was strong enough to survive. Because he believed it — and because he survived anything God threw at him.


Until this.


So. Now what? God can't tell me what to do next. Judy Blume can't. Chelsea Handler can't, even though I'd love some vodka right now. So you're probably wondering how Jen Lancaster is going to help me.


Glad you asked. She's not. But she reminded me how to help myself.


Last week in Phoenix, my sweet CVZ attended a book signing for Jen Lancaster's If You Were Here. Unbeknownst to me, CVZ was getting a copy signed for me. So Jen asks, "So who's this Cathleen," and probably thinks "and why isn't she here?"


CVZ replied that I was in South Carolina, the tour wasn't. She went on to tell Jen that I was the one to turn her on to her blog and her books, adding: "In fact, you follow her blog on Twitter."


Jen: "Really? Which blog?"


CVZ: "my half-glassed life."


Jen: "She hasn't written in a while."


I don't know if she meant I hadn't written her in a while (I doubt she'd remember the one and only fan e-mail I ever sent). I don't know if she meant I hadn't tweeted her in a while (unlikely my name stands out among her thousands of followers). I don't know if she's actually ever read my words.


What I do know is — she's right. I haven't. What I also know is that the only way I'll ever find the answer as to how to get through this is to write about it. Writing has gotten me through every crisis of my life — and it will get me through this one.


My story is far from over. And I'm not afraid anymore to tell it.

"Really? Which blog?"

Hah! PROOF! It's on its way from Phoenix, but won't arrive in time for my flight to Chicago.
So. Guess I'll have to buy a copy to read on the plane and add to its climb up the bestseller list.
What's that? My flight to Chicago, you ask? My trip that coincides with the Governor of Jennsylvania's
return to the Windy City? Uh, yeah. Coincidence? Um, yes. Totally.

But ... if by any chance ... you're actually reading this, um, Jen, please do know I am well aware
of how weird it would be to hunt you down try to run into you. Besides you're all up in the 'burbs now and
I'll be down in Bridgeport with family, so not likely it's gonna happen. I'll also be at Lincoln Park,
the Shedd, the Art Institute and across the water at Indiana Dunes.
Just sayin' ... 

(Not)Wordless Magical-Mystery-Flower Wednesday

©2011 ccw/halfglassistan

So. As if enough signs from the universe haven't already been telling me to get my glass in gear (I'm talking about you, @altgeldshrugged at your PHX signing. Stay tuned. I've got something coming with your name all over it.) — this popped up. 


Mr. J bought random plantings because he liked how they looked at Lowe's, and then subsequently in the yard. Never paid attention to whether they were annuals or perennials. No particular planning or coordination. What mattered was a funky shape and an unusual color. The leaves on this what-appears-to-be-some-kind-of-lily are what attracted Mr. J to the above bloom. That and the hot pink ombre petals.


In the five summers since it was planted, it hasn't returned every year. Just a couple of times. Thus, the name we gave it. This is my first summer without the magical Mr. J, yet the flower is out in full force.


Mystery? I don't think so.


Thanks to CVZ, the Governor of Jennsylvania and the amazing Mr. J for the kick in the glass. I needed it.

BREAKING NEWS: Renovations in Halfglassistan

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
MAY 1, 2011 - HALFGLASSISTAN


HRH Princess Snarkerella has announced that Halfglassistan is expanding and undergoing renovations to better express its ideology and full potential. Immediate increases to the kingdom's Gross National Product will be largely fulfilled by Half-glassed Design. 


"The time is right to go public with our graphic design for print, web, wearables and home decor," stated HRH's official press secretary CatCon. "Lucky customers also receive three decades experience of professional writing and editing." The outspoken CatCon went on to add: "Win-win, no?"


Improvement projects are already underway, and announcement of official launch date is expected imminently.


###

F & F, Redux*

*AKA in which we revive the "Flashback Friday: Because I'm Lazy And I Like Alliteration" device. Although this has little to do with laziness and all to do with love. (Like how I slipped that one in there?)


From April 2, 2010
"Of Faith And Friendliness"

Here in Halfglassistan, we welcome all.

Love whomever you want to love. Believe in whatever you'd like to believe.

We do. Love and believe, that is. We love to acknowledge it. We don't debate it. That would kinda-sorta go against the whole"love-and-believe-who-and-what-you-want" thing we've got going here. Don't you think?

In fact, we don't talk much about what we believe. It's not that we don't care. It's just that it's ours. Just like your beliefs are yours. And if we go throwing them around and putting them up for discussion, that kinda-sorta negates the whole "no-debate" thing. Don't you think?

And I'm not looking to change that today. But, for all of the arbitrary and capricious days of observance I've declared here in Halfglassistan, today is one that transcends all of my varied and overlapping worlds.

Today is Good Friday. And, as I've acknowledged before, there are times when the best construction of words to express what is in my heart already exists.

This is one of those times:

I believe in one God, the Father, the Almighty, the maker of heaven and earth, of all that is seen and unseen.

I believe in one Lord, Jesus Christ, the only Son of God, eternally begotten of the Father, God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God, begotten, not made, one in Being with the Father.

Through him all things were made.

For us and for our salvation, he came down from heaven: by the power of the Holy Spirit he was born of the Virgin Mary, and became man.

For our sake he was crucified under Pontius Pilate; he suffered, died, and was buried.

On the third day he rose again in fulfillment of the Scriptures; he ascended into heaven and is seated at the right hand of the Father. He will come again in glory to judge the living and the dead, and his kingdom will have no end.

I believe in the Holy Spirit, the Lord, the giver of life, who proceeds from the Father and the Son. With the Father and the Son he is worshiped and glorified. He has spoken through the Prophets.

I believe in one holy catholic and apostolic church. I acknowledge one baptism for the forgiveness of sins. I look for the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come.

That's just me.

Love whomever you want to love. Believe in whatever you'd like to believe.

Here in Halfglassistan, we welcome all.

Amen.

Validation. Free With Egg Rolls. (aka Step Five)

Inside today's fortune cookies, in order of opening:

All progress occurs because 

people dare to be different.

If you always do what you've 

always done, you'll always get 

what you've always gotten.

What's that?

No. No, I am not in the habit of making life decisions* based on the contents of my fortune cookies. But to get a little unexpected wink from the universe and a life-lesson reinforcement — and wrapped in cookies, to boot? That's just, well, what passes for awesome these days in Halfglassistan.

*(keep tuning in)

Hmm? What's that, again? 

How long am I gonna keep up this "Step #"-thing?

I'll let you know when I know.

"the only true fortune cookie you'll ever get" 

(c)2002-2010 natalie dee 

Cat Con's Show Tune Applicability Axiom (aka Step 4.5 and/or "So Change Your Dream")

"There is no life situation to which a show tune (or tunes) does not apply. Find one, two, 10 or 20 and sing them. Loudly. Repeatedly." — Cat Con's Show Tune Applicability Axiom

"What do you mean, amend that to add 'Sing well'? Are you implying that I don't sing well? (Insert withering eye-roll here) Really?" — Cat Con, when approached by a quickly retreating editorial board.

What we're singing most lately is I Dreamed A Dream from Les Miserables.

Applicable? Check.

Belt-it-out-loud-able? Check.

Tear-inducing? Abso-freakin'-lutely.

Able to get through it four or more times during traffic-jammed commute without tears? Finally.

Able to do the above without giving a thought as to what anyone around us thinks? Puh-lease. Give us a hard one.

Able to do all of the above and appreciate both its apparent applicability and simultaneous lack of same? Check.

"I dreamed a dream in times gone by

When hope was high and life worth living

I dreamed that love would never die

I dreamed that God would be forgiving.

Then I was young and unafraid

And dreams were made and used and wasted

There was no ransom to be paid

No song unsung, no wine untasted.

But the tigers come at night

With their voices soft as thunder

As they tear your hope apart

As they turn your dream to shame.

And still I dreamed he'd come for me

That we would live the years together

But there are dreams that cannot be

And there are storms we cannot weather —

I had a dream my life would be

So different from this hell I'm living

So different now from what it seemed ...

Now life has killed the dream I dreamed."

So Cat Con and I do what we always do. When we're challenged. When we're confused. When we're sad. When we're happy. When we're wondering. And especially when we're figuring it all out.

Like now.

We sing.

©1980 CLAUD-MICHEL SCHOENBURG (MUSIC); ALAIN BOUBLIL (LYRICS); HERBERT KRETZMER (ENGLISH TRANSLATION FROM FRENCH) Any errors are wholly mine and, by no means, any responsibilty of Cat Con's.

So Make The Freakin' Most of It (aka Step Four)

"it's called the circle of life, folks" 

(c)2002-2010 natalie dee