Another Brick in the Wall

Moss slippery, crusted with bird shit, clay crumbled, rigid rectangles. Unlike the large, colorful Jenga game on the sunporch, if you remove one of my bricks, I fear I’ll collapse. Each brick integral to my overall structure and stability, despite the messy make-up. I appreciate their blocky durability, sharp edges, unyielding. Even when they rub and bruise my tender flesh, I refuse to let any go.

Why can’t I seem to rid myself of unnecessary things, like pencil stubs worn down to nothing? They’ve served their purpose and now I should let them go. I’m afraid of the hole left behind. Is that why childbirth traumatizes? It’s not just the pressure and pain of growing and releasing a being. There’s loss - the hole plugged for a time – filled with moving parts: heartbeat, blood, sinew and muscle. Later, a gaping wound while those moving parts move on, without you. Overly occupied with the external management of things, you forget about the abyss left in birth’s wake.

As I stand here, assessing things, I hold tight to my remaining bricks. Can’t afford to lose any, even if they don’t serve me. I hold onto them like old Christmas cards, Grandma’s chipped flowery China and love letters. They define me: who I was… who I am… who I might be…. Can’t bear to be without them. They keep me tethered to the here and now.

I need these bricks of memory,

bricks of history,

bricks of life – to hold me in place.

Fear of flying…Flying is for my children. Not me. I must be anchored so they’ll have a haven to return to – something consistent…

knowable…

safe…

That wasn’t my experience the first time I flew. When I jettisoned for new horizons, new perspectives, new everything, I gave up home. I released its hold on me, rarely to return. Maybe it was always there – but it shape-shifted into something I didn’t recognize.

Or maybe that was me.

My childhood home feels small – chaotic, dusty and sad. The faded green velvet chair where my mother’d sit each night, waits… The clink of melting ice in her vodka in one hand and a cigarette dangling from the other… words slurred and sloppy, eyes misted over, runny and red. Pat Sajak screaming out for another letter. Every night… starting at five.

But there are other images too. Cherry Jello popsicles dripping down our chins. Saturday mornings with Wylie Coyote and Bugs Bunny, followed by Dad's special lemon zest and spiced pancakes. Sweat and sun-drenched summers spent running the neighborhood til fireflies flickered. Our yellow Plymouth station wagon bulging and hooked precariously to the sailboat trailer for the ten hour drive to Glen Lake. Lots of mishaps in ten hours. Lots of cigarette smoke. These are the bricks of my upbringing – the crusted clay rectangles that formed me into the person I am today.

I’m a mother, a wife, a sister, a daughter – so many things to others. But what am I … to me?

Writer?

Explorer?

Dog whisperer?

My bricks are a mess of all these things and I can’t bear to give any away.

Some days they’re heavy and awkward to haul around. Some days I forget about them – unconcerned if I’ve lost a few. “Matter is neither created nor destroyed” – echoes from high school physical science class. Nothing is ever really lost or gained – so what does it matter?

It matters. Zen, I am not.

I compare my bricks to others. Does she have more? Are their bricks better or nicer than mine?

Sometimes I hide behind them, wishing for invisibility.

I want to blend in like the jewel-toned tree frog perched on the emerald palmetto spine. I’ve learned to slip into shadow, delicately balanced… always watching…

Wishing for…

Another brick in the wall…