Dear John, I mean, Winter

We need to talk.
This isn't working out.

You're a bit...clingy.
Newsflash: It's Spring. That's your cue to go, but once again, you've overstayed your welcome.
Sure, we had the occasional good time. You were sort of charming at Christmas. Sledding that one day was kind of fun. And I enjoyed those drinks by the fire in my flannel pajamas. But I thought you always understood that I wasn't serious about pursuing anything with you.
Don't look so surprised.

We're not exactly on the same page.

To quote Patty Loveless and to paraphrase every Taylor Swift song, you don't even know who I am. You want me to be covered up all the time, and that's not me. It never has been. You're cloudy and cold, while I'm sunny and warm. You're boots, and I'm flip-flops. You're hot chocolate, and I'm sweet tea. (Okay. Okay. I'm wine. I'm always wine. Whatever.)
The point is, we aren't compatible.

No, don't go down that road. This is not all about Spring. What a tease, that one. Hot one day, cool the next, hinting at wonderful things to come but taking its sweet time giving up the goods. Spring is merely my rebound, a fun little fling. We'll have a few laughs, maybe roll around in the tulips, but Spring will never have my heart. That belongs to Summer.

What I have with Summer is real and beautiful. It's porch sits, fireflies and fireworks, baby. Even if what you say is true, and Summer does eventually leave me again, it's still worth the time we have together. I'm needy like that with Summer. You know how it is.

Please wipe those flurries away and let me move on. It's time to let go, dammit. I can't even bear to open the coat closet and see your things. I'm packing them up today. No more, Winter.
Also, don't draw this thing out. No lingering, hoping I'll change my mind. I won't. In fact, I'd prefer it if you don't come around for a long, long time. I've tried to just be friends, but -- can we get real? -- you're a pain in the ass with serious attachment issues.

Maybe you need some therapy. You're even driving away those who once defended you. I live in Kentucky, and I think you're rude -- what with all that school canceling and family bonding you forced upon us. (Thank God for individual Netflix queues, am I right?)
I can only imagine how New Englanders feel about you now. You came on way too strong this year. What's with you and the Polar-Vortex-Siberian-Express-snow-for-months-on-end bullcrap?
Oh, geez. You're upset. That explains this whole "out like a lion" March thing. Look, it's not all bad. I sort of admire you for being true to yourself and owning it, but to everything there is a season, and it's time to turn! turn! turn!
It's not you, Winter. It's...
Sigh. I can't lie.
It's totally freaking you.
I'll leave the ice scrapers and gloves by the door.
I know Summer won't answer my calls yet (I've been trying since January. Does that make me look too eager?), so I'm going to see if Spring wants to hook up this weekend, maybe show me some blossoms.
Good riddance, Winter.
Don't let the door hit ya where the good Lord split ya.

Daffodil Dreams

I walk through March,
the season
of snow and sun
shadow and light
freeze and thaw.

I yearn for the verdant rooms of spring
yet linger in the cool corners of winter.

Be like the crocus,
the daffodil
the tulip,
I urge myself.

Break through the frosted earth.
Allow the dormant, tight parts to
unfold
open
and gloriously
Be.

But you pull me under the pines
where remnants of yesterday’s snows
are slow to melt
and daffodils
                  are
                      but
                         dreams.

 

Daffodil Dreams poem by Jennifer Jenkins McAnulty, Penned from the Porch, 2015

Penned: The Sequel. Starring that Woman who Hordes Chocodiles

Let's try this again, shall we?

Blogging, I mean.

Writing, I mean.

Living, I mean.

I haven't been doing any of those things. Not really -- and certainly not fully.

Why not, the two of you (myself included) who still read this blog might ask?

Was it because:

(a). I was held hostage by grief after my mother's death.
(b). I was trying to save a fun and challenging -- ultimately floundering -- real job.
(c). I was easing into a second marriage (to a REPUBLICAN).
(d). I was prioritizing precious, all-too-fleeting time with my busy adolescent children.
(e). I was hording snack cakes, thanks to Hostess resurrecting my beloved Chocodiles .
(f). All of the above?

 Did you bubble in "C"? That's understandable. After all, my husband retweeted Ann Coulter the other day and still owns a Rush Limbaugh "Patriot Police" mug, in spite of his marriage to the coolest liberal woman ever (next to the glorious, wine-sipping Ruth Bader Ginsburg). Or maybe you answered "E" because you noticed I've gained 10 pounds.

The correct answer, however, is "F. All of the above". Each one, in some way, factored into my failure to pen from the porch.

But frankly, my friends, I lost my writing voice.

I lost my voice when I temporarily misplaced my confidence. I did not practice what I penned. I did not extend grace to myself, and I certainly did not believe I was enough.

I could explain why, and in time, I might. Let's just say, for now, that we all have crosses to bear in life, and I am bearing mine. I have tried to carry it all gracefully, and most importantly, sanely. There are days that takes everything I have. While lugging around my past, my burdens, my regrets, my misgivings and my fears, I muted my muse. I stopped writing.

I convinced myself that I did not have anything important or unique to say, that my words didn't matter to anyone. I started to believe all the negative things my inner critics were shouting -- the bastards -- and I quit on my muse. She was here, waiting for me to match the work with the inspiration, and I flipped her the bird.

Admittedly, I also spent too much time on social media and Netflix. In my defense, Orange is the New Black is the shiz. (Related: Netflix is convinced I'm a black lesbian. If only, Netflix. If. Only.)

But you know what? I forgive myself.

No matter what life threw my way, I woke up every day, planted two feet firmly on the floor and tried to find the good. Over and over, I did this. Every. Day. That counts, friends. That counts big-time. We should congratulate more people for standing up each day. There are days that is as monumental as climbing Everest.

Fortunately, I'm strong. My mama didn't raise weenies. I'm also a Taurus, and while I don't subscribe to astrology, I am incredibly stubborn and bullish. If I believe in something, I fight for it.

Did I give up Chocodiles? No. Did Chocodiles return to store shelves? Yes. Did I remove the seats from my minivan to buy every box in the Tri-state area? Yes. Do my jeans fit? No.  Did I have a point to make? That remains to be seen.

But that is what the Porch is for, isn't it? Seeing if I have any points to make? Even if I don't say anything wise, I can at least, maybe, make someone, somewhere, feel something. Perhaps that something is "Why did I read this dribble?" But that's okay. It still means that I showed up and tried to connect what is my head to your heart. That matters to me.

Writing is my calling. I might find other jobs to pay the bills, but I am my truest, best self when I write.

I like to filter the world through words; sift through the junk drawers of my mind; and pull out whatever is in there -- whether it is silly, embarrassing, heavy or dusty. And I can explain those double-A batteries in the nightstand of my head. They go in the TV remote for my brain's Hugh Jackman channel.

I want to blog again, even though I probably won't get a book deal from it. Or write "you guys" enough. Or use the F-word gratuitously (mainly because I still literally say "the F-word", and that's pretty wordy). Check this: I won't even tell you how to parent. Therefore, it is unlikely the Porch will  draw in thousands of followers. I don't care. It's still a great place to romp and roam and stretch my creative muscles.

I didn't give up on delicious, chocolate-dipped Twinkie flesh, and I won't give up on my calling. In addition to blogging, I'm dabbling in poetry, memoirs and other ventures. As the floodgates opened, I even began fleshing out a manuscript idea that I don't hate. Perhaps I'll gather the courage soon to send my words out into the places where people pay writers.

If Hostess can bring back my beloved snack cake, anything could happen.

In the meantime, I hope you'll return to the Porch and sit a spell. I've missed you.

To: Me / From: Me / Re: GRACE

Dear Jennifer,

Here is a gift I thought you could use. While it is belated, I wanted to make sure you received it before this hard year falls behind you, for you will need this present in the new year.

It is not exactly practical.

It did not make any of the "must-have" gift lists.

It is not too big, nor too small. It is one-size-fits-all, though it might take some adjusting on your part.

Of course, you can return it if you don't like it -- only I fervently hope you will choose to keep some of it for yourself.

I am giving you -- or us -- the gift of grace.

The other day, while reading your daily devotion, your eyes quickly scanned the passage that said you should become a "gift of grace" to your family and friends. Well, duh. You have always known that, even if you haven't always succeeded at it.

But then you paused because the devotional went on to say something you had never considered before: become a gift of grace, even to yourself.

Even to yourself.

That is something we are not very good at, are we? We are so unaccustomed to such a gift that we stumbled over that line, questioning if such a thing were even possible.

But it is possible.

And it is a gift you deserve. Stop protesting. Stop telling me you cannot possibly take what I am giving you. Yes, you can.

No matter our stumbles and mistakes, our trespasses and our faults, we all deserve to be gifts of grace to ourselves, too.

How do you receive such a gift?

You decide to accept it.

You slip off the cumbersome, scratchy, woolen cloak of doubts and slip into a fine, silken robe of grace. Yes, you will be naked for a short while when you shed your coat of armor, but do not be afraid to be vulnerable. It is who you were born to be. While our daily armor protects us, it also prevents us from receiving real, true grace.

When you are vulnerable, you must extend to yourself the kindness and forgiveness you have sought from others. Have you forgiven yourself? Have you been kind to you? Do you say nice things about yourself, to yourself?

Please nurture your soul, in the ways only you know best, whether that is through poetry or a porch sit or time with a dear friend.

You already have seen glimpses of the grace I give to you.

Remember how you danced at your high school reunion because, by God, you had lost your mother a few weeks before and you needed to dance, to lose yourself in music? You didn't care who was watching or how ridiculous you might have looked. You danced because you needed to dance. You danced and danced and danced.

That was a form of grace - to yourself - to celebrate your life, which moves forward even as you try to hold onto the past.

Remember how you were hurt by those you love most, but even as you sobbed at the utter unfairness, you knew you loved them still?

That, too, is a form of grace to yourself, allowing yourself to forgive and to love -- and yes, even to hurt.

Tell yourself that you are enough, over and over again, until you believe it, until you can toss the armor aside.

If you want more grace, you must peel yourself open like an onion, layer after layer. If you weep while doing so, all the better. Release whatever has held you back from grace. Peel, peel, and peel, until all the outer layers of you, all those past hurts, mistakes and misgivings, are stripped away - and you are the core of who you are, who you have always been.

Hold this green center in your hand. Clasp your fingers around it. Do you feel that? The pearl of who you are? That child who rode her bike down the street, not a care in the world, happy to feel the wind in her hair, happy to be alive?

This is what grace extended to yourself feels like. It feels like freedom.

It is okay to give this to yourself. I am holding it out to you. To us

Please take it. Accept this small token and allow it to be part of your life in the new year. Allow this seed of grace to grow, to carry us through love and loss, victories and defeats.

I am waiting for you to hold out your hand to yourself.

I love you.

Jennifer

A Gift from Above

I do not know where my family will gather for Christmas Eve this year.

For as long as I can remember, we have celebrated at Mom and Dad's wonderful old Kentucky home, a tradition that became known as "Jenkinsmas".

This is where I fell in love with porch swings.

Every family has their own Christmas traditions. Jenkinsmas is no exception -- only our family traditions are, um, especially unique. Consider Mom's grape tree, for instance:

All it needs is a little love. And some grapes.

Then there was the year Mom suggested we play "Christmas flutes." The egg nog must have been especially noggy that Christmas.

And we can't forget our beloved "Otto", a blue ottoman who became the Jenkins family mascot.

Last year, we celebrated Jenkinsmas in our jammies.

Pajama-mas!

As you can see, we always partied in style. Jenkinsmas is a very classy affair.

Merry Mustache-mas

 

 

 

 

No matter our antics, Jenkinsmas has always been the very best kind of Christmas.

Before you read the rest of this post, please take a moment to read this column I wrote for this year's holiday edition of Evansville Woman magazine:

 http://www.courierpress.com/news/2013/nov/18/memories-of-christmas-filled-with-mom/

Then you'll understand why my siblings and I wonder if we can still find the magic of Jenkinsmas without our beloved mother, who died in August from cancer. How can it be Christmas without her?

As it turns out, we aren't without Mom at all. Not really.

Mom had been diagnosed with Stage IV gallbladder cancer in August, 2012 -- and although she was responding beautifully to treatment over the holidays and never once showed her family anything but hope and strength -- she wanted to ensure she was with us this year.

So last January, as she put away decorations, Mom wrote a note to us and placed it in a box, on top of the Christmas lights.

My siblings discovered her letter while helping Dad decorate the massive 10-foot Christmas tree he placed in the living room in honor of Mom.

This, friends, is Mom's gift to us at Christmas -- a gift from above -- left for those she cherished. You see, Christmas for us has never been about things. Not ever. It has always been about family.

Thank you, Mom, for letting us know that you are still with us, even if we are unable to find the strength to gather in that big, old house this year.

You will find us, wherever we are.

Chances are, we will be by your grape tree, tears mixing with laughter, celebrating Jenkinsmas, celebrating you. Just like we Otto.

We will remember the true meaning of Christmas, which began in a manger long ago, and carries over in a mother's note, tucked among strands of lights...

The gift of eternal love.

Merry Christmas, Mom.