Category Archives: Essays

Musings and personal thoughts on life, family, memories, and events.

Essays, Writing

Silver Fox

Leave a comment
The 1st image I ever saw of David on OkCupid.

One of the things I noticed first about my future husband was his unaffected demeanor and his willingness to be openly fascinated by a new thought. There was no pretense, no attempt to impress, and certainly no vanity. I am still pleased by these qualities he embodies. He is who he is and that is that.

The people I want to surround myself with must share these characteristics or at least strive to work toward some semblance of authenticity. A friend of mine is writing a beautiful short story about a fictionalized Nefertiti whose companion silver fox’s tail bristles at the slightest hint of insincerity. When I read her rough draft, I was struck by the realization that something within me resonates with that fox—a bristling, like sand in my shoe, an unfamiliar noise in the dark, a mis-buttoned shirt, or one little dead gnat in my soup. Sure, I can fish the gnat out and consider eating the soup because I love the soup and don’t want to waste the soup, and the dead gnat is not that big of a deal. However, it is a hurdle my brain must get past to push through and move on and act as though nothing of consequence has happened. I know. I can’t unknow.

We are all flawed and have moments that we regret in our interactions with others or our representation of ourselves to the world, but my biggest regrets all stem from times in my life that I was not being authentic with myself. The lowest lows where I had bona fide breakdowns with lifechanging consequences were when I was lying to myself about who I was, what I believed, or what I was willing to tolerate. Living a fractured life, accepting unbearable circumstances for the sake of a belief system or other people’s judgment will result in disaster.

It is scary to say out loud that our personal ideologies no longer line up with our current realities. It is terrifying to admit to people who we love that we must set boundaries with them for our own sanity, but we owe it to ourselves to speak the truth in love and accept that there will be consequences for speaking that truth. And I have come to know in my half a century of living that, though some of the fallout is painful and chaotic, when the dust settles, I am better for it.

When living in authenticity, I can find a gentle, kind, sincere soul to partner with on a dating website full of toads. I can leave my career that I invested over 30 years of education and work into. I can leap into a new, scary field and become the writer I’ve always said I wanted to be. I can develop a spiritual life that nourishes me and others around me. And I can be ok in the midst of the turmoil that is spiraling around us all due to geopolitical craziness that sucks us easily into the madness. I don’t know the right answer to everything, anything sometimes, but I know that when my silver fox tail bristles at the inauthenticity of the moment, I will stop and listen and possibly change course.

Rebekah Marshall @Home Studio

Essays, Writing

Gone Girl

Leave a comment
AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/URdCYb

This winter, my cat Chika died. She wandered out to a far corner of our property to meet her maker. She did as cats are wont to do, sparing her beloved humans the trouble of witnessing their passing. My granddaughter found her and Facetimed me, distraught, tears streaming down her 10-year-old face. She had been missing for a week, and I assumed the worst. A once fat cat, her weight rapidly declined over the preceding month. She had been sickly all eight years of her life with constant upper respiratory infections, allergies, and asthma. Because of her, I now know what cat sneezes and coughs sound like. I became attuned to her different variations of wheezing, knew which ones were minor and which ones warranted a vet visit. Nothing we can do. Another steroid shot might help. A round of antibiotics. Let her live her best life.

I’m surprised she lived as long as she did. I don’t think it was a pleasant existence for a cat, but the vet did not think she was in so much discomfort that she should be put down. Her purring during the exam, passing their breathing tests, and fat physique reassured them that she was as ok as a sick cat could be.

She was afraid of the outside for the first two years of her life. The other cats would encourage her to join them on a jaunt around the yard, but she would sit and watch through the glass door. One day, we left the door propped open with a chair and let them come and go freely for a few hours. They had the best time entering and exiting at will, no need for humans to open anything. The two older cats decided it was high time that the younger, less experienced of the pack join them. They spoke the magic language of cats, convincing her it was safe, then one or the other of them sat by her side as she took her first tentative steps onto the porch. However far she felt comfortable venturing, one of them was right by her side for a good 30 minutes or so. It was heartwarming to watch.

Chika probably had pica. She loved to lick plastic shopping bags if she could get her paws on one, and another cat owner told us it was like a drug addiction to the chemicals on the bag, that it would give her a bit of a buzz. I was unable to find research to back up that claim, however. More likely, she liked the texture, and her brain told her it was something to put in her mouth. Whatever the reason, we had to be careful with plastic bags and make sure none were left out anywhere that Chika could access them. She also sucked or chewed on soft blankets as she was kneading them with her little cat claws.

She hated to be brushed. She wasn’t much on cat treats or fancy wet cat food or even human food. She preferred her dry food, and keep it coming, thank you very much. She expected the bowl to always be full, so she could eat when she felt like it. She was not really a big fan of other animals and took her sweet time getting used to any new ones who entered our home. Even after years of knowing a “new” animal, she might hiss at them if they ventured too close. She decided the dogs were tolerable because she could sleep with them, and they were warm. She liked the sleeping in a pile at night snuggling with others, but by day, she wanted her space.

Chika was hot or cold with affection. She mostly permitted pets when she was in the mood. She liked a warm lap, but the lucky person was selected by her, and the chosen one had no say in the matter. She jumped up, settled in, and waited expectantly for pets. It did not matter if you liked cats, wanted a cat in your lap, or preferred to be left alone. Once she decided you were going to pet her, you might as well get it over with because she would not leave you alone until you did your job. She would look at you with the most severe expression that made you feel at once judged and found unworthy. Hers was a stern cat face. She couldn’t help it. It was just her face, but her countenance gave the impression that everything and everyone were somehow annoying her by their mere existence.

I think she might have killed a bird once in her younger days, but mostly she watched them in the trees, inspiring dive-bombing mothers and cacophonies of threatening bird chatter. She sat under trees where squirrels fussed at her just because she knew it annoyed them. Though she did not have the energy to chase them, she loved that her presence could affect them so.

My heart hurts knowing she has left this plane of reality, though I am comforted by the knowledge that she no longer has to labor to breathe. I never have to trick her into taking medicine again or pin her down so I can attempt to give her a breathing treatment (not an easy accomplishment.) No more late-night searches through the house to make sure she is inside and safe before we lock up. Still, it is hard to say goodbye to someone with whom you’ve spent the last eight years of your life. My tears are selfish. I’m the one who will miss her grumpy, sick, uncomfortable, curmudgeonly, snotty presence. I have a feeling she was relieved to finally bid us all ado. Yes, my girl Chika is gone. May she finally rest in peace.

Rebekah Marshall @Home Studio

Beauty became a surrogate mom when we adopted Chika. From left to right, Sassy, Chika, Beauty.

Sleeping with Aiko and Kenji for warmth.

Tolerating Julian’s love.
Too scared to go outside with Charlotte.

On the threshold, stepping out, encouragement to be brave, looking back for reassurance.

Chika stayed by Grandad’s side in the weeks after my Mema’s passing. It seemed like she knew he needed comfort. The other image is her at her fattest, living her best fat cat life (before we had to start a little bit of a healthier diet.)

Essays, Writing

Too Many Steps

Leave a comment
AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/qOA2lg

My daughter and I have a state of being we have labeled Too Many Steps. When we reach this place of unbearable overwhelm, there will surely be a meltdown, emotional outburst, argument, full depressive episode, a day or two of bed rot, or at the least, tears.

I reached Too Many Steps this evening. Overall, I had a restful day. I slept in, took a nice nap, mostly watched shows and attended book club via Zoom. Perhaps my brain is gearing up to return to my work schedule tomorrow after a much-needed weekend off. Or maybe I’m getting sick again; I certainly don’t feel fully recovered from the upper respiratory infection I have been fighting since before Christmas. What is that, over 20 days now? I can feel a new cold sore springing up, my nose is tender and raw from the drainage, and my lungs feel heavy.

Honestly, I feel a bit like I did when I had long COVID some time back—the fatigue, dizziness, winded just from walking across the room, depressed, irritable, a darkness that has reached down my throat, and the need to isolate, cocoon inside my covers and sleep. And in this already depleted state, I decided it was high time I take a shower. Some might think a shower would feel good, be relaxing, be a welcome distraction, or pleasant end to the day. Maybe on a normal day when I am well.

Today is not that day. As a person with a chronic condition, when my body is fighting illness, for some reason it attacks everything—my joints, my skin, my hair. My immune system doesn’t seem to know what is virus and what is me. Everything hurts. Right this second, the backs of my ears, my elbows, and my finger joints hurt—for no good reason. Anyway, undressing takes effort. Taking my hair down strains my right arm. Gathering the towels to dry off with is a chore. I place one towel carefully so I can sit when I get out of the shower because I cannot stand the length of time required to dry off without causing too much pain. Another towel, I place on the laundry hamper for my hair. I get the floor towel from its hanging spot and lay it on the floor, so I won’t slip when I get out of the shower. We can’t leave it on the floor because the cat has decided that is the best place to poop if it is left there. It is finally time to get in the shower. My energy is flagging, but I’m almost there. I can make it.

Nope, there is a pile of wet towels on the shower bench where I need to sit. You’ve got to be kidding. My daughter overloaded the washing machine earlier and had to take out some of the towels because the machine would not finish the spin cycle. She never came back to complete the task. I’m sure she forgot. It is now late in the evening, and everyone has gone to bed. It will take more energy to get someone to remove the towels, so I decide to handle it myself. My back screams at me with each hefting of sopping towels I plop onto another surface. I’m reaching the breaking point.

The self-contained shower-bath set-up I have is a wonderful jacuzzi-like seated bath situation with a locking door, lights, jets, the works. My grandparents got it to make bathing easier in their elder years. It is a wonderful contraption. However, it is built for skinny people. I must wedge myself through the sliver of a door opening to get in and it is uncomfortable. Then I must twist my body in a strange contortion to close the door and be able to sit inside the contraption. Once in, it is comfortable, but the mount and dismount are not graceful.

Door locked. Check. Suction cup portable shower head holder located. Check. Suction cup portable shower head holder placed in the perfect position to make my seated shower just right. Check. Made sure my shampoo is reachable. Check. Double made sure my conditioner is there because sometimes my granddaughter borrows it and forgets to return it. Check. I have made it. I have used all my remaining energy to get into the shower, but I am ready and seated, with everything I need. Then I take ahold of the hand-held shower head to stretch out the steel hose and fit it into the holder, but it only extends a few inches, then hangs on something inside the housing of the bathtub. It is the final straw…or hose…or whatever.

Too Many Steps has been reached. I begin to wail. I cry harder than I cried at my grandmother’s funeral. The grief that spills out of me is a tidal wave of pain. On a normal day, it would be logical to remove the portable shower head holder, unlock the door, dismount through the skinny door, open the side of the bath, and unstick the steel hose—like a grownup. But, no, not once Too Many Steps has been reached. At that point, the only logical option is to sit in the shower bath forever and cry.

I don’t know how long I stayed stuck in the land of Too Many Steps. Truly, I can’t tell you. There is no time there. It is only a place of I’m done, the end, it’s over, forget it, too bad, whatever the hell, I can’t, and no more. I might still be there had my husband not eventually come to my rescue, though our interaction was with raised voices, anger, and more tears because of other Too Many Steps that I won’t go into here.

I don’t know the moral to this story. I just thought I would describe Too Many Steps in case anyone else can relate, I suppose. Also, because this one seemed extra emotionally violent, I felt the need to write about it, hopefully processing some of what led to the limp, energyless, wet dishrag feeling I now embody. I can never predict which step will be the one upon which I will collapse, unable to climb even one more inch, but I can certainly relate to that poor camel, his knees buckling under the weight of the load, all his muscles straining to stay upright, carrying the burdens of the world until that one last straw.

Rebekah Marshall @Home Studio

Essays, Writing

poor your soul (A Book Review)

Leave a comment
https://images.app.goo.gl/D2wTFD1DhuHaWvgf7

To be raw and real in the retelling of your own most vulnerable moments creates a profound intimacy in memoir. I don’t know if I’m brave enough to write one. Mira Ptacin explores her own fears and feelings of shame and grief around the death of her brother as a teenager and the loss of her baby in her 20s. She weaves a beautiful tribute to her mother who emigrated from Poland and built a life with perseverance and grit here in America. Americans did not make it easy on her.

The subtle twists and turns of growing up, beginning to relate to your parents as fellow adults, discovering that your childhood perceptions of them may have been misconstrued, and finding internal peace in the process are themes that resonate with me, as I have experienced this with my own parents, and now have adult children going through this phase of life with me. Though I have never had to experience the same kinds of grief as Mira, her example of leaning on her loved ones, finding her own path forward, and being gentle with the healing process (however long it takes), makes me hope I can do so with the same indomitable spirt as her, if I am ever tasked with such a burden.

I probably would never have chosen this book, had I known how much of the story centered around the awful experience of having to make decisions related to ending a pregnancy, so I am glad I was unaware because I would have missed out on so many threads of beauty and love. And every scene that includes her husband is superb. He tends to steal the scene, as he is depicted as sincere, silly, and supportive in all the right ways.

Rebekah Marshall @Home Studio

Ptacin, Mira, poor your soul, SOHO Press, Inc., 2016.

Essays, Writing

Megalodon Fossil Tooth

Leave a comment

(If only my granddaughter’s tooth brushing was this joyful.) AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/XQYWuY (Example of what the tooth looked like that my grandson found.) https://images.app.goo.gl/EmtGmtXMyrbHvq2t8

My grandson Julian (6 years old) found a giant fossilized megalodon tooth in the backyard today. He brought his prize to show me, and it was quite impressive. It is probably the biggest limestone shark tooth I have ever seen. I suggested he go show Grandad (91 years old) and get a second opinion. I don’t think Grandad played along as well as I did, so Julian took it back outside to do some more excavating and promptly misplaced it.

Speaking of teeth, Charlotte (my 10-year-old-in-8-days granddaughter) has a loose one—I believe it is #8, a canine. She likes to wiggle it in the mirror and point out that she only has 2 baby teeth left in her mouth. How time flies. I remember when she was first cutting her little tiny teeth on her bottom gums and we were super excited. Now she’s old enough that I spent over an hour on the phone with Apple tech support trying to get the parental controls set up on her phone so we could figure out which objectionable content to allow and which to block to help with internet safety. One issue was that I apparently set a password years ago and forgot it. We tried everything we could think of, but the Apple people were stumped. There was no fixing it. We finally gave up and decided it was unsolvable. A few hours later, on a whim, I typed in 1,2,3,4, and it worked. So embarrassing.

Julian brought me half a Mini Coke with a straw in it yesterday.

“Here you go, Ema. You can drink this because I joined the army and can’t drink sugar anymore.”

Woohoo! I like this game. Apparently, Charlotte was his drill sergeant and got him drinking water only. She had him working out and doing obstacle courses all day long. I bet his little muscles are sore today.

Charlotte convinced Julian to wear a bonnet to bed the other night like she does. Her curly coils have to be protected by a silky wrap at night to keep them from getting frizzy or damaged. Julian has the complete opposite texture hair. But with Charlotte’s application of who-knows-what-goo and some little twists here and there, Julian awoke with one or two curls on his head. He was very proud of them. I was impressed he made it all night in the bonnet.

This morning, Charlotte made Julian the Coraline breakfast special. I have never seen the movie Coraline, but Charlotte is obsessed with it. Julian lucked out. All by her little self, she made an egg and cheese omelet, 3 slices of bacon, and toast with jelly. It was a masterpiece. This is the same girl who melted onto the floor in a puddle the other day when I asked her to push the vacuum a few times. She literally did one strip of carpet before collapsing from the difficulty of the task. The next time she acts helpless, I’m going to remind her how capable she is when she wants to be.

Julian pulled a prank on us today. He was at the top of the stairs, and Charlotte and I were in the kitchen area.

Suddenly, we heard his pitiful little voice whimpering, “Help me, help me. I can’t see. Everything’s dark. I can’t see. I need help.” He was really laying it on thick.

Charlotte headed his way to see what kind of a bind he had gotten himself into this time. She returned just as quickly, marching with her hands on her hips, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. Julian appeared around the corner with his sweatshirt pulled up over his face like he was either trying to put it on or take it off; I’m not sure which. He was laughing so hard at his own joke that he ended up making us laugh, as well.

Grandad informed me that he was taking Charlotte to McDonald’s. She convinced him to take her to McDonald’s so she could spend her own allowance money on French fries. I tried not to be irritated. She already asked me and I said no. I told her to go make her own fries out of the perfectly good potatoes and oil we have here at home. They are easy to make in the air fryer. Grandad is a pushover when it comes to that girl. He was my grandfather first, and he never would have stopped what he was doing to take me to McDonald’s when I was a kid. He would have lectured me on saving my money and not begging all the adults all the time to take me places.

But honestly, I love that he has softened and spoils my grandchildren rotten (his great-great-grandchildren.) Every kid deserves at least one adult in their lives that is wrapped around their little finger. Mema was my person (Grandad’s wife of over 70 years and my grandmother.) She would do anything for me. Knowing that kind of love made me a strong woman who knows how to ooh and aah at shark teeth rocks and 10-year-old-in-8-days loose teeth for my own grandchildren. It all comes full circle if we put in the time and effort to be present in each other’s lives. And Charlotte is right that McDonald’s fries are way better than homemade. The girl knows her fries.

Rebekah Marshall @Home Studio

Essays, Writing

President Jimmy Carter

1 Comment

The most famous person I have ever met is President Jimmy Carter. In 2010, he was visiting Austin at Book People on Lamar signing his book White House Diary and I waited in the long line to meet him. I had to go through security and do all the rigamarole required to meet a former president. It was worth it. I have not finished reading the book as it is a bit dry in parts, but it is a prized possession of mine.

He is one of my hero’s because of his humanitarian efforts. He just celebrated his 99th birthday, making him the longest-lived president in our nation’s history. He is also the 4th-oldest person alive currently who has served as a nation’s leader. The other 3 are Guillermo Rodriguez, former President of Ecuador – 100, Khamtai Siphandone, former prime minister, chairman, and president of Laos – 99, and Tomiichi Murayama, former prime minister of Japan – 99.

My husband and I sent a picture and well-wishes to contribute to the mosaic birthday card this year. Click this link to see all the people who sent in images and wishes. https://www.cartercenter.org/news/upcoming_events/promo/jimmy-carter-99th-birthday.html

Essays, Writing

Discouragement

Leave a comment

I had what felt like a setback last week.  I can’t really go into detail, but was required to remove my books from a library, change aspects of said book, and accept feedback I did not want to hear from people I did not want to hear it from.  Sigh…

I have allowed this incident to discourage me to the point that I have not written since then.  I sat down with a cup of tea and tried to write a poem this morning and couldn’t get through it.   Now it is almost bedtime and this post will have to do as my attempt at putting myself back into writer mode.  A blog at least counts as something.

I know many writers have faced discouragement, rejection, rewrites, and edits that destroy the soul of the work.    They have to pull themselves out of funks and get back to the craft.  And I will.  I am temporarily in mourning.  This depression will not get the best of me.  It is simply a detour on my journey.  I will find my way back.  This post is a start.

Essays, Writing

Tea Party

Leave a comment

I went to a lovely tea party at the Christadelphian Hall.  My mother and granddaughter sat at the table with me and enjoyed a delicious spread, a variety of teas, and fun conversation.  A Bible class was led by Maritta Terrell pointing out metaphors for spiritual life in the form of tea.  Ideas like the following:

  1.  It is what’s inside that counts.  The tea bag itself is not significant.  It’s the tea leaves that create the flavor.
  2. Hot water is needed to steep the tea.  Just like we are tested at times to see what we’re made of.
  3. It takes time to steep tea.  We need to be patient with ourselves.
  4. Additives make it even better.  I prefer cream and sugar in mine.  Our connections with others add to our experience and make life better.

I am not a member of the Christadelphians anymore, but I am thankful for the foundation of discipline, critical thinking, ethical standards, and examples of faith that have helped to shape me.  I was asked when I would return as a member by a dear friend at the tea party.  I explained that my current status as a feminist makes such a likelihood improbable.

But these people are my family, my past, and hopefully part of my future.  If they will accept my presence without complete agreement with their views, I will continue to visit and connect.  I love tea parties!

Essays, Writing

1st Day of Pre-K

Leave a comment

My granddaughter Charlotte started school today.  I got up extra early to do her hair and help in any way I could to get the family out the door on time.  I believe all went according to plan so Charlotte and her entourage began their trek on time.  Three adults and her baby brother accompanied her on this momentous morning.  I’m so glad everyone made a big deal about the beginning of this educational journey that she has begun.

As a teacher and a lifelong learner, the first day of school for any kid is cause for celebration.  What is more exciting than diving into a world of unlimited intellectual expansion?  Becoming a part of a cohort of learners with whom you will share the experience?  Entrusting your development to a human being who will forever be remembered as larger than life?

Monday will be my 42nd first day of school.  I look forward to this next batch of youngsters that I will have the opportunity to learn from.  Every year feels full of potential, full of hope, and most certainly full of anticipation.  I know some of my students may not have the same joyous energy of expectation for the first day of school as me.  That’s ok.  Exuberance is contagious.  I’ll share mine.

I’m so glad my daughter and other family members circled around my granddaughter and walked as a village to her school.  She has a long, fabulous, winding educational road ahead of her.  As one of her great-grandfather’s said, “Today Pre-K, before you know it, college!”

 

Essays, Writing

Musical Bribery

Leave a comment

Music is a fantastic way to bribe (ahem) encourage high school students to behave in the classroom.  Nobody is allergic, it won’t send anyone into a diabetic coma, and it is free if you have YouTube!  I let each student pick a song to add to our ever-expanding playlist.  It can be any genre as long as the lyrics are appropriate for a classroom.  I am fairly conservative with my judgment because I don’t want my principal walking in to “I Wanna Sex You Up” type lyrics.  Also, my classroom is in a psychiatric treatment center and we have to be aware of patients’ triggers.  If the song is screamy or super energizing, we might save it for an exercise break, clean up time, or as part of a game.  I don’t play Lamb of God’s Set to Fail when we are in the middle of a test.  Common sense needed.      https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Uc-C3Iove3I

As long as students are working, giving best effort, and meeting expectations, we play our class playlist.  If not, the music gets turned off.  I love it when I hear kids policing each other.  “Stop talking to me or she’ll turn off the music.”  “Do your work or she’s going to turn off the music.”  It brings joy to my heart.  Another one I’ve heard is “Be nice to her, she lets us listen to music.”  I wonder if music has helped keep me from getting punched in the face all these years…

One of the coolest effects of music chosen by students is all the new songs I have been exposed to because of their varied tastes.  I never would have found some of these songs or artists on my own.   These may not be the clean versions, so if you are a teacher, be sure to listen to them for yourself before playing them for your particular group of kids.  Students introduced me to the following:                 Weak by Wet.                                                       https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8L2tfNrKsYI                                Steve Lacy’s      C U Girl                                        https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5KJIUXbfARk                               This Too Shall Pass by Ok Go                       https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=juX7VJIMsqc                               High Tops by Del Water Gap                                                 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ksrb33z3boo                                         Alec Benjamin’s My Mother’s Eyes  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9Q_15W7eBH8                                   Color Blind by Diplo (featuring Lil Xan) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ResGBWo10GQ                                  Juice WRLD’s Lucid Dreams                          https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_fh64GbFSw4                                      Long Black Train by Josh Turner                https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SZtwxc423jg                                          Falling Down by Lil Peep and XXXTentacion    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p0jIW_pgGzE

Those are just a few from the last semester that I thought were worth sharing.  Since I mostly listen to easy listening/70’s/80’s/Pop music, it introduces me to some of the new stuff kids like (or old stuff I’ve never been exposed to.)  And I get to share some of the songs I like with them.  Many have never heard songs I choose by Prince, Bob Dylan, The Who, The Beatles, Blondie, Creedance Clearwater Revival, Duran Duran, The Cure, U2, etc.  They are intrigued, though, often write down the name of the song and band and want to look it up when they get home.  It fosters a back and forth that is purely enjoyment based.

I may tweak my system a little this year, but will definitely still be using music in my classroom to foster interest, good behavior, and a little bit of buy in to our classroom.  It’s like saying, “I get you.  Your taste in music is noted and appreciated.  Let’s share it with everyone.”

(The picture above is Lil Xan, a current musician? some of the kids like.   All music was once radical to somebody.)