Southern Love

      So this weekend, being the NPR nerds that we are, my hubby and I were listening to a show about obscure 1940s Cajun musicians in the Louisiana bayous whose riotous and infectious Zydeco melodies carved a unique spot into musical history. During this program I felt an old  familiar yearning for the deep South, a place that I have never visited outside the memories of family members and the pages of a book.

I have spent time in Virginia and West Virginia, well below the Mason Dixon line and experienced firsthand the lush greenness, the almost tangible and self-aware humidity of the Southern air. I have drawn in the exhale of a mountain’s night breath deep in the woods of the Shenandoah Valley, but I have never stepped foot in the South of my ancestors; Georgia, Mississippi and of course, Louisiana.

I have a theory that my compass points towards the Gulf of Mexico because of some subconscious stirring in my blood. I am both Cherokee and Choctaw and before they were forcibly removed to Oklahoma, my ancestors spend thousands of years in the lush green wilderness of Georgia and Mississippi.

 I also blame a love of Southern writers, particularly Pat Conroy (Prince of Tides) and Rebecca Wells (Little Altars Everywhere and Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood). Through their eyes, I have shucked a perfect oyster raw from a Carolina marsh and spent hours twined in a heavy limbed bundle beneath the watchful gaze of flowering myrtle trees and bougainvillea.

I love how these writers engage my senses and make me yearn for a place thousands of miles away. It made me think of the Northwest that I live in-how could I bring someone into my world? What is it about the Pacific Northwest that draws me here?

 If I were to say the Northwest had a taste, what would it be? Perhaps salmon brought in still thrashing from the Columbia River covered in herbs and grilled between cedar planks. Could I make my counterpart in the South taste the almost buttery pink flesh formed in the clean cold waters of the Pacific?

If the Northwest had a smell, what would it be? Rain may be too obvious, but as a girl who grew up in the desert of New Mexico and Arizona, rain is still a precious thing. The mineral tang has a sweetness to it that is released when it hits the ground, opening up hundreds of tiny wildflowers.

If the Northwest had a sound, it would be scratchy acoustic guitars with dust in the frets and scratches in the finish. I would bring my readers the smell of roasting coffee served at all hours of the day and help them feel the warm contrast of the paper cup on a cold day.

This ability to time bend space and time with words is one of the things that I love about being a writer. We live such busy, disconnected lives, it is nice to fall into  a good book and be transported into a community of familiar places and friends…even if you’ve never stepped foot there.

What about you? What images would you share? How would you bring a reader into your world?

Balance....or a lack there of........

Okay Universe, you got me. I give up. You have broken my glasses and dragged my homework through the mud. You have convinced the world that I have cooties and wretched a massive wedgie into my life. You win Universe. I am crying Uncle.

I have been reflecting this past week on balance, or more accurately, my lack of it. Rather than assail you with a whiny tirade of the nearly comical amount of misfortune that has befallen us this week, I am going to focus on my point. Balance. As modern women, we walk a razor fine line of expectation and execution. If you are a career mom, you are expected to excel at your job, pursue that promotion, join the PTA, make it to multiple sporting events all while somehow feeding, clothing and keeping your family from general chaos and maintaining a spotless house.

Stay at home moms don’t have it any easier. I have quite a few friends who stay at home with their families and almost all of them home school or volunteer massive hours at their children’s schools.  In some ways many of my SAH mom friends are expected to be perfect wives and mothers, educators, sibling referees, counselors, and lego feud arbitrators…all while maintaining perfect households. For those of you who have never stayed home for long hours with small children (I only worked part time when my kids were little) let me tell you, there are times when you yearn for a cubicle.

So why do we do it? Who is holding us to these expectations? Is it TV? Or social media and movies?  Or   is it….gasp….ourselves?  Women have always been seen as the backbone of the family. Like the generations that came before us, we are the glue that holds our household together. Many of us would probably honestly say that we take care of all the details of family life because we are convinced that no one else will get it right. I see this in my own crazy schedule. I pack everything that I can into the smallest possible time slots; eager to make sure that my family doesn’t miss out on anything.

The truth of the matter is that my husband and children probably wouldn’t mind if I slowed down a bit and took time to wrestle and giggle on the couch instead doing the dishes right after dinner. I have to remember that I have a supportive spouse who is willing to help out (even if he doesn’t always fold the towels in the way that I like) and two children who are perfectly capable of helping with household chores.

So Universe, I hear you. I need to change my ways and seek balance. I will lecture less and smile more.  I will let the laundry stay unfolded for another day so I can enjoy watching my kids on the soccer field or snuggle with my hubby on the couch.  Now if you’ll excuse me, Universe, I have a big glass of wine and a good book awaiting me in the next room, it’s time to get some “Me” time worked into my schedule.