Tag: #shapingyourstory

Just Friends, For all Time

Alondra Elena Delopas sat on a swivel chair in her lanai listening to the rain as the winds picked up and thunder clapped in the distance.  Baby Girl lay with her legs sprawled but her nose pressed against the screen. She struggled to see what was moving in the conservation land that bordered the small condo-villa community where they lived.  If Baby Girl saw something coming closer, she jumped and whimpered excitedly thinking she would get a chance to run out to chase after it.

Can’t Turn Back Time

shallow focus of clear hourglass

Alondra or “Lonnie,” as close friends and family called her, was having a rough week.  Today, clients canceled the only two appointments she had scheduled.  They didn’t want to look at houses in a storm; maybe they just weren’t ready. It’s happened before.  She usually found listening to the rain soothing, but today, the stormy tropical weather didn’t help her mood. She felt tired, cold and lonely.  She went back inside to read but couldn’t wrap her head around on another “kick your business into high gear” self-help book.  She turned to the mindlessness of surfing the net on her phone where she found the same stories, memes, and jokes all over again.

One story caught her eye.  It was another of those stories where old friends from high school find each other and decide to spend the rest of their days making up for lost time.  All of it made possible through the magic of social media.  The funny thing is that she recently had been thinking about her friend Bobby from high school. They had been in school together since seventh grade.  She’d adored him during high school and college but never in a romantic way.  Outside of school, they were part of the same social group from church, and they worked at the same summer jobs. Bobby and Lonnie enjoyed a lot of the same things, and she liked hanging out with him.  He was smart, witty, and amusing; they could talk for hours even when everyone else had gone.  Bobby had introduced Lonnie to her boyfriend Harry, and he started dating Bernice.

Many years later a co-worker told her that it was impossible for men and woman to be “just friends.”  She had started to argue the point by bringing up her friendship with Bobby, but before she opened her mouth, saw a memory flash before her.  It was a crisp autumn day in Upstate New York when Bobby’s parents invited her to drive with them when he returned to the State College after the break.

Trip Back to School

It was a two-hour ride, and his parents had made plans to stop at their friend’s house for lunch along the way.  Afterward, while they waited for his parents to finish their visit, Bobby and Lonnie went for a walk in the wooded land behind the house.  They chatted talked and laughed like so many times before, but in some way, Alondra sensed that it was not a day like every other.  At times she could be intuitive and sensitive to subtle changes in her surroundings. There seemed to be something in the air made her feel obligated to comment that it was too bad that Bernice could not come along.  She believed Bernice would have enjoyed the beautiful landscape dressed for the fall.  Bobby quietly agreed, and they walked on.

They stopped on a small wooden bridge as they crossed over the swollen creek.  A burst of cold air made Alondra regret that she had left her jacket back at the house.   Bobby stepped closer and put his arm timidly around her shoulder.  She felt his face so close to hers, and then as he gently turned her toward him, she felt his soft lips lightly brush hers.  Her immediate impulse was to push him away.  “What are you doing?” she reprimanded.   The hurt in his loving eyes pierced her heart, and she took his face in her hands and looked tenderly into his gentle mismatched eyes, one blue, and one hazel.  She told him she was crazy about him, how could she not; he was her dearest friend, but they couldn’t do this to Bernice.  Bobby nodded in agreement, and they started to walk back to the house in silence.

Awkward quiet moments always made Alondra respond with humor.  She elbowed Bobby in the ribs now and said jokingly that the bridge must have been bewitched because she had felt something strange too.  He sheepishly chuckled and added that without a doubt the setting was perfect for a romantic moment.  “What were we thinking? “  They said in unison, which caused them to laugh again and end the uncomfortable moment.  When they got back, his parents were ready to continue the trip.   At his dorm, they said their goodbyes as old friends do.  They promised to stay in touch and would see each other when he got back at his next school break.  And so it was until she left the state.  Their friendship survived.

That’s What Friends are For

Alondra never told Bobby of her conversation with Bernice several weeks prior.  Bernice told Alondra that she was feeling insecure about her relationship with Bobby.  She confessed that she wondered if Bobby, by spending so much time alone with Lonnie was feeling an attraction beyond friendship.  “You know, you are cute, petite and always dressed nice. Maybe…”   the words were left hanging in the air.  Alondra looked at her friend as if with disbelief.  First of all, Alondra considered herself too short and was often frustrated with her thick and wavy brown hair. Although she filled her clothes in all the right places, they were just hand-me-downs from her older cousin which she had adapted with accessories and trims from the five and dime so that they looked more age appropriate.

Bernice had powder blue eyes and baby fine blond hair that she always wore straight down as was the norm among their group.  She was tall and lanky; sometimes it seemed that she was still getting used to her young-adult body.  Alondra found the whole idea absurd and pooh-poohed Bernice’s fears.  Although she and Bobby never spoke of such things, Alondra reassured Bernice that Bobby loved her; that he was just a supportive friend who didn’t want Lonnie to deal with her recent break-up alone.

On her way home from State College with Mr. and Mrs. Smith, Alondra played that conversation over in her head.  She didn’t see it coming but did Bernice know anything before. The incident was never spoken of again by anyone.

Not that Person

Alondra didn’t know if it was the rough week that just past combined with the dreary, stormy weather that made her feel vulnerable enough to want to reach out to her old friend.  She had to admit that after that day in the woods, the “what if” would haunt her now and then.  Lonnie got a cup of tea and found herself searching Facebook profiles for Robert James Smith from Brooklyn, NY. She quickly became overwhelmed by the number of profiles with the same name all over the world.  She scolded herself and gave up the search. “This is ridiculous.  I will not be that person.”

Alondra Elena Delopas was not one to let a life lesson slip by.  Her life experiences had taught her that.  She remembered from somewhere a suggestion that moments stay in our memories so that we could retrieve their message when we need them.  She was sure these vivid memories of her friendship with Bobby came back to her so vividly for a reason now. Maybe, she thought, it was merely to confirm that Karma is a b!+@h.   “Hum,” she thought. “so this is what it feels like?”

Another verifiable cliché

Indeed the story seems familiar, almost too fresh in her memory. It seemed played out in reverse with older actors.  As she considered the analogy, she realized that her friend Nan was right when she paraphrased Gabriel Garcia Marquez. “Just because someone doesn’t love you the way you want, doesn’t mean they don’t love you with all they have to give.”  Remembering her platonic love for Bobby helped her understand what confused her for years.  Remembering her relationship with Bobby was the missing piece of the puzzle.  As she accepted this truth, she let go of the pain and hurt.  She became aware that there was nothing to forgive. At that moment, she chose to remember the good times, the adventures, even the caring and affection.

Alondra Elena Delopas realized that she had been more fortunate than most. Love is meant to be shared, offered expecting nothing in return. She had shared something special and given her love more than once. Each time in a different way, with a different purpose and intensity but authentic, it was a true love.  No one could say differently.

She added another verifiable cliché to her list: “It’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. “

A couple of years later she felt that restlessness to try to find Bobby again.  For the sake of their friendship, she wanted to connect to see how his life had turned out.  She found him and wrote a letter that she never sent.

Read it at this link from a previous post.  https://rosalind.life/2018/05/28/the-letter-i-never-wrote/

#shapingyourstory  #DigDeeper

Each Day the Sun Rises

Life is not what it’s supposed to be. It’s what it is. The way you cope with it is what makes the difference. Virginia Satir  http://www.brainyquote.com

from Morguefiles

The ocean’s waves came up, splashed around her and sprayed her face as she sat there waiting.  She smiled.  It was a good omen, she thought, like when the Priest comes around sprinkling everyone with Holy Water.  Luella Delsapo came out for a walk early this morning, the beach town just starting to stir, the tide was out and the morning was gray.  The sand, full of tiny holes and bubbles was cold and damp under her feet. She didn’t care that the rocks were still wet as she took a seat to gaze at the horizon.  It was chilly for summer, and she was glad she brought a shawl.  She sipped tea from her travel mug and took a deep breath.  The salty air of a brand new day filled her lungs, and she breathed again deeper into her belly.  She tried to relax. 

Luella liked watching the sunset and closing the day with a colorful display, but she loved the sunrise.  There was something promising about imagining a Higher Power slowly pulling up the shades to let the sunlight fill the day and bring us out of the darkness.  Compared to sunsets, the morning colors seemed softer, gentler to her as the lavenders and pinks turned to honey behind the brilliant golden ball.  Luella was not disappointed this morning.  As the sun crowned the horizon, she closed her eyes to take it all in- the sounds, the smells, the cool breeze on her face; she waited for the sun to warm her.  Luella Delsapo had longed to be here.  She needed to be here.

She had visited other beaches, like the beautiful beaches in the Caribbean with aquamarine waters and parades of colorful fish.  She had been to the white sand beaches along the Gulf of Mexico and enjoyed watching dolphins in their natural habitat.  It was as if they performed their dance just for the pleasure of being alive.  But it was this gray, rocky beach that through the years collected much of her tears.  She came after the heartaches or to remember loved ones on her personal memorial days. It was this part of the immense ocean that allowed the winds to take away the hurt and give her the strength to start over.  It was here she dared to dream again, and that’s what she came back for.

Recently when a friend passed expectantly, Luella heard the words one can’t escape at every funeral.  The expressions of condolences are meant to be of comfort, but after the one-hundredth time, they seem to lose meaning.  Well-intended friends and family try to be reassuring with phrases like “she’s in a better place” or “he’s no longer in pain” or “they would not want to see you suffering”; Luella remembered. She had heard it all more than once.

The first time Luella lost someone close, it was shocking to her that a person can actually feel the physical pain of a broken heart.  She was twenty-three and never knew the heart could hurt so much.  It was as if an elephant was sitting on her chest to make it burst like a water balloon, and yet it didn’t.  After a while, as the days passed, when someone approached her to say: I’m sorry for your loss, she said: “Well don’t be, it wasn’t your fault, and there is nothing we can do about it now.” 

People told her to give it time; everything is better with time.  Well, Luella found out they were right, but it’s not magic.  Time heals, but the pain doesn’t go away.  It is there in the background, in the corners of the mind.  She learned that over time the pain of grief is not felt with the same intensity or frequency, but on any given day something will trigger a memory and the wound is fresh again.  Fortunately, she developed the ability to recognize it and give it a moment before continuing with the business of living.

Luella came to understand that to manage grief; one needs to prepare for the flooding of emotions.  The first year, was the hardest.  On every holiday and every birthday, she was reminded that the life she had dreamed of with her husband was no longer an option.  She often cried for herself and for her children.  She was familiar with the process now.  She created traditions to remember, and activities for self-care.  And so it was that each time Luella lost a loved one, she didn’t feel as confused or overwhelmed. 

In prayerful mediation, she became aware of the sun warming her soul as her breathing caught the rhythm of the rolling surf – in and out.  With each exhale, the ocean rolled out with the pain and gently came back in with hope.  She opened her eyes to find the sun well over the horizon, the grayness had dissipated, and it was the start of a beautiful summer day in New England.   She found what she came for – a new day with hope for new beginnings.  

#shapingyourstory   Week Two   I’m incorporating assignments into new posts while I’m working on another project.   Really enjoying the lessons.  Thanks a bunch Michelle W.

Weeds and Flowers in our Life

 

As I mentioned the other day, I am doing an editing course right here on WordPress called “Writing: Shaping Your Story.”  I have re-worked one of my most recent stories looking for an angle to develop a unique voice in telling stories of ordinary life.   Enjoy.

Love who you are and what you are and what you do. Laugh at yourself and at life and nothing can touch you.   Louise Hay from AZ quotes

The other morning I had one of those incidents where I had to laugh at myself or in spite of myself. I find I do it quite often these days; I believe it’s one of the perks brought on by aging and the wisdom of our years.  I do think if you can’t laugh at yourself, maybe it’s time for soul-searching.  No one is perfect, and if we can forgive ourselves for that, if we can be OK with our shortcomings, we become more tolerant of others.

dandelion flowers

I started my day, unlike other mornings.  I had my mind set to do a little weeding in the yard.  I’m house sitting while taking care of my daughter’s eighty-five-pound furbaby.  She and her husband have their hands full with careers and a toddler size human baby, so I decided to make use of idle time and clean up the yard a bit before they got home.  Nothing major, I’m not a gardener. I had a flower garden once which was mostly landscaped already when I bought the house.  With minimal fuss, that garden managed to come back and thrive every year from spring through fall. These days I’m working on trying to get a potted orchid to flower again or at least to give me hope by staying alive.

I was up and dressed bright and early with my improvised gardening outfit.  Yes, I needed a gardening outfit, like I use to have one for walking the dog or play clothes after school. I wore comfortable workout shorts, t-shirt, old sneakers-without socks and a safari hat. Perhaps I should have taken a selfie, but you can probably visualize the image.  We live near the southernmost part of Florida and I wanted to get weeds out before the temperature became unbearable but I couldn’t find my daughter’s gardening gloves. I have allergies and an intense dislike for creepy crawly things, so I wasn’t going out there without gloves.  What a dilemma! I was going to have to run to the store to pick up a pair of gardening gloves, but I was dressed for tropical weather gardening, not shopping.  To quote the grown-up Christopher Robin,  “What to do, what to do.”

Some may say my quandary was “just a girl thing” but to understand my problem; we’d have to go back to my family of origin where the mantra was “We may be poor, but we are proud!”  Mom always made sure we were with hair combed, clean hands and nails, our clothes ironed with starch and our shoes polished.  When we went to church on Sunday, she had to make sure that we looked ready to visit The King of Kings.  She learned from her mother to check us out before we walked out of the door to make sure we were “presentable.”   

My grandmother was an adorable, plump little woman. Over the years I’ve mentioned that someday I wanted to be a loveable, little old lady like her. (I’m practically there – wink).  She wore her thinning white hair in a small bun at the nape of her neck. Her back slightly curved from years as a seamstress. In her late 70s, her alabaster skin was without blemish and smooth, and her eyes were a light turquoise green like the tranquil waters of the Caribbean Basin in the early morning. It had been just recently that my aunt had convinced her that she didn’t need to iron my grandfather’s boxers or her bed sheets because of the new permanent press fabrics. She still starched and pressed her house dresses and my grandfather’s white cotton shirts and khakis.

One summer when I was visiting, my grandmother asked me if I wanted to go to town for some shopping. She was walking to town and wanted some company. We were already in town, but she meant about a 20-minute walk to the stores on the main street, more if she saw friends along the way. I dressed quickly and waited for my grandmother on the porch.   This was in the era before cell phones so to entertain myself in the meantime; I checked out the boy next door who was about my age and helping his dad bring things in from the truck.  When I saw him, was glad to be feeling cute that day.  Little did I know that years later, he would become my husband. 

My grandmother, Mrs. Plumeria Martin-Ponte put one foot out on the porch, looked at me and stopped in her tracks. She looked up and down at me, and I noticed the tranquil waters in her eyes were starting to churn like angry waves before a storm. “Go in and change. I’m not taking you with me like that.” Period and end of the story were implied in her tone.  Of course, I was young and feeling cute, so I needed to ask why: “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” At the time, I thought it was cool for a girl from the big city to wear overalls with a T-shirt and sneakers. My question triggered a lecture on the proper attire of lovely young ladies going into town. She didn’t want to hear what I did back home, so I went in and changed to a sundress, ladylike sandals and wore my long dark hair in a side braid.

Fast forward to 2018, and I’m standing at the doorway with my car keys in hand, ready to go to the Town Center in workout shorts, a sleeveless t-shirt, sneakers without socks and my wild hair particularly unruly this morning. I was just going to run in and out but what if I saw someone I knew? Well, I don’t know many people in this town, I thought as I encouraged myself. Besides Hollywood A-listers do it all the time, I just won’t take off my sunglasses! That’s when it happened; I laughed at myself for giving so much thought to explain my options as if to my grandmother.

As it turned out, once I was at the Town Center, I remembered a couple of other things I needed and made another stop. I was not just in and out at either store. I chatted with the clerks and a woman behind me in line. No one asked me why I was wearing comfortable workout shorts and sneakers without socks to the trendy Town Center.

At another point in my life, I probably wouldn’t have gone out, or if I had to, I would have changed to something more “presentable.” I realize though that if anyone passes judgment about me because of the clothes I wear, then they don’t value me for the person I am. I am beyond the point where I feel the need to prove my worth. I am what I am, and it is what it is.

“Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about.”   Wendy Mass, The Candymakers from Goodreads.

Since it’s my nature to ponder, I reflected on how time and again we judge others by their appearance. I often say that it seems like the experiences from our school years play out throughout our lives. We see the same behaviors at work or in social groups. Only the names and faces change. Naturally, whenever this topic crosses my mind, I am reminded of a young girl, a classmate from my middle and high school years, he name was Grace Fore.

I was an average kid. I managed to stay under the radar and out of trouble. I wasn’t especially popular but had friends from different groups that I had met through various activities like art electives, tutoring, orchestra, boosters, yearbook, and church. 

Grace Fore was a loner. She was a good looking girl with her blonde hair and big, blue eyes, but something always looked “off” and not quite right.  I didn’t know anything about her home life, but I knew she played the viola beautifully with sentimentality that it moved me. I remember that it was often apparent that she was trying to “fix” her appearance.  The kids in school teased her when she tried a new hairstyle and her hair still looked disheveled or when she wore a misshapen dress that she made herself in sewing class. They called her Grace Forlorn. I never actually defended her, I usually just moved my friends along before the taunting got worse. I always wished I had been braver. Can’t help but wonder what it would be like in today’s social media era.

As the world turns, a few years ago, I received a Facebook friend request from Grace Fore with a simple question “Do you remember me?” “Of course,” I answered, “you played the viola beautifully. Do you still play?” She wrote to me about the difficult life she had growing up and how it turned out not much better as an adult.  No, she didn’t continue playing, but she wished she had.  And then she broke my heart when she said: “but you were always nice to me, and it meant so much.”  I never really went out of my way to be nice to her, but I was taught to be kind and not do harm. 

If she hadn’t reached out, I would have never known that one small kindness would mean so much after all these years and all she had been through. She unfriended me shortly after over differences in political ideology, but I’m glad we connected. It validated my core beliefs that I continue to develop through my life.

beverage breakfast cake chilled

After driving back to my daughter’s house in this meditative state, I decided I needed a drink before I tackled the yard. It was the middle of the day in Florida with temperatures in the triple digits. I poured a tall glass of iced tea, put my feet up and stared out into the yard. 

I remembered that in another life during the summer, I would frequently get small bouquets of yellow dandelions from my daughters.  They would run into the house filled with love and anticipation.  Despite my allergies, I would marvel with oohs and aahs as if they were a dozen long stem roses from a long lost lover and put them in small cups of water till they shriveled up.   Sometimes they would bring them one by one, white and puffy so that we could make wishes together.  As they blew around the backyard like snowflakes, I wondered how many more weeds I would have to deal with next time. 

“Weeds are flowers, too, once you get to know them.”  Quote from Pinterest attributed to Eeyore. 

What a perfect quote from Eeyore.   Isn’t it the truth?  Yes, dandelions are weeds, but they are bright yellow flowers and conduits for wishes.   In the real world, we have found that they also have healing properties and are an excellent source of vitamins and minerals.

What great lessons we learn every day, I pondered as I continued sipping my cold drink.  I shook my head in amazement and snickered to myself as I closed my eyes and decided I would start fresh tomorrow. 

#Shaping your story  – Week One

 

The letter I never wrote

My Dearest Bobby, 

It’s been almost half a century since we last saw each other or since we shared about our lives and yet I looked for you a few years back when I found myself in a new city without friends. Where have all my young friends gone, long time passing? 

How I had missed you!  You drove west on a cross-country adventure right after college, looking for John Denver’s Rocky Mountain High.  I went looking for myself on the little Caribbean Island where my family roots were waiting. 

The last time you wrote to me, you told me that you finally understood when I wrote to you about my special love for Edward.  You wrote that you had found someone extraordinary as well and felt like you were on cloud nine. “I’m walking on air! This is the one,” you wrote.  I was so happy for you.  You deserved to be loved to the max.   I never heard from you again; not even when I wrote to tell you of Edward’s unexpected passing.  I always wondered about that and thought it strange.  Did you get my letter?  It was before Facebook and emails when letters often were lost and neither party knew it.  I believe in my heart that if you would have gotten it, you would have reached out.  You were always there for me.

Speaking of Facebook, let me tell you that there must be a gazillion Robert J. Smiths on Facebook! You had told me once. that Robert James Smith was a common family name from one of the islands in the Canadian Maritime provinces where your parents were born. I expected many Smiths but I don’t know why I wasn’t expecting so many with that name combination in our age group. I tried many variations to filter my search and convince the algorithms to give you up. 

Finally there it was; a Robert J Smith from New York currently living in the Rocky Mountains!  The profile picture was a portrait of a past president known as a great social reformer. I knew I had to be on to something, but the profile said this Robert J was a computer guy at some Rocky Mountain University, not a famous photojournalist traveling the world in search of a great story. 

Although this Robert J was not the photojournalist you had dreamed of becoming, there were random sarcastic posts and funny tongue-in-cheek comments in reference to some joke among your friends.  I remember that you were always amusing with a sharp wit. I kept scrolling on that page.  The information available on the public profile gave me an indication that I may have found the right person. 

It seems this Robert J was an activist like my Bobby who inspired and motivated us to march and protest many things while we were in high school.  I remember the cold, wet days we spent holding signs in front of the local state-run mental hospital to oppose the abuse and demand better community options for the mentally ill and developmentally disabled.  We recycled and protested about pollution. All the while you documented it with exceptional photos for the school paper.

It seemed like this Robert J was also a patron of the arts and I remembered how we spent that one summer exploring all the little museums in the city because we had already exhausted the larger ones.  The haunting photos you took at the Cloisters were amazing.  It was exciting watching them develop in the makeshift darkroom in your parents’ apartment. 

We enjoyed that summer even if it was just the two of us. All our friends were busy with their own projects or were just not interested in the same things.  Bernice approached me once about her insecurities because we were spending so much time together.  I remembered assuring her that you loved her and the only reason you kept inviting me was that you being ever the supportive friend, didn’t want me to be alone as I dealt with my recent breakup with Harry.  

Suddenly as I scrolled through the photos on that Facebook page, I saw your smiling face; still looking like a cherub with curly gray hair.  Even in the black and white photo, your eyes had a sparkle as you sipped from a champagne flute in the back seat of a limo with your wife.  She looked nice. I was glad to see you so happy; I didn’t bother with the friend request.

About a year later I tried again.  This time there was just one status update post.  You were glad it would be your last radiation treatment. You explained that you had just started chemotherapy on Brain Cancer Awareness Day.  So many memories, and some regrets, all came rushing at me.  I said a prayer but didn’t contact you.  I wish I had.   

Months later around your birthday, I checked a third time, but when nothing new had been posted, I looked for your wife.  Did I just become a stalker? I didn’t care; I had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.  I saw the condolences on her page.  So many people were acknowledging what a wonderful friend you were and how you touched their lives.  They all loved you, as I did.  I saw what she said was her favorite picture of you posted for your birthday.  She wanted to reassure her friends that she was coping well and but admitted she missed you so much. I was glad to see she loved you so.

It was a professional portrait, and it was how I had imagined you aging with soft gray curls and a neatly trimmed beard.  Your mismatched eyes were apparent, one green, one hazel.  They were thoughtful eyes, caring eyes.  My sweet Bobby; you found someone who loved you the way I couldn’t.  I thank God for her. I wanted to reach out to her and add my condolences, but I didn’t. 

I still remember you on your birthday and say a prayer.  I’m sorry I didn’t love you the way you wanted; the way your parents would have wanted. I’m glad we were best friends though. I’ll always remember the special moments we shared, the decision we made that summer to protect Bernice. I question myself about that choice from time to time and naturally wonder what could have been,. 

Of one thing I am certain, I am grateful that I had you to walk beside me as we were growing up and transitioning into adulthood. 

Rest in peace my dear one. 

You are forever in my heart – love me.                                                                                                                                                           

america arizona blue canyon

Day Eight: Reinvent the Letter Format   #everydayinspiration