Future Memories

I confess that I'm absolutely fascinated with narratives. The way that the future and the past bleed together in our present understandings of ourselves and the world around us.

It's 11:09pm now. Laptop perched on the kitchen counter, I'm emptying the dishwasher and thinking of so many things. How thankful I am that my husband called to tell me that he was sleepy and was going to take a nap in the Walmart parking lot an hour away...there've been many times he'd have not called. Thankful just to be living and to have a sense, however imperfect, of the way that we are all just here, living.

Oprah had Terri Hatcher on tv today, talking about her new book and the sexual abuse she suffered as a child. Oprah. What a pro. Sometimes she feels like nothing more than Jerry Springer dressed up in self-righteousness, spirituality and high heeled shoes. And then there are other moments when something genuine (genuinely what I'm not sure) shines through.

Anyway. Hatcher was talking about a segment of the book in which she went off on her daughter for spilling some couscous as they were making dinner together. Don't know what others watching took from it, but I just imagined her there in her kitchen, a divorced mom, stripped of all the sequins and hair extensions and airbrushing, working it out with her daughter and working out for herself what it means to try to do right by her child. I hope I’m doing right by my own daughter.

A. will turn four a week from today. She's so different than the girl of three I knew just a couple of months ago. Older (of course). Less trusting, I think. Or perhaps just more knowledgeable about the world. When she looks at me, the person behind her eyes is different, her brain working at increasingly sophisticated levels. But who is this new A.? I’m sure this is a question I’ll be asking myself over and over again as we create our narratives of mother and daughter. One thing is for sure—tivo or not—we're needing to watch less tv. She has a voracious appetite for Backyardigans--I think she can watch the same episode 50 times and still want to see it again. Perhaps this is what I was like with Scooby Doo?

And, a professional dilemma. I am on the verge of working to secure a grant from the government; six figures over three years. Even writing these words freaks me out incredibly. I've never done anything this major before and I keep wondering--is this feeling in my heart a fear that I might actualize my potential...or the realization that I'm biting off more than I can chew, again? I mean, I have about five writing projects waiting to be completed—one of those a final grant report for the 10,000 project I did two years ago. I keep asking myself…Is this right? Is doing this thing right? It feels right…but is it right? Perhaps this is the wrong question, but it is the one that remains on heavy rotation in my brain.

If there ever was something professional to give concentrated thought to, this is definitely something that bears prayer/meditation.