relationships – Page 37 – One Woman's Quest

Tragedy Visits

Something’s happened to Billy!

I shot bolt upright in bed. He had just been here. I saw him standing at the end of my bed, but that was not possible: Billy lived miles away in the country and it was the dead of winter. How could he have gotten here?

I lay back down on my bed trying to piece together what had just happened. Billy had been there, long enough to wake me from a deep sleep.

I’ve come to say good-bye, I remember him saying. Tell everyone we’re okay. That’s right, he wasn’t alone. His little brother and sisters were with him. All of them fading back into the darkness.

I couldn’t shake the vision. Only ten years old, this wasn’t my first night visit, but I never quite knew what to do with them. I dragged myself out from under the comfort of my warm bed, and shivered down the hallway to my parents’ room. The first rays of a new day were starting to break the darkness. The phone rang.

Mom was sitting on the edge of her bed when I entered, listening intently as Dad spoke into the phone. She gestured for me to be quiet.

“Carl and Maureen? Are they alright?” My father spoke with deep concern. I knew it was tragic. “No, no. Oh my God.” He listened, shaking his head and tutting. “Oh my God. Well, thank you for calling, and please, keep us posted.”

“They’re both alive, but they’ve had quite the ordeal,” my father said to my mother as he hung up the phone, then turning to me, he pulled me closer, sitting on the edge of the bed beside my mother so that we were all at eye level.

“There has been a fire,” he started, “at your cousin’s house. I’m afraid it’s quite tragic.”

“I know, Dad,” I reassured him. “Billy came to see me. Just now. He said they’re okay.”

My parents exchanged that look; the one they always did when they didn’t know how to take me.

“Well, your cousin didn’t make it out of the fire. None of the kids did. All four……gone.”

The news that night showed the pictures. The house had been reduced to a rubble of ashes, and from those ashes men were carrying away four small stretchers bearing the remains. The remains of my cousins. I had never been this close to tragedy, and I really didn’t know what to do. That afternoon, in school, I’d broken down crying when the story we were reading talked about a fire. All I could picture was Billy and the little ones being burnt alive. The teacher had called my mother to come and get me.

“Come away from the TV,” my father commanded. “Damn them for showing those pictures! Can’t a family have privacy?!”

We turned off the set, but the images remained etched in my mind.

Billy’s parents weren’t at the funeral; they were still in the hospital recovering. It was just as well, I thought, this was one sad place. A single coffin sat at the front of the church, bearing the bodies of all four children who ranged in ages from two to ten. Billy had been the oldest, just two weeks younger than me. A line of sobbing people extended from the coffin and out into the cold February day.

I had no right to be there, so I shrunk back from the crowd, hoping no one would notice me. We always fought, Billy and I. He was full of mischief, with deep brown eyes that twinkled with trouble. He just had to look at me to fill me with rage. It was only two Sundays ago when we’d had our last fight. I wish you were dead! I’d told him. And now he was. I hadn’t said it quietly, either. I’d yelled it in front of all my other cousins and my aunts and uncles. I was sure they all knew it was my fault.

After the funeral and burial, we all gathered at another aunt’s house. While the adults drank tea and coffee and ate tiny sandwiches with no crusts, the cousins removed themselves to an upstairs bedroom.

“It’s just awful,” my cousin Kate exclaimed. “Can you believe it happened?”

“He’s okay,” I blurted. “I saw him, and he said he’s okay.” I explained my nocturnal visit.

“Why would he come to you and not to me?” Kate and Billy were closer, and actually got along.
“I loved him. You didn’t.”

“I loved him, too,” I protested, “It’s just that he made me so mad.”

We all fell silent. They knew what I meant. Billy was a tease, and could be a total pain.

I didn’t really want him dead, I thought. I just wanted him to stop pestering me.

The horror of our loss hung in the room between us, as cold as the icicles visible through the frosted pane.

“I wish I’d seen him,” Kate said quietly. “Then I’d be able to believe he’s okay.”

I had seen him, but I wasn’t sure that made it any better. The sorrow was still pretty raw. He was still gone from our lives, and every time we got together, his absence would be a huge black hole. Billy, who’d been so full of life, so wild, and energetic, was now dead. It just didn’t seem possible.

It was the winter of ’69 that I first learned that even though life exists beyond death, it doesn’t minimize the depth of sorrow felt at the loss of a loved one.

A Diagnosis

My intention in starting this blog was to chronicle my journey through cancer, however; after a lumpectomy and a brief recovery time, the threat was gone. Nothing to write about, really. I kept going anyway.

Yesterday, life as I knew it took an unexpected twist. Thor was diagnosed with cancer.

“High risk,” the doctor informed us. “Your only options are surgery or radiation, but we’ll want to do more tests first to ensure the cancer is contained.”

I felt the room spin. My eyes were fixed on the doctor, hopeful that he would add something else, anything, uplifting. Oh my God, I thought, my poor husband! What must he be feeling? Without shifting my focus, I reached for Thor. He needed to know that I was there for him, no matter what.

“I’m sorry, doctor, but I want to be clear.” I struggled to keep my composure, but the tears were already breaking through. “What do you think is the best option?”

We had arrived with a list of questions, which Thor now thrust at me. Prepared as he was, he couldn’t access them. I glanced at the paper, but nothing was making any sense.

“Well, I really can’t say,” the doctor hedged. “There will be side effects, of course.”

Together, we managed to breath through the consult, but I fell apart outside of the office. Thor remained stoic. Shh! he gestured towards another patient. How can he be so calm?

“I was expecting this,” he told me on the way out.

“I’m so sorry,” I blurted out. “You don’t deserve this. I mean, you are a good person…..”

There are no right words, and mine certainly sounded empty. Truth is, goodness has nothing to do with it. I knew that. I’d seen so many people suffer with cancer; sat with them through their pain and suffering, watched them die. And I’d witnessed others who’d battled and survived. None of them deserved the suffering.

“Even the blackest hole has silver somewhere,” Thor offered.

Damned if I can see it, but I sure hope he’s right.

Growing Wings

“Thank you for being here, Mom.” The exhaustion in my daughter’s voice was echoed in her face. The epidural had finally kicked in, and we were all feeling a sense of relief. It was 5 a.m. Her first contraction had hit at 1:20 the day before, as we were walking home from a lunch out.

I didn’t know what to say.

So many feelings were flooding me. It didn’t seem like that long ago that I had laboured with her, pacing the hospital hallways, seeking relief in any way that I could. Now my baby was having a baby. It was a miracle to behold.

So I was feeling sentimental, and at the same time, wishing I could do it for her – taking her pain away.

I was in awe of the strength and courage she was showing, this young woman who as a child feared everything. She cursed a few times, and moaned as the pain wrapped around her and squeezed relentlessly, but not once did she complain, or wish it away. From somewhere inside her she had harnessed a determination to see this trial through, and her focus was admirable. I could not be more proud.

I knew what awaited her at the end of this journey. I knew all about the indescribable bliss and wonder that fills you the moment that baby emerges and is placed in your arms. I understood how in that moment there is an instantaneous shift of realization that this new little being is totally dependent on you. I couldn’t tell her, but she would experience it soon enough.

And I couldn’t tell her that my presence on this sacred occasion was no burden to me, but an incredible gift. She could never know how grateful I was to her, and especially the baby’s father, that they had invited me here to witness this sacred event.

So, I smiled and squeezed her hand, and stroked her face, and reassured her that it would all be over soon, and bit the inside of my cheek to stop my own flood of emotion from pouring forth.

Somewhere along the way, my baby had become a woman, and as I bore witness, she grew wings and took on her mission with grace and dignity: ascending to motherhood without looking back.

One Way Conversation with Dad

Happy Birthday, Dad. You would have been 88 today.

I miss you today, Dad. I miss your wisdom; I could use some right now.

I don’t know if you can read this, Dad, or hear me, but I’d like to pull up a chair anyway, so we can talk. You see, I’m just not feeling that confident today, Dad.

I know, I know. You’d say “Why not Squeegie? Life’s what you make of it, and you’re doing a pretty darn good job, from what I can see.” And I would smile, despite myself, and thank you for the vote of confidence.

Truth is, I’ve made a lot of mistakes in life, Dad, either from stubbornness, or just plain stupidity, and I’m beginning to think that that old saying is about me – you know, the one you used to say all the time: Failure to plan is planning to fail. Well, I failed to plan, Dad.

Before you say anything, I’m not bemoaning my life – it has been good. I’m just recognizing, at my age, that if I had planned, life would be a lot different right now. I’d be retiring with my friends, and looking forward to spending many days with my grandchildren. Instead, I don’t even have a full-time job, so retirement is definitely not in the cards.

I know what you’re thinking: you weren’t a very good role model, because you failed to plan also. ( Oh, by the way, I was mad at you for that – for leaving Mom with so little, despite all the money that you made.) Seems I’m doing the same to myself.

But it’s more than that, Dad. I just don’t feel like I can trust myself, enough to make right choices, career-wise. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I have a hard time telling if I’m doing a good job, or am appreciated. I always feel apologetic or inadequate. Why is that?

No, don’t start, it’s not all your fault. Okay, you didn’t help, but I’m an adult now, you’d think I’d be over that. I’m just tired of doubting myself.

Remember when my marriage fell apart, and how the day I realized it, I drove directly to you? You sat in your chair and listened, while I crumpled on the couch, spewing anger, and disappointment, and heartbreak. I felt so defeated, and you cried with me, and shook your head, and raged on my behalf. I don’t remember exactly what you said, but this is what I heard:

“Squeege (your pet name for me), I don’t know why this has happened to you, but I do know this: you are a bright, loving woman, and you give your heart and soul to everything you do, and everyone you love, and you deserve better than this. Goddamn it, you deserve better than this!”

You could be a bastard, a lot of the time, Dad, but you were also my rock.

I’m just sorry that today, you weren’t here for me to tell you so. As for my problems, guess I’ll have to figure this one out on my own.

I was too proud to tell you when you were alive, Dad (and too stubborn), but truth is, I needed you. Still do.

Thanks for listening, and by the way, Happy Father’s Day.

Love you,

Squeege

Three Sides To A Story

My first impression of Sherry was “Stepford Wife”. A tall, thin, blonde, Sherry appeared to be the perfect wife and mother. The stones in her garden coordinated with the ruffled awning above her front door, and accented her meticulously manicured lawn and flower bed. Inside was no different: her floors shone spotlessly, despite the presence of three children; and a smell of fresh baking wafted through the air. Even though my visit was impromptu, Sherry was dressed stylishly in a crisp white blouse, and form-fitting skirt, complete with heels, and suitable accessories. I was immediately intimidated.

My next visit to her home, this time invited, revealed much the same.

Sherry’s husband, Rob, was equally as impressive. Also tall and thin, Rob was a quiet intellectual, who stayed fit by running marathons, and coaching his boys’ soccer teams. He seemed to take his wife’s efficiencies into stride, and like her, was unruffled by his rambunctious young family.

Sherry and Rob soon became part of a social circle: a group of ten couples that met once a month for dinners, cards, and sometimes, social outings. They fit right in. Once a year, we would all gather with our children for a large barbeque and fireworks. Life was good.

Then, one day, I got a phone call from a mutual friend. “Sherry is in a bad way,” she said. “Can you help?”

I knew something was wrong the minute I stepped in the door by the state of disarray in the house. Sherry’s six-year-old daughter let me in. She appeared frightened and withdrawn.

“Where’s your Mom, Sweetheart?”

She led me through the house to the kitchen, where Sherry sat crumpled in a chair, head down on the table, hair matted, and smudges of makeup streaking her face.

“Sherry?”

“He left me.” She didn’t even look up. Her voice, flat and lifeless, spoke volumes.

I spotted her two boys in the adjacent room, watching television. I could see them glancing our way anxiously. Please help! their eyes pleaded.

I reached for the kettle. “Have you eaten yet today?” Telltale signs of kids preparing their own food and abandoning the dishes suggested she hadn’t.

Sherry was slow to respond. “What?……um….I’m not hungry.”

I made her tea and toast and put it before her, and encouraged the children to go out and play. Relieved, they complied. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“He left me for another woman.”

I was stunned. “Honey, try to eat something, and let me help you.”

She sat up, staring at the offering before her with complete disinterest. She pushed the plate away, and cradling the cup, took one tiny sip, then pushed that away too. Her normally thin frame appeared gaunt.

“Back up,” I suggested. “Tell me what happened.”

Rob had had an affair three years earlier with a woman from work. When Sherry found out about it, Rob ended the affair and he and Sherry entered marriage counselling. She had tried really hard to be the perfect wife and mother, so that he would love her again, and thought everything was going well, but out of the blue, he left. He was now living with his mistress.

Sherry’s heartbreak was so intense, it threatened her life. Within weeks she was hospitalized because of severe malnutrition.

It was hard not to sympathize with her situation and write Rob off as a total jerk, but as always, there is another side to every story.

“I reached the end of my rope,” Rob explained. I love my wife, and I adore my children, but living in a constant state of perfection is exhausting. Sherry has to be the best at everything, have the best house, wear the best clothes, everything is about impressing others. There is nothing genuine about her, about us. She is incapable of authenticity. I tried to stay for the children’s sake, but I just couldn’t do it anymore. I am dying inside.”

“So you left for another woman.” I couldn’t keep the edge out of my voice. I am, after all, a woman.

“If you met her, you would understand. She’s so real! “

I wanted to understand. I wanted to know what would drive one person to put his/ her family through so much pain.

“When two people divorce,” a colleague told me, “there are always three truths: his, hers, and a truth that lies beyond their stories.”

I tried to stay impartial, but supportive, and as I did, I began to realize the wisdom in my colleague’s words. Once released from the hospital, Sherry became a woman obsessed. She stalked her husband and his new lover, both at their home, and their places of work. She was determined to get Rob back, and refused to see the folly of her actions.

On his part, Rob became more and more enraged, and retaliated with acts of violence against Sherry.

The scene was escalating out of control, until Rob’s therapist broke the pledge of confidentiality and advised Sherry her life was in danger if she didn’t back off.

Sherry did eventually let go of Rob, but only to rush head long into a tempestuous affair, with no regard for her children. Rob withdrew from his former life, avoiding his friends, and maintaining minimal contact with his children.

Who was right, and who was wrong in this tale? Like many conflicts, there are too many grey areas to tell for certain. Both his and her story made compelling arguments, but the real truth laid somewhere beyond all our comprehension.

One thing was certain, though: the real victims here were the children.

The Valley

(This fable follows “The Kingdom” )

After years of being “locked” away in the tower, the Princess came out. She joined her father, the King, in his celebration of the new advisers in the Kingdom. She felt inspired by the changes her father was making, and decided it was time she made some too.

So, she moved out of the castle and into the valley.

Because she was royalty, the Princess sent a messenger and servant to prepare the way. She wanted to live among the common folk, and did not want any special privileges. She would be sending along her own furnishings, but needed somewhere to live.

The people of the valley were simple folk, who valued their peaceful existence. Wary of the Princess, but willing to be accommodating, they found her a suitable cottage, surrounded by beautiful and well-tended gardens. On the day of her arrival, the villagers lined the streets with banners of welcome, and threw petals of roses to honour her.

The Princess was delighted, but reminded the citizens that she had come to live among them, and she expected to be treated as an equal.

It was a difficult transition for all to make. The villagers tried to pretend she was an ordinary young woman, but the Princess maintained many of her former habits. She refused to carry her purchases home from the market, and always expected everyone else to step aside when she was walking down the street. She never learned the art of making an appointment, assuming everyone would be available for her at her whim. And when the village got together for potlucks, she would command the menu. The problem escalated when the Princess began to commandeer all the best workers to tend her gardens and do her household chores. Work around the valley was being neglected in order to keep the Princess happy.

“This has to stop!” proclaimed the people during a meeting of the Valley’s folks. The Princess was not in attendance.

“We cannot deny the Princess,” the elders said. “Her father, do not forget, is our King.”

“But she is destroying the peace! People can’t get good service, and businesses have lost their most productive workers, and they’re not even getting paid. Everyone is upset! We just want our peace back.”

“Here! Here!”

“The Princess did say she wanted to be one of us. Maybe we should invite her to hear our complaints.”

The room went quiet. Everyone was afraid of upsetting the Princess, and ultimately, her father.

“Well, then. We shall just have to continue to make her happy, and fulfill her every wish.”

The room erupted in moans and yelling.

“Wait,” came a voice from the back. “I think I have a solution.”

It was the young woman, Sheboygan, now adviser to the King. “I will invite the Princess to come live with me.” Despite her new status, Sheboygan had maintained her home on the edge of the village.

The Princess accepted the invitation wholeheartedly. Truth was she had not found happiness amongst the common people, and she was becoming disillusioned.

“Leave your belongings,” Sheboygan advised. “You will not be needing them where we are going.”

On foot, the two women walked through the village to the foothills of the valley, where they found themselves besides a beautiful lake. “We will rest here for the night,” Sheboygan told the Princess.

“What? Outside? Without a bed?”

Sheboygan nodded and busied herself with collecting kindling to start a fire. “Make yourself useful.”

The Princess trailed after her, her gown getting caught on the underbrush, and smudges of dirt appearing on her skirts. Not used to physical labour, she felt herself becoming winded, as she blew at a piece of hair that had fallen from her normally well-coiffed hair. Incensed, the Princess was about to complain, when Sheboygan ordered her to build the fire, while she went in search of food. “Or would you rather I start the fire, and you prepare dinner?” Sheboygan added, which shut the Princess up immediately.

Left alone to her own devices, the Princess was at a complete loss. Although many fires had been built for her, she never gave any thought to how it was done. Trying to recall what she had seen she piled the sticks and brush together, but could not imagine how to ignite them. She looked around for someone to command, and when it hit her she was totally alone, she sunk down into the dirt and cried. “Look at how useless I am!’

“Looking for something?” came a deep voice from behind her.

Not turning around, the Princess continued with her rant. “Yes! I need to start this fire, but I don’t know how. Will you do it for me good citizen?”

“I might, but what will you give me in return?”

“Anything,” the Princess wailed. Who could be so insolent? “Just light the fire!”

But her visitor wasn’t so easily persuaded.

“Will you promise to thank me kindly?”

“Yes, yes!” said the Princess, now fully exasperated.

“Will you promise to be my friend?’

Friend? The Princess had never had a friend, and the stranger’s offer struck a lonely chord in her. “I’d love to be your friend,” she said more softly.

“If you want to be my friend, then you must accept me just as I am, and not try to change me to fit your needs.”

“I will, I will.”

“Look at me then,” commanded the voice.

The Princess turned, and immediately forgot her despair, for in its place she felt a sudden rush of terror. There before her, in all its frightening glory, stood the dragon.

“Oh my!”

“Oh, yes,” said the dragon, for he was really a peace-loving dragon and had a good sense of humour.

“But you’re……..”

“A dragon. And you’re a Princess. A good match don’t you think.”

“But, but, don’t you…….”

“Eat Princesses? Maybe once upon a time, but nowadays I’m strictly vegetarian. About that deal?” He glanced at the pile of wood.

“Oh, yes.” The Princess stopped to consider her situation. “Friends, huh?

“Buddies for life!” The dragon raised his eyebrows in a comical way, and held out one of his talons. “Shake?”

“I already am.” The Princess made a joke despite herself, and they both laughed. She looked at her poor attempt at a fire. “Can you really ignite that?”

“In the wink of an eye,” said the dragon, and he did.

That night, the Princess, the dragon, and the woman of the lake sat around the campfire, eating nuts and berries and telling stories about their lives before they met one another. The Princess forgot all about her discomfort, and discovered what she had been missing all along: camaraderie.

The three slept beneath the stars and when the morning came, the Princess awoke with a new sense of self, and a pain in her back. “Can’t say that was the best night’s sleep,” she said, “but the fresh air and excellent company has done me a world of good.”

“Good,” Sheboygan said, ” Because you’ll be staying awhile.”

“I will?” The Princess was dubious. One night of inconvenience she could tolerate, but she was missing her bed.

“You have much to learn about being a commoner.”

“What do you mean? I live amongst them.”

“You live amongst them, but you continue to be a Princess. When was the last time you did anything for yourself?”

“Well…..” try as she might, the Princess couldn’t think of one thing.

“Exactly. You expect everyone to cater to you the same way they did in the castle. Servants in the castle wait on you because they are paid to do so; the people in the village are not.”

The Princess thought this over. Sheboygan was right. She had never thought about it this way. “You mean all those people who do work for me…….”

“Are not getting paid. Their families are suffering, and so are their employers who need them.”

“Oh my. How ungrateful they must think I am.”

“And there’s more.”

Sheboygan continued to tell the Princess about the townspeople’s concerns.

“I have led such a sheltered life,” the Princess realized. “I have only had to think of myself, and now I see that everything I do affects all the others. How can I ever redeem myself?”

“Oh, you will.” Sheboygan reassured her. “But first you must learn how to be useful. That is why you will live with the dragon and I until you have earned the right to be one of the common people.”

“Do you really think I can?” The Princess knew she’d had years of being pampered. She wasn’t sure she could adapt to anything else.

* * * * *

Days turned into months and the people of the Valley resumed their lives and forgot about the Princess. Businesses began to prosper, and people went about their lives, harmony restored.

Then one day, a lone figure entered the town. She was tall and thin, with the complexion of one who spent her days outdoors. Her long, dark hair flowed down her back, and her eyes shone with a kindness that drew others in. She stopped to greet the little children that ran to her, and smiled at the adults along the way. When an old woman stumbled on her path, the young woman took her arm to steady her. She unburdened a mother whose arms were full, and followed her home. She seemed to have time for everyone and a willingness to help out.

People were soon talking amongst themselves, wondering where this woman had come from and who she was. They followed her through the town to the local market, where she stopped at the grocer’s.

“I have no money,” the young woman explained to the man in charge. “But I would be grateful if you would let me work in exchange for food.”

The old man nodded, and handed her a broom. The young woman worked until the last customer was gone and all the shops were closed for the night. Then she bundled up her earnings, and made her way silently through the streets to the little cottage with the well-tended gardens.

The Princess was finally home, and ready to take her place as part of the Valley.

(Image from Pinterest)

How Tables Turn

“All I want is to have my family around me.”

I was giving my father a therapeutic touch treatment to help ease his pain. His suffering was relentless in his last years.

“I guess they’re all too busy for their old Dad.”

“You didn’t exactly teach us how to be around you, Dad.” I didn’t want to be unkind, but he needed to hear the truth. When I was too young to understand about his ‘needs’, I thought we were an inconvenience to him. Mom would whisk us off to bed before he got home from work, so we’d be out of the way. Later, when his secret was out, we would have to call ahead to make sure it was okay to come home. When I moved out and became a parent, Dad would visit for ten or fifteen minutes before he had to leave.

“I suppose that’s true.” Were those tears in his eyes? “I lived a very selfish existence.”

“Yes, you did. You just have to be patient with us, and give us time to see that you have changed.”

He caught my hand in mid-motion and gave it a squeeze. “I always loved you, though.”

“I know that now, Dad. But there were many times when I didn’t. I could never compete with sports.” Sports were Dad’s excuse for everything: I can’t come see your play, because the game’s on; or: I’d love to spend time with my grandchildren, but this is the deciding match. Trouble is, there was always some sporting event on.

“Silly, isn’t it?”

“You missed out on a lot.”

“I know. I know.”

My father had changed. We never could have had this conversation years ago. He was too intimidating, and never open to criticism. Something in him had softened. Mom said he cried regularly over all the things he had done to us throughout the years. Still, I wasn’t totally convinced.

“It’s ironic how the tables have turned. It was always Mom who suffered with so much pain, and now it’s you.”

Isn’t that the truth, Dad’s face said. “I wasn’t very sympathetic either,” he confessed. “Serves me right, I guess.”

I didn’t say anything. Dad had never understood Mom’s suffering; he couldn’t tolerate weakness. Now he depended on oxygen to breathe, and didn’t go out much because his immune system was so compromised. His life was reduced to pain medication and ointments. Mom seldom left his side.

“I messed up, didn’t I Squeegie?” It was his nickname for me when I was little.

“You certainly had your trials, Dad. No one can imagine what it was like to be you. I guess you did the best you knew how.”

He squeezed my hand again. “You’re a good kid.”

“I wish I could take your pain away, Dad,” I responded.

In the back of my mind, I was remembering something my father had always preached:

You get out of life what you put into it.

Soul’s Guardian

“Mom, I don’t know how to say this, but…” I was tucking my ten-year-old son into bed.

“Go ahead.”

“Well, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but you know how if there is a sale on at Eaton’s, you want to get there early.”

“Yes?” I wasn’t sure where this conversation was going.

“You want to get there early because the best stuff gets picked over first, right?”

“I suppose so.”

“Well, no offense, but you’re not getting any younger.”

“What are you on about?”

“Maybe you need to get out there before all the good ones are picked over.”

“Are you saying I should start dating?”

He nodded solemnly.

“Well, I’ll give it some thought.” It had been over six months since his father and I had separated, and dating was the furthest thing from my mind, but there was wisdom in those words. Still shattered from the unexpected end of a seventeen year relationship, I coped by going to bed early every night, and staying away from people. My son was probably right – avoiding life was not the answer – life was passing me by.

‘Obi-Wan Kenobe’, one of my friends called my son. From an early age, he has had an uncanny wisdom, well beyond his years. He’s my soul’s guardian.

(Image from: www.kidscreativechaos.com)

Lifelines

The forest is thick with the smell of new leaves, tinged with the lingering winter musk. The trees here stretch endlessly upwards, their trunks a testimony to the timelessness of the place. Rays of warm sunlight reach downwards, creating pockets of warm glow. The soft moss and dry earth beneath my feet cushion my steps. Birdsong fills the air, adding to the aura of enchantment. I come here to meditate. This is my oasis: a calm, nurturing retreat where I can find renewal. I breathe deeply and allow all my senses to revel in the beauty. A crackling of twigs alerts me to the presence of another. A horse and rider come into my line of vision and stop. The young man’s eyes meet mine, and there is a rush of recognition. He is young, maybe mid twenties, with thick dark hair, and dark eyes. I feel that I have known him many lifetimes, and that ours has been a relationship of deep and abiding love. “I am coming back to you,” is all he says, and I feel my heart leap with joy.

The unexpected vision and accompanying emotional surge forces me back to consciousness. The meditation had been so deep and relaxing that it find it hard to shake off the drowsiness. It was so real. I open my eyes to find my friend, Sam looking at me. “It’s a boy!” I blurt out. “You’re going to have a boy!”

I was right about the boy, but the message was not for my friend who was so desperately hoping for a child. It was for me, who although I thought I was finished my childbearing, was about to discover myself pregnant again. My dark haired, brown-eyed boy was born the next fall.

Mothers know that there is an unseen cord of consciousness that runs between them and their children. It is first experienced when they wake up seconds before their sleeping baby. Or maybe earlier, in the dream time.

Abuse of Power

Although I never met the man, I can imagine him as somehow mesmerizing, with a captivating smile, a soothing throaty voice, or sparkling dark eyes. From all descriptions he is an average middle-aged man, slightly balding, and plump around the middle. Without a doubt, he knows how to charm.

I first heard about him at a conference for healers. A reputable woman was promoting his work as ground-breaking, and rooted both in science and spirituality. His workshops carried a hefty price tag, but were reportedly worth the sacrifice.

I didn’t go.

“He’s very mysterious,” people reported back to me. “And very powerful.”

As always, I listened without commenting. New Age workshops were popping up everywhere, each one proclaiming to offer the answer. I liked to bide my time.

“He only works with women.”

My ears perked up.

“And only if you are chosen.”

Why is that? I wondered.

One by one, I watched the women flock to him. “He gets us,” one woman explained. “It’s like he can look inside and he knows exactly what each person needs.”

“He’s seeing my wife at three in the morning,” a distraught husband told me over the phone. “What kind of therapist meets with clients at three in the morning?” I was wondering the same thing. “I feel like I’m losing her.”

I agreed to talk to his wife.

“He’s helping me cleanse myself of the past and all the bad relationships I’ve had.” True enough, she’d had her share. But why the middle of the night? “It’s the time of the day when there are the least physical distractions and the psychic energy is stronger.”

Looked like red flags to me.

Then I met Kay. Kay was young, and beautiful, and highly intelligent, but something wasn’t right. She had enrolled in a therapeutic touch class, and while she seemed to be enjoying the course, I noticed she seemed agitated. I pulled her aside to ask if she was okay.

“Yes. The course is great and all. It’s just……..”

“Kay, if you have concerns, talk to me. It’s not my intention to make you feel uncomfortable.”

“Oh, no. It’s not you. Not at all. It’s just that I’m not sure I should be taking this course.”

“Does it conflict with your beliefs and values?”

“No, no. It makes so much sense. It’s my mentor. He doesn’t like us to study with anyone else.”

Why on earth not? I must have looked dumbfounded.

“Eventually, obviously……but for now, he doesn’t want us jeopardizing the work we are doing.”

A realization was dawning on me. I offered her the name that had come to mind.

“Yes, I work with him! Do you know him?”

“I know of him.”

“He’s amazing, so powerful, and he’s helped me so much. I just don’t know why I feel so guilty about taking a course like this. It feels so right, so why am I scared?

“Explain to me why you shouldn’t.”

“It’s part of the process. In the beginning, he requests that we set aside all doubt, and questions, and trust solely in him. He’s helping us gain faith.”

And he control, I thought to myself.

The next time I encountered Kay, she was visibly shaken. “Can we talk?”

Ushering her into a back room, I pulled up two chairs.

“I’m not sure whether he followed me or not?”

“Would he do that?”

“He knows everything. I can’t get away. I tried, but he found me. He says there is nowhere I can escape him. I am so afraid. I don’t know what to do.”

“Kay, back up a bit and tell me how you met him.”

“A friend of mine was part of his inner circle. He told her to bring me to him. He said he could help. I was having difficulties. I thought it was worth a try.”

“Did he mention you by name?”

“No, but he knew she had a twenty-three year-old, blonde friend at the university who was going through a hard time. My friend knew it had to be me right away.”

“No offense, Kay, but this is a university town, and the chance of anyone having a friend that fits your description is pretty good.”

I could see that my words had hit their mark. “Oh my God. You’re so right! What a fool I was.”

“No. You just wanted to believe there was an answer for you. It felt right at the time.”

“What about all the other things? Could they be made up to? But, no, not possibly. You have no idea.” The look of terror reappeared. “Oh my God, he’ll kill me for talking to you!”

“You are okay, Kay. We’re safe. What else did he tell you?”

“He can command nature to do his bidding. He has spies everywhere. One woman went canoeing, off by herself, in a remote area, and he sent a hawk to greet her. She saw it!”

“Also possibly a coincidence.”

Searching my face for some reassurance, Kay continued. “He told me once that he sent a bear to follow me. I saw it’s shadow.” Before I could say anything she added, “Do you think that was just power of suggestion?”

“I think that’s a real possibility.”

Kay leaned back in the chair and let out a long groan. “Oh my God, I slept with him.”

“You what?”

“I slept with him, and he’s gross, well you know, old.”

“How did that happen?”

“He made me meet him in the middle of the night. He had all these candles and incense burning. The lights were dim, and there was meditation music playing in the background. I felt like I was in an altered state. I didn’t want to at first, but he convinced me that this would be good for my soul; that it would cleanse me of all my past sins. How could I be so stupid!”

I’d heard enough. This man was going too far. With Kay’s permission I called a friend who worked with the Victim’s Unit through the local Police department. Kay’s story was not new to her.

Kay moved away two weeks later. Unfortunately, she was not the only woman I would encounter who had fallen under this man’s spell. All of them attractive, intelligent women, whose only sin was the desire for enlightenment.