HerStory

Many inquire about my dating a convicted murderer when I was eighteen. I cautioned myself from filling in the details. Some pasts lay dormant indefinitely; others rest before they rise to tell their story. Buried long ago, my assumption was never to give this saga audible frequency, a resonance I was unready to surrender. Yet now I find myself digging into my storage tank for untold stories. This one is dedicated to all the uneducated, wronged, unloved souls that could not find their way home.

Enter stage left, the island of Nantucket, with backdrop, the supermarket. He is shopping for sustenance; I am selling fresh meat at the deli counter. After drifting, and coasting through menial college freshman relationships, meeting a seasoned, older man with deep green, meaningful eyes, muscular physique, and a golden, bronzed tan, he has me at “hello.” Beyond the strong, external frame, there seems a soft, sweet, and subtle vulnerability residing beneath the surface. I find this gentle nuance alluring, magnetic, piquing my curiosity and interest, enough to connect and accept his first date proposal. Additionally the reference from his cousin, the A&P manager, wrapped into our initial conversation eliminates my need for a further background check.

By evening, I am riding in his car, words flow like a reciprocating seesaw, changing directions in rhythm. We discover that we come from two separate worlds. He is surprised by my age, asking to see my driver’s license, having thought I was at least twenty-one, uncertain whether to proceed further. Understandably, since he is thirty, life experience cannot level this playing field. Our worlds exceedingly dissimilar, age may be the least of our division. I sit uncomfortably with his discomfort, imagining that our first date shall be our final.

Yet the details of his life unravel in conversation, exposing me to a foreign world, revelation upon revelation, scene by scene, and layer upon layer. Magnetically my fascination turns to compassion, my compassion to empathy, and my empathy to heartfelt, emotional caring. His drama-full life story unfolds audibly, my comprehension, analysis, and conclusion illustrates a disadvantaged life dealt. His challenge upon challenge that worsened over time from uneducated, egregious choices he made, seem never ending.

Unafraid and extremely fascinated by his honesty, genuine, soft nature, I delve further with question upon question about the crime he committed, the out on bail pending an appeal status, and the three years he inhabited a maximum-security prison. His life experience fully disclosed, adds intrigue and fascination with his every expression. Drawn into the mystery, the unfamiliar territory, and alarming story, while charmed by his eyes and dichotomy of his gentle, inner, puppy-like demeanor, I am stunned how he ends up killing another.

The year that follows, I remain on the island to live, experience, and embed myself into his world. Knowledge, eye-opening exposure to this uneducated tradesman, the poor, and the criminal population, furthers my experience and education beyond any traditional institution. The one story I thought I could never write, the untold story, is ready for the telling, a tale of conviction on an island of love and lost innocence.

To Be Continued …

The written word lately hides beneath my fingertips. Getting thoughts to paper, scrounging for the inner feeling to display in font size, and tapping into meaning, have escaped my keyboard. Like words on the tip of my tongue, trapped within, they want access to the world, exhibit sound, and sight, while they illuminate with meaning. Yesterday, my heart leaked emotion that needed an outlet that only the written word could catch. Although hidden words emerge, flowing from within me and begin to save my life, I observed another life deteriorating physically.

Though initially taken by surprise by bumping into her, she invites me into her home without reservation, acknowledges our absence from one another for nearly two decades. Surrounding the living room are a variety of medical machines as she answers my question of my surface level “how are you” that leads to the deep truth of her existence, defending her life by mentioning a break from 9-12 when a helper relieves her for a respite. She defines her current life in three words plus three letters: My husband has ALS.

Struck by her candor, her indelible honesty, and vulnerability surfacing, she seems to hide her slight discomfort to explain where her life has led. I suspect my own stunned gulp leaks as well. This new perspective beckons the present moment. No past or future to cling to, I connect to her reality. I had heard through the grapevine that her husband was ill, yet I had concluded cancer the cause. Stunned still by the letters, ALS, I feel her pain.

A labor of love displays itself instantly as I observe him in his wheelchair and words strain to exit his mouth. Her love for him apparent, yet not the life she signed up for, causes me to interpret exhaustive meaning within their connection. I recognize instantly that she would not have it any other way. He is breathing, thinking, and cognitively completely aware and able. Physically he is shrinking away, the trappings of his mind inside a failing body. I listen to his absolute charm and kindness similar to how I remembered him decades prior. He spoke with intention, articulately, and intelligently.

Although we speak of current events, the white elephant in the room is his ailment, my friend’s daily existence, and the not talking about the obvious challenge that sits before us, a life forever changed by illness, and the hardship it causes them. Thoroughly affected by the intensity for which this scene captures me, I want to break them free of their captivity. Although engaged in “other” discussion, I am unable to express my gratitude for that moment, reconnecting, though not connecting on what matters most. It reminds me that I have lost my ability to connect when needed, as if words lost cannot surface.

Hidden Words Emerge

If I had truly connected with her, my questions would have been, “how are you taking care of you as you care for him?” My inquiry while leaving might have been, “do you want to walk with me sometime to give yourself a break and breath of fresh air?” Though we were not close friends even in our last encounter years prior, I feel a peace wash over me as if we had been. Like an old friend, I feel my words resurfacing from the confines of their slumber even while driving away. Necessary healing, unformed words surface now in the quiet of this morning. My visit brought meaning to my life, freeing the words hidden from my heart and fingertips, landing on paper, and aching to escape a failing body.

The starting gun went off a year ago to plan a weekend of festivities for family and friends. Running this race toward parties, congratulatory recognition, and spurts of exhilarated happiness, occupied my existence. Since time ticks faster during happier moments, celebrations require presence and tapping into our senses to slow the wheel spinning too fast. Mindfulness matters at these junctures.

With reaching this day, great expectations fill the air, including my own. To miss precious, festive seconds implies the mind, ego, and cog of details remains stuck, clogging the emotions from emanating outward or inward. While numbing the challenges and pains associated with planning this large event, my heart pleads for an eventual rush of joy, love emanating from invited guests, family, and friends, and the exhilaration of accomplishment that primes this time.

When the event is over my psyche engages a new existence where anticipatory victory will instead contain a gnawing, pleading or wishing to return to the before and during phase of the festivities. The rules of post celebratory engagement often lead to reviewing photos taken, videos shot, and memories told. Yet I commit to living in the moment when celebration, happiness, and smiles arrive, and the seconds of brightness that linger long afterward.

Present mindfulness matters when living in these festive moments.

As an observer of life, I recognize my need to fill a void. I fish for the next shiny new thing, the final accomplishment that brings wholeness to my existence, striving toward something at the next turn in the bend. Running for this finish line, expecting to feel complete, leaves a feeling of emptiness. An anticlimactic victory carries diminished expectation of pure elation that turns quickly to disappointment. Motivated by achievement, the results are an empty promise, a delayed realization that life is not about fishing. The wholeness has always been there. I had the magic, power, and fullness all along; I simply had to search within myself and feel it, know it, and embrace it.

My wholeness exists always, yet this truth escapes me often. Nothing I do, say, or have changes this absolute truth. Fishing to snag something for nourishment, for sport, for completion, only offers a brief moment of unfulfilled fullness. Soon I throw the fish back into the water. This marks a reckoning, a sigh, and the acceptance that victory contained tremendous limits and lost its luster soon after catching the prize. Believing I wanted to eat, cook, and bask in the accomplishment longer, dwell in its victory, quickly surfaces the reverse reality. Instead, I return the fish to its origin while I search again for another roaming animal of accomplishment…

Until I know, feel, and accept the freedom and truth of my wholeness.

A peace washes over me. I hear creaking sounds of doors fluttering open and awaken to signs that the universe is guiding, supporting, and orchestrating a high resonance of change on my behalf. An energetic vibration lifts me to exceptional heights. It reminds me to surrender, have faith, and instinctually glide with the flow that surrounds me.

Not long ago doors seemed sealed, negative space occupied my thoughts. I appeared lost; my heart and soul were down for the count. Yet I continued to show up until a day came more beautiful and fulfilling than the last. Maintenance of perpetual positive energy embraced me, releasing pessimism.

Love, gratitude, and compassion embody the staples of this high resonance. Opportunities abound, doors fling open, and anything becomes possible. I walk in the direction of my dreams without hesitation, inscribed by love, kindness, and presence. Trusting that the universe has my back perpetuates this existence.

Open doors are blessings awaiting vision, positivity, and belief.

Inward reflection arrives again as the seasons change. My color-coded calendar paints a rainbow of new activity and novel vision sets its sight on my future. An aromatic crispness fills the air as temperatures cool; my tires contract as if drawing inward as they roll. Similarly I travel inward bound, retreat from the external space, feel the quiet settle within me, and close off contact to reflect. Introspection grabs me as the ebb of this season flows into the next; it is my pause button. I stop to take stock, ground myself as I peek through the trees whose leaves are descending, observing the awe-inspiring radiant sky above for guidance to pay homage to my future intentions. Presence of great power draws faith for making alterations into an improved version of my life.

As I walk through the woods, present with each breath, abundant energy filters through me. My head, initially basking with details, my heart, pleading for self-love and change, and my body, heavy with sludge built on poor choices, demand adjustments. With each step, clarity comes, answers illuminate, and new perspective alters my existence. The air beckons novel thoughts, feelings, and views; it bellows new visions reaching fruition, clears sticky cobwebs of the past.” As the path splits, I know instinctively which avenue to embrace; my heart settles with ease with its decision; and I recognize the path less traveled is mine. As the turn orients back to my starting point, it differs from my initial steps into the forest. I head toward newfound freedom, a changed life, and an altered path my navigation system did not initially recognize.

Inward reflection changes me; it transforms my future and lets the leaves fall not where ye may, yet where I place them to live a better life.

Parenting teens sometimes requires a wishing well. We wish, hope, and pray our offspring access present and future prosperity of respect, kindness, and compassion. Our guidance aims toward moving targets like undisciplined arrows lacking power and conviction. We instill our values upon their impressionable hearts and pray connection between us at least leaves love as a residue. Our communications are often lost in translation, their teen foreign language comprehended by pubescent souls only like an exclusive club. To realize they are never alone in this large world of change, challenge, and unease, is our desire.

As her mother, I remain present; notice the nuances that lie beneath the surface of her expressions, the pain that lines the brow of her forehead, the ache in her heart she cannot articulate to release from her existence. The fine line between interference of her assertive independence and the support needed when a hand is necessary is a tightrope that loosens as I near its center. Balancing my role as observer and ‘catcher in the rye’ is delicate when the parenting wishing well runs dry.

“I am present,” I tell her. “Hear me. See me. Feel my unconditional love. Let me relieve the weight from your shoulders when the world upon you is too much to bear.”

Presence awakens me in the dark while an immediate desire to seize the silent, serene moments of morning with the written word motivates movement. Harsh brightness of the screen settles into wide-eyed clarity and energized momentum. While the keyboard calls from a nameless source, my fingers walk to a poetic chant, drumming gently, parading eloquently down a path of expression. My heart opens easily and offers an authentic dance across the page, dipping and flowing with grace, the keys’ pitter-patter, clattering with intended pauses for reflection. An aromatic nothingness, time’s immobility, and mind movement vacation for this moment. The now of life pauses and enlarges full of love, freedom, and peace, energized by its own reflection.

Therefore, I am sitting in the heart of presence, basking in the brilliance of the sun rising within, my inner power illuminated.

September is a month where endings meet beginnings. This stoppage and start to schedules, new temperatures, and season, invoke novel pathways for life travel. Taking stock, goal setting, envisioning an improved self orients my direction and occupies my thoughts. The roller coaster of September, mourning the loss of summer day freedom pivots quickly into the responsibility-laden leaves that alter my landscape. Chores increase, busyness necessitates time efficiency, and personal well-being often proves difficult. Without personal self-care, chaos ensues; I feel the initial drop of my roller coaster ride gathering speed by the time I reach the bottom.

My heart irks me to exit the ride and gain my bearings. Imminent death tells my rational mind I must wait the ride’s duration. The maddening short adventure contains twists, bumps, and rickety, ferocious scraping steel knocking my senses. Especially disconcerting is its furiously alarming speed. Initially short of breath, gasping for air as my stomach turns upside down with a sense of falling into empty air, a sudden bodily jerking toward unexpected directions alters my inner distress. Unable to assess my route and get my bearings while life’s intensity and destination has a mind of its own, I await the sudden brake that stops the ride. Gathering my belongings, I exit the coaster, smiling with reddened cheeks at such exhilaration. This pivotal finale meets new energy of slow, calm, and next step actions and choices. This is where endings meet beginnings.

Are you still on the roller coaster or are the next steps yours for the making?

September fosters assessment of my life’s path as the temperature cools, structure resumes, and leaves fall. I contemplate career and personal life goals, pick the fruits of my labor like a ripe apple plucked off a tree. A pause for readjustment, discovery of new pathways for change, and an action plan where opportunity awaits, orient my daily waters. Destined outcomes access my intuition, forcing me from a previous stepping-stone to the next stride forward. Momentum gathers energy as the chugging of my rudder steers and winds begin to alter course. A rhythm begins with repetitive motion until steady she rides. My sail catches full access of the wind. I embrace the alignment and connection, pushing me into open waters, gliding into opportunity, freedom, and peace. The world opens up to all that I am. It offers my sails a forceful course from which to travel. Seasons change me.

Windup

With a full count loudly laying the foundation his body extends like an eagle in flight, an arm stretches back, and fingers tighten around the object that materializes from his dusty glove. The air is moist with the heat of summer; beading sweat lines his forehead, and dirt lives beneath his fingernails. Chirping birds and observers fill the air with chatter, the background music for the boys of summer. Fragrance of green grass and seasonal dew emit from the diamond.

Release

The gloveless hand releases the red-stitched, white leather sphere with nine-year-old force while his leg elongates to step forward into the soft sand below. Like one giant step for baseball-kind, he gouges the dirt mound below the tiny hill, seemingly a mountain versus a molehill. He relinquished the throw toward another mitt; the anticipation thickens the air as spectators hush to hold their breath; and the projectile barrels toward home. The white object floats as if in slow motion; it carries the held breath of spectators.

A stick of great length awaits connection for its crack at the orb. Square, padded bases occupy bodies ready to run. A crouched, masked boy awaits his mitt’s retrieval. Seven, focused players ready themselves for the speeding, catchable bullet potentially coming their way. Instead, the long rod of swinging aluminum misses the spinning leather by millimeters for strike three, game over.

Change the view and what I view changes. My attention begins to seek new unexplored avenues. These untapped roads initially lay invisible and road blocked from my vision. Suddenly they appear as clear, open paths, and less traveled roads. They materialize since my recent crusade to discard “things” from my environment. With fewer possessions my happiness level skyrockets, the way I look at things change. Where once stuff existed, clean, clear shelves replace my vision. With new clarity, my sight and insight reach further where limitations existed. I see changed expansion to my surroundings and life’s internal, emotional, heart-centered passageways. My focus and attention initiate deeper vigor toward greater understanding of what appears before me. I see things I never noticed before.

“When you change the way you look at things, the things you look at change.”  Wayne Dyer

Writers Transfer Truth

Sometimes I arrive at the keyboard without knowing what will materialize. Ideas transfer from heart to mind to fingertips to keys. I trust the process and my fingers do the walking, allowing words to orient themselves upon the page. There is no foresight, no added clues when I sit daily. I surrender and the words flow through me. I am not actually the writer, yet a conduit for the muse that has chosen me. Writers transfer truth.

Rotating Life

My life flashbacks and rotates along a conveyor belt of visuals. I see myself standing before a classroom, numbers upon a chalkboard, equations solved, and students learning earnestly. Yet life interrupts; the vision changes to myself as a student, laptop propped upon, and a graduation cap with red tassel flung aside, and the letters M, B, and A, displayed on my new resume. A man enters the flowing lifecycle, and a white veil guides me down an aisle. Visions of sending packages to customers, product distribution, and inventory stocked upon my shelves, multiple, profitable transactions per day meld my entrepreneurial existence. Birthing babies fills my life with breastfed infants, diaper changes, and chauffeuring kids to the hustle and bustle. Non-profit boards bring new meaning to charity, volunteering keeps math and teaching alive, and community-based giving occupies next steps.

Writing Arrives

Yet one inspiring day, writing arrives without warning, records the memories, and opens a dormant heart. It relays experience and fosters vulnerability for connecting with others, healing hurt within me. Truth flashes across pages. Readers recognize their own plight; feel emotions my words evoke. Hardwired to connect, the words are conduits to weave the web between us. Writing fosters the senses, utters purpose, and illustrates understanding; healing takes place. The words pave my path for inner analysis and an opening of love and belonging. My keyboard is the cog in a wheel that moves this energy; my fingers acknowledge and act in kind. Words flow with what matters, showering the world with consideration, healing, and love between life’s pages and passages. Through this conduit, my words transfer truth.

The You is all that does not nurture my body, mind, and heart. Ingredients that leave me wanting more are my addictive numbing agents. Nostalgia gnaws at me such as the Ice Cream truck passes by; movie theater treats call my name; and pain and loss ache for comfort only food could alleviate in the past. These foods numb my emotions and discomfort, fill a void within that simply needs attention, resolution, and healing. Another day without the numbing agents makes me feel stronger and happier. Clean eating is required.

I AM stronger with real food and self-love. The void within dissipates. Anything less weakens me.

Feeling good following sleep is my ultimate objective, glowing health meeting me when I wake. My feet touch the cool hardwood, gratitude fills my core, and the slogan, “This is my time; nothing stands in my way,” feeds me emotional strength. I tap into my center, my heart beats with the rhythm of a silent morning, and within, an evoked joy rises. A go-get-it attitude materializes; emotional freedom seizes the day with kindness, compassion, and love. Anything less topples the day downward rather than in an upward flow. Feeling good, it is what matters.

Blank page again. My freedom for expression excites me, yet induces fear. My silenced voice infiltrates dread by potential words escaping composition. Yet my fingers continues clicking keys, my heart inspires threads, and my mind filters curiosity, imagination, and reflection. Each ending fosters new beginnings with foreboding joy, overpowering elation, and emerging freedom. Balance keeps me from full throttle of excitement, the climax unreachable at an author’s endpoint. Insight into my hero’s journey lies there. Writing marks the pinnacle of my existence; it is while inscribing my insides onto paper that I thrive, grow, and thrill my inner senses. Within written expression I AM ENOUGH marks the world as my truth unleashes from my heart. I AM ALIVE! Blank page again fills.

I awaken puffy, inflamed, and numb, staring at the girl in the mirror. My throat swallows painfully while bereavement, regret, and disappointment surface from visual vanishing health and recognition that actions went awry again. A thorough sigh releases the struggle of pent up emotions and exhaustion that couples with these repeated mornings after. I gasp as a tear drops to my lap below. Years of acquiring accumulated wisdom and altering my inner message, I still encounter distress that inertia will give way, my ship to shore post apocalyptic eating will capsize without recovery. What if I cannot right the wrong, survive diving into over consumption, and pull myself from trepid waters to start again. I stare at the girl in the mirror until a glimmer of hope sparkles from her eyes reminding me of my strength, determination, and perseverance.

I rise for day one again, a mental Monday when time feels heavy and motivation fosters commitment to clean food and physical strength of heart and muscle. The impetus to kick the cupcake away from heading to my anticipatory mouth contains loose wiring; detached self-care and self-love confronts and surrenders to the encounter. My long-term plan gone awry again, self-respect dangles, and cake crumbs dropping from my lips seems implausible. Yet immediate gratification beckons more sweets, impulsive responses damage me further, and an ache within wants change. Day one starts with a momentary quiver, wavering, teetering until momentum turns the corner near the ledge.

Unaccompanied, lost, and scared, perilously close to the cliff’s edge, a slight breeze has the potential of dumping me to rock bottom, where I began this journey long ago. I know friends nearby support me, would answer the call with the phone-a-friend option. Yet self-accountability beckons me to bridge the gap between dependence upon them and self-action. No longer do my days consist of holding others accountable for my successes and failures. Sustainable lifestyles have days of reckoning when we stand at the crossroad of do or don’t, regardless of social support or not. Disconnected by what others think and do, acting on my own behalf becomes essential.

Unraveling results find me at Day One, not at ground zero. My past repeating, I peel fat layers again; returned pounds beckon for change. Taking stock, I acknowledge past distance traveled and extensive knowledge accumulated. I return along a shorter route with clearance to run, power to self-engage, and perseverance to go the distance as my best self reaches fruition. Delayed gratification meets my commitment and erases the cookies that had me crumbling. Day one marks the first day of the rest of my life. Embrace rather than resist its return and I alter my results allowing a second day to prosper with strength and momentum.

Days move fast. Details are plenty. Head feels full. To slow the motion, shake this frenzy, I freeze the memories into picture frames, and still my beating heart with love for each essential second. I jump off this merry-go-round, sit in a field of stillness, and breathe in the glory of being. Time ticks faster, my motherhood role elevates to chauffeur, and I yearn for the smallest of genuine conversations and connections as we speed to the next ballgame, the next year-end activity, the next juncture of their lives exiting and commencing before me without acknowledgment. I no longer connect with others; frenzy stays with me. Yet, she releases herself long enough to let go and free me from captivity.

My son’s passion shines with a hit to left field, a single stretched into a double, and a slide into home plate. The play to first, the line drive caught on the fly, and a short pick-up to tag and close an inning out, are the joys that fill his heart beyond measure. A horse’s canter and jumping the two-footers with my daughter atop sets a glow this ride ignites within her. She rides with bliss, filled with love for this graceful creature, and feels more exhilarated than any other event can foster. As I sit on the sidelines, I feel my breath wave in and out, easing into stillness that recently escaped me. Frenzy is gone and I am one with the moment, grateful for the breath, experience, and elation of beauty within and around me.

When frenzy returns, I filter it out with a breath. There I pause to listen, see, and feel a glimpse of freedom as frenzy fades away into the stillness of an idyllic event. Frenzy files down its edges to smooth contours when the wind whistles, the crack of the bat declares a hit, and the hooves beat the ground with rhythm. I then experience happiness blended with harmony as the moment envelops me. These days as time moves faster and memories collide into a blur, releasing frenzy from my life offers the gift of joy, the thrill of freedom, and the stillness a good life requires. When I feel frenzy beckon, I release its hold, still my heart, and feel life’s bliss.