Ordinarily

I'd said just last night to one friend that I'd bury bodies for my best friend, so loyal am I, and she is so 'there' for me, and now I find myself at the kitchen door of her niece's first cousin's house wondering why the kitchen lights are on. Well, not her house, well, yes, her house, but really her parents' house who just decided like that to go abroad indefinitely and instructed her via voice mail to watch the house while she was on break from school but didn't even bother to ask her if she'd made plans. She had, and was indeed well on her way to them, so I was drafted to medicate the ancient cat, and keep an eye on the place and since I was conveniently (or rather inconveniently for me) in between places, how could I say no and I fumble with the alarm code while watching a tall man with broad shoulders (they all have them, I've noticed) making hamburgers in a frying pan at the gigantic stove in the lavish and no expenses spared house. He's a stranger to me and no doubt I'm one to him and he turns just as I open the door. The cat is snoring in an empty laundry basket on the kitchen island. Stranger says, 'Do you know where his medication is?' Just as I ask him who he is and he doesn't even wait for my answer, he says, 'Bill. I'm Bill', and turns back to his burger. 

'Do you want cheese or carrots?'

'Excuse me, did you say carrots?'

I think to myself, 'Well, I wouldn't consider carrots ordinarily but they are healthy' and  he says, 'I wouldn't consider carrots ordinarily but they're healthy' and every hair (not many exist, I want to point out that I'm not an APE) stands up on end and I feel this zing of glee, kindred spirit and weight of dread, serial killer with the ability to read minds? Ordinarily I would question him. Okay, I would back him up against a wall and interrogate him but I'm considerably smaller than him (which is rather uncommon) although a part of me would certainly like to back him up against a wall and he me but I walk past him to Jennifer's bedroom. To get the cat's medicine. Top drawer, dresser next to the second window on the left.

 And I drop the bottle which rolls beyond my reach and I silently wonder about the physics of anything rolling anywhere on a shag carpet so thick and when the hell did shag come back and who the hell buys it and how could such a gorgeous house in such an affluent area even allow shag carpeting to be installed on its floors and then remember that Jennifer is a kid but not really because she's in college and even, abroad, only in the opposite direction from her mom and step-dad and I also think about how I have a passport but have never actually left the continent. This 'kid' gets around more than I do and I mull that over while on my knees looking for the bottle of medicine behind or under a dresser too big for me to move. 

I reach up to turn on a lamp but the cord switch is beyond my reach but seconds later it's on and I feel fabric (linen, summer-weight, nice) brush against my hand and then he is on his hands and knees beside me asking me what we're looking for. Ordinarily, I would suppress the smile playing on my lips and fake outrage, well maybe not entirely fake, that this stranger hasn't even told me why he's here when *I*, *I* was given the responsibility of watching the cat and the house and the 1500 satellite stations and the fucking jacuzzi (well, not fucking, but well, yeah, it could be) and the pantry and bar, and I look down to better keep my cool although it's kind of cool that he's down there on the floor helping.

 And I see scattered among the carpet strands--are they strands? Fibers? It's a shag--is it carpet fur? are tiny little stone chips, semi-precious mostly, and they're EVERYWHERE as if something exploded and now I see a bigger pieces around but no more than a half inch or centimetre or so and I see snowflake obsidian, sunstone, lime green calcite, ocean jasper, apatite that blue is sort of rare, and I begin to pluck them and pocket them since I don't have a bag or anything but I do consider a pillowcase which is just as out of reach as the cord on the lamp and he says, 'I just came in from a movie shoot in Europe (everything is vaguely 'Europe')  and Jennifer's parents were gracious enough to let me stay here and I'm sure they meant to tell someone.'

Europe? Movie shoot? I don't say it but it's clear on my face as I look up from the floor into very warm brown, no green, no brown-y green, they kind of dance, eyes mmmm and oh no..I'm not going to, fuck you, ...well...ordinarily...wait not fuck you fuck you, but you know, fuck you I'm not falling for that shit fuck you, but he sees it on my face and offers more like a question, 'I'm big in Europe?'

This time I can't help but laugh. Okay, he's an actor, I get it. He's big there but not here, but he is big here too as evidenced by those shoulders and even on his hands and knees he's a foot taller than me and I'm kind of tall for a woman and he asks me what I'm picking up and I tell him that Jennifer has stones and crystals all over her floor and I'm picking them up and he asks me why and I turn my head sideways and without thinking I say, 'I really don't know.' I pick up a clear quartz point and say, 'Here', and he takes it and I say, 'Close your eyes and take a deep breath through your nose, feel the cool air in, and then breathe out through your mouth, warm air out, don't think, just breathe and feel the stone', and he does and shock fills his face and he drops it and sits back or up and says, 'What the hell was that', and I say, 'It's the vibration of the crystal' and I laugh and at once it's high and sparkles in the air above us and I fall down on my side and laugh deeper at this, with this stranger, this Bill, how odd this whole scenario is, I'm hunting for treasures with a giant and I don't feel the dread or suspicion anymore although a voice in the back of my mind says, Oh that's the last thought anyone has before their throat is cut and another voice says, Oh way to go with the melodrama, and I stop laughing and smile at him and he smiles at me. 

 

'The last time I heard 'I'm big in Europe....'...He nods and says, 'Yeah, obviously I'm not that actor. But the work is steady, the pay is great and I can come here and be anonymous. I'm sorry no one told  you. I didn't know you'd be here either until about half an hour ago when your friend called to see if you'd arrived.'

'It's okay, but I'm not leaving so we have to share. I don't really have anywhere to go and I like it here. I can come here and be anonymous too. At least for a week and I promised to take care of the cat.'

'Waterloo'

'Napoleon'. 

'Right. That would explain why he didn't come when called.'

'He didn't come when called because he's deaf. He's also a cat.'

'Right'. He moves a hand over his scalp and down his face. His hair is light brown and thinning, I see the receding hairline. It's short, shaved by the looks of it,  but growing in and just the way I happen to like it and I tell myself, 'no, just...no'. Self mumbles back something unintelligible.

I feel nervous. It sideswipes me and I don't like feeling something and not knowing why and I fight the urge to get up and do something but I don't because I like it here with him, talking on the floor, so I start picking up more stones, crawling around, so he starts picking up more stones, and begins to ask me what each one is. That one is a celestine or blue barite, the light isn't good....angelic realms. That one looks like a citrine, that one ooh that one is nice..tiger's eye. They all have different meanings, different vibrations...' 

'They're nice. The colors.'  He hands me a chunk of rose quartz and an amethyst cluster. 'Rose quartz is for love.'  I blush. Why did I blush, did I just blush? 'I mean, not just romantic love, but heart healing, self-love.....amethyst is peaceful. Both great stones.'

The room isn't, but it feels very small, but not claustrophobic. Cozy. We could be having a picnic. The carpeting is grass green, the walls are blue, the sun is shining through the windows.  We just need a blanket and some ants. And some burgers. 'Your burgers?' 

'They're okay. I know how to cook. I mean, they're on low, lid, steam? You like onions too?'

We talk. I really don't remember anything except for little bits and pieces like the stones all around us. At one point we're sitting up against the foot board of the bed and laughing. 

'You. You have a great laugh.' 

'Yes, the snorting is quite ladylike, I know'.

'No, really.' and he leans in and just like that he kisses me and it's a question, 'Would you, will you?' and I kiss him back and it's a question too, 'Do that some more and can I think about it while you do it some more?' and I can feel him smile through our kisses and I say, without stopping because to be perfectly truthful, it's been a while, 'You don't even know my name'.

'He says, 'Lenny. Your name is Lenny.'

'Lainey'

'Right.'

'You can call me 'Lenny'.

I think about the possibility of me prancing around in the baby-dolls I only get to dance around in for my own entertainment and my heart skips a little and I remember my mother telling me she was disappointed that I wasn't a virgin for my wedding and then I think that she would have been even more disappointed if she knew my ex was actually gay, but probably more in me than him and for the first time ever, I think about how I don't care what anyone thinks and while ordinarily I wouldn't jump into such things, I try to say that I'm spontaneous but there are rules and stuff which means by default, no spontaneous and I imagine myself getting naked with this guy and stop. The fight inside is relentless but I think the happy is going to win because it's telling the scared not to penalize him for what anyone else ever did and I agree with the happy and his next kiss is definitely that question and I sit back and say, 'I really need a shower. Do you know where the towels are? I'd be right back. I just need to....hot water, shampoo...?' He says, 'I'm doing laundry. The towels are in the washer.' 'All of them?' 'Yes, well, no...there's a washcloth or dishcloth or ten, I think'.

I reconsider. Not just the shower but everything. He sees this. He sees this internal debate and he waits. No pressure. Want, desire, but no pressure. And he's here with me, and me with him. I can feel him and reach out to him if I want to and he's here and real and just as I think that, he takes my arm and runs one finger down the inside to my wrist and lifts my hand to his mouth and kisses it gently and waits. I feel my entire body relax and I say, 'Carrots' and he smiles and I know everything will be all right.

Perfect Offering

There is a common misconception that strength means 'impervious' and similar such adjectives somehow construing that strong people have transcended the usual human conditions and no longer have lapses of depression, self-pity or worse, have completely recovered from and enjoy the amnesia of the usual or unusual traumas of life. But that's bullshit. The strongest people I know are those who have suffered and continue to put themselves 'out there' because they believe in life, love, the generosity and compassion of humanity and that not everyone is a colossal asshole and sifting through the rubble is worth it even though if you get tetanus or worse, a papercut on your tongue. Those fuckers hurt.

The walking wounded recognize each other. We don't wear team uniforms; unnecessarily redundant.  It's in the lines in our faces, around our eyes where they catch the tears, the grief and the exhaustion and circle around our mouths where they capture our rueful chuckles and smirks of surrender to reality. This is life and we didn't sign up for it, except perhaps at the dawn of time during some kind of karmic powwow where I saw you and you and you and thought you were awesome and a bright new soul (and you, me) and I could never predict you might become a colossal asshole rampaging through life destroying everything in your path including yourself and I was just in the way and you didn't recognize me because I wasn't wearing our gang colors. I love you anyway, even if you don't know me. It doesn't change the volume of tears but it does change the enthusiasm with which I enter into new agreements and relational contracts. I think that's part of the learning process, spiritual schooling, if you will.

There is a duality to my nature that those who are...I won't use the word lucky...but perhaps, patient and tolerant enough to endure my frailty and flailing, able to see that the rest of the world, no matter how much they think they know me, never will. There is so much that I do give to everyone that they assume I have a natural gift and complete lack of discretion for dissecting and filleting my everything for public consumption that they don't realize, likely because there's just SO MUCH there, that it's only a part of me. They have some insights into the cracks, nooks and crannies but there are things about me that people who've known me my entire life will never see perhaps because I don't even know it myself. Truthfully, I try to spare them of so much of it because pity parties are exhausting and completely unproductive and when I love someone, it's spirit, mind, heart and soul and that means being unbelievably vulnerable and the very things that you're most vulnerable about, those tender buttons, are the very thing they can and often do use against you when you least expect it or it's most expedient to them and I've had enough of that for several karmic incarnations, thank you. And yet, and yet, I still try. I still want love, to be loved, to give love.

I have a fairly recent interest in the metaphysical properties and energy frequencies in crystals and stones and how they relate to our own energies, auras, chakras and meridians and at the moment, it fascinates me to no end. It's a fairly inexpensive hobby if you don't lose your mind bidding for the rare stuff on Ebay but among the metaphysical community you make friends fast with some great benefits. Their generosity is quite astounding, actually, and some of the best crystals I've ever received were actually surprise gifts with purchase. One stone I had a quick affinity for and attraction to, I actually did purchase, called a Herkimer diamond quartz, the authentic stones only being found in a mine in Herkimer, NY. The high frequency of the stone is such that anyone can feel the 'buzz' and it's quite stimulating. It's fun.

The unusual thing about these stones is that unlike other quartzes, it grows from a type of umbilicus so you have an extremely clear crystal with a more often than not little scar, or belly button at the bottom of the crystal. Termination points (the pointy ends) focus the energy and double termination points (one at each end) makes a relationship of give and take with the energy of the stone to you and back to it or the user if they're using it in energy work, like Reiki. Couples can actually get a pair and program them with spiritual or mental images of their love for each other and the beloved can actually 'feel' that loving energy when they hold the crystal. I love this idea and one day would like to put it to the test. I like my own personal singleton Herkimer diamond quartz and carry it in a little bag with me and play with it like a talisman or worry stone and the more I meditate the more I feel that addictive 'buzz'. I'm told that's because my own frequency or vibration is aligning with the Universe or Source or even the crystals themselves and it's not the crystals that have changed at all but me. Which is cool. These vibrations can be measured, both in the stones, in animate and inanimate objects, including me. It's quantifiable, and scientifically proven which appeals supremely to the geekette in me.

So today was a not so very good horrible bad awful day and on my ride home from a mostly unproductive six hours, I played with my stone and had a good cry in the car. I used to spend a great deal of crying and grieving over the loss of my husband's love, the loss of Spooky Oats' love, the loss of half my family, and for a long time my health and I was fairly tired of all of it and wanted some semblance of a healthy happy life so I decided that the tears had to stop and I had to try something new and I set out on a linear path that ended up being more like a game of Twister, only worse, the sheet was upside down and I had sudden unexplainable color-blindness. In the end (although I don't consider the end 'the end' until I take my last breath) of the beginning of this journey or path, I decided that all of this crap had to stop. I had to patch up the cracks in my heart, my psyche, my body and energy fields, and get ready for a newer better Lainey, a Lainey 2.0, a Super-Lainey but I forgot that all those seemingly negative things are all part of the human condition and there was nothing wrong with the tears, the anger, the loneliness; it was just part of the process of dealing with shit. I had to stop being so hard on myself and accept me for me because I was magnificent even in the depths of my sorrow and that sorrow would end. The well had a bottom, I was in it, the only way out was up and I was climbing, breaking a few nails along the way, cursing up a storm, stopping for a few tears, wiping them away and kept climbing.

I talked to my angels, I talked to my spirit guides, I talked to my spirit animals, I talked to my intuitive friends, I talked to Father God and Jesus and Buddha and Krishna, and Shiva, et al;, Spirit and Universe and the Vortex and everything and as is typical of me since even before I could enunciate the word 'vocabulary' I relaxed and began to recover little by little. There are fits and starts and a great many leaps backwards after a few teensy steps forward but I see progress and I do see that I do indeed like and even love me, the me that is dualistic, and strong and vulnerable and weepy and clingy and aloof and loony and I held this Herkimer diamond in my hand while driving home thinking about all these things and absentmindedly brushed my thumb across the unlovely little bump, the belly button of the crystal that isn't as uniform or smooth as the rest of it, the scar, the evidence of the beginning and the frailty and flailing and I felt a jolt and a stupidly silly epiphany that the truth is not in the superficial, the perfectly formed beauty without flaws. It was the flaws themselves, the very things that make us vulnerable and sad and thoughtful, the cracks, as Leonard Cohen sings in Anthem,

'Ring the bells that still can ring. Forget your perfect offering. There is a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in. '

That IS how the light gets in. Where is the joy in flawless perfection, where is the relatable truth of our commonality, where is the warmth and comfort of the cold, austere and rare? How much have I or you overlooked because we're looking for perfect and rare and untroubling and easy when the deepest beauty and joy is the brokenness. This is the source of our strength should we recognize and embrace it and realize that, THAT is our beauty and our perfect offering to the world, to Spirit and to ourselves.

The War Zone

I once, with a great deal of trepidation, showed a blog entry to the person it was written about. It didn't depict them in a great light, although it was written with much love, which was the reason why, after much internal debate, I decided upon showing it to her. I told her that I had added and changed a few things to make the story more free-flowing but the truth remained and the story told itself. I also wanted her opinion on my writing, as she taught literature, and after she read it, she took her reading glasses off and said, 'Elaine, YOU are a writer. You have a real talent, a natural gift and you have many many books in you. You must write and don't ever censor yourself worrying about how someone is depicted, if you're telling your own truth because you will stifle that gift and that would be criminal. Don't worry about offending me or anyone else.'

That was one of the best pieces of free advice I've ever gotten and I soaked it in, like a sponge, heart and soul and that's why you read what I write, written honestly, candidly, with my heart and soul, regardless of the cost, because secrets are kept by those who know it's wrong.

When I was growing up, food was a huge consuming issue and source of great strife. My family had always lived in a two-family house, common in Hudson County, NJ, and my maternal grandparents owned the house, and my parents were their tenants. When we lived in one town, we lived downstairs. When we moved to the other town, we lived upstairs. No matter where we were, we were always under my grandmother's and by association, my uncle's (her youngest, and older than me by only three years) thumb. He was a monstrously spoiled brat and she was a petty tyrant. My grandfather was smart, handed over his check, and never said a word. He spent most of his free time in the basement workshop or sneaking a cigarette when he wasn't working extra hours at a meat-packing plant in the Bronx. When he had mandatory vacation, he would arrange for his boss to call him on the second day to tell him to come back because of some fabricated emergency and my grandmother had free-reign to rule our world. She did with the zeal of a Grand Inquisitor.

In her own capacity, I knew she loved me, us, all of us, by varying degrees but it was overshadowed by the ability to make even grown men shudder in fear or avoid her at all costs, nevermind little children. She felt (and still does) she had the right to run my parents' marriage, our upbringing, every aspect of our lives and often tag-teamed with my mother in terrorizing us with threats, shame and humiliation. We were beaten or whipped with switches regularly. My father was not a reliable breadwinner and she made sure that he was aware of that even when he was working regularly.

Although he'd been to technical schools (and would earn several technical diplomas over the course of his lifetime) he didn't have any jobs that had anything to do with his schooling and could only find work doing menial labor, usually as a warehouseman. When he did come home, my mother would have dinner waiting, and then he would either lie down and read or watch TV in the den. I would often join him until a certain age where he told me that I was 'too big'. I've mentioned my complicated relationship with my dad before, but most of the bad stuff revolved around food. In fact, most of the bad stuff with everything was permeated by food dysfunction.

My mother often begged my grandmother for money so we could have milk or bread because she couldn't make ends meet from payday to payday or my dad just wasn't working. He would mysteriously quit or lose jobs and it was always someone else's fault. Often, my grandmother would waive the rent or let my mother float it. Both women were in charge of finances by sheer necessity. The men were neither interested nor skilled in household finances. This was rather common in our area, so it wasn't odd at all, in fact, this was the case in most of my friends' families.

To teach my mother a lesson and shame her, my grandmother would make her beg for food or money and there was always an atmosphere of tension and anxiety in the house whether or not there would be enough of anything. My grandmother also made my mother ashamed of each of her pregnancies (I was born six months after the wedding) and reminded her of the humiliation the family (meaning she) suffered because my parents had 'no self-control'. The night of my sister, the youngest's birth, my father came home ecstatic to tell them all about her and my grandmother was shocked because my mother was so afraid of her that she hid her entire pregnancy. My grandmother cut-off my father's happy descriptions and demanded that he 'stop production' or she would throw them out on the street. To this day she sees nothing wrong with this behavior. She fed us grudgingly and we ate fearfully. If we didn't eat what we were given (and we did, we did) we would be given a beating instead and food, for as long as I can remember, was used as a weapon and the threat of its lack, a torture device.

My mother was cowed by her mother but she had additional concerns. She was 26 with four small children and desperately needed help. She was very overwhelmed. Neither her mother nor her husband could be counted on for emotional support and rather than look for work, my father would spend his days across the street at his mother's house. His mother didn't approve of my mother because she wasn't Italian and my grandmother was offended by this and it further stoked the coals of resentment in her heart against my father and by association, us children who should not have been born.

My mother and father were both fat. In today's world, they would be considered 'chubby' but in the sixties and seventies, it was fat. My mother never spoke about her size nor did she even put me down for mine, as I was the oldest, and the heaviest child. I look at photographs of me from back then and clearly see that I myself wasn't fat, and barely chubby but was made to feel that way by my father and his mother. I don't ever recall my mother dieting, or discussing dieting, nor did she put any of us on one. She cooked healthy meals on a very tight budget and there was no money for junk food of any kind. When she had a good coupon for a sugary-type cereal, we would descend on it like a pack of wolves, because we believed we might never see it again. That would be the tone in the household when it came to treats or extras, feast or famine. We learned no moderation because we were always afraid there wasn't enough to go around. We gobbled everything up and often would later be sick. At holidays we would eat to discomfort and sometimes vomit, and then eat again, so afraid that there would be no more. The truth was that we never starved. Having a grandfather who was also a supervisor at a meat-packing plant had its privileges. He was allowed to bring home the bacon, literally, and my grandmother kept an old-fashioned ice-box in the basement full of bacon only. She knew exactly how much was in there so we could never go and take anything  although she had a king's ransom of it. Instead, my mother had to prostrate herself as usual, and endure the litany of her sins, and I think that there was some small rebellion in my mother that wasn't beaten out of her, that she refused to beg, hence we had many oatmeal and macaroni weeks.

My father himself could cook because his parents had their own businesses and he was a latch-key kid, meaning he had a key to the house on a string around his neck, during the Depression. My paternal grandmother owned a beauty salon and my grandfather owned a barber shop and kept the entire extended family employed during the hard times. Because of the power they wielded over the livelihoods of everyone, they were highly regarded and all swore fealty to them and had to make an appearance at the mandatory Sunday Dinner where my grandmother cooked a feast for the entire clan but during the week, my father, as a child was on his own and had to cook for himself because after work, his mother and father would close shop and play cards all night long. My dad consoled himself with food. His mother told him, that because she had him at 40, he ruined her beautiful figure and never let him forget that and that he was fat. She would continue to berate him for his size, while feeding him and the rest of the clan. She especially loved Eugene, one of my father's brothers, who carried on a family tradition of running the last of a chain of butcher shops and would bring home choice cuts of meat for my grandmother to make for Sunday dinner. Eugene, or Genie would lord over the entire table, and had first pick. My father, the youngest, was persona non grata, it seemed, everywhere. He continued to and still does, console himself with food, his only friend.

My mother refused to bow and scrape to her mother-in-law, I would imagine because she was really tired of being the scullery maid to all the lords and ladies, her own mother included, yet they shared a common hatred for my father's mother because she rejected my mom and her family. There is nothing like a common enemy to make two enemies allies and that was yet another spire in the crown of the food dysfunction, so many, so many, as a child it was too dizzying to comprehend that everyone hated each other, or was offended or dismissed this one or that one or thought who the hell they were.

My childhood memory of the dinner table, and the dining room table on holidays is one of dread and the silent prayer that it be over soon. My brother Donny, for some reason had always, seemingly from birth, displeased my father and in fear, would always knock over his glass of milk at dinner, like clockwork. In response, my father would backhand him and my brother (smallish) would scream in fear and pain and this would replay at every meal. My father's worst abuse of Donny was at the kitchen table and even in Donny's high-chair. My mother, for some reason, didn't defend Donny, ever, and I think out of survival, nor did my brother David. It would be easier for a child to not be a victim by playing up to an abuser than risk injury, though at the time, and for a long time after that, I didn't understand this and hated David for this. I loved him for so much more, but this was unforgivable. My sister, the baby, was treated as a treasure by all of us and escaped most of the harm, or so I thought. Later, after she died accidentally in her sleep at the age of 35, I realized that she had not escaped. To have witnessed abuse is to also be abused and all the shielding that I could manage for her and Donny were in vain. I fought my father. I fought my mother. I fought my grandmothers and I fought my uncles. There were very few men, women or children I could trust as a child. Food became my consolation too.

As I grew older, there was a lot of manipulation and mind games when it came to jockeying for position for favor with regard to who would get the extra pork chop. There were never leftovers. If I called ahead to the house to tell them I would be late coming home from work and to please save my dinner, most of the time, my father would have eaten it. Even if he wasn't hungry, it was there, it was his, he was showing his dominance by taking my own dinner. I retaliated by picking up my dinners on the way home from work and eating them during the commute home. My diet consisted solely of fast food and a lot of it, but with little nutrition and I packed the weight on. I told myself that I deserved it, especially since my mother would confiscate my paycheck because my father couldn't keep a job and I had to go to work to become a breadwinner, although, ironically, there was no bread for me to come home to. I was the only child in the family who was forced to pay my mother 'rent'. For a brief period, I think my brother David did, but then he decided not to and she never pressed him after that. He found an apartment with a buddy and moved out and my mother needed my money even more. Since my sister was in school, my mother was no longer a homemaker and worked full-time herself. We still fought to make ends meet. I remember asking her for a dollar of my own money and her crying because she said that dollar was going to be her lunch, a diet decaf Pepsi from the soda machine in her office building. Her tears made me feel guilty for wanting any of my own money because she said she sacrificed more and here I was secretly gorging myself on Wendy's and Burger King. I was ashamed and ate even more.

My brother moved back into the house to begin saving for a wedding. Of course he could not pay rent. Another mouth to feed, and I was working overtime already. My hopes of going to college were screwed. My father told me I didn't want to go to college and their church pastor came to the house and had a talk with me telling me the profession I would have chosen was ungodly and not acceptable within 'our' faith. My parents forbade it. With no support and no self-esteem, I continued to work overtime, working my way up slowly through the ranks of customer services and sales offices. Like my grandfather, I would work on weekends and through my vacations to meet the financial demands of my family and to avoid them. I had no idea that I could be independent and have a life of my own. I was told that I didn't want this or that but I wanted this or that (whatever was to their benefit) and I was miserable.

I don't know why but in my mid-twenties, I got a bit of wanderlust and the roots that I felt chained to, couldn't keep me from going on short road trips alone and soon I found myself wandering Amish Country in Lancaster, PA. I felt that someday I would live there. I mentioned it to my mother and suggested she come for a weekend with me and she loved it so much that she joined me on many trips. She became more relaxed and would talk about it to coworkers and one mentioned that she had a trailer up on one of the lakes in the Poconos and offered to let us use it for a weekend. We had a blast and I remember standing on the deck saying to myself, 'One day, I would love to have this place, here. It's so beautiful.'

I began to look into jobs in that area with the hope that I could relocate. This was a gigantic step in independence for me. I went on a few interviews but soon found that the employment situation in the area was dire, especially in my field. I still hoped for that trailer, with that beautiful deck.

My paternal grandmother died and my father inherited a moderate inheritance and my mother purchased the trailer and began talking of relocating. I felt as if she had hijacked my own dreams and began for the first time ever to establish healthy boundaries which she would challenge and challenge again and again. Eventually, the military base my mother worked at closed and she relocated to the area anyway and found a house and sold the trailer. I found an apartment and discovered the simple pleasure of cooking for myself, putting food in my refrigerator and opening the door, day or night and the food would still be in there when I looked. I could bring leftovers home and let them rot if I wanted. I could eat junk if I wanted or healthy and I chose a reasonable mixture of both. I lost 100 lbs., naturally in less than a year. I also noticed that any food aggression and hostility or anxiety about it was gone. I felt as if a great weight was lifted off my shoulders.

I lost my first apartment and luckily found a second as a tenant to an old friend. She had her own issues with food which alarmed me, but we didn't eat together that often. I still was in charge of my own intake, my own refrigerator, my own choices. Then my mother was struck down with stomach cancer and my whole world caved in. Then 9/11 hit and I lost whatever inner-compass I had left. I quickly put on weight. My boyfriend was delighted with my weight gain and encouraged me to eat. I was miserable and only wanted my mother to live. I got engaged and when my mother's prognosis was given, we had to rush the wedding for her to attend. It's a blur, I don't remember a lot. I do remember so many people helping us to make the wedding a beautiful reality but to me, I didn't even feel like part of the event. My mother was dying, my mother was dying, my mother was dying.

On Mother's Day, the week before my wedding, I shaved her head. Her hair was falling out in clumps from the chemo. A friend would lend a gorgeous wig. My mother and I both cried. I kissed the top of her head 'for luck' and I gave her the last thing she would ever eat, a St. Joseph's zeppole, which to the uninitiated is vaguely like a giant Italian cream-puff. From that point on, my mother would be unable to eat or drink. My wedding was her last social outing. She lived off the remaining fat of her body. She told me at the end that she secretly always wished she was thin. She told me she was sorry she was so hard on me. She asked me to forgive her. I wept at her feet and washed her forehead, face and shoulders with a warm soapy washcloth and helped her pick out her jewelry to give to others as a token of her love. She was dead six months after my wedding. I ate to console myself.

I began to gain weight, alarmingly so. I became nearly immobile and suffered debilitating anxiety attacks. My husband delighted in my size and weight although I felt as if I was waiting to die. My aunt died suddenly. My godmother. I became sick, in fact had been sick for a long time and was hospitalized with pneumonia. A bariatric bed which also served as a scale was brought in for me. They tared down the bedding and then had me sit on it and then asked me to wait in the bedroom to finish putting on the sheets and blankets. My husband excitedly came running in and asked me if I wanted to know how much I weighed. I said no and he insisted and told me I weighed 679 lbs.  I wanted to throw myself out a window. I wanted to die. I wanted to live. I decided during the course of that hospital stay that I would live and would do something about it. I stopped eating.

My husband retaliated. He stopped touching me in any meaningful way. He wouldn't sit next to me nor would make eye-contact. I begged him to pay attention and as I lost weight, I did everything I could to seduce him into loving me back. He retaliated further by controlling every aspect of my life, including sabotaging my now slightly healthier eating. I considered having weight loss surgery and he forbade it. I lost 200 then 300 lbs and I became invisible to him. The war of food had never ended. The parties had changed, the battlefields, but there was no end in sight. I was so miserable, I considered swallowing a bottle of pills. I became sicker, sicker than ever and then my only sister died. I quit the painkillers I was on so I could grieve for her and as I became more lucid, I began to recover. I also realized my marriage was over.

I would try to fix it. I would try to fix me. I even went so far as to gain 80 lbs. back to please him but he didn't want me anymore. My brother Donny suddenly died and the night before his burial, pretending to want to comfort me, my husband sexually assaulted me. He degraded me to show me he was boss. He shamed me for wanting more of life and less of me. I considered the bottle of pills again but instead began to plan an escape.

One year later, I am legally separated, soon to be divorced and am 150 lbs. lighter. I am happier and healthier than ever. I don't know if I'll ever fully recover from the damage I did to my own body through the eating disorder of restrictive anorexia, something I struggle with daily. I don't recommend what I did to anyone. It was absolutely NOT a diet. My war with food is not a war I started, but a symptom of family dysfunction and it will finish with me. Food is not the enemy nor is it a punishment or reward. It is fuel that I can enjoy freely and with responsibility. I do not live to eat; I eat to live. I have lost 400 lbs. in five years and have no illusions that this will be a cakewalk from this point on but I am alive and able and am finally my own person making my own choices.

Password

I hand it to her and she rolls it over in her hand and asks me what it is. I explain that my newest hobby is collecting stones and crystals and researching the metaphysical qualities and histories of each glittering rock and pebble, some rough, some polished, their genesis, their lore, their mysticism. We sit on her back deck steps, the stoop, we both call it; she, using a term from her homeland, and me from growing up in an area that was originally settled by great farmers from her homeland, many hundreds of years ago. Some of the streets still bear the names of the settlers, although my hometown is now as ethnically diverse as New York City (being so close to it) and the denizens don't know any of those people, no memories or legacy save the signposts. She rolls it around and around while I look at the stream at our feet behind the giant clay Buddha. We're both barefoot, painted toes in muted tones of green and blue for me, and cherry red for her. I look up into the sun. Where I live, an hour away, it's pouring rain, but here the ground is dry and when she arrived a bit late for our appointment, I seized the opportunity of escaping the stuffy office by suggesting we go out for some fresh air one day and she said, 'Let's do it now', and here we are.

It's a black tourmaline, called schorl. I tell her that it's hers, but she has to pass it on to someone else who needs it. It's a balancing stone, enhances energy, releases tension, removes blockages. More importantly, it removes negative attachments. I ask her to give it to a patient she might think needs it. Someone who might be in love and needs to and wants to be released, and her eyes light up with comprehension and she says, 'I have someone in mind'. I said, 'I know. I dreamed of this conversation last night. Tell them that I have the sister stone. Whether they're a man or woman, tell them I am their sister too.'

I hand her another stone and tell her that this one is for her, alone. I've already cleansed and activated it and it belongs to her. I knew it belonged to her the moment I saw it and after it was in my possession, I further researched its history and my intuition was correct that it was meant for her. She holds it up in the sparkling sunlight and asks me what it was called. I put down my water bottle and say, Hollandite, the Blessing Star and yours is extra-special because it's a Lightbrary stone, meaning that the main stone, the master, mentor or teacher is surrounded by smaller crystals that cling to it in a cluster, rather than push off in opposite directions. The smaller stones are students, disciples, acolytes, etc. The stone alone is full of the energy of joy and laughter, and balance, and as a Lightbrary, full of wisdom, like her. She tells me she's never seen one and I said, 'They're extinct. A vein of them was found in another stone mine and has never been found again. Whatever is out there is all there is, so it's pretty special, like you. It's not payment for anything, but a token of gratitude and affection.' She tells me she loves it and I can tell she does. That was in the dream too.  I told her that a long time before we ever met, I was told that an older wise woman resembling her would counsel me and someone together and although they were wrong about that person and I even said, not possible because he lives in another country, they were right about our working together and she chuckled and said, 'It's so funny the way the universe works.' I agreed and updated her on the goings-on with the latest shenanigans of the ex. 'Well, your decision is very mature. You've grown a lot.' My eyes cloud over and I watch the whirlpools in the water. The cicadas serenade us.


'Are you crazy? Really, what the hell? Are you going to do anything?' We're sitting in a pub in Port Jervis because she forgot that her favorite tiki bar is closed and she's disappointed. I'm overjoyed we're able to catch up and it's contagious because she's happy again.  I'm asking the waitress if the mussels are any good. She interrupts the server to tell me their nachos aren't so I shouldn't trust the shellfish and the woman looks at me and says quietly...hopefully, 'We sell a lot of them every night. The steamed clams and stuffed clams too.'  I take a chance and order the mussels. 'No...no....I don't intend to do anything about that. He wants me to react. I feel more sorry for her.' 'Tell me honestly, did you feel a pang of hurt when you saw a pic of them together?' 'Honestly, I felt nothing.' It was true and it felt good. The food arrives and the mussels are green New Zealand, my favorite and so pristine without a single grain of sand. The marinara sauce is full of fresh basil and garlic and I listen to her grumble as she delicately picks at a slice of bread like a piece of rich cake. I notice the window box is filled with basil and remember my grandmother's garden and how the largest plant, she had nicknamed, The Dragon. I suck down the mussels, the sauce a perfect balance of hot and sweet and I haven't had mussels in so long, it's like finding an oasis of luscious flavor. I took a chance and it paid off. 'So let me get this straight....you left the courthouse and went straight to the tattoo studio?' 'No, I left the administration building and went straight to the tattoo studio.' 'And you got a tattoo?' 'Yep'. My mouth is full of garlic bread. I grin anyway. 'Can I see it?' I twist and show her my shoulder. She pulls the fabric aside and gasps. 'Wow. I didn't expect it to be so pretty and I didn't expect you to ever get one. You just went in and got one just like that?' 'No, the week before I stopped in after I picked up a sandwich at the deli and wanted to just ask about a price but I was kind of impressed that the artist looked like Jerry Garcia and he was speaking cryptically, so I started speaking cryptically and just when the flirting got good, I turned around and told him I would be back, so I went back.' 'Did he remember you?' 'Not at first. But he remembered the word and then he remembered me. He said it sounded like a cleaning solution you use at the Vatican. He did it in ten minutes and then I went to therapy and she was more shocked than you are.' We both laugh and I dip an onion ring in ranch dressing. 'But it will always remind you of the sadness, that you were set free.' We split the bill and step outside into pouring rain and walk quickly to the parking lot nearby. 'No, we see things differently. It will always remind me of the freedom that I was able to set them free.' 'Okay, I'm going to text you tonight to look at that thing....' I make a mental note to myself to never order the Riesling there again, it was that bad. 'Okay. Love you.'

The text surprises me. As usually agreed, I call her but I'm delighted and later even find an old voicemail that I somehow missed. She tells me that usually I'm always there when she looks for me and she's a bit unsettled that today I'm.....not and where the hell am I, what the hell? I laugh while listening and my father asks why I'm laughing but I shoo him off. She was looking for me, it would appear, a week ago, and I remember that I needed her and was crying. She responded but by that time I had bounced back and was proud of myself of that new ability. I can live and work and play in the same place with someone I once loved. I'm remarkably okay all things considered. I recall our conversation last night or the night before and she had asked me how I came by the nicknames I gave him and how he came by mine, if it didn't bother me to talk about it. She always wondered about the name Spooky Oats and I said it didn't bother me to talk about it but when I started talking about a pink unicorn I became quiet and she said she was sorry. I was holding a beautiful polished carnelian that Wonton had rejected in favor of a golden healer sunstone which was bought for her anyway and I thought what a clever girl she was knowing what was hers and what was mine. She rolled her stone around the floor and I admitted to myself that I'd had the carnelian for two days now and already had an affinity for it and as I looked at it, talking to my friend on the phone, I saw a unicorn with wings, a pegasus/unicorn and laughed because I didn't believe the shaman who read my animal totem wheel and told me that pegasus/unicorn was one of my totem animals, as was a dragon, come to think of it, well, four dragons, four directions, what did it mean and I burst into tears. 'I shouldn't have brought up the nickname thing' 'No..no...it seems I got my unicorn after all.' I explained and she asked me to take a pic no matter how bad it came out so I did and now it's somewhere in a Facebook album. My grandmother asked me who painted the unicorn on the rock and I tell her God, Mother Nature, the Universe. My cell phone however keeps dropping out and she asks me how I feel looking at his name, seeing his picture. She warns me to stop mentioning him, that it feeds his ego. I don't care. How fragile an ego that must be, then. I tell her I feel nothing and it's true and it feels good.

Her burr is not as thick as I'd imagined when we spoke on the phone and Yamz even went so far to say at times it's incomprehensible but I think that could be chalked up to too much conversational wine on both sides of the Atlantic ocean and besides, I grew up living with immigrant grandparents, and my siblings enjoyed being a mini United Nations, marrying people from distant lands and languages so I have the unsung talent of clearly understanding the thickest accented English but today it won't be needed in a private message. 'Do you want me to delete the fucker?' Actually, it said much worse but the point's been made. 'No..no. It's unnecessary, but I love you for caring.' 'I want to say something. I feel like I should say something, call him out or something.' I told her not to bother. If he never responded to anything I said, he won't respond to anything you say, and it's over all over, let it end here and now. I'm not a victim. He has his own demons to bear but that little turd who added him, him, I wouldn't mind you eviscerating.' She asks me again if I'm sure and I am. And I'm happy.

When I first began dating the one who I shared ten years of my life with, he would run up the side staircase, two flights and knock at the door and I would delightedly run to the door and stand there and whisper, 'What's the password?' He would say, always, 'Password' and I would say, 'Awww come on, play with me.' He never did. I think he was incapable. He didn't know how. No matter what I wanted, he couldn't be that person, didn't want to be that person, and never was that person who would play with me. I was mistaken and it would be a mistake I would make again, looking and overlooking but never quite considering what I needed and wanted and couldn't ever settle for. No matter how much love I had to give, there was something that I was forgetting in the process--myself. Everything I wanted was for them, every dream their dream and none for me.

Because the ex has someone in his life who is curious about me, and has made several overtures to at the very least, know what I'm up to, I preemptively changed my passwords, all ten revolving words, which also revolved around the men I loved, names of hometowns, nicknames, inside jokes, meaningful then, meaningless now, except as memories. Now I've picked out exactly what I should have chosen all along. Words like the one now on my shoulder, meaningful to me and not as some proxy or projection of my undying love to someone who hasn't earned it and has lost a treasure, whether they know it or not. Life is too short to shed tears on the undeserving when you can be celebrating it with those who embrace you with wide open arms.

St. Catherine's

The city on the rolling hills
Where sound will never carry
Those voices I will never hear again
But tonight I have no choice
And so I cannot tarry
And the volume is turned down 'til I don't know when
Out of respect for those who sleep at St. Catherine's

Everyone here I love
Is resting in the night
But I drive in restless silence
Until I see street lights

I'm leaving in a few days
But I must say farewell
And I don't know how to even try
But 'to try' I always will

In the dewy morning
Again I drive up the hill
Cross the entrance and get lost
But find myself (I always do)

I see two marble angels
And muse that they had class
Then down cross the tiny bridge
Near the pillows in the grass

Teddy bears and dolls 
Tucked in among the stones
Little ones remain
Who never will grow old

Then the chapel
Where I once swayed
Should have thrice
But swept away

Still, I can recall the doves in the stained glass
Make a left at the marker of a nondescript pine tree
Left I guess or was it right?
It all seems wrong to me

I slow down to examine
More angels and an obelisk or four
The fine wrought-iron work
That filigrees a lavish door

And there's the bench
And now I'm finally here
To say hello I miss you
To say goodbye and shed another tear

There are three here
But just two names
(Because there's still discussion
over who is paying)

I wish I had the money
To end the noise
But my misdeeds are many
So therefore I've no voice

It's cold here
And the ground is colder still
I wanted to bring him here
To share with you

(He ran before I could)
How could I know
That just because he wept with me
Didn't mean he had a soul


When all else fails you can rely
On sorrow to be a friend
Standing steadfast as you grieve alone and lonely
At St. Catherine's

I left Her at St. Catherine's
She's resting at St. Catherine's
He lingers at St. Catherine's
These three, they all live there

I'm the only one who ever leaves
And everyone leaves me

Whether elsewhere or at St. Catherine's
The Sun will set and rise and burn
And no, I guess I'll never learn
The peace that fills St. Catherine's

It's not as if I have a choice
There's still so much I'm forced to do
I swear, I swear that I'll return
I cannot not remember you

No matter what my legacy
Bedim in another's memory I grow
I swear, I swear that I'll return
I cannot not remember you

I cannot not remember you

88 and The Twelve Opossums

Grandma is sitting on the edge of my bed. It's 9PM, time for her nitro patch. It helps her sleep through the night. I don't think she'd mind me telling you that she's 88 and has had a double bypass but God has still not seen fit for her to 'kick da bucket' so she's going to keep talking to Him so he doesn't forget her, in case she's in the bathroom or something when He's looking to take her home. I tell her there's no chance of that, since she's closer to Heaven than any of us, but she says, she has to make sure so she's still gonna keep talking, morning, noon and night.

She sings too. As she gets older, she forgets herself and half speaks and sings in Polish and English and when I can't figure it out, I say, ENGLISH, ENGLISH but I try really hard to not disturb her because until tonight she didn't know that I was listening. I had to come clean that I was eavesdropping but not exactly because you could hear her through a thunderstorm, to be fair but I thought she should know. At the same time I debated because although I had no faith in God, I did have faith in HER faith and liked to listen to her and would even awaken early and sneak closer to listen.

I had lost my faith in all things good, not just spiritual. I lost my compass through a series of deaths, illness and a really painful end to a marriage, and also a sweet and meaningful friendship I thought would last for life. I lost my home and then got sick again and although since childhood, I knew better than to ever ask if it could get worse, it did anyway.

I was asked to return to my faith, and I angrily refused. Unlike Job, I did curse God. I lost more than he did, and was lost, I said to God, 'Fuck you, kill me or I will live to spite you.' I guess He chose the latter because I'm still here.

People are shocked that I say that but why? He's God; He can handle it. I laid in bed for days and I stopped eating. I developed an ulcer and I screamed at God. I was still talking to Him, you see, my belief in His existence was still intact, but His love was another story so I told Him what I basically felt about the last few people who hurt me. I don't trust you. I never will again. You're a liar. You're a fraud. You deserted me when I needed you most and I held my breath expecting lightening to hit me. Nothing. He didn't even care even to rain fire and brimstone on me. I truly was pitiful.

My doctor and therapist were trying to figure out the mind-body connection with my energy levels and chronic pain and my condition with the lumps had returned. I'd conveniently not told them I'd stopped eating, but reasoned that I was taking gummi vitamins so it wasn't technically a lie. I was only fooling myself. I lay on the couch for weeks. My eyes were dry. I wasn't even drinking enough water to make tears. I said screw you to that too.

Job had a few friends who stuck around after he lost everything but his miserable wife who told him to curse God and die, (I one-upped him on that, I didn't even have a husband anymore) but those friends didn't hesitate to tell him where he went wrong. Thing was, God Himself said Job was righteous. Now, there are some preachers who try to find some kind of loophole that he wasn't, but that's baloney. Of the 66 books of the bible, I know this one by heart, and Job was the good guy who was being shish-kebob'd in a game between God and the devil. God's personality here, I have to note, is a lot more in keeping with the Northern gods--Loki or Odin, I'm thinking and that just didn't flush with me, I didn't care who He was. What kind of loving god...blah blah blah.....never mind religion or faith--God was on my shit-list.

My gran is nearly stone deaf now so when she sings and prays, I can hear it from anywhere in the house, even outside. I hear her crying too and it breaks my heart. She has lost so much too. Who emerges unscathed from burying both her daughters, two grandchildren and a husband of over 40 years? No wonder she felt left behind. We both did, we both lost the same people, in fact and I think of this as we do this little crooked dance of trying to fit into each other's lives with love and as little damage as possible so because her fingers are so gnarled from arthritis, I offer to put on her patch and she slowly makes her way through the house to me, because she says she likes how it feels in this room and how the cats all sit around us in here.

My father grouses and grumbles that he doesn't see why HE can't put her patch on for her but she reminds him that he gives her her insulin shot, so be quiet and besides, his fingers are too chubby and I think she isn't keen on flashing him since it goes directly above her breast, but it's also because she wants to talk with me in the light and sweet smelling room, as opposed to the dark paneled pipe-smokey room.

We have a ritual. If I haven't put my laptop down, she asks me who I'm talking to. She asks me about 'that jackass in Germany' and I've stopped trying to explain she's got the wrong country but I tell her to let it go, let it go, just...please...let it go and I look down and take the packet out of her hand and rip it and pull the covering off and press it against her skin, smoothing it out so there's no bubbles because she hates bubbles. I give the packet back to her because she keeps it on her nightstand as a reminder to take the patch off in the morning. If I stay out for the night, she forgets the patch, and forgets to take off the old one, but never forgets to tell Wonton I'll be home soon and not to worry.  Neither will sleep if I say I will be home that night. If I don't, she tells me Wonton lets her baby her to a degree but in all her life has never seen an animal more devoted to someone than she is to me.

She makes a little appetizing hot snack for Wonton and puts it on a china saucer and Wonton never eats it, she says, but looks out the window for me or lays by the door, waiting, but she thinks Wonton likes the ceremony of her making her something to eat. I know she does. She also says Wonton is just.like.me. and I tell her that regardless of whether it's intended as an insult (as my ex would) or as a compliment, I'm taking that as a compliment. It's a peculiar little dance between us but I have so few dance partners now, and her years left are uncertain, so we need each other. I think this isn't accidental which is also a part of faith.

I told her, as I handed her the packet that I had heard her singing and praying. She was taken aback. 'From where?', she asked, 'This far from here in this bedroom?' I said, 'Yes. Grandma, you may be hard of hearing, but God isn't and neither am I.' I said, 'I hear you say that you look at the pictures on the walls and tell Him how much you miss everyone. That you see my wedding picture and you ask Him to never let my ex hurt another woman again, please, and to take good care of that stupid jackass in Germany because he must be crazy and you cry,' and I start to sob that this 88 year old woman who has had a life of great hardship, and cries for a granddaughter who too has a eerily parallel life, still thinks to pray for someone she's only heard about and probably never gave her another thought save one conversation through me on IM two years ago on Thanksgiving. I once told him that those who love me would love him because I love him which he doubted, but here was 88 year old living proof.

She tells God not to let her die until she dances at my wedding and I stop to say, 'But you did dance at my wedding,' and her eyes twinkle and she says, 'I did not dance at your wedding but I won't die until I do. I will dance with your husband when you marry again,' and I don't know whether to curse God or bless Him but I know not to mess with this little woman with gnarled hands who used to make me applesauce and butter sandwiches and crochet hats and mittens for me and made my Communion dress, and she says, 'I know I talk to God too much but I figure He has to answer me sometime just to shut me up, right?'

My legs are bare as she sits close to me and brush my hands across the bumps and scars that disfigure me and I tell her, 'I don't know who will love this scarred body, now,' and the tears fall down my face and she brushes them off and says, 'Elaine, God keeps your tears in a bottle. He knows their number and He knows what hurts you and who hurt you. He hasn't forgotten you. Someone will love you, all of you and not care about your bumps and scars. They won't matter to him. No one will reject you anymore. He will love you because you are beautiful inside and outside.

I am a humble woman with a third grade education. In Poland I was rounded up like an animal by the nazis and their slave on a German farm for three years and am lucky to be alive but I am and I am not stupid. Don't give up on love and don't give up on God. God took care of me in Germany and the farmer and his family loved me like their own. Their son was going to marry me when he came back but he never came back from the front line in Russia and I met your grandfather at a Sunday beer garden and that's the funny way life turns out.'

 Then she began to tell me the bible story about Jesus assuring his disciples that he would come back for them and if it were not so, He would have told them, so she was demonstrating that He cares about our feelings and fears too and began, 'When Jesus was in at the Last Supper with the Twelve Opossums...'....I giggled through my tears.....she said, What? I said..nothing, sorry, nothing...She said, no tell me...I said, you said 'possums...like the animals outside...She threw her head back and laughed. 'Imagine', she said, 'a painting of Jesus with all those 'possums' and we both laughed.

She apologized and said she was sorry her English wasn't so good still after all these years and I said, 'Oh grandma, it's because of your English and your accent that I love accents. Probably one of the reasons why I loved that jackass from Germany so please don't say you're sorry. I get it. I really do. And I like to hear you pray and sing. You're a little Polish canary and I don't want to think about the day that I won't hear you sing anymore so don't shut the door, okay?'

She got up and nodded in that resolute way she has when something is finalized. 'Okay, but only if you don't give up either, okay?'

Okay. 

Tiny Bees and Gigantic Whales

 I wrote this over a year ago for another great blog that I was thrilled to be part of while it lasted. I thought I'd repost it here, and although the romantic part has changed, the story is still interesting and I wanted to share.

 

 Tiny Bees and Gigantic Whales

Millions of bees are dying due to a phenomenon coined Colony Collapse Syndrome. No one is quite sure of the cause. Some scientists blame pesticides, malnutrition, genetically modified crops and climate change to name a few but one stands out starkly because it seems to be following a pattern; electromagnetic radiation or for the layman, cell phones. We are probably killing off billions of bees because of technology.

It doesn't just end with bees. One might say, well okay, so no more honey (which is for you trivia buffs, the only food that can't 'go bad'--found perfectly sweet in wrecks of Viking ships and royal Bronze Age burial plots) but thousands of plant species are dependent upon bees for pollination. And thousands of insect species, and mammals and so on are dependent on those plant species. This is why the word 'Collapse' is in there. The house of cards is facing a catastrophic typhoon, proportions of which we can't even comprehend the toll and if you ask the next person if they've ever heard of it, they'd probably shrug, 'Bees. They sting. Good riddance'.

I'm no granola crunchy hippie tree-hugger. In fact, until a few years ago I was positively disgustingly smug conservative until it dawned on me the only thing vociferous conservatives are interested in conserving are their own very specific special interests and not at all as I understood it to be which was to conserve, like the grasshopper and the ant, to work and save for the winter for everyone but now winter is here and everyone is saying 'what's in it for me' and it makes my heart hurt. Forget 'what about the children'. What about the bees because it's gonna affect the children and we have to do something now. Luckily for the bees it appears that they might be gaining in numbers so I'm hoping they all fall in love and keep making more honey and pollinating like crazy kids.

Then there are the whale strandings or what most of us know as 'beached whales'. Multiple species of whale are falling off established migratory patterns and if you do a Google search, the same reasons are given as for the bees and in this case, in the Pacific and Atlantic at least, where whales need to go North to mate and give birth--they're getting LOST. How the fuck does a whale get lost? And you read 'cruise ship noise' and you do a facepalm because we're killing them too, tiny bees and gigantic whales. Signals we need to communicate over distances to each other are affecting and threatening their existence. 

It dawns on me. Distance. It's always distance. Mixed signals like the telephone game, where the message is totally beyond comprehension at the end; funny when kids are playing it at a basement birthday party but not so funny when we're trying to communicate.

We're so far away from each other and the internet brings us so close it gives a false intimacy as if it's real and to many it is but to many it's the perfect foil to hide behind anonymity and pretend you're one thing when you're another. It's so easy to be tempted. Years ago no one would have ever dreamed of the possibility of romance with someone 1000 miles or more away and now not only is it happening but it's thriving and people are moving great distances to be together and some of them end up going off course and getting lost and never reestablishing their old patterns.

Now I'm at the end of one relationship and fingers (but thankfully not oceans) crossed, may be embarking on another after a brief period of FREE FREE I'M FREE but have the dumb luck to find the most common with one least close geographically. And proceeding very very cautiously because someone once told him it wasn't real and someone once told me it wasn't real and this one was burned and that one was burned and even though BOTH of us thought it was real with the other now have to check our sonar and radar and cellphones to make sure it's not mixed-signals. And it pisses me off.