Stories Are For Eternity

Will it ever happen?

I have no idea. And I don’t even know what “it” is. I’ve hoped and waited for decades but I’m no closer to an answer. My adult life thus far feels as though there should be something right around the corner, but there rarely is.

It’s suggested we should make things happen to enrich our lives. While I concur with that idea to a point, I also know there are limitations. Things just aren’t always as easy as they sound. I’m tired of trying to hit the curve balls.

Right now I’m stuck in an existence that’s difficult to explain. I don’t go forward or backward, I just float. As I drift, I bounce off obstacles and just drift. It’s hard to put into words. It’s like I’m plodding along doing what I have to do. There’s no joy, no relief, no carrot out in front of me.

At least twice a week I visit with my mom. I never know what to expect when I visit. Today was a happy time, other days aren’t. I’ll take what I can get, but it drains the life out of me. Life drains the life out of me.

And yet, I keep waiting for “it.” Will there be a day when my mind isn’t rocketing along at the speed of sound? Will there be a day when my mind is able to focus instead of flitting from idea to idea? Will there be a day when I understand my purpose for being here?

The practical side of me thinks “it” will never appear. But the other part of me that dreams and yearns for inner peace and contentment is going to keep hoping. I feel I could have done so much more with my life although given what I’ve endured thus far, I’m proud of where I am. It did exact a terrible price.

I’m grateful for each day I’m able to get out of bed and function. But I miss the connection of friends and laughter, and the spontaneity of my youth. I think I shall be able to get back to my writing soon. I can’t force it. For now I’m enjoying this new artsy craftsy person I’m becoming.

Don’t read into this narrative too much. Sometimes I need to see my thoughts on paper in order to sort through them and better understand them. My two closest supporters are no longer available to me and I’m learning to navigate in new ways. I’m not ready to throw in any sort of towel. There’s too much beauty I haven’t experienced yet. And I have so much more to give.

“There were moments of gold/And there were flashes of light/There were things I’d never do again/But then they’d always seemed right/There were nights of endless pleasure/It was more than any laws allow…”. It’s All Coming Back to Me Now Celine Dion. Sometimes the grief just appears.

An avowed food stalker…

There I’ve said it aloud. I have a fondness for food that, at times, borders on the ridiculous. In “psych-speak” terms, I have an eating issue called binge eating disorder. It seldom manifests itself in public but waits for that quiet time at night when I’m alone. Simply put, there are times when I eat too much. I’d say 95% of the time there’s an emotional trigger or two that gets the ball rolling.

Outwardly I handle stress well. On the inside, forget it. Do I have generalized anxiety disorder because of my overeating or vice versa? Yes, folks, the phrase is vice versa…not vice verses or vice versus or, heaven forbid, vice-a-versus. Have you noticed that many people write highschool when it should be high school? I digress.

In the third grade I was in a fairly bad car accident during a snowstorm. I sustained a compound fracture of my left tibia. My mom, also an accident victim, tutored me at home for three months. Being in a hip-to-toe cast for over 3 months isn’t fun. In the blink of an eye, my life had changed drastically. To counter my feelings of anxiety, I learned that some foods calmed me down. We shopped at a local market where they had one of those ginormous wheels of cheese. There was always a slab of that delicious cheddar in our fridge because my father was a cheese and crackers kind of guy.

My brother and I loved to make open-face cheese sandwiches using the top brown feature of our toaster oven. One for lunch was sufficient but I learned I could quietly make more. If there wasn’t cheese, a sweet snack could be concocted in the toaster oven. A piece of bread with a thin layer of butter and then sugar sprinkled on top resulted in a sweet and buttery treat. The sugar even made a crunchy topping.

Perhaps this stage of my life was when I developed my stealth abilities which came in handy during my teaching career. I regard my sneak eating as a shameful behavior and I’m pretty much powerless over it. Plus I spend too much time fretting over food. Though I was raised to eat in a healthy manner, I’ve always felt the need to “supplement” my food intake. It was fine when I was younger and active. But now 2/3 of my life has been spent as an overweight adult.

That situation causes repercussions with both mental and physical health. I was diagnosed with type 2 diabetes thirty years ago. Right now I’m insulin-dependent. Thankful for my health insurance, I wear a continuous glucose monitor and an insulin pump. The pump delivers a proper stream of insulin based on the glucose monitor readings and I let it know when I’m eating a meal. The pump learns what one’s typical meal intake is.

I had a total knee done a few years ago and need another one. Leg pain is a constant, never mind the permanently damaged right ankle. One learns to live with it and sometimes a few extra cookies are soothing. They really aren’t but one’s mind plays mean tricks.

I’ve tried every diet and food plan in existence. I know all of the psychological tricks for keeping busy in the evenings so I don’t overeat. I’m too smart for my own good because my psyche has not allowed it to work for me. Recently I even consulted with a bariatric surgeon. But my system isn’t broken, my head is. Changing my stomach isn’t going to resolve my drive to eat.

There are no soothing song lyrics or beautiful artwork today. I’m not feeling it. My mood is ugly which isn’t conducive for a good food day. That and I will be watching the NY Giants…. I am definitely one of the fat people who doesn’t like being fat. Intellectually I know the steps to be taken. I usually manage to take one step forward and then three steps back. It truly sucks.

I’ve been dealing with macular edema in my right eye for several months. Treatment entails laser use and injections. And now it has appeared in my left eye. I’d cry but my vision is already a tad cloudy. Honestly I’m very fortunate. There are far worse illnesses and conditions. My health insurance benefits cover the treatments. Could I lose my vision at some point? Possibly.

My retinologist’s answer? “Get a hold of yourself.” I rolled my eyes and replied, “why didn’t I think of that?” Then he asked if I was being sarcastic. Ya think? Don’t get me going about today’s assembly line practice of medicine.

“You might as well face it, you’re addicted to …”. I’d far rather be addicted to love but he passed away. I will have to continue to stalk food. Apologies to the late, great Robert Palmer.

Running with scissors…

Are you kidding? I’m not entirely certain that I’m still capable of running. And I have a love/hate relationship with scissors since I’ve been old enough to use them. The logical conclusion is that it’s unlikely I’d be seen running with scissors. You never know.

My uncomfortable relationship with shears is waning. In fact, I’m feeling downright hopeful about the improvement in my ability to wield a sharp object with far more precision. Sounds silly, doesn’t it? Oh, but it isn’t. My ability to cut paper, fabric, etc., has been a thorn in my side since nursery school.

If you’ve surmised that I’m left handed, you’re correct. A sports-minded kid, I grew up imitating my older brother and his friends. My mimicry earned me the ability to attempt all sports as a right-handed participant. Gross motor skills were/are the domain of my right hand. Fine motor skills such as writing, eating, cutting, toothbrushing, etc., are exclusive to my left hand. Don’t ask about tools because I never know until I approach one.

What happened to running with scissors? Here comes the connection. I was adept in gym class and looked forward to it. As one of the kids frequently chosen as “captain” of a team for gym class, it was not lost on me that for many of my classmates it was not a comfortable time for them. And as much as I wanted to win, I also didn’t want another girl to feel left out. Heck, it wasn’t hard enough going through puberty without throwing a thrice-weekly, horrible class into the mix?

Empathy has always been a huge part of me. I felt for those poor girls who hated gym class. My Achilles heel was art class. Dread is an understatement. I never chose to take an art class after 8th grade. Why put myself through it? Look, I was a good student. I took pride in earning decent grades. I will never get over receiving a “needs improvement” on my report card in kindergarten, never. And what was that grade for you may ask? Cutting.

Scissors were a weapon I dreaded. They caused me pain because they were meant for right-handed kids. When I used them, I received major indentations in my thumb and finger. The older I got, the more painful the task. When universal scissors debuted, I was in my 20s. It was delightful to wield a pair of scissors and actually make cuts instead of tearing everything.

The upshot of this is I ended up fearing participation in any sort of arts and crafts because I felt so inept. As I approached my 30s, a friend taught me to crochet. I liked it and was able to do it right handed. Feeling a bit adventurous, another friend taught to do counted cross stitch. That was a bit more difficult because I would do it either handed which resulted in a slight variation of how the stitches looked. I now do it left handed.

When I produce a creative product, people I know are often surprised. Whatever. If you could see what I’m attempting right now, your heads would explode. Writing is an important part of my life. I know how beneficial it is for my psyche. When I learned I could make my own handmade journal and it could be styled/decorated any way I desired, I wanted to give it a try.

As they say, I’m hooked. It’s fun. I enjoy it. I look forward to it. After watching many YouTube videos, I’m getting my feet wet with a few prototypes. I have a few in various stages of assembly. I’ve looked for a niche for decades. Have I found it? Too early to tell, but I’m hopeful.

A couple of my favorite cross-stitch projects. Cape Cod is a special place for me. The other is the beginning of my personal journal. As with many other things, I’m teaching myself as I go along. It’s also an experiment to see how it impacts my depression/anxiety. Hope is an encouraging concept.

“Then one day the sun appears/And we come through those lonely years.” Barry Manilow

“Take me to the magic of the moment/On a glory night…”. Scorpion

I never could have imagined making something like this.

Various and sundry thoughts…

A once friend recently told me to get a life. Geezum, I’m in my 60s and have had a life for a long time. I put myself through school, acquired bachelor’s and master’s degrees. Spent several years in the wrong occupation. Fixed that circumstance. Then I had a rewarding career in education.

Along the way, I worked other jobs to sustain and enrich my way of life. Thirty of those years involved tennis instruction and/or coaching, half of that after sustaining a nasty ankle injury and being told I’d never play tennis again. Most of my adult life has been conducted under the umbrella of mental and physical health issues.

So far in retirement, I’ve written and published a book, and have spent a great deal of time caring for an elderly parent. I’ve deconstructed the households of two family members, moved my own household three times, absorbed the loss of a significant other, but, yeah, I should get a life.

While I’m not always the outgoing, effervescent individual I once was, it’s still very much a part of me. It depends on the situation. As time marches on, I find myself celebrating the lives of friends and loved ones far more often than I once did. As a lifelong empath, my inner being shines in those moments. It’s acceptable for me to unleash my caring nature. I don’t worry about being admonished because I care too much. I don’t worry about being chastised because I hit an area within you that needs attention. I don’t worry about being told I’m imagining things because you’re too willing to overlook your own areas of need.

All because I care.

Why do I care? That I can’t answer. But, as a curious individual, I’ve done a great deal of reading and research. Others may dismiss it as “horse hockey.” Each of us has choices. I’ve used the word ‘empath’ a few times lately. I don’t mean empathetic. Empath implies a far higher level of sensitivity than mere empathy.

Dr. Judith Orloff writes, “Empaths share a highly sensitive person’s love of nature, quiet environments, desire to help others, and a rich inner life.” Some common traits may include: 1. An empath feels pain and suffering deeply; 2. Empaths are natural healers in the sense that people look to us for help or advice. We have an inner sense that help is needed and apply it consciously or unconsciously; 3. Empaths are tuning forks for what’s going on around them. If you enter a room and can “feel” the energy, need, emotions, etc., we absorb them like a tuning fork absorbs energy. Empaths have to learn to feel these things and then move forward. Otherwise they can become part of us and bog us down; 4. Empaths are more sensitive to our environments. Imagine all of your senses functioning 24/7 at their highest levels. Sound, motion, touch, taste, etc. We hear things you don’t…like a fly buzzing, the neighbor’s car door, a bass line thumping from a car radio. You get the drift.

There are other traits but I figure some of your heads are exploding, some of your heads are shaking in disgust, and some of your heads are overwhelmed (welcome to empath life). I have a love/hate relationship with the field of psychology. In the academic realm, I abhorred the study of it. In the life realm, I’m fascinated at how it plays out. Go figure.

It’s taken me most of my life to figure myself out. Being an empath is a burden at times. Overall I view it as a gift. It allowed me to connect with hundreds of students over the years who needed my ability to “see” and “experience” what they needed. And because I treat it as a gift, I’ve been able to understand myself better and I’m learning more about creating boundaries so I don’t function at “tuning fork” level much of the time.

But now, since I need to get a life, let me return to the rough draft of my mystery novel. Be careful, you never know when you might wind up in one of my books!

Boating on the Seine – Pierre Auguste Renoir

N.B. Empaths love nature and art. Impressionism appeals to me and I find looking at it is so relaxing. Monet is my favorite but I never limit myself. There’s too much good stuff to see! And, Doc Y., if you’re reading this and thinking it’s “hooey,” it’s ok. Because I still care.

A perfect summer day?

Do they truly exist? In my memory they do. Many of the happiest days throughout my life occurred during the summer months before I became old and cranky and complained about the heat.

Parts of the summer magic took place in Vermont. I lived in Burlington until I was 6. The fringe benefit was going back each summer to visit. I did this until I started working during the summer when I was 16.

First things first. As a small child in Burlington, we had plenty of outdoor fun available to us. It seemed there was a core group of moms who would take us to North Beach, on Lake Champlain. They would pack a picnic lunch. It was the 60s, so sandwiches were wrapped in wax paper. Actually pretty much everything was wrapped in wax paper…gherkins, olives…skinny pretzels resided in their own small kid-size boxes. Sandwiches were plain, maybe some pb&j, deviled ham, egg salad, baloney. There was fruit for dessert, almost always plums and/or watermelon slices. A glorious day would include homemade cookies (wrapped in wax paper, of course).

Back in the day, we kids had to stay out of the water for an hour after eating. This did try our patience but thankfully there was a small playground at the beach. Other really special outings might have included an invitation to someone’s camp which would involve boating.

Though Lake Champlain was a huge draw, we also belonged to the Burlington Tennis Club which also had a nice pool. My brother was old enough to play tennis and to swim on the summer team. I can still remember the sunny day when I passed the swim test that allowed me to access the deep end. Two words…diving.board.

Then we moved to NY state and it all went to hell. That is, except for the week or two we spent visiting friends in Burlington. These trips were jam packed with swimming. Shelburne Harbor, Lake Champlain, pools.

When I was a young teenager (13-15), good friends of ours bought a vacation home near Jeffersonville, Vt. It was a lovely bucolic setting, situated in the middle of a field and surrounded by the Green Mountains. The road in was always a challenge as it was dirt and very crowned. I remember my mom driving on top of the ridges, rather than in the ruts, so the car wouldn’t bottom out.

Our time there included a few visits to the local swimming hole. Couldn’t tell you where it was, but it was near enough we could walk to it. Ok, it was a lengthy walk but I was young and it wasn’t an issue. Mostly one of the moms drove, along with the requisite picnic lunch.

The swimming hole was a thing of beauty. There were tiny waterfalls, deeper pools of water, and rocks of all shapes and sizes. It was an exhilarating experience even for a couple of young teenagers. Even on a cloudy day it was fun. And 90% of the time, we had the area to ourselves. It’s a special memory that never fails to bring a smile when I think of it.

The exuberance of swimming hole frolic made for late afternoon drowsiness. My friend and I were avid readers and we would climb to the sleeping loft and spend time with our books. This activity often segued into nap time while the adults sat on the deck with a cocktail. Man, those were the days.

Summer music seemed better than any other time of year. It was the early 1970s and there were epic tunes playing on the radio. A couple of my favorites: “Mama Told Me (Not to Come) by Three Dog Night,” “In the Summertime,” by Mungo Jerry, “Signs,” by Five Man Electrical Band, “I Feel the Earth Move,” by Carole King, “Long Cool Woman (In a Black Dress),” by the Hollies, “I’m Still in Love With You,” by Al Green were some I loved to hear.

BUT…I must confess my top pick from that time was Looking Glass’ big hit, “Brandy (You’re a Fine Girl).” Magical. Why? For me it was a combination of things. I liked the irony of expecting a love song but it’s a sad story of unrequited love. It’s a good story. Local serving wench meets sailor. Falls in love with sailor. Sailor tells her “his life his love and his lady is the sea.” But sailor leaves her with beautiful silver necklace.

Bittersweet. At least the sailor didn’t string Brandy along, I suppose. Also the lead singer has a unique voice, kind of nasal and husky. It contributes to the allure of the song. I still love to listen when it pops up on satellite radio. It still dredges up emotions in me. And I always feel sad for Brandy. These music memories also contribute to a perfect summer day.

Writing my way to a better path…

It has been a challenging few days, to say the least. My depression has been slingshotting me all over life’s roller coaster. That’s as it should be because life isn’t a flat line. But, gee whiz, I wouldn’t mind being able to coast a bit.

My mom, who is in memory care, had a staff member call me last evening because she believed someone told her I had passed. I hope she hasn’t become intuitive. She was very relieved to hear my voice and I was glad to speak with her.

I stopped to see her today after my cardiology checkup. The checkup was positive. I had a loop monitor implanted about three years ago. It has been monitoring the incidences of atrial fibrillation and how long they last. The battery has run out and we are satisfied with what it has tracked so it will be removed on 7/21. One less thing to show up on X-rays.

My mom was not in the greatest of moods today. She kept asking when we were going to get into the car because, “if you think I’m going to stay in this place forever, I’m not. The people here are crazy.” I was not prepared to deal with that today…lots of deflection and redirecting of conversation. I’m emotionally exhausted.

During the 35 minute drive home, there were some tears as there are many times I drive home from there. To calm myself I often turn to music. Yesterday, after doing an errand, I stopped at a spot with a wonderful view. As I sat on the waist-high rock wall, the wind rippled through my hair in a manner reminiscent of being at the beach. It was lovely and calming.

Due to yesterday’s experience, the song The Summer Wind by Frank Sinatra popped into my head to soothe me this afternoon. My mom loved The Chairman of the Board. He could sing, though I thought he was sleazy on a personal level. Whatever. Yesterday’s experience with the breeze must have conjured up the song.

“Like painted kites/Those days and nights went flyin’ by/The world was new beneath the blue umbrella sky/Then softer than a piper man/One day it called to you/I lost you, I lost you to the summer wind.” And then I cried again. It’s more than okay to cry. But there’s still a bit of a haze in my right eye from macular edema and the added tears don’t help to create clear vision. Overall, recounting the summer wind was soothing.

I’m an empath. If you don’t believe in that, it’s fine. But as such, I feel issues, problems, conflicts on a far deeper level than most people. It doesn’t just relate to my personal life, it relates to the world in general and with whomever I interact. There is a great deal of human ugliness in the world currently. It has a damaging effect on me. I’m resilient. My faith, my core values, and my ability to find ways to cope are able to sustain me a majority of the time. And if you’re unable to grasp what I’ve talked about in this paragraph, it’s a shame. For a select few, known to me personally, f**k you and the egotistical, high-handed, status-seeking, hypocritical, bloviating horse you rode in on.

From the Helderberg Escarpment, Albany County, NY

Another day, another misconception…

I’m not intimidating, you’re intimidated. There’s a difference. I’m not mean, nor aggressive, I am honest and assertive and that makes you uncomfortable. And it’s not ME that makes you uncomfortable, my PRESENCE challenges your comfort. I will not be less for you to feel better about yourself. from Lessons Taught By Life

Things happen for reasons. In a world where my thoughts, opinions, and actions have been misunderstood, misconstrued, and/or misinterpreted for decades, “I’m mad as hell, and I’m not going to take it anymore!” Many thanks to Peter Finch for uttering these iconic words in the film Network.

The opening quote appeared as I scrolled through Pinterest this morning. Though I’m not wild about posting stuff that contains grammatical errors, at times I can’t be picky. Before you assume something that isn’t accurate, I taught English for 25 years. It’s part of my being to spot errors.

Like many women of a certain age, I was raised to be kind, respectful, and well-mannered. In our day, that really meant, “keep your opinions to yourself.” Ladies were not expected to be outspoken or to defend themselves verbally. Hell, we weren’t allowed to vote until a little over a century ago.

I do not view myself as an intimidating individual. Genetically I was created to have a physical presence. Maintaining a physical presence should not insinuate intimidation. In the same way, I was also created to have an intellectual presence. Ditto in regard to intimidation.

Over the years I’ve learned that, as an individual, my existence counts. That includes, but isn’t limited to: my emotions, my values, my opinions, my actions, my beliefs. Due to some situations not in my control, I was also blessed with mental health challenges. This is the part where some of you say, “See? I told you she was nuts.” That is an incorrect assumption.

Dealing with mental health issues is not on par with physical illness, though it should be. It’s not as though I’m sporting a cast, a bunch of stitches, an ostomy bag. I am sporting all of those and more on the inside. And yet, I manage to conduct my life as though I was just another regular person. I’m not treated that way, though, because of the aforementioned misconceptions, et al.

And despite my upbringing, I’ve learned that I have a right to share my opinion, to demonstrate my intellect, and to protect my right to exist. I no longer defer to others who may feel my opinion is not valuable. I’ve earned my right to exist in this mess of a society as much as anyone else. I’m am no longer an agreeable doormat.

Social media, while useful, is also tremendously harmful. It reduces communication to two-dimensional written words. Unless one truly knows and understands another, it is difficult to gauge the tone and intent in regard to anything written on social media. The writer knows his/her tone and intent.

As an individual, and especially as a woman, I have been called out, criticized, misinterpreted, and challenged for decades. If a person does not understand the meanings of the words I use, my tone, my intent, feel free to seek clarification. I’m happy to engage in civil discourse. And if accusatory, incorrect, and misinterpreted statements are thrown my way I’d very much like the chance to discuss and to resolve the issue in a respectful manner.

However, if one chooses to hurl insulting and incorrect assumptions at me and then block me from responding, that’s just bush league and, frankly, childish. I’m a writer. I use words carefully. I have a sense of humor. It is sharp at times. And, honestly, 98% of the time my use of humor is not intended to be hurtful. It may be sarcastic to prove a point but the intent is not to be malicious. I know how that may be done. I use it in my fiction writing. But if you refuse to let me speak my intent, that’s on you. No one knows me well enough to know my true objective unless I’m asked for an explanation. Not liking my explanation doesn’t invalidate my worth.

A simple lesson on the misunderstanding of intent can be seen in Bruce Springsteen’s song “Born in the USA.” It’s been adopted as a patriotic anthem by some who just don’t understand it. Case in point are these lyrics…”I had a brother at Khe Sanh/Fightin’ off them Vietnam Cong/They’re still there, he’s all gone…”. This is not a flag-waving anthem. It’s a scathing criticism of government and society. One may not see the forest through the trees .

I’m off the soap box. Thank you for coming to my Ted talk.

All of it

“all that we have loved deeply, becomes a part of us.” This nugget of wisdom was given to us from Helen Keller. Because I think deeply 90% of the time, I have time to pass my mind over many ideas, subjects, topics, etc. I do not think deeply as a conscious choice, it’s just what my mind does. When I think about who I am, I am more likely to ponder who I am not.

Today’s thoughts are relegated to words. Words comprise my essence, words bring me joy, words are ingrained in my soul. Due to being a voracious reader most of my life, there are a ton of words inside of me. I didn’t always derive important meaning from them. As William Butler Yeats said, “The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper….” There is so much to delight our senses and to deepen our souls out in the “world.” Many of these things are fleeting though they pack a lifetime of sensory stimulation in them. Think of bees gathering pollen, a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis, a hawk streaking to earth to strike its prey.

We may experience these images over and over and likely have a different sense of them each time. And that’s the simple beauty of it. Along with the beautiful, we also experience the horrific. It’s unavoidable as it’s part of our experience in this life. There are natural disasters, wars, the ugliness of human nature. What you dwell upon is your choice.

When I’m asked to describe myself, I usually give the same answer. “I like to laugh.” I’m quick to laugh and I enjoy laughing…cue Ed Wynn and the epic scene from Mary Poppins. I’m as happy ugly laughing as I am emitting a polite chuckle. I’m not one to shut down a laugh as one might with a sneeze. If I want to laugh, I do. There are times when decorum dictates the appropriateness of this behavior…cue the Chuckles the Clown funeral scene from The Mary Tyler Moore Show.

Truth be told, I’m not one to describe myself. When I was younger I was quickly typecast into a litany of roles, none of which was a huge part of my essence. I’ve been called butch, a dyke, a jock, a tomboy, a comedian, a loner, a leader, a queer, a fat-ass bitch. I’m none of those. And yet, I’ve carried all of them. I am heterosexual. My relationships with men have been stunning and also have sucked. But I love them (men, not the memories). I was athletic in my youth. I like to laugh. I enjoy time alone. I am a leader but I’m also able to follow. In as much as I can be odd, I am queer. Fat-assed bitch? At times.

Seldom do people refer to me as I think of myself. To paraphrase a passage from The Help…I is smart, I is kind, I is important. That’s all you need to know. And I bet I’m able to make you laugh. But don’t ever underestimate me.

There’s always more than the eye sees.

The Alone Girl reflects…

The Alone Girl is a thinker. There is safety in one’s imagination. In one’s own mind, a world may exist where things are beautiful and happy and safe. There are no harsh words being spoken, no threats of violence, no hyper vigilance for what may come.

The chronic state of being hyper vigilant and hyper aware is achingly exhausting. Not only is the Girl maintaining a facade of normalcy, her body and mind work double time to protect her. She is perpetually on guard. On guard as a sole defender.

If there was an easy part, it was playing the role of a dutiful young lady. Trying to look well maintained on the outside while inside was a jumble of buzzing hornet’s nests, thoughts resembling swirling scribbles from a disturbed mind, and the ever-present desire to be somewhere else.

The Alone Girl learned life was easier by doing the “right” thing, pretending to be happy, and performing the tasks expected of her at a proficient level. It freed her conscious mind of space necessary for the anxiety and apprehension of what could come. Space that needed to be maximized for self-protection.

If anything, the Girl should have trod the boards. She was adept at assuming normal behaviors, a pleasing countenance, stabs of humor. Her own “private Idaho” as it were. Except hers felt like she imagined war could feel. She absorbed the gist of Edwin Starr’s song War. He told us war was good for nothing. Maybe if she had focused on “Life is much too short and precious/To spend fighting wars each day/War can’t give life/It can only take it away.” There was no time to focus, just time to survive.

In retrospect, concepts jump out like a smack to the forehead. “If only” becomes an ill-advised mantra. The mind and body achieve Herculean methods to survive. But like most well-oiled machines, once a threshold is attained and the mind and body are stretched to the limit-the machine breaks down.

Like many, the Girl thought she could navigate the dangerous shoals of life on her own. As smart as she was always told she was, intellect is impaired by pride and the drive to appear to be normal. Hope is a double-edged sword. Trouble will inevitably arrive, but there may be a savior on the horizon. That type of hope is an illusion.

“Danger there’s a breakdown dead ahead/And just maybe you’re in way above your head/I may burn, may upset you/But you know I’d never let you down…”. The Alone Girl absorbed Boz Scagg’s words as though they were true and accurate. It was just a song, another example of non-reality. Because she would be let down over and over and over.

The Alone Girl brawled her way through life, internally speaking. A lady never shows anything is wrong and goodness knows one never talks about it. There isn’t much more for her to sacrifice. Her physical scars attest to life in her “private Idaho.” Internally, wounds are festering amongst myriad disfigurement from a lifetime of survival. If the Girl was told “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger” one more time, she would look at the speaker and tell him/her the truth. What doesn’t kill you makes you sad, anxious, and broken. It may give one the “strength” to survive…but at what cost? What cost?

Thankful to God for her ability to detach and envision a private fantastical life through her imagination, she retreats and recharges for the next life battle. And copes through expression.

More than the start of summer…

Memorial Day is often viewed here in the US as the unofficial start of summer. It’s unfortunate that more Americans do not truly understand the meaning and impact of this holiday. This holiday began as a means of celebrating the lives of those who died in war. We have an entirely separate holiday to honor any individuals who have served in the military.

Many Americans have lost sight of the meaning and significance of this holiday. To most it means a cookout, trip to the lake, end of the school year, three-day weekend. Memorial Day began its life as Decoration Day, a day observed by many through visiting cemeteries and decorating the graves of the Civil War dead. Though it was a somber occasion, it was also taken on in a celebratory fashion.

Families and groups would spruce up the areas around the graves and make decorations from flowers. Also a social outing, picnics were prepared and served. Since the rural cemetery movement began in the early part of the 19th century, many burial sites had been moved out of the more populated areas to the outskirts of a town or city. This was done in response land preservation, sanitation, and other concerns.

There is a large and historic rural cemetery not too far from where I live. Several members of my family lie in repose amongst the company of many historic and non-historic individuals. There is even a former US president. It is a beautiful and serene area. Abutting the property of the rural cemetery lies a very large Catholic cemetery, also constructed in response to the rural cemetery movement.

Many other members of my family are spending eternity there, including my brother. Though none of my family members died in war, many of them are veterans of national service. My family numbers Civil War, WWI, WWII, and Korea amongst their service.

I’m now the caretaker of their memories. For years, my mom and I visited her family’s two plots in the Catholic cemetery. The newer plot, purchased in the late 1930s, is the one we visit most often. I brought 2 folding chairs, a rake, pruning shears, and a picnic lunch. I often included a small flag because my great-uncle Jim’s grave is not marked for his military service (WWI) so he never gets a flag. My uncle Bill has a military marker (WWII, Korea) and thus receives a flag each year.

Those visits are part of the past as my 96 year old mother is not safely able to walk the expanse of uneven ground to reach the plot. I do take her by it in the car so she can have time with her family: mother, father, brother, aunt, uncle, and son. Though almost 100 feet from the car, she can see the main family marker and also see that I’ve tidied the area and put a bouquet of silk flowers in place. We then drive to the adjacent cemetery so I can pay my respects to my father (WWII).

I’m sorry that folks have lost sight of the meaning and tradition of this holiday. It honors those who made the supreme sacrifice of their lives. They are more than deserving of a few minutes of our time. Canadian doctor and soldier John McCrae wrote a haunting poem regarding his experience in WWI. I derive great meaning from it and I feel it speaks to the significance of this holiday.

My two special guys, how I miss them and how proud they were to serve.