It’s amazing how much time can be spent trying to figure out the root of personal evils when it’s often tagging along right behind you all the time. I recently spent a week with family, paying close attention to things I’ve uncovered that I want to change. Why I just stop talking when interrupted or challenged. Why I’ve always resisted standing up for my beliefs and opinions. I have a fairly new understanding of my strength, yet I’ve often used it only when the path was clear. An underlying feeling that no one will believe me or take my thoughts seriously. Why I’ve always stuck around, putting up with insensitive behavior.

With ponderings over the past few years, I seemed to have figured it out. But in the last week, I saw it unfold right in front of me. At least the part that still preys on me day to day. I learned that from the time I was small, I gave in to arguments because the only other option was to argue nonstop, as the other party insists they are always right. No matter the evidence to the contrary. And when the evidence presents itself, it’s hidden. I never had the opportunity to even learn that I was right.

As the youngest, my thoughts were giggled at, teased. How could her ideas be valid, she’s just the baby. Now I know they are. Even more than valid…insightful. I know when I’m right. And I recognize the evidence. Yet the struggle continues.

I also seem to be in direct line with my mother and grandmother. As the generations have passed, confidence has grown a bit stronger. I know that Gram wanted more. She worked at Princeton University Library as a single woman before she became a farmer’s wife and her life turned into plucking chickens and boiling water on the stove for the children’s baths. I don’t know the details of her longings, but she had the air of a stately and graceful woman. Not the type to haul and plant and gather eggs.

I believe Mom loved her life as a mother. She took pride in her home and had the support of Dad who would do all of the wallpapering and home decorating that she desired. We lived in nature where she watched her wildflowers grow and peeked at the groundhogs, deer, and periodic egret through the binoculars. But she also had a strong creative urge that was never satisfied. With the perfectionist strain that ran in the family, or perhaps was passed from parent to child through the generations, the creative endeavors she attempted were never good enough and she let them go. Although she always encouraged them in her children… every week-long beach vacation included paint-by-numbers, stained glass, or a homemade craft project like decorating Dad’s old tobacco tins with burlap contact paper and creatures made of small shells.

I’ve thought many times, maybe I can be the one to break some of these patterns. I know that chances are slim I’ll be able to change the innate characteristics of certain people, but maybe in changing myself I can show what’s possible. Especially to myself. Can I break out of the mindset that I need to follow rather than lead? Do things that fulfill me, rather than what I’m supposed to? Can I find a way to relate to people who will always be in my life so that I can still speak my mind without having to fight for the right?

Much of what holds me feels like a shell that needs to be busted…break it large, not a little at a time. I peck away at the smaller things, hoping eventually they will create a weakness in my shell that I can burst through.

It was so incredible out this morning, I went to the lake. I sat by the edge for a while, listening to the water lap, enjoying the mucky smell only lakes have.

The 4th of July was the holiday our extended family would all venture to North Jersey to spend the weekend at my aunt and uncle’s lake house. We ate lunches and dinners at big picnic tables outside – fruit, potato salad, cold cuts…the usual summer fare.

Mornings were cool and quiet. We would wander down to the house for breakfast from the detached garage-turned-guest room where out family stayed. Mom and I emerged from the garage one morning and I said, “Listen, an owl!” That’s when I learned the sound of a mourning dove.

Breakfast was on the screened porch, little individual cereals, grapes, peaches, eggs for those who wanted. Everyone was relaxed and ready to spend the day recreating. Time didn’t matter. The day was guided by the light and our rumbling stomachs.

Dad took me out in the rowboat once – just the two of us. And who should we come across but my uncle who had taken his sailboat out and capsized it in the brisk wind. It was impossible to get back up when that happened, so we gave him a ‘ride’ back to shore.

The atmosphere out on the water was so much different than it looked. So quiet and calm – only the sound of water lapping against the boat, the oars turning in the oarlocks, maybe a faint voice from the other side of the lake.

When my three male cousins were younger, they were quite the pranksters. One year they attached firecrackers to things – the bathroom doorknob, my sister’s suitcase – you never knew when one would go off. Remnants hung from the doorknob for a long time after. Another year they put a smoke bomb in the outdoor storage area under the porch while everyone was breakfasting and yelled “fire!” I was impressed that my aunt was perfectly calm. She’d raised two of the boys, and knew what it was all about. She had quite a sense of humor.

The night of the 4th was for the ‘hootenanny‘ and fireworks. The hootenanny consisted of grilled burgers, hot dogs cooked on sticks over a bonfire, and, of course, sticky s’mores. When it started getting dark, on came the festive colored lights that hung in the trees, and on came the sweatshirts to warm us in the cool night air. The male cousins would row out to an island to shoot fireworks toward the main land so we had a perfect view. My jolly, rotund aunt led us in exaggerated “oohs and “aahs.”

The rest of the evening would be spent just hanging out outside by the bonfire, kids in the grass, adults in folding chairs, all fending off mosquitoes and passing around the Off! It was always a little odd for me, being 4 years younger than the next youngest family member. Just enough of a gap to be ‘little’.

When we went to bed, our family would lie awake for a while, each quietly reading our respective books. One year my book was “The Short Reign of Pippin IV,” the book that Dad was always trying to get someone to read. I think those nights were the best family time I remember.

After ruminating on past Independence Days, I took a brisk walk to the car – past the picnickers, boaters, and families biking…the smells of grilled food, dog walkers, and fathers and sons fishing. By the time I left there were large groups gathered to celebrate the day. I headed back to my cluttered, characterless apartment to prepare my own individual ‘picnic’, watch a DVD and pretend I’m not spending yet another holiday alone.

In class, we had some kind of haircutting exam. No one was prepared and we were all trying to help or cover for each other.  My subject had long, silky blond hair. I was afraid that I had to cut layers into her hair and had no idea how to do it, but picked up a few tips watching someone else. I think I wanted to create a Farrah Fawcett hairstyle. Sue was very disturbed. I ended up with some kind of bizarre hairstyle that was flat on top and poofed out into curls. Fortunately, no one looked at me strangely as I walked through the halls.

It was a difficult day at school and apparently our class had gone all day, from class to class, without a meal break. No breakfast, no lunch. We were annoyed and complaining when we got on the bus to go home. I sat next to Ann on the left side of the bus. She had short hair like she does now.

Ann and I got to talking and she confided in me that her husband had raped her, that that was why her latest child was born. She was convinced that it would never stop and he wanted up to 10 children. As a religious man, he believed that it was their duty to produce children. I was aghast and furious. We’d try to figure out how to get her out of the marriage. I even asked her if she’d told our old choir director. I knew she’d be beside herself and do whatever it took to help Ann. Apparently a friend who was sitting across the aisle from us was in the same sort of situation!

I’m not sure of the order of the next few things, but my ‘boyfriend’ and I ended up going after Ann’s husband. He was naked in bed with another woman. We battered him with baseball bats. I remember his skin breaking open where we hit. He didn’t want his woman to think it hurt, so he laughed a little and pretended it didn’t hurt. He rolled over on his stomach. I hit the bottom of his foot. The skin broke open and blood seeped a little. I remember thinking that he was a jock and wouldn’t be able to play his sport.

We escaped and ran through the yard, tossing our old baseball bats as we went. I yelled to my partner in crime…what about fingerprints?? He said it was ok, he’d done something so his didn’t show. What about mine…

We ended up in a strange place…under a tent? It was some sort of drug festival. Everyone was wasted. We’d done some sort of drugs, although I don’t remember doing it. Perception was odd. We ran into my friend’s uncle. He was all for doing this drug. And promoting it with his nephew. I was a bit concerned. I certainly didn’t want it to become my friend’s lifestyle. I was concerned about getting rid of the drug smell on my body before returning home. My friend said the way to eliminate it was with the smell of sex. As my body moved to the motion of his hand, I turned to my left. About 50 feet away was his younger sister, mirroring my movements with her partner.

I drove home alone. Traffic slowed on the main road, up ahead I saw flashing lights. Following the car in front of me, I turned onto a road to avoid police. Unfortunately, I found I’d just turned in to a road on a military base. I started to turn around, but realized there was no other route to take so I continued on, through the barriers that were up to allow people through for a detour. I reached the far side of the base, and the barriers were down. I approached slowly to find someone posted at the guard house. His window was open and, smiling, he asked my name and where I lived. I gave him my real name. And before I had the whole town name out, he said “go ahead,” and opened the gates.

Eventually, I ended up at my friend’s parents’ house. He was with me at that point. His parents were up. Waiting for us, I suppose. We cautiously went inside and I said to him under my breath, “I need to rinse and spit.” He made small talk with his father, distracting him so I could go to the bathroom to clean my breath. I think there were sliding glass doors, because once I was in the bathroom, I closed curtains for privacy. His mother reached in and opened them, suspicious about what I was doing. Of course, I was only at the sink rinsing my mouth, so I merely glanced up and went about my business.

That’s all I remember.

Note: The above was a dream. I don’t take illegal drugs. And I rarely drink. This was during an afternoon nap. I hadn’t eaten anything strange, or made any changes to medications. I had been a bit hard on my system this week, staying up too late, not eating right, as usual. But I’m really at a loss as to what would cause this dream.