Fated Existences
When you said
I had looked at you
With an intensity borne of yesteryear -
And with the utmost sincerity
Had asked such a thing,
I was left to wonder in the extreme.
Why would I – your adolescent child of five –
Look at you, the one who is my mother,
My elder, she who gave me breath,
And pointedly ask the question:
“Remember when you were the child
And I was the mother?”
Insanely nonsensical, was it not?
Still, I am left with the mysterious intrigue
Of other realms of possible existence,
Parallel planes of distant realities,
And forgotten or repeated lifetimes
Intermingled amongst us,
Much like floating butterflies,
Leading us along a path
Of inevitable fate and destiny.
Twaining.....
"Stars and shadows ain't good to see by." Mark Twain, Huckleberry Finn
Some folks might be inclined to say, “The stars are a just guide to righteousness and everlasting truth.” My reply to such whimsical folly would empathically be, “Best be careful ’lest those bright stars blind the truths found only in what the eye can see.” At which point, those same folks might then be wont to argue, “Well then, best be sure to look behind, beneath, and betwixt the shadows for they lurk both day and night, ever ready to unveil what you seek.” My resounding, resolute, and finite answer would, without a doubt, stand firm, “Shadows ain’t nothing good neither for therein lurk remnants of what truths lie hidden from the hearts of men.”
Grace
The echo of the night wind
Carries remnants of our hearts -
Within its drifting, forceful grasp
It lays siege to the very best parts
.
The echo of the rain
Carries remnants of our sadness
Tears cascading, flowing, falling
In the stillness of despairing madness
.
The echo of the silence
Carries remnants of our lives
Deeds all wrong, actions yet undone
Like flowers sprung amidst the strife
.
The echo of the darkness
Carries remnants of our souls
No light, no chance to make it right -
Like weeds scattered in the bitter cold
.
The echo of the stillness
Carries remnants of regret - like a wraith
It sends shivers down bones’ length
Threatening to encompass all faith
.
The echo of impending grace
Invades like a blast of strong wind
Composing a symphony of mercy
Crossing mountains of immortal sin
Tale of a Highlander
Isabelle visited the café everyday. She looked forward to seeing him, the man in the trench coat, from where she sat at her table, for the most part unnoticed, with her laptop. He arrived at nine on the dot, and without fail, always wore the trench coat. He cut quite an impressive figure, superbly garbed, handsome, and exuding a confidence borne on the air. He never looked her way but from where she sat, usually in the corner, Isabelle would watch him. She was always left to wonder: what exactly was he hiding beneath the trench coat?
It had been years since she’d seen a show her mum had watched, "Highlander", but its main character had always worn a trench coat – and underneath he had carried a gleaming sword, ready to fight to the death. Duncan MacLeod, a handsome, charismatic, fierce Scottish warrior. Isabelle's mind ran wild with images evoked by the memory of the character. Was this man like Duncan MacLeod? And was he hiding something like a sword beneath the coat in case he was called upon to save the day?
The door's bell chimed and Isabelle looked up to see the man in the trench coat. She looked at her watch: nine o’clock. Right on time. A little nervous - whatever the reason - she shifted in her chair and smoothed her hair from her face. She had no desire to be noticed, but still, she could not help but watch the man. Not only was he handsome, but the coat he wore added to his allure and intrigue.
Isabelle heard the indistinguishable murmur of his voice. She imagined he had ordered an espresso con panna. The coffee was a rich, well-balanced, and smooth one, especially when served with a bit of cream. Yes, the drink would suit him. With the thought, her mind evolved to a well-balanced, smooth body, possibly clad in kilt and sword, beneath the trench coat. Her cheeks turned bright red at the thought.
There was suddenly a loud clatter of dishes, bringing Isabelle back to reality. She stole another glance at the counter to learn he was was picking up his coffee and turning around to leave. She lowered her gaze, pretending to read what was not written on the laptop.
Click, click, click….someone approached. Isabelle suddenly noticed gleaming, Italian leather shoes beside her table. Startled, she looked up to find him. He paused to place a cup of steaming, hot coffee on the table and smiled. It was a glorious smile.
“Good morning. Americano, I believe, is your drink of choice,” he said with a wink. “'Tis my treat, so please enjoy.”
Surprised, Isabelle managed a 'thank you' though her voice sounded more like a croak to her own ears. And was that a Scottish brogue she heard?
The man turned to leave but stopped abruptly and spun back around.
“The name’s Duncan. Best of luck with your writing, lass.”
Lessons Learned
When I was a young teen, I had a rather traumatic experience that occurred during my Sunday school class. I chose the word ‘traumatic’ because when you’re a young girl of fifteen years of age, most everything that doesn’t go as you perceive it should could easily be labeled as ‘traumatic’.
To begin with, the newly formed class had combined ninth through twelfth graders due to the small number of attendees. This alone caused me anxiety, because for me there were now older boys whom I admired from afar in my class. Unfortunately, as a naive and shy sophomore in high school, I already felt all eyes were upon me, judging me constantly. The new combination of kids, both younger and older was definitely not appealing. To make matters worse, there was a new teacher in the class. Dick, as I’ll choose to refer to him henceforth, was a news broadcaster for a local station and his reputation in the church proceeded him. His prestige and influence was paramount, and it was evident to the most casual observer that Dick was full of himself, believing that he was unmatchable in all things, including an abundance of intellect.
I remember sitting in the newly formed circle of Sunday School members as Dick read the opening Bible verse. We all know it – it’s the one in Corinthians that references fornication. Well Dick read the scripture, following it with, “Do you believe that? Well, don’t because it’s bull.” He then looked at a young boy in the group and asked, “Aren’t you glad that part about fornication is bull?”
I remember everyone, except me, giggling nervously. I was too appalled by Dick’s statement about what he’d just read to manage even a smile. He must have noticed the look on my face (unfortunately, my face has always revealed precisely that about which I'm thinking), because he quickly turned his attention to me and asked, “What’s wrong, Cindy? Don’t you believe that’s a load of bull?”
The roar in my ears was deafening, but I vividly remember shaking my head and saying “no” with conviction. For all I know, I released my profound, emphatic “no” in a scream.
“Why not, Cindy?”
“Because I don’t believe anything in the Bible or anything Jesus said is a load of bull.”
There it was. In my conservative, young teen ways, I adamantly believed the Word of God and defended it with my all despite the round of surprised eyes, much to my horror, turned toward me. Young teen Cindy, who never said much of anything unless she was fully comfortably in her environment, had managed to speak up, defending what she truly believed with all her youthful heart.
I don’t remember much of what happened thereafter, but I do remember leaving the class extremely upset, horrified by what my Sunday School teacher had dared to say to his class. In retrospect, perhaps Dick was a student of reverse psychology and looking for just such a reaction as the one I gave him. To this day, I'm unsure, and I really don’t know what his preferred method of teaching was supposed to be, I just know it had an adverse effect on me. It scarred me, and I did not want to go back - did not want to attend another one of his classes.
My mother, ever supportive, was as horrified by the events as I had been. She lodged a complaint with the church’s council, but it was easily dismissed; instead, Dick and his teaching methods were supported. In response to the council’s failure to review my complaint, I did not want to attend Sunday School again and swore I would not.
A few days later, Sunday morning rolled around again and from where I lay across the bed, I watched my mother dress for church. At one point, she paused and took a seat beside me on the bed.
“You know, you can stay home if you want, but if it was me, I would give the class another chance,” she said.
Surprised by her suggestion, I shook my head. “I can’t go back.” I remembered the look on all my fellow classmates’ faces too clearly to think about returning.
“Some things we have to face in this life are very hard, but it is important to face them despite the difficulty. If you go back and give the class a second chance, you will come out looking better in the long run. If you go to class today and then decide you don’t want to return, it will be fine, but at least you can say you gave it a fair chance.”
I remember listening to her words, and a dawning realization crept into my being. No matter how difficult it might be, I had to go back to that horrible Sunday School class so that I would not be labeled a ‘quitter’. I knew if I went back, my reaction and my point of view about the entire situation would have more meaning and validity.
Despite my initial reluctance and prompted by my mother's words, I rose that morning and dressed. I did attend Dick’s class again, and I entered the room with my head held high despite the surprised looks of those in attendance. I remember sitting in that cold metal chair within the Sunday School circle, an unnatural calmness filling me. Deep inside I knew I had just accomplished a great feat and won a war even though it might have been one that I waged with myself.
It is a fact that the invaluable lesson taught by my mother and learned so reluctantly by me that morning has continued to thrive and grow inside me through long years. I cannot begin to name the number of times in my life when I had to continue to go on, to try again, and to confront a situation I did not wish to face. Sometimes doing so was for the first time and sometimes it was for the second, third, or even more times. Even as an ever impressionable teenager, on that Sunday day so long ago, I was able to learn that whatever the outcome may be, I would always be a winner in the grand scheme of things for confronting an uncomfortable situation. Thank you, dear Momma, for teaching me to persist and persevere despite a desire to hide; such valuable lessons are the very crux and essence of life.
“Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.” Kahlil Gibran
Forgiveness & Unforgiveness: A Double Edged Sword
The desire for revenge or unforgiveness is a facet of human nature, and science, in all its wisdom and glory, leads us to the same conclusion; it's all part of this evolutionary cycle of being human. This isn't to say that being human means one is necessarily weak for being human can create the strongest of beings while by contrast, it can also fashion the weakest.
Forgiveness, or the lack thereof, is like a double-edged sword, and its ability to cut deep is no laughing matter. If one cannot forgive, the nature of the unforgiveness serves to eat away at that person, much like a hammer and chisel, slowly chipping away at the large slab of marble - or life. By strong contrast, and like an oxymoron, the act of forgiveness also has the ability to cut deeply into one's marbled existence. The true essence of both unforgiveness and forgiveness leaves horrific scars on the bearer. The difference between the two, however, is that choosing to forgive allows a scar to heal. The scar of unforgiveness, on the other hand, will fester and lead to a multitude of problems: emotionally, physically, and mentally.
I was taught from a very young age that choosing to forgive takes much more strength and courage than choosing not to forgive. I was told that making an active choice to hate or not forgive would only harm me and not the person hated or unforgiven. Although I know my mother was weak in some things, she was strong in such innate wisdom, and this, fortunately, was one of the main attributes she left me. It stuck, and while I've known many for whom I didn't care, I can honestly say I've never made a choice to hate or to not forgive, even against some of my worst enemies. I keep in mind that forgiving someone for a wrong enacted against me is not the same as choosing not to remember the error of their way. It is always wise to choose caution when associating with those you've had to forgive, especially on more than one occasion. I firmly believe there is no fault in making a choice to remove toxic individuals from your life.
In this cycle we call life, you cannot be friend to all or loved by all. All, being human, will fall short of the mark at some point, leading to disillusionment and sometimes an inclination not to forgive. Be inclined to the wiser choice and use caution, lest the double edged sword win the battle amidst a storm of more than just foul weather. Fashion your own sword, discovering the power forged within the blades of true forgiveness.
“To err is human; to forgive, divine.” – Alexander Pope
The Displaced Shoe
I remember the look on his face.
I couldn’t have been more than nine years old at the time, but I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget the look that crossed my father’s face on a Saturday during an eventful afternoon in August of 1967.
A year prior, my father had packed his bags and left home unexpectedly, giving no forwarding address. My mother, at the initial onset, understandably had been horrified. How would she manage? She had no formal education, no self-sustaining type of employment, but she had two children, aged fourteen and eight, for which she must provide food, clothing, and a house. Fear became a very real, palpable force that invaded our tiny house on Canterbury Street that winter. The meager forty dollars my father would infrequently send my mother (through a local attorney, all the better to ensure his continued privacy) managed to pay only the house note. Still, my mother, struggling, alone, and afraid, became a substitute teacher and managed to earn enough income to put food on the table, pay the house note, and buy fabric with which to sew clothes for us. Needless to say, being the younger of two sisters, I wore a lot of hand me downs. The best thing I remember about the year that followed my father’s departure, however, was that we were able to eat all the spaghetti we wanted. My father disliked spaghetti, so when he’d been home, my mother never cooked it. With his absence, we ate spaghetti at least once – if not more – a week. To this day, it remains one of my favorite meals.
I apologize for I have digressed from my opening sentence. I felt a need, however, to elaborate on the premise provided and offer a bit of background before I continued. I promise to get to just why I remember the look on my father’s face more than I remember any other particular thing.
It was a year after he’d left home that my father returned. Being only nine by then, I was delighted and hopeful with his arrival. Not so much my mom, and certainly not my sister, who was determined to never, ever forgive the man who dared to call himself ‘father’. Of course, my father had returned expecting a glorious reunion that included moving back into our home. My mother, much to her credit had grown wiser – and so much stronger – than at first. Much to my father’s chagrin and increased anger, she put a halt to his moving back into the house. Still, he continued to visit, both to see his children and to bully my mother into changing her mind.
It goes without saying, and even my sister would tell you it was so: I was my father’s favorite. I was the child he often, especially when drunk, called his “eyeballs”. I suppose that’s country talk for ‘the apple of my eye’. I’m not really sure, but speculation has led to such a deduction over the years.
We lived about forty-five minutes away from the Atlantic Ocean, so visiting the beach was a common occurrence, especially in summer months. This particular Saturday, my newly returned father had indicated he would pick me up and we could go to the beach. I was ecstatic. I remember waiting and watching for his car as I played outdoors with friends, my swimsuit worn beneath my shorts and my beach towel by the front door. I was more than ready.
To the best of my memory, it was well past four o’clock once my father finally pulled in the driveway. We were all outside – my mother, my sister, and I. Extremely excited, I ran to hug him as he got out of the car. Being nine years of age, I should have recognized the telltale signs but maybe I was too excited. My mother, on the other hand, long having been subjected to my father’s use of alcohol, must have seen (and smelt) its effects immediately.
A detailed conversation between my parents ensued and escalated quickly into an argument. My mother forbade my father from taking me with him. I don’t remember her citing the alcohol as the main concern, though I know it was. I think she was probably too frightened by his proneness to anger, and understandably so. It was also, unfortunately, a very different time (in the 60’s) when people drank everywhere: at work and home, on the streets, in their cars, and in the local bars. My mother’s main argument was that it was too late to go to the beach. There would be no reason for such a visit since it would be dark by the time we arrived. Whatever her real reason for arguing, she stuck her heels in and refused to let me go, and I am left to wonder if she, in fact, saved my life.
My father’s alcohol induced rage grew with the repeated denials to give him what he wanted: me. In his rising anger, he lunged at my mother, striking a blow so hard across her face she fell backwards, landing on the ground just underneath an oak tree in the front yard. Her right shoe, as a result of the force, flew across the leave littered ground. In horror, I saw my mother lying on the ground, struggling to stand, and my sister, crying where she stood on the front porch. Without another thought, I picked up the displaced shoe and flung it as hard as I could at my father, striking him dead center in his chest, my young face contorted in anger. He immediately stopped mid-sentence and mid-stride where he stood. He stared at me for what felt like centuries. I don’t remember what I said to him, but in fierce defiance, I stood my ground and yelled something at him. I swear to this day, if I’d have had more shoes, I would have thrown them all at him no matter the outcome.
Yes, I remember the look that crossed my father's face that day oh so well. His favored “eyeballs” had seen him in his truest form and in defense, had managed to kick his ass, at least as much as a nine-year old child armed with a single shoe could. It was an eye-opening moment for the both of us; a reckoning of newly imposed adulthood for a mere child and regret and shameful awareness for a sad, disillusioned man with a horrible disease.
I am proud to say that my mother chose to deny my father's return home and eventually divorced him. I know the fear she must have had in making such a profound, revolutionary choice, especially during that day and time. There were many instances when we didn’t have much food or couldn’t afford to do things, but because of the decision she made, I have always been amazingly proud of her persistence, strength, and growth in the face of such adversity.
This may not be your average Father’s Day recollection, but I fear the prompt given initiated the memory that unfolded herein. I pray others are more fortunate in their accounts of wonderful, wise, kind, and supportive dads. As for me, I am thankful instead for lessons learned, both in childhood and adulthood, as well as a mother who filled in for a father when needed and the amazing men who helped me much like a father would through the years.
“I am still learning.” Michelangelo
Parallel Worlds, Twin Souls
"Love is a magic ray emitted from the burning core of the soul and illuminating the surrounding earth. It enables us to perceive life as a beautiful dream between one awakening and another." Kahlil Gibran
....
I can feel you in the depths of my mind, lingering on the remnants of wind.
Echoes of another, with the lack of a residual image, it’s all I can send.
I want to know you, feel you, breathe you in the glorious, sun-filled sky.
Instead, I’ll send billowing clouds, so in your mind, I will live and never die.
But shall we, two linked souls, ever meet, perhaps on the edge of the ocean’s shore?
If hope manifests and bestows kindness, then yes, it will surely open the door.
Despite your kind words, formidable despair steps into my heart and invades.
Don’t let fear overcome what you’re aware of, though it remains hidden by the shade.
You speak words of encouragement, but tell me: how do you truly know?
I believe we two souls, like stars in twin galaxies, do exist; they are not faux.
In the sunlight, you’ve created a smile. Shall I send echoes of it on the next ray?
No need for it’s already arrived to wrap me thoroughly in overwhelming array.
Two souls, two lives, two beings are we, though our hearts beat together as one.
Despite the vast distance in two planes, one day, together, our time will be spun.
When that wonderful, celebrated day arrives, I’ll clasp you tight in a moment divine.
And our love will be endless as we two, ever twain, coexist in a world so sublime.