Mom called the other day. This is her first Christmas back home in Wisconsin after four years of living in Ohio. She should be happy. Moving back was her idea. She spent every day here looking over her shoulder seeing the past as she remembered it, instead of the present that I was providing for her. Because of that, she missed each opportunity I gave her to find joy and shared times here with me. Always thinking she'd be happier in Wisconsin, she took all that I gave her for granted. Now she's back "Home" and she's alone. I'm not there to help her or to take her out every week for lunch and groceries. No more special theater treats or sporting events. No curbside transportation to Dr's appointments. She preferred home alone in Wisconsin to trying to make a home here near me.
And now shes lonely and sad, as I knew she would be. I want to scream "I told you so" . I want to feel a sense of satisfaction, even justice, in her suffering because of the way she took me for granted. But I don't. I just feel loss and pity and disgust for the waste of it all. I had hoped that we could redeem the indifference of our mother daughter relationship by spending these final years together. I even dreamed that her coldness and selfishness would melt if I just tried hard enough. But it didn't, and now it never will. Children only ask one thing of their parents and that is to be loved. Being grown up does not lessen that need. Across all these miles mom still has the ability to cause me heartache.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Sunday, December 21, 2008
The Devils Corkscrew
In 2002 I made a trip out west with a girlfriend. Three years in the planning, it was to be an adventure of a lifetime. Our intention was to hike the South Rim of the Grand Canyon down into the bowels of the gorge via Bright Angel Trail, all the way to Phantom Ranch lodge where we would spend the night in a woman's dorm. We would then hike back out the following day, and celebrate our accomplishment at the beautiful El Tovar Hotel on the rims edge.
One mile into the descent, the thin air and the sheer drop offs began to take their toll on my friend. Louise is a strong woman, my boss, my exercise partner, and a very good friend. I believed that there was nothing she couldn't do once she put her mind to it, but I could see her weakening with every step. We stopped at a tiny rest area where water and bathrooms were available. She took off her backpack, sat down on the ground, put her head in her hands and began to cry. She looked up at me at last and said she didn't think she could go any further. I was stunned. The thought of not completing the hike was as unbearable as the thought of continuing without her. I was torn between my loyalty to her and my loyalty to myself . The sense of beauty, wonder and freedom of this adventure had me in its grasp. There was no turning back for me, but a decision had to be made in fairness to both of us. Ultimately we agreed that she would return to the rim with a small group of hikers while I continued my descent alone.
That is when the real journey began for me. Not the one I had anticipated, of exercise, adventure, and shared experience, but rather a life changing epiphany. I breathed in every sight and sound from within the canyon walls. I watched in awe as the Colorado river changed from a tiny ribbon of blue to a roaring river of strength and beauty. Like the ever changing river, each step brought me more strength rather than fatigue. I had never felt so strong and full of life as I did while dwarfed by the vastness of the Grand Canyon.
The scenery took my breath away, until I entered an area called the Devils Corkscrew. Aptly named, it is a seemingly endless series of switchbacks which appear to lead nowhere. For two full hours, I found myself entirely alone, locked within this baron maze of passages. Surrounded by nothing but steep, colorless canyon walls, the silence was deafening. I stopped for a moment to actually absorb the reality of being totaly alone. I anticipated the possibility of losing myself to the fear of feeling abandoned and lost, but fear never came to me, nor did loneliness, just total peace. In my solitude, I found no stress of being pushed by another to keep a pace beyond my comfort zone. There was no pressure to succeed beyond my own desires, no need to please anyone but myself. And I was pleased and proud of the strength I had found within me. It amazed and saddened me just a bit to realize that the happiest day of my life was one shared with no one. It was the lack of companionship, in fact, that had made the experience so special.
As I left the Devils Corkscrew and entered the final mile of my journey to Phantom Ranch, I puzzled over this revelation. Was there something wrong with me, something broken, that gave me such joy in solitude? I didn't know the answer to the question then, but I have accepted the fact that the right or wrong of it doesn't really matter. The Devils Crokscrew has taught me that being alone is not a burden. It is a gift.
One mile into the descent, the thin air and the sheer drop offs began to take their toll on my friend. Louise is a strong woman, my boss, my exercise partner, and a very good friend. I believed that there was nothing she couldn't do once she put her mind to it, but I could see her weakening with every step. We stopped at a tiny rest area where water and bathrooms were available. She took off her backpack, sat down on the ground, put her head in her hands and began to cry. She looked up at me at last and said she didn't think she could go any further. I was stunned. The thought of not completing the hike was as unbearable as the thought of continuing without her. I was torn between my loyalty to her and my loyalty to myself . The sense of beauty, wonder and freedom of this adventure had me in its grasp. There was no turning back for me, but a decision had to be made in fairness to both of us. Ultimately we agreed that she would return to the rim with a small group of hikers while I continued my descent alone.
That is when the real journey began for me. Not the one I had anticipated, of exercise, adventure, and shared experience, but rather a life changing epiphany. I breathed in every sight and sound from within the canyon walls. I watched in awe as the Colorado river changed from a tiny ribbon of blue to a roaring river of strength and beauty. Like the ever changing river, each step brought me more strength rather than fatigue. I had never felt so strong and full of life as I did while dwarfed by the vastness of the Grand Canyon.
The scenery took my breath away, until I entered an area called the Devils Corkscrew. Aptly named, it is a seemingly endless series of switchbacks which appear to lead nowhere. For two full hours, I found myself entirely alone, locked within this baron maze of passages. Surrounded by nothing but steep, colorless canyon walls, the silence was deafening. I stopped for a moment to actually absorb the reality of being totaly alone. I anticipated the possibility of losing myself to the fear of feeling abandoned and lost, but fear never came to me, nor did loneliness, just total peace. In my solitude, I found no stress of being pushed by another to keep a pace beyond my comfort zone. There was no pressure to succeed beyond my own desires, no need to please anyone but myself. And I was pleased and proud of the strength I had found within me. It amazed and saddened me just a bit to realize that the happiest day of my life was one shared with no one. It was the lack of companionship, in fact, that had made the experience so special.
As I left the Devils Corkscrew and entered the final mile of my journey to Phantom Ranch, I puzzled over this revelation. Was there something wrong with me, something broken, that gave me such joy in solitude? I didn't know the answer to the question then, but I have accepted the fact that the right or wrong of it doesn't really matter. The Devils Crokscrew has taught me that being alone is not a burden. It is a gift.
Friday, November 28, 2008
Scrabble Wars II
This time my daughter brought her 120 pound Rhodesian Ridgeback, Argos, with her to compete in our Scrabble Wars.
"Set up the board, hon, and go first. I'll go get the wine. Argos! get your nose out of my...."
"Common ma, that's the best thrill you've had in over a year."
"Not exactly what I had in mind."
"You could do worse than Argos here. He's my baby boy. Hell, you have done worse...he he he......Setzen, Argos, Lage!"
"Maybe if you used English commands instead of German, he'd keep his nose outa my..."
"You should get a cat ma. Something to keep you company. You're always alone."
"I don't want a cat. I have my beta fish. He respects my space."
"F U N...Not a great word for starts, but at least it's double points."
"We missed you yesterday at Thanksgiving dinner."
"I told you I didn't feel like sitting through another one of those fiascos. I hate Johns family."
"I know, but can't you just sit back and see the humor in it all? You didn't go last year either.
G U I L T.......10 points"
"I just can't be a hypocrite like that."
"You mean like me?"
"No I didn't mean it that way. You love seeing Boo and sis. There's nothing there for me...nothing. A N G E R ....6 points."
"Any luck on your car search? Still thinkin' about the Explorer? Can't imagine spending 30 thousand plus on a new car. G R E E D....8 points"
"I work too hard not to have the things I want."
"Lots of people work hard just to get the things they need."
"Mom, I'm not like you. I WANT things. I don't know how you can stand living in this apartment. F E A R....7 points"
"I love this place...."
"Well I want more. I don't want to end up like this!"
"Like What?"
"Nothin'. It's just that you don't care about anything anymore."
"I just don't care about THINGS anymore. A P A T H Y.....18 points."
"Well, I'm just sayin' If you ever need anything........."
"Some decent tiles would be nice. I pass. You go."
"L O V E....red tile...triple score! Uh Huh Uh Huh!"
"Think I'd better go check the pizza. I can smell it. Argos!!! Get your nose out of my....."
Thursday, November 27, 2008
The Truth About Thanksgiving
I thought I'd be cute and take all my Thanksgiving memories and roll them into a neat funny little piece about dysfunction at its finest. And it worked for me. It made everything seem funny instead of sad. But today I actually had to endure another family holiday feast and it wasn't humorous at all. It was gut wrenching, depressing, and unbearably lonely for me. The names have not been changed to protect the inocent, because there are no inocent.
The day began with a call from my youngest daughter. She'd been drinking and fighting with her boyfriend all night and was hungover and in a foul mood. She informed me that she was not going to go to her sisters house for dinner. We argued stupidly for 20 minutes and solved nothing. She refused to go and I was left to attend alone.
When I arrived with side dishes in hand, no one but Boo greeted me. My daughter and son in law were too busy bickering over dinner preparations, seating assignments, and the barking dogs. I noticed Johns hand was swollen and was given a "don't go there look" from Wendy. She pulled me aside later and told me that he'd gotten so angry this morning he'd hit one of the dogs hard enough to injure his hand. Frankly, I hope it's broken. I quickly joined in, helping any way I could around the kitchen, all the while absorbing the tension between them and wishing I could disappear.
Johns side of the family arrived within the next hour or so, minus his dad. Apparently another rift between them had resulted in his being asked not to come this year. I sat quietly and listened as the conversation centered around just about any topic that they could argue about. And for the life of me, I simply couldn't see the humor in it any more. The dinner was blessed by a prayer of grace that almost sickened me for all its hypocrisy. They continued to bicker between mouthfuls of food. I chewed and swallowed without tasting anything.
After dinner the group retired to the living room to watch the football game. Everyone that is except Wendy and I. We were left to clear the table and do all the dishes. Not one person got up from the couch to help. Not one! Wendy is pregnant and had worked all morning cooking and cleaning for these fools, and they showed no signs of appreciation. I couldn't see any joy in her face. Apparently she was having trouble seeing humor in the situation too.
I gave myself a break and stole away to an upper bedroom to call my sweetheart who was attending his family holiday dinner. I was greeted with love and laughter as the phone was passed from one member of his family to another. Each wished me a happy thanksgiving and then laughed and made a silly joke at Rudy's expense. So this was how a happy family celebrated together. I wanted to crawl through the phone line and join them. But instead I went back downstairs and finished the dishes. At the earliest opportunity, I made my escape, back to the safety of my little apartment.
Earlier today I'd emailed two young women in California who were enduring lonely, crappy Thanksgivings. One mentioned jokingly a trip to Mc Donalds and the other was working all day. I told them I wished they could be here with family instead. Now I think, how stupid of me. I'd give anything to have been there with them, without family, in love and simple friendship. I can't do Christmas like this. I just can't.
The day began with a call from my youngest daughter. She'd been drinking and fighting with her boyfriend all night and was hungover and in a foul mood. She informed me that she was not going to go to her sisters house for dinner. We argued stupidly for 20 minutes and solved nothing. She refused to go and I was left to attend alone.
When I arrived with side dishes in hand, no one but Boo greeted me. My daughter and son in law were too busy bickering over dinner preparations, seating assignments, and the barking dogs. I noticed Johns hand was swollen and was given a "don't go there look" from Wendy. She pulled me aside later and told me that he'd gotten so angry this morning he'd hit one of the dogs hard enough to injure his hand. Frankly, I hope it's broken. I quickly joined in, helping any way I could around the kitchen, all the while absorbing the tension between them and wishing I could disappear.
Johns side of the family arrived within the next hour or so, minus his dad. Apparently another rift between them had resulted in his being asked not to come this year. I sat quietly and listened as the conversation centered around just about any topic that they could argue about. And for the life of me, I simply couldn't see the humor in it any more. The dinner was blessed by a prayer of grace that almost sickened me for all its hypocrisy. They continued to bicker between mouthfuls of food. I chewed and swallowed without tasting anything.
After dinner the group retired to the living room to watch the football game. Everyone that is except Wendy and I. We were left to clear the table and do all the dishes. Not one person got up from the couch to help. Not one! Wendy is pregnant and had worked all morning cooking and cleaning for these fools, and they showed no signs of appreciation. I couldn't see any joy in her face. Apparently she was having trouble seeing humor in the situation too.
I gave myself a break and stole away to an upper bedroom to call my sweetheart who was attending his family holiday dinner. I was greeted with love and laughter as the phone was passed from one member of his family to another. Each wished me a happy thanksgiving and then laughed and made a silly joke at Rudy's expense. So this was how a happy family celebrated together. I wanted to crawl through the phone line and join them. But instead I went back downstairs and finished the dishes. At the earliest opportunity, I made my escape, back to the safety of my little apartment.
Earlier today I'd emailed two young women in California who were enduring lonely, crappy Thanksgivings. One mentioned jokingly a trip to Mc Donalds and the other was working all day. I told them I wished they could be here with family instead. Now I think, how stupid of me. I'd give anything to have been there with them, without family, in love and simple friendship. I can't do Christmas like this. I just can't.
The Binds That Tie
Ahhh the holidays. How they bring out the best in us and in those we share blood ties with. Family gatherings fueled by chaos, agendas, grudges,years and years of baggage and oh yes the dogs. Hundreds of dogs in all breeds and sizes. Everyone must bring one. I'm the only one who comes alone, but no one even notices. I reach behind me to pull some mutts nose out of my backside while brushing fur off the black pants I knew I should not wear, and everyone just assumes one of these adorable creatures must be mine. I laugh every time I see an in law or out law greet one another with a stiff hug, and then slobber all over the dogs. Maybe the dogs really are part of the family bloodline. I've heard John refer to his dad many times as a son of a......!
Then there's the holiday feast. My daughter spends hours preparing the seating chart so that no one sits next to someone they are not currently getting along with; or perhaps an Ex. Sometimes that's just impossible, and the resulting dynamics are truly entertaining. Well, at least to me, because my mother has moved back to Wisconsin at long last, and, I'm the one person who no longer has a personality conflict around the dinner table. Of course the irony of saying Grace before eating and conversation begins, is never lost on me. While they pray and give thanks, I'm thinking, "God ...I hope nobody dies today!"
Politics, religion, problems at work, morals, all those wonderful subjects that create lively conversation; these are the things we speak of! I choke on my turkey
as a certain someone brings up her vegetarian ideals once again. Then grab another fork full from the huge serving platter just to spite her. One of the Exes mentions a money matter which might have been best said in private, and all conversation stops. I can't bear the silence, so I rush to fill the pregnant pause. "Would you pass me the mashed potatoes please?" I say. "How many of you guys voted for Obama this year?"
By the end of the day, dogs are ruining the carpets because everyone has snuck them greasy left overs. Grown ups are half asleep on the couch watching a football game. Boo is bouncing off the walls from too much holiday excitement. My daughter has a headache, and I'm doing the dishes with someone else's Ex. All in all another perfect holiday. I can't wait for Christmas!
Then there's the holiday feast. My daughter spends hours preparing the seating chart so that no one sits next to someone they are not currently getting along with; or perhaps an Ex. Sometimes that's just impossible, and the resulting dynamics are truly entertaining. Well, at least to me, because my mother has moved back to Wisconsin at long last, and, I'm the one person who no longer has a personality conflict around the dinner table. Of course the irony of saying Grace before eating and conversation begins, is never lost on me. While they pray and give thanks, I'm thinking, "God ...I hope nobody dies today!"
Politics, religion, problems at work, morals, all those wonderful subjects that create lively conversation; these are the things we speak of! I choke on my turkey
as a certain someone brings up her vegetarian ideals once again. Then grab another fork full from the huge serving platter just to spite her. One of the Exes mentions a money matter which might have been best said in private, and all conversation stops. I can't bear the silence, so I rush to fill the pregnant pause. "Would you pass me the mashed potatoes please?" I say. "How many of you guys voted for Obama this year?"
By the end of the day, dogs are ruining the carpets because everyone has snuck them greasy left overs. Grown ups are half asleep on the couch watching a football game. Boo is bouncing off the walls from too much holiday excitement. My daughter has a headache, and I'm doing the dishes with someone else's Ex. All in all another perfect holiday. I can't wait for Christmas!
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Irreverent Reverence
They are praying now, "Our Father who art in Heaven...."; their sacred words of faith. The chant appears to give them peace, hope and perhaps even strength. I watch and listen in awe, feeling nothing. I know the words by heart, but cannot speak them. God is not here in this building with me. He never has been.
Although I'm alone here today, I feel no sense of abandonment. I know that God has already given me everything I need mentally, physically and spiritually, to make my way through this world. Religion means nothing to me; just a way to make men more civilized, certainly not Holy.
I leave the building, making no judgement of what others believe. I only know that it doesn't work for me. Outside, the sun is setting. Brilliant shades of crimson outline the clouds. Beams of light reach out in all directions as if attempting to connect the Heavens with the earth. As always, my heart is pierced with the beauty and strength of the evening sky. I look toward the heavens, smile, and say this simple prayer aloud, "Damn You Do Good Work!"
Although I'm alone here today, I feel no sense of abandonment. I know that God has already given me everything I need mentally, physically and spiritually, to make my way through this world. Religion means nothing to me; just a way to make men more civilized, certainly not Holy.
I leave the building, making no judgement of what others believe. I only know that it doesn't work for me. Outside, the sun is setting. Brilliant shades of crimson outline the clouds. Beams of light reach out in all directions as if attempting to connect the Heavens with the earth. As always, my heart is pierced with the beauty and strength of the evening sky. I look toward the heavens, smile, and say this simple prayer aloud, "Damn You Do Good Work!"
The Puzzle Pieces Of My Heart
On the day we met, I was determined to hold my heart safely and securely within myself. I'd told you the night before that I was "cautiously" optimistic about our date. You'd said you were "freakin'" excited! Right on time, I parked up the street from the restaurant we'd chosen, hoping for the advantage of flying in under your radar. But there you were, waiting outside on the sidewalk corner, scanning in all directions for ME. Our eyes met, you smiled, cocked your head to one side and pointed your finger at me. As if saying, "Yes. You're the ONE." And I lost a piece of my heart to you.
The next day we planned a meal together at your home. As I pulled into your drive, I saw you standing out on the porch waiting for ME. Again, you pointed your finger, and then crooked it in a flirtatious "come hither" motion. And I lost another piece of my heart. You'd spent hours creating the perfect Italian spaghetti sauce complete with the pigs feet that make it authentic. Something good and wonderful from my past which I thought I'd never experience again was returned to me in that one meal.
We ate, we laughed, and we talked for hours. You made your life an open book to me while allowing me to keep my secrets. You never asked about my Italian connection. My past didn't seem to matter to you. I was enough for you just as I was, in the present. Another piece of my heart was left behind that day.
In the weeks that followed I received your cards both at work and at home, reminding me that I was always in your thoughts. An e-mail or a phone call kept the connection alive and assured me that I was important to you. We said our first "I love yous" and we meant them. The last piece of my heart slipped into place with yours.
This past weekend I told you about my addiction to picture puzzles and we promptly ran out to pick one out together. You insisted it be your gift to ME. But the real gift came later when you set up a small corner of your home for me to work the puzzle in, and then to my amazement, you sat down to construct the picture together. You laughed at my "focused" expression and I stole glances at your silly grin. I looked up at you at last and said I needed a break from the puzzle. Looking into your eyes, I felt you pulling me to you. We completed each other at last by fitting the pieces of our minds and bodies together in a loving embrace.
Our love is a puzzle to me. I continually ask why do we love so quickly and yet so completely? You say simply, "Stop asking." Perhaps the pieces were cut long ago and jumbled up in the chaos of our lives. Now we've found a way to put them together at last in the way they were always meant to be.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Monsters
There is something terribly wrong. I think I'm waking from a bad dream, but am still in that place where reality and nightmare haven't quite separated, and I can't find my way through the haze. I listen for the sounds of an intruder, any sign of real danger, and I hear nothing. But I know it's there. I feel it all around me.
Fully awake now, I search for the source of my fears, and I sense that it's coming from Wendy's room down the hall. She's sleeping soundly as only a child can, and yet I know she's in danger. I know she needs my protection. There is an aura of pure evil emanating from her bedroom.
I can't move; can't go to her. I am a mother so trapped in fear that I am too paralyzed to protect my own child. My husband sleeps beside me. He is the head of our family, the strength of our tiny world. I worship that strength, trust that protection. I reach for him in the dark and with a trembling hand touch his back softly. Just the feel of him brings me comfort, a sense of reality and well being. Nothing can be wrong if he is there beside me. He would never let anything or anyone harm us.
The monsters are only in my head. I drift back to sleep.
One year later I awaken alone in my bed to the screams of a terrified child trapped in another nightmare. I run to her without hesitation. I am no longer afraid of the evil that lives in the darkness of our home. I've discovered that reality is much scarier than nightmare. The truth is, children can't always be kept safe. People aren't always who they seem to be. The monsters aren't always in your head or under the bed. Sometimes they are right beside you.
Fully awake now, I search for the source of my fears, and I sense that it's coming from Wendy's room down the hall. She's sleeping soundly as only a child can, and yet I know she's in danger. I know she needs my protection. There is an aura of pure evil emanating from her bedroom.
I can't move; can't go to her. I am a mother so trapped in fear that I am too paralyzed to protect my own child. My husband sleeps beside me. He is the head of our family, the strength of our tiny world. I worship that strength, trust that protection. I reach for him in the dark and with a trembling hand touch his back softly. Just the feel of him brings me comfort, a sense of reality and well being. Nothing can be wrong if he is there beside me. He would never let anything or anyone harm us.
The monsters are only in my head. I drift back to sleep.
One year later I awaken alone in my bed to the screams of a terrified child trapped in another nightmare. I run to her without hesitation. I am no longer afraid of the evil that lives in the darkness of our home. I've discovered that reality is much scarier than nightmare. The truth is, children can't always be kept safe. People aren't always who they seem to be. The monsters aren't always in your head or under the bed. Sometimes they are right beside you.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Thanksgiving
Another Ditalini Press assingment. Use the word Thanksgiving to write a poem of gratitude.
Thinking that I
Have become
Addicted to the belief that
No one can be a white
Knight in these dark days.
Seeking redemption from the
Grief of past disappointments.
Identifying with
Various disbelief's.
I
Need to
Give in to love.
Thinking that I
Have become
Addicted to the belief that
No one can be a white
Knight in these dark days.
Seeking redemption from the
Grief of past disappointments.
Identifying with
Various disbelief's.
I
Need to
Give in to love.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Scrabble Wars
This is Decembers assignment from the Ditalini Press. A piece that is pure dialog.
My daughter and I put the fun back in dysfunctional when we play Scrabble!
"36 points? You're kidding! Mom, you sure you counted right?"
"I'm sure."
"Here...have somemore wine."
"My glass is full, and it's your turn......"
"OK. OK. I got nothin' but garbage to work with here."
"Sarah! Fuckit is not a word!"
"Yeah it is."
"No it's not. Here's the dictionary.....show me....."
"Fine! Give me a minute."
"Take your time."
"You dating anybody lately?"
"Maybe."
"Why? Men are all such assholes, and you're too old for sex anyway. So, why bother?"
"I'm not too old for....."
"Gross......Ma!"
"Well, you brought it up."
"I'm just gonna trade in my tiles...you go."
"T R A P......seven points. How are you and Jim doing?"
"He is such a pain in my ass!"
"You two still fighting a lot?"
"Kinda. He's moving in in March."
"What????"
"Yeah, well, gotta see if we can live together first."
"But you said......."
"Is forplay OK?"
"What????"
"F O R P L A Y.....Ma. The word forplay."
"That's not how you spell it!"
"Yeah well, it uses up all seven of my tiles. Gives me bonus points."
"Where'd you put the wine bottle?"
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Morning Pillow Talk
It's six am on Saturday. I should be sleeping in, but Boo and I had a sleep over, so the usual weekend rules don't apply. I awaken to a tiny finger tapping the middle of my forehead and hear a giggly, "Wakey Wakey Grandma". My eyes fly open, and the first thing I see is her silly grinning face six inches from mine.
"Morning sweetie, I love you Boo".
"I love you too Grandma".
"You're my favorite grandchild."
"Silly....I'm your ONLY grandchild."
"Yeah, but I'm the luckiest Grandma in the world."
"You're the BEST Grandma in the WHOLE world."
I poke her in the ribs and she giggles. I need a cup of coffee, so I slip out from under the covers and attempt to bend down to pick up one of ten stuffed animals which have fallen from the bed during the night. WHACK! A pillow smacks me in the butt!
"Grandma, you sure have a big butt" (giggle)
"You are not my favorite grandchild anymore"
"Yes I am."
"Yes you are".
A pillow fight ensues. Coffee will just have to wait.
"Morning sweetie, I love you Boo".
"I love you too Grandma".
"You're my favorite grandchild."
"Silly....I'm your ONLY grandchild."
"Yeah, but I'm the luckiest Grandma in the world."
"You're the BEST Grandma in the WHOLE world."
I poke her in the ribs and she giggles. I need a cup of coffee, so I slip out from under the covers and attempt to bend down to pick up one of ten stuffed animals which have fallen from the bed during the night. WHACK! A pillow smacks me in the butt!
"Grandma, you sure have a big butt" (giggle)
"You are not my favorite grandchild anymore"
"Yes I am."
"Yes you are".
A pillow fight ensues. Coffee will just have to wait.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Night Terrors
I read a piece from a fellow blogger, which was so dark and painful, that I felt rather than understood her words. The experience made me flashback to a time when my youngest daughter suffered from "night terrors". I felt compelled to jot down the memory of one particularly difficult night with her. "Night Terrors" is that memory.
Heart stopping screams awaken me as she cries out once again from her bedroom down the hall. She is caught between sleeping and waking, unable to make the transition safely. Another night terror.
I rush to her side, seeing her as always, bolt upright, eyes wide open, saliva running from her lips; in mid scream. I try to hold her, comfort and waken her, but she stares at me and whispers,
"SHHH. He'll hear you".
I do not touch her. Do not speak. The hair on my arms and neck stands on end, because I know who "He" is and am afraid that this time she may be right. Perhaps he really is in the room with us watching and waiting. And so, I sit beside her silently trapped in this night terror with her. Wondering if we will ever be free from it. If we will ever feel safe again.
Heart stopping screams awaken me as she cries out once again from her bedroom down the hall. She is caught between sleeping and waking, unable to make the transition safely. Another night terror.
I rush to her side, seeing her as always, bolt upright, eyes wide open, saliva running from her lips; in mid scream. I try to hold her, comfort and waken her, but she stares at me and whispers,
"SHHH. He'll hear you".
I do not touch her. Do not speak. The hair on my arms and neck stands on end, because I know who "He" is and am afraid that this time she may be right. Perhaps he really is in the room with us watching and waiting. And so, I sit beside her silently trapped in this night terror with her. Wondering if we will ever be free from it. If we will ever feel safe again.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Lost Inocence
When I was thirteen, the tiny community in which I lived decided it was time to change the education system. The town fathers felt that the 7th and 8th grade students needed a junior high atmosphere to make an acceptable transfer into the high school mainstream. They were faced with the dilemma of not having the funds or the right amount of Junior high age children to make such a plan possible. Therefore, consolidation was considered the only solution to a problem most of us children never felt existed in the first place.
Consolidation meant merging our rural students with the street wise kids from the city. The expenses of the school building and the teachers' salaries could then be shared by several communities. Unfortunately, no one considered what the merging of morals meant to the naive students of the farming districts like myself. It was a culture shock that I never really recovered from.
My first day in the 7th grade began with the usual long bus ride. The only difference was that this time I would be one of the last students picked up on an already overcrowded route. As I stepped onto the bus, I discovered the only seats available to me were those that remained in the very back. Those seats were already half filled with obviously undesirable "tough guys". They concealed their cigarettes and foul language from the driver by hiding in the the furthest regions of the bus. I soon learned there was no need to hide their behavior, because the driver simply didn't care enough to concern himself with anything other than the road before him. Student safety never entered his narrow scope of thinking.
Scarred to death, I sat in one of the few remaining spaces next to a young man who began immediately to verbally assess every physical attribute I possessed. When he finished verbalising, he began to physically assess parts of my upper body that I had been taught to believe belonged to me. Even through the fear, I could feel shame and humiliation for the assault I endured. The ride lasted approximately thirty minutes, but it was a lifetime to me.
When I got home at last that afternoon to the safe haven of my little rural neighborhood, I poured out my heart to my mother. I wept and explained in detail the assault I had endured. I pleaded with her to do something, anything, before the next morning. I simply could not imagine facing the same situation again. She sat me down and explained that new schools were always an adjustment for everyone. She rationalized that if she called the school authorities and reported the incident, I might possibly be singled out as a tattle tale . That kind of reputation could make the abuse worse. She believed it was best if I learned to work out these "social problems" on my own. She was wrong, and I'm not certain I have ever quite forgiven her.
At thirteen, my religious beliefs were limited. Jesus/God was a character in history to me, no more. I believed there was some kind of God out there somewhere but not one who cared personally about me. However, like a soldier in a fox hole, I lay awake most of the night praying to whoever would listen; begging for protection.
The following morning as I mounted the steps of the bus, I was hailed by a skinny boy with thick glasses who was sitting in the front seat. He asked me to sit with him, and promised to save me a seat every day. He had seen what had happened the previous day and didn't want the incident to be repeated. I rode the entire year beside him in complete safety. To this day I say with great shame, that I don't even remember his name.
One afternoon later in the school year, I was forced one last time to occupy a back seat on the bus. I made it a habit every day after school to be one of the first students aboard, so that I could choose a front row seat for the return trip. An unexpected delay forced me to accept a less desirable seat.
Just before the driver pulled away from the school yard, a disturbance broke out in the seats ahead of me. A young girl, with a questionable reputation, was being assaulted by three boys. Her short tight skirt had made her a choice victim and easy prey. As I watched in horror, she was trapped roughly between two seats and held motionless while one of the bully's used his hands to rape her. She never made a sound, but her eyes held mine the entire time. I will never forget the pain we shared in those moments of terror.
In silent agony she pleaded with me to rescue her. My eyes must have reflected my own fear, and she realized that I was too paralyzed to intervene. I would have been their next victim and we both knew it. As tears spilled silently down her cheeks, her plea for help changed to a plea for understanding. I knew in that brief second that she wanted me to confirm that it wasn't her fault. Regardless of her choice of dress or lifestyle, she had not asked for this humiliation. She was just a frightened girl of thirteen, trying to fit in with the rest of the crowd. She deserved protection from the cruelty that was forced upon her by her peers.
When I looked up toward the front of the bus, in hopes that perhaps just this once the driver would come to our aide, I saw his eyes in the rear view mirror. He was watching the assault.
No one reported the incident; not the victim, not the driver, not a single student and certainly not myself. I never even bothered to mention it to my mother. I already knew where she stood on the issue of Junior high. This must be just another one of the "social adjustments" we had to endure. The sad part is that she apparently was not alone in her philosophy, because too many of us suffered that year at the hands of our cruel peers, with no adult intervention. Certainly others like myself had gone to their parents for help and yet no single adult ever came to our rescue. We all survived the year, but many of us were left with permanent scars.
Three decades later, I was forced to relive the nightmare of Jr high through my own children. My youngest daughter, Sarah, brought back the horror and the helplessness of those years by sharing a similar testimony of humiliation and fear.
During her final week in the sixth grade, many of the young boys in her class, became increasingly difficult to discipline. Eager to be out for the summer, they seemed to unleash their frustrations on anyone unfortunate enough to get in their way. One day in particular an innocent prank of de-pantsing began to get out of control. As the afternoon wore on, the prank became more and more violent and less innocent. By the time school let out for the day, gangs of boys were literally ripping the pants from their victims.
On the way home, one such gang surrounded a twelve year old girl and tore the shirt from her body. They ran away with their trophy held high, leaving the shattered girl to walk home half naked.
As Sarah recounted the incident to me, my mind flashed back to that scene on the bus so many years ago and I was sickened once again. I began to seethe with anger for the senseless injury to such a vulnerable child. I imagined that the girls parents would be livid and would demand justice. To my shock, Sarah informed me that no one but the students themselves knew of the assault. The girl arrived home ahead of her working parents and never reported the incident. Neither did anyone else.
I could see the panic rising in Sarah's eyes, as she feared that I might be considering actually reporting the incident myself. Society had done a thorough job of indoctrinating her into the belief that tattling is a social taboo. It was this taboo that had allowed an innocent child to be stripped in broad daylight while her tormentors went free.
I wanted desperately to be ignorant of the incident, so that I could ignore the rage that was building inside of me. I didn't want to betray Sarah's confidence in me either. She tried to reassure me that such violence could never happen to her because, "She had friends." I was shocked at her total inability to believe that an adult could or even would intervene in such matters successfully. For just a moment I began to believe what my mother had said about "social adjustments". Then I remembered the pain in the eyes of the rape victim twenty seven years ago, and I knew I had to report the assault for the sake of all the children, both past and present.
Without hesitation, I called the school principal and repeated the story just as Sarah had told me, including the names of two of the boys involved. I was given no guarantees of confidentiality, in fact I wasn't certain my testimony was believed. It did not appear to be well received by the woman in charge of school discipline.
I was overwhelmed with doubt at the wisdom of my intervention. What had seemed so right only moments ago now seemed gray and uncertain. I spent the morning worrying about the possible consequences of my actions. I didn't want to lose my daughters trust or put her safety at risk. Would she pay the price for my sense of civic duty? But someone had to protect the children from themselves and from the apathy of over worked parents. If not me, then who?
At long last, I received a grateful call from the school principal . She had indeed checked out my daughters story and had found it to be true. She had called a general assembly of the student body, and pressed home the fact that no one has the right to victimize another person in such a violent manner. The boys involved were taken before their parents for discipline. I don't know if the little girl ever told her parents, but at least she knew that what had happened to her was an act worthy of discipline and not her fault.
My call to the principal was kept in strictest confidence, for which I was eternally grateful. Sarah had no idea that it was my testimony that brought about the conviction of these class bullies. I don't know if she would forgive me if she were told the truth. But certainly she must have felt just a little bit safer, a little more loved and protected. I never want her to have to look into the eyes of fear as I did so many years ago.
Consolidation meant merging our rural students with the street wise kids from the city. The expenses of the school building and the teachers' salaries could then be shared by several communities. Unfortunately, no one considered what the merging of morals meant to the naive students of the farming districts like myself. It was a culture shock that I never really recovered from.
My first day in the 7th grade began with the usual long bus ride. The only difference was that this time I would be one of the last students picked up on an already overcrowded route. As I stepped onto the bus, I discovered the only seats available to me were those that remained in the very back. Those seats were already half filled with obviously undesirable "tough guys". They concealed their cigarettes and foul language from the driver by hiding in the the furthest regions of the bus. I soon learned there was no need to hide their behavior, because the driver simply didn't care enough to concern himself with anything other than the road before him. Student safety never entered his narrow scope of thinking.
Scarred to death, I sat in one of the few remaining spaces next to a young man who began immediately to verbally assess every physical attribute I possessed. When he finished verbalising, he began to physically assess parts of my upper body that I had been taught to believe belonged to me. Even through the fear, I could feel shame and humiliation for the assault I endured. The ride lasted approximately thirty minutes, but it was a lifetime to me.
When I got home at last that afternoon to the safe haven of my little rural neighborhood, I poured out my heart to my mother. I wept and explained in detail the assault I had endured. I pleaded with her to do something, anything, before the next morning. I simply could not imagine facing the same situation again. She sat me down and explained that new schools were always an adjustment for everyone. She rationalized that if she called the school authorities and reported the incident, I might possibly be singled out as a tattle tale . That kind of reputation could make the abuse worse. She believed it was best if I learned to work out these "social problems" on my own. She was wrong, and I'm not certain I have ever quite forgiven her.
At thirteen, my religious beliefs were limited. Jesus/God was a character in history to me, no more. I believed there was some kind of God out there somewhere but not one who cared personally about me. However, like a soldier in a fox hole, I lay awake most of the night praying to whoever would listen; begging for protection.
The following morning as I mounted the steps of the bus, I was hailed by a skinny boy with thick glasses who was sitting in the front seat. He asked me to sit with him, and promised to save me a seat every day. He had seen what had happened the previous day and didn't want the incident to be repeated. I rode the entire year beside him in complete safety. To this day I say with great shame, that I don't even remember his name.
One afternoon later in the school year, I was forced one last time to occupy a back seat on the bus. I made it a habit every day after school to be one of the first students aboard, so that I could choose a front row seat for the return trip. An unexpected delay forced me to accept a less desirable seat.
Just before the driver pulled away from the school yard, a disturbance broke out in the seats ahead of me. A young girl, with a questionable reputation, was being assaulted by three boys. Her short tight skirt had made her a choice victim and easy prey. As I watched in horror, she was trapped roughly between two seats and held motionless while one of the bully's used his hands to rape her. She never made a sound, but her eyes held mine the entire time. I will never forget the pain we shared in those moments of terror.
In silent agony she pleaded with me to rescue her. My eyes must have reflected my own fear, and she realized that I was too paralyzed to intervene. I would have been their next victim and we both knew it. As tears spilled silently down her cheeks, her plea for help changed to a plea for understanding. I knew in that brief second that she wanted me to confirm that it wasn't her fault. Regardless of her choice of dress or lifestyle, she had not asked for this humiliation. She was just a frightened girl of thirteen, trying to fit in with the rest of the crowd. She deserved protection from the cruelty that was forced upon her by her peers.
When I looked up toward the front of the bus, in hopes that perhaps just this once the driver would come to our aide, I saw his eyes in the rear view mirror. He was watching the assault.
No one reported the incident; not the victim, not the driver, not a single student and certainly not myself. I never even bothered to mention it to my mother. I already knew where she stood on the issue of Junior high. This must be just another one of the "social adjustments" we had to endure. The sad part is that she apparently was not alone in her philosophy, because too many of us suffered that year at the hands of our cruel peers, with no adult intervention. Certainly others like myself had gone to their parents for help and yet no single adult ever came to our rescue. We all survived the year, but many of us were left with permanent scars.
Three decades later, I was forced to relive the nightmare of Jr high through my own children. My youngest daughter, Sarah, brought back the horror and the helplessness of those years by sharing a similar testimony of humiliation and fear.
During her final week in the sixth grade, many of the young boys in her class, became increasingly difficult to discipline. Eager to be out for the summer, they seemed to unleash their frustrations on anyone unfortunate enough to get in their way. One day in particular an innocent prank of de-pantsing began to get out of control. As the afternoon wore on, the prank became more and more violent and less innocent. By the time school let out for the day, gangs of boys were literally ripping the pants from their victims.
On the way home, one such gang surrounded a twelve year old girl and tore the shirt from her body. They ran away with their trophy held high, leaving the shattered girl to walk home half naked.
As Sarah recounted the incident to me, my mind flashed back to that scene on the bus so many years ago and I was sickened once again. I began to seethe with anger for the senseless injury to such a vulnerable child. I imagined that the girls parents would be livid and would demand justice. To my shock, Sarah informed me that no one but the students themselves knew of the assault. The girl arrived home ahead of her working parents and never reported the incident. Neither did anyone else.
I could see the panic rising in Sarah's eyes, as she feared that I might be considering actually reporting the incident myself. Society had done a thorough job of indoctrinating her into the belief that tattling is a social taboo. It was this taboo that had allowed an innocent child to be stripped in broad daylight while her tormentors went free.
I wanted desperately to be ignorant of the incident, so that I could ignore the rage that was building inside of me. I didn't want to betray Sarah's confidence in me either. She tried to reassure me that such violence could never happen to her because, "She had friends." I was shocked at her total inability to believe that an adult could or even would intervene in such matters successfully. For just a moment I began to believe what my mother had said about "social adjustments". Then I remembered the pain in the eyes of the rape victim twenty seven years ago, and I knew I had to report the assault for the sake of all the children, both past and present.
Without hesitation, I called the school principal and repeated the story just as Sarah had told me, including the names of two of the boys involved. I was given no guarantees of confidentiality, in fact I wasn't certain my testimony was believed. It did not appear to be well received by the woman in charge of school discipline.
I was overwhelmed with doubt at the wisdom of my intervention. What had seemed so right only moments ago now seemed gray and uncertain. I spent the morning worrying about the possible consequences of my actions. I didn't want to lose my daughters trust or put her safety at risk. Would she pay the price for my sense of civic duty? But someone had to protect the children from themselves and from the apathy of over worked parents. If not me, then who?
At long last, I received a grateful call from the school principal . She had indeed checked out my daughters story and had found it to be true. She had called a general assembly of the student body, and pressed home the fact that no one has the right to victimize another person in such a violent manner. The boys involved were taken before their parents for discipline. I don't know if the little girl ever told her parents, but at least she knew that what had happened to her was an act worthy of discipline and not her fault.
My call to the principal was kept in strictest confidence, for which I was eternally grateful. Sarah had no idea that it was my testimony that brought about the conviction of these class bullies. I don't know if she would forgive me if she were told the truth. But certainly she must have felt just a little bit safer, a little more loved and protected. I never want her to have to look into the eyes of fear as I did so many years ago.
My Lover's Hands
I want to be held by your hands of "strength". The ones that lift weights to keep your body strong and beautiful; that drive the nails to repair the front steps of your home.
I want to be touched by your hands of "creativity". The ones that search out the finest shapes and colors of exotic woods and then carve out a thing of beauty.
I want to be played by the hands of the "musician". The ones that pluck and tease the bass strings of your Fender guitar until it groans with the sensual bass notes of a favorite song.
I want to be protected by your "nurturing" hands. The ones that stir and spread the polenta to provide a feast for family gatherings.
I want to be caressed by your hands of "love". The ones that breathe life back into me and send flutterby shivers down my spine and into my soul.
Hold me, touch me, mold me, feed me, love me.
I want to be touched by your hands of "creativity". The ones that search out the finest shapes and colors of exotic woods and then carve out a thing of beauty.
I want to be played by the hands of the "musician". The ones that pluck and tease the bass strings of your Fender guitar until it groans with the sensual bass notes of a favorite song.
I want to be protected by your "nurturing" hands. The ones that stir and spread the polenta to provide a feast for family gatherings.
I want to be caressed by your hands of "love". The ones that breathe life back into me and send flutterby shivers down my spine and into my soul.
Hold me, touch me, mold me, feed me, love me.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Questions Without Answers
Is it true?
Are you my reward
For the years of survival I've endured?
Or will an invoice arrive with hidden costs?
Will the other shoe drop?
Or am I standing firmly at last
In fur lined moccasins?
Comfortable, soft, and painless.
Will you stay?
Or be taken from me like everything else?
Am I looking at the beginning of forever
Or just the beginning of another end?
You say "Don't ask why, just believe."
And I try so hard..
But my faith is weak and my
Fear is great.
Do I dare to hold on to you?
Or will I slip and fall once again
To life's twisty turns?
No matter, the die is cast
I am yours.
Are you my reward
For the years of survival I've endured?
Or will an invoice arrive with hidden costs?
Will the other shoe drop?
Or am I standing firmly at last
In fur lined moccasins?
Comfortable, soft, and painless.
Will you stay?
Or be taken from me like everything else?
Am I looking at the beginning of forever
Or just the beginning of another end?
You say "Don't ask why, just believe."
And I try so hard..
But my faith is weak and my
Fear is great.
Do I dare to hold on to you?
Or will I slip and fall once again
To life's twisty turns?
No matter, the die is cast
I am yours.
Monday, November 10, 2008
New Years Polenta Assault
Monday, November 10, 2008
This post is the result of an assignment from the Ditilini Press. We were instructed to create a fictional headline and an article which would be both humorous and original. This was so beyond my comfort zone that I thought I'd simply forfeit the assignment. Then I met the most amazing Italian family and they inspired me to write outside my normal boundaries. Thank you Rudy and Papa Calzone from the bottom of my heart. WINK
The traditional New Years day Polenta dinner at the Calzone family turned into a meatball massacre, when a careless guest tried to spear a meatball from the center of the Polenta board.Not having been educated in the proper rules of Polenta board etiquette, Ms Smith, of Parma, unwittingly committed the ultimate faus pas. After consuming the meatball in front of her, she casually reached for another which rested approximately one foot toward the center of the board. Any Italian knows that one must eat their way to the next meatball, never reaching across the Polenta for one.
From out of nowhere Papa Calzone sprang at her with a fork, in an attempt, to teach her the finer points of Italian tradition. Narrowly missing her hand, he harpooned the meatball to the Polenta board. Chaos ensued. Needless to say, the hapless guest, headed for the nearest exit.
When asked why she did not call 911 regarding the assault, she simply said, "I've seen all the Godfather movies and have no desire to wake up one morning with a bloody meatball under my sheets!"
This post is the result of an assignment from the Ditilini Press. We were instructed to create a fictional headline and an article which would be both humorous and original. This was so beyond my comfort zone that I thought I'd simply forfeit the assignment. Then I met the most amazing Italian family and they inspired me to write outside my normal boundaries. Thank you Rudy and Papa Calzone from the bottom of my heart. WINK
The traditional New Years day Polenta dinner at the Calzone family turned into a meatball massacre, when a careless guest tried to spear a meatball from the center of the Polenta board.Not having been educated in the proper rules of Polenta board etiquette, Ms Smith, of Parma, unwittingly committed the ultimate faus pas. After consuming the meatball in front of her, she casually reached for another which rested approximately one foot toward the center of the board. Any Italian knows that one must eat their way to the next meatball, never reaching across the Polenta for one.
From out of nowhere Papa Calzone sprang at her with a fork, in an attempt, to teach her the finer points of Italian tradition. Narrowly missing her hand, he harpooned the meatball to the Polenta board. Chaos ensued. Needless to say, the hapless guest, headed for the nearest exit.
When asked why she did not call 911 regarding the assault, she simply said, "I've seen all the Godfather movies and have no desire to wake up one morning with a bloody meatball under my sheets!"
Thursday, November 6, 2008
I Could Have Learned Another Way
Life experiences teach us so much more than any academic facility could. I tend to be a slow learner. I look back at life and continually say, "I could have learned another way." But I think I'm wrong. These life lessons were meant for me. No regrets, no whining, no coulda, shoulda, woulda.
So what have I learned????????
1. Change anger to love by performing random acts of kindness.
2. Standing tall and proud in front of the mirror may not be easy but it is empowering.
3. Replacing lost love with new love is the fastest way to heal a broken heart. It may not be wise or even lasting, but it sometimes is enough. A band aide can often give the heart enough time to heal. Receiving a band aid is balm to the soul. Being a band aide is a gift of true love.
4. If you want to receive unconditional love, then you have to give it.
5. Always remember the person or persons from your past who kept you safe and gave you the strength and courage to go on. Then emulate them.
6. Re-decorate the baron walls of your life with pictures of new experiences. Make new memories.
7. Love, Love, Love
8. Try to trust even though your faith has been shattered.
9. Just Breathe
10. Give up the guilt
I would conclude with " Don't be afraid to cry and allow someone to comfort you." But I still can't do that. Tears are my personal demons. I know they might become angels of mercy if I shared them. But knowing this, I still cannot.
I believe another life lesson has come my way; another teacher has been sent to me. I'm praying that this time I will be a better student.
So what have I learned????????
1. Change anger to love by performing random acts of kindness.
2. Standing tall and proud in front of the mirror may not be easy but it is empowering.
3. Replacing lost love with new love is the fastest way to heal a broken heart. It may not be wise or even lasting, but it sometimes is enough. A band aide can often give the heart enough time to heal. Receiving a band aid is balm to the soul. Being a band aide is a gift of true love.
4. If you want to receive unconditional love, then you have to give it.
5. Always remember the person or persons from your past who kept you safe and gave you the strength and courage to go on. Then emulate them.
6. Re-decorate the baron walls of your life with pictures of new experiences. Make new memories.
7. Love, Love, Love
8. Try to trust even though your faith has been shattered.
9. Just Breathe
10. Give up the guilt
I would conclude with " Don't be afraid to cry and allow someone to comfort you." But I still can't do that. Tears are my personal demons. I know they might become angels of mercy if I shared them. But knowing this, I still cannot.
I believe another life lesson has come my way; another teacher has been sent to me. I'm praying that this time I will be a better student.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Missy O'Neil
Barb was a fiery Irish red head who occupied the cubicle beside me at work for seven years. Hot tempered and reclusive as she was, I felt honored to be one of the chosen few allowed into her world. We shared so many special moments together both inside and outside of work. The love of our grandchildren was perhaps our warmest bond. Barb's two grandchildren lived in California, which made her heart ache to see them more often than she could. Over the years, she became my dearest friend and closest confidant. Every night, as I passed her cubicle, I shouted out "Good night Missy O'Neil", and she'd smile and wave goodbye.
Two years ago, she traveled to London with her nomadic son Patrick to enjoy a three week vacation. They called it their trip of a lifetime. Pictures from their adventures abroad are some of my most valued keep sakes. During their final week in London, Barb became seriously ill. The moment she arrived back home it became apparent that she needed immediate medical attention. Within a matter of days, she was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer and was given less than three months to live. Her addiction to cigarettes demanding the ultimate sacrifice. My last visit with her took place at the Cleveland Clinic. I told her I loved her and we said our last goodbyes. I never saw her again. She died the following week while I was on vacation in Cancun.
The next two months were an agony for me. I needed to know that she was at peace. She haunted my every thought. I would pass her empty cubicle and whisper "Good night Missy O'Neil" and wonder if she heard me. And then she visited me in a dream.
I'd never known Barb as a young woman, but when she appeared in my dream as a radiant young red head I recognized her immediately. She was wearing a stunning red dress with red heels and a smile that would have lit up a room. I ran toward her with the intention of embracing her, but she raised her hand indicating clearly that I was not to approach or touch her. So I stopped and took the opportunity to ask her if she was going to be all right, if she was at peace. She smiled her wicked little smile and nodded yes. Then she waved, turned on her heel, and walked away. I no longer felt sadness or loss, just pure relief at knowing my best friend was at peace, and happy at last. I never dreamed of her again, and I no longer agonized over losing her. She had come back just long enough to give me the comfort I needed.
I still pass her cubicle every night and smile and whisper "Good Night Missy O'Neil".
Two years ago, she traveled to London with her nomadic son Patrick to enjoy a three week vacation. They called it their trip of a lifetime. Pictures from their adventures abroad are some of my most valued keep sakes. During their final week in London, Barb became seriously ill. The moment she arrived back home it became apparent that she needed immediate medical attention. Within a matter of days, she was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer and was given less than three months to live. Her addiction to cigarettes demanding the ultimate sacrifice. My last visit with her took place at the Cleveland Clinic. I told her I loved her and we said our last goodbyes. I never saw her again. She died the following week while I was on vacation in Cancun.
The next two months were an agony for me. I needed to know that she was at peace. She haunted my every thought. I would pass her empty cubicle and whisper "Good night Missy O'Neil" and wonder if she heard me. And then she visited me in a dream.
I'd never known Barb as a young woman, but when she appeared in my dream as a radiant young red head I recognized her immediately. She was wearing a stunning red dress with red heels and a smile that would have lit up a room. I ran toward her with the intention of embracing her, but she raised her hand indicating clearly that I was not to approach or touch her. So I stopped and took the opportunity to ask her if she was going to be all right, if she was at peace. She smiled her wicked little smile and nodded yes. Then she waved, turned on her heel, and walked away. I no longer felt sadness or loss, just pure relief at knowing my best friend was at peace, and happy at last. I never dreamed of her again, and I no longer agonized over losing her. She had come back just long enough to give me the comfort I needed.
I still pass her cubicle every night and smile and whisper "Good Night Missy O'Neil".
Monday, October 27, 2008
Mother Ocean
I was first introduced to the ocean in 1997, on the beaches of Cancun. A late night flight had me arriving after dark, so her appearance was hidden from me. I say "she" because in my mind, the ocean can be nothing less than female. With only a black moonless sky and thousands of brilliant stars as whitnesses, we met under the cover of darkness. From the moment I heard the roar of her voice and felt her siren like pull, I became bewitched by her power, love and majesty. Though I could not see her.....the dark vastness of the water drew me in.....seducing me with the danger of coming in to play in her waves. Out of respect, I declined the offer, deciding, wisely, to wait until daybreak to join her.
The sunrise seemed to warm and calm her ,and she appeared to be a more gentle playmate. So I ran to meet her. How truly beautiful she was. She met me with a powerful embrace, nearly knocking me off my feet. I laughed and dared to push deeper into her grasp. Like a mother lion batting at her cub, she tossed me lovingly about. We wrestled like this, with total abandon until I no longer had the strength to resist her ability to pull me under. Oh how I wanted to win against this worthy opponent; but I knew I was not, and never would be, her equal. And so I conceded the tug of war, and left her embrace.
Maybe it's my Pisces birthright to claim the ocean as Mother. All I know is that I draw strength from her each time we meet. And when I leave her behind, as I always must, I walk away with a sense of renewed spiritual power that helps keep me strong all the days between our visits.
The sunrise seemed to warm and calm her ,and she appeared to be a more gentle playmate. So I ran to meet her. How truly beautiful she was. She met me with a powerful embrace, nearly knocking me off my feet. I laughed and dared to push deeper into her grasp. Like a mother lion batting at her cub, she tossed me lovingly about. We wrestled like this, with total abandon until I no longer had the strength to resist her ability to pull me under. Oh how I wanted to win against this worthy opponent; but I knew I was not, and never would be, her equal. And so I conceded the tug of war, and left her embrace.
Maybe it's my Pisces birthright to claim the ocean as Mother. All I know is that I draw strength from her each time we meet. And when I leave her behind, as I always must, I walk away with a sense of renewed spiritual power that helps keep me strong all the days between our visits.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Commin' Home
There are places in my mind........
The Mountains of Tennessee,
A log cabin in Arkansas.
Places I once called home .
I can't go back there now
Because they are gone.
Remaining only
In my memories
There are places in my heart..............
Grandpas loving embrace,
The tears of a dieing friend.
Places that make me ache with longing.
I can't go back there now
Because they too are gone.
Remaining only deep
Within my heart.
And I wonder sometimes.......
Will I ever find home again?
That place where love is kind and
Unconditional.............
I see your smile, your warm eyes,
Feel the Flutterbys in my stomach.
I'm beginning to hope, perhaps believe
I'm commin' home at last.
The Mountains of Tennessee,
A log cabin in Arkansas.
Places I once called home .
I can't go back there now
Because they are gone.
Remaining only
In my memories
There are places in my heart..............
Grandpas loving embrace,
The tears of a dieing friend.
Places that make me ache with longing.
I can't go back there now
Because they too are gone.
Remaining only deep
Within my heart.
And I wonder sometimes.......
Will I ever find home again?
That place where love is kind and
Unconditional.............
I see your smile, your warm eyes,
Feel the Flutterbys in my stomach.
I'm beginning to hope, perhaps believe
I'm commin' home at last.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
I Miss Arkansas
Sometimes I miss Arkansas. That tiny cabin built of logs and stone, and filled to the brim with the love and gentleness of my grandma and grandpa. I remember the smell of grandpas pipe, the warmth of a crackling fire, the twinkle in his eye as I sat on his lap and listened to his stories. I can almost hear the constant chirp of the crickets and the occasional sweet call of the whippoorwill. Almost see the flash of the fireflies, smell the pipe tobacco.
For two blessed weeks every year I found shelter from my fathers drunken rages and my mothers cold indifference. I received enough love those few days to carry me through the other 50 weeks of the year.
At dusk, grandpa would match his long strides to my short ones, and trust me to walk beside him as we gathered the cows from their day of grazing. He'd sit me on a wooden stool in the barn, and guide my little hands to the warm teats of a swollen udder....teaching me how to coax milk from a stubborn Guernsey. There were no harsh words, or scolding slaps. Only gentle hands and soft words guiding, teaching, lifting and encouraging me. I felt so loved and protected.
I have never since known such peace or felt such protection from life's harshness. We simply lived those two weeks enjoying the bounty of fresh meat and produce that farm work provides. Chores were done with laughter and pride. As long as one was kind and tried ones best, nothing more was asked. Perfection was not even considered , much less expected. Love was good enough. I was good enough. I never seemed to disappoint my Grandparents.
I want to be that same shelter for Boo as she goes through life. The log cabin in Arkansas is gone now, but perhaps someday Boo will look back and remember the warmth of my tiny apartment. The laughter on my balcony as we blew bubbles and did chalk drawings. The smell of popcorn in bed as we snuggled beneath the blankets watching a Disney movie.
Sometimes I miss Arkansas
For two blessed weeks every year I found shelter from my fathers drunken rages and my mothers cold indifference. I received enough love those few days to carry me through the other 50 weeks of the year.
At dusk, grandpa would match his long strides to my short ones, and trust me to walk beside him as we gathered the cows from their day of grazing. He'd sit me on a wooden stool in the barn, and guide my little hands to the warm teats of a swollen udder....teaching me how to coax milk from a stubborn Guernsey. There were no harsh words, or scolding slaps. Only gentle hands and soft words guiding, teaching, lifting and encouraging me. I felt so loved and protected.
I have never since known such peace or felt such protection from life's harshness. We simply lived those two weeks enjoying the bounty of fresh meat and produce that farm work provides. Chores were done with laughter and pride. As long as one was kind and tried ones best, nothing more was asked. Perfection was not even considered , much less expected. Love was good enough. I was good enough. I never seemed to disappoint my Grandparents.
I want to be that same shelter for Boo as she goes through life. The log cabin in Arkansas is gone now, but perhaps someday Boo will look back and remember the warmth of my tiny apartment. The laughter on my balcony as we blew bubbles and did chalk drawings. The smell of popcorn in bed as we snuggled beneath the blankets watching a Disney movie.
Sometimes I miss Arkansas
Friday, October 17, 2008
Three Daughters
I have three daughters who have grown, under my care, into women. They each sit beside the river of life and gaze across at the future which awaits them. Each sees the river in a different light. Each makes an individual decision of whether or not to cross over. I watch in awe, as they struggle, unable to choose for them the direction they must take.
Wendy waits calmly at the edge of the water. She can see the other side but it has no hold on her. She appears content to sit among the reeds and flowers preparing a quiet nest for herself and her family. There are sights and sounds from across the river that call to her from time to time but she is not a strong swimmer and knows her limitations. She waits patiently for Gods direction, assuming that he will either build a bridge or send a ferry for her to cross, if infact, that is His choice for her. Her faith allows her to seek comfort in the knowledge that God is in charge of her future.
I admire her faith. However, I worry that perhaps it is fear and not faith that ties her so closely to the shore, and that someday she may have regrets.
Mari Grace takes one longing gaze across the river and plunges head long into the icy waters. She is a strong swimmer, but doesn't take the time to prepare or to check the danger before she leaps. She has, on occassion, worn herself out mid way across, and would have drown if someone had not rescued her. Once safely back on the shore, she sees the successs of other swimmers and plunges in again and again. Her near fatal attempts have left her scarred but never discouraged. She blindly races toward the other side no matter what the dangers may be.
This is not courage and it frightens me. Perhaps one day there will be no one keeping watch and she will indeed lose her life to the struggle. I cannot bear to watch her, and yet who am I to say that the future she seeks to win is not worth the price she may have to pay? I only hope she realizes the cost.
Sarah studies the shoreline carefully, measuring the distance between the banks. She has seen the struggles of her sisters and others who have made choices, and paid the price for those choices. She does not look to God or anyone else for help or advice, but rather looks within herself and judges her own strengths and weaknesses. She knows only one thing.....she cannot remain on this side of the river. She must find a way across. She may have to swim, or build a bridge herself, but she will find a way to cross the waters. She has counted the cost of her crossing and is willing to pay the price. She knows she can do it, and when she is ready, she will begin her journey.
This truly is courage. There are times when I must close my eyes and bite my tongue because I know she cannot accept my help or advise. I also know that she is strong enough and wise enough to make her way into the future. If the journey is costly it will be paid without complaint or regret. I only hope that someday she will seek devine help to make her struggle a little easier.
Three daughters, three decisions, none wiser than the other, none claiming a quarantee of happiness or success. I am filled with both pride and pain. I am grateful that the responsibility of their futures no longer lies within my grasp.
Wendy waits calmly at the edge of the water. She can see the other side but it has no hold on her. She appears content to sit among the reeds and flowers preparing a quiet nest for herself and her family. There are sights and sounds from across the river that call to her from time to time but she is not a strong swimmer and knows her limitations. She waits patiently for Gods direction, assuming that he will either build a bridge or send a ferry for her to cross, if infact, that is His choice for her. Her faith allows her to seek comfort in the knowledge that God is in charge of her future.
I admire her faith. However, I worry that perhaps it is fear and not faith that ties her so closely to the shore, and that someday she may have regrets.
Mari Grace takes one longing gaze across the river and plunges head long into the icy waters. She is a strong swimmer, but doesn't take the time to prepare or to check the danger before she leaps. She has, on occassion, worn herself out mid way across, and would have drown if someone had not rescued her. Once safely back on the shore, she sees the successs of other swimmers and plunges in again and again. Her near fatal attempts have left her scarred but never discouraged. She blindly races toward the other side no matter what the dangers may be.
This is not courage and it frightens me. Perhaps one day there will be no one keeping watch and she will indeed lose her life to the struggle. I cannot bear to watch her, and yet who am I to say that the future she seeks to win is not worth the price she may have to pay? I only hope she realizes the cost.
Sarah studies the shoreline carefully, measuring the distance between the banks. She has seen the struggles of her sisters and others who have made choices, and paid the price for those choices. She does not look to God or anyone else for help or advice, but rather looks within herself and judges her own strengths and weaknesses. She knows only one thing.....she cannot remain on this side of the river. She must find a way across. She may have to swim, or build a bridge herself, but she will find a way to cross the waters. She has counted the cost of her crossing and is willing to pay the price. She knows she can do it, and when she is ready, she will begin her journey.
This truly is courage. There are times when I must close my eyes and bite my tongue because I know she cannot accept my help or advise. I also know that she is strong enough and wise enough to make her way into the future. If the journey is costly it will be paid without complaint or regret. I only hope that someday she will seek devine help to make her struggle a little easier.
Three daughters, three decisions, none wiser than the other, none claiming a quarantee of happiness or success. I am filled with both pride and pain. I am grateful that the responsibility of their futures no longer lies within my grasp.
You Are Beautiful
Are there no mirrors in your world?
Or are you afraid to see your own reflection?
Have you never listened to yourself?
Heard the wisdom that flows from within you?
Do not be afraid....nor mute, deaf, or blind.
Stand before the mirror I am holding in my hand...
Listen to yourself with my ears.
Get up off your knees and soar above your fears.
See yourself, hear yourself, as others do.
As I do.
You are beautiful and wise!
Written to Susan with loving friendship
Flutterby
Or are you afraid to see your own reflection?
Have you never listened to yourself?
Heard the wisdom that flows from within you?
Do not be afraid....nor mute, deaf, or blind.
Stand before the mirror I am holding in my hand...
Listen to yourself with my ears.
Get up off your knees and soar above your fears.
See yourself, hear yourself, as others do.
As I do.
You are beautiful and wise!
Written to Susan with loving friendship
Flutterby
Thursday, October 16, 2008
The Price of Being Me
I sold my soul once to be loved by someone who never realized my value.
Possibly, because I did not realize my value.
Regaining my identity was even more costly,
but I was worth it!
After 10 wasted years
and gallons of unshed tears,
I ransomed my soul back.
I found freedom in the silence of being alone once again.
From flutterby to the caccoon of someone elses whimsy.
Then breaking free,
Crawling....learning again to walk,
and now to fly once more.
I have learned to allow the world to influence me
but never again to change me.
I am and always will remain
winged,
beautiful,
and free.
A Flutterby
Possibly, because I did not realize my value.
Regaining my identity was even more costly,
but I was worth it!
After 10 wasted years
and gallons of unshed tears,
I ransomed my soul back.
I found freedom in the silence of being alone once again.
From flutterby to the caccoon of someone elses whimsy.
Then breaking free,
Crawling....learning again to walk,
and now to fly once more.
I have learned to allow the world to influence me
but never again to change me.
I am and always will remain
winged,
beautiful,
and free.
A Flutterby
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