Childhood

A New Kind of December

/ Luanne Shernisky / 3 Comments

Lying poolside in December and basking in 79 degree sunlight is truly a dream come true. After a lifetime of cold, snowy winters, I decided that I wanted to turn in my sherpa lined boots for flip flops.


Sandman SnowmanAs a kid, I loved sled-riding, building snow forts, and ice skating. The frigid temperatures never bothered me and snow days off from school were the icing on the cake!

Fast forward 30+ years and things have certainly changed. The only winter sports I engage in now involve clearing snow from my car and successfully traversing icy sidewalks and parking lots with the hope of not falling down.

I didn’t believe it would ever happen, until my son and daughter-in-law moved to Florida two years ago. When my daughter joined them this past summer, what had seemed unlikely suddenly became a possibility.

Aside from wanting milder winters and more sunshine, there were other things pushing me to move:

  • I  finally earned a college degree and was eager to find employment that would reward that effort both personally and financially. Good jobs in small towns aren’t plentiful, so I would have to consider moving anyway.
  • I spent the last three years helping mom care for my dad who had dementia. He passed away last March, but my mom has grown increasingly dependent on others, in addition to suffering several falls. As the child living the closest, I would (once again) be the main caretaker. This would force me to remain in my current job, for the foreseeable future, without any chance of personal growth.
  • The relationship with my significant other was comfortable in some ways, but after nine years I needed a commitment for more than a dating relationship. Because he was dealing with issues of his own, I believed our future was limited.

So, I side-stepped all my fears and left. I’m currently job searching and am being somewhat particular about which ads I answer. I want my choice of prospective employers to be the right one. I’m enjoying the time off with blogging and other projects that I never found time to do. Lately, I feel guilty about not applying to more positions.

My mom is living with my brother and his wife, which is a much safer situation for her, since he works from home. Because I came to Florida she had to give up her house and move, which she’s not happy about. More guilt.

Within two days of telling my significant other that I was leaving to seek new opportunities, he began the process of change that I had been hoping for. Always loving and supportive, he encouraged me to “spread my wings,” but is hoping that I will return to share a new and improved life with him. Yep, you guessed it…even more guilt.

Lying under this palm tree I’m thinking about how happy I am on one level, yet feeling guilty for the above mentioned reasons. Then it struck me:

All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves; we must die to one life before we can enter another. ~ Anatole France

I’ve apparently got some self-reflection and work ahead.

Mine Your Own Material

/ Luanne Shernisky / 7 Comments

The things we leave behind; there are so many. Some we leave happily by choice and others because we simply have to.

In 2006 I left the home that I raised my children in. I had remained in an abusive marriage far too long, but experienced mixed emotions about leaving. On one hand, I was desperate to get away from an alcoholic husband. On the other, I was leaving 18 years worth of memories behind. A lot of those memories were awful, but the ones of my kids growing up were priceless and far outnumbered the bad ones.

I knew for a long time that day would come, but nothing prepares you for the flood of emotions. Despite believing that it was the only healthy option left, I continued to second guess myself. I was anxious to make a fresh start, but terrified of the unknown. I knew that while familiar things can seem comforting, they can still be very bad choices.

There were so many things I wanted to take, but couldn’t. The roll top desk that we bought early in the marriage, the bookcase from my mother-in-law that housed my favorite stories, and the lighted Christmas village from my goddaughter. These were only a few items of a very long list.

Then there was the house itself. We worked long hours to get it ready and I invested my heart in preparing a nice home for my kids. My boys were one and three years old and my daughter wasn’t born yet. The marriage was already in trouble and I foolishly believed a new house would provide a new start.  Soon after moving in I realized this was pure fantasy.

After my departure, I managed to live without the house and all the things in it. I went on to make a new home that I grew to love, because it was truly mine and I found real peace there. However, it wasn’t until years later that I understood the connection to all the things I left behind.

Every item, large and small, had a memory attached to it.

They reminded me of a person, a place, or a recollection that had value for me. All these things together represented my past; my history.

Despite the bitter circumstances of my exit, I realized something important: we take our memories with us. Even though they’re often attached to inanimate objects, the invisible string that connects them is…well…invisible. It only exists in our minds, just like the memory. Although I no longer had these things in my possession, I could still feel the positive emotions they embody.

Now, when I drive past my old house, I don’t feel the intense sadness and loss that I did in the beginning. It’s just another home in that particular neighborhood. This change was possible because I took the happy memories with me and left the rest behind.

 

 

Let the Scene Write Itself

/ Luanne Shernisky / Leave a comment

It was a perfect beach day. The skies were azure blue and dappled with white clouds resembling gossamer. The sun warmed the sand and the sea breezes blew steadily, without so much as a break. There were a lot of foamy whitecaps lining the waves, which seemed higher than usual. A group of seagulls stood silently at the water’s edge looking out to sea as if waiting for something. There weren’t many people on the Florida beach in November; some walkers and joggers and a few sunbathers. Only one family was present on this stretch of beach and the three children busied themselves building a sandcastle.

Michael, the oldest, was a typical big brother. At nine years old he was bigger and stronger than his two younger sisters and believed he should be in charge of the castle building. Walking deliberately around the structure, he eyed it from different vantage points and gave directions to the girls.

“That won’t work,”he said as he brushed sand from his board shorts, a bright pattern of lime green and navy blue.

The girls ignored him and kept on working, pushing sand with their hands from one spot to another. The older sister Maddie was seven years old with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her teal colored two piece suit almost matched the sky, except for the bands of coral, yellow and pink that stretched across the front of her top. Mary was the youngest at four years and was quite the diva, with a pink suit and purple tutu. Her matching hat tied under the chin and had a picture of a mermaid on the top with shiny sequins for scales. Coordinating water wings completed her outfit. Strawberry blonde strands of hair worked their way out of the hat over her forehead and blew in the wind.

There was no arguing and little conversation between the children; they worked silently, moving and molding sand. It almost appeared that they could read each other’s thoughts, as they worked in tandem. Occasionally, Michael would make a running jump over the sandcastle and the girls would protest, but they continued to work.

“Mary, go get some water,” Maddie said and Mary obediently picked up the yellow cup and scampered on her tip toes towards the surf.

An elderly couple walked past the children and the woman smiled at the scene.

Mary returned with the water and handed it to Maddie.

“I hope we can come back to the beach for our summer vacation next year,” Michael said.

Maddie nodded in agreement, “Mom said if we’re good at the funeral tomorrow, then we can come back next summer.”

Mary stopped and gazed down the beach. “When is next summer?”

“It’s a long, long time away,” responded Michael. “By the time it gets here, you’ll be going into kindergarten.”

“Yeah, I wish the years didn’t last so long,” Maddie said as she swatted at a bug. “They take forever and I wish they’d go faster.”

And eventually they did.