* On being alone ...

Tonight I find myself cooking fried new potatoes and onions.  I'm craving the way mamma used to cook them on the wood stove in the kitchen of the old house where I spent the first 15 years of my life.   Sometimes the three of us would sit around the stove, cut the potatoes into thin slices and place them on the iron top until they blistered.  Then the best part.  Peel them off, salt pepper and butter and pop them in our mouths.  Don't eat many potatoes any more.  Night shades ... bad for arthritis you know.  Made rice pudding last night for the same reasons.  Craving a taste of the past.  Wanted my heart to stop aching.  Did everything just like we used to.  Didn't taste anywhere near the same.  The rice is different in this country.  It went into the garbage today. 

I'm at a loss as to know what to do to comfort myself.  I am broken. So many horrific things have happened this year.  I haven't spoken to someone who has loved and cared for me all my life in such a long time.  Sometime it just hits me and I think I can no longer bear the thought of being here on this earth all by myself.  At sixty five, not to have a family member hug me, or an old friend to have a drink with and talk about our childhood, our memories, our antics while growing up, our history.  What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?  There is something terribly wrong with the order of things in my life.

Papa was ninety seven when he crossed over.  He was in a loving relationship for fifty seven years.  Mamma passed away three years before he did.    Oh, I'm not saying things were perfect.  There was trouble, and lots of it in our family.  But they still came.  They still dropped in.  The young ones still stopped for supper sometimes or a drink in the afternoon, when perhaps no one else knew they were there.  He still had kin.  He still had friends.  He still had a hug and a touch from someone who loved him dearly every day of his life until he died.  I never realized what a comfort that must have been.

On my sixty-fifth birthday took account of my life.  An accounting of loved ones in my life.  Everyone I cared for and whom I thought cared for me is gone. The biggest loss?  My husband, best friend, lover.  No old friends who I knew from childhood to talk of old times with.  No family.  Even the few friends whom I have a history with are in lands far away.  A phone call once in awhile has to suffice.  My step daughters?  No.  Not there either.  They have their own families.  I sat in my chair frozen.  Unable to celebrate with any of the people I have met here.  Unable to even utter the fact it was my birthday.  I simply couldn't face life that day.

Sometimes I think if I don't get a hug or a touch from someone who really cares very soon, I shall surely die.  I remember distinctly the last time that happened.  I will hold it in my heart forever.  I recall every detail and if I close my eyes I can almost be there.  But then again ... I'm not there am I.  How do people live without caring touch.  I have no idea.  It was such an important part of my life.  Now nothing exists.  I am now an untouchable in so many ways, for so many very weird reasons. 

It's not an easy situation to face or god forbid to accept.  If I had to explain it all, I really could not.  I don't understand most of it myself.  I know my heart aches.  I know I am a lone.  I have no idea how to fix it.  I have no idea how to live with it. I have no idea how to create a support system at this stage of my life.  Not a meaningful one anyway.  Do I live superficially from this day forward?  Talking about the price of tomatoes and the cost of living?   Not likely.  Not who I am.  Dear God, how superficialness bores me.  Why has this happened?  Part of being an only child.  Part of the deep resentment, bitterness and hatred which permeates the family who are left.  The wall is so thick, no army could blast their way in.  I used to think I wanted to.  I used to think I would do anything to fix it.  Now I realize how stupid that would be.  Now I realize how very very stupid I have been most of my life.  I have lived as part of a facade, as part of a lie which for so many years I thought was the truth.

Old friends?  Dear friends?  The facade they wore was a good one.  I ignored it.  They lied to survive.  Couldn't talk.  Wouldn't talk.  Unable to face the truth.  Couldn't work things out.  Finally without a word, one day I was blocked from a relationship I had been part of for over sixty years.  How pathetic.  How pitiful.  Life is too short for any of this crap as far as I'm concerned.  And then, I suspect to speak of it all with other old friends. Such gall.  A situation I protected. one I held so close to my heart for fear someone would know and misunderstand. Something I considered private between the two of us.  Something I wouldn't share in case it might shed a less than bright light on my dear friend. I still had enough respect for that. It was so personal, so sacred, WHY? WHY! would they talk to someone else about it when that person is unable to hear 'the other side of the story'.   AND to top it all off, have the other old friend believe there is only one side to this fucking story.  STORY!  That's exactly what it is.  Made up and fertilized for such a long time it grew into some personal nightmare because they were AFRAID to TALK!  What the fuck is that all about?  We can negotiate with huge companies over a little bit of shitty money or the right to pee three times a day in a clean toilet, but we can't negotiate with an old and oh so dear friend to save a life long friendship?  FUCK NO.  Couldn't do that.  That would take courage wouldn't it!  It's all beyond me.  Bitter?  You bet!  If I look at it from a personal growth point of view, from a spiritual point of view, these people have 'shown me who they truly are'.  What I see is not pretty.  Why would I want them in my life anyway?  Good question.  Simple answer.  Because I LOVE THEM.

Having this knee surgery in a foreign country alone was one of the biggest tests I have ever endured.  Why didn't you ask for help you might say to yourself.  Well, I did.  I swallowed my pride and asked for help.  Did anyone come?  NO.  Why?  No one really gives a damn.  Another huge lesson for me to absorb.  It will take time.  Had I been asked by those same people to come to them I would have been there in a flash. I would never have said 'maybe' or 'we will talk closer to the time', or 'I need more information'.   My credit card might have been a little hot, but I would have been there.  That's how important it would have been to me.  Going through this procedure here with no one who loves me has been a tremendous emotional blow.

So how did I get so screwed up?  How did I end up totally alone at the age of sixty five when most people are surrounded by family and friends?  Life style for one.  I never had very deep roots.  I understand some of the reasons, and some have been my own choices.  I'm just not sure I can live with the consequences.  I'm not sure I can stay under the circumstances.  I'm not sure I want to.

* Saying Goodbye to Granny

Note:  See part one, "The Memory Weaver".

I looked at Granny one more time before I went to bed.  Laid out on her butterfly quilt, the piece of muslin tied in a bow on the top of her head.  I looked for a long time.  I knew I would never forget.  I was five.

"What will happen to Granny now?", I asked.  Jeannie and I were climbing the narrow curved staircase to the bedrooms.

Mama was too busy to put me to bed.  Jeannie was always there when Mama was too busy.

"Well, they will come with a car, and take her body to a funeral home."

"When will they come?"

"I don't know exactly.  Soon."

"Will you tell me when they come to take Granny?"

"You will be asleep.  I will tell you in the morning."

"No, you have to tell me tonight.  You have to wake me up.  I want to know when they take Granny away.  You have to promise.  Promise me you will wake me up.  Promise."

"Alright, don't worry, I will tell you, I promise."

I climbed into Mama and Papa's bed, under the yellow flowered comforter Mama had made.  It was stuffed with sheeps wool and tied every few inches with pieces of knitting wool.  I loved that comforter.  It smelled good.

I said my prayers.  Jeannie kissed me goodnight and gave me that extra little hug she always had for me.  The light went out and she turned to leave.

"Promise me, Jeannie.  Promise me."

I fell asleep quickly that night knowing someone would wake me and tell me Granny was gone.  I needed to know.  It was important.

My eyes popped open.  It was light out - morning had arrived.  I felt anger.  I jumped out of bed and ran down to Granny's room.  It was empty.  She was gone.  Only her butterfly quilt remained.

I cried.  My hands grasped the quilt.  But they promised!  They promised!  I needed to know.  I wanted to know.  It was important.  Didn't they understand it was important? 

* The Memory Weaver

Where are they, those little tiny pieces, those moments in time, those snipits.  Find the threads, the scattered scraps, the left overs.  Gather them together.  Don't let them go. Go to your loom and weave the memories.  They are important and your stories need to be told.

I struggle to remember my Granny.  Small snipits, little bits, smidgens, threads.  I find them, I cherish them, I weave them together into the fabric they once were.

"Wash together, dry together, be good friends for ever and ever."  We stand by the old white double porcelain sink in the house where I was born.  Home.  The view from the window is an old log cabin, once a new soddy, now tumbled down and used for the storage of grain.  A huge wood pile is stacked near by.  This was my Granny's first home.  This is where my Papa was born.  She and Grandad built it together, one log at a time.  

I hear the water swirling down the drain.  I dry the last piece of silver ware and together, like a well orchestrated team, we fold the dish towel neatly and hang it in the cupboard under the sink.  This was our nightly routine, Granny and me.  Sometimes we would sing "You are my sunshine".  I would giggle, Granny would smile.

Sometimes Granny would read to me from the pink floral chair in the corner of her bedroom.  I would sit on the floor and lean my arms on her knees while she read me tall exciting tales from one of my favorite books. 

I loved my Granny's bedroom.  It was the largest of our five bedrooms.  Full of light, it was an airy room with big windows covering two walls and built in bookshelves.  How I adored those little nooks full of books I had no idea about. 

The windows looked out over the land.  Family land, Parker land.  The plum trees which grew close to the porch, and farther away, the high poplars which protected the yard from prairie winds.  The other window looked out over a seasonal pond, full of ducks and frogs in the spring.  Our springtime orchestra, Mama used to say as she tucked me into bed.  Beyond the music we looked out over the pasture where fat cattle grazed.

Granny's bed fascinated me.  Made of dark wood the headboard had a piece of burled walnut set in the middle.  And my very favorite thing in Granny's room - her butterfly quilt.  All bright beautiful butterflies appliqued onto muslin by hand.  Always there, always beautiful, always on her bed.

Granny used to mash my potatoes when we ate dinner.  It was a big deal.  I loved it.  Thinking back now, perhaps it was when I came home from the hospital and she was trying to get me to eat.  Mashed on my plate, patted into a square or a circle, whichever I wanted.  Butter was then applied before they were cut into bite sized squares.  She would feed each little square to me on a fork.  It made me laugh.  I remember.

Granny died one day when I was five.  She died in the bathroom while my Papa raised her head and put brandy to her lips.  She was gone.  I cried and cried that night.  I sat in a corner of the dining room on a red hassock with my feet on the old wrought iron heating grate I loved so much.  I stared down at the intricate pattern as Mama and Papa carried my Granny to lie on her butterfly quilt.  She had flown away just like a butterfly.  In silence she had invisibly transformed.

I sat at my Mama's knee by Granny's pink flowered chair and cried.  My Mama cried too.  Our tears fell for a long time.

Friends and neighbours, the women of the community fussed around, preparing Granny for something.  I wasn't quite sure what.  They put a long strip of muslin under her chin and tied it in a bow on the top of her head.  She wore her pretty flowered dress, the one I loved the best, long black stockings and her sturdy black shoes with laces. 

* The Beggar

I stumble, I fall, I bleed.  Tripping over roots and boulders of the past in search of acceptance, surrender and the grace to move forward.  To live in the moment.  To find my happiness once more.

I search and seek
in forests damp and dark
where memories lurk
and pull at me
from deep caves and caverns.
I see no light,
One measly crack would do.
Why can I find none.
Why can I not break away
from the pull, the magnetism
of the darkness, of the past.
It sticks to me like
dried dung.
Like an animal I roll
and wallow in it,
covering myself in its smell
it's imprint.
My childhood roots cling to me,
Wrap themselves around me,
Wrenching me back in time
Like some horror movie.

The pain is too great to bear.
I beg you, allow me my freedom.
Release me.
No good can come of this.
These tears, these howlings,
These broken pieces can
Never be made whole.
Loosen your grip.
Unwrap yourselves from me
And let me crawl away
To lick my wounds in peace.

Must all healing come
from such shattered pieces,
From such brokeness,
From such hell?
My connection with the Universe is gone.
It's shattered.
Null and void.
My soul severed by some unseen sword.
I am split in two
Forever searching for the other half.

I beg for healing.
I beg for wholeness.
I beg for peace.

* This moment in time ...

This moment in time
I have forgotten completely
what friendship and love
feel like.
Did I ever really know?
Was it all an illusion?
I am uncomfortable.
My tribe is far and away.
I scatter deep sadness
And anger in my wake.
Do not come near me!
I am dry,
I am empty.
A cavern lives within.
It is cold,
There is no fire.
Tears pour forth
from the river which
runs deep under middle earth.
No touch of human mind or body
exists in my reality.
I have forgotten their blessings.
I am barren,
An empty shell,
Nothing to share.
A bitter old woman,
Who once longed to
be a loving crone.
The bitterness spills and
sticks on others.
Stay Away!
It will stick to you
like silt in the dessert.
Stay away I say!
Not one step closer.
My loved ones disappeared
long ago and only
now do I have that knowing.
My spirit shakes with
anger and betrayal.
Questions seep from
deep cracks
and dark damp holes.
Fear possesses my body.
My guts have turned to muck.
I am afraid to cough or
spit in case I
shake it loose
and simutaneously explode
spreading small particles
to the far reaches of the earth.
I could not fix it alone,
And I am alone.

So keep yourself together
bitter old women.
Hold on tight
For if you let go
You will fly to smithereens.
There are no insane asylums
No one cares if you can't find
all the pieces.
So don't let go,
or do you want to die in
some dark damp alley way
not knowing your own name?

* So many questions

Oh fate!  Such tricks and evil jokes you play on me as you dance and twist and spiral around.  Amused that I, your prodege, have the energy of the young, after such long and painful Rumpelstiltskin years.  Now, the gift of energy abounds.  The mind, a creative explosion of ideas irrupting regularly, like old faithful.  Yet, you have bestowed pain and limits on movement.  I grimmice and winge as I put a foot forward.  I cry and make a wrinkled face as I attempt to stand.  To feel pain and want to hide it, to pretend I am fine.  "Oh no.  No problem here."  And as the tears find their way from my eyes, the idea machine in my head is on fast forward.  Wasn't this supposed to happen in the youth of my years?  When I was young with body fit, my soul was broken, my spirit sad. Only sleep would surely bring comfort.

Now my bed is not my friend, and even as I try to rest and heal, my mind turfs me out from under the comforter to create.  Create what I sometimes wonder.  Everything that has been there and invisible to me for the last 64 years?  It's all there now, at the surface.  Bubbling and boiling, pushing and shoving and rioting to be next in line to emerge from the darkness into the light. 

Why now?  Why at this last moment?  Did I always wait for the last minute to get things done?  Do I have to hurry?  Is there time?  A voice told me "You have come here to die."  Is it true?  Or is it as I hope .. the old me fading away and dieing as a new me emerges. 

The pain stops me.  I move slowly, carefully.  Still it beings me to my knees.  The muscle in my side gives me sharp jabs and jolts as I try to ignor the fact I am wounded.  It will not allow me to forget.

The dust of this high dessert town, the heat and the silt which respect no closed door has got me down.  The grit on my hands as I attempt to work, read a book, or take a paper from the drawer.  It is May, it is hot.  It will be over soon, people tell me.  Accept?  Any of it?  The pain or the dust?  Not today.

* Searching for my Wings

Time passes quickly now.  They are growing old.   They will leave this earth with a bang not a whimper.  Hundreds will attend the wake of these two, for they are from an old family.  One of the first to settle this community.  People will come together to grieve and celebrate their lives, lived the very best they knew how.

I will never know when they are gone.  I will here no details of their passing.  I will never have the privilege of saying goodbye and thank you for whatever they could give me.  I will never grieve and celebrate with loved ones.  I have the deepest of sadness for this thought.  They are my only close blood, my kin.  We come from the same stock.  We share the same roots.  And yet, it is their wish to never see me again.

They scream these needs in loud defiant silence.  Sign language indicates "No Trespassing.  We will Shoot".  Leave us be.  You are not one of ours.  Never a word has been spoken.  They cannot bear to hear their words appear in front of me.

Bitterness and contempt is locked away in an old barristers trunk.  It takes three keys to open that one.  The keys were lost so long ago.  No one will ever understand for sure what's inside.

It's fermented and rotten.  It bubbles and boils.  It causes illness.  Still they keep it hidden and cloistered from view.

I set you free.  It is your own truth, not mine.  Dance to the rhythm of your drummer, to the beat of your bitterness.  You are old and hard and unbending.  Stiff from anger and pain.  You bleed and yet are unaware.  Go with my love and my blessings.

Myself?  Another question.  Huge for me.  Am I able to free myself.  Will I allow myself to fly, to leave my dearest hopes and dreams behind?

Harder than it may seem to leave my blood, my kin.  I know the truth.  There is no love.  My box of hope is still full.  To empty it is a frightening thought. To face the cold and the hard and the difficult. The facts.  I don't want to face the cold, the hard and the empty box.  Despair may quickly fill the void and then what?  My mind won't let it go.  My spirit longs to heal.  The pain gnaws at me, raw and unyielding.  It claws and scratches relentlessly, creeping into my dreams even as I sleep.   The truth?  The cold harsh raw truth?  I don't have a family.  And really, I never did.  How very harsh those words are to see in black and white.  How will I ever face it?  How will I ever heal?

* The Hope Chest

"Can I come with you?"
"No."
"Oh please can I come with you?"
"No."
"I'll be good, I promise."

It was dark out.  It was cold.  It was just before Christmas.  Billy had built Connie a cedar chest, a 'hope' chest.  He was proud and excited.  He was taking it to her in the back of the truck.

"PLUULEESE.?
"Oh, alright, but you have to stay in the truck!"
His voice was gruff.  He had given in.  He didn't want me there.
I went anyway, happy for any morsel of himself he was willing to share.
A short drive.  Not a word spoken.

We pulled up in front of the house.  The lights were on.  It looked warm and welcoming inside.  The cat was laying on the cot beside the front door.  I could see Aunty Molly.

The door slammed.  The hope chest taken in.  I stood up so I could see better, but I wasn't witness to the giving, the love.

I waited.  It was cold.  Finally the door opened and Billy climbed in.  We drove home in silence.  I took what I could.  I put it safely in my heart.  I stored it there along with a box of hope.  I was five.  I knew it would be alright in the end.  He would love me.  I just knew it!

An Old Belief System Shattered

I thought I had a brother
but I didn't.
I was told I had a brother
but he wasn't.
I was told my brother loved me
but that was just a lie
so we could be a family
and deny, deny, deny.
I thought we ate together
I thought he teased us all
I thought he said I love you
with the crazy and the small.
I thought he came for Christmas
and brought his family.
I thought all those together
were really loving me.
I thought they'd always be there
But they couldn't wait to go.
Our lives turned out to be a lie,
And I didn't even know.

 I thought it would all be OK in the end,
and if it wasn't OK, it wasn't the end.  I was so wrong.

* I've Come Undone

The fears which held me so tightly together inside,
The fear I would make someone angry,
The fear I could not please absolutely everyone,
The fear I wouldn't be perfect enough for my mother,
The fear my deportment might fail me and the book would tumble from my head,
The fear my conversational skills would leave me while at an important function,
The fear I was too fat to ever make anyone happy,
The fear I could not hold myself in this perfect package I was brought up to be,
The fear I couldn't be a peace keeper when the family was together,
The fear my Papa would say something to upset Connie,
The fear I couldn't ignore it, bandage it, talk over it, or make more tea,
The fear I would displease my parents and fall from grace,
The fear I would not make my husband happy,
The fear my step children wouldn't love me,
The fear I could not meet the expectation of contributing money to our marriage,
The fear I couldn't whip up fabulous family gatherings, social functions and      wonderful holidays, with ease and grace.

These fears, which were wrapped up so tightly inside me
Never to be seen by another human on this planet
Were exactly the fears which caused me to come undone.

They all unraveled at once
They spread like molten lava
Uncontrolable.
They loosened my grip, fell from my arms
And slipped through my fingers.
With them went my world,
My husband, my lover, my best friend.
He didn't know who I was anymore.
And neither did I.

* Untitled

Recently while in a deep meditation, I was literally transported back to my Papa's bedside the night he passed over.  Don't ask questions.  Simply accept.  I was there.  It was a cool November night.  The furnace was on.  The room was warm.  Papa was peaceful and I sat close beside his bed, my head on his chest, his hand in mine.  Rissie lay at the end of his bed by his feet. He knew we were there.

Suddenly, I had a great urge to grab a pen and paper.  I picked up the nearest scrap and a pen and my hand began to move across the page.  I was weeping so that I could not see the page, nor did I know what was coming next.  I only knew a deep sadness had overtaken me, and I had to do this.  And I quote:

"Don't leave me Papa ....      .... please            ........ don't go, don't close your eyes.  I am sixty five, but only a child.  Who will care for me?  Who will love me?  Who will be my mentor and my friend.  No .... NO PAPA .... you are leaving.  Your eyes are closing          ........ you see something in the distance and it calls.      I call too Papa       ....... please stay just a moment longer.   Here, hold my hand ...... I am here           .......come back Papa .... p l e a s e .... come back.  You are gone.  You are already there.  Even if you are only a breath away, it might as well be a million miles.  Why is life to cruel.  Why does it taste so bitter.  Why do I sit here alone as your hand grows cold?  May I come?  You say no ... but I ask you Papa ... What is left here??  Tell me!"

This is so very different that the actual night Papa crossed over.  I was fifty-seven.  I was calm.  I was ready.  Papa was ninety seven.  I knew it was time.  But this!  This was real.  This was the real grief.  I think perhaps I am grieving now.

6:00 PM, Paddington Station

London, England.  March 1970.

A sea of faces -
smiling,
serious.
Legs running, hands clutching
heavy cases
and small parcels.
People and trains
hurrying,
coming to
going from.

Outside
the sound of red buses,
the smell of smog,
a drizzle of rain.
Brightly coloured
umbrellas
against a gray sky.
Car horns blaring
angrily.
A traffic jam.
Milling crowds,
moving as one.
Some sad,
some happy,
some numb.
6:00 p.m.
Rush hour in London Town.

6:30  p.m.
The train,
warm inside -
moving slowly at first.
Rocking gently
faster and faster
racing by
warehouses and smoke stacks,
backs of lonely gray
brick buildings
alley ways
and dust bins.
The light fades
leaving only the
warmth of the
train ...
night falls like
a shroud
and in the distance
London glows.
I turn away from the window.
My thoughts turn to you.

8:00 pm,
Westbury station.
A drive through dark
winding roads
to a quiet house
and warm fires.

Cool night air
hot water bottles
and warm cuddly blankets.
The stillness
of the English countryside.
A stillness which is almost
a sound.
The moon,
gliding through
a clear night sky,
sleeping birds,
a stream
to lazy to bubble,
the wind,
tired from its days journey
resting in the trees.
The sounds of night.
The sounds of silence.

Morning.
A distant whistle.
Footsteps on the path.
Birds early morning song.
A restless wind
who has slept too long.
Voices downstairs and
the smell of bacon frying.

A journey
through sleepy villages,
and peaceful countryside
alive with
a charm all its own.
Orange brick and stone fences.
Quiet streams.
Green grass,
thatched roofs and
lazy cattle.
High hills, protecting
tiny towns hidden
deep in the valleys,
away from the
changing hands of time.
Small boys,
and big dogs,
Stone bridges,
cobblestone lanes,
stone churches, lonely and cold.
Churchyards,
Old headstones and memories.

A walk by the
glassy lake.
Moorhens and ducks,
still unaware that
spring has come and
they must build new nests.

A peaceful afternoon, high
in the hills.
The wind, warmed by the sun
against my face and through
my hair.

The clouds play tag with the sun
and make shadows in the valley.

Pussy willows, just waking up
from winter.
Pine trees with long needles.
A carpet of moss and
snowdrops underfoot.

I cross the stream on a narrow tree.
Picking snowdrops.
I laugh and play with the
echo in the hills.

The tulip tree in full bloom,
the view from the front window.
The old mansion,
quiet sheep,
and the little bird house on the
front lawn.

Inside, the warm fire,
Elsa,
laughing, talking,
home cooking,
riddles and rhymes,
old photographs and
stories of childhood days.

Sunday evening.
The weekend almost gone.
Good times pass so quickly.
Time to leave,
Goodbyes.
The train
back to London,
peering out the window
to catch a glimpse of
the house.
A warm compartment,
happy thoughts.

* Will I, Will I, Will I

Will I ever know deep deep down
inside it's really over?  Will
I ever stop waiting ot the
phone to ring?  Will the
hurt ever go away?  Will I ever
stop believing we are Taylor and Burton?
Will I ever be able to stop the pain?

* The Truth About Presents (A little tongue in cheek, but mostly the truth)

Some people have trouble accepting them.  Some people say things like, "Oh you shouldn't have.", "I can't accept that.",  "Now what am I going to do for you.", "Oh no!  Is this for little old me?  Oh, no,  ... please."  Some people are embarrassed and say things like, "Where's yours?", "What about you?", "But ... I didn't get you anything."  Some people get downright rude saying things like, "No, you keep it, I don't deserve this ... I couldn't possibly accept it."

Well, I say to you, "What a bunch of poppycock!"  I say to you, "Bring it on.",  "Where's mine?", "Did you only bring the one?", and/or "Thank you so much.  Don't forget it's my birthday in two weeks."

I say, "Yeah! You brought me a present."  "I'm excited.",  "I cant wait to open it.",  "How good is this - such a great surprise!", "Please, do it more often."

I say, "You make my heart sing!", "Thanks for thinking of me, I'm worth it."  It makes me want to stand up and shout --- "Somebody thought about ME today!  I got a present!  I am blessed .. look at this, it's wrapped!."

It  makes me feel important, loved, wanted, cared for, and remembered.

SO .. for all the naysayers, for all the insecure, no self esteem, afraid, tortured, misinformed human beings who got the message when they were children, "I don't deserve presents." ... I say --- send it over here.  I'll take it off your hands.  "I adore presents -- do you have more than one you don't want.  Perhaps you have a sister who doesn't like presents either."

Presents are to be enjoyed.  They are to be fondled.  They are to be looked at, picked up and played with, touched over and over before they get old.  Presents have the ability to make you smile, laugh, or sometimes even cry a happy cry.  First, you have to accept the darn thing and say thank you from the bottom of your heart.  Feel it, put it out there, say it, show it -- BE HAPPY for goodness sake.  Never accept a gift with a worried look on your face.  You may never receive another.

That's the real truth about presents.  They are true gifts from the heart, they are given and born of love, they are little blessings in formal attire, they are beautiful thoughts in a box.  SO, if, after reading this, you are still having issues --- hey -- I'm over here!  See me?  I love presents.  And, that's the truth!

* Learning about Sestina ...

I've been learning about Sestinas.  Today I wrote my first one.  It surprised me.  Below the sestina is an explanation of how they are structured, in case, like me, you may not have heard of them before.

The words I chose at random were: 

Home
Man
Woman
Ocean
Clouds
Waves

Untitled

June 18th had come again to her home
She didn't want to remember the man
She wished she would not remember the woman
Perhaps a walk by the ocean
Where she could see the clouds
And hear the waves.

She imagined the sound of pounding waves
As she left her home.
Rain fell heavily from the clouds
In her heart she carried the man
Down to the ocean
Where she could free him to be with the woman.

She wanted to weep, but the woman
could be heard in the pounding waves.
She cried as she walked farther from her home
and closer to the ocean
The rain poured from the clouds
and she heard the heartbreak of the man.

She tried to walk away, but the man
Became the voice of the woman.
The rain became her tears from the clouds.
Her heart the pounding of the waves
She tried to run home
She was engulfed by the ocean.

You cannot stay with me, said the ocean
And you must walk away from the man
to allow him to be with his woman
Don't go home
Drown in the clouds
Become the waves

Her tears became the waves
Eaten by the ocean
She tried to find her man
The earth became the clouds
The man took the hand of the woman
She couldn't find her home.

She walked into the waves of the ocean
Her heart carried her man into the clouds
No longer could she carry the woman
She walked home.
                                

A sestina is based on sixes.  It has six unrhymed stanzas of six lines each in which the words at the ends of the first stanza’s lines recur in a rolling pattern at the ends of all the other lines.  The sestina then concludes with a tercet (a three line stanza) that uses all six end-words, two to a line.  The diagram that follows will probably help you to see what I’m talking about.  (And thanks to the Handbook of Poetic Forms for giving me this diagram and explanation)

In the diagram, the letters A-F stand for the six end-words of the sestina,

Stanza 1:  A
                B
                C
                D
                E
                F

Stanza 2:   F
                  A
                  E
                  B
                  D
                  C

Stanza 3:    C
                   F
                   D
                   A
                   B
                   E

Stanza 4:    E
                   C
                   B
                   F
                   A
                   D

Stanza 5:    D
                   E
                   A
                   C
                   F
                   B

Stanza 6:     B
                    D
                    F
                    E
                    C
                    A

Tercet:     AB
                CD
                 EF


The way you write a sestina, is to first choose six words that will be your end words.  Then, label them A, B, C, etc.  Then, you follow the pattern of the stanzas, and let your poem unfold.   After you write your first stanza, you might want to write down all the end-words, in correct rotation, over on the right hand side of the page.

My own experience in writing sestinas is that a story often develops, in unexpected ways.  And, if f I choose end-words that have some physical substance  (like tree, or table)  and are in some ways connected (to me) to something I  want to write about that I know is challenging for me, the sestina allows me to uncover truths I wouldn’t have gotten to in any other way.

* The Pansy and The Kiss

Found in an old journal.  Dated November 29, 2001

In my youth
I gave them away -
never looking
never feeling
never thinking.
An abundant
commodity
in my gardens
and on my lips.
A fleeting moment
gone
to be forgotten
in the annals
of time.

Now in my 'wiser years'
I nurture my
wondrous pansies.
I feed them,
water them,
and impose
long conversations upon them.
I give them away
with great aplom
seeing them for the beauties they are
knowing them like friends
to dear to part with.

My kisses
on the other hand
are still freely given
They are dispensed with feeling,
thought about
over and over,
and are
held dear in
my heart.
A small fleeting treasure of
love
to help fill
my emptiness.

* Untitled

The deep anger I experienced in order to get this house finished lingers.  It travels through my soul on dangerous mountainous roads full of hair pin turns and sharp shoulders finding other long buried pockets of anger which bubble and boil from depths and layers of history.  They surprise and shock me with their strength and determination to be looked at and dealt with.  It has left me open, raw and bleeding.  Not knowing what to expect next let alone how to deal with it.

I understand the grace in this.  It's a clearing house of the old anger and hurt, buried so deep in the past, only the strength of my current anger was able to dislodge it.  This too shall pass and dear Universe I pray I do not have to endure much longer.  It has robbed me of my joy, for there is no room for happiness.

As the anger is processed and emptied the joy will return ten fold for there will be space to fill.  Be with it, feel it, cry it and scream it and kick and vomit it.  Do what is necessary to cleanse.  This is the healing.  The magical healing of emptying old wounds and letting them soar into the wild blue yonder of eternity.  Surrender, accept and allow.

* Growing Pains

They disappear like dust in the San Miguel wind, scattering themselves so thin upon the surface of the earth I can no longer distinguish the difference between them.

As I grow, move forward, become stronger, continue to speak my truth, and set healthy boundaries, they leave  in droves, tripping over the egos they have been given to outgrow and taking everything oh so personally.

There is nothing I can do.  There is nothing I want to do.  Oh, I want to scream, my gut aches, there is a huge lump in my throat and I can feel anger as strong as the devil himself.  Tears stream from my eyes and obscenities pour from my lips as I attempt to clear my earthly body.  All in all, I simply have to be with it until we become friends and I once again begin to understand the depth of my journey here on earth.

* Finished

I thought I had finished the house.  After some contemplation about the state of my being, the house, in fact has finished me.  Nice turn of events, would you not agree?

I'm left, running hot,  like a vein of molten lava -  smoldering, bitter at what I had to go through to get here and still angry as hell.  I have been taken for so many rides since I moved,  I feel like I live at the fairgrounds.  All the rides are tempting, they call to me, they smile at me, they beckon me.  They look safe.  They look like fun. At the end, when they lurch to a halt and throw me off my seat I find myself reeling through unsympathetic crowds of onlookers as I seek a place to vomit.  Vomiting gives temporary relief, but leaves a feeling of emptiness with a lingering taste of bitterness I am not quite sure will abate of its own accord any time soon.

Today, I wandered aimlessly, not knowing how to use the minimal amount of energy I had left in my body.  I did a scan. Were the pieces all there?  No, of course not!  How could I find each and every piece after such an eruption. They had been blown far and wide.  It would take time to heal and grow the parts back slowly.  I considered accepting that.

I observed mindfully, taking in every detail of the finished work.   Detail and exquisite finishing were their forte I had been assured.  But the details, so important to me, have been ignored and defaced.  Paint, the wrong colour glaring at me from a patched piece of plaster, cracks ignored and left unattended after installing the now unstable railings.  All signs of a hurried getaway ... an I don't care getaway ... a let's just get out of here getaway.

It has left me grieving.  It has left behind a heartless uncaring energy lingering within my sacred walls.  It has left me shattered.

The anger which has raged in me for the past months is  a new phenomenon.  I've had glimpses of it before, but it has never come out in full force to stay, to be my constant companion for such a long period of time.   It comes from a place deep within, a place I did not know contained such power.   It comes from a deep inner wisdom, a place which knew I must love myself enough to stand up and fight, to stand up and be a bitch, to stand up and cause such hell my home would be completed.  The rage is lingering.  It's sticky and dirty.  It is not something which will dissipate quickly.  It has left me reeling and exhausted.  It has left me feeling empty and numb, desperately seeking some small thread which will lead me back to balance ... sacred balance.

From my place of higher knowing, I acknowledge the extreme joy I experienced planning, designing and building the first phase of this project.  It was honest.  It was true.  I grasp the thin air to bring back the memories through the dark halls of anger.  It has been the six month over run which has done me in.  It has been taking care of the accounts to make sure they are in order.  It has been taking care of the lists to be done to make sure they are tended to.  No one else cared enough in the end to do that.  It was the constant nagging and emailing, daily if not more than daily.  It's been the negotiating.  It's been taking the higher road of understanding because there was another side to this story which I completely sympathized with.  And finally, in the end, it's been the broken promises, the empty words, the complete abandonment of this project.  The rage finally rose within ... it overtook me.  I slept with it, I ate with it, every waking moment it was part of my body, mind and spirit.  It was new.  I didn't know what to do with it, except embrace it.

And so the house is finished.  It's complete.  The job is done.  It is over.  After fourteen months, six of which were hell, the job has been accomplished.  I too am finished.  I have been devoured by my own anger.  I'm not sure where to step next.  I know I need quiet.  My energy has been sucked dry.  I allowed it ... however ... I'm not sure I had an alternative method of getting the job done.  I don't want to be quiet.  I don't want to feel this horrible lack of energy.  How long will it take.  Has this been another year in my life which has forever changed me, for better and for worse.  LIFE .... the journey.  I'm definitely on it.

* Waiting for Caitlin

February 3, 2011
Restaurant at the Instituto, San Miguel de Allende, Mexico

I wonder what will become of me?
I wonder if I will be able to stay?
I wonder if all this pain is just a flair?
I wonder if it will heal?
I wonder if I will have to go?
I wonder if I will be an artist here ...
A 'real' artist who hangs things in galleries.
An artist who profits from her product.
According to a friend of mine, that's
who 'real artists' are.
Do I agree?
No, I do not agree.
I believe a 'real' artist is one who
creates art.
It makes no difference what
happens to it.
It is still 'real' and the artist who
created it is still 'real'.
It's all about the creating ... that's all
it's about.
Do I really believe that?
I don't really know if I do or not.
I wonder if it will all become clear?
I wonder when Caitlin will arrive?
I wonder what we will do?
I wonder if my legs will hold me up?
I wonder if walking will be painful?
I wonder if I can hide my pain?
I wonder if I'll be able to fake it?
I wonder about so much.