I Am a Rock. I Am an Island.

I Am A Rock.

 

I Am An Island.

"I have my books
And my poetry to protect me;
I am shielded in my armor,
Hiding in my room,
safe within my womb.
I touch no one
and no one touches me."

 

Shortly after my parent`s divorce I encountered my first brush with abandonment.
It was over my mother`s leaving. Not in a physical--but an emotional sense.
It was the 70`s, the height of "Women`s Lib" when females enjoyed the freedoms of re-inventing themselves after declaring independence from their estranged husbands...
In those days, a constant flow of suitors breezed in and out of our home to bide for my mother`s affections, affections I felt, she had no business dolling out. Not with three young daughters to attend to--Fresh from the wreckage post divorce and still uncertain as to who was to blame for the schism. We were accessories now, and more often than not, locked out of her evenings marked by tinking ice in glasses and muffled laughs and Simon&Garfunkle crooning over the 8-track.
It wasn't`t long before a delicate lock was installed on our living room door.Further shutting out her 3 young daughters from the "adult" world. Apparently, this exciting path to independence she was discovering was a grownup place where little girls didn't`t belong. 

But as a newly divorced beauty with miles of freedom ahead of her, she reveled in the attention of the men who pined for her, oblivious to the effect it had on her impressionable offspring.
This bothered me greatly because this countless array of "boyfriends" stole her affections away from me--Her most deserved middle child. Suddenly I became jealous. She obviously loved them more than me. These interchangeable men that came and went only to be replaced by a new suitor months later. They were disposable. Even a seven year-old could figure it out.
Nevertheless, these turn-style boyfriends were robbing her from me.
These highly unmemorable men were seemingly adored by my her and that hurt like crazy. Where did that leave her own flesh and blood in the level of priority?
Far too low to ignore. 

So as an adaptable young daughter would--I developed my own methods of coping...
In the beginning, I tried in many ways to regain her attention.
I would feign dramatic illnesses. Phantom stomach cramps that could not be easily detected by a pediatrician. When I was called out by the stealth doctor that chalked it up to "nerves,"I invented a new sickness. Uncontrollable rage. I would yell and scream and push and hurl objects and basically do everything in my power to embarrass her in front of these "boyfriends" so they would no longer feel at ease in our happy home. But not even a spiteful little brat`s carrying on was enough to keep them at bay so again, I reinvented my method:  I shut her out completely. 

Now this was no easy feat for a child because the pain lurked regardless of my indifferent facade. But I honed my skill over time and became a little ice princess despite my innocence.
I ignored her with unflappable nonchalance. In her presence I emulated Helen Keller, completely deaf and blind to her presence. And in doing this I found new power for 2 reasons:
Not only could I demonstrate a mutual mirroring of her unaffectedness, but also, this solidarity allowed for countless hours for me to exist in my own world. Quietly in my room.
And in these hours I bided my time drawing and writing. 

And I was a voracious artist as a child.
Suddenly all that silenced anger was soothed by sublimated pastel chalk portraits,
and purple cursive poems. Creativity was my first vector for expression and God knows I had a lot to say. It wasn't`t long before the grownup world began to sit up and take notice.
"The girl has talent." I would hear them whisper over my shoulder as I whipped up detailed still lifes while my peers were still struggling with stick figures.  Unbeknownst to me, Mrs. Wagner, my 7th Communication Arts Teacher submitted a poem of mine to 'TEEN' magazine. Surprising me 2 months later with the declaration: "Congratulations. You're published."  

And then it happened--Mother unhinged the lock, paused the Harry Chapin, and excused herself from the latest suitor in living room. She pricked up her ears and set down her Manhattan.
Her daughter had a gift and suddenly my status on the priority list went up a few notches.
It wasn't`t long before she was fawning over my drawings, and dictating my prose to her bridge partners. She began entering me in art contests that I would in turn, win, and she would proudly display my ribbons upon the kitchen walls, as if they were her own. 

It thrilled me to see my name in print, and have my picture taken for the local paper, and eat lunch at the State Senate with important people. My mother began clipping articles from The State Journal with captions that read "Third Grader--A Winner." And the $100 savings bond from State Farm Insurance, the grand prize reward for `Picture What Michigan Means to Me` art contest, would be the initial deposit that marked the opening of my first savings account. On the front page of the Metro Roundup section of our local paper, there I was proudly displaying my masterpiece of Unicorns galloping and rainbows trailing. Whimsical and optimistic, however contrary to what I was feeling inside. 

But this side of me pleased her. So I continued to exist in the right side of my brain.
And that is where I found my niche--A covert corner of my mind where I would create and produce in exchange for praise and affection. I welcomed this quiet solidarity.
A time when alone, I felt most inspired. When the words and the images seemed to flow from my heart to my hand and across blank pages--moments I would soon turn into masterpieces that conjured words of praise and affection and approval. This is how I learned to recapture my mothers heart--and henceforth became my blueprint to love. 

So if you find me far away off in my little world, do not be alarmed, I am closer to you than you think. It`s just that little girl in me beckoning my return to that familiar place where my hear is most open, although I may seem so closed. In fact it is just the opposite, because in these moments of solitude I am closest to you, as silent as I may be,
find solace in knowing there are volumes of your story inscribed upon my heart. 

"And a Rock Feels No Pain.
And an Island Never Cries."

-- Simon and Garfunkel