The Letter

“I am not perfect. I say stupid things sometimes. I laugh when I’m not supposed to. I have scars left by people who did me wrong. I’m a little crazy, and probably won’t change. Love me or not. But I make one promise that if I love you, I do it with a full heart.”

What do you do when everything in your life seems to be broken? When you bow your head in prayer and beg God to help you figure out what on earth am I here for? That’s been me for the past couple years. I thought I figured it out, then WHAM, a bigger slam came. I was blindsided. A “real doosie,” my mother would say. So, I begin to think, “What the hell’s the matter with you, are you a slow learner or what?” Well I must be, since I must relearn a lesson fifty or sixty times to really get it. The problems keep recurring and there is no pill, prayer, or principle that will immediately undo the damage of many years. Life itself is a series of problems. I don’t believe there is a person alive who is immune to pain or insulated from grief, and no one gets to go through life problem free and without a price to pay. “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted; He rescues those crushed in spirit,” Psalm 34:18. I make myself believe those words.

After what I refer to as having lost a loved family member, it doesn’t necessarily mean that person was taken by death, but by choice. You are shocked, you grieve, then you feel the necessitated anger that they chose to oust you from their life. Those are the darkest days—when your heart is broken, when you feel abandoned, when you exhausted all options of communication, when the pain is so great you want to die—you turn to God, and God alone. It’s during that suffering I learned to pray my most genuine, heartfelt, honest to God prayers. At this point, there is no energy left for insincere prayer. I read somewhere that “…Only through suffering will we know Jesus.” You’ll never know that God is all you need until God is all you have left.

I have never stopped believing in God, nor have I blamed Him for all that went wrong in my life. I have never lost faith in the power of prayer even though one of my many faults is being impatient. “Good things come to those who wait.” I don’t want to wait. I want everything and relationships to be as they once were, but I am powerless. I question the Grand Design behind most everything. I don’t believe life is a result of chance, fate or luck. How can you be sure if you wait out the storm you won’t be dead yourself? The answer is faith. Faith. A simple, but powerful five letter word. Faith renews your soul, your mind, and your heart. I had to learn the hard way that what happens outwardly in your life is not as important as what happens inside your soul.

People come into your life for a reason and they leave for a reason. They sometimes come back at the right moment, the moment that God planned. We always don’t understand the dynamics, but eventually it does become clear. Other than an occasional handwritten entry in a journal, I haven’t written anything in two years. This is the first blog entry in quite a while, and I am compelled…no let me rephrase that…my hand is being guided this night to send a very personal message to someone I have lost in hopes that this will be read. Quite possibly many others who are looking for answers can relate to my pain. It starts like this…

…You have chosen a life without us. How long do you need? I have tried many times to contact you, but you block me. It’s been many months since that final day. Will this silence last forever? I ought not equate my agony to grieving for the dead…you are alive, so I hold onto hope with faltering fingertips.

I am happy…we are happy you are forging ahead with your passions and your life. We are pleased for you and we are proud of you whether you want to hear that or not. All I want to know is for you to let me know if you intend this silence to last forever. I thought you and I were close. I miss you every half hour until it makes me sick. Do you hear my thoughts when I call your name or have you blocked that too? Rejection is a romantic relationship is deeply painful, but from you, my child, the wound cannot heal over time. I cannot replace you. Motherhood doesn’t work that way. The wound is gaping, and it is tender. It becomes reinfected daily, you’ve seen it firsthand.

I look for you on every street corner. A tiny glimmer of hope briefly possesses me when I see someone who resembles you. My vision cruelly morphs the most unlikely stranger into your shape. Many times, each day my mind plays tricks.

I have taken counseling and you should be pleased to know that they all confirm that I have no choice but give you space and get on with my life. This is what I do, but you are below the surface of everything. I am never truly laughing, never relaxed, or content. Tears burst out of me at inappropriate moments, at any reminder. I let it endanger my life and my productivity. I avoid any conversation about you. I can’t stand questions about how you are doing. I deflect them and don’t converse until I come across being cold and closed up. I won’t be pitied, especially by those who make judgements, or by those who inevitably pat themselves on the back for their parental success, in comparison to my shabby rejection. Yes, you can say I’ve become paranoid. I resent what seems to be everyone else having children who enjoy their company, who have meals with them, and talk things through with them. I thought we had that.

Anger. You are not the only one. I have that too. Perhaps, that is what you fear and won’t come back. I am gut wrenching upset that you think this void is okay. Where is the love in that? I am so afraid that the longer this silence continues, the harder it will be for us to break it. I taught you, “strength in silence” when there seemed no other choice to help you through rejection, but I never expected you would use it against me. I used to think we had a bond that would never be broken, and that we were close. I always loved being your mother. It is not even a half a life without you in it. I have lost the right to ever dictate what your life choices are, nor will I stand in your way, but I want you to think about this…we have in the past worked through gaps of miscommunication.

As I write this, I am aware we are now alone. Making full circle back to forty-seven years ago, and childless. I ask myself, “Was this God’s plan all along, or was it fate?” I have admitted to you I am flawed, but can the deep love of a parent for their children be questioned by another? Can a parent be given an ultimatum who to love and who not to? You are not only my child, but my best friend. I thought we would always be able to talk and work things out. I will never give up, and I pray everyday that day will come soon.

Journeys

"Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answers." ~Rainer Maria Rilke


You know your heart's song when it plays the unheard melody in your head. The melody no one hears except you. The one that plays over and over when you look at the sunrise or the sunset and wonder if that special someone you love far away hears it too, as it makes its way over rivers, mountains, and over seas.

Can you hear the lullaby your mother hummed while you drifted to dreamland or the nursery rhymes she sung—the ones you taught your own children? Do you hear an old tune on the radio and in a blink, you are instantly transports you into the arms of a lost love? Does it bring you sorrow as you wonder about what could have been or does it bring you a joyful moment that something wonderful beyond words took place?

Reminiscing is not a new subject for me to blog about. The older we get, I believe we have the tendency to do it more. It keeps friendships and relationships tied together when you can share a memory that makes you smile years after it happened. Sometimes it's an ice breaker when you haven't seen a friend in a long time. I know, it happens all the time with me. Like when someone I knew long ago recalled the day I shared my guarded poetry with him across my parent's dining room table. Or, making a fort amongst gooseberry bushes as a child with my best friend. If everyone would write those stories down, each and everyone of us has the potential to write a great book. Maybe it will never get published, but it gives your descendants a glimpse into your life. How else would your grand kids know about you after you're gone? Who will know what songs made you cry? Who will know why you were depressed? Who will know the person behind the crusted exterior of age if you don't share what people and events made you happy or made you cry? I learned more about my parents in the months before they passed than the accumulation of years when I didn't pay attention. I'm glad I listened so I could pass on their legacy.

 

Recently, I completed my first novel. I will remember the date and time like I remember my first kiss. It was that monumental. For as long as I can remember, the number one thing I wanted to do before I left this world was to write a book. When I was in the 4^th grade, I wrote a poem that seemed to impress a teacher who wanted to know if she could make a song out of it. I don't know if that ever happened, but I would have to say that was the day Sister Marie Gordon inspired me to keep writing. Unfortunately, everything I wrote I kept to myself, afraid of criticism. My writings were so guarded, most people who know me didn't know of my passion and looked at me wide-eyed and said, “You write?” So, when I sent off my manuscript to be edited, I admit I was scared. Scared as hell, that my sentences would be professionally dissected. But life is full of leaps of faith, accomplishments, and disappointments, and how would we know if we weren't successful if we didn't at least give it a try. Right? Every writer I know feels the same way when a project ends and is ready as it will ever be. Will I think I will be a notable author? I don't know. I do know, I will never stop writing and one day, my children and grand children will inherit a lot to read about my life and my dreams.

 

My Song

 

“Courage is fear that has said its prayers and decided to go forward anyway.”

by Joyce Meyer, I Dare You: Embrace Life With Passion

Today, a friend, fond memories, and a few touching song lyrics prompted me write. A blank screen has filled my vacuous mind these past weeks unable to move ahead in fulfilling a couple life long dreams. My friend asked me if I ever heard the quote, “courage is fear that said its prayers.” I didn't. But it struck a chord within me and brought about a new meaning to being afraid. I applied it to the fears of being judged by others who think whatever you do isn't good enough. It applied to another friend making a life altering decision, and it applies to finding the strength to do it because a few wonderful people believe in you.

I call these great people who have stood by me my cheerleaders, my motivators and my inspirations. They are family, good friends and those who faithfully follow my posts. I forget sometimes those people are a part of my life. I forget they are there when the worthlessness seeps in and colors my world in an eerie shade of gray. I forget I am loved and accepted when I retreat into my solitary realm. And, I forget to reach out when I need it while waiting alone for the storm to pass.

I want to thank my cheerleaders for remaining a constant in my life in times when I felt I was losing my way. I want to thank you for your encouraging words and the inspiration you have provided in so many different ways. Depression is ugly, and it is my constant companion. I am aware that losing something or someone who matters to me can trigger prolonged bouts of insecurities. I hate that I wear my life on my sleeve and can't meet certain expectations. People who are sailing the same ship I am on understand what a difficult journey it can be. When we cry “wolf” the wolf is actually there. We don't always want to be left alone to sort whatever it is that triggered the next scene of an ongoing play. We want to know we are not alone and how much a kind word, a text, an email or a two minute phone call can mean. We may not always answer, but we remember who was there and lent a supportive hand.

I believe the soul is infinite. Free to expand everywhere and experience all of life. I realize this can only happen when one can face reality without mental boundaries and to reach beyond those barriers. It's like being in a cage. When you approach the sides you feel insecurity, jealousy, fear, or self-consciousness. You pull back when you touch it and stop trying when the song ends and the cage remains by any other name, still a cage. One day I hope to quiet my mind, conquer these fears and know true spirituality. I know that day will come when willpower enables me to go beyond my psychological limits, otherwise known as my comfort zone. I image a comfort zone like a beautiful melody that is so expanded it fills an entire day, and no matter what happens, the day unfolds and the mind doesn’t talk back. To be relaxed and open enough to simply interact with the day with a peaceful inspired heart. I know, and I believe the day will come when I learn that my thoughts, emotions and movements of energy are not solid and I can let go of and watch them float away like clouds.

Thank you, my friend for standing by me and helping me find the song in my heart again. Peace.

What dreams will die with you... by Les Brown.

“Imagine if you will being on your death bed - And standing around your bed – the ghosts of the ideas, the dreams, the abilities, the talents given to you by life.

And that you for whatever reason, you never acted on those ideas, you never pursued that dream, you never used those talents, we never saw your leadership, you never used your voice, you never wrote that book.

And there they are standing around your bed looking at you with large angry eyes saying we came to you, and only you could have given us life! Now we must die with you forever.

The question is – if you die today what ideas, what dreams, what abilities, what talents, what gifts, would die with you?”

Unfinished business. A statement that can mean many things to many different people. You can ask every one what unfinished business they didn't attend to in a lifetime, and you will probably get at least a dozen answers from each person. Unresolved issues, emotional baggage, irreconcilable differences, misunderstandings, and incompletions.

One person may think of revenge on a someone who did he/she wrong and still desires justice. Another will think of a relationship that never formed because they were unsure what the other person felt. Still another might regret when they moved through life so fast they never saw the person who loved them the most. To another, it might mean something unsaid. Or to someone else, something unresolved in their growing up years, or forgiveness not asked for or given. Unfinished business is an experience or reaction where there are feelings in the foreground and in the background.

I don't communicate very well when it comes to expressing inner feelings. Those feelings stay under the surface due to fear, and because of it, I have some unfinished business one day I'll attend to. People don't realize fear is a thing. Fear can be the cause of many problems. It's the root of negative emotions of anger, jealousy, possessiveness and prejudice. If I didn't have fear, I could be perfectly happy doing anything anywhere in this world. If I didn't have fear, I would be willing to face everything and everyone because I wouldn't have within me a disturbance that keeps me paralyzed in moving forward or conquering goals. I use the analytical mind to protect myself from enjoying the natural unfolding of life, making excuses by conjuring up of solutions for very personal inner fear. I'm learning to unplug those thoughts because it feeds my mind giving it the power to doubt myself and my abilities.

I strive for the day I achieve unconditional happiness and to enjoy life as it comes to me. I know its a very high path to obtain that kind of spirituality and not always easy for most people. But don't you think the greatest gift one can give to God is to be pleased with one of His creations?

A Connection is Forged

"It's not about sharing the work, but about creating a connection. It's not about the writer or about the reader. Each is unknown to the other but, nonetheless, an intimate relationship is formed."

“What is it that won't allow us to live our lives? What is inside of us that doesn't let us fully enjoy life? You only notice that you're suffering when it gets worse than usual. And why do we have to think about ourselves all the time? Why are there so many thoughts that evolve about, me, myself, and mine? How often do you try to rearrange the world to please yourself? The answer is because you are not all right inside and you try everything to make yourself feel better. And, the only reason you think about your psychological well-being so much is because it has not been feeling well for a long time.”
Interesting stuff, indeed.
You mistreat yourself by giving your psyche a responsibility that is incomprehensible to attain. Self-consciousness, insecurity, jealousy, envy take over and binds all these element into one large rubber-band ball of fear. Any second dry-rot can cause one of the rubber bands to snap then your mind is constantly giving you advise how to make it all okay. I heard it explained once that in a physical sense, the turmoil in your psyche is equivalent to your physical body scaling a mountain or leaping over an ocean. Your body would get sick if you made it do the impossible and pain and weakness would set in. But the signs of a broken psyche is underlying fear and incessant neurotic thoughts. No wonder, most of us think we fix our inner problems by excelling at external games. It's instinct. It's survival.

Once in a while in the middle of all this inner chaos someone or some thing happens and gets you back on track, and thank God it does. Sometimes you need more than one nudge to believe in yourself and in your dreams again. One of those sources of inspiration I acknowledged in my last blog. He is a very special person in my life who can personally identify with exactly what goes on with your thoughts when they suddenly tend to do somersaults. This time, I want to acknowledge another very special person in my life, my son, who reminds me that my story does matter and believes with the right motivation and perseverance I can overcome the darkness than often surrounds my world.
  

If you know me well, you will know I believe in angels...truly believe in angels. And, I believe God puts people in our paths for a reason at a particular moment in time. You may not always recognize them when you see them, but in this case I think I did. I had an encounter with a stranger out of the blue on Wednesday. A stranger who happened to walk down my street and wave to me on the day it took all I could muster to work in my yard. She was a woman, face lined with age and a kind and caring aura about her. I don't open up to very many people, but she knew my life in a nutshell before she walked away almost an hour and a half later. We talked about family, about God, about life and it's joys and disappointments, death, about what it is to be a woman, and how crippling depression can be. She left and I was uplifted in a strange and unusual way. Instead on going indoors like I planned, I stayed outside and planted three lavender bushes. Two hours later, the nameless stranger returned bearing a gift. She said I needed an angel and brought me one in the form of a beautiful porcelain doll. I stood and cried. I didn't know what else to do. She left and told me she'd be around again one day. I didn't question who she was, or where she lived. It seemed unimportant at the time. But, I have a feeling she'll be around when I get to the place I don't need to be at again.

"Not Always So"

“What you do in your life you will often do in spite of your fear.”

“Where does the pain go?” asks Donna Masini in her poem “Eye of the Skull.” The poet just had come back from the dentist when she had a cavity filled. She walks down the street with her mouth numb and notices a crazy woman behind her. “An older woman / dressed as a young girl. She had gone to a good school / liked good things had them too. You could tell. / She is screaming into herself, into the air. Vulgar things, shouting them to no one in particular / that I can see.”
I read that poem with a shock of recognition and identified with the numb part and the crazy woman. I know the pain came from somewhere. I am afraid if I let myself feel the accumulation and the enormity of those feelings, I would become that woman and I would go to a place from which I would not recover or return.
The rest of the poem; “What is trapped in the bones, the gearlike teeth / that join the two cramped parts / of the shell? What clenches and curls in the marrow? / Did the pain surface, just then? Did all that / numbed pain come in one great rush?”
To write is to have an ongoing script with your own pain. To scream to it, with it, and from it. Do I keep it and try to study it at a later date, or do I scrap it like a passing thought? It's a hallowed mess inside me—something I wonder if I inherited. Who's genes can I blame when I try to reason with the crazy woman screaming behind me?
The Buddhist teacher Jack Kornfield once said that all of life can be summed up in three words: not always so. We plan our day going one particular direction? Not always so. Can we expect people to behave the way they always have? Not always so. Do we know when we've missed the mark? Not always so. Life is a pattern, then there's a defining moment that depicts the pattern as life as we know it making each day more complex. Can we recognize or define that singular moment which changes how you used to think or how you used to feel? Not always so.
Occasionally, you can feel the momentum of a wrong day running against you, and if it does, maybe the best thing to do is crawl back in bed and wait for it to pass so you don't end up with gum in your hair, or step in something unpleasant. But ah, if it were only that easy. Life goes on and we learn to take the bitter with the sweet some say. We live with decisions we make for the better of the over all good. Do we think of others when we make those decisions? Not always so. Do we think of our self? Not always so.
Someone recently pointed out when I'm depressed I tend to fall back on the same language. It's the road map that maps out my most hidden and most sensitive wounds. And yes, I often tend to fall back on the same words—repetitive and tiresome to those who haven't been down the same road, but like poking a bruise to me. I use this darkness as an opportunity to externalize what's inside me. I don't always fully understand things that occur in my life, but writing affords me a different perspective, and allows me to work out perplexing events or emotions. When I do, the world recedes and my words are the only thing that will save me and bring me back to enjoy the rising sun of another day.

I am very fortunate to have someone in my life who understands these jumbled up, mixed up words and can read in between the lines. That person also knows depression and knows it's not worn like a badge of honor. It makes me know my misery has company and is understood as long as I take it one day at a time.

Curmudgeonness? Is that a real symptom?

 If you can risk getting lost somewhere along the day you might stumble upon openings that link you to your depths. ~Anonymous

Today is not unlike yesterday and the day before. I read and I write in the morning. I try to put my thoughts into written words before my mind is cluttered with an array of tasks. An open book laid on my desk and these words popped from the page like a neon sign, “infirmity of purpose.” It was a phrase that made me think now that we are into the early days of another new year and my own vacillation has turned me again into my first and foremost critic.

I feel I am becoming indifferent to many things that were once important to me and relish my alone time. If there was a medical term for the condition, I suppose it could be called the early onset of curmudgeonness. I dislike these thoughts since sometimes it seems so cold and so harsh. Am I that, I wonder over the aroma of piping hot coffee? In some people's eyes, I probably am. I envision myself at some point playing the leading role in life like Anne Ramsey who played Momma in Danny DiVito's movie Throw Momma from the Train, or a female version of Mr. Wilson in Dennis the Menace. I hate the thought since it denotes not caring and having little feeling for things that used to matter. Perhaps I am a simply tired soul who doesn't have the energy for anything but inertia, shutting down and keeping my feelings to myself. I wonder if this happens to people who've been single most of their life or does it only seem to happen to those married several decades? Is it a “woman thing” for those who are approaching or in post menopause? And, is it actually spelled men-o-pause, a need to pause from men and is it possible all women in long-term relationships crave a separation to regenerate to grow stronger? Or, maybe it's a part of that seven year cycle my mother mentioned when I was was young? Who knows. I'm still in search of an answer.

If you've followed my blogs for the past several years, you know my life is pretty much an open book. Some people would say they know me, others are still trying to figure me out. I don't believe one can know another entirely. I've tried to always retain a part of myself that is nobody's business, which is not always an easy feat. I have always strived for some level of autonomy and as I write this, I think my first real stand of independence is when I moved to a new town as a young teenager. I always hated my given name and my thought at the time was, a new place, the new girl, a new name. I kept the same initials so it wasn't too odd when I ordered my class ring, strange reasoning, but then again, I was fourteen. My given name was a two-name first name which the nuns at the Catholic school I attended for eight years seemed to always emphasize to embarrass me in front of the class. It took me nearly thirty more years to legally change it, because in the back of my mind I could hear my mother saying... “My daughter is blankity blank...” With a strong emphasis on “my daughter.” It was one decision in my life I never caved-in on nor felt totally guilty about.

I confess I have never known real independence. In which, I have never stood on my own two feet and tackled the world head on as a singular entity. I have never lived on my own or experienced how I would face the following day without someone at my side. The decisions I've made never included aloneness. Yet, the reality of total independence scares the hell out of me. I imagine if and when that day may come, what I wanted and desired the most would feel like pure and terrifying abandonment as the resonating phrase, “be careful what you wish for” pounds my brain into useless gray matter. I'm not sure I wish to be alone as much as I desire it. But, the constant need for change and independence is as strong as it was when I was that young dark-haired girl in needing of something hotly cold to bite my soul.

It's All In The Eyes

 

The eye is the lamp of the body; so if your eye is clear, your whole body will be full of light.

~Matthew 6:22

 

 

Eyes wide open.  Eyes on fire.  Eyes in motion.  Lying eyes.  Crazy eyes.  Eyes are windows to the soul. The eye is the window to the universe. The eyes of an old soul.  Evil eye.  The all watching eye. Bedroom eyes.  The eye of the tiger.  Beauty lies in the eye of the beholder.  The apple of my eye.

 

Language is filled with metaphors referring to eye contact. It's a major factor through which we communicate our wants and needs. It's said that by looking into the eyes of a person one can see their hidden emotions, attitudes and thoughts. We associate identity with the eyes from the day we are born. I was taught when I spoke to someone, I made eye contact. It not only showed good etiquette, it showed respect. My dad once told me not to date a particular boy because he couldn't look him in the eye when he shook his hand. It was another case he knew more than I did. He taught me a lot more useful knowledge about body language and I may have even been the twinkle of his eye, but that's irrelevant to this post. I truly believe the eyes is the space where your true identity dwells and allows you to see your inner light shining dim or bright.

 

I'm writing about eyes because I learn a lot about people in a non-verbal way. I have seen tremendous pain and sadness, I have seen liars and dishonesty. I have seen sincerity, hatred and evil. And I have seen love and forgiveness. One time or another, we all have picked up on one or more of these attributes. Which now brings me to why I am writing about eyes.

 

I love antiquing and I confess it's a bit of an addiction. It's not the kind of addiction where I have to hock something to purchase something else that reminds me of days gone by. I would say it's more of finding something that touches my heart or an object I think I absolutely can't live without. Every where you go, antique shops are popping up because people need or desire to touch something of their past. An object that reminds them of grandma, grandpa, mom or dad or just a reminder when life was less complicated.

 

During our recent vacation, we found a very unique shop in Florida with the most unusual things. It housed a large collection of 50's and 60's Hollywood art, framed Vargas prints and the largest selection of working console stereos I had ever seen. I was reminded of the wonderful earthy sounds my parent's fabulous Hi Fi, my mother's pride and joy. One record after another played on the shop owner's prized stereo while we browsed the delightful store. My husband goes his way, and I go mine. We search every nook and every shelf looking for a new found treasure. This day, both of us found something we couldn't live without.

 

I saw my husband gravitate towards a collection of knives then I went my way. Up and down the isles, in and out of rooms dedicated to a specific eras, I saw things I grew up with, toys, jewelry, vintage clothing, furniture, even a huge collection of unique ashtrays. I was awed picking up, touching and reminiscing around the shop when I saw it, a beautifully matted and framed photograph hanging waist high. It wasn't the picture or how it was framed that attracted me, nor was it the person. It was the eyes of the woman in the photograph. I sat on an ivory upholstered chair next to the picture, stared only at her eyes and began to cry. I have never done this before, at least not in public. I dabbed the running mascara and walked away. I meandered towards the back of the store a little embarrassed and saw my husband up front negotiating with the owner about a knife he was holding. After 43 years of living with this man, the look on his face told me he was having an emotional moment too.

The next thing I know, I'm standing in front of the photograph again having the same reaction. This time my guy is standing next to me wanting to know if I needed a hug. I turned away and said, “No. I want the picture.” He was miffed why I needed a picture of her. It's not my thing, nor has it ever been to have framed pictures of celebrities. When I was a teenage I had dozens of pictures of teen heartthrobs plastered on my bedroom walls. But never had that desire as an adult. 

“Can't you see the pain in her eyes?” I asked with tear filled eyes. He shrugged. He didn't understand. “Her eyes evoke something deep within me. I can't explain it,” I said. Without a single word, he took it off the wall and handed it to me. I took it to the counter to negotiate a lower price with the owner and once again I could barely maintain my composure. They didn't understand either. If I had a bad day, or I felt the world was crashing down on me, I could understand why I reacted the way I did when I saw this photograph, but it wasn't the case that day. It was her eyes and only her eyes.

My husband showed me his purchase and began to tell me why buying this ivory handled switchblade was important to him. His eyes softened and he choked on his words. “I had a knife identical to this. I gave it to Angel for good luck before he went to Nam.” He went on to tell me the story when his friend returned and thanked him for the good luck piece. I heard the story before long ago, but I listened with compassion once again. When his friend returned home, he apologized for losing the knife. He told him it saved his life when he had to use it on “Charlie.” It's been years since he's seen or heard from his friend, but the memory of the day he gave his blade to his buddy is still embedded in his mind and in his heart.

 

We left the shop of oddities and treasures with our heartfelt purchases. The price we paid was nominal for what we thought and felt was priceless that afternoon. The picture of Marilyn now hangs in our guest room. When I look at her beautiful face and into her eyes, it still evokes a soulful emotion. Like all art form, it's understood in the eye of the beholder. And I understood. The knife is polished, sharpened and placed in a handmade case. It makes my guy smile.

Marilyn Monroe

Photographed by Milton H. Green

Pensive Ballerina, 1954

 

"Where Have All The Flowers Gone..."

"I know in my heart that man is good. That what is right will eventually triumph. And there is purpose and worth to each and every life."     ~Ronald Reagan

“Where have all the flowers gone, long time passing...” An iconic folk song of the sixties associated with life, getting married, war and death. A song most will remember associated with the Vietnam War and the senseless killings of our American soldier. A song for remembering the era of hippies, flower power, Civil Rights movement and the Feminist movement. It's a song I heard on the radio today that invoked an outpouring of memories from my past.

I gathered my old yearbooks, the ones shoved in a box at the back of my closet, and paid attention to every face on every page. “Where have all the flowers gone” played in the back of my mind when I flipped through those pages. Then unconsciously, the lyrics spilled over my lips and I was singing the tune. With every turn of the page, I saw the faces of the kids I went to grade school, junior high, and high school, and couldn't help but wonder what happened to some of those people. I saw the smiling black and white faces of those who's young lives ended before they ever experienced the world on their own. I saw the faces of those who died a senseless tragic death. I saw a few who was wounded or died serving our country. I saw faces of those who have successful careers, and some who were not so fortunate. I saw mothers and fathers who are now grandparents. And I saw faces of people were were once my friends in a different time. Where have all those faces gone, long time ago?

Some of those people, I have reconnected with through social networking which I am grateful for the connection. Some of those faces never knew my name but only as a face in the hall with a sea of other kids when the class changing bell rang. Others might think, “Oh, her!” with some condescending phrase afterward. And that's all right because its human nature to talk about others. Some of the faces I recognized right off, then others I had to think about for a moment. There were many I liked, some I didn't, one or two I had a crush on, and some I wish I could forget. We all have those memories, good and bad associated with going to school. There might even be someone reading this I went to school with and can associate my former self in their own minds with one of the things I just mentioned. I was a wall flower, I didn't seem to fit in and I was the new girl. Some things you get over, and some things you want to bury. Glancing through many yearbooks and class pictures this afternoon, it all came flooding back.

You wonder about the aggressors, the agitators, the jocks, the class clowns and the cheerleaders. You wonder if they had children, and if they turned out to be the mirror images of the parents. Then you recall the painfully shy kid that stuttered, or the girl who was brutally terrorized in the locker room or the kid that had the worst acne in school. You think of the kid who walked funny or the one who always smelled bad. Then there are some people wouldn't wonder about such things because they were the “in” crowd. Most of those kids thought they held themselves to a higher degree of greatness. They probably wouldn't remember the kid's face who was abused at home, or the one who never had the pleasure of wearing new clothes, or the one that didn't have indoor plumbing. They wouldn't remember the kid who struggled to make it through the day without being bullied or the girl who's phone number or comments was written on the john wall which ruined her life.

It's a funny thing looking at old school pictures. Try it sometime. It conjures up a time some would want to return to live all over again as the best days of their life. In others, it dredges up unpleasant memories which defined the person they would be become for the rest of their lives. “Where have all the flowers gone...young girls picked them every one...when will they ever learn?”



Peter, Paul & Mary
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1QZq-wKaBWc&list=RD1QZq-wKaBWc#t=26

When Inspiration Comes In Waves

When I sat at my desk today with the task of writing at hand, I drew a blank. I do that often. I want to write about something profound, so profound that it invokes a tear, a feeling, or maybe even anger. I'm not an angry person. I know the feeling well, but today, anger is not my agenda.

When someone gives me a book, or I gift a book to someone, they or myself have to write an inscription or a well meaning message of some kind inside, and then of course, date it. Somehow, it makes a great book an even greater personal gift, because there was some thought in the process of picking it out much like picking out a greeting card. I happened to open one of those gift books today and that act prompted this post. The book was a gift from my son for Mother's Day several years back. In it he wrote, “Mom, I hope this helps spark the fire for many more ideas, just like you sparked many of the fires in my life...” Tears welled in my eyes after I read the rest of the message. When I wiped my eyes, I thought how he must have believed in me and my ability to produce the one thing I wanted to do more than anything in my life, and that was to write a book.

I had personal things in my life to conquer so writing was put on hold for a while. Those of you who have read my earlier blogs will understand this unplanned sabbatical. Two books, shorts stories, and a stack of poetry patiently waited for me to return to the beautiful purple heart and cherry wood desk and chair my husband made me. He believed in me too. He always believed in me, even when I didn't believe in myself. I brooded upon the sins and mistakes of yesterday so exclusively that I had no energy and mind left for living a day. Then one day, not long ago, I squinted at this familiar woman in the mirror and said, “I know you. Aren't you the procrastinator?” Well, you know what my answer was, and I said, “Yes, that would be me.” It was on that day, I sat back down at my desk to write.

It is the nature of our minds to create its own conditions whether we live in the past, stay content in the present, or build a beautiful set of wings to glide into our future. Every established mental condition is an acquired habit, and it is by the repetition of our thoughts. A thought constantly repeated will become a fixed habit of the mind, and from such habits proceed the life. So when I told myself I wasn't good enough or that no one was interested in what I wrote, I didn't give myself the opportunity to keep striving for that letter from someone, somewhere that my work was finally accepted. Instead, after a few rejections or lack of response, I tossed my work aside and dabbled again in self pity. It's just like the thief to refrain from stealing when opportunity occurs, because he has lived so long in desirous and greedy thoughts he renders unto his craft.

A dear friend who is a successful author and published playwright reminded me again that she didn't get where she was overnight. It was a compilation of years of hard work, rejections, and perseverance above all. She reminded me that when the right path is begun, success will come if it is not abandoned. First struggle, then victory. “You can do it, and you will do it well,” she affirmed. I promised, like I was ten years old again, I would once again try. As long as I am posting on my blogs, the words are flowing and I am working on other projects as well. It's a nice reprieve from a bigger project. My dad used to tell us kids, “Find something you love to do, then make a career out of it and then you will find happiness in all you do.” I have loved the arts and literature all my life, so dad, if you're smiling down on me right now, and I hope you are, I promise I will finish that damn book and my bucket list will be fulfilled. (Sorry dad, I didn't mean to say damn... :)

Sharing of Time

"One tries to cure signs of growth, to exorcise them, as if they were devils, when really they might be angels of annunciation."

 

 What a release it is to write that you forget yourself, your companions, forget where you are or what you're going to do next...to be so drenched in work your work that you feel you're drenched in sleep or in a body of water. Keystrokes coming alive on the laptop in front of you. Then, pricked by hunger, I rise in a daze for an afternoon snack. Reeling from my self absorption, I come back to the chore of providing nourishment, as if it were a lifeline to reality after almost drowning in a sea of words. I welcome the firm ground under my feet. I hate taking breaks, but I know it's a necessity to reduce a growing number of physical boundaries. Lazily, I grab a bowl of fruit and sit outside in the thick humid air. The lack of blue skies haven't clouded my thoughts but inspired a longing to run again. I hate that the feeling comes often, but I have learned to accept it as my nature.  

 

I have the desire to pack up again and find that place of aloneness by the ocean for a week or preferably more. This time I would like to share a part of it with a girlfriend. Waking to the soft rustling of the palm trees and the gentle sleep breathing rhythm of waves on the shore. We'd run bare-legged to the beach, which lies smooth and glistening with fresh wet shells after the night's tides. The morning swim would be a blessing, a baptism, a rebirth to the beauty and wonder of the world. We'd run back tingling to hot coffee on the front porch. With legs in the sun we'd laugh and plan our day. And since communication is more important to us than chores, the dishes and sweeping sand off the floors will wait.

 

Out on the beach for the afternoon, we would walk the beach in silence, but in harmony keeping track of the sandpipers ahead of us move like a corps of dancers keeping time to some interior rhythm inaudible to us. Intimacy is blown away. Emotions are carried out to sea. We are even free of our thoughts, at least of their articulation, clean and bare as the sun-bleached driftwood, empty as shells, but so willing to be filled again with the impersonal sea, sky and wind. A long afternoon soaking up God's creation.

 

And when we are heavy and relaxed as the seaweed under our feet, we return to the intimacy of our cottage for the evening. We sip wine in leisure in front of a fire. We start dinner and we talk. Because good communication is stimulating as strong coffee, it's hard to sleep after. And so we go out again into the night. We walk up the beach and when we are tired of walking, we lie flat on the sand under a bowl of stars and take in the magnitude of the universe.

 

This is what I thirst for after the smallness of the day, of work, of details, of intimacy and even communication.  I thirst for the magnitude and universality of a night full of stars, pouring into my soul like a fresh tide. Then at last, from the immensity of this heavenly body, we walk back to the small cottage glowing from the mist of darkness with the embers still smoldering in the fireplace.

 

What a wonderful day this would be I think turning it around in my head to its starting point. What has made it so perfect? It was freedom. A setting not cramped in space or in time. It was a balance of physical, intellectual and social life. It had an easy unforced rhythm. A friendship balanced on a shaft of air like a seagull.

 

I am reminded of these kinds of things when I talk to other women friends. We all want the same...a pure relationship not weighted down with irrelevancies, just life itself, the accumulations of life and of time. It is free of ties or claims, unburdened by responsibilities about the future or debts to the past.

 

I realize my life lacks this quality of significance because there is so little empty space. Too many activities, and things to occupy my time. There are too many pages to fill with words, too many hopes and dreams to fulfill.

 

For is it not possible that middle age can be looked upon as a second flowering, a second growth or even a kind of second adolescence? So, when I am reminded by my women friends that sometimes playing with makeup and getting a new hair style matters more, then I will take those few precious moments and run with them with joy in the now, and peace that I am where I am supposed to really be.

 

 

 

Angels Are Among Us

 

 

 

 

 

 

"I am not afraid of dying tomorrow.

I seen yesterday, and I love today."  

                                            ~Louise LaRocque

 

When circumstances in my personal life become too pressing I retreat and seek solitude. It's where I find the strength and wisdom needed to handle the difficult experiences of my life. Two places I am drawn to the most is a wooded area or near a body of water. An inner strength of spiritual nature unfolds and my life becomes more ordered by opening my mind with a great sense of peace.

A few weeks ago I left the hospital where my brother laid unresponsive, and feeling distraught about his rapidly failing health, I sought out a somewhat remote beach on the Gulf side of Florida. After climbing the grassy knolls of rain drenched sand, the brilliance of the setting sun was straight ahead. North of where I stood a few college-aged kids were engaged in playing volleyball. To my south, a disturbance was brewing with not a soul in sight...this is the direction I walked until I felt I was lost in the fine line of water and sand or Heaven and earth. I aligned myself with the setting sun relaxing into the harmony and peace of the presence of my Almighty Creator and begin to pray. I prayed that He have mercy on my brother and release him from his pain and suffering. I prayed that he feel God's loving peace in his mind and within his body. My tears went away and I became calm, serene and relaxed.

The distance between where I started my walk along the shore was long and the sun was becoming a warm glow. I was distracted by an oncoming Kingfisher who looked like he had better days. The disheveled bird's feathers were ruffled and missing and yet he walked towards me with pride and certainty. I watched as he slowly circled around me and stopped at a small pool of water being fed by the tide. He didn't seem to care as I sat down and watched him fish a few feet away as I delighted myself in taking pictures of this wonder of nature. That's when I saw the tiny speck of a person walking the shore. In navy shorts and a teal shirt, a young man with dark tasseled hair drew close. I stood and pointed to the rumpled bird who was feeding at the pool and so the fellow moved away giving a wide berth around the bird and positioned himself beside me for a few moments. His eyes were deep velvety brown and his voice as soothing as the lapping waves, "This is the first time I've ever been to this beach,” he said. “It's a first for me too,” I replied. When I returned his glace he smiled with those gentle eyes and with the voice of a concerned parent soothing a sick child he said to me, “Everything's going to be all right.” I was dumb-stricken when he turned and walked out of my sight. After a minute I turned to follow, I wanted to know how he seemed to know I was praying. I don't know where he went, it's like he just disappeared. As far as I could see along the shore I remained the only one there with the impending storm.

Yes, I believe in angels and I believe this young man with heavenly eyes came to me as a messenger to let me know my prayers would be answered. My brother passed away quietly the following morning. And yes, I do believe in angels.

In memory of Jerry 1940-2014

Strides...

"There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you."
~Maya Angelou

“It's no use going back to yesterday, there's no future there...” That sentence made me think. It made me think about the countless tens of thousands of people who can't get beyond their pasts. I know. I mentioned before I'm one insignificant particle in the masses.

I've been making great strides until recently, which is typical for most who suffer from the disease. I started to document what triggers the onset of a new bout of depression. Most of the time I can answer it with one word like; loneliness, jealousy, fear, estrangement, rejection, or grief. Other times, I even documented my depression with the phases of the moon, or if the stars weren't perfectly aligned and even other moments by a word interpreted the wrong way or the lack of love from someone I care about. Doctors prescribe all sorts of magic pills and inspirationalists tell you to look to a higher source. All of the healing hype capitalizes on particular methods prescribed making one or the other the cure. Every situation has a self-help book written by someone who thinks they have the answer, look for yourself on the internet or in bookstores, there's hundreds of them.

I believe God and medication does help, but I have sincerely succumb to the belief it will only happen within a person if they are strong enough, and have the ability to calm the noises in your heart and in your mind. This is what I'm learning as I grow spiritually. To quit fighting life and accept life is not under my control. I don't want my stuff to keep me trapped anymore. I want to throw it all into a particular northern lake and watch the ripples disappear forever.

My therapist friend asked me today if I totally grieved for my losses. I had to think back to several incidents and I replied, “Not completely.” My reasoning was, “because I couldn't do it without someone to lean on.” I felt I had to do it alone because I needed to be strong for another person, and in my worst case, I needed to keep a dark secret that I am only now letting go of.  She then asked why I never asked my family for help, I said it was because we didn't have that kind of family dynamics. Someone might say, “I didn't know.” But in all actuality, did they really want to see what was sealed in the can marked “Worms"? 

Here's another popular quote, “What hurts you today, makes you stronger tomorrow.” In some instances it absolutely applies about life, but not for all. You may think you got over yesterday's hurt, until it sneaks up on you tomorrow...

My mind works like that all the time...it opens, thoughts move around, then closes up again. My growth comes from knowing I am not the meaningless voice of my mind, I am the one who hears it. I know the sun will rise tomorrow morning and it will go down tomorrow night, and an infinite amount of things will go on in this world. I can think about it all I want, but those thoughts will have no effect on anything or anyone, except me. It's not easy applying the methods to obtain a satisfying daily existence, but when my head molds into my down pillow at bedtime and I think of my day with a smile, I know I am breaking down walls one brick at a time. 

Winter and depression's icy hand...

 

 

“And so we came forth, and once again beheld the stars.”

 

In my journey through life, winter is never a good season. It's a suffering that tinges the music of the great composers Liszt, Beethoven, and Chopin, and dances around the darker cantatas of others. I was prepared for the dark hand to hold mine when the clock struck twelve. It tugged and squeezed and it almost won—those who have teetered on the rim, understands this. It goes without saying it's nothing like the ascent to joy from a poet's hand.


Every day I write down my thoughts rather quickly and spontaneously. My paper and pens are my instruments to to write whatever comes to mind—only to be read by my eyes. I speculated in one entry that there was no originality or boldness to speak out frankly about suicide and the impulse towards it. I had apparently underestimated the number of people for whom the subject had been taboo and a matter of secrecy and shame. The overwhelming reaction from others made me feel that I had inadvertently helped many who were eager to come out and proclaim that they too, had experienced some of the same feelings I had described in previous blogs. It was the only time I ever felt it was worthwhile to have invaded my own privacy and to make that privacy public.

When I think of all the doomed and brilliant creative men and women, and the young ones who didn't allow life to happen, I can't help but think of their childhoods, where, to the best of anyone's knowledge, the seeds of depression took strong root. Did any of them have the slightest hint of the psyche's perishability and its fragility? Why did they destroy themselves, while others struggle through the disease of depression? What made me and the tens of thousands who attempted, survive?

No one knows. I don't know. Professionals can only surmise. Some quietly endure the equivalent of physical injuries of never being able to outwardly share their secrets, like the degrading act of rape. For others, warfare, victims of crime, family disappointment, declining careers, failed affairs of the heart and lastly, death. It would be impossible to prove why some people bleed from the inside. It's complex, intermingled factors of abnormal chemistry, behavior and genetics. That is why the greatest fallacy about suicide lies in a single answer. It is hopelessness even more than pain that crushes the soul.

The groundhog saw his shadow the other day and six more weeks of winter is predicted. Punxsutawney Phil would be pleased if he could think like you and I, to know I am emerging in a new light with some creative juices flowing. I have been dealt a good poker hand and I feel I'm winning in this game called life. I am writing. I am smiling. I am living in the present with the help of a few patient and wonderful people. It's a tough job staying afloat when someone shouts from the safety of the shore, “Keep treading water!” But if encouragement is tenacious and the support equally committed and passionate—the drowning victim can always be rescued.

Peace and Love.



 

Uncorked...

“The change of life is the time when you meet yourself at the crossroads and you decide whether you want to be honest or not before you die.” ~Katharine Butler Hathaway



I had been totally alienated from my feelings. That's how I protected myself all those years. It took me forever to feel a feeling, much less express it. People would say, “How do you feel?” and I'd say, “Just fine...” It was like learning a different language. It was a process of getting things intellectually, then at a feeling level, and finally being able to act from that position. I began to compartmentalize my life. The parts I kept to myself, the parts my family was allowed to see, and the other parts no one was allowed to see, and the happy face when I went to work. I was trapped in my own body.

I am learning to honor all my feeling, especially the anger and the outrage. One day, a friend of mine said, “You know that you created this because you are the creator of your universe and your soul set this energy into motion. So take responsibility for it and quit mewing about it. Just forgive and move on.”

I became so pissed! I was choked with anger and lashed out like a cornered animal. To this day, we have not totally mended our relationship. Through my sessions, I've learned when you're feeling anger, you need to honor that. If you try to get to the forgiveness before you get to the anger, you're going to fuck the whole thing up. This is exactly what I had done. You have to work from where you are in your gut, not from where you think you should be in your head.

I went through revenge periods. I imagined all kinds of horrible wicked things that resulted in torture, a shotgun aimed at their balls, or a Molotov cocktail thrown at their vehicles. Two wrongs cannot make something right, were the words echoing from within my mind. If I didn't feel love for the child in me who had been raped, I would not have had this internal outrage. Sometimes I sat and felt so much compassion for one of my abusers, I wept. I am letting it all come right on through, and the more I allow all of it to come up, the more I find myself moving to loving myself. The more I tried to block the rage, the more I stay stuck. I reconcile all of this by saying I trust the process. I trust the validity of my outrage. The outrage is because I honor and value and love life.

Circumstances in life change. In retrospect, I owe my daughter my life. From the time my daughter was born, my instincts kicked in, and I was able to nurture her and protect her. Somehow, my love and my desire that this child would not be hurt were strong enough to overcome the obstacles that stopped me from doing other things to harm myself. I literally can say I owe my daughter my life because she awakened that ability in me to mother. Time and time again, when for myself I would have chose to die, I chose to live for her. I knew that somehow it had to stop with me and that I would not pass it on to her. Yet, I didn't seem to know what the “it” was. Everything would have been better if I'd known all of this forty years ago. The one thing I couldn't give my daughter was my happiness, my love of myself. I was able to give her a love for herself, a feeling for her strength, but there was a lot of joy we were never able to share. I weep for that.

Chapter 11...Committed to healing

“If you enter into healing, be prepared to lose everything. Healing is a ravaging force to which nothing seems sacred or inviolate. As my original pain releases itself into healing, it rips to shreds the structures and foundations I built in having lived a lie. I am experiencing the bizarre miracle of reincarnating, more lucidly than at birth, in the same lifetime.”      ~Ely Fuller

When you're abused, your boundaries, your right to say no, your sense of control in the world were violated. You were alone and you were powerless. The abuse humiliated you and gave you the message that you were of little value. Nothing you did could stop it. If you told someone about what happened to you, they probably ignored you, said you made it up, or told you to forget it it'll go away. Some may have even blamed you. Your reality was twisted or denied and you may have felt you were going to go crazy, and resigned to the fact you deserved what you got. You then began to believe the only thing you were good for was sex. Your hopes and dreams are irreversibly changed in a prolonged moment of time. In that terrifying moment, your life actually flashes before your eyes and you focus on an inanimate object, the same kind of inanimate object your Lamaze coach told you to focus on to block the pain of childbirth. The same inanimate object your eye is unintentionally directed to when making love to someone you owe your life to, your soul mate and the father of your children.

People have recently said to me, “Why the hell are you dragging all this crap up now?” “Why? WHY?” I answer. Because there isn’t a facet of my life that hasn't been controlled by it. It's prevented me from living a comfortable emotional life. It's prevented me from loving the people I care about the most clearly and honestly. I don't give a damn if it happened over a hundred years ago. It does matter...it matters to me!

The void I've thrown myself into by letting go of this stuff is incredibly desensitizing, making myself more vulnerable to those who continue to strip me of my dignity. It is raising questions I never planned to openly ask and get answers I didn't expect. There is no turning back. I've committed myself and I know now, my life will never be the same.

Chapter 10... Walls

Trust in the Lord with all your heart

and lean not on your own understanding;

in all your ways acknowledge Him

and He will direct your paths.

~Proverbs 3, 5-6

 

Walls shield us from the sticks and stones some mean people like to throw in hopes of breaking our bones. We put up walls to protect ourselves from the names and faces that hurt us. We put up walls to keep someone from breaking out hearts. We climb walls. We sit on walls. We dig under walls. We peek around walls. Some walls even absorb our total essence, turning us into nothing more than a flowery image which eventually fades away. Walls trap us. Walls, in human behavior are nothing more than a simile for what I keep repeating to myself as “silly me.”

The two most common treatment approaches for PTSD is medicine and psychotherapy Earlier in the week, I did a little research on the medications I've been prescribed for PTSD and was shocked to find that two out of every five people (including veterans) who commit suicide were prescribed these very same meds. I question psychotherapy as the other obvious solution. Most people, like myself are not ready to explore those painful times again, and I'm anxious to the point of nausea and vomiting before each visit having to relive the past. I've already isolated myself from my community, my friends and my family and the last thing I want to do is to sit in a closed-in office with a stranger for what seems like an extended amount of time and relive a period of time I've worked at hiding my entire adult life.

How is it that PTSD can be cured by exploring feelings or even experiencing reminder of a horrible events that were undergone? Upon my further investigation, there have been no significant medical approaches to the resolution of PTSD since the diagnosis came into use over forty years ago during the Vietnam War. In all the medical advances made during that time, it's telling me no one knows exactly how we tick.

I am learning I can't achieve recovery by myself. I am one of those people who feel the need to do everything by myself, another way I was raised. When you're in the middle of the woods and the wolves are howling and you can't start a fire, there is no one else. I've had my legs kicked out from under me many times by this attitude. A dear friend of mine told me it was time to ask others to help me, especially those who cared for me, because that was a way to return the love for someone. I deprived myself of that love because it meant I was weak. I still find it hard to ask for help, I won't lie. I believe in love and I believe that it was ego that sabotaged me from healing earlier.

Last week I managed to take two steps ahead, this week I fell back again. It seems to happen more often than not. I'm reading about twelve-step programs and how it can apply to PTSD. The first step is to become aware that you are incapable of managing your life by yourself. I believe this challenge is my first step after darkness. Recently, I have been surprised where the most profound directions and support come from. It came from a supportive friend whom I haven't had contact in years whose kind words made me truly aware of how important the Serenity Prayer is to healing. It came from sitting in the outdoor chapel overlooking the Blue Ridge Mountains where the verse from Psalm 121:1, I will lift up thine eyes unto the hills...” is carved in the timbers, another Divine source of strength. It came from mutual tears shared with my sister this past weekend as I told her my journey. It came from the moving letter from a surviving soldier who lost his legs in Nam. It came in a letter from the young firefighter who witnessed a family of four die in a burning vehicle. It came in the form of blue birds, and butterflies, and the purr of my fur kids. It came from all those who are reading this blog.

Those walls are beginning to crumble as the mortar weakens, liberating those of us from our self-made prisons. In the words of my son's old band instructor, “I'm not telling you it's going to be easy, but I am telling you, it'll be worth it!” Remember, you are not alone, we're in it together...

Take my hand...

Blue Butterflies...

Forgiveness is not about forgetting. It is not excusing or condoning the event which happened, and you have to quit telling yourself that whatever happened was all right, because it was not and is not. It's not letting those who were involved escape the accountability and responsibility for what they did. We all have consequences for our deeds. Eventually justice wins out and one day balance returns to our world. Forgiveness is releasing that hate and revenge you feel to something else, a higher power. Forgiveness does not overlook the action. It rises above it.

Just words, you might say. I know, I've thought it and verbalized it. Easy for someone to write about all the right things you need to do to achieve the happiness, it's another thing to actually experience it. After being shown my brain scan, I was told one of the most significant effects of PTSD is losing the ability to find joy in your life. It assaults the pleasure centers in front of our brains to turn down to a very low level of activity making those who suffer with PTSD to lose that internal direction or the sense of control we have over our thoughts and our actions. If we don't have positive reinforcement in one form or another, our brains don't know how to heal and find pleasure.

This is where I am failing, and I'm discouraged my life is not on an even keel. Some days I feel like I don't want to teeter on the wall and just fall like old Humpty Dumpty did. By the way, how did that egg-head happen to be sitting on a wall and fall? Did he miss the Spring Equinox and deliberately fall instead his obvious fate of being scrambled by the queen if he failed to stand up on end?

How can you get positive reinforcement when those you love treat you like you have an infectious disease or that their problems surmount yours? It's not about any competition, or who's life was worse than yours. I miss the one person who I believe would listen, my mom. My mom passed away thirty-two years ago, and today is her birthday, she would have been ninety-eight. I miss her, and I think I would be brave enough today, to talk about the yest-er-years. I believe she would finally understand my actions and the words I wrote in my diary so many years ago. I don't believe I'm too damaged to be helped now. I know where I want to be, I'm just having a hell of a time getting and staying there. I am learning new exercises that focus on hope, faith and tranquility. It gets quite discouraging to see the sun set at the end of a beautiful day and feel nothing...no one said things would be easy.

I haven't seen any bluebirds since I wrote my last post, but this afternoon as I sat in the shade enjoying the less humid afternoon in the backyard, a Pipevine Swallowtail butterfly landed inches away from my hand. Was this another Divine sign? I think so. This blue beauty is more common in other places than my yard, and the admission I was granted to watch him dance was free. I smiled when I took note he was not carrying any rocks.

Chapter 8...Bluebird of Hope

"She can deal with stress and carry heavy burdens. She smiles when she feels like screaming, and she sings when she feels like crying. She cries when she's happy and laughs when she's afraid. Her love is unconditional. There's only one thing wrong with her. She forgets what she's worth!"



When we moved to the South twenty years ago, I spent many afternoons at my sister's home in the country. It was the first time I ever saw bluebirds in such an abundance. If allowed to, I could sit in awe watching the graceful birds until the sunset. There is something about any birds with blue feathers that can be hypnotic and mystifying. Perhaps it's because they're a shade of Heavenly Blue or that bluebirds are symbols of happiness, or maybe Godly is the word I'm trying to find.

Kevin Spacey starred in an early 2000 movie whose name was Prot. Prot was portrayed as a mental patient/possible alien. There were several characters Prot helped, but a fellow obsessive compulsive patient named Howie, was who came to my mind. Howie was tasked by Prot to look out into the garden until he saw the bluebird of happiness. Rather than going about his regular routines, Howie sat at the window watching the trees for the elusive bird to come to him. There's more to the story, but this is the movie that came to mind this morning. However, the thought and the setting seems appropriate for the state of repair I'm in.

Every home we owned had a large window, French doors, or sliding glass doors in the kitchen dining area. I based the purchase of our homes to have this requirement, because I thrive on bright natural light. It was important because the kitchen has always been the nucleus of our homes. It's the place our family and friends gravitate to. Its where we traditionally gather daily for meals, where we solved problems whether they were important or insignificant. Its where we entertained, studied, laughed and cried. When my children were babies, they were bathed in the sink while the aroma of fresh baked goodies escaped from the oven. Birthdays, weddings, funerals, and graduations all centered within the kitchen, and its no wonder to anyone who knows me that I'd be writing this at my kitchen table.

Lately, more often than not, I've been sitting at this same table with my head in my hands, wondering. Wondering about trivial things and those which are not so easy to define. I gaze without expression at all the beautiful flowers I've planted that have finally reached maturity and the freshly mowed lawn, and feel nothing. An emptiness I can blame on many things, but my mind goes blank when I try to pinpoint any one thing, and the other is fear. Then one day not long ago on a particularly “blue” day, I lift my head from my hands and focused my medicated eyes to see a bluebird sitting on a planter directly in front of the window. I didn't move except for the tears that ran down my cheeks. If I didn't know better, it looked like he was looking at me looking at him and transmitting the thought that tomorrow will be a better day. I praised the Lord. Did God know I needed to see that bird of hope? I believe He did.

This exact incident has happened three times since then, and each time my eyes teared. It was therapy I didn't have to pay for and I know in my heart, God is walking by my side through this journey. I felt the same overwhelming hope Howie did when the bluejay landed by his window.

 

Chapter Seven...Letting go...

“The journey of a thousand miles begins with one step.” Lao Tzu

 

You wonder if you will ever feel normal again. You want to go back to being the person you were before the trauma took place. You seek ways to forget that the experience ever happened and look for substances to help you forget. Sometimes you attempt to create a life for yourself in which you try to avoid the memories. It becomes a purposeful attempt to forget. I don't know what kind of person I was before, or how I can define normal to today's standards. I made a mistake not talking to someone about what happened to me, and the life that followed was half-lived. I have so thoroughly avoided dealing with that part of my past, and let it affect me in serious and substantial ways, that I've never experienced my true self or a real life to its fullest. When I hurt the most I have a tendency to think family contributed to the cauldron of my growing-up years, all the emotional hurts, lack of emotional support, rivalries, and misunderstandings had a way of casting a long shadow of mistrust on my adult years. Maybe they did. Maybe they didn't. Maybe it was just me. It's taken an enormous kind of courage for me to step beyond the normal roles and expectations for my past behavior and share. I want to fulfill that normal role, find that normal place and relax in the idea of it. To find serenity within and accept that it did happen to me rather than work so hard to deny it ever happened or believe that I'm somehow dirtied and damaged from it.

 

How does one find happy? How does one let go once and for all? Some days any strength I try to produce seems to be missing from me. The damage turned into an infected wound. It takes some time for a scab to form, and even more time for it to fully heal. Do you remember that movie with Jodie Foster? She was gang raped in a public place and others watched for fun. She was portrayed as someone who asked for it because she drank alcohol and seemed promiscuous. I hate it. I will never understand the logic that someone could ask for something like that to happen to her. Only people who have not been raped could believe that someone asked for it. The classic abuser mentality, “I wouldn't have hurt you if you didn't make me.”

Most decisions start with a goal in mind. At the end of this new life adventure, where do I want to end up? I don't know. I certainly don't want to walk around talking about what happened to me when I was a little more than a child to people who only pretend to be supportive. I don't see myself becoming a public advocate on the rights of women and children, I tried it recently and it was another set-back. I don't see myself cutting up a cardboard box to make a sign with red paint that reads, “Stop Violence Against Children,” or worse, “I was raped in a cabin by three older teens and no one cared.” Where the hell would I even picket? It's hard to even imagine picketing when I can't picture the who, the what, the where and the why's or the action. Lastly, I don't want to write a depressing blog forever.

 

I am new to my recovery. I have good days and I have bad days. I am learning to use imagery to wipe the filth and grime out of my mind. It happened to me, and yes, occasionally it will get me down. Instead of letting the dirt seep in, I am learning to clean it off. Breathe it out. I'm learning to tweak my perceptions. I viewed the experience as something that dirtied and scarred me. Something that anyone could see if they just looked at me. In reality, no one ever guessed what happened to me that fall evening before my fifteenth birthday. I give power to the hurt by keeping it close to my heart and soul. I don't want that hurt as part of my heart and soul anymore. Instead, I want happiness, forgiveness, acceptance and hope for a better tomorrow.

 

Tonight, my thoughts are scrambled as I reevaluate my life. If my thoughts intermingled with other thoughts and left you scratching your head wondering what I said...sorry, I'm working on that too.