Tag: non-fiction

Day 246 The Pilgrimage

A soft-sided, well-worn briefcase sits slouched in a corner closet,
one side agape, a red lanyard hastily stuffed inside –
occupational identification.
A row of black, brown and gray pumps line up beside it,
a thin layer of dust betraying their idleness.
Silent, unblinking a television set recedes into the wall,
flanked on either side by images of smiling faces,
shadows of nostalgia.
Stacks of books and journals rumour
a once scholarly mind.

The woman, to whom all these trivialities once
had relevance is no longer here.

She has been called to another purpose.

Cycle of Life

Helpless and alone,
a young figure unconsciously
rubs her swelling belly,
hopelessly feeling the tremor within her begin.

Shunned for her sin,
impoverished of mind and body,
she falters, unable to speak
paralyzed with uncertainty for a future already tainted.

Society turns its back,
on the plight of the unwed mother,
revulsed by all she represents,
paralyzed by their own ineptitude in the face of inequity.

Uninhibited the baby arrives,
announcing her birth with a scratchy cry,
filling her lungs with hope and anticipation,
trusting that life will embrace and provide.

She does not know,
in her stark nakedness,
that she is born into tragedy –
fated for a life of hardship and misunderstandings.

Day 243 Violence and Peace

The rage within my father was tangible and made him larger than life, the potential for violence ever-present.

My mother’s attempts at peace-making were fueled by trepidation – always on the lookout, hoping against hope to maintain calm.

Both adopted the facade that ‘all was well’ and deeply denied the reality.

The result – an unnameable terror that gripped us children.  No logic explained the tension that surrounded us, however; we understood without doubt that a threat hovered over us in every living moment.

Mother’s attempts at peace were merely misguided acts of enablement; empowering, not disarming my Father.

Uncontested he reigned tyrannically; yet, what he really longed for was peace.

Peace, not peace-making.

Father longed for a sense of acceptance and acknowledgement that was beyond his grasp.  He was society’s outcast:  unwittingly born into an era where gender definitions were polarized – male or female.  He did not know – we did not know – about genetics and the sliding scale that defines gender identification and sexual orientation.  He was forced to conform and, therefore; denied basic human rights.

My mother, whose understanding of all things sexual came from watching the animals rut on the farm where she grew up, and pushing away unwanted advances from her father and siblings, was not equipped to understand the enigma presented to her by her husband.  She only knew that this tortured soul of a man was the provider for herself and her role was to be submissive and nurturing.  She found herself trapped between his ‘awful’ secret and trying to maintain an outer appearance of normalcy.

It was dysfunction at its finest.  Unable to resolve their own issues they looked outward, finding causes within their children’s lives to replace their compulsive need to fix.  There was never any shortage of broken, needy, helpless occurrences to satisfy their lust.

The answer to violence, and the threat of violence, at least in our home, was not peace-making.  In hindsight, it was a need for individualized peace – an understanding of differences, motivations, desires, and a stated acceptance that allowed us to come together in respect and honour for our diversity.

An atmosphere of open-mindedness would have allowed father to reveal his truth.

Assertiveness, on the part of my mother, would have allowed her to set healthy boundaries and limits defining her participation (or not) in my father’s reveal.

Trust in the basic nature of our love for one another might have prevented the constant need for self-preservation, which only turned us away, one from the other.

Inner peace offers a strength that fortifies against fear and outrageousness.  It believes in a wisdom that transcends time and space; offering the possibility of order and compassion in the midst of chaos.

The concept of peace – real peace- was not part of my growing up.

Without peace, violence – physical, mental, psychological, emotional or spiritual – reigns.

Day 242 Arrogance and Humility

Humility prepares the way,
selfless, focused on servitude
lending a patient ear to each possibility
befriending challenge with an open mind.

Arrogance arrives late
a cloud of disruption, reeking
of too much perfume,
dressed like a dominatrix
commanding attention.

Such display of total disregard
triggers Humility’s vulnerability
causing hesitation and in that fateful
moment, surrendering control.
Arrogance thrives on chaos.

Humility chokes but regains
perspective, politely, assertively
suggesting Arrogance’s help
is appreciated, but not necessary.
Arrogance whirls and glares.

Feeling the pressure, Humility
holds firm and reaches deep within
and curiously, unexpectedly sees a light
Arrogance has ignited inspiration!

Day 241 Going With the Flow

I could cry tonight,
if it wasn’t so futile.

I would weep for all my losses –
not just this moment of weakness

but the well of energy that once drove me
is

dry

arid

sapped.

Shuffling steps
are punctuated
with

stumbles

and my grasp

falters

and with sorrow
I surrender

to rest

until the tide changes
and I am renewed
and life flows again.

Day 239 “Differences”

My friend Lauren has black curls that frame her round face and rosy apple cheeks that make her look like a cherub or that kid on the soup can.  She is a year older than I am and has been my best friend forever.  Every Sunday after church my family visits with other families and today my parents decided to drop in here, and I’m happy about that.  I miss Lauren.  When we lived next door to each other, we could play everyday, but now it’s only once in a while.

Lauren has a new board game she wants to play and while she sets up I study her for differences.

“What are you looking at?”  she calls me out.

“Nothing,”  I say.  Except I am.  “You’re Catholic, right?”

“Yeah, so what?”

I’d heard my parents arguing last night with Lily, my older sister.  My Dad yelled something about not having a daughter of his married to a Catholic and Lily stormed out slamming doors behind her.  Mom and Dad continued to talk in raised voices afterwards.

“We’re not allowed to marry Catholics.”

“Yeah, us neither.”

“You’re not allowed to marry Catholics either?!”

“No, Dummy, we’re not allowed to marry Protest….whatever you are.”

“Oh.  Why not?”

“I don’t know, they’re different”  She looks at me suddenly realizing what she’s said.  “I don’t mean like awful different.  You’re just fine…. oh… I don’t know what I mean.”

“Me either.  I mean, you don’t look different.  What’s different about us?”

“Beats me,”  Lauren shrugs.  “Sometimes adults have funny ideas.  Now, to play this game……”

On the way home, I decided to broach the subject.  “Dad what is wrong with Catholics?”

“They have different religious beliefs than us.”

“What kind of differences?”

“Well, for one thing they have a Pope that tells them how to live their lives and their churches are run by Priests, men who do not marry.”

“Is that why we don’t like them?”

“Who said we don’t like them?”  my Mother pipes in.

“Dad did, last night.”

“I didn’t say we don’t like them, I just don’t want one in the family……I…..” my Father breaks off angrily in his because I say so voice.

My mother looks at me as is to say Let it go, so I stop talking, but I can’t let it go.  It doesn’t seem right somehow to judge someone just because they believe in something different.  I’m only eight-years-old, but I don’t believe what the Minister says in church every Sunday.  Does that make me Catholic?

“What’s wrong with Catholics?” I ask my sister Mai when we get home.

“Nothing except that Lily’s going to marry one.”

“Lily’s getting married?”  Why doesn’t anyone tell me anything around here?

“She has to.  She’s pregnant.”

“Lily’s pregnant?”  This is too much.  I march into my parent’s bedroom.  “Lily is going to have a baby, and she’s getting married to a Catholic.  Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because it’s not something we are proud of Beth Ann.  It is shameful when a teenage girl becomes pregnant before marriage.  Your father doesn’t want it to happen.  He’s trying to talk her out of the wedding.  Now, we won’t be discussing any of this outside of the family, do you understand?”

She doesn’t have to worry about me; I have a lot of sorting out to do.  Lily is pregnant – that means I’m going to be an aunt!  That’s exciting, right!  I’ll be the youngest Aunt around, well except for Janie – she’ll be a four-year-old aunt – that’s crazy!  I really like Lily’s boyfriend, but now that I know he’s a Catholic, is that okay?   Is this going to change Lily?  Will they take her away and make her all Catholic and different?  Does this mean Lily will be leaving home?

Maybe my Dad’s right!  Maybe this all happened because my sister dated a Catholic.

Superwoman’s Dark Side

fine-cut crystal, silver and gold
sparkle and entice.  the table is laid
for guests aplenty.

savory aromas conjure visions
of sumptuous gravy, delectable roast,
crisp-cooked vegetables, and decadent desserts.

she’d stop to admire her handiwork,
but the children, tired and hungry
and bored with the waiting, tug at her hem.

Waiting.  It is her greatest strength.
Prepare, prepare –
then wait.

They’ll arrive shortly, noisily
full of their days, faintly aware
of the backdrop, happy to have left the babies.

And they’ll sit and be served
and remark on the deliciousness
and gobble up seconds
then push back their chairs
and wander off for a kip
or a smoke

and she’ll linger for a few minutes
picking at her congealed gravy- covered mashed
unconsciously dabbing at the red wine stain on the tablecloth
and marvel at how she accomplished it all
once again
without bitching
without protesting
a trouper till the end

What’s that you say?
She’s sounding a bit like the martyr?

Oh no, you’ve found her out.
Superwoman has a dark side.

Martyr’s Lament

I have waken before dawn
and driven through blinding snowstorms for you.
I have been lost, but without faltering, have altered course,
and when I could drive no further, I set out on foot
navigating treacherous snow and ice, risking my life
pushing forward against all odds,for you.

So you could get where you needed to go.
So you could succeed.
I risked it all for you.

All the while I kept you by my side,
So that you would be safe,
so that I could ensure your arrival.

But I grew weary, and my body just would not go on,
and all I asked is that we rest for awhile,
so that I could catch my breath.

And in that instance, you were gone,
no hesitation in your step, no looking back,
and when you finally stopped to wait for me,
it was too late.

A barrier had grown between us:  an eight foot, chain-link fence
separating me from protecting you.And you looked me at with that gaze of exasperation,
as if to say that you should have done it on your own.

But wait, I say.  Wait.
This wall may seem insurmountable, but I can do it.
I can do it, give me time.  I’ll just climb up to the top.
It’ll be easy, you’ll see.

Don’t walk away!  Give me one more chance
to prove my love for you.

I do it all for you.

Day 238 One Woman’s Quest

I started this blog in 2011 as a gift to myself.  I had just undergone a lumpectomy to remove abnormal cells from my right breast, and was awaiting the results.  Because of the Christmas holiday, I would not hear for five weeks.  Those were five long weeks, and a whole gamut of thoughts and emotions.

Since that time, my husband has been diagnosed with and received treatment for Stage III, Prostrate cancer, and while I escaped the ‘C’ word, I am now confined to my home with ME/CFS.

But life has not been just struggle.  At the same time as I awaited word, I found out that my middle daughter was pregnant with our second grandchild – a joy that never ends!

Nor were these the first challenges that I had faced in my life, just more in a long line, actually.

So why a quest?  What is that a woman of mature age quests for?

Let me try to answer.

I seek a sense of autonomy in my life – to be able to feel that my decisions/ needs/ wants are not overshadowed by the dictates of another, or a past that is always looming.

I want to know what it means to feel truly empowered.  To know, for once and for all, that I have laid the victim to rest and instead, embraced my authentic self.

I want to live life from a place of inner peace; a trust that no matter what life throws at me, I can continue, because I believe in myself.  And in that peace, I want to know what it feels like to live without guilt, need for permission, or a sense of unworthiness.  I want to be able to forgive (myself and others) in order to be free.

I want to be able to breath freely and stand firmly upon this sacred Earth and make a difference.  To engage with life.  To seek understanding and share passion with all people – no exclusions.

I want to live a life that at the end of my time I will want to celebrate, so that my dying words will be:  I did it!

I am not there yet.  As Robert Frost said, I have “miles to go before I sleep”, and so I quest on.

At least now you know what I am looking for, and if at some point you and I should meet in these pages, maybe you could share a little of your wisdom, and I might come closer to finding my own truth.

 

 

Ride along with me

I am a passenger on the road of life
and I travel in the backseat
where my input is not asked for, nor appreciated.

I ride along.

I am a passenger on the road of life,
and if you ask me the direction in which I am travelling,
at best I can only speculate; the view back here is limited.

I am not driving.

Driver #1 is motivated and self-assured
and I sit back with confidence and relax
Until his mistress climbs aboard.

Wait a minute, who invited her?

Driver #2 was handsome once,
and still is except he lacks direction.
Should someone else be paying attention?

I am not alone.

There are others riding along too, including
a lackadaisical high school dropout, whose only motivation
is his parents’ pocketbook and the promise of a Friday night booze up.

How did he get here?

You can ride along with us if you like, but be warned
the vehicle is outdated, and there is no separation between seats
so we you’ll have to squish in.

They don’t make ’em like this anymore.

Oh yeah, and my crazy sister is aboard,
or that may be me, ’cause I swear I saw the ghost of another,
coming back to haunt me along the way.

Maybe it’s a good thing I’m not driving.

Night is falling, and we stop for gas
and the neon lights of the convenience store remind me,
if I’m going to make a break, it’d best be now.

Or I could find a new driver.

What if I put God at the wheel?
What if I said, God, give me direction, take me somewhere?
Would I have to sit up straighter and pay attention?
Would the adulteress and the sloth have to leave?

Would driver *1 have to be on his best behaviour,
and misguided #2 finally find guidance?

Would my vehicle become a golden chariot,
powered by horses with wings of white?

And we would fly above the obstacles
straight to the promised land?

No, this is just a fantasy, but a good one no doubt.
Instead, I’ll just ride along in this backseat
until life restores my vitality, and my head is clear again.

Then I’ll park this old vehicle.

And get a new one with GPS.