What a Year

I read a comment by someone on FaceBook the other day. This person could not understand why so many of us were upset by the outcome of the election. A can of worms; where do I start? This is a personal issue and yet it is universal.

Michelle Obama's stirring speech is right on the mark:

http://www.nytimes.com/2016/10/14/us/politics/michelle-obama-donald-trump-women.html

The dust has settled somewhat, at least for the moment.  We are in for the long haul. I believe that anyone who has been abused sexually, physically, or emotionally was triggered to some degree by the rude and crass behavior and language by the man who is somehow in the position of representing this country.  I can't even say his name. I call foul.

I know what is is like to be belittled, disrespected and manipulated. As a young mother I was a battered woman. I know the fear and the helplessness and the challenges of coping with a life that makes you at the mercy of another.

This is not the legacy I want to leave my grandchildren. This man is not a role model in any way. It is not "normal" to bully and bluster and threaten. And he is going to run the country?  Oh America, what have we done?

Beautiful Poem

words from a Leonard Cohen song

Ring the bells that still can ring

Forget your perfect offering

There is a crack in everything

That's how the light gets in 

--from Leonard Cohen's "Anthem

THE JOURNEY

by David Whyte

Above the mountains
the geese turn into
the light again

Painting their
black silhouettes
on an open sky.

Sometimes everything
has to be
inscribed across
the heavens

so you can find
the one line
already written
inside you.

Sometimes it takes
a great sky
to find that

first, bright
and indescribable
wedge of freedom
in your own heart.

Sometimes with
the bones of the black
sticks left when the fire
has gone out

someone has written
something new
in the ashes of your life.

You are not leaving.
Even as the light fades quickly now,
you are arriving.

A Thought for the Day

I experience things that I don't understand while "in the soup" but through time and reflection,  I realize the meaning of a situation or recognize a change that has taken place within my heart of hearts.

Writing has always been the means by which I reflect and express my thoughts and emotions. Writing is the connection and the bridge that has determined which path to take when life changing decisions have to be made.

And so it is, too, that when I read what others have written I gain insight into other parts of myself. We are after all, connected; different aspects of one another, one family of humankind.

"Any significant soul-shaping event becomes more integrated into our consciousness, and more universal, when we can express the essence of the experience and have it received in depth by another. I am convinced that any human being who can serve witness for another at a soul level heals the separateness and isolation that we might otherwise feel.

Crossing to Avalon

Jean Shinoda Bolen

pages 111, 112

Twists and Turns

“The road of life twists and turns and no two directions are ever the same. Yet our lessons come from the journey, not the destination.”

Don Williams, Jr.

The years, the decades pass swiftly, or so it seems, but there are days that time stands still. I am "pushing 70" as the expression goes and most days I feel years younger than that. Most days I don't recognize my own face in the mirror. (I know that face is mine but where did those wrinkles come from?)

Heartbreak at my age? Somehow this is embarrassing. But as a wise person once said "it is what it is" and so the acceptance of that is the truth, as piercing as that can be.

Out of the many lessons along this path, one of the most recent is this:

It is emotionally, spiritually, and hence physically healthy to have boundaries and to teach others how to treat me. I consider myself a kind and accepting person but when someone steps on my toes I set a boundary. If I don't respect myself then certainly no one else will.

In drawing this boundary I allow myself to experience and embrace the emotions that a separation from a life partner means: humiliation, anger, self-doubt, and disappointment. I can't pretend I don't feel these things. Divorce is like a death in the family, a death that must be mourned so that I can move on. Grieving must happen in order to cleanse and heal.

I can't say that I am completely "over it" but I can say that I have made some headway along this part of the journey.

Here's a great poem by Mary Oliver

The Journey 
One day you finally knew

what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice–
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
‘Mend my life!’
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognised as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do–
determined to save
the only life you could save.

Holding the Pen, Writing My Own Story

"When writing the story of your life,

don't let anyone else hold the pen."

            Writing has always been the channel for my creativity and a way to order my thoughts and consequently my life. Journaling, at one point, was what kept me sane when chaos  ruled. The act of putting words on paper was a way of meditating, of calming my mind. People have told me over the years that I should write a book.  I harbored this thought for a long time now but until now have not attempted wholeheartedly to do so because it seems like such a daunting project.

.

This is not a quick process, nor is it an easy one, and it is not finished. There are many chapters in this life story, and the story is not a simple one to write but it has taken on a life of its own. Still, as I get older I am compelled to write my story, because if I don’t, then who will? 

WOW! Women On Writing Blog: Friday Speak Out!: My Masterpiece

WOW! Women On Writing Blog: Friday Speak Out!: My Masterpiece

Reflections, Summers Long ago

I am midway through my sixties, another birthday just days away, and as I sit here on the terrace on this August morning scenes of summers of my childhood flash through mind like an old home movie.

The time of my girlhood is the 1950’s. I live in a small farming community which is surrounded by golden fields of wheat. The population of our town is 1,036.  My family lives on the North Hill, near the edge of town. We are not farmers. We own and operate a grocery store. There is a field next to our house, and a dirt road separates our yard from the vegetable garden. Our house is a two bedroom single story, white with green trim. There is a porch out front and another out back. Hollyhocks grow in the front yard, which is fenced with posts and wire.   A huge bleeding heart bush is nestled right next to the house and several locust trees grow along the fence and shade the yard in the front. In the field behind the chicken house there are old apple trees just made for climbing.  Beyond the field are the rolling golden hills of wheat and purple mountains in the distance.  The sky is broad and brilliant blue. There is no traffic, just the quiet songs of the birds.  

Where I lived until I was 12. A few changes to the house over the yearsince then.

Me as a young child

I am an only child until the age of seven when my sister is born but I have an imaginary friend whom I call Janie.  Janie and I spend many happy hours together. I grow into a shy, quiet girl, with long dark hair which my mother braids into French Braids. My mother’s sister lives on the other side of the field so my cousins, my siblings and I play endless games of tag and hide and go seek.  Sometimes we sleep out in the yard in the summer and stay up late, giggling and making wishes on the shooting stars.

Sometimes, while my mother prepares dinner, I sit in our kitchen at the yellow Formica table and listen to The Record Man and The Story Lady on our AM radio, a coloring book and a package of Crayolas near my elbow. A true bookworm, I lug home piles of books from the library to read away the hours as I sit in the shade of a tree. I am also a tomboy who loves to swim and make mud pies. I have scabs on the palms of my hands and knees from crashing my bike on the gravel road down by the school. On the playground I ride on the merry-go-round, slide down the slide and play on the “monkey bars”. I play hopscotch, tetherball, and a game called 4 square and catch the grasshoppers in the football field and keep them for awhile old coffee cans before I let them go.

First day of school

My dad spends his days at our family business. He prefers to walk to the store when the weather is nice and most days he comes home for lunch.  He keeps a motor boat in the garage along with our family Ford. My mother is a homemaker, and works in the bank. By now I am old enough to take care of my sister and little brother.  

            The animals in my life include chickens, (I have a pet chicken which I push around in a doll stroller), rabbits that my uncle keeps in the cages along the outside wall of the chicken house,( I once opened all the cages and “freed” said rabbits) and his two sheep that graze in the pasture.  At one point there is a docile old mare that lives in the field among the crabapple trees, patiently allowing the neighborhood kids to ride her.  At any given time there is a mother cat and a batch of kittens to delight in.

            For musical entertainment there are records that we play in our stereo which we call a hi fi, and sits along one wall of the living room. It is big and square, like a chest and opens from the top.  My parents like Perry Como and Glenn Miller. My mother occasionally plays the story of Sleeping Beauty which has Tschaichowsky’s music as the background; my first exposure to classical music.  Our first television is black and white. Our favorite shows are The Wide World of Disney, the Mickey Mouse Club Show, and Lawrence Welk.

I believe those peaceful days as a child led me to the quiet place I enjoy now, dwelling among the stately pine trees, the river flowing nearby. I have come full circle to live on the land close to nature with family in the neighborhood.  I am learning to appreciate the present moment and to treasure memories of my heart.