by Laurie Wagner | Jun 2, 2013 | Blog
The note your ten-year-old writes you because she heard you crying in the bathtub. “Mommy, we love you very much. Who wouldn’t?” The way she comes in while you’re laying there in three inches of hot water; depleted, exhausted, alone, and how she tacks her little note onto the tile across from where you lay so you can see it. “Mommy, we love you very much. Who wouldn’t?” The way your skin feels right after the bath; smooth and velvety and warm. The peace of being alone in the house because your husband has taken the children out for a bike ride, and how you sit on the porch with your summer skirt on and light up that cigarette. How glad you are that you saved this little bit of tobacco for a moment like this. The big, tall, magnificent trees in your yard and the way they move in the wind. The sound of the wind. The peace of being alone; everything is going to be alright, you tell yourself. You’re going to be alright. Wondering if you could fall in love with your husband again. The possibility that the love you seek is right here, at home, with him. The quiet beauty of your ramshackle home at the end of the road, a home with no one in it except you and the dog. The way you leave the front door open for the wind. How you need the wind to keep you moving, especially now. How after the cry, and the bath, and your late afternoon glass of wine, you feel capable again. Strong. Ready. Right....
by Laurie Wagner | May 27, 2013 | Blog
My adorable Chinese medical doctor, Scott Blossom, tells me that the lungs are connected to grief – which explains my love affair with cigarettes this past week. I wasn’t going to tell him I was smoking, and planned on not having a smoke until after our 5pm appointment was over so he wouldn’t smell it on me. That was some serious nail biting for someone who had lately been having her first cigarette before the milkman arrived. I know. It’s been a rough little spell. Between the overnight departure of the sexy cowboy, which left me in a crumbled little huddle, and an avalanche of deadlines which appeared out of nowhere – I found myself overwhelmed, distracted, incapable and exhausted. Cigarettes and their delicious nicotine rush were more rewarding than a hot bath, a glass of wine, even a good cry. I think it was the way Scott lifted up my limp little wrist to feel my pulse, the way his forgiving green eyes bore down on me – I couldn’t help myself and I blurted, “I’ve been smoking!” Then I burst into tears. At least Scott would know the truth about me and wouldn’t confuse me with those darling yoga girls who traipse through his office with their starry I’M CHANNELING BLISS eyes. I can be me; messy, goodhearted, clunky and sorely imperfect. Besides, I’m a terrible liar. “I can feel it in your pulses,” he smiled. “Your lungs are like…” and then he made this horrible sound like he was a small rat drowning in sewer sludge. Three cheers for me for telling him the truth. “It’s...
by Laurie Wagner | May 8, 2013 | Blog
There’s poetry in not getting what you want. Tugging hard at the flower that doesn’t break easily from the bush. It’s not yours. So when my last two texts to the cowboy went unanswered, I realized, shoot, a door was being closed on me hard and I wasn’t ready. I’m hurt, but for him too, and all times I shut down shop on someone because I was afraid. The astrologer told me to keep the beautiful wall-sized mirror he made and gave me for my birthday. “But it makes me sad to look in it,” I said. “That’s his pain honey, not yours,” she said. Like a lot of women, I am particularly skilled when it comes to men; how they feel, what they need and what they struggle with. But I had my own pain here; a man turned away from me, and it was very hard to hold. I took it personally. Not just ego, but a firm nod to my own unworthiness. Old pain. Cowboy triggered it. And there’s poetry in that too. Poetry for the teenage daughters who witnessed the month-long love fest, who examined the new dress for the date, who giggled when they caught us kissing, who gave a thumbs up for sleepovers, who opened their arms wide, saying “Oh Mama,” when I wept. Someone told me that it’s fine for your kids to see you fall, but they need to see you get back up. I’ve always been a buck up kind of gal, but with a lot of cowgirl, get-outta-my-way swagger. This time is different. I am sad for me, but...
by Laurie Wagner | Nov 25, 2012 | Blog
Advice to Myself – Louise Erdrich Leave the dishes. Let the celery rot in the bottom drawer of the refrigerator and an earthen scum harden on the kitchen floor. Leave the black crumbs in the bottom of the toaster. Throw the cracked bowl out and don’t patch the cup. Don’t patch anything. Don’t mend. Buy safety pins. Don’t even sew on a button. Let the wind have its way, then the earth that invades as dust and then the dead foaming up in gray rolls underneath the couch. Talk to them. Tell them they are welcome. Don’t keep all the pieces of the puzzles or the doll’s tiny shoes in pairs, don’t worry who uses whose toothbrush or if anything matches, at all. Except one word to another. Or a thought. Pursue the authentic-decide first what is authentic, then go after it with all your heart. Your heart, that place you don’t even think of cleaning out. That closet stuffed with savage mementos. Don’t sort the paper clips from screws from saved baby teeth or worry if we’re all eating cereal for dinner again. Don’t answer the telephone, ever, or weep over anything at all that breaks. Pink molds will grow within those sealed cartons in the refrigerator. Accept new forms of life and talk to the dead who drift in though the screened windows, who collect patiently on the tops of food jars and books. Recycle the mail, don’t read it, don’t read anything except what destroys the insulation between yourself and your experience or what pulls down or what strikes at or what shatters this ruse you...
by Laurie Wagner | Aug 20, 2012 | Blog
Like a lot of people, I got caught up in my share of the summer Olympics. I watched a man with one leg sprint like a gazelle around a soft, clay track. I saw beefy guys in little kayaks slaloming down big water obstacle courses. I saw lithe, teenage swimmers pop out of pools with winning smiles and Russian ballerinas toss balls in the air with the tips of their toes. But the one thing I could not get enough of was volleyball star Misty May- Treanor’s lovely, ample derriere. As a woman who has lived her whole life rejecting her body for one reason or another – my thighs were too fat, too muscular, my calves too big, and my tush too plentiful – the sight on network T.V. of a strong, athletic, full bodied woman in a tiny red bikini was absolutely eye-popping. Possibly even a game changer. Suddenly large, muscular thighs and curvy, full behinds were the new beautiful and Misty was leading the way. While other fans might have been blown away by Misty’s digs and dives, I was examining every inch of her body like an ornithologist peering at an exotic, never before seen bird. Cocking my head at the T.V., I took in every inch of her: those smallish breasts, the tan, muscled tummy – paying particular attention when she sat down at a break to see if there was any hint of flab toppling over her bathing suit bottoms. I turned to my husband on the couch and asked, “Do I look like that?” I can tell you what I wish I...
