* 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.