Category Archives: The Past

Choosing Happiness…

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I once read somewhere…

There is a certain kind of person that leans towards happiness.

I’d like to think, in spite of the less than stellar periods that mark my life from time to time, that overall, I am that kind of person.

I’m happy overall, simply because I chose to be. My problems haven’t lessened. Those who have access to my Facebook statuses, see when my moods are more midnight than noon. Still, even when I’m in the midst of a personal pity party, a part of me always knows “and this too shall pass” and I will be happy again.

How I’ve learned to handle life’s many bouts of crisis diminutive and demanding come from two main sources, my late-husband and my faith (such as it is). From my late-husband I’ve learned how to compartmentalize. Decide what is important, and needs working on now. The non-important things are mentally shelved until there is time for them, or when/if the time comes, to move them further up my importance ladder. The things I have deemed important are then broken into two main categories. What can I do to fix/change/control/help/etc. whatever it is now? If there’s something I feel I can (or am willing) to fix/change/control/help/etc., that is what I work on to the best of my ability. However, if it is something I feel I cannot (or perhaps should not) do anything about a given situation, here is where my faith comes in. I simply “Let go and let God”. Once a decision is made between the two, I may still think about it, but I don’t worry about it.

Several have asked, how have I managed to move on so quickly from the loss of a husband of twenty years? Honestly – I woke up one day and chose to. I have an acquaintance, Donna (a wonderful Numerologist and avid knitter), with whom I once adamantly contested in having a choice about moving on with my life, instead of continuing to wallow in grief, when she initially presented it to me that way (as a choice). I honestly did not see it as a choice at the time, simply because I am not the type to wallow in anything emotionally negative for any extended period. Having since met with (and/or read about) other widows/widowers and have seen the variety in how we choose to cope, or not cope, I understand. I may not have been entirely cognizant of doing such at the time, but yes Donna, I see that now. I made a choice, I chose to be happy, or at least start the process to get there.

Some have called it avoidance, but that is not necessarily true. When I am avoiding a problem it worries my soul constantly until I deal with it, one way or another, by the means I mentioned above. There is a huge difference to my personal sanity (hah!) between when I avoid a problem and when I choose to place it temporarily to the side until I have the means/knowledge/etc. to work on it. It’s not exactly letting go if I’m letting it worry me now is it?

Various religions and/or spiritual paths seem pretty sure that happiness comes from within and that it is within our control. You know what? I can’t honestly argue with them. I am happy, as I said above, simply because I chose to be. And when I say happy, I mean happy with the three people I face in the mirror each morning; me, myself and I. As long as I know for myself that I’ve honestly done all I can (or should) for the situation, I’m good; therefore I’m happy.

Why? Because there are only sixty seconds in each minute and I only have X amount of minutes/hours/day/weeks/months/years/decades left of life. True to form, I suck at math and thus have no idea what X stands for. Therefore, I do not have time to waste but so many minutes on being miserable. We all have our spells on the crying couch, but it’s our choice as to how long we stay there. Yes, I know, it sounds oh so simplistic at the core, I do not deny that; but like everything else in life, it is and it isn’t. And yes, I really do run pretty much everything in my life this way, because it works FOR ME (your mileage may vary). I don’t argue with it any more because it makes me what?–miserable.

I think you have an idea now about how long I’m willing to put up with that.

Somewhere…

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somewhere
(in the folds of lasts week’s)
(or maybe last year’s laundry)
the person
(when I’m not a mother)
who wrote poetry
(or being a lover )
drew still life
(balancing the checkbook)
designed clothes
(scrubbing a dirty collar)
and painted murals
(while vacuuming the carpets, again)
that did embroidery
(after the button is sewed on the shirt, again)
is in the mirror
(that needs to be cleaned, again)
trying to find herself
(after working overtime, again)
because she got lost
(showing someone else how)
somewhere…
(in the folds of last week’s)
(or maybe last years’ laundry)…

<>==========<>==========<>

This poem is actually a little over 12 years old.  We were in the process of packing to move into our house and my then fiance, now late-husband, had found my composition book from high school with poetry. We had living together over thirteen years and he had never known that about me. He asked one thing: What happened? I did not have an answer for him. Nor did I know how to pick-up my pen again.  One day I was looking at my reflection in the mirror, asking myself the same question.  I was depressed to realize, though it been a of couple years since he had asked, I still did not have an answer.

Whenever I was upset I would write my feelings to sort them out. Usually, I would write it, read it and toss it.  This time I did not toss it because something in those words had reached me.  What reached me became the first three/last three lines of the above poem. It was perhaps only the third poem I had written in a nearly twenty year span at that point.  Granted, it was one small sad little poem, but it was the first big crack in the wall of the dam blocking my creativity. A dam I was only just beginning to realize I had built and now needed to tear it down.

dVerse Poets Pub |  Poetics – Poetically Evolving

A Good Girl Who Does

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As a thinker I excelled in science and chess
Bright in my other academics, I gave no less
Could mentally match just about whatever you bring
Daunted only by my emotional state, a very different thing
Ever curious, I took a shine to coition with ambition
Female born, however held a certain restriction
Gracious model of virtue? Hah! I never tried to be
Held back within all the rules of social complicity

Inquisitive, I felt it more honest than being just a tease
Justly stated, I would pursue my desires as I would please
Knowing that the names for me were much closer to ‘whore’
Love was but a word as the males I knew were free to ‘score’

Mainly, I felt you can’t grow a garden by reading a book
Negating convention I dared to do more than just look
Oh guys can easily convey how often they go to bat
Privately the girls aren’t ever to admit knowing any of that
Quietly I learned to hide how I came to know so much
Raging that a male is never asked to hide knowledge of such
So, I could hum the foulest limerick and still be called quaint
Talk knowledge of a hummer when I was barely twenty ain’t

Understanding people I had known only one or two
Vicious rumors and some cruel truths I muddled through
Watching eyebrows rise as double-standards reared its head
X-rated knowledge in a g-rated world was a hard path to tread

Years went by before I felt I wasn’t a freak
Zeroing in that I’m a rarity someone unique
Allowed myself to enjoy it all in its various forms
Because I refuse to stilted by social world’s norms
Carnal knowledge once bane, I’m now admired for
Day or night, finally happy, I don’t care any more

Every now and then I’ll get outrageous with a verbal gush
Freaking people out on purpose just to watch them blush

<>==========<>==========<>

And today’s form is an Abecedarius which is an alphabetic acrostic or a poem in which each line or stanza begins with a successive letter of the alphabet. Historically, it was widely used in religious aspects as the beginning of prayers, hymns and oracles. As time progressed, variations of the method developed and new types of acrostics appeared. Some methods included using the first letter of the first word (as I have done above), the first letter of the stanza or the first letter of the first word and last letter of the last word in each line.

dVerse Poets Pub – Poetics: The Art Of Rebellion

November 18, 1978

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April is National Poetry Month. Today is a not so gentle reminder of why we should not forget out past. So I won’t end with “Enjoy!” as I usually do. This time I’ll say “Remember!”

November 18, 1978

Morning dawns anew upon a utopia time
A place filled with fluffy white cloud skies
No poverty or hunger or the slightest crime
Where no one ever hurts and no one ever cries

A special place where all can belong
Where God is followed and faith so strong

Built on the words of a charming teacher
Very few noticed beneath the sheen
Of the dashing, dark-haired preacher
Was the susurrus of something mean

A ‘Peoples Temple’ built for equality, tranquility
Headed by a monster of no comparability

But just as all seems right in the dawn
Utopia shatters and blood falls like rain
Sweet cyanide sips are over 900 gone
Bodies die writhing and screaming in pain

In the end the ugly truth is passed
among all the dead bodies amassed

Many simply drank if their faith was true
Or were met with murderous fusillade
But why did the babies have to die to
In the service of this monster’s façade?

Some survived to find their own truth
Forever scarred by the ashes of youth

All they wanted was an earthly paradise
With races coexisting side by side
Who could have ever known the price
Would be one of genocide

Nearly forgotten shadows of a madman’s fate
Jonestown, November 18, 1978

Jonestown massacre 1978
[Bodies at the Jonestown compound under a sign that reads:
‘Those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it’]

In case some forgot, never heard of, or were not old enough to know about, the Rev. Jim Jones and the horror of what happened in Jonestown, Guyana, November of 1978, don’t worry; man definitely finds a way of letting bad history repeat. David Koresh and the Branch Davidian massacre in Waco, Texas, was twenty years ago in 1993. If you don’t know/remember either event, tick…tick…tick….
====================


dVerse ~ Poets Pub | Meeting the Bar: The Unfathomable

By Friendly Hand

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My large beauty
My ethnic birth
Female I am

All mocked cruelly
In brutal words
Spoken so quick

The flip remark
Said upon lark
Really did hurt

And did begin
A vicious rend
Upon my soul

My poise shaken
I’d never think
Because of you

The shot fired
By friendly hand
Hurting much more

Than the exact
Same something by
Strangers that pass

That you’re clueless
To meanings dealt
Under the joke

Give scant solace
To feelings hurt
Deeply in me

Steps to repair
The friendship torn
Begun by you

Yet to forgive
Then forget this
Really is hard

Where to begin
In healing such
Haven’t a clue

====================

Today’s form? A Novem

National Poetry Month: All For Not Knowing

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April is National Poetry Month, so each day I will post poems that I have written. Enjoy!

All For Not Knowing

We met at the worst I thought I could be
After my life was crossed by a rouge star
Life between the worst and the best to come
I hike my joy on our mock verbal spars
Such was the mode of our sharp biting wit
Mine under the belt, and yours just bizarre
Crossed that line between acquaintance and friend
All for not knowing how far was too far
Ache held tight to my emotional cage
Still half living inside a past memoir
Knew my pain gave nix but a rough sketch of me
In time drained the hurt of that soul deep scar
“There’s no place like home” said with arms held wide
And I opened mine too, we were on par
Crossed that line past friend but not to lovers
All for not knowing how far was too far
Seemed that Fate was not quite through with me yet
And released the hold to stability’s bar
A new fix of hell crashed through my soul’s gate
My path, once clear, now so muddied and marred
Too much too handle you turned tail and ran
Showing exactly the colors you are
Crossed that line between true friend and just friend
All for not knowing how far was too far
Letting slack what you once begged to hold tight
As I needed you more than gold to czars
The sun sets shadows on what you can’t give
You withdrew from me as though I’m eschar
Where to go when home is now closed to me
With no chance of door being left ajar
Thus crossed that fine line between bend and break
All for not knowing how far was too far

Drenched In Rainy Day Memories…

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A couple walks damp streets on a lovely early spring evening that has slowly segued into an equally lovely if rainy night. No rainy was not the right word. Misty; it was that misty rain that you could not see unless you were looking at the drops break the surface of whatever puddles have gathered about. Enough to make you wet if you stayed in it for any duration, yet not enough to warrant use of an umbrella. They talk, joke and tease, as any young couple still in the early stages will do as they learn about one another. On a twist of etiquette, she walks him home.  She convinces him that it was still early enough that she would be fine for the ten or so blocks from his place to hers. Still she promises to call once she’s home to assuage his fears. She is not going to be your average girl and he knows it. They exchange a brief kiss goodnight and he shakes his head musing on the role reversal as he heads in.

She walks a few yards when gut instinct alone makes her turn around suddenly. They both jump in surprise. He at quickness at which she spun on him and she at just how close he was to her before she sensed him. Hands in their respective pockets they stand close to each other, very close. Almost imperceptibly, their heads instinctively turn slightly askance as they lean into each other. Each feels the heat of the breath of the other play along their respective lips, but there is no other contact between them. They stay that way for a long moment, exchanging breaths, before leaning away. Somehow breathless from the exchange, the chill that runs down both spines had nothing to do with the mist falling upon their faces, gentle as the kiss they didn’t exchange. Eyes stare questioning and answering, answering and questioning in complete silence.  Finally, they both turn and walk to their respective homes.  Somehow they both knew, in that moment of saying nothing yet saying everything, they had just crossed that magical line past friendship into something much deeper and they were truly and completely fucked!

>|———-|<

Nearly a decade later, as Bill and I walked off the dance floor at a friend’s wedding, a cousin asks why did it always looked like we were making love when we were slow dancing. I, always the flippant one, quickly responded because we are. Our cousin looked at us befuddled before Bill continues on my comment by adding there are ways to make love that don’t involve sex; like kissing without kissing in a spring rain. I blinked and stared at him.  That night was something never before mentioned between us until just that moment. I honestly thought he had forgotten about it though, I guess, I should have known better. I blushed and then I grinned.  I have no idea what was the look that passed between he and I at that moment, but I do know our cousin sucked her teeth and walked away saying we needed to “get a room!”

>|———-|<

Sunday night as I walked home in an early spring misty rain, those two memories, now intertwined as one, came to me.  Now Monday morning, I am left to wonder if I will be blessed enough to feel anything even close to that ever again.

Life Goes On…

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Some friends tell me I should post a blog;  I don’t know why.  My partial narcissist conflicts with my partial self-critic on this. I suppose I could have and probably should have chosen something more lighthearted for my first post.  I think you’ll understand why my head is where it is once you read it.  I just felt if I didn’t do this now it could be months before I would and sometimes you just have to dive in and see where the tide takes you…

I thank you for taking the leap of faith and riding with me.

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March 1, 2006 -Day 1

“I’m sorry Mrs. …”

I really don’t remember the exact words in which it was broken to me; however, I do remember the doctor’s tone of voice. I remembered I just looked at him waiting for the rest of it, the punch line – something – anything. The manner in which I found out I just became a widow was delivered with about as much compassion as a market clerk informing me they were out of my favorite brand of canned goods.

But the doctor’s delivery of the words was the least of my problems as I suddenly understood why everyone who has ever been informed, hit, hell bitch-slapped with such news is usually asked to sit first. I wasn’t so lucky. “Can’t stand it” takes on a whole new dimension of meaning when you literally cannot stand. I felt the last breath of him being a living part of my life escape me as my back slid down a wall. And I remember hands – hands touching me, hands holding me, hands caressing me; hands unfamiliar and all too sanitary and just wrong. I just wanted them away from me and to see him, recall what was quickly becoming days of old, and feel what remaining warmth he had a little longer before all that I once knew was gone.

My first gallows humor: Bill loved his car and once told my older son he’d be allowed to drive it over his dead body. As this same son pulled off to drive us home from the hospital I found a need to remind him of the veracity of that statement. It was met with a grimace (a grim-look upon one’s f-ace, interesting how even that word also takes on new layers of meaning).

I mentioned somewhere else  how, through my now late-husband, I have learned how to shelve the things I can’t resolve at the given moment and concentrate on the things I can. Somewhere in the eternity between falling and rising (how apropos) I know this is where I started going on auto-pilot. The efficient, organized, take-charge aspect of my personality – took charge, even as my emotional aspect crumbled.

I had about an hour at home to absorb my new reality when the first of the telephone calls began. “I’m so sorry…” How many times can a person hear that in an hour? In two hours? More? Even now, it raises my hackles slightly to hear that from people who say it as automatically as the instinct to bless someone when they sneeze; and it’s almost always equally as heartfelt.

Once my best friend was by my side I simply let go and did the only thing I could do – go numb There are about two whole weeks of my life that are smoky vignettes of emotional moments. Some have since solidified more into concrete memory. I know others will remain forever from my grasp. With the patient guidance of those who have visited the grieving place before me, I understand that now. No, I still don’t really understand it – I just accept it for what it is.

March 1, 2007 Day 1 (of the rest of my life)

I’m now able to read through most my journal without wanting to cry. Although, oddly enough, I find I now have a little trouble reading When Winter Cradles Spring straight through; especially now with the crazy weather we’re having when changing seasons make no sense. I wrote that maybe a year before my husband’s passing, but I find I’m pretty much living those words each day right now. When all else fails the last stanza of a another poem I wrote  Each Day Anew becomes my mantra…

I know I have the strength to cope

I go as heart and soul say to

I sow my seeds of faith and hope

I grow and start each day anew

March 1, 2010 (life goes on…)

I still read Each Day Anew now and again to jump-start a bad day into something better.  My bad days are almost never about him any more.   In fact, except for an odd stretch of days last May when I could not excise thoughts of my late-husband from my mind and it started to freak me out, I’ve been pretty okay in that regard. I halfheartedly started dating a little over a year ago.  I’ll decide how much I want to delve into the details of that in a later posting.   I’ve had a certain India.Arie song stuck in my heart for a couple of months now. If you know her music you can easily figure out which song.  Let’s just say, I’ll be taking dating just a little more seriously and see how it goes…