A Final Mystery

Is death a gentle reprieve,
a final release of suffering
a promised resting place?

Or is it contemplation
coloured by memories
demanding retribution?

Will death bring reunion
unleash forgiveness
shine with revelation?

Will one final earthly breath
call forth all the fragments of the soul
and restore wholeness?

I have witnessed death –
both embraced and unwanted –
snatch the spirit from its nest

felt the whoosh of escape
and a swirl of celebration,
known the peace that follows

witnessed the body, open-eyed
and open-mouthed
become a vacuum –

discarded membranes;
an impotent shell.

The spirit does not dwell there;
it lives on borrowed time.

Where it goes when all is done
remains life’s poignant mystery.

Day 251 Careful and Carefree

Dreams have provided a source of personal revelation for me since I started recording, and subsequently learning about them, in 1986.  The poem “The Shadow of Shame” was based on the dreams of several nights, all bearing a similar theme – my ability (or rather inability) to form relationships.   By weaving together the images from those dreams and writing the poem I was able to recognize the underlying culprit.

Shame is insidious, silently spreading its menace, growing like a weed rooted in the soul.  It began for me the year I turned nine, when my teenage sister got pregnant.  While no one directly spoke to me about what was happening, I knew by the raised voices and frantically whispered arguments that something was dreadfully wrong.   A wedding was hastily arranged despite my father’s protests and my sister’s life was changed drastically.  That fall, when I started a new school, the shadow was already casting its pall over me – I felt myself on the outside of the circle looking in.  None of these kids, I was sure, was already an aunt or uncle.

Then, the summer of my eleventh birthday, my parents sat me down to tell me about my mother’s previous marriage and divorce.  Imagine my shock to learn that my sisters were half-sisters, and that two of my male ‘cousins’ were actually brothers.  “Divorce is a sin,” my mother told me, “So we don’t talk about it.  People would not approve.”  Marked by this new secret, I knew my hopes of belonging were shattered.

When we moved, mid semester, in the eighth grade, I was taken out of my gifted classroom and thrust into the mainstream.  Where previously being an oddball was celebrated, my new peers scoffed at my quirky abilities further fueling my growing awareness that I was fatally flawed.  When a boy I had latched onto and actually crushed on, publicly called me a dog, I learned how deep humiliation can run, as I then became the target of relentless bullying – everyone in our school took to barking at me at school and anywhere else I happened to be.

When we moved from that community, I had already learned the importance of caution around others.  I knew that making friends required careful observation and consideration, and demanded that I not reveal my true self.  There was little provision for letting one’s guard down, or being carefree.

And then my father dropped his bombshell – revealing to me the duplicity of his life – and any shame I might have felt before was now multiplied a thousand fold.  I was certain that others could tell by looking at me that my family was a total wreck, and furthermore, I knew they were justified in their judgments of me.  I shrank into myself, seeking dark corners, avoiding eye contact, or skipping school all together.  I tried running away, cutting, drinking, but nothing numbed the emotional pain, nor brought me closer to others.

When, at fifteen, I was abducted and raped, my family unwilling and unable to deal with the fact, just didn’t talk about it.  Called a whore by my father, I pushed the memory to the back of my consciousness and fixated instead on ways to end my life.

I thought I had put all that behind me.  I believed that through therapy, and just as a side effect of maturation, I had eluded the black cloud of my youth – and yet here it is -rearing it’s ugly head again, reminding me that I still struggle with getting close to anyone, certain that they will despise me if the truth comes out.

Ridiculous, isn’t it?  Yet, I bet that we are all, in some degree, affected by this plague.  Shame builds walls where there are none, creates distorted images of superiority and inferiority, and takes personal blame where there is no fault to be had.

In the final dream, I am befriended by a troubled youth ( something that occurs regularly in my chosen occupation).  It is at the moment in which we both realize that we have shameful pasts that we are able to let down our guards and freely be with one another – just two humans being.

Maybe it is the very things that shame us that make us human, and the willingness to share our shadows that brings us connection.

I know that this heart longs to step out of the restrictions of careful interaction to experience carefree intimacy with another.

In the meantime, I will keep dreaming.

Day 249 “The Deep Pool”

A figure of breathtaking beauty
glides across the center square,
his classic attire announcing success,
his god-like countenance turning heads.
His velvety deep voice hints at an accent,
stirring imaginations and desire.
He pauses every so often to greet another
with warmth and genuine compassion,
but his heart is set on me.

Juxtaposed to my husband,
I huddle next to the storefronts,
sidling between columns
hiding my agedness and homely visage.
I wear my unworthiness with shame
Confident only of the precariousness of this union.

He is taking me to the seaside,
Proudly leading me to the water’s edge.
Reluctantly, I follow
the shimmering lure of the water
sparkling in the distance,
and the broad open beach leering with disdain –
under the blazing reality of this day
the world will see me for what I am.

* * *

The hotel window overlooks the square
and the crowd that has gathered there.
Searching for the source of commotion
I glimpse a woman, shackled by the wrists,
chained to an ox and cart.
Horrified, compelled to help,
I rush to save her, but am too late.
She stumbles just outside my reach
and is dragged to her end.

I reel with revulsion,
My mind racing with confusion,
What crime could this woman have committed;
what sin to commit her to such a vile death?
She seemed such an ordinary woman,
tall and proud, not long out of her youth,
She had the weary look of a young mother,
stern, yet impassioned – the lioness,
protective of her brood –
now the victim of public persecution.

* * *

I stand in a darkened doorway,
a beam of light from the street
casting an eerie glow on the scene before me:
a baby, despondent from unanswered cries
abandoned in its playard
stares at me with deep, black eyes,
and attempts to rise,
raising one hand to reach for me,
then falling back on his sodden bottom.
I will myself to pick him up,
rescue him,
but am wrenched back into consciousness –
it has all been a dream.

* * *

Ego drives in the waking times,
delusions of self-understanding,
control and clear motivations
its steering wheel –
It is only a facade.

Below the surface,
a history of turmoil,
unrequited desires,
and untapped resources
simmers in anticipation,
conjuring dreams to awaken us –
metaphorical mysteries to
tantalize and illicit questioning.

The self is a deep pool,
harbouring a wealth of treasures,
reminding us there is always more to strive for,
inviting us to take the plunge.

Somewhere inside me is unparalleled beauty,
confidence, and grace,
there is merciless persecution –
both victim and participant-
and there is innocence abandoned and neglected.
Somewhere inside me,
this self-defacing identity
has hope of reparation –
and this relenting sense of futility
may uncover renewed purpose.

Water Damage

The rains finally arrived,
accompanied by tremors,
in the autumn of my thirty-second year.

Torrential floods
of pent up fear and emotion,
unleashed for weeks on end.

In my state of brokenness,
I felt the sorrow of
thousands of women –

oppression, rage, disappointment, hell.

It’s been years now,
yet pools of tears still lie,
stagnant, breeding insects,
mutant bugs with segmented bodies,
struggling to stay alive.

I crush them – try to stamp them out,
but they reappear,
unexpectedly, driven
to what purpose I do not know.

I have conformed, cleansed, repented, prayed.

Yet the sorrow comes
in waves of terror,
reminders of the past.

Worry not for me,
but for the children,
whose innocence is tainted
by horrors unknown,
who pay the price
of my victimhood.

Confused, removed, they suffer unwittingly.

Pray for release, for salvation,
pray for understanding and redemption,
pray that we may all, once again,
breathe.

Today is a Good Day to Die

A satiny bed awaits me,
pearly white, with a prop for my head,
indigo drapes offering privacy,
comfort for eternal rest.

Today is a good day to die.

Yet, I wander,
in search of self,
I travel the highways,
seek respite in rest stops
along the way –
Tim Hortons,
souvenir t-shirts,
no place to settle.

I look for myself
in overpriced
boutiques
promising originality,
reeking of pretentiousness,
I remain restless.

It is only in your distress,
as I pause to lend a hand-
help you fight your demons-
that I forget my own condition.

It is only in selflessness
that I am whole.

Today is a good day to die.

 

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.

Day 240 “Self-Sufficient”

isolated and incapacitated
I am prohibited from partaking
of the influx of information incessantly presented

consequently cut off
from prescribed expectations
dictating costuming and culture

external expressions of acceptance
are sorely missing, suggesting
an overall lacking of self-worth.

Interestingly inverse to such conclusions
is the sudden contentment that arises
from escaping the mayhem

Internal relief overrides dictated performance
surrendering willingly to intrinsic motivation
and renewed self-acceptance.

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.

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.

 

 

Day 236 “True Merit”

Trudy rises well before dawn, throws on her sweats, grabs the dog leash, and the dog, and rushes out the door for a quick jog around the block, stopping only to allow Mitzy time to do her business.  Her husband, Frank, rolls over at the sound of her movements and absentmindedly reaches for her across the bed.  He moans with the realization that she is already gone.

“You didn’t get enough sleep!”  he chides her when she reappears, readying herself for the  morning ritual.

“Sleep is for the weak!”  comes her perky answer.

Frank rolls back over and resumes sleeping.  It will be an hour or so before his wife emerges from the bathroom, so he knows he has time.

Trudy’s morning ritual includes showering, styling her hair just right, applying just the right amount of makeup (including false eyelashes) and making sure her manicure is presentable.  As she coifs she runs down the day’s schedule:  meeting with parents at 8:00 am, report due to the Board by noon, meeting with Principal at 1:00, and a meeting of her staff at 2:30.  She has a class to teach in between, but there is just no time today, so she’ll have to ask Dorothy.  Trudy sighs.  Dorothy would not have been her first pick for her department, and she had tried to reject her, but the Principal insisted.  “Oh well,” she told herself, “I’ll just have to make the most of it – more work for me!”

The idea of more work never fazed Trudy.  She was a champion, and with her brains and capability, she was headed straight to the top.  She’d have to make sure Dorothy was clear about her expectations.

Black and white was the colour palette Trudy chose for this day.  She wanted to look and feel powerful and in charge.  Knee high black leather boots with stilletoes finished off the effect.  She was ready to go.  Slipping on her watch, she noticed that she was running behind.  “Oh well,”  she thought, “they can wait.”  She wouldn’t forgo her morning stop at Starbucks.

Dorothy arrived at school, early as usual, her salt and pepper hair barely dry yet.  She opened the doors, turned on all the lights and checked the agenda for the day.  Trudy, she noted, would be booked up, so that meant she would be taking on the task of her class.  “No problem,” she thought.  Dorothy co-taught most days with Trudy anyway, and to be honest, she preferred it when Trudy was busy, it gave her more autonomy with the class.

When Trudy’s 8:00 am appointment arrived, Dorothy ushered the parents into the meeting room, with apologies and assurances that Trudy would be along shortly.

Students started to arrive and her day began.  Questions, requests, complaints – Dorothy patiently dealt with each, and hurried the students along to their first class.  First period was always the quietest in their room, and Dorothy cherished this time to get organized for what typically turned out to be a challenging day.

Logging onto the computer, Dorothy intended to catch up with some of the paperwork that her position required.  She pulled out the overflowing file of  “to do”s” and started to search through for the most urgent, but stopped when she heard the distinct click, click of Trudy’s heels.

“Your eight o’clock is in the meeting room,”  she advised Trudy who was now fifteen minutes late.

“Can you hold them off a minute?” Trudy asked.  “I have to speak to the office first. Oh, and Dorothy, I will need you to take the class today – my notes are in the file.  They can just work on yesterday’s assignment, so you don’t have teach them anything new – I’d prefer to do that myself.  Can you also pull up the files I’ll need for the report I need to get done today.  Just leave them on my desk.  I will not want to be disturbed until it is finished.”

Obediently, Dorothy again advised the parents that Trudy would be along shortly, and offered tea or coffee as a peace offering.  “These parents have taken time out of their own busy schedule,”  she thought, shaking her head at her superior’s lack of courtesy.  Then she proceeded to complete the other tasks Trudy had given her, sending a quick message home to let her husband know she’d be late again today – no time to get to her own work.

Glancing up at the clock, she noted that there were ten more minutes before the changing of classes.  Dorothy would have test-takers, and some independent workers for period two, and she might be able to get through a few files.

She’d no sooner thought it, when a tall, slightly stooped boy appeared in her doorway.   His footwear caught her attention first – work boots, caked with mud – they appeared much too big for the gangly thin body they belonged to.  The boy wore a baseball cap and a t-shirt and jeans that hung loosely about him and reeked of dirt and sweat.  He was clutching a handful of crumpled papers and well-worn paperback.

“Hi Jack!  What’s up?”

“Miss P kicked me out of class,”  he said with a shy grin.  “She told me to come here.”

Dorothy pulled a chair up beside her.  “Let me have a look at what you’re working on,”  she invited.

Flattening out the papers, Dorothy noted that the pages lacked visible work.  “Are you supposed to complete each of these?”  she asked.

“Yep.”     Jack’s shoulders slouch a little more.  He doesn’t look at her.

“Jack, when was this work due?”

“Two weeks ago.  Miss P said I do it today or get zero.”

Dorothy tries to recollect any previous conversations with Miss P. about Jack.  How had this missed her?  She tries to keep on top of all her special needs children, and while Jack usually manages to stay under the radar, she had neglected to check.

“I apologize, Jack.  I had no idea you were having trouble.  Let’s see what we can do. Have you read the book yet?”

“No,”  Jack’s voice was tired – he’d been down this road before.  “You know I hate to read!”

Dorothy took the paperback from Jack.  “I know this book,”  she said enthusiastically.  “It’s actually not that bad.”

“Yea,”  Jack agreed.  “I read a bit of it.  It seems okay.”

The report Jack needed to complete was his final project for the class.  It would be worth twenty percent of his final grade.  Jack needed it to pass the class.  Dorothy looked at the pile of incomplete work.

“Pick one worksheet, and lets get started at lunch,” she advised Jack.  “I’ll read and you can answer the questions.”  Meantime, she’d talk to Jack’s teacher.  Jack was just one of the many students Dorothy saw in a day – students who ran the risk of falling through the cracks.

As the bell rang, Trudy came rushing through the room headed for her office.  “That was a waste of time!”  she remarked in passing, “I’ll be in my office.”

Dorothy stared at the closed door and wondered if anything important had been discussed that she should know about, however; the room quickly filled with students and her attention was dragged elsewhere.

Lunch came, and Dorothy and Jack settled into the back room with his book and papers.

“This question asks you to link a personal experience to something you read about in the book,”  she explained to Jack.  “Is there any part in the chapter we just read that you can relate to?”

“Totally,”  Jack’s response surprised her.  “You know the part where she talks about how she doesn’t know how she’ll ever learn to deal with the abuse at home?  I can relate to that!  Not abuse at home, but I’ve seen things that I wonder if I’ll ever get over.”

“Okay,”  Dorothy answers trying to hide her surprise.  “Let’s write about it.”

Jack, it turns out, was a volunteer fire fighter for the small community he lived in.  “I remember the first time I got called out to a car accident,”  he told Dorothy.  “The guy was dead.  To see at that blood and guts really shook me up.  We got some counselling, but I can’t ever get used to it.”

“You still volunteer?”

“Oh yeah.  It’s an important job.  Not everybody can do it.”

“I’m sure they can’t,”  Dorothy thought, seeing Jack in a whole new light.

“Can I see you in my office, now!” Trudy’s voice startled her.  “What are you doing in there?”

“Working with Jack.  Miss P sent him.”

“She also sent explicit instructions that we are not to do his work for him!”  Trudy scolded.  She showed Dorothy the email she’d received that very morning.

“Jack continues to be a problem in class, arriving late, not completing his work, and failing to demonstrate a willingness to comply.  I am sending him to you as one last chance.  It is important that Jack complete this work on his own to demonstrate his capability.  Please let him work in your room, but do not coach him in anyway.”

Dorothy’s heart sank.  “I just think that Jack is misunderstood,”  she started.

“Dorothy, you must be careful not to overstep your boundaries.  Jack has had plenty of chances, I don’t want you doing any more.”

“Well,”  Dorothy, who usually complied with Trudy’s wishes, was not willing to bend when it came to her students best interests.  “We are getting somewhere.  I’ll talk to his teacher myself.”

Another teacher popped his head before Trudy could reply and Dorothy took the opportunity to slink out.

“Jack,”  she said returning to the back room.  “We are on a roll and I want this to continue.  As long as you are working, you can stay here.  I will speak to your teachers for you.”

“Thanks Miss D!”  Jack looked hopeful.  “My friend Lisa said she would help me read on her breaks.”

Dorothy gave him a thumbs up as she headed towards his teacher’s classroom.

“She’s a useless piece of meat!”  Trudy’s voice boomed from her office.  Dorothy stopped in her tracks.  “Well, for one thing, she’s over fifty.  And she gives the student’s one on one attention, who’s got time for that!  I’m running out of patience here.”

Dorothy felt her own shoulders slouch.  Trudy’s phone conversation was disheartening.  It didn’t matter what Dorothy did, Trudy seemed to to disapprove.  She pushed on.  She and Jack had made a connection today, and Jack was making progress.  She refused to turn away now.

Just as she headed out the door, Miss P appeared.

“I’ve come to collect Jack’s work,”  she announced.  “You haven’t been helping him have you?”

“Hi P!”  Trudy emerged from her office.  “Come on in.  We were just talking about Jack.”

“I am so frustrated with that boy!”  Miss P exclaimed.  “He’s useless.”

Useless!  There was that word again.  Dorothy looked at her colleagues – young, smart, stylish – and the rage began to build up in her.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted, “but he is not useless! Do you know that young boy volunteers to save lives.”

“That’s nice, Dorothy, but it doesn’t get his school work done.”

“We are getting his school work done!”  Dorothy continued.  “Jack and I are making progress.  He needs help.  Jack has a legitimate learning disability and he has the right to help.  And if you don’t like that take it to the Board!”

Trudy and Miss P, shocked at this outburst, were momentarily speechless.

“Furthermore, that boy has witnessed more than all of us put together, and he may not like reading, but his heart is in the right place.  And that dear ladies, is what I would call true merit.  Jack not only deserves, but will get my help.”

Dorothy turned on her heels and walked out before she said more.

“Fine!”  Miss P yelled after her, “But I’m docking him marks for lateness.”