I'm going to see my sister today.
She and her husband and beautiful little daughters are picking up my children at their father's and then coming to get me.
They will sweep us away to another world, where there is a whole family.
We will walk around looking at that world as if in a dream, and the kids will love it so much that they will cry once again when they have to leave.


Of course, they cry every time they leave me, as well.
I wish I were not the only source of grief in their innocent little lives.
I didn't want to be separated from them, and certainly none of my actions ever warrented it.
Sometimes life isn't at all fair, but I do believe things happen for some reason. There are lessons to be learned and still so much life to live. It will all make sense and come out right in the end.
With my sister or the arrival of any of my other siblings comes Christmas at last - the kind of Christmas I had as a child where I'm excited and delighted to find that once again they know just exactly what I most wanted because they know, love, and understand me like no one else in the entire world.
I feel whole when I am with them.
We went through a war-torn childhood together, and now we are so close that we all feel somehow incomplete when we are separated.
I had a therapist tell me once that Vietnam Veterans feel the same when they return to every day life without their comrades.
I suppose that's what's made being alone such a long, hard battle for me. I was raised with four siblings who were always there. I always thought I wanted nothing but peace, quiet, and privacy. Yet when I finally had the privacy and dead silence, I had no peace.
I feel it today, though.
Peace in being here in the quiet of my own space.
But also joy at the expectation of part of my family coming.
There will be trees and a present and Santa Claus will truly have come for me.

I'm Not That Addictive or Petty

Some silly app has just offered via email to let me know whenever someone "unfriends" me on facebook - and who! For a certain fee, of course.
I am vastly amused.
If I have not noticed three people recently unfriending me, why would I care?
The online world is a very strange place at times.

Les Miserables, Then and Now

Well, I suppose I might have known. I've seen this musical in the theaters and heard every movie and cast recording ever made - and then, just to lend respectability to my infatuation with the story, I even read Victor Hugo's volumous tome that started it all. It was like reading Le Morte D'Athur, only more "modern," I suppose. It was a beautiful story which naturally had to be greatly abridged when converted for the stage and set to lyrics. I loved the themes of redemption and of fighting for a cause even when you suspect you cannot win - just because it's the right thing to do. And seeing the movie was strange because after all these years I still know the lines word for word - and still it made me cry. I cried for different reasons, though. I cried because I could relate to the grittiness of the adult character's lives now, whereas before I cried at Eponine's unrequited love for Marius. I'm very good at unrequited love - quite the expert, in fact - to the point that I'm quite casual about it now. I can no longer shed a tear for my heart if it should be broken. I suppose unconsciously I may have been keeping it closed so that it could remain relatively whole for the time being, though there are still some chinks of light shining through the cracks. Gotta keep the lights on, just in case anyone needs to find their way home...

No, this time I cried because of that little girl lost in the woods and the mother who loved her so much that she allowed herself to be shamed and forgotten for the sake of what was best for her child. I cried because, much to my surprise, Anne Hathaway nailed the part of Fauntine so perfectly that I could see and feel the pain and the loss of innocence so sharply that I cried for my own. It doesn't help that young Cossette looked so very much like my own little girl. Fauntine found life not to be what she had expected when she lost Cosette's father and ended up working in that factory with those wretched women who didn't know good when they saw it. They mocked her and caused her to be fired, and she was left wondering what had gone so terribly wrong that she was alone and penniless, unable to help her child when the little girl needed her so much. Bit by bit, she gave everything she had for that child until there was nothing left of her. This is love in its purest form. Watching the grief and pain so raw and ugly in her face - it made her beautiful, but it tore me all up inside as if I were losing everything I had all over again though the music. I cried because still in this day and age a woman can give all she's got and work as hard as she can to overcome the shame and poverty to which she is born and still not be able to get past it. I cried because she sang with a certain heart-wrenching shame that still she dreamed that the man who had ruined her would come again and make things right. "There are dreams that cannot be" indeed, but still we can't help hoping for them.

In the end I love the musical because it shows life in its bitter reality and still the people hope and they sing of a better tomorrow. They piled upon that barricade and waved their flags like Occupy Wallstreet protesters, and failed far more miserably because they tried for so much more. But the entire point of the thing was that people's awareness may have been raised and that the people would one day rise up and live in freedom from tyranny. I don't know about politically, but personally I can continue to strive to do that very thing. One has to keep hope alive, for the sake of the children. Even when so much as sitting down to watch a fictitious musical can make you feel as if you are the child so lost in the woods.

 

Preparations

Today I am preoccupied with putting my life together for the upcoming year.
I want to get involved in the local art movement.
I've volunteered myself to paint murals on the walls of the Early Childhood Development Center that will open in time.
I'd like to check out the local Democrats and see what they're up to.
I want to go back to my Writer's Group in Big Rapids or start a group here.
I'd be happy to re-involve myself in the local Theater Group.
More than anything, I'd like a job outside a factory so that I can get back on the substitute circuit and find myself a permanent teaching job one day. I love teaching so much - it utilizes all of my skills and fulfills my need to share what I have learned with others in hope of passing along the torch.
Oh, and let us not forget the gym. That's my New Year's Resolution. I used to go regularly and felt great while I was doing it - must get back to that. Naturally I love any non-chemical high I can obtain.

I love seeing and meeting new people - gives me all kinds of ideas.
I hope to have money to travel again one day. Anywhere in the United States or around the world. Travel opens your mind and gives you a whole new perspective.
Ah, but just for now I'd like to go to a ball on New Year's Eve - Cinderella-Style. I think a pumpkin would smell funny and be a little sticky to ride in, and glass slippers have got to be a pain, but it would be totally worth it if I could wear the dress and have someone tell me how beautiful I look.
Yes, yes - I must tell that to myself.

Look No Further

Today I am dancing around my house dressed in a flowing white skirt, and enjoying my own company. Carols play softly on the radio now as I write; a gently lit tree within my line of vision, strung with pearls and miscellaneous baubles representing the years of my life and the darling angels who have graced it. I began the day treading lightly upon each emotion, cautiously testing for the accustomed pitfalls and dips of despair, but to my surprise there was only happiness waiting for me. I am happy for no earthly reason.

I find myself thinking of Emily Dickinson and wondering if I am turning into her a little bit, for she was brilliant, reclusive, thought of as eccentric by her community, and had a penchant for wearing white. I'm hardly a recluse, however. I love people and have done theater and taught or painted before audiences and have enjoyed it all immensely. And what is eccentricity anyway? It seems to me that it is marked by being entirely yourself and not allowing the critiques of others to deter you. I admire people like that, though I've wasted much of my life being somewhat of a chamelon for survival purposes. Like Dickinson did, I am learning to love my own company. Certainly I can relate to a writer of long ago who maintained friendships through correspondence. I have an entire network of people whom I encourage and support via facebook or Gmail, and who encourage and support me in return. Writing is a joy; the present I gave myself on this busy week of the dying year. I want to write how I am feeling and the wonders that I have known this season.

It all began weeks ago when I began to experience that weak, empty longing for something unnamed that generally prompts me to wander stores and search for something to buy that will fill the emptiness. Some people with PTSD get suicidal when they have an episode - I have myself, here and there - but more often I find myself blindly wandering the shelves of department stores and bookstores, antique malls and art galleries desperately trying to fill my well with something beautiful that will wipe the ugliness from inside; the emptiness and the fear that comes so tangibly before me that I'm once again a frightened child curled into a ball beneath my blankets with my arms wrapped around my head. I usually manage to talk myself out of actually buying anything when I feel this way; I just flee for the outside world singing about how downtown will help me 'forget all my troubles, forget all my cares...' but always I return home and have to face myself again. Some people with PTSD use drugs or alcohol to hide from the stark reality of their lives -  the fact that you can undergo treatment and take medications but you can never techically recover from it - but I need to hold myself to a higher standard than to numb myself in that way. It's more than a need - it's a conviction. For me, it is better to look myself in the eyes and ask myself what it is that I really am longing for.

There are times when I feel that frightened little girl taking over and I want to push her down and press my hands over her mouth. 'Be quiet!' I hiss inside, as if talking to an annoying younger sibling, 'You'll ruin everything!' She's scared and she's messing up my job by bursting into tears when people are mean to her, or allowing people to trample all over her instead of speaking up for herself. I can't begin to describe how aggravating she is! Of course, trying to silence or ignore her is not what is required - I have to treat her with the kindness and compassion that she is lacking inside. I have to teach her how to love herself for who she is, face the realities of life unafraid and able to express herself. She is not wicked or wrong, just undisciplined. I have to see and appreciate her for the beautiful girl that she is. After all, without her I would always be serious and push myself far too hard. And as the Good Doctor once said, "What is the point of being an adult if you can't be childish sometimes?" The childish side of me loves bright lights and pretty packages and believes wholeheartedly in every idealistic whimsy to cross her mind. The childish side just might render my dreams into reality one day, if only I believe in her a little bit.

My best friend at the moment is a charming, gravelly-voiced Vietnam Veteran who is the only person outside my family who understands what it is to have your past relentlessly, involuntarily dog you all of your life through no fault of your own. My siblings understand the pain even if they don't experience it in the same way, but others tend to think I'm making excuses for myself, or making a mountain out of a molehill. This grizzled vet with twinkling blue eyes listens to me, empathizes, and never tells me that my view of my experience is invalid just because others (himself included) have had it worse. Instead, he notices when I'm having a rough time - recognizes the skin-crawling hyperviligence that causes me to jump when people greet me and always makes a point of giving me a conspiratorial wink or small present to boost my morale. Few understand our friendship - they think dirty old men and illicit affairs. It's hard in these times to see something pure and uncomplicated as understanding the struggle of another human being and offering them support. In this I feel very blessed. He brought Christmas treats to work  and we shared a long, smiling look that expressed our feelings perfectly: Life is hard, but that makes it all the more important to celebrate the people and the memories that are most precious to us.

I determined that this year I would do something for someone else; give back some of this good that I see in the darkness and thereby spread a little more light. First my children and I sat down and made cards for the grandmother of a friend of mine. I only know this dear lady through my friend, but as I understand it, this is probably her last Christmas. I talked to the kids about what a person might like to hear in that case, and we set about making cards. I thought I was quite clever in simply blessing her and her family this holiday season, but my children out-did me when they wrote of how they are thinking of her, and how very much she must know that she is loved after receiving so many cards. Their simple compassion seemed to clear my head and make the point of the season shine like a path before me. We began plotting what else we might do to make the holiday easier for someone else. My son's friend didn't have a Christmas tree. I agonized over the political correctness of bringing them one - What if they were allergic to pine, or Jewish, or simply disliked the mess of a tree in their home? But the little boy really would like one, so I decided to take a risk. I don't have much money right now. I won The Biggest Loser contest at work because I've been living off soup and crackers for three months. I didn't care: Now it was a matter of the moral development of my children that we undertake this act of generosity. We drove to a tree lot and donated canned goods for the soup kitchen in exchange for a tree. The owners, certain we were supplying a need of our own, piled us with ornaments and tied the tree securely to the hood of my old 1996 jalopy with the windows that don't roll down and the wreath of rust crusting the base of the body.

It was no fancy tree, but the family accepted it with gratitude and joy. As it turned out, they hadn't had a tree in years, following a near-fatal accident that had left many of the family members brain damaged and living on oxygen. I was shocked at the small space in which they all lived; touched by their love and capacity to give to one another at a time when they had nothing material to offer. They gave me a little snow globe, and the matriarch of the family cried with happiness that someone had taken the time to think of them. I left their home humbled and subdued, grateful to think how my children are with me today, healthy and smart. I, too, am healthy and have what I need. Suddenly my sense of emptiness and loss was gone; my perspective of having what I need, thank God, and never mind all the things I seek for that I cannot define.

Having found Christmas for myself in this way, I thought I was about as content as anyone could be this season. I had what I needed - and it was something that I could give. Lesson learned. Christmas done.

But it wasn't.

Once nearly twenty years ago, I was kind to someone who wasn't necessarily all that kind toward me. I had this conviction that if I showed compassion no matter what, I could change things. I've found since that this approach sometimes doesn't work if the other person is broken enough, but it worked then. I kept concentrating on the good in that person, and eventually they had a change of heart and we found something like friendship between us. I was telling this story to some students of mine last year when we were reading To Kill a Mockingbird and thinking of how the character Atticus  Finch could find the courage to bow and smile at Mrs. Dubois who said the most ugly things to him, or how he could pity that hateful racist, Bob Ewell. Coincidentally, the very person I was describing to my students contacted me on facebook that week. I had made far more of an impression than I had imagined - and as proof of that, a beautiful paint-splattered Angel appeared at my back door this past Friday with an envelope that enabled me to buy presents for my children without having to worry about paying my rent, too. Maybe George Baily would look at her and say cynically, "You look like the kind of angel I'd get," but I hugged her, and almost as soon as that happened she was gone. I'd think I'd dreamed it if I hadn't seen my children opening the gifts yesterday and literally jumping up and down and rolling on the floor over them. No kindness is ever wasted. No gift is ever given that is not returned to you in some form. I can't wait to hear how my dear Angel is blessed by her kindness. Perhaps like myself she will have simply felt it as she walked away from my door. I certainly hope so.

From then on I have felt peace. Peace despite not having the ideal life where my kids are with me full time, or in this case not with me on Christmas. Peace despite not having much room, not having the ideal job or the ideal social status or the ideal anything, really. Peace. Peace because it's not about fitting a certain standard of living or being or belonging: It's about loving myself and others equally, believing the best of myself and others, and giving every good and perfect gift received from above. And so I rest at home, Christmas carols on the radio, my tree lit just for me, my old heater blazing like a fireplace and my heart blazing right along with it. 

I guess it took me long enough - five years alone before I finally feel satisfied simply to be myself and enjoy the time alone. I married young partly because I didn't want to face myself; didn't know how to be alone and didn't want to teach myself. This morning as I watched my children open gifts at their father's house, my ex-husband told me that his anger and verbal abuse were a figment of my imagination. He's long since written me off as crazy for leaving a prize like him, and just wanted to make clear that he'd had nothing to do with my unhappiness. I could be angry or bitter, but I didn't feel that at all. I just felt glad to be free and able to see the truth for myself despite what he thinks. Safe and secure back in my own home, I dress in white and look myself in the eyes and pronounce, "You have what you are looking for. It's been inside of you all along."

This Christmas, I might just say the same to you.

I Will Not Die an Unlived Life

"I will not die an unlived life.
I will not live in fear
of falling or catching fire.
I will choose to inhabit my days,
to allow my living to open me,
to make me less afraid,
more accessible;
to loosen my heart
until it becomes a wing,
a torch, a promise.
I choose to risk my significance,
to live so that which came to me as seed
goes to the next as blossom,
and that which came to me as blossom,
goes on as fruit.'


~ Dawna Markova


As you can see, I did not write this little poem, though I do try to live it.

My life is a poem, and I express it in breathing and dancing and sharing it with others.

In this picture I'm seven stories below Scotland's Grass Market in a James Bond -Themed pub.

The Woman Hated the End of the Novel

Every day at least one kind person stops by this blog to view what's going on in my life or mind.
Thank you, kind stranger.
I feel as if I am walking through life with you.
We will laugh; we will cry - We will have to have a chat sometime.

I feel subdued tonight.
Nothing I'm reading has turned out right.
I mean, sometimes I want a certain thing to happen by the end of a novel, and then when it doesn't I feel just as disappointed as if it were my own life that had floundered.

Now I've decided that I'm not subdued; I'm angry.

In the Victorian Age, women were considered the weaker sex and any sign of distress, temper, or having an opinion could be attributed to a nervous disorder or mental illness.
Sometimes I don't see where things have changed all that much.
I was never hospitalized for mental illness, but certainly I have suffered injustice at the hands of judgemental people who had no desire to get to the bottom of what was really happening as opposed to what they perceived as happening based on the careless words of others.

Argh.

I should delete this.

Instead I will work on writing a more measured response to the day... tomorrow.
After I've had some sleep.

Bless all the little children tonight.
Champion the causes of idealists and dreamers.

Paradise Lost

My coordinator yelled at me tonight: "You have no common sense!"
My response: "Thank you. I find uncommon sense more valuable."

It's true, I don't have the kind of sense that lends itself well to factory work.
I think in order to be successful I would need to be able to concentrate exclusively on the work at hand.
My mind is accustomed to thinking backward and forward as I do everything, the better to improvise as the moment arises.
Factories do not necessarily appreciate improvisation.

I want to go back to substitute teaching, but I need the one steady job to insure that I can make my rent each month.

Last night on our break the t.v. happened to be turned to Pawn Stars, an episode in which a man brings in a gorgeous volume of Milton's Paradise Lost.

On the t.v., he man behind the counter reads a passage.

The general consensus around the break room:

"What the fuck does that mean?"
"That's one badass-lookin' book!"
"The hell he says?!"
"The pictures are cool!"
"What's the point in having something lying around that doesn't make any sense to normal people?"
"I think I want that on my coffee table."
"Yeah, right - your place is so small you wouldn't have room for anything else if you put that in there!"
"Yeah, well it would look cool. I wouldn't understand the damn thing, but it would  be worth something."
"I think he just said that someone was getting laid or something."

I felt sad. Not only do I understand it; I could explain it line by line as I read it in such a way that even a small child could understand. It comes naturally to me. Everyone at the factory knows I'm a certified English teacher. I turned from the t.v. and translated, "The author's talking about when Adam gets his hot new wife, and Adam's talking about how gorgeous she is."

I scored points for the topic happening to be vaguely about sex, but I'm a fish out of water and I'm not entirely certain how long I can gasp on the sand.

English Teacher Joke