The Bell

Her consciousness bubbled up and up and up from the depths eventually, slowly, breaking free. Her body, especially her brain, had needed the time to heal. Now it was time to get back to living. She was back.

She was back? It was so dark. Was it nighttime? Where were the stars and the moon? She blinked and blinked. Nothing. She reached up with her hands to feel her eyes. Her knuckles hit something hard. She stopped. Her breathing became fast and shallow as her heart jumped and heaved in her chest.

Spreading out her fingers, she felt the wooden box's top, sides, and bottom. She kicked her feet, listening to the thuds with no echos. The blood that now furiously coursed through her veins pounded in her ears making her head hurt.  

Profusely sweating, she felt for the rope. It has to be tied to here somewhere.

***

Inside the church everyone was singing except for Robert. He was too devastated to sing. He wanted to punch the walls, kick the pews, and yell about his sorrow that ran through every muscle of his body filling his mouth with acid. And yet, here he was with his neighbors, head down, sitting quietly this Christmas morning.

God wasn't real and he sure as hell wasn't his savior anymore. The scene kept playing over and over in his mind making the choir's singing and pastor's words a garble of background noise. The wild pony kicking his beloved in the head. Rebecca dropping to the ground like a lifeless sack of flour. Robert running over to her as if in slow motion, his legs not moving fast enough. Finally grabbing her up in his arms speaking her name. Blood trickling from her ears, her eyelids fluttered then closed.

***

There it was. Her panic subsiding a bit, she felt the course rope tied to her right wrist. She knew at the other end of it, suspended above her plot, was a bell. Grabbing the rope with both of her hands, she pulled down. Rebecca wished she could hear it ringing. She let the rope back up then pulled down again. Again. Again. Again.

***

The alcoholic town doctor stood at Rebecca's bedside and facing Robert told him there was no hope. She was dead. No! No! No! He couldn't silent the screaming in his head. Seeking revenge, anything to make himself feel better, he grabbed his rifle. He charged out the door not hearing the loud slam as it violently closed behind him. Through the bedroom window, the doctor watched Robert speed forward to the corral. Not being able to handle one more death, he turned around. Taking the flask from his breast pocket, he took a long swig.

Robert looked at the pony over his rifle. The horse's big brown eyes looked back. He and Rebecca hadn't named her yet. They were waiting for her to be able to be ridden first. She was beautiful. They both fell in love her the second they saw her. If he killed her, he would be killing Rebecca. He lowered the rifle and leaning it against the fence post he cried. He crumbled to the ground, his back against the corral and his face in his arms. Grief blanketed him and he embraced it.

The doc, his emotions paralyzed by the hootch, turned back around to look out the window. He hadn't heard the sound of a gun shot as he expected so what was happening? He had trouble believing what his drunk eyes saw through the wavy glass so he walked out to the front porch.

The mare poked her head through the fence to snuffle Robert's neck. He jumped at the unexpected contact. Spooked, she pulled her head back in and snortled. Wiping his nose with the back of his hand, he stood up and faced her. She didn't move. He turned back around and waited. About a minute or two later, he heard her hoofs hitting the hard earth as she walked back to him. He felt her head slide next to his. He reached up slowly and felt her soft muzzle. She chortled so he ran his hand up her face to her forelock and back down. Moving slowly again and being as quiet as he could, he turned around. The mare remained close. Robert cried new tears as he hung to her neck.

***

Rebecca was sobbing but now it was getting harder to breath. Her arms were growing tired. She couldn't remember what got her there. Robert. My sweet strong Robert. She had to get back to him. Each time the horror of her reality rose inside of her she squelched it as best she could. Pull the rope. Ring the bell.

***

Robert stood along with the congregation. Hearing the Merry Christmas greetings around him was too much. Quickly, he made his way to the front door and out the church. What was that sound? He stopped to listen with earnestness. Congregants were starting to leave the church, too, and he raised his hand and voice telling them to stop and be quiet. He heard it again and hat in had took off racing toward the graveyard. Confused, they followed him anyway.

Someone yelled, "Grab a shovel!"

***

The rope was getting slippery from her bloodied hands. All of a sudden it was pulled from her grasp! Was she hallucinating? She felt around for it in the thick blackness and pulled on it again. There was a return tug on the rope. She cried with joy, relief, and impatience. She listened so hard wanting to hear the voices of those above her. She yelled, "I'm here! I'm alive!"

Shovel. Dirt. Shovel. Dirt. Muffled voices.

"Rebecca, honey. We're coming to get you. Don't you worry, girl. Don't give up. We're here. Robert's here." He kept wiping away the snot and tears, drying his hands on his pants so he could keep a grip on his shovel.

Light burned her eyes as the lid was removed from her coffin. Robert reached down and picked her up. Then she felt someone take her from his arms and gently lay her on the ground. She squinted against the sun until it was blocked by a shadow. Opening her eyes, she saw his face. "Robert."

For the Love of a Dog

I woke up at 2 o'clock this morning because I had to pee. Having done that, I got back into bed. As it goes at times, my mind starting obsessing, racing, non-stop. Now I was tossing and turning. 

Poppy, my Chihuahua, sleeps in bed with me. Because he likes to nestle under the covers and always be touching me, when I move, he moves. Half the time I end up at the edge of the bed with him up against me.

There I was, probably a half an hour into being unable to quiet my mind and get back to sleep, when I feel him giving me dog kisses on my back. I reached behind me and scratched his little neck just for a couple of seconds. He kissed me again. I scratch him again, and so forth. I finally turned over and gently moved him into my arms. Talking quietly to him, I told him how much I love him.

This little bundle, in the middle of the night when I know I am disturbing his sleep, gave me love. While I held and petted him, I talked about what was on my mind. It wasn't for a long time, just a few minutes. Feeling better, I quieted my mind using the tools that always work. All I have to do right now is sleep. I started to meditate and was soon asleep.

Don't ever underestimate the love of a dog. It is so simple and uncomplicated. There are no machinations. Just love.

Anxiety at the Deli Counter

I don't know what it is about men who work behind the deli counter but another one flirted with me this past Friday at Detwiler's Farm Market. With the top of his hair bleached blond under his hairnet, he looked like a kid to me so I'm guessing I am old enough to be his mother. That's not what I want to talk about, though. What I want to talk about is anxiety.

Anxiety at the Deli Counter

One of the repercussions of the car accident that has hung around is anxiety. It makes my skin itch. It makes my heart race. It makes me sweat. I keep it under control as best I can but under certain circumstances it gets the best of me. Standing around with everyone else while waiting for my turn at the deli counter gives me anxiety. I have to gently push my way to the front to pick a number from the dispenser. I fumble around trying to rip off one ticket and end up with two. I don't know where to put the extra one; this dispenser is freestanding and it is mocking me. I lay the ticket on top of it knowing it will probably fall to the ground. Oh, well! Not my problem.

My number is eight. The number lit up on the deli counter display is four. Not too bad. I look around. It isn't that crowded. I find a place to park my cart. Not too far away but not a part of the herd. I'm also claustrophobic. The kid with the hair hands someone their order and they are done. He looks behind and then calls out, "Number five. Number five. NUMBER FIVE. Is anyone NUMBER FIVE? Number five. Number five?" The herd is looking at one another. No one is admitting to be number five. Did five give up and decide not to wait? Does it matter? No one is answering. Move on, please.

Then he calls out, "How about number eight? Is there a number eight?" What!? I'm number eight but I see people standing there waiting that are ahead of me. I look to my right and ask the woman next to me, "How did hego from five to eight?" She just smiles and shakes her head. One of the herd speaks up and offers, "I'm six..."

Great! Let's go people.

Another deli person looks at the number on the counter and asks,"Number five. Number five?" I look at the counter and see that blond hair never updated it. A man that has been silent this whole time says,"I was number five but I am being waited on already."

Oh My God

He decides to speak up now instead of a few minutes ago? I looked at him incredulously. The deli girl updates the number to five. "Six. Number six!" Six speaks up and we are ready move on to seven. The counter is updated again. 

While this is going on I am getting a headache. I feel adrenaline rushing through my bloodstream. The lady that had number seven puts in her order and walks back to her cart to the left of me. I turn to her and admit I have so much anxiety right now. She smiles and says, "Imagine having number seven. He went from five to eight! I wondered if I would be waited on at all or left standing here." 

Sure. It could be worse. It could always be worse.

It is finally my turn and it is the bleached blond guy. "Hello, Sweetie. What can I get you today?" My voice shakes when I tell him. I can hear it. What the hell. I have to get a grip. His overt flirting is embarrassing.

Earlier in the day I was at our company's holiday brunch. I was having a great time up until the point when it was announced that because of the growth we have experienced we were all expected to go up to the front of the room, take the microphone, and talk about ourselves. Bam! My heart jumped in my chest. Eventually it was my turn. I took the mic and spoke into it. I saw the crowd but no faces. I heard their reactions to my words as if I were in a tunnel. I was on autopilot with half of my brain sitting in the copilot's seat and the other half curled up under the bed hiding.

I used to get nervous but never like this. All that extrovert behavior that visited me after the accident packed up its shit leaving behind the one thing that didn't fit in its suitcase. 

 

 

.

The Question Mark

There is no normal. There is what is acceptable at present. You can compare it to what used to be acceptable or what you think should be acceptable.

There is no reality. There is what we are experiencing now. You can compare it to what you have experienced or what you think you should be experiencing.

All around you things are happening. Depending on what you choose to focus on is what you see.

Squirrel on utility pole, November 2016

Last week we had a cool spell. For us that means it was in the seventies. I opened the two windows in the house that work along with my front door. After two years of asking, my landlord finally installed a screen door. Having the fresh air circulate throughout the house was magnificent. The dog and cats lifted their noses to examine the new smells.

It was in the evening and I remembered I hadn't gone to check the mail. This is an old neighborhood so we all have mailboxes on posts in front of our houses. As I walked the length of the front yard, I noticed the arm had been swung in the "up" position signaling the mailman there was outgoing mail inside. When I stepped off the curb onto the street, flashing lights caught my eye. A couple of houses down, on the corner, was a silent police car with its lights on and motor running. As far as I could tell, all of the activity was taking place inside one of the houses. An uncomfortable feeling squeezed my stomach as I pulled open the little mailbox door. I have way too many memories of what can happen in a house that causes the police to silently be at your door.

Inside was a letter to a former occupant. It looked personal as opposed to a bill or professional correspondence. Both the return and mailing address were handwritten. Being the Type A personality that I am, since whoever left the letter hadn't, I brought the envelope inside so that I could write on it, "RTS. Not at this address."

As I walked back to the street, I was listening hard. No strange noises. Just quiet. Too quiet. When the police are around, my neighbors become smoke. The cop car was still there.

I put the letter in the mailbox and walked back in my house. Closing the screen door behind me, I turned to look back outside. How was I to determine the situation? Should I close my windows? Should I close my door? Was it time to move? I was thinking about these things when I spotted the squirrel. It scampered up the utility pole all the way to the top. In all of the years I have been consciously paying attention, I have never seen a squirrel do that.

I grabbed my phone and went outside to take the squirrel's picture. At first it looked around and then with quick jerky squirrel moves it turned to the right and then to the left. At some point in these few seconds, he (using "he" in a generic pronoun kind of way) formed a question mark with his tail as if asking me back, "I see you are questioning. What do you think you should do?"

His mission accomplished, he scooted back to the ground. A little weird-ed out but feeling much more at peace, I went back in the house. A change is on its way.

 

The Best He Could Do

As a child, I was told I could do better. I was smart and should never be satisfied with the status quo. I should imagine how I would feel if I got an A+ instead of an A. Maybe if I had spent more time, took it more seriously, stopped fooling around. This is how I became a perfectionist. This is also how I became one who expects others to be perfect, too.

Even in Jim's death, I have learned from him. He did his best. I can wish he lived his life differently. I can point out the many times he should have made different decisions and think about how is life, and death, would have been different. But, it was his path to take. It was his row to hoe. Just like I have mine.

Jim's funeral service was this past Saturday. Interestingly enough, the same date as my son's birthday. Two Marines performed the military funeral rituals. The flag went to Jim's young son. People spoke of what it was like to have had Jim in their lives. He did some pretty amazing things like stealing an airport golf cart with his buddy and driving around the airport in it, throwing airport security into a tizzy. He offered a different way of life to a drug addict living on the streets. He didn't know her, but followed the voice in his heart. Nearly twenty years later she continues to do well, is married, and runs her own business.

As I think about Jim, his life, his actions, his funny Jim-isms, (You: "What's that smell?" Jim: "That's your upper lip.") I realize more and more he just did his best and I have to be okay with it. Perfectionism is an unrealistic unattainable goal. It's also not necessary.

I have learned that even though Jim's best sometimes hurt those that loved him, it compounded his sorrow, too. Superman has his kryptonite. Why shouldn't Jim be afforded the same forgiveness?

Nature, Naturally

She walked down the path to the stream. Tired. So tired. Stopping, she lifted her face to the sun and breathed deeply. The smells of the field filled her.

Opening her eyes again, she decided the stream could wait.  Instead, she sat down in the soft tall grass, the earth's perfume surrounding her. Breathing it in again, she laid down. Now she had a pillow beneath her head. Stretching out her fingers, she ran them over the tops of the tendrils. Soft and strong.

Tears filled her eyes, ran down the sides of her face, and tickled her ears. A sob escaped from her chest and all of a sudden she was racked with cries from deep within. Over and over she let the waves take her as the sun continued to hang in the blue sky.

A sweet summer breeze rose up, from no particular direction, twirling. The grass swayed, danced really. The tender blades, gladly bending to the strength of the wind, tickled the girl's legs and arms. Soft explosive gusts dried the wetness from her cheeks leaving a salty residue, the only evidence she had mourned.

She was quiet now. Listening, she heard the grass and the stream, bubbling a few feet away. Hypnotized, at peace, she closed her eyes. It wasn't dark. The sun shone through her eyelids. Turning on her side, she eventually fell asleep.

Skating through life

I wanted to glide through this life. I came here wearing a well sharpened pair of ankle high ice skates. They didn't helped me, though. Whenever I built up any kind of speed I would run pell-mell into a stop sign. Literally. So hard I would fall from the impact, with no control I was a jumble of arms and legs spinning on the hard slick ice.

But, every time I fell, I rose again. With lacerated palms, I wiped the blood from the cuts on my knees. Sometimes still bleeding and definitely still in pain, checking my laces first, I forced myself to keep going,

Bruised and stained by my own blood, the healing took place with each new forward push. Eventually I learned how to navigate around sharp corners, stop without crashing, and easily cruise around dangers like thin ice.

Now my pace is an easy sail. No more racing, which makes for less stop signs. Or, maybe this less hectic stride just makes them seem further apart.

Jim is Free

Besides going to the beach, Jim and I used to go to Gillespie Park and feed the squirrels roasted unsalted peanuts in the shell. With each visit they came to know us and once we were spotted we felt joy as we watched them scurry down from the trees and run over. Jim and I sat in the same spot every time so they knew the drill. We did it so often that a few of the braver ones would take the peanuts directly from our out-stretched fingers. For the rest of the crew, we would throw the nuts a few feet to them from our perch on beach towels at the top of a little hill.We enjoyed doing this for many reasons. First, the squirrels were fun to watch and it was fun feeding them. Secondly, having a squirrel take a peanut from your fingers was a thrill. Lastly, it was meditative and a quiet time for us to be together. It was always hard for us to pull ourselves away from there and go back to the realities and stresses of life.


Jim passed away this morning at 11:15. I was at work and was planning on leaving at 1 o'clock to see him. With his brother's urgent text message, I packed up and left at 10:30am instead. When I walked into Jim's room, I saw his sister-in-law at his side and I heard her tell Jim that I was there. I dropped my things on the table, hugged his brother and then hugged his sister-in-law. Before I sat down in the chair next to Jim's bed, his sister-in-law told me that he was waiting for me before he would pass.

"Hi, Sweetie." I took one of his hands in mine and with the other I caressed his head. "Hi, Baby. It's okay. Everything is okay." After a couple of labored breaths that seemed like hours apart, he stopped.

Free from pain, free from guilt, free from all of the bad memories that haunted him. Jim is free.

Dear Jim

Dear Jim,

I spent time with you tonight. Your brother and his wife were there, too. It was good to see them; they look well.

I am no longer angry with you for putting yourself in this position. My heart is only filled with love and sadness. You did your best. That is all any of us could have asked of you. 

Your body was hot from fever so I kept changing the washcloth on your forehead. I gently let my fingers glide across the skin on your arm and hand as I sat next to your bed. I didn't dare use a firmer touch as I was afraid I would cause you physical harm if I did.

When your brother and sister-in-law left us so that we could have some time together, we had a good chat, even though I was the only one talking. I could tell you were listening, the morphine notwithstanding. I told you how much I love you. That you are my Superman. Yes, I cried. I couldn't help it. You always told me there was no shame in crying. If I felt like I needed to, then I should cry and without apology.

I saw your body in a state I never imagined of you. Your pallor was grey and your muscles without tone. Even so, I love you. You will always be the handsome man that held me when we swam in the Gulf. The one that I could go to when I couldn't make up my mind, couldn't untangle logic from emotion enough to make a decision. You were so quick to decide the path you thought to be the right one and then explain to me why. I'm laughing remembering the many times you would say to me, "Fuck 'em." In other words, let it go. It's not worth worrying about or struggling with. Let go and move on.

I put my hand on your chest and told you to be at peace. I told you I would be back tomorrow to see you again but I'm not sure you will be around for another visit. I didn't say that to you, but that is what I was thinking.  

I also told you to visit me, if you want. I would know you were there.

I am glad we had our talk tonight. I am now at peace. I'll see you tomorrow.

Love,

Nancy

This is Jim

This is a picture of Jim from April 2012. When he and I first met we went to the beach a lot. It was where we went on our first date. I've written about Jim before.

This is also from April, 2012. Here he was painting my mother's kitchen in her condo. Don't tell her he put his dirty shoe on the counter.

This is from March, 2012. Those are his legs and my sandals. He has great legs!

This is now and Jim was moved to hospice this afternoon. The doctor said he's got three to seven days left, give or take three days. He is dying from end stage liver disease because he is an alcoholic and this last binge was more than his body could take. This is the drinking jag from which he will never recover.

I have no regrets knowing him, having him in my life, loving him, and sometimes hating him. We dated for a year then lived together for a year. After we separated, we still kept in touch. 

There was one point in his adult life when he was able to stay sober. I can't remember the length of time but I think it was at least five years. Maybe ten? He went to AA meetings every night. It is sad that he couldn't keep it going.

He taught me so many things. He taught me meditation, the tools to learn to live in the present, and what Reiki was. He showed me how one big long bear hug done the right way could make everything better. I bought him a Superman mug because that is what he was to me. A big strapping guy that wasn't afraid of anything. He didn't have to work out to be muscular. He just was. He was proud to be a Marine and I learned once a Marine, always a Marine.

At the beach he would hunt the big shells for me, feeling around with his feet. Once detected, he would dive for them with his eyes open! He grew up in Florida, a native, so this wasn't a big deal to him. Just something he could give to me to make me happy.

He would fall asleep on the couch sitting up and I would lie next to him curled up with my head on his chest and his arm draped over me. Safe and secure, these naps were just as good as a whole night's sleep.

It is because of Jim that I have Poppy. 

Knowing Jim, being loved by him when he was at his best, I finally felt free enough to accept myself. I am more me than I ever was because of Jim.

Before I paint too rosie a picture, anyone who has either lived with, loved, or been intimate with an active alcoholic knows life can get sour really fast. But, that's not why I am writing this.

Why am I writing this? Maybe because I'm sad, heavy-hearted, and I want you to know it. I still can't wrap my head around the whole thing. 

He is on a steady morphine drip to keep the pain at bay. He sleeps a lot, has a difficult time talking when he is awake, and the mischievous look that would light up his eyes is gone. 

He didn't have an easy life. I won't give up his secrets now or ever but he suffered. It was because of the depth of his suffering that he understood and accepted the depths of feelings in others. It was the reason why he was also quick to notice offenses, real or perceived.

He is beautifully broken. A fighter in the ring, he's on the mat and the ref is calling the count of ten. His loved ones, quietly watching, are waiting.

On Turning 56

I just woke up from a nap and it's raining. One of those typical rains with big drops and slanted. It has been a hot and rainy summer and it's fall now and I would like cooler weather. It's mid-October, for Pete's sake. It's normally cooler by now. Thank you global warming.

This Tuesday I turn 56. Around my birthday I usually write about how I feel.

Today I didn't feel like spending any money...so I didn't. Instead I took Poppy to a local park and we walked the path that encircles it. Here's a pick of Poppy I took by accident during our walk. I was trying to turn the camera off:

Here's a pic of a family of ducks that live on the pond in the park. I took this one on purpose:

 

Each year around my birthday I take stock of my life. This year I

1. Left my old job for a new job
2. Was let go at my new job by my supervisor. Not the one that hired me. She was fired from her position after I was there one week. I was let go by her replacement.
3. Was unemployed for 4 weeks
4. Landed safely and happily where I work now. 

This is one of my mother's rabbit statues with a gecko in the middle of its face. I took this yesterday as I have gotten in the habit of spending my Saturdays with Mom. This was also taken on purpose:



 Speaking of my mother, I introduced her to the new very large Goodwill store down the road. I have been getting rid of things I no longer want or need so one Saturday she and I went there to drop off my donations. Afterward, Mom wanted to see the inside of the retail store, which is next door. I plead guilty to introducing my mother to her new drug - Goodwill shopping. It is located in an upscale neighborhood so you can imagine how nice some of the things are there. 

Getting back on point, I can't take stock of my life without including her and her changes. She doesn't wash her hair often enough now. She thinks it is okay to just pull it back into a comb or barrette when it is clearly not.

My mother has always hated to cook even though her cooking is close to gourmet. This past Tuesday, she invited my younger sister and her family along with me to break the Yom Kippur fast. Beforehand we discussed the different dishes she could make. Mom decided on chicken in wine sauce. This is one of her specialties. She used to make it often and it was always mouth watering.

I got to her house a half an hour early and she took the dish out of the oven to turn the chicken over. She had used large chicken breasts instead of fillets and the chicken was clearly pink. I told her we needed to raise the oven temperature to get them cooking faster and that they wouldn't be ready on time. Mom cursed a blue streak and exclaimed how much she hated to cook. Her rant ended on, "So we'll eat late." I answered with, "I'm sure none of us have fasted anyway." We can talk about how bad of a Jew I am another time.

 Here is a pic of a racoon mom and her baby keeping an eye on me while I walked to my mailbox. Mom climbed high in the trees and her baby followed:



Getting back to my mother. Her cooking one of her go-to dishes incorrectly was a road sign flashing in my face. 



Yesterday I spent the day with Mom. Her behavior was not the norm. For the past few months I have gotten used to her sometimes having a hard time following conversations and being able to call up a word but yesterday her personality was different. On top of that, once we got back to her house after all the running around we did (I always do the driving now), I laid down on the couch with Poppy and fell into a light sleep. I could hear Mom puttering around cleaning her new treasures and deciding where they should go. Then, it was silent. I opened my eyes to see her sitting on the couch doing nothing. No book. No TV. No newspaper. Just sitting staring straight ahead. I asked her why she was just sitting there. She said she didn't want to wake me up by turning on the TV. Mind you, there are two other rooms with working televisions she could have watched without disturbing me but that didn't cross her mind.

I am starting to lose my mother. For those of you that have experienced or are experiencing an aging parent, it feels like a part of you is disappearing. Trying to hold onto a wisp of smoke as you watch it disperse and disappear.

As I turn 56, it is bittersweet. So much of my life is finally on track. Now the part I could always count on is starting to get offtrack. As a former Russian co-worker would say, "Not nice."

How is this happening?

I finished writing this at 4:06 this morning. I'm polishing it as I write now. I think I started it somewhere around 3:30am. What is happening with this election is sending people into a state of anxiety to the point that they are seeking professional help. I'm not the only one that is up at night thinking about it. Either are you.

How is this happening? We haven't grown at all. We are still living in caves.

If Hillary were a man, would we feel the same way?

How as a rude, pompastic, (Yes, it is a word - http://wordorium.blogspot.com/2005/03/pompastic.html) and CRAZY man that has NEVER served our country either in the military or by holding any kind of public office, gotten this far in the presidential election process?

What has happened in America that some people think he would make an excellent president when he cannot (1) properly prepare for the presidential debate believing bluster over facts and personality over substance was enough (2) respect the other candidate enough to allow her to voice her opinions and thoughts uninterrupted and (3) show a level of maturity beyond that of a sixteen year old boy?

What about the big decisions? War. Staying out of others' war. Not going to war. Not dropping nukes. Making nice with foreign powers. When things don't go his way will he take his ball and go home no longer willing to play because he's not winning the game and is angry? Will he roll his eyes at a foreign head of state? Will he tell a woman that represents her country that all he wants is for her to be happy? (And don't we all know that if a woman is bleeding from somewhere that that is impossible to make happen?)

We, as a country, will be unwittingly unfurling the mainsail and jib turning ourselves loose in the high winds of the open sea without an experienced captain on which to rely and look to for making wise decisions for OUR safety with each peril we meet.

Heart. He lacks heart. (I can't write his name. I just can't.) He lacks KINDNESS. He lacks a love for the American people. The roots of his poison run deep. Divide and conquer.

In our history, what presidential candidate has EVER behaved like this? NONE. So, who are we now? He stands before his followers in Canton, Ohio asking the audience who among them are not Christian Conservatives and will they make themselves known. He asks the crowd, "Should we keep them in the room?" This is NOT close to being funny. Divide and conquer.

The fact that not all of us are frightened by his behavior scares me. C'mon people. Americans! In the recent past we fought an unbalanced demonic dictator on foreign soil.(I have one in particular in mind but take your pick.) Will we have to do it at home as well?

Waiting for my Pal

Standing at the edge
Waiting for my pal
Feeling like it will happen
Any any minute.

Hand waiting for hand
The touch not yet
But still feels so real
Waiting for my pal.

The dessert to my dinner
As I will be for you
Vegetables studiously eaten
The finale of the final.

Waiting for my pal
My pal is ready, too
The paths are near the fork
The intersection of lives.

The Universe aglow
Bright yellow light
Rays spreading out
Waiting for my pal.

I Know What I Want

"There were so many things that were right. It was perfect except for..." I made the mental list in my head as I had done before - after I ended it. I laid in bed having woken up an hour and forty-five minutes too early. Pulling Poppy up to me from his favorite spot near my knees, I snuggled up with him.  I knew I had used that phrase before. "It was perfect except for [fill in the blank as appropriate to each relationship]. 

It was perfect except for when he drank.

It was perfect except for when he used drugs.

It was perfect except for when he brought up his ex.

The thing is, I learned so much from each of these men. I learned about life, about human behavior, about addiction to the bottle, the pill, and another person. (Yes, I believe we can be addicted to people that aren't good for us.) All negative attachments that for their own reasons these men carried on their backs and in their hearts.

I also learned about me and I grew and I changed. I became healthier; I became more "me" for having known these men. They weren't always easy lessons. As a matter of fact, some were heartbreaking. But, it was worth it and I am not sorry about them.

For the longest time I didn't understand the concept of love. Why did we look for love? Why is it natural for some but not for all to want a mate? Occam's Razor, people. It really isn't that complicated. This is how we were designed.

Now I am solid, healthy, and happy. I recognize the signs. I know who I am, what I want and I am being patient. I am doing my utmost to walk in love and not in fear.

It is still dark in my bedroom. I pull Poppy close and kiss his sweet head. I feel full. I know what I want.

What are you doing right now?

If you are still mad at someone, your feelings are still hurt. It is when you have let go that you won't feel anything but peace.

I know that letting go means you have to give up the connection and feelings associated with this person. Joys or heartbreaks. It doesn't matter.  Do you want peace? Then let go of self-righteousness, too. How does one let go? One lives in the present. Every time you allow your thoughts to grind in the past, you are back there! No one but you is being tortured.

So - let go. Even though the past might be easier and the future is unknown. We do have the present. What are you doing right now?

It is the darkness that makes the candle bright

It is the darkness that makes the candle bright.

If we didn't have the dark, how would we discern the bright? If we never had failure, how would we experience success? If we never knew loss, how would we learn appreciation?

Making the Hard Decisions

I believe that there are a few consequential turning points in a person's life where major decisions are forced upon us. Sometimes we don't even know it is a major decision until afterward. Sometimes it is glaringly obvious if we decide to go one way, the other way will be lost forever.

When they come around, how does one know how to make the best decision? Will we allow fear to guide us? How about the folly of youth? Or are we just gun ho pedal-to-the-metal throwing caution to the wind? Will we walk forward with our minds and hearts engaged together or one leading, trampling over the others' voice? Will we take a spiritual stance? Or a staunch theological one?

It is a chess game. We can try to forecast the outcome, run the odds, accept input from others, and base our next move on our past. Sometimes it is as easy as listening to your instincts.

Crossroads can change a person's life forever. We can kick at the corners, scream at the sky, pound on our chests, and cry. We can relish the happiness of the path we picked. No matter, this is the outcome of what we chose. The path will eventually branch out again and when it does what will we do?

Will we be wiser or just mad that we are expected to plan our future again? Will we realize that sometimes shit happens no matter what we do? Fate. Destiny. Karma. All we control is ourselves.

You have done the best you could. Now go do greater.

Fear is your Master

You pull yourself up out of the water only to jump back in again. Your clothes barely have a chance to dry. You tie the weights around your own ankles and then kick them off. You don't know what you want. You've been in this play way too long. The lights, the music, the script. It is all very familiar to you. You know when to drag yourself out from the deep and crawl back into the sunlight. You know how to free yourself but only do it for a few blinks of your eyes. To do it longer is unfamiliar and scary. Old patterns, old ways. They don't serve you well anymore but you won't let go of what you know. Fear. Fear is your master instead of life! There is fresh air to be breathed. New places to see. Instead, you jump back in going down to the depths the weights pulling you down. Down. Down. Until you can't hold your breath any longer and free yourself once more. Be courageous next time. Don't tie the weights back on. Allow yourself to dream. To dream of happiness and a future with love and lightness. Careless and free.

Too Hard for Too Long

It has been too hard for too long.
Bent over
Feet hurt
Dirt under my fingernails

It has been too hard for too long.
Chest pain
Lungs hurt
Sweat in my eyes

It has been too hard for too long.
Muscle strains
Head aches
Dust in my mouth

Step and step and step and step
Walking towards the sun
Walking towards the light
That peeks from behind the clouds

Blood and Sweat

The fog rolled in blurring the lines of the brick buildings and cobblestone streets. Even with the full moon hanging so handsomely in the night sky, it was hard for her to see ahead. She had spent the past twelve hours bandaging wounds and delicately wiping dirty tear-stained faces. Everything ached inside and out. With each step she took her dress and undergarments came together creating a sound that became a rhythm helping her forward. She would have been happy to find a wagon filled with bales of hay if only to climb in and sleep. That was a fantasy. She had to get home. She had one there that needed her, too.

Her shoulders felt heavy. Her feet hurt. She wanted to wear boots so badly. Men's boots. They looked so comfortable. Her shoes pinched her toes. They were always the first things she took off when she got home.

She knew she smelled of blood and sweat, not all of it hers. The fog was making everything damp. Loose strands of her hair were sticking to the back of her neck. She kept having to wipe the moisture from her face. Was that from the fog or was she crying?

She was crying. She sucked in a big gulp of air and when she let it out she heard herself moan. Covering her mouth with her hand didn't stop the sound. It started from a place deep within her and wouldn't be muted. She started to run. Her legs protested but she had to get home. She lifted her skirts so that she could move easier. Stupid clothes! Why couldn't she wear pants as men did?

It became hard to focus. The fog and her tears made her vision swim. Letting go of the dress with one hand, she wiped her eyes again. She felt nauseous and it was hard to breathe. Turning the corner, she almost slipped and fell. Her muscles burned but there was home. The only house with a light in the window. Home.

She forced her legs to move. Reaching into the folds of her garments, she pulled out the key and opened the front door. Closing it behind her, she sank to the floor. Her hair had fallen out of the bun she had carefully pinned atop her head yesterday. As her breathing steadied, so did she.

She looked across the room. There was the wash bowl and pitcher full of fresh clean water he always left for her before he went to bed. Reaching for her shoes, she untied them, pulled them off, and set them at their place next to her husband's boots.

Looking again across the room, she got up and started undressing herself remembering to dim the light first. Leaving a trail of discarded clothes behind her, she picked up the pitcher and poured the water into the wash bowl. Grabbing the clean rag sitting nearby, she cleaned off the remnants of the past hours knowing that her mind would never be as clean as her skin.

Moving the curtain that separated the bedroom from the rest of the house, she crawled into bed next to her husband. As always, he turned over, gently taking her in his arms he tucked her head under his chin. His smell, his arms, and his love surrounded her. It replaced her pain and misery with lightness and within seconds she fell into a deep sleep.

You say bologna, I say....bologna.

It was last week when I walked into the grocery store. Have you noticed a lot of my stories involve grocery stores?! Anyway, I walked through the produce section stopping only to see what was on sale. I had a short list and didn't want to make a day trip out of it.

I normally don't buy deli meats because they are so expensive but this time I slowed down to look at the glass deli case display. I don't know if you have ever eaten turkey pastrami but it's a nice change of pace and a half pound is doable. Much less fat than regular but basically the same great taste. I slowed my cart to a stop and looked around for the deli person. From my right down at the bakery a woman yelled to me that she would be with me in a minute. I yelled back, "Okay," hopefully relating with my tone that I wasn't in a hurry. I could wait.

I perused the rest of my deli options and noticed the German bologna. Hm. It wasn't expensive, either.

All of a sudden a man was on the other side of the counter. He scared me for a second because I was expecting the woman to show up from my right. He smiled and I noticed he was missing a couple of his teeth. "What can I get you, Ma'am?" There was something about him that was attractive because his aura, being, self, soul was kind. Have you ever met someone and immediately knew they were a nice person? "Do you know what you want?"

I smiled back. "Yes. A half pound of the turkey pastrami sliced thin, please."

"A half pound?"

"Yes. A half pound."

He walked around looking for the package of meat. I've always wondered what the other side of the deli case looked like. The counter person never pulls the package you see through the glass. Are meats thrown haphazardly? Are they in the same order as we view? He was looking around for what seemed like an unusually long time. I thought this guy was going to have to walk down the street to find the turkey pastrami. "A half a pound, right?"

"Yes. That's right." Me not being very nice myself, I thought, "Ask me again."

Once he found the loaf, he walked over to the slicer, ran the hunk of meat through once, and presented to me the example. Upon handing me the slice on the deli paper I told him, "That's good. Thanks."

Smiling, he walked back to the slicer. I was left holding the slice so I ate it. I wasn't all that hungry but I didn't want to insult him. Now I had the piece of paper. I balled it up as I looked around for a garbage receptacle. No such luck so I stuffed it in my jean's pocket and hoped I would remember to throw it out at home.

Walking over, he handed me the pastrami. "Anything else today?"

"Thank you. Yes. A half pound of the Wunderbar® German Bologna, please."

"Excellent choice! It is the best German bologna around."

I felt like he just approved my wine choice! I didn't know what to say. "Oh! Great!" What I was  thinking was that I picked it because it was the least expensive available and I hoped it didn't have ingredients, had I known what they were, that I would really not want to eat.

Following his routine, he came back to the counter and handed me not one but two slices of bologna on a piece of paper. Seeing this deli anomaly, I looked up at him. Did he know he did this? He read my face, nodded and smiled. "Thank you," I said. 

All of this was starting to feel different. He turned back to the slicer. Now I had to eat two slices of bologna and I was definitely not hungry. He was being so kind I couldn't insult him so I took one of the slices and started eating it slowly. I really wished there was a trash receptacle of some kind  nearby but I still didn't spy one.

He was back at the counter sooner than expected. Handing over the package of bologna to me, we smiled at each other and I thanked him. He said, "You come in anytime. I will be here and feed you."

So! There was that.

Did I look like I needed that kind of charity? 

I'm sure all of you people that are good with quick snappy replies could think of any number of things to say in response. I, on the other hand, am not good at that. My mother is the Queen of funny retorts. Too bad I didn't inherit that talent from her like my sister, Eve, did.

I think I just nodded and said, "Thank you." I can't remember! 

I walked away from the deli counter still holding once slice of bologna in my hand. Shit. Now I have to walk around grocery shopping while holding it or effing eat it.....which I did.