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