Don't We All?

Chalk this up as one of the rare times I will post something without attribution. I just believe someone needs to read it, and I am an obedient daughter of the Universe.

And while we're chatting, isn't this man's face beautiful? 

DON'T WE ALL?

I was parked in front of the mall wiping off my car. I had just come from the car wash and was waiting for my wife to get out of work. Coming my way from across the parking lot was what society would consider a bum. From the looks of him, he had no car, no home, no clean clothes, and no money. There are times when you feel generous but there are other times that you just don't want to be bothered. This was one of those "don't want to be bothered times." "I hope he doesn't ask me for any money," I thought. He didn't.

He came and sat on the curb in front of the bus stop but he didn't look like he could have enough money to even ride the bus. After a few minutes he spoke. "That's a very pretty car," he said. He was ragged but he had an air of dignity around him. His scraggly blond beard keep more than his face warm. I said, "thanks," and continued wiping off my car.

He sat there quietly as I worked. The expected plea for money never came. As the silence between us widened something inside said, "ask him if he needs any help." I was sure that he would say "yes" but I held true to the inner voice. "Do you need any help?" I asked. He answered in three simple but profound words that I shall never forget.

We often look for wisdom in great men and women. We expect it from those of higher learning and accomplishments. I expected nothing but an outstretched grimy hand. He spoke the three words that shook me. "DON'T WE ALL?" he said.

I was feeling high and mighty, successful and important, above a bum in the street, until those three words hit me like a twelve gauge shotgun. Don't we all?

I needed help. Maybe not for bus fare or a place to sleep, but I NEEDED HELP. I reached in my wallet and gave him not only enough for bus fare, but enough to get a warm meal and shelter for the day. Those three little words still ring true. No matter how much you have, no matter how much you have accomplished, you need help too.

No matter how little you have, no matter how loaded you are with problems, even without money or a place to sleep, YOU CAN GIVE HELP. Even if it's just a compliment, you can give that. You never know when you may see someone that appears to have it all. They are waiting on you to give them what they don't have. A different perspective on life, a glimpse at something beautiful, a respite from daily chaos, that only you through a torn world can see. 

Maybe the man was just a homeless stranger wandering the streets. Maybe he was more than that. Maybe he was sent by a power that is great and wise, to minister to a soul too comfortable in themselves.

Maybe God looked down, called an Angel, dressed him like a bum, then said, "go minister to that man cleaning the car, that man needs help."

DON’T WE ALL?
UNKNOWN

Hope When Traveling By Way of Sorrow

The Wailin' Jennys

By Way of Sorrow

By Way Of Sorrow

You've been taken by the wind
You have known the kiss of sorrow
Doors that would not take you in
Outcast and a stranger

You have come by way of sorrow
You have come by way of tears
But you'll reach your destiny
Meant to find you all these years
Meant to find you all these years

You have drunk a bitter wine
With none to be your comfort
You who once were left behind
You will be welcome at Love's table

You have come by way of sorrow
You have come by way of tears
But you'll reach your destiny
Meant to find you all these years
Meant to find you all these years

All the nights that Joy has slept
Will awake to days of laughter
Gone the tears that you have wept
Will dance in freedom ever after

You have come by way of sorrow
You have come by way of tears
But you'll reach your destiny
Meant to find you all these years
Meant to find you all these years

 But you'll reach your destiny 

Turning Negatives Into Positives

We often hear that a double negative makes a positive ("He was not incompetent" translates weakly into "He has competence" although it suggests there is some other problem). I looked up the "double negative" definition and information and it turns out there is WAY too much of it for me to post about here. Suffice it to say, a double negative can be positive, or negative, or even neutral. Language is like that. I'm not a grammarian nor do I pretend to play one in any capacity. 

From Wikipedia: Historically, Chaucer made extensive use of double, triple, and even quadruple negatives in his Canterbury Tales. About the Friar, he writes "Ther nas no man no wher so vertuous" ("There never was no man nowhere so virtuous"). About the Knight, "He nevere yet no vileynye ne sayde / In all his lyf unto no maner wight" ("He never yet no vileness didn't say / In all his life to no manner of man").

I do toy with the idea of creating a dictionary for concepts the English language lacks words for. There are so many! For example: What is the word for a parent whose child has died? As far as I'm aware, there isn't such a term, and we need one.

The following image is what triggered my musings on double negatives.

This little poster is intended to be positive and encouraging. For me, the most clear message is that the creator reached out of the bowels of Hell to convey a message of hope. Despite a deluge of double negatives and weak language, the bottom line floats in the rain gutter: Keep going - light is on its way.

Wienie Roast

This post is incredibly long (1500 words) and the subject matter is heavy. So if you are in a hurry or looking for a little ditty to entertain yourself with today, move along -- nothing to see here. Catch me tomorrow. :) I'll be happy to see you then.~~GHC

Wienie Roast

Today a dark cloud fell over my thoughts. It occurred to me how limited I am, how little I've accomplished, what a wienie I am. Why haven't I written my books? Why, why, why.

Immediately, unbidden, I remembered that this “wienie” once chewed through the wooden slats of her playpen to escape. Forget the conditions that led to that act of desperation because they are lost to history. The important thing is the persistence of the human spirit – of my spirit. I wonder how many hours it took to completely chew through and force my small body between the bars and squeeze through.

My stroke essay popped into my head next and I thought of the years I spent struggling just to speak a coherent sentence, to write something readable again. I remembered the years that followed my car accident in March 2002, several of them overlapped my recovery from the stroke event, when I could hardly walk. Until 2008, I literally had to crawl on my hands and knees to go up stairs.

That made me remember the couple of months our family lived with my son and daughter-in-law following the house fire and our subsequent eviction. Their apartment was upstairs and of course, it was damned hard (and dignity-destroying, needless to say) to scramble up a flight of steps like an animal.

I am not a wienie.

I was not a wienie when I pushed my IV pole across the hospital courtyard an hour after I got out of recovery room following my second breast surgery in two weeks' time. It was New Year's eve 1999, the eve of the millenium. Snow spit from a slate sky as I navigated two surgical drains and a morphine drip, my winter coat loosely around my shoulders. What motivated this Herculean effort? I wanted a cigarette!

I was not a wienie when I drove myself to chemotherapy and endured that poison. I was not a wienie when I got third-degree burns from radiation and figured out how to treat my wounds myself since the radiation oncologist seemed helpless to provide a solution (put VERY CLEAN room temperature wet washcloths on the burn until the cloth is warm to the touch, remove, re-wet, replace, repeat until the heat stops being given off through the burn. This will take literally hours but works with all burns to stop subsequent damage).

In 1992, when I sat with my brother at University of Cincinnati Burn ICU after he suffered third-degree burns over 80% of his body and bagged him with an Ambu bag so the staff had more hands to quickly change his bandages so he wouldn't have to suffer as long, or assured him I'd take care of the leprechaun he hallucinated while he was weaning off morphine and on methadone, or when I made the unilateral decision for the surgeons not to amputate both his forearms – nope, not a wienie.

When the doctors suggested my brother would make a wonderful organ donor because of his general health and youth, and I urged them not to withdraw life support – to let HIM decide if he wanted to fight to live, that it was not our right to make that decision for him – I was not a wienie.

When my son's head delivered in the car on the way to the birth center, I was not a wienie. When I endured years of systemic abuse as a child, nope, not a wienie then either. I have experienced misogyny on a profound scale in my lifetime, social and cultural systemic abuse and neglect.

When I was a divorced mother of two trying to raise my babies without child support for my son (which eventually accumulated to over $224,000) and I made $8 too much per month to qualify for food stamps or child care assistance, and my child care bill totaled 60% of my take-home pay and my father berated me for not taking on a second job but I refused to because I didn't want my children totally raised by somebody else – I was not a wienie then.

I created a game out of going through dumpsters collecting aluminum cans and glass bottles to recycle so we had enough money to eat out once a week. It served as both an outing and an income of sorts. I remembered thinking how my father was probably at the symphony or a rose society meeting right then and how horrified he'd be if someone saw me.

When I begged the man from the water company not to turn off my water because I used cloth diapers and mixed my son's powdered formula with water, and most of the food I cooked required water to prepare – I was not a wienie then. And neither was he when he went out and pretended to turn off the water and came back and warned me he would lose his job if I told a soul. (I never told until now. Thank you, Mister. You probably saved my life).

The month both my grandfather and favorite aunt died and my electricity and water got turned off and I voluntarily placed my four- and one-year-old children in temporary foster care so I could receive in-hospital treatment for depression, and despite the State's promise to keep them together, they were placed in two different homes – I was not a wienie then either.

When my agreement with the State was that I would have two weeks post-hospitalization to adjust and heal before my children came back home but the worker decided she would transfer legal custody to my ex-husband if I didn't take them back the day I was discharged – not a wienie then.

When it turned out the final straw in the whole depression dynamic had been I simply needed thyroid medication and if the doctor had only recognized or tested me for that, I wouldn't have spent months trying to find someone to agree to care for my children after I died, I didn't lose hope.

These are but a few not-a-wienie situations out of many, many dozens more throughout my lifetime. I won't but touch on being methodically beaten by my alcoholic lover and the creative excuses I offered for my various injuries because society's disapproval of interracial relationships was so much bigger than anyone's desire to help a woman find her way out of Hell.

I'll leave it to your imagination what it felt like to sit in a sheriff's office and have him tell me in a patronizing tone of voice that a three-year-old's testimony against a sexual abuser won't stand up in a courtroom, that there was nothing I could do to save others or I'd be charged with slander. Additionally, he offered the example that a thirteen-year-old girl was a poor witness too “because she might just have changed her mind and been a willing participant.” My sarcasm was lost on him when I added “I get it, just like an old woman would be a bad witness because she might just be senile, right?”

Having never been one to know when to leave something well enough alone, I felt compelled to ask “So just what IS the ideal age to be raped?” He had no answer.

Like I say, there are dozens and dozens and dozens more of these situations I've survived. Every time I tell even one lone story, people exclaim “How did you survive that? You are so strong!” All I can think is “That's nothing” and “You do what you have to do.” I don't share these experiences to elicit pity – I do not need you to feel sorry for me. I appreciate your compassionate spirit but do not feel bad for me.

What I do ask is that you do not judge me or criticize my housekeeping or my weight or my health or why I don't look at things from a whitebread point of view. I ask that you do not presume I am unaware of the way society works, nor do you suggest I don't understand what it means to be marginalized.

Don't tell me we have no choice in how to view our world. Don't call me a survivor. We're all survivors, we're all marching forward one step at a time. We are all heroes in our own plays. Don't compare your path to mine. Just keep putting one foot forward on your own journey. My friend Karen quotes a Japanese proverb, fall down seven times, get up eight.

I'm here to tell you not to stop at eight. 

Pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and start all over again. Why? To paraphrase Yoda, “There is no why. There is only do.”

Because we are not wienies.

Fed From the Blade Cover Announced

Unexpected news today! Woodland Press released the above image of its latest forthcoming publication, "Fed From the Blade," due to be released in a couple of weeks (I'm guessing). This book is special to me for several reasons.

"Fed From the Blade" contains my short story "Bringing Home the Bacon." The unnamed narrator is a crone instructing a young person on the finer aspects of, well, bringing home the bacon (in the realest sense of that phrase's meaning). I wanted to preserve a traditional procedure, and I experimented with how best to disturb the reader without being at all graphic.

I believe I succeeded wildly, in both regards.

My mentor Cat Pleska edited the book. She also designed the composition of the cover, arranged the apples, chose a special knife from her daddy's collection, and created the photograph for "Fed From the Blade." 

Co-editor Michael Knost sat across a table from me not two months ago over Mexican food in the Barboursville Mall and issued a challenge for me to begin writing again. He urged me not to let the chaos in my private life rob the world of my gifts and talents. He demanded that I attend my readers.

Cat has supported me in so many ways over the past couple of years that words are inadequate. Suffice it to say that there are portions of my walk down Life's Beach where the single set of footprints belong to her and not me and I mean that in the most respectful way. I am eternally grateful, Cat.

Close to a dozen of my colleagues and friends are also involved in this wonderful anthology. My friend since first grade, Marion Kee, has her poem "On Hearing Bill Withers in the Ninth Grade" in "Fed From the Blade." I am tickled that fifty years after we first met, two of our word babies have likewise met on the pages of this book and will march hand-in-hand together throughout Time for future readers to enjoy. And if that sounds corny, well, that's how I roll tonight. 

Thank you for your loyalty and love, from the bottom of my heart, and from the little girl version of me -- the one who inspires and encourages me to be who I am and to have the courage to share it with you.~~GHC

Pre-order information

Spittin' In the Wind

So maybe I've been clubbing you guys over the head with honesty a little hard lately. Time for a lighter touch. Like a lot of fiction, this rings true. It is still fiction. :)

Spittin' In the Wind 

Grandma's clichés got me through breast cancer treatment although I
gritted my teeth every time she spouted one.

Waiting for the initial diagnosis, she told me "waiting is the
hardest part" and "no news is good news." I wept with fear. "What if
I have cancer, Grandma? What if I die?" She hugged me and smoothed
my hair. "It's Hobson's choice, child. One man does everything right
and gets it; the next does everything wrong and doesn't. Let's just
wait and see what happens. Time will tell."

When no news became bad news, she switched to "behind every cloud is
a silver lining" and "count your blessings." I counted the blessing
of no more pregnancies, expected or otherwise. Grandma hugged me and
said, "Child, it's a hard row to hoe but look on the bright side. A
bird in the hand's worth two in the bush." I enjoyed my birds. When
a large portion of my breast was removed, Grandma winked and
said, "a half-pint's better than no pint at all."

We spent a lot of time on our knees during my years of cancer
treatment. When I was weak as a kitten from a series of
debilitating cancer treatments, she said, "It's always darkest
before the dawn" and "this too shall pass." Too exhausted to even
stand in the shower to wash up, Grandma recommended to "give it a
lick and a promise. It'll keep." My hair fell out – Grandma said it
went "hand over fist." When I saw myself in the mirror for the first
time, "bald as a cue ball," I cried. Grandma told me "beauty is only
skin deep" and "all cats are gray in the dark." Then she
added "life's not so bad when you consider the alternative." How
could I disagree?

When my hair grew back in, kinky and unmanageable, Grandma wisely
said, "The devil you know is better than the devil you don't know."
When the cancer spread to my lungs and I wanted to give up, Grandma
urged me to "tough it out" and bet me "dollars to doughnuts" the
doctor was wrong. "To put it in a nutshell, I have faith."

A woman in my support group traveled abroad, desperately seeking
unconventional cancer treatment. She offered to pay for my ticket
and urged me to accompany her. I asked Grandma what she
thought. "You might get left in the lurch. You don't know what'll
happen and you'll be far from home. Grandma said, "Don't try and
shoe a goose, girl. Those quack treatments are leaves without
figs. Your doctor's worth his salt, warts and all. Your friend's
looking for a needle in a haystack. You stick to your guns."

I wondered if a trip to the tropics might lift my spirit. Maybe I
could go along and not take the treatment. Grandma read me the riot
act. "There ain't no such thing as a free lunch. Honey, going along
on that wild goose chase, wasting your energy – why, there's no
rhyme or reason to it. Your friend's at sixes and sevens. Someone's
convinced her they found the Holy Grail. Lord love her, she's
tilting at windmills. I'm afraid she's done crossed the Rubicon, and
now she's running around like a chicken with its head cut off. I'll
not have you dragged pillar to post to suit her fancy. You stand pat
and stick with your treatment. Thank her and tell her no, thank
you." I thanked her for her kind offer, and stayed at home.

The woman passed away shortly after her tropical odyssey and Grandma
said, "Poor thing was only thirty-five and looking down the barrel
of a gun. She got pipped at the post. Well, time and tide wait for
no man. That woman's cancer grew like topsy, bless her heart. You're
different, I swan. Your treatment's up to snuff; I can feel it in my
bones, girl." Later on I realized my grandmother had invested as
much energy talking me out of that trip as she had the remainder of
the five years of my treatment.

My doctor ordered tests to gauge the effectiveness of my treatment.
Grandma and I sat on tenterhooks, waiting for test results. "There's
a light at the end of the tunnel, girl," she said.

"But what if it's a train, Grandma?"

"Don't worry about the horse bein' blind, child," she said. "Just
keep loading the wagon." We spent more time on our knees. I said my
daily affirmations. Friends brought meals, and my treatments
continued. Grandma pulled out all stops, praying constantly for my
recovery. "Give it the whole nine yards. Keep your back to the wall,
girl," Grandma advised. "By hook or by crook, we're going to beat
this thing."

Finally, the test results showed the cancer had
disappeared. "Between you, me, and the gatepost," Grandma
said, "That was too close for comfort. Sure got nip and tuck at
times. Praise God and pass the chocolate cake." Everyone around me
celebrated. "Ain't this just the life of Reilly?" Grandma
teased. "Now you're footloose and fancy-free." I laughed. I still
had four children to raise. I was relieved but the specter of cancer
still loomed just around the corner. "You do your dead level best.
Keep putting one foot in front of the other. Eat good food, take
your treatments, bend those knees every night. You won't kick the
bucket any time soon, I promise."

Grandma left us a month later. Her last words were "nail your colors
to the mast, Child, and never give up."

Now I tell my children, "Never underestimate the power of a woman.
The more things change, the more they stay the same. Don't worry, be
happy. Today's the first day of the rest of your life. Live it with
gusto. Give it everything you've got – lock, stock and barrel." Then
I add, "Nail your colors to the mast, Child, and never give up."

Absence makes the heart grow fonder.~~GHC

Depression, Hope, Love

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