(Creative Non-Fiction, Fiction, Poetry, Metaphysical Musings, Occasional Humor and B.S.) featuring Guest Musicians, Poets, and Other Creators because variety is the spice of life.
You know how it is when a love relationship is new and the
two sit and dream of a future together. They map out what it is they aspire to
share, the places they will go, things they will do, children they will raise.
I had a second chance when I was 35 and met my ex. We had big dreams – he had
big dreams, and his dreams became my dreams -- I dared not dream my own.
We were going to go to the Deep South and open hearts,
expand minds, spread the love of racial harmonics across Mississippi. We would
teach the people who, he assured me, were truly good-hearted well-meaning but
brainwashed. We would show them their brown-skinned brothers were the same as
they. I had long fought this battle in West Virginia; I jumped on the bandwagon
wholeheartedly, happily, joyfully in fact.
One night I had a vision. Crystal clear. A middle-aged heavy
set bearded white man in work clothes raised a rifle to his shoulder and aimed
it at my ex (who at the time was a handsome, dark-haired thirty-year-old). The
man was livid, shaking with anger. He spat hateful words as he lifted the
weapon and prepared to fire. I stepped forward between my ex and the angry man
just as the gun discharged. There was no tender death scene, no sobbing lover
cradling me in his arms, no deathbed confession of eternal devotion. I simply
took a bullet for him, and I died.
I felt this premonition on a gut level. I knew without a
doubt this was prophesy.
We never moved to Mississippi. We did our share of
community service. I did take a bullet for him, just not a literal piece of
metal to the heart. Still, I died that he might live. I stepped between the
angry man and the good man, and let the angry man take his wrath out on me to
preserve the good man’s life. Although I meant well, it didn’t accomplish what
I’d hoped it would. The good man lost me; the angry man simply reloaded and
fired again; and I died to both myself and the good man I sought to save.
They say three works the charm. I am resurrected. I have my own dreams now.
Although I still have a massive capacity to give and receive love, I’ve taken
my last bullet. Of course, there’s more to this story than what is here – there
always is.
Stay tuned for the next exciting chapter, and perhaps the backstory
as well. ~~GH
Happy Easter. ~~in loving memory of David Oso, who would be 13 now, and is, in my heart.
Winter and December/January in particular are difficult for many, many people. The gravitas of the holidays combine with shorter days, longer nights, in the Northern hemisphere colder temperatures. Winter is a time of reflection, of endings, of assessment. We weigh our lives and it is easy to find ourselves wanting. We are not perfect. Should we be surprised? Did we truly expect to obtain perfection in this lifetime? Is that a reasonable expectation? To all of us who struggle, who feel consumed with darkness, who suffer from the weight of our own internal critic, I wrote this as a gentle reminder to you. All it takes is the barest glimmer of Light, and darkness is overcome. It's as simple, and profound, as that. Keep your chin up, don't give up the ship. Have hope. I love you.~~Ginger
Excerpt from "The Epic of Sadness" by Nizar Qabanni If a person without sadness is only a shadow of a person, does that conversely mean that a person with sadness realizes the fullness of personhood? Or is that fallacious thinking? I do not know, but I doubt it. But if it were so, I would overflow with personness. I would be the most complete person imaginable. People would stare at me on the streets and whisper in amazement at how much of a person I was. I am so tired of feeling sad. Sometimes I forget I am sad, and I laugh and make others laugh. Sometimes we laugh so hard, we have difficulty breathing. Sometimes the others tell me how happy I make them, how much they enjoy my company. How much I am loved. Sometimes. Then the episode draws to an end, and the others go home. And I am left alone with my thoughts and myself. I have spent most of my life by myself, with my thoughts. As a child, I spent the vast majority of my days locked outdoors, alone, while my siblings and mother stayed inside. At night, I was locked in my room, alone. My father conditioned me not to cry. He began when I was two weeks old and started spanking me every time I cried. The family story goes that his method was such a great success, I soon learned not to cry. I guess I was a quick study. Without going into a lot of how did I get Here from There (and it was an epic journey), I now am able to cry. Sometimes I wonder if it's a mathematical equation, that I must shed a certain number of tears in my lifetime to "catch up" to an equal sum or something. If it is, surely to God I am nearly there? I spend an inordinate amount of mental energy reminding myself it is not a weakness to cry, to feel sadness. I spend an inordinate amount of mental energy trying to convince myself there is nothing inherently wrong with me, that the reason I am alone is not because of some intrinsic flaw. I spend a significant amount of time telling myself I will be loved, I will not end my days alone, I am worthy and deserving and will be vindicated. And so today, my guest poet is once again Nizar Qabbani with his exquisite "The Epic of Sadness." I guess it's better than a sharp stick in the eye. Sorry I can't reach into my bag of tricks and haul out a smile for you. Thank you for reading and hang in there. Tomorrow's got to be a better day. ~~GHC Your love taught me to grieve and I have been in need, for centuries a woman to make me grieve for a woman, to cry upon her arms like a sparrow for a woman to gather my pieces like shards of broken crystal
Your love has taught me, my lady, the worst habits it has taught me to read my coffee cups thousands of times a night to experiment with alchemy, to visit fortune tellers
It has taught me to leave my house to comb the sidewalks and search your face in raindrops and in car lights and to peruse your clothes in the clothes of unknowns and to search for your image even…..even….. even in the posters of advertisements your love has taught me to wander around, for hours searching for a gypsies hair that all gypsies women will envy searching for a face, for a voice which is all the faces and all the voices…
Your love entered me…my lady into the cities of sadness and I before you, never entered the cities of sadness I did not know… that tears are the person that a person without sadness is only a shadow of a person…
Your love taught me to behave like a boy to draw your face with chalk upon the wall upon the sails of fishermen's boats on the Church bells, on the crucifixes, your love taught me, how love, changes the map of time… Your love taught me, that when I love the earth stops revolving, Your love taught me things that were never accounted for So I read children's fairytales I entered the castles of Jennies and I dreamt that she would marry me the Sultan's daughter those eyes.. clearer than the water of a lagoon those lips… more desirable than the flower of pomegranates and I dreamt that I would kidnap her like a knight and I dreamt that I would give her necklaces of pearl and coral Your love taught me, my lady, what is insanity it taught me…how life may pass without the Sultan's daughter arriving
Your love taught me How to love you in all things in a bare winter tree, in dry yellow leaves in the rain, in a tempest, in the smallest cafe, we drank in, in the evenings…our black coffee
Your love taught me…to seek refuge to seek refuge in hotels without names in churches without names… in cafes without names…
Your love taught me…how the night swells the sadness of strangers It taught me…how to see Beirut as a woman…a tyrant of temptation as a woman, wearing every evening the most beautiful clothing she possesses and sprinkling upon her breasts perfume for the fisherman, and the princes Your love taught me how to cry without crying It taught me how sadness sleeps Like a boy with his feet cut off in the streets of the Rouche and the Hamra
Your love taught me to grieve and I have been needing, for centuries a woman to make me grieve for a woman, to cry upon her arms like a sparrow for a woman to gather my pieces like shards of broken crystal
Came across a blog post from 2005 on an old MySpace account, where I'd written to a young friend who was suicidal. I wanted to plant a seed for a future time when he would need sustenance and I couldn't be there for him. My hopes were that by the time he needed it, the seed would have developed into a strong plant that bore fruit that would nourish and feed his soul. What I said was:
Those awful feelings we get, the ones where we are alienated from everything and everyone, are false. We are always (and I believe, eternally) interconnected with our loved ones. We are NEVER ALONE. We are as "alone" as each cell in our bodies, separate and distinct, but never, ever isolated. Depression and despair mask the Truth, but the Truth is -- you are a part of something significant and wondrous; you are loved, and nothing you could ever do, say, or think will change the Truth.
I believe my seed was a good one. Its Truth continues to resonate with me, even today. Perhaps if it had had more time to develop, to take root and grow, Vinny would have been able to self-comfort. He might have had the nourishment he needed to sustain him through the Long Dark Night of his soul. As it happened, my seed fell on barren ground. It had neither the time nor the conditions necessary to take root. One month later, Vinny hanged himself.
* * *
I have a lifelong tendency toward depression. I come by it honestly. It's as much a part of me as my hazel eyes and big feet, and just as understandable. I realize there is a biochemical aspect to depression, but I also believe some of it is almost a normal response to overwhelming stimuli. I've worked hard throughout my lifetime to collect tools to deal with my experiences so I wouldn't fall into deep depressions.
One of my earliest and crudest tools was to simply refuse to experience emotions. I walled off feelings like Montressor walled up Fortunado in "Cask of Amontillado." I eventually discovered that memories live inside us, not behind those walls we so conveniently walk away from. We cannot escape our memories. Oh, I know people try that all the time -- with drugs and alcohol and other escape attempts. Psst: It won't work.
My current policy is to refuse to wall off my feelings. I feel those sons-of-bitches to the depth, and breadth, and height of their being. I taste every subtle undertone and smell every hint of . I *experience*. I submit to my emotions.
Apparently, a LOT of my emotions involve tears. Happy tears, sad tears, angry tears, lonely tears, hopeless tears, hopeful tears. Tears, period. I began to consider the possibility that I was depressed. Why else would I cry so often? Maybe I need help from an outside source. Then I realized that I am just experiencing the natural results of, well, experiencing and feeling emotions on a deep level.
Being left for another woman by the man you've loved for twenty years is surely tear-inducing stuff. That seems like an appropriate reaction to me under the circumstances. I've pretty much processed through the shock and horror of it now. I've worked through mourning the future-that-will-never-be. I no longer burst into tears when I see old couples holding hands, or when I read about high-number anniversary celebrations I will never mimic.
I've dealt with the security aspect of being a single woman again, and I think I have that down pat. I am no longer afraid although I did go through a brief period of concern. I felt a little twinge of it yesterday when I realized that I have no male protectors left once my son moves out of state Monday. But I'm a big girl. :) And besides, I have a Mossberg shotgun that I am well-trained to use. I also have no reluctance to use it. Guilt is not a huge component of my tool set.
One of the hardest things to deal with involves wrestling with my perceptions of failure. Did I truly do everything I could have? No. No, I did not. I let my anger and pain wall me off. I withheld parts of me that I could have shared. I acted childishly in many instances. I made mistakes. I didn't reach out as much as I could have. Instead, I hid behind my concept of agency and live-and-let-live, and allowed another woman to march in with her hand outstretched and walk away with him rather than to risk intruding into his private thoughts.
To be truthful, I grew weary of trying. I grew tired of reaching out and having my hand slapped away. I grew tired of standing with my hand extended for days, weeks, months, and having it ignored. In reality, it's a wonder that *I* didn't seek out another partner. Instead, I learned how to exist totally isolated and emotionally unsupported. The meaning I made was that I didn't deserve love, that "this" was the best I could expect, that I should be thankful for the crumbs that made their way onto my plate.
* * *
So what do I want now? Oh my. I am an overflowing vessel. I am a heavy laden cherry tree, bent beneath the weight of ripe succulent fruit. I am filled to capacity and ready to burst. I have so much to offer, to give, to share. I have this very real sense of Time Lost, of immediacy, of urgency. I feel like an Italian or Jewish grandmother, you know the one who urges "Eat! Have another bite!" I want to pour myself out. I have so much to offer that was unappreciated for so long. And I know it's good. Whoever takes me on for this final phase will be a very happy man.
I spent far too much time sitting in a gray fog waiting to die. There was no reason to live; each successive year was just a repeat of the one before. Nothing I did changed the outcome; I was powerless to help direct my life.
Now I see glimpses of the woman I truly am. The one who, like John Dunbar in "Dances with Wolves," rides Cisco across the Confederate battle line with her arms flung wide open and her eyes closed -- totally offering herself body and soul, without fear, come-what-may. She has discovered the folly of curling up into a self-protective ball. She is no longer embarrassed to laugh out loud, or speak her mind freely.
I am working on filters right now. Maybe I'm a little over the "Full Tilt Boogie" line in some instances. But for now, I'd rather be too open than too closed. So if you are reading this, and you know me and are involved in my life outside of reading this blog, please . . . be gentle with my heart. Be honest with me. And if you're so inclined, come play me.~~GHC
