Tag: reflections

The Curve Ball

Discover Prompts  Day 8: Curve

So “curve.”

The first thing that came to mind when I saw the prompt was “curveball.” As I continued reading and I smiled when I saw the rest of MW’s line. “Life has thrown a big one at a lot of us these days: a curve.”

I was excited when I saw that the Discover page was going to offer daily prompts in April. When I first started blogging a few years ago, I found the DailyPosts and WP Blogging U very helpful.  But alas, I fell off the blog wagon awhile back.  This year I don’t have the energy for NaNoWriMo and/or the A to Z challenge.  It has nothing to do with COVID 19.  Life happens, and my creativity is “Meh.”

Truth be told, I’ve struggled with these prompts this time around. The prompts and alternate ideas are creative and engaging, but I spend all day churning ideas in my head that don’t get to my page. 

For example, prompt # 2 Open, brought me to the Grand Canyon, but that trip came with ghosts of the past.  I saved the essay for another day.  Prompt # 6 Hands. brought me the question, “what is the sound of one hand, clapping?” It was one of those days that I started to do research to make sure the riddle was not about one hand slapping.  That post didn’t even make the page.  I was going to tie that prompt in with # 7:Below.  A suggestion on that day was, Think about the last time you were emotional — angry, or elated, or sad, or nervous. What lay below, feeding that emotion?  I was not ready to go there on day seven.

Here I am today, talking about The Curve, with a post I started in March. 

If you’ve read my posts before, you may know that I’ve been working part-time at a public library. I really like the place. We are one of the smallest branches in our county’s system of 10 sites, including three larger regional libraries.  Its hard work and we regularly deal with staff turnover, but we’ve also got a great team of volunteers that come in each day to help.  

I have enjoyed everything about the job.  In shelving books, I often find some treasured tome that I didn’t know existed.  I enjoy people, and actually, my favorite part is dealing with the patrons, especially the regulars.  What a great crowd.  Most are old-timers and have been coming to that little branch for over twenty years. The full-time senior staffers know just about every person by name.  They look forward to seeing them each winter when they come back.  Upon returning to town for the winter, many patrons consider their first stops, the library, and Publix – in that order! 

The staff often know, and most importantly, they genuinely care who is sick, who just got a promotion, took a trip, started a business, or wrote a book.  Some of the elderly and the lonely stop in to read the newspapers or use the public computers. They also come in to connect – that irreplaceable human contact that we all need.   Everyone gets a warm welcome and a free smile.  

Sometimes the place feels as if it were an episode of the sitcom “CHEERS.” The tv show is about a neighborhood bar in Boston.  We don’t serve drinks, but the atmosphere feels similar – friendly and accommodating.   

“Sometimes you want to go
Where everybody knows your name,
And they’re always glad you came;
You want to be where you can see,
Our troubles are all the same;
You want to be where everybody knows your name.” (Intro theme from Cheers.)   

On Wednesday mornings, one can’t help but smile as the children’s laughter, and singing spills out of the storytime space and into the great room where most of the action happens.  There is such excitement when they come to check out the books they picked themselves or have found all the pictures of the scavenger hunt around the library.  They bring the classics – princesses and dragons, dogs and cats and of course tv favorites. I’m hopeful that these experiences will remain stored in their little minds and hearts, as they have remained for me. I still believe libraries are a treasure cove of amazing things and a vital part of communities.

Last month, however, the libraries closed to the public. A few days after that, I made the decision to stay at home. 

The library offered curbside service so that patrons could pick up books or materials that they had reserved before the emergency declaration. We have plenty of e-resources online, but because for some people, the web feels overwhelming, staff is available by phone to assist in navigating the resources. 

Behind the scenes, due to the potential risk of contamination with COVID 19, the library staff was disinfecting equipment and preparing materials to be placed in quarantine.  Because of the life span of the virus on paper or plastic, books, and DVDs can not be put back on the shelves directly.  The library materials need to sit out in quarantine for days.  As I said before, our site is small, and the only place considered available to quarantine books was in the great room in front of our circulation desk.  Due to the health risk involved, and after consulting my medical provider, I made the decision to stay home. 

As more information becomes available, new risk management protocols are in place to keep staff safe and patrons informed.  I tip my hat to those who continue to work for the library patrons in different capacities. I pray for them and their families, for they are part of the remarkable army of unsung heroes we’ve come to recognize during these difficult times. 

Currently, there is no opportunity for me to telecommute. It has been three weeks. I’m not sure where I go from here as there are so many unknowns.  My life right now seems up in the air, but this is not my first rodeo, I will get back to living my true life soon enough. 

As I searched the web for a photo to add to my post today, I found this quote on Google Images.   I think it suits me perfectly.  What do you think? Blog Curve

Welcome to My Street

Discover Prompt #4 – Street

BlogStreetFrontDoor (2)
View from my front door

The street where I live is actually a Circle.  They tell me it’s about one mile all the way around. My furry Baby Girl and I walk half the length a few times a day.  Sometimes, out my front door and past the parking lot, I feel like I’m stepping into a magic forest. 

The Embers is an apartment community in the middle of a large city. I’m told the project was built inside a protected conservation area.  It’s generally quiet and tranquil except for the occasional ambulance in the distance or helicopters flying to the Trauma Center at a nearby hospital. 

The street is lined with all kinds of native trees and plants. The street lamps seem to have been strategically placed, so that during the hours just before nightfall or daylight, shadows can play tricks on your eyes.  The soft light from the moon and stars seems to Moon in the treesmake the street glow, and it’s easy to forget that I’m not really out in the woods.

On our street, the regular small woodland creatures like possum, armadillos, snakes, and squirrels forage for food and make their homes in the thick vegetation.  The trees are filled with all kinds of birds, each one signing a unique melody with the woodpeckers keeping rhythm with their tap, tap, tap. 

There is a large population of cats – blacks, and tuxedo, marmalade, and tigers in grey and black.  It’s hard to tell if they are all feral or just out for the day. Baby Girl loves the kitties, but whenever we come near, they scamper away into the tall grass just beyond the road where she can’t reach them.  Each time she catches a whiff of a kitty, she gets so excited and desperately wants them to play with her.  I can see them watching her from within the bushes.  Sometimes I wonder what they think of all her enthusiasm.

BlogStreetwheresthe kitty (2)
Scent of a kitty

There are no sidewalks on our street, but boulders where placed near the ends of speed-bumps to keep drivers off the grass. Covered in moss and dirt, on days of dense fog, these boulders appear to be stunted creatures trying to climb out of the ground. I’ve wanted to photograph them, but these crafty creatures turn back to solid rock when they see me take out my phone!

BlogStonecreature. and Elizajpg
Baby Girl and the Stone Creator

My imagination ponders about the natural history of this place.  Who were the first dwellers here, and how did they spend their day? 

It’s great that this piece of land has been kept in some kind of land conservation trust. I’m especially glad that with all the social distancing regulation, I have a nice space to walk and let get inspired. 

Welcome to my street. 

Winds of Change are Stirring

New Ideas

person walking near shore

 

As some may have noticed, for the past several months, I’ve had a hard time getting back into a regular rhythm of writing and posting at “Self Censored.”  I can write about why and where my energy is going, but the bottom line is I’m trying to figure out where I want to go with this blog. This ambivalence makes it easy for so many other things to get in the way.

For example, while I’m on a roll and in the groove at the computer today, Eliza – my furry baby girl jumps on my lap because she wants to go out.  I put her down, but she gets back up and desperately tries to get my attention by licking my face.  Naturally, I stop and go out for a while as she examines all the spots she missed the last time we were out.  Needless to say, when we get back, she needs a snack to reward her for doing her business outside, and while I’m at it, I decide to warm up the pumpkin muffin that is still waiting in the fridge.

Let’s get back to why I’m here today.  I want to change things up a bit on my blog.  I’m thinking about changing the layout, title, and domain name. I’ve been working on WordPress.com, but I’ve been recommended to try WordPress.org because it has more flexibility.  As I’m mulling ideas about the nuts and bolts, I’ve also been thinking about my content.  Is the “About” page still accurate? Are my goals the same? Is my motivation the same? Who I’m writing for?  Maybe I don’t want to be censored anymore.

The idea for change came one day as I was at the library working on “collection maintenance” (re-shelving books, straightening up and making the place look presentable). That day I found a little book called “Why We Write. Twenty Acclaimed Authors on How and Why They Do What They Do.” By Meridith Maran.  I tend to be a wee bit superstitious and thought to myself, “Hmmm, maybe this is the insight I need right now.”  Truth be told, the book did turn out to be encouraging and stimulating.  Of course, there was the usual advice from well know authors about perseverance and dealing with rejection, but it was the similarities to my thought process that inspired me.

Like myself, many of the authors included in the book found reading and writing as an emotional outlet early on. I’ve been journaling since I was a kid.  I had poems and prose entered in my school papers and yearbooks since middle school. At one point, I thought I would make journalism a career. A friend and I fantasied as kids about working on projects together.  He’d be a famous photojournalist, and I’d be the writer.  Ahhh youth….

In the book, I found some authors began writing to explain or to make sense of the changing world around them – first to themselves and then to connect with others with the same uneasiness in spirit.  They described taking ordinary moments from one’s particular point of view, “freeze-dry” the moment to let the reader “add water,” connect with the notion and make it their own.   As I read, I could hear that voice of affirmation and validation in my head.

It was from this book that I decided to write fantasy or magical realism instead of continuing with the short stories and snapshots of my memories.  It was with this new project in mind that I started connecting with co-workers in the Nanowrimo model.  But alas, here I am reaching the end of November but still quite far from finishing a novel or novelette or whatever. I do however have a better idea of what I want to write, how, and most importantly why.  I’ve done some research to move my story and characters forward, and I count that as progress.  I see my finished project as a female version of Santiago the Spanish Shepard looking for The Alchemist, meets  King Arthur’s Merlin at The Shack with Mack.  Wish me luck!

As for you, keep writing.  I check in to the blogs I follow and get inspired.  I enjoy getting updates, reading your stories, and delight in how creatively you let your voices be heard.

Until next time, all the best.

(Photo from Pexels in WordPress)

I love the Summer Rain

I’m late in posting for Father’s Day.   This is always one of my go-to happy memories.

feet rain wet puddle
Photo by Alicia Zinn on Pexels.com Jeans soaked, feet wet in a puddle of rain

This is the original essay which was my tribute for Father’s Day a few years ago.  I condensed it for an assignment last week.  Please enjoy this version too.

“I love the summer rain!” I shouted in my head because there was no one around to hear my declaration and ‘cause no one really cared.  “Why?” I asked myself; I knew the answer from the minute I felt the first heavy drops.  It was because of him.  And because of him, I stood there for a moment in the pouring rain.  Just a moment, long enough for my jeans to get soaked and my tee shirt drenched and long enough to conjure up the video I wanted to play in my mind. 

splash of water
Photo by Noelle Otto on Pexels.com Fun in the rain

He must have been about the age I am now that day.  Mid-fifties, receding gray hair, twinkling eyes, round face with half a crooked smile and a round belly to match. He wore shorts, his thin shirt unbuttoned halfway, and he’d already lost his shoes on the porch as he ran out to catch the rain.   In all the excitement, he skipped and twirled tempting my girls to join him.  Lovey had already shed her sandals and was waiting for the “go ahead.”   I realized it was contagious as I liberated Annie from her orthopedics.  Soon they were all laughing and skipping and twirling, wet through and through in the tropical rain.  My mother and I just smiled from the sidelines, more concerned with what

the neighbors in the subdivision were thinking behind their blinds.

They called him “El Sapo” – “The Frog.”  They say as a kid he would love to cool down by laying on the floor, with his legs in a diamond shape like a frog.  He loved the water, he loved the rain, and he loved us.  In the good times and the bad, of that, we could be sure.

I wished him here today.  I wanted to be that little girl and dance in the rain and to have him hold me tight like he did the day Eddie died and he had no words to console me.  How does one console a daughter whose young husband just died in the recovery room?  We held each other the same way as we said our final good-byes to my mom on a warm summer morning.   I wanted to hold him for the night that he died that I didn’t, but rather blew him a kiss from the door because I had the flu and didn’t want to share it with him.  

As I think of him now, I know he wasn’t perfect, but I am grateful for all he was and all he left behind including that little bit of him in me. 

 

A Writer’s Illusions and Delusions

My heart quivers in anticipation  

As a thousand butterflies do pirouettes in my belly

close up photo of kitty laying on floor
Photo by Dids on Pexels.com

 Inspiration:

I’m awake and breathless with anticipation.

Or is it my allergic asthma because of the old oak tree outside my open window?

My belly quivers as if a million caterpillars crawl around trying on butterfly wings

Or… was it the chicken and curry from last night’s dinner?

When is it an illusion or a delusion?  When does a delusion become an illusion or is it the other way around.  Is it that difference in perception that makes one appear “crazy” or impractical?

 Ah, the questions that keep writers up at night. 

Sweet Lemonade Out of Wrinkly Limes.

She was a gentle spirit who sang her prayers, but even the saintly have limits.  She was an artist, a singer, a storyteller.   She was a mother, a daughter, a wounded healer sought out by her neighbors for comfort and answers.  She was my hero, my teacher, my friend. 

 She was crafts and science projects of carrot tops in shallow saucers or bird seeds in eggshells which later resembled a miniature forest on our windowsill.   She was pastel colored chicks at Easter, picnics, and carousels at the park in summer.  She was happy Christmas carols a shiny aluminum Christmas trees with bright blue ornaments.  

I was her daughter – sometimes rude, sometimes impatient, but always in awe of the brave woman who could make a tall glass of sweet lemonade when life gave her a bowl of tart, wrinkled,  old limes.

full drinking glass with slice of lime
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Belling the Cat from Aesop’s Fables

Letter B ( A to Z Challenge April 2019)

Through the years, the story of Belling the Cat like many of Aesop’s fables has been re-written and adapted to different cultures and social norms of the moment.  It is a simple story of a community of mice coming together to solve a common problem, a CAT!

The mice held a meeting and complained that it was impossible for them to go about their day peacefully with the threat of the big cat springing on them unexpectedly.  As I am not an expert on mice culture and certainly not one to sit and observe mice,  I suppose a family of mice would pursue happiness by being involved in activities such as building nests and gathering food.

In any event, the mice mulled over the fact that each time as they went about their business, the cat, being a hunter by nature, would do what cats do.  He would bring his long sleek body close to the ground and with padded feet, quietly sneak up on them; He would pounce on one unlucky victim and capture it within his sharp claws.  The other mice would scatter and run as fast as their little feet could carry them, knowing that they would never see their friend again.

The deliberations went on for hours.  There was much arguing about what to do with this cat that was disrupting their lives and threatening their very existence. Ideas came and went, and finally, a very young mouse said: “it’s very simple really, hang a bell around its neck so that we can hear him coming and run for shelter before he grabs someone.”

“What a great idea! An amazing plan.” An elderly mouse who had not spoken before said, “I’m glad we all agree. Now my friends, who will have the courage to step forward to do it?” There was silence, and soon there was the shuffling of hundreds of little feet.  It seemed that when looking for volunteers, they all took one step backward and the deliberation continued.

“Brave words are easier than brave deeds.” Aesop’s Fables by Jerry Pinkey

Have you ever been to a planning meeting at work, school or church and found yourself in a similar situation?  Most times the issue is not anything dangerous, just time-consuming or merely new.  There have been group meetings where we’ve pondered options that seem good in theory, but no one was willing to put into action.

It always amazes me that Aesop’s stories are still relevant today.  We have come a long way and have developed many great projects and ideas, but over the centuries our nature remains the same.

If Aesop were telling this story today, he would probably say: “ All talk and no action leaves us in the same predicament.”  Don’t you agree? `Belling the Cat by Jerry Pinkney

#AtoZChallenge #April 2019

My color is Ecru Cream

Alternative title – A Roze by any other name is still a Roze

I Have Been Weary

The other day, Jill Dennison of Filosofa’s Word posted “A SHARED OPINION …” in which she shared an article by Charles M. Blow of the NY Times, titled “You Have a Right to Weariness.” As usual, Jill’s comments to this article echoed my own thoughts.  It is a great opinion piece for our time of unsettling barrage of news stories. I have been weary.”   It’s not in my nature to ignore world events around me.  My eighth grade Social Studies teacher taught me, “Those that fail to learn from history, are doomed to repeat it.” Winston Churchill.  Unfortunately, watching current events unfold makes me feel like I’m watching a train wreck about to happen, but I’ve no superpowers to stop it.

I thought I was Over It

As I attempt a smooth transition to my “Third Act of Life,” I am dealing with feelings and frustrations that I thought I had overcome or mastered years ago.  You see, I am a woman of color, I like to say it’s “Ecru Cream.” I describe Ecru Cream as a very light beige, like raw linen- almost white, but not quite. I lived most of my life that way-almost white.

I  am No One’s Anchor

I was conceived in Puerto Rico, and when my grandparents found out that their 22-year-old, unmarried daughter was pregnant; they sent her to Pennsylvania to stay with her married older sister, Evangeline.  Evangeline had migrated to the States a few of years before when her husband returned from his tour of duty for the US Army.  They bought a house and started a family.  My grandparents decided that Evangeline would be a good role model to help her sister in this situation, and so my journey of life began just outside “the City of Brotherly Love.”

No, I was not an “anchor baby.” My parents were born American citizens in Puerto Rico, and my grandparents were granted citizenship as young adults in 1917.  My grandfather was drafted to the US Military shortly after, just in time for WWI. Brooklyn

Nuyoricans “Passing” for an Opportunity

After I was born, my father came to see us at Aunt Evangeline’s house, and since my mother was “the love of his life;” we moved with him to New York City.  We joined his older sisters and brother who migrated and settled in Brooklyn. My parents seemed to quickly become accustomed to the new culture and way of life while maintaining and blending the traditional customs of the major holidays. We used to tease my mother that she learned how to be “American” by watching “I Love Lucy” and Days of Our Lives.”

My parents socialized very little with friends outside of work so that we spent our weekends and holidays with family.  For the most part, my family is very light skinned; my cousins and I grew up without accents, and our last names did not end in “Z.”  These characteristics gave people an opportunity to get to know us before realizing that we were just an illusion of whiteness.  Yes, we were “passing” as a means to have a chance.

In school, at the church and in the neighborhood, our friends were not Puerto Rican. Our friends were the first or second generation of immigrants.  They were Italians, Irish, French, English, Polish, Canadian, Brazilian or Middle Eastern. Most spoke a second language at home.  Together we navigated the Melting Pot culture of NYC and were absorbed into the American Dream.

Celebrity Magic Shows and Miracle Excelsiors

It wasn’t all easy peasy as my granddaughter likes to say and when I hear the rhetoric, I can’t help but feel a bit of fear and frustration.  I continue to say that DJT is not the problem. He is who he is and who he has been. He didn’t get more obnoxious on the campaign trail. He did gain more visibility. I was not a fan of his before, not as a businessman or as a celebrity. I never watched his reality TV show and rolled my eyes whenever he did a cameo in a movie that took place in NYC.  I was one of those that would have bet my last dollar that he would not get into the White House.  The American people would never vote a con-man into the highest, most powerful office in the country.  By Election Day, I had changed my mind.  I watched how Americans adored his bravado and his magic displays with smoke and mirrors.  I was not surprised by his win at all.  Mostly though, I was hurt.  I continue to feel betrayed by friends and family.

A Christian Education 

I knew race tensions existed, and I was aware the KKK was still alive and well, but the events of the past couple of years reach me at a very personal level. I am reminded of my years as a young adult, my first year away from home in a Christian Bible college.  It was a small Bible College in the North East, about an hour outside of The City.  In was presented as “interdenominational” in promotional events and material.  The leader of my city wide “interdenominational” Christian high school club recommended it highly.  Interdenominational meant that all Christians around the world were welcome. Even though Baptists founded it, the school welcomed students from Presbyterians to Pentecostals in all shapes, sizes, and color.  We had to include a photo with our application.

By the end of my first semester, I learned that indeed all that glitters is not gold and whitewashing walls is a quick, effective way to cover up dirt and imperfections.  We learned that the school accepted minorities and international students of color in pairs, one man and one woman.  It was preferable if they were already married.  One of our friends was “spoken to” because people saw her around campus accompanied by a Brown student.  To be truthful, I don’t remember what country he was from, but in my memory, I recall him as perhaps from India or Pakistan.  The girl was so upset by this situation that she did not return next semester.

The Founder and President of the school taught a class on Dispensations. It was in his class that I decided not to come back after my second semester. I did not go back to my local church either.  His beliefs did not resemble the Christianity I learned at home.  His lessons were peppered with digs and condescending, derogatory remarks about other denominations that were not entirely in accord with Baptist dogma. I questioned my beliefs, my faith.  It was years before I returned to an organized religious community.

Who Are My Friends?

There were many other things about the school that made me uncomfortable,but the most hurtful thing occurred after I left the school.  I had become close friends with my roommate and a few of the girls in my dorm.  Gwen, Margaret and I were inseparable.  Margaret and I made plans to visit our boyfriends at a Christian College in New England next semester. I continued to correspond with the girls by snail mail.  One day I received a letter from Margaret.  One line in the message hit me like a gut punch.  “Gwen and I miss you so much; we had to adopt another inner-city girl.”  Wow! I thought we were friends, real friends.  I thought she was my friend because we had a lot in common because I was smart, witty and fun to be around.  She saw me as an inner-city-girl who went to her school on a partial scholarship and lived in her dorm.

Disguised, They Came For the Immigrants…

Years later, I was working at a psychiatric day services program is a New England city nicknamed “The City of Immigrants.”  One day, after the clients left, and we were meeting to review the day’s events and planning.  There was construction going on around us, and the noise prompted a co-worker, Doug, to make some awful comments, similar to DJT’s views, about the men who were working on the project. 

The workers were mostly brown men if I had to guess they were probably from countries in South America and the Caribbean.  “I can’t believe you just said that,” I told him. His response to justify his words was worse. I explained that these men could very well be my cousin, brother, or father.  While he had never been disrespectful to me or made racist comments of our clients in front of me, it hurt me that he thought this way of these people he didn’t even know – just because of the color of their skin and their accents.

Doug was a man that I worked with for several years; we co-facilitated successful groups, we walked together at lunch, had our coffee together, I considered him a close friend.  He finally said, “I’m sorry, I  just wasn’t thinking.”  It didn’t make it any better if anything, it made it worse that he wasn’t thinking about the impact of his words.  Things were never the same between us.

Then They Came for Me…

People forget I am not “white,” I am a woman “of color,” Ecru Cream is my color.  If our country were to continue to erase all the progress made regarding equality for all people; if as a nation we lose respect for basic human rights what is left for us?  What becomes of me, of my family?  If someone comes knocking on my door and drags me away because of a flippant comment I made on Twitter, will my friends stand up for me?  Will they say, “Well, you shouldn’t have said that after all, he is our President.”  I remember the words of Martin Niemoller, “… Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.”

All this rhetoric brings all these emotions to the surface. DJT did not get to the White House on his own merits.  Witnessing day after day that our lawmakers condone and defend his actions is very draining.  I am reminded again: “…and when an experience is not retained, as among savages, infancy is perpetual. Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”  — George Santayana

Hope for Rational Government

The recent elections bring some hope that people realize that the current events are not just politics and business as usual, nor are they healthy for our Democracy.  On the flip side, the recent election shows that there is still lots of work to be done. The numbers were too close for comfort, and there were too many mistakes and too much irregularity at the polls. Yes, I am weary, but I am hoping that tempered and rational thought comes with the new legislators to Congress before we resort to “Hunger Games” for the dignity and survival of the 98%.  

Left Behind after a Death

A social media post reminded me the other night that it was a year to the day since my cousin, Joe died.  I’m sad I didn’t remember, I spoke to his mom earlier that day. We talked for an hour about all sorts of trivial things, but she didn’t mention him till we were wrapping up.  Even then, she told me it was his wife that missed him.  She said: “Lizzy called this morning and told me she had been dreaming of Joe.”  I’m usually more on the ball and can pick up things with my “third ear.” She called because she was sad, but I missed it. 

I grew up close to my cousin and his sister.  Our families would get together every weekend when we were kids in Brooklyn.  He was the best man at my brother’s wedding.  He went to prep school in New England on a scholarship, and after that, as the years past, we saw each other very little.  I know he was a family man; crazy about his kids and a good husband.  His son posted a sweet memorial that day and wished his dad would have been around to meet his first granddaughter.

When hurricane Maria caused chaos in Puerto Rico, Joe went to get his recently widowed mom and brought her back to stay with his family until he was sure things were better in her town.   It was November when he dropped his mom off at the airport. That day, Joe told his mom that he wasn’t planning to retire anytime soon.  He liked his job and was in good health.  “I’m in it for the long haul,” he told her. They said goodbye, and he went to work.   A few hours later, a co-worker found him slumped over his desk. It was his heart. He was 60 years old.  My aunt didn’t go to the funeral; she didn’t want to see her little boy buried.

trees in park

This incident got me thinking about how after death, life goes on around us here on earth. I remember feeling disconnected from everything and everyone whenever I’ve lost someone very close to me.  I sat at my desk one day holding back tears because I was in pain and the world keep spinning on its tilted axis.  The sun and the moon each came up as scheduled, people worked, laughed and played all around me as they had the day before and the day before that. I wanted to scream “STOP!  It still hurts, Can’t you see?  I’ve lost a part of me.” Intellectually, I know we all take turns with grieving one thing or another; and we all grieve differently, but at that moment, it hit me how personal grieving really is, but as they say, “the beat goes on.” 

Growing up, as an Evangelical in Brooklyn, I knew nothing of the “Day of the Dead” traditions.  In that fundamentalist religious culture, anything otherworldly is anathema, considered evil and would lead straight to perdition.  It is that way for Halloween and the “pagan” Gaelic origins in Samhain.  I find it interesting that both the Aztecs and ancient people of Scottish-Irish islands had similar celebrations before Christianity got to there. I was curious and learned that other ancient cultures in addition to China and Japan also set aside one day to celebrate or honor the dead ancestors.

 I found out later in life that my grandparents traditionally celebrated the Day of the Dead, but with a somber tone.  Even though they were not Catholic, they liked to be respectful of the family members who passed on before them. It was a day of quiet reflection for them. When I converted to Catholicism several years ago, I found the celebrations of All Souls Day and All Saints very comforting.  I’m glad that the Church did not erase the sentiment behind these “pagan” traditions.

In my family, we have lost many loved ones prematurely by today’s standards, but really who is to say how many days are in the itinerary for this journey.   Because we don’t know, we are encouraged to live each day to the fullest, to take every opportunity or to “make it a great day.”  What happens when things don’t work out the way we plan? 

A long time ago, I decided to embrace the idea that life or success is not a straight shot.  At least it hasn’t worked that way for me or others I have met along the way.  As I mentioned to someone the other day, getting to our goal is perhaps more like using the subway system or public transit to get our errands done at the different stops along the way.  Let’s say we have a “to do” list, and sometimes we forget or miss an item and have to go back, or we find something interesting but unexpected, and we are detained for longer than we planned.

Of course, sometimes the train malfunctions and we need to rethink our strategy.  The problem is out of our control, but we need to get things done.  What do we do?  We get out and walk, take the next train, find other means of transportation or look at how we can rearrange priorities to maximize our time.  

I’ve been fortunate to have great role models.  Grandparents, parents, aunts, and uncles who taught me that is possible to overcome obstacles.  I have heard stories of any one of them who was helpful to someone in need, even though they may have been confronting their own struggles.  People remember them with love and admiration. 

None of them were famous or of great wealth, but they left a mark that they were here.  During these days of celebrating life and death, I didn’t light candles or put out food for their visit, but I remember them and honor their lives every day.  And if there is a bridge or door or whatever for the spirits of our loved ones to visit, I hope they are pleased with how their seeds have grown and flourished. 

I loved the movie “Coco” #Disney magic.

 

There is no magic to forgive and forget

broken heart love sadI read another sad post the other day about relationships and the conundrum/riddle of forgive and forget.  I believe one can forgive someone for hurting us and continue life without resentment or hold a grudge toward that person. Without going to any textbook explanation, but rather based on pure personal observation, I believe that not forgetting what has hurt us, is merely an instinct for survival.  We need to remember danger to learn to avoid it.

My dog hates medicine for her ears, it fizzles in her ear as it goes down.  It has been years since she’s had an infection, but if she hears me shaking a bottle with liquid, she stands by the stairs waiting to see if I am going to come after her. If she sees me taking a step in her direction, she runs up the stairs and under my bed.  If I give her a piece of cheese or meat, she will smell it first to make sure there isn’t medicine in it. She had a treat in her mouth once, tasted the medicine, promptly spit it out and ran up the stairs and under my bed.  I also have a seven-year-old niece that has severe allergies that sometimes cause anything from severe swelling to seizures.  From about age three and a half; she understood that some foods make her feel very sick.  Before she orders at a restaurant or any new environment she will say: “I have allergies, does this have…” It is truly a matter of survival for her.

While the breakdown of the relationship can refer to romantic partners, parent-child, siblings or best friends, the premise is the same. One person hurt another, and a trust was broken. Does it really matter why?  I believe that to expect a person to forget is selfish and would appear that your wishes, personal need to feel better or comfortable with the situation, are more important than the other person’s healing process. 

I often hear “I apologized and promised not to do it again. I’m trying to make it up to him.  What more does she want? Why does she/he keep bringing it up? ”  News flash, It’s not about you; it’s their healing process. They want to be OK. They want to stop hurting,  to heal, and be able to trust again.  You can’t speed it up, and you can’t make it better.  The process needs to come from within the person.  If you are honestly doing all you can do, keep doing it and wait it out.  There is no quick fix or magic potion.  Sometimes on the other side healing, that person may decide they are OK, but they don’t want or can’t be OK with you, and you will need to accept that.   

We are all selfish to a degree. I like the analogy that we are all protagonist in our very own movie.  We all wish life was perfect; that the sun would shine brightly every day and that it rains only on our flower beds.  No one wants to feel pain, and we all wish that our happiness is all that mattered to anyone we encounter.  Even the most loving, giving person hopes that someday, out of the blue, someone would do something special for them in appreciation.    

I believe time does heal but doesn’t mean things go back to the way they were. When a broken bone heals, there are signs that healing took place.  When something is mended, the repair makes it stronger; but sometimes it continues to be weak in that area.  Some people do manage to find that special place again but it takes work, and it takes time to rebuild that trust and with it to restore that loving feeling. 

writing muse

I used to hate it when my friend would say “It is what it is. There is no magic.”   One year I gave her ruby-red slippers and a magic wand from the costume store with a note that said “BELIEVE” written in fairy dust sprinkle.  I still believe in the supernatural power of love but sometimes, it is what it is, and there IS no magic wand.