In the Mirror - Theme Friday
Posted on October 17, 2008 - Filed Under fate, hope, love, original fiction, reflections, theme fridays
I tugged the silver-handled hairbrush through my mop of dark hair as I looked in the mirror. The signs that I would age like my mother were all there - lines around the mouth that had begun a descent downward, lonliness, but mostly surrender. It had crept into my once bright blue eyes somewhere along the way, the light notched down and barely burning, the gaze turned inward. I felt older than I was and at the beginning of the end. I was looked back far more than I was looked forward and the realization of it angered me. I threw the brush at the mirror in a fit of pique, fighting to change the reflection. “No!” I screamed.
“Mom?” Peter’s soft voice coaxed me to turn.
I stared at my shy and handsome son, who had his father’s eyes more each day - and they filled with questions. “It’s okay honey, my hand slipped,” I looked away and bent down to gather the broken glass on the carpet.
Peter helped me collect the little pieces of reflection that sparkled the floor and mocked me at the same time. I shooed him out and assured him I was fine. And when I turned I spied the spiderweb that had formed and spread from the point of impact - and the image staring back at me, like a spider, had several pairs of eyes.
The conversation at breakfast was a handful of murmurs and manners. “You still going on Friday night?” Peter packed a lunch of roast beef sandwich, apple, yoghurt and the last piece of cherry pie.
I peered over my coffee cup at Peter, even the way he held a knife mimicked his father and it stirred shadows I wanted to keep asleep. “I don’t have much choice,” I mumbled.
Peter flashed a mouthful of perfect white teeth. “You always have a choice, Mom.”
“All right, wise guy, then I don’t have a graceful choice to bow out. I’m on the planning committee, I could hardly ‘bail’ as you kids like to say.” I smiled for his sake and sipped coffee and craved the cigarettes I’d given up long ago.
Peter rolled his big blue eyes and planted a kiss on the top of my head before heading out. “See you tonight,” he called over his shoulder. And I was right behind him, running late, needing to rush to the shop.
Most of the morning was spent unsuccessfully cajoling customers into buying pieces and trying to find a service that could repair the two hundred year old mirror I’d smashed with my grandmother’s hairbrush. Both proved to be an exercise in futility. An afternoon rain that turned the bright Autumn day to grey tears convinced me to close early. No one would be antiquing in a rain storm anyway. I turned the sign to the closed position and went behind the counter to count the drawer.
I must have been lost in thought because I never saw or heard the woman enter. “Excuse me,” the voice was strong and clear but kind. I gasped. “Sorry dear,” she said, “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
She was a small woman with vibrant blue-green eyes and silver hair twisted in a neat bun at the back. “I’m sorry, but I’ve closed for today. What with the rain and all…”
The woman nodded, “Yes, I can see that, but you have such a lovely shop that I wanted to look around. You have a keen eye for placement,” she said as her own eyes wandered the pieces I’d so carefully arranged. “You have so many mirrors, I love how they give the place eyes.” I’d never thought of it that way. It was true I had a special love of mirrors but now it seemed the shop was crammed with them and staring at me.
“Thank you,” I said anxious for her to ask her question and leave. The rain had begun to pound on the roof and I dreaded the short but sure to be miserable drive home. “Is there something I can do for you?”
The woman continued to smile and shook her head. “No, I just wanted to say hello and tell you how much I appreciate your lovely things here. Will your husband be by to pick you up soon?”
“No, I’m not married.”
She was taken aback, her eyes told me so. “A lovely girl like you, not married? It doesn’t speak well of the male population around here does it?” she winked.
I smiled and shook my head. “No, I suppose not.” But I had no interest in the male population since the man I loved married another woman.
She patted my hand. “Don’t worry dear, I have a feeling your luck is about to change and my feelings are almost always right.”
I stared at my feet like bashful teenager and when I looked up she was gone. The hairs on my arms raised and goosebumps rose to greet them. How she had appeared out of nowhere and then vanished into the grey vapor of the afternoon was downright eerie. I went to the front of the shop and peered out the window at the pouring rain, not a soul was about, all no doubt, hiding from the sheets of grey like I did. I shook my head and bolted the front door and left through the rear exit.
When I got home I was cold and weary and wanted nothing more than a mug of soup and hot bath. The house was dark and still and rather than turn on lights, I stood, leaning against the door, listening to the rain thump and drum the roof and let him come into my thoughts. His maddening blue eyes, his voice saying my name, the whisper of his embrace came to me as a solid apparition, not a distant memory.
“You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?” Peter was there standing in front of me.
“Who?” I asked, pulling off my coat and making a show of tidying up my already immaculate livingroom, Peter on my heels like he used to do when he was little.
“It’s why you don’t want to go to the reunion, isn’t it?” Peter persisted. “He might be there. My father.” And he stood before me like resolute Oak, refusing to move from his spot of strength and advantage. “I know he isn’t dead, Mom. I’ve known for a long time.”
I pushed the damp hair out of my face and fell into a chair, unable to look my boy in the eyes - the eyes that reminded me everyday of the man I could never forget. “How long have you known?” I asked too tired to continue any charade.
Peter shrugged his broad shoulders. “It doesn’t matter. I know is the point. We’ve talked a few times,” he said casually but he gave that sidelong glance he always did when he tested the waters.
I felt a cold panic snake through my insides. “How do you know it’s him,” I asked though I never doubted it was.
“I look just like him,” Peter said softly. He bent down then and gave me a little hug. “I’m not mad, Mom,” he whispered, “don’t you be either, okay?”
I looked up at my son and wondered at his odd expression. “Why would I be mad?”
Peter left the room and minutes later I heard voices and the panic woke sharply and shot me to my feet. But it was too late because I stood in front of him. David. My David. I couldn’t speak. He was still beautiful, tall and composed. “Hello, Ali.”
“What are you doing here,” I found my voice but it was weak and a whisper.
“I’ve wanted to call a thousand times,” he said quietly.
“But you didn’t,” I said.
“Would you have talked to me, if I had?” David asked and took a step closer. And I couldn’t move, I was frozen to the spot. I couldn’t look away, my eyes were locked to his. “You never answered my letters, why?”
“You were married to another woman. Of course I didn’t answer your letters. I couldn’t be friends with you. I couldn’t and you know it.” I trembled and felt the girl I was then, pregnant and heartbroken, having read in the newspaper of his engagement to woman I’d never heard of before.
David moved closer and reached for my hands. “No, I wasn’t. I never married her.” He stepped closer still and said, “I never married anyone.”
My mind could barely wrap around those words. The walls I’d built over the years, the compartments I’d fashioned in my mind to tuck away the memories, to hide myself within began to dismantle. Leaving me with only questions I could not yet voice. “You never married.” I repeated.
“No,” David said and took my hand but I pulled away. I couldn’t think and I was angry and lost and wanted nothing more than to be left alone. To push David out into the raining night - to find my comfortable hiding place again - return to the shelter of my ignorance. And if my eye had not caught the reflection in the hallway mirror I would have. But my son’s face wouldn’t let me, couldn’t let me.
“Peter?” I called out and he knew I’d seen him. “Will you start a pot of coffee, honey? I think we may be talking for a while.” My boy smiled at me from the mirror and it was all the strength I needed.
Christine’s mirror reflects here and Panther’s mirror hangs here.
Enchanted - Theme Fridays
Posted on October 10, 2008 - Filed Under hope, imagination, joy, original fiction, theme fridays
It was the oldest tree in town, reaching seventy five feet into the sky and it enchanted Sally. Her first sight of it was when she was eleven, not quite as tall or grand but even then it had an endless reach toward the heavens - this glorious Sycamore. Trees always spoke to Sally and this one spoke in wonder. She longed to climb it and know its secrets and started to but skinned her knee in the attempt. Not because she wasn’t an agile climber of trees for Sally had conquered many but because of the tow-haired boy who surprised her by yelling, “Hey!”
The peeling bark of the old syc was merciless as she slid down its trunk. “Hey what? Look, you made me skin my knee!” She grimaced at the fresh blood and broken skin.
“That’s my tree and you can’t climb it!” The boy’s blue eyes matched the morning sky but there was a little danger there too.
Sally huffed off, feeling those eyes watch her until she disappeared from their view. His tree? He must have been one of those Halligan’s. They owned most of the town and truth be told she was trespassing whenever she visited her tree, the Syc. His tree?
But she could never stay away from it, though always on the look out for the blue-eyed boy, she visited her tree, her tree, every chance she got. That had a heart in its trunk left by a broken and removed bough, that had a dancing man and woman made of twisted branches at the top. And they weathered the seasons together - in Spring Sally sat beneath it and wrote poetry, in Winter she left bread crusts in the heart for the birds and squirrels who refused to go south, in Summer she clung to its shade and in Fall she collected its blazing leaves and pressed them in books. Yes, her tree. Her Syc.
And when Sally left home to discover her own life, she brought the Syc with her and kept it close in mind and heart, longing to feel the rough bark, smell its musky scent, feel its sway with the wind and time. It was a special place Sally could go to when life was cruel and uncaring. Her life had fallen away from the simplicity of home, love refused to oblige her, work refused to fulfill her and the sky was never blue enough, never the color of that boy’s eyes. “Come home,” Mom had written so many times in so many letters. Sally resisted that request for years until the story about her tree.
Mom sent a copy of it in a letter. “Look what they’ve done with your tree, Sally,” was all the letter said. The Halligans had parceled land to the town and a park was now the permanent home of her tree. Her Syc. And she had to go see it again. Go home. Leave the empty place of small city apartments, commuter trains and singles bars.
Sally sat in her car in wonder, parked on Main. The town had changed so much - but the tree never changed. It had only grown higher and stronger and she didn’t have to worry about the blue-eyed boy, the Halligan who once claimed ownership. She could climb it now and she would.
“What are you doing with that ladder?” Dad asked seeming to know what she had in mind.
“Never mind, Dad,” Sally said and pecked his cheek as she grabbed the keys to his truck.
“The town won’t let you climb it either,” he said as she started for the door, “They’re more strict than Will Halligan ever was.”
Sally stopped and turned. “Will Halligan?”
“The boy who made you skin your knee,” Dad said. “He’s still around, loves that damn tree as much as you do.” Dad giggled a little and shook his head. “Have fun, honey.”
The sun had left only traces by the time Sally got into the park and she drove the old pick-up right up to its trunk, next to the heart. She wrangled the ladder from the truck bed and rested it firmly against the Syc. “I will climb you now, my friend,” she said rubbing its bark and feeling giggles rising up from her eleven year old soul. And when she reached the top rung, Sally clung to the Syc’s trunk, still unable to find a foothold into its arms.
“Hey!” the man’s voice startled her and the ladder rattled.
Sally looked down and there he was, that boy, now a man - Will Halligan. And though there was only moonlight to illuminate his face, the eyes were still morning sky. “What?” Sally asked annoyed and embarassed that she couldn’t move without falling.
“You’re going to break your ass trying to do that, darlin’.” Sally heard the smile in Will Halligan’s voice.
“Go away, I’m busy,” she said. “And this isn’t your tree anymore, so just go mind your business.”
Will was already in the truck bed putting his hands on the ladder to steady it. “Okay, I’ve got you, you can come down now.”
Sally looked over her shoulder and down at Will Halligan who seemed to be enjoying the view a little too much. “Who said I want to come down? I’m going to climb this tree,” she insisted.
Will laughed and it was sweet and boyish, his laughter. “Well you’ll be there quite a while. You’re going to need a cherry picker to get up there. You want me to call Bert, I think he has one. Though I don’t know if he’ll come down here at this hour…”
Sally’s arms were aching from trying to keep her embrace on the massive trunk and her pride was slipping too. “You’re an ass,” she said. “Get out of my way, I’m coming down,” and she started her descent, secretly hoping he wouldn’t let go of the ladder.
“Okay darlin’,” Will said, “you’re fine, just keep coming,” and Sally felt his hand on the small of her back to steady her. Sally was thankful for the moonlight because it wouldn’t reveal the blush that rose from her toes and reached to her face.
“I’m fine now,” Sally huffed, “you can let go.” And they stood face to face in the truck bed, in the moonlight and the blue eyes no longer held danger but something else that frightened her more. “What are you looking at?”
Will jumped down from the truck bed and grinned. “Why do you love my old tree so much?” he asked.
“Why do you still call it your tree?” Sally retorted. “It’s not your tree anymore,” she pointed out.
“Darlin’, it will always be my tree,” his grin grew wider and Sally thought she saw a wink. “So, why do you love it? Tell me.
Sally stood in the truck bed looking down at Will and resisted the smile that forced itself on her face. “Because it is perfect, because it is glorious, because I could see everything from the top, if I could get there. Because it enchanted me from the very first time I saw it,” she whispered.
Will reached out his hand to Sally and she took it and came down to solid ground but never let go, and they stood in the moonlight, beneath the Syc, looking at each other for the longest moment. “What?” Sally finally asked.
“You enchanted me from the very first time I saw you.” His eyes were liquid sky and mirrored the stars.
PANTHER IS ENCHANTED HERE AND CHRISTINE’S ENCHANTEDNESS WAITS HERE
Ask Her - Theme Fridays
Posted on October 3, 2008 - Filed Under ghosts, hope, original fiction, theme fridays
I don’t know what led me to that house in the woods. It had stood there, all of my life - alone, a solitary vigil against the elements - a prop for many scary stories told around camp fires - a dare I was always afraid to take. But a voice in my head said, ask her. So, I got up before dawn and dressed in jeans, sweater, wooly socks and boots. I grabbed my smokes and my keys and was off to, ask her.
The town hadn’t changed much since I’d lived there. Still small and quaint and smelling of Sycamores and Oaks, rich earth and mown lawn. The sun rose lazily over the hills as I drove out Old Towne Road. I’d always liked that road, it was quiet and when I was young I would walk it from end to end, pondering the height of the trees that flanked it and my purpose for being. A feeling, warm and comfy like an old quilt settled around me and the closer I drew to the spot, the more right I felt.
Morning was still sleeping and I saw no one on my travail, not even Ike or Morty, legendary for their early morning hikes down to the fishing hole. It was Sunday, maybe they were sleeping in and planning a family breakfast then church, instead of a jaw session about sports and affairs of the day, and bait and fish hooks and lures. I was alone with the day and that felt somehow right too.
Before long it was time to pull the car over and park. I couldn’t drive where I was going - the walk would do me good. I hadn’t walked, really walked anywhere in a long time and my legs missed it and my body rose to the challenge of it. The air sunk deep into my lungs and it tasted sweet and fresh. I wondered then, why I’d left this place, this town, my home. No place since had ever meant anything to me, had ever owned me, wanted me. And the trees felt happy to see me as their leaves cruched under my booted feet.
And then it was there. The old house. A house I secretly loved all my life. A house I dreamed of often, fantacized owning someday. I would renovate it with my own hands, bit by bit, until shone in the afternoon sun, like a trophy hard won. Ask her, the words sounded again in my head.
I stood at the front door, so old it was grey with time and weather, so strong nothing could knock it down. I lifted the brass knocker, an eagle’s head who peered at me proud and defiant, and let it drop. The sound was deep and I wondered if she heard the thud inside or if I would have to call out or knock. But the door creaked open on its mighty hinges and there she was. “I knew you’d come,” she said quietly. “Someday.”
I studied her face and saw that special blue of the eye, the turn of the nose, the light spray of freckles over her cheeks and I seized up inside, wanting to turn and walk away. Run away. I’d already run for so long, so far and yet always ended up back here. To this place. The one I watched all my life from a distance. The one I could never touch but only want.
Drew me inside with a smile and maybe she took my hand but I was so scared, like a child introspect and lost, I couldn’t tell. Ask her, the voice demanded. Ask her, ask her, ask her!!
She sat me down on her old divan, blue and of silk brocade, and put a cup of tea in my hands. And we sat like that for a long while, sipping tea, waiting for the other to speak. Dread came over me and I regretted coming, I couldn’t ask, I’d never be able to. “I should go,” I stammered, “thank you for the tea.”
“It was like lightning,” she said so quietly I had to lean in to hear her. And then I sat down. “That’s very rare, you know? Most people never know it. Most people don’t believe it. But I did, we did.” Her eyes reached into mine and I couldn’t look away. “It was wrong. We both knew it but we couldn’t stop it. Nothing could stop it, something so rare and beautiful…”
“But you hurt people,” I whimpered like a small child.
She nodded. “Yes, we did, very much. We didn’t mean to, we didn’t want to - but yes, we did.” She flushed deep and red like a young girl whose skirt flies up in the wind. “I’m sorry about that. About hurting people but I’m not sorry about it. I never was and I never will be. I loved your father and I will love him to my grave. He was not mine and could never be, but I loved him with all my heart.”
“And what about me?” I screamed. “Did you love me too! I guess that would be a no, since you gave me away!”
She didn’t flinch or become angry but remained calm, almost loving - it confused me. “I gave you to your father and his wife. It was the only thing I could do. The right thing to do. And you know it.”
I couldn’t bear looking at her, feeling all the betrayal, remembering all the hushed stories behind my back growing up, the gossip, the looks, always feeling the outsider. “I have to go,” I said jumping to my feet. “I shouldn’t have come. I shouldn’t have ever come here.”
I flustered and couldn’t focus, where was the damn door? I had to get out of there. I had to breathe.
“You’ve been coming here, all your life. Standing at the edge of the trees, watching. I’ve seen you so many times and I wanted to go to you…”
“Then why didn’t you?”
“Because you weren’t mine to go to!” she cried. “I had no right to you. It would only have hurt you and confused you and I’d already done that, why would I do that more to my only child?”
I found the door, and closed my hand over the knob, shaking and trembling with anger and grief. “No, instead you abandoned me. Let them gossip and talk about me behind my back, for something I never did. You’re a coward!” I pulled open the door and walked through it.
But she followed me. “Ask me, Gina. Ask me! You came here to ask me something. Ask me!”
I stopped and turned back to her, suddenly calm and looked my mother in the eyes that she gave me and said. “Why did you stay? All these years. Why?”
“Because I was waiting for you, my dear. I stayed for you.”
GO SEE WHAT CHRISTINE SAID TO ASK HER
Keeping - Theme Fridays
Posted on September 12, 2008 - Filed Under hope, love, original fiction, theme fridays, war
Keeping my heart in his pocket, he said, made him feel it would not seem so far away. It was a silly thing, the conversation on that last night. I can’t remember how it started but he made me a promise that if he could keep my heart then I could keep the moon. When he returned we would swap, my heart in exchange for the moon.
His letters arrived battered with black and sinister marks throughout - and there was always too much time between them. Too few words in them, no matter the number. He was ‘good’ and ‘safe’ and I believed him because I had to. They were just repairing school houses and things like that, he said. “Nothing dangerous.” Always at the close he’d write, “I’ve got your heart in my pocket and it’s safe. Are you keeping the moon for me?” I was.
My days were just a repository for the minutes and hours to empty into. Days without letters where black and white. Days with letters were loud with color and bright with sound. “Are you keeping the moon?” Yes, I was. I kept it all night long. Every night. Faithfully. The moon and I had become quite close. She was the only one I shared my tears with, the only one who understood.
Months marched on and letters still came, but infrequently. He needed soap, batteries and white socks. I sent soap, batteries and white socks - to him - to them, his buddies. Fellows who had no one’s heart in their pockets. Young men. Brave Men. Lonely men.
And I kept the moon all the while, safe for him, a gift for his return. Sometimes on a still night, cold and standing in wet grass I wondered if he was keeping the moon. Out there. In that place where my heart could only travel, safely tucked next to his heart. “Is he keeping you too?” I’d ask the moon but she did not answer. She only sung in blues and greys and sometimes gold - but she did not answer.
When he was just weeks from my embrace I lost the moon. The night was black with rain, cold and walled in itself. There was no escape for me or her, we were trapped by relentless pounding and merciless sky. All the night I stood at the window trying to find the lost moon but it, like he, was gone.
No letters arrived with assurances of my heart’s safety - and it thumped in my chest like a drum out of tune. The parade had ended. I stopped keeping the moon.
The Kindness of Strangers
Posted on August 11, 2008 - Filed Under brain farts, good wishes, hope, kindness
“Whoever you are…for I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.” I’m sure most of us know that is a line from the movie/play A Streetcar Named Desire, written by Tennessee Wiliams and spoken by character, Blanche Dubois. It has always been one of my all time favorite lines of dialogue for so many reasons. Chief among them is that I believe we all depend on the kindness of strangers so many times in our lives we probably can’t keep track.
The person who stops when you are broken down on the side of the road and inexplicably spends the next two hours helping you get back on the road, for no reason whatsoever, the woman who lets you in line ahead of her because your baby is obviously upset and crying, the IRS agent or government worker who helps you straighten out a mess that would have taken months, the bartender who calls and pays for a cab to take you home when you are stranded in a bar by your angry boyfriend, and so on. I’m sure we all have a thousand or more such incidents that we can name both on the receiving and giving end.
It gives one pause when you stop to think of these small but ever so kind acts. Especially from people who do not know you, whose lives are not connected to yours in any way, who simply have no motivation other than kindness to help you. It touches the heart - at least it touches mine.
I was raised to believe that being kind to others was the way to be. Simply so. No question about it. No argument no pondering. It just made sense, really. And so in my life I do try to always be kind to people, I do not always succeed since I do have an Irish temper, after all. But I try. And the reason I try actually probably isn’t really because I was raised to do it, it is because it is so easy to be kind to another person. So easy to pat them on the back, offer them a hankie or five bucks for a sandwich and coffee. So easy to give someone else a reason to smile and feel just a little bit better about themselves and life in general. So easy that it hard to resist giving that little piece of your time and attention.
There is so much anger, and unkindness in the world. So many examples that you can’t swing a dead cat without finding 200 of them right within arm’s length, that it seems to me that if everyone just did one act of kindness per day, it could truly change things. I know that may sound trite and even ridiculous or laughable to some. There are those who believe that you must change the entire world, the entire pardigm of existence in order to have a real impact on people and the world around you. But I’m not one of them. I am one who believes that every good thing begins with one small act. One small kindness. Something that barely costs anything at all and pays back a thousandfold.
Unlike others, I don’t believe there is any lack of technology, innovation, programs, ideas, resources, etc. We are aswim in those things, I think. More to the point, I think it is what we do with those things, how much we share not of the things but of ourselves that always makes the difference. It’s what we give that matters I think much more than what we get, what we want, what we control.
So, like Blanche Dubois, I will always depend on and be happy for the kindness of strangers, and friends and family and do my best to be one of those strangers, who is kind and knows that we are all just human beings, frail and full of flaws but deserving of the kindness nonetheless.
My Son Is Seeing The Light! - Guest Post by Joan Harvest
Posted on August 2, 2008 - Filed Under Family, Humor, dumbasses, hope, my opinions
Hey, I’m Joan Harvest from “Whatever I Think.” Annie asked me to do a guest post for her and I was honored and thrilled. This is my second guest post here. The first time was a little different. Annie offered me the use of her blog so I could write about my son who is a heroin/crack addict. I had never wanted to write about him on my own blog for one reason: he reads my blog on occasion and I didn’t exactly have permission to write about him but I really needed to.
My dilemma was what to write about as a guest bloggelist this time: another depressing story about my son? or maybe continue on with my saga about dumbasses? or maybe incorporate the two? I even carry around a video camera looking for them(dumbasses) and their antics though I have yet to actually catch any on video. It’s like stalking Bigfoot. He’s never around for a photo op. But have no fear, I will be interviewing my wasband soon so that will take care of that.
I just can’t seem to get myself to stop posting about dumbasses. They are everywhere, around every corner, on every highway, in every parking lot. You can’t get away from them especially if you look in the mirror. I don’t always see a dumbass in the mirror but sometimes I do. Just goes to show you there is a little dumbassness in each of us.
I didn’t exactly want to come right out and call my son a dumbass. I am his mother and have never called him names. Even when he was little I always said to him that he had done a bad thing but I never called him bad. I called him other names when he was little like “alien piggy”, “buzzard breath”, “Damundo”, and countless others but they were all in fun.
He stayed away from heroin for 3 1/2 years and I found out he started using again recently. He admitted it to both me and his girlfriend. Heroin is an opiate like percocet, vicoden, demerol and oxycontin . So now he has bought suboxone off the streets. Suboxone is used by doctors to help addicts get off opiates. It is an opiate in itself but doesn’t get you high. It takes away the craving for opiates and the withdrawal symptoms. It can also be misused if you take enough of it. His girlfriend is doling it out to him in small amounts and he’s weaning off of it. They are in Alaska right now in Denali State park camping out. She got him out of Buffalo and away from the drug dealers. She’s no dumbass.
He called me last night at 1:45 AM in the morning. As soon as I saw his name on caller ID I almost didn’t answer the phone. I’m always afraid it’s going to be one of the bad calls. But again I am his mom and felt an obligation and a need to know. I answered the phone and now I am going to do some thing I have never done before. I am going to call my own flesh and blood, my only son, my sweet pea, a freakin’ dumbass. He forgot there was a four hour time difference and he wanted to tell me how they went white water rafting and how much fun it was. He wanted to tell me about the grizzly bears and wolves they saw.
I was relieved to hear he wasn’t in some alley dead of an overdose (a fear I live with) and I actually sat and listened to his stories. He sounded so happy. He sounded like the Damon I love and cherish and not the Damon wasted on drugs. I didn’t really want to hear about the grizzly bears because now I have it in my head that grizzly bears will be converging on him en masse but of course I patiently listened. I am his mom. I imagined every grizzly bear in Alaska looking for him.
But last night’s call left me with hope. The hope that my son will someday find his way in this life. They are in Alaska with not much money and a tent. But they are happy. I always sleep better knowing my son is happy.
The photo is actually of my son seeing the light, hopefully, one day.
(Joanie, I hope that day is soon. Thanks for this - hugs & jugs)
Miracles Do Happen!
Posted on July 21, 2008 - Filed Under Family, Touchstones, brave women, friends, hope, my heart, wishes
Some of you may know that this past May, a very close friend of mine was in a really bad car accident. So bad in fact, that I wasn’t sure she was going to live. To say this turned my world upside down puts it mildly, the last time I was this grief stricken was the day my father died, if that puts it in perspective. Kelly is one of those really special people who lights up a room whenever she enters. She is kind, caring, funny and will do anything for anybody.
Not long after the accident, I flew to Seattle to help in whatever way I could and to join the literally hundreds of other people who knew and loved Kelly in a massive prayer chain to bring her through this catastrophe and give her back to us. It was a very rough week for me and I was in no way prepared to see what had happened to her and to realize how very little I could do for her. Much of the time I spent just trying not to cry and to keep her gorgeous girls occupied. Really, it was in God’s hands and all we could do was pray and send her our love and hope for the best. There wasn’t much sleeping or laughing going on but there was a lot of love and a sort of instant kindredness among all us. Lots of hugs and tears and smiles and hand squeezes. We all wanted the same thing - for our Kelly to get well and weather the storm.
The day I returned to L.A. from Seattle I discovered Kelly said her first words. And fittingly they were to her mother, Charlene. She said, ‘thank you’ when she saw Charlene straightening up her hospital room. Somewhat startled Charlene went to Kelly’s bedside and and looked closely at her daughter and said, “Do you know who I am?”
Kelly said, “yes.”
Charlene asked. “Who am I?”
Kelly said, “Mom.”
And that was the beginning of the miracle. Not only had she lived through a 60 mph impact into her standing still car, she spoke and she remembered her mother. Over the ensuing weeks, I read her brother’s email updates on her progress and it was amazing, lesser men would have died. But Kelly with the spirit of a team of Clydesdales pushed through to each next level with flying colors. Still, I have to admit, I was worried and wondered how much of her memory she had lost. If she had sustained any serious or long term brain damage. If she would be Kelly again. I knew while I was there she didn’t know me. In fact, I’m not sure she has any memory of that week at all. I worried (selfishly) that maybe she would never remember me and we would have to find our way to friendship in a new chapter.
I worried too about her young daughters, her brothers, her parents, her husband - if they too would get their Kelly back.
Today, my prayers were answered. I called her mother to get an update and to see where I could send cards and such to Kelly (since she’s been constantly been transferring to new facilities) and Charlene told me that Kelly now has a cell phone that she is talking to friends on. Charlene gave me the number and of course I called it immediately. Unfortunately, I got the voice mail and left a message.
For hours afterwards, every time the phone rang, I jumped and grabbed it, hoping to hear her voice. When I finally gave up the hope that I’d hear from her, she called. When she said my name I started to cry from pure joy. It was my Kelly. It was really her. The relief and gratitude I felt I simply can’t describe. We talked on the phone for nearly an hour and it was just as though nothing had happened. I have my friend back. I didn’t lose her after all. And I’m so glad because I just couldn’t have imagined life without her.
So thank you, a million times to all of you who prayed for her, hoped for her and her family. Who sent out your love to a stranger, only because I asked you to. Your prayers have worked and have helped to create this wonderful miracle.
things i don’t ever…
Posted on July 14, 2008 - Filed Under Deep thoughts, Life, hope
I know a lot of people like lists - I sure do. From grocery lists to wish lists, I’m a list kind of girl.
I also know you are never supposed to focus on what you don’t want. Big taboo in this Universe - the theory being that what you wish not (for) is precisely what you get.
However, I think that there may be one or two exceptions to this rule. The things I don’t ever want to…
1. Forget who my friends are. No matter the highs or lows of my life, my friends are not disposable.
2. Believe my own press. Compliments are nice and raves even nicer but one can go out of fashion as quickly as fish can start to stink in the hot afternoon sun - so staying humble is advisable.
3. To ‘trade up’ to get ahead. What is worth trading your blessings for? A new condo, your name in lights, a movie deal, higher blog stats?? No, no, not worth it, believe me.
4. To forget any kindness bestowed upon me, for those are the gifts that last and have no expiration date.
5. Think that others don’t matter. Of course they do, they are the rest of the world, aren’t they?
6. Get too big for my britches. Luckily I have a few friends who will inform me of this when it happens.
7. Lose my naivete’ or gullibility (is that a word? it is now.) I’d rather be tricked a thousand times than to stop believing in people.
8. Fail to see the basic goodness in others. It is always there, sometimes you just really have to look closer.
9. Sweat the small stuff.
10. Everything is the small stuff.
So those are my things, I don’t ever - how about you?
Six Words
Posted on June 25, 2008 - Filed Under Deep thoughts, hope, life metaphor, my opinions
Michael over at Smoke and Mirrors tagged me for this meme, which originated with Bookbabie. It’s taken hold of the blogosphere and it’s possible, thousands of bloggers are embracing it, apparently, they’ve lost count - and how cool is that?
The rules are:
1. Post a six word memoir
2. Link to the person who tagged you.
3. Link to the originator of the meme, in this case Bookbabie
4. Tag 5 other bloggers
I went through endless possibilities for the memoir, I mean for Heaven’s sake, it’s only six words - a little restrictive if you ask me. I like words so much that I didn’t want all the other words to feel left out…still, you must choose at some point, yes? So…
I lie awake, looking for truth
Now, as to the tagging, I’m not big on that and the chances are good that most everyone has done this but I’ll throw some names out there anyway. I tag….
So, take it away, ladies.
Our Brother’s Keeper - Or is That Somebody Else’s Job?
Posted on May 15, 2008 - Filed Under Current Events, Dear Readers..., hope, my opinions
Lately, this question has been circling my awareness and it seems to be screaming at me from all places. From the whole Obama/pastor snafu to my own personal life, it seems our connections to others or lack thereof are up for scrutiny.
It begs the question, is one responsible for those they know and what they do? I’m a bit on the fence about this because I can see both sides of the coin. On the one hand, every person is accountable for their own actions and words. Absent any kind of physical or emotional force (at least in America) people are not made to do or say things - in fact, we are the land of freedom of speech - no country has more personal freedoms than ours. So, from that point of view, no, we’re not responsible for the actions of others. On the other hand, no man is an island - despite the latest craze of cocooning and sort of running our worlds from the one-stop shop of our computer hubs - there actually are other people out there and we come into contact with them everyday. Whether through physical or cyber means. We all have a voice and our own brand of influence - we can change people’s minds and actions. We do it all the time. Don’t believe me? You see a little child about to run into the street - you stop them just as a car zooms by. A friend is distraught over a recent breakup and maybe thinking suicidal thoughts, you stay up the night talking them down from the ledge. Or even….you write a post about something that is bothering you on your blog - a stranger halfway around the world reads it and rethinks something they were going to do, perhaps even gains some insight or perspective on the situation and decides not to do something rash or decides to do something that ends up really helping someone. See where I’m going with this?
The world and life is full of choices, some good, some bad. We can bury our heads in our butts and pretend we don’t see things or recognize cries for help or we can open ourselves up to all and everything out there. And it’s the little things too that I think that sometimes mean the most. Sure, we like to all get involved in ’causes’ help fight drug abuse, breast cancer, MS, oppression in China, imprisoned bloggers, expose nasty politicians or corporate malfeasance and there’s nothing wrong with it. But there is so much going on right outside your own doorstep that I wonder if tending to that, doesn’t have a greater overall effect. Maybe it’s the trickle down effect - know what I mean? Where that one little action you take can change a whole sequence of events of which you are not even aware?
Today, Blog Catalogue is doing a blogger human rights event. The idea is to get all the bloggers to unite and discuss human rights across the world. A lofty goal and worthy too. And I thought about finding some big issue and writing about it - but instead I thought that big issues only become big because the little issues are ignored and left to fester. I wonder, if we all just did whatever we could to stop injustice and enhance the quality of life for all those around us (including ourselves) if the big issues would ever come to be. Don’t you?
I guess in the end, I do believe we are our brother’s keepers. And we wear that responsibility by the way we treat others and ourselves. By the way we reach out or pull back. By the way we view the world. By our attitudes and philosophies - by our inclinations to help or to harm - to share or compete. To me, human rights aren’t about some big issue ‘out there’ it’s about all the many little things in our own backyards.
What do you think?
WC