The Great American Shrug 

What happens when a nation treats a roadmap for autocracy like a campaign 'brand'? Have we stopped being citizens and started being an audience? It’s time to talk about how we lost the version of ourselves that was supposed to care enough to keep our democracy. We were told our democracy had guardrails. What we didn’t realize is that guardrails are made of people—and those people decided to stop checking. We didn’t lose our freedom to a secret plot; we lost it to a collective shrug. Our new reality is that America has become a spectator State.

He told us what he wanted to do before he was elected; he told us he didn’t want any more elections and wanted to keep running as the nation's leader regardless of term limits. And we shrugged. He was voted in anyway.

We are living in the space between the country we were promised in civics class and the reality sitting right in front of us. For generations, we leaned on foundational beliefs that have turned out to be hollow.

We were raised to believe that the American citizen was a vigilant watchman. The theory was simple: if a candidate openly threatened the mechanics of democracy, the "informed electorate" would see it as a structural alarm bell and collectively reject it. We thought there were certain "disqualifiers" that no one could survive.

 When he said he wanted to bypass the traditional limits of power, we didn't reach for the history books—we reached for the remote. We treated his intent like a campaign "brand" rather than a literal roadmap. We watched the dismantling of our norms as if it were a high-stakes season finale, waiting to see what happened next rather than realizing we were the ones the house was falling on. We traded our role as participants for the comfort of being an audience.

And now another, more painful realization: our belief that freedom is a permanent, physical property we own. We treated liberty like a house we inherited—something that would just always be there, requiring no maintenance, as solid as the Earth.

We had a blind faith in "checks and balances," as if they were a series of automated tripwires that would stop any overreach. We assumed the law was a machine that ran itself. From where I sit, it’s clear that those checks were never made of iron; they were made of people. And when those people decide to stop checking—or when the spectators decide that "entertainment" is more important than "process"—the guardrails don't just break; they vanish.

The USA is no longer the "land of the free" in the way the brochures described it. That version of America relied on a citizenry that prioritized the process over the personality. By voting him in after he told us exactly how he would dismantle that process, we didn't just break a rule; we proved that the myths we believed about ourselves were never actually true.

We didn't lose our democracy because of a secret plot. We lost the version of ourselves that was supposed to care enough to keep it. We chose the remote over the responsibility, and now we are left watching the credits roll on a myth we thought would last forever.

Roadside Requiem 

Along the roadside, dreams lie shattered, Tents destroyed, lives

scattered. Occupation's bombs have torn the air, Leaving canvas ghosts

and dark despair.

Debris of wood and twisted steel, A landscape surreal, too raw to heal.

In crimson pools, broken forms lie still, Silent witnesses on this gory hill.

A man face down in scarlet spread, Life's essence fled, gray matter

shed. Another soul, limbs pretzel-bound, A grotesque sculpture on

bloodied ground.

Sand cradles a fragment of being, A severed head, past horror seeing.

Mustached lips, forever parted wide, An eternal roar where silence

hides.

In tattered shade, a tiny form, Too young to weather this cruel storm.

Eyes closed in eternal repose, Innocence lost as chaos grows.

Broken bodies, stories untold, In war's embrace, forever cold. This

roadside scene, a grim tableau, Of humanity's darkest, lowest low.

Canvas whispers and metal screams, Echo the death of countless

dreams. In aftermath's silent, solemn hour, We witness destruction's

awful power.

Echoes in an Empty Room

The room is stark and empty, with only one wooden, straight-backed chair where you sit in silence, waiting. It hasn't always been empty. When you first came here, it was aglow with the soft light of love. The room was once filled with beautiful artwork: paintings of wild, storm-tossed seas, brilliant sunsets, dappled forests and streams, and of some sun-drenched, deserted beach marked with the trail made in the smooth sand of a boat being dragged across it, only to disappear into the curling, foaming waves. There were sculptures of dancing lovers, and of birds in flight. Shelves lined the walls filled with books telling of a love story. The stories recorded every tender word spoken from loving lips. They told of every soft embrace, every heartfelt declaration, every musical note created with the delight of two lovers. Yes, this room once rang with laughter and joy. Now that laughter is absorbed into the walls, and as you continue to speak your words of love, they merely echo back to you, piercing your heart with every syllable.

The fountains of joy have evaporated through time, the gardens of whispered delights have withered. And the sweepers and dusters have come while you've been focused on the hope of your future together, and have cleaned the remnants of your hopes away, and you have only now noticed. You have only now noticed that you are all alone, left with nothing but memories. Your voice, your love, your yearning, reaches no farther than the empty walls around you.

How long have you been sitting here with your hands quietly folded on your lap, barely breathing and squinting with your eyes trying to see his form appear in the doorway? When did the love he gave so freely and poured so lavishly on you turn to just the occasional crumb to keep you in this room—that kept you from walking out that door you see on the opposite wall? The door that has always been there but that you didn't see until the room was emptied?

It is a door, isn't it. Its color the same stark white as the wall that frames it. The only thing that sets it apart from the room are the rusty hinges and doorknob. You stare at it for a long time, frozen with wonder as to what lies beyond it. Could there be life and freedom outside this room? You certainly were happy here. You had dreams and expectations for a time in this room. Those dreams and expectations left with each painting, each sculpture, each volume, each musical note that have vanished from the room almost without your notice. Now it's only you sitting in your lone chair, staring at that door.

There is no reason to stay. No longer a reason to wait. You rise slowly from your chair and move with hesitant feet toward the door. Before you realize you've even gained an inch, you stand with outstretched hand and take hold of the rusting knob. It doesn't turn with ease, but is that because of the condition of the doorknob or your own reluctance? You hear a soft click, and a thin beam of brilliant light pierces through the cracked open edge. As you open the door wider, your eyes behold the most beautiful garden you've ever seen. Trees and flowering bushes line a pebbled path, wet with dew and sparkling like diamonds as the sun paints each drop with the colors of the rainbow. Birds sing a symphony in tune with a fountain in the small courtyard carpeted with wildflowers. Leaves suddenly start a dance with the breeze.

You take a deep breath and, turning to look back into your empty room, you remember when it was full of the life the two of you had given it. You know that it's time to close the door to that life because one of you left it long ago. One of you gave up on the dream. One of you might drop in one day and find you gone, and you wonder if he will question why. Then, slowly turning to quietly close the door for the last time, you listen for that final click of the latch and begin to walk in your own garden.

                                                              Roadside Requiem

Along the roadside, dreams lie shattered,

Tents destroyed, lives shattered.

Occupation's bombs have ripped the air,

Leaving canvas ghosts and dark despair.

Debris of wood mark the kill,

A landscape surreal, too raw to heal.

In crimson pools, broken forms lie still,

Silent witnesses on this gory hill.

A man face down in scarlet spread,

Life's essence fled, gray matter shed.

Another soul, limbs pretzel-bound,

A grotesque sculpture on bloodied ground.

Sand cradles a fragment of being,

A severed head, past horror seeing.

Mustached lips, forever parted wide,

An eternal roar where silence hides.

In tattered shade, a tiny form,

Too young to weather this cruel storm.

Eyes closed in eternal repose,

Innocence lost as chaos grows.

Broken bodies, stories untold,

In war's embrace, forever cold.

This roadside scene, a grim tableau,

Of humanity's darkest, lowest low.

Canvas whispers and metal screams,

Echo the death of countless dreams.

In aftermath's silent, solemn hour,

We witness destruction's awful power.

The Viking

His name was Logan and he was my neighbor back when I lived a “trailer trash” life. Tall, and larger than life, when he bent down his head to walk through my living room door, the whole opening just disappeared. Only a sliver of daylight surrounded the bulk of his form. His most distinguishing feature was his luxurious long blond hair and he kept it immaculate! Because of his beard and that beautiful hair some referred to him as Jesus. But Logan didn't look like my idea of Jesus, he was more like a Viking. Sometimes I could even envision him with a horned Viking helmet and carrying a sword and shield.

Logan became my Viking for a short turn, but he was dumb as a box of rocks and I couldn't understand him when he talked. He mumbled and only spoke in half sentences, sometimes trailing off before he would finish a thought as if he were losing his script. We would sit on my back porch smoking weed, trying to complete a conversation but it never turned into any kind of deep understanding. I didn't mind that he was a terrible communicator because all I could seem to want to do was stand behind him combing and braiding and running my fingers through his hair! These times would conjure up fantasies in my head of Logan standing tall at the bow of a Viking ship on a storm tossed sea with his hair whipping furiously about his head and shoulders. Which spurned my thoughts of an erotic encounter with all that hair.

It didn't take a lot of coaxing to maneuver him to my bedroom one afternoon and to strategically position him where the ceiling fan would blow his hair whenever he would toss his head about as we had sex.

The visual was most rewarding and oddly, better than the sex. We only had the one encounter, and I can't remember what ever happened with Logan. But I'll never forget how satisfying that head toss was for me.

The Smile (edited)

It was well into the late morning of her work day and her sleep heavy eyes kept flying up to the old dusty clock near the rafters of the furniture factory. The morning had been unbearably cold, and her workstation near the shipping room doors kept getting the occasional blast of frigid air through, each time the doors were opened to receive more freight. Already, she began to dread that the rest of the day would be dragging by at the speed of the clanky old garbage truck that woke her even before her alarm sounded this morning. Katie had slept a whole hour last night due to the drunken antics of Thomas, the man in her life, who had decided to park his truck in her driveway and start playing his country music so loud that she was afraid her neighbors would call the police out to quiet things down. At one point she had gone out to the truck to sit with him and try to convince him to go home. Nothing worked. Thomas had stayed there well into the early morning hours with his bottle and his tapes blaring though the speakers. She sneaked out one last time around 4 am to find him passed out, and she was able to turn off the nerve shattering noise and creep back to her bed, dropping off to a fitful sleep.

Katie ached all over and was so clumsy with her furniture assembly that the foreman kept giving her glowering looks every time he walked by. She mused to herself as she worked, wondering where this obsession with Thomas had begun. She felt she must be losing her mind, to be so lonely for companionship that she would accept such a relationship with someone who could bring nothing to the table but aggravation and abuse.

Her mind was full of thoughts of last night and the weariness that consumed her, when she glanced up from where she worked and let her gaze absentmindedly wander across the great expanse of that noisy, dusty room. That's when she saw him. He was straightening up from a stack of table tops he had been sanding and he looked right at her. The smile that flashed across his face sent shock waves throughout her whole body, bringing it magically back to full life. Suddenly the room was quiet, the light streaming through tall, dirty windows spotlighted his slender body and for a moment, time stood still. The two of them stood motionless, with nothing between them but that smile.

There are moments in your life that burn forever into hard drive of your brain. Moments that you rehash repeatedly because they affect you so profoundly. That was one of those moment for me. I am the Katie in the story and the man with the smile was someone I'll call for now, Richard Logan. After that eternity of a smile, the buzzer sounded off in the plant, signaling it was time to stop work for our thirty minute lunch break. The sound was so startling to me that it distracted my gaze for a split second and when I looked back, the smiling man had disappeared just as quickly as he had materialized. Panic seized my being and I hurried to the door on the other side of the plant that would lead me to our cafeteria. Holding my breath, wondering if I had dreamed him up. As I passed quickly through the double doors, and tried to adjust my eyes to the change of light in the darkened corridor leading to the cafeteria, there was a strong sense that someone had fallen in behind me and I turned around so quickly that we collided, throwing each other off balance, and he grabbed my shoulders to steady us both. He was more impressive close up, and the smile that so readily spread from his full lips, revealed perfectly aligned, white teeth, and dug deep crevices into his cheeks, brightening up the tender eyes and illuminating the whole corridor. He spoke, his voice deep and fluid. That Southern drawl, comforting. “Hello, my name is Richard and I've not been able to keep my eyes off you ever since we came to work this morning.” I had to catch my breath. The surprise at my reaction to this man was unsettling. “I'm Katie.” I couldn't say anything more. “Will you sit with me in the cafeteria and will you let me buy your lunch?” He asked. “I would like that.” Was my only reply. I tried to pretend some semblance of calm, as we continued down the corridor to the bustling cafeteria where other coworkers were hurriedly getting their noon meal. I don't remember what we ate, or what we talked about. I only remember his smile and his easy manner. I don't remember getting off work after our shift, nor of whether or not we even said goodbye. I do remember the days and weeks after that encounter, learning that he was housed at the prison complex in the town where I lived and that he was on the work release program. He was brought to the plant every morning for work and returned on the prison bus to his confinement every evening, while I went home to my empty house and an emotionally abusive and controlling Thomas, who would visit when he thought about wanting my company, or a place to hang out to drink and make my life a torment. Richard would call me from the prison every evening and we had 10 minutes to talk intimately without enduring the curious glances of our coworkers at the plant. He was scheduled to be released on parole in a few months and we both counted the days and the hours until that day came. When it did, he was released with only the clothes he had on his back along with a couple pairs of blue jeans, and shirts in a small backpack filled with other personal items. The prison gave each released inmate some of the cash they had earned on their jobs. It wasn't much because inmates didn't earn even minimum wage at the time and I wondered how he was ever going to survive on that, and get back to his home in a county that was over five hours drive away. None of his family nor friends were present to pick him up on his release, but I was.

I had taken a bold move to find an apartment for Richard to rent in order to give him time to think about his next options, even providing household things to make it more comfortable. By this time, Richard was claiming to have fallen in love with me, but I couldn't break my destructive obsession with Thomas. Then fate, being kinder to me than I deserved, intervened as Thomas got ready to move out of State for a job. Ironically the job was at a prison. He was to be a manager at a furniture production facility at one of the Federal prisons in Florida. It could have been the perfect answer to my dilemma and my conflicted mind and heart.

After Thomas left, Richard and I moved forward into a more intimate relationship. We were happy for a time. He wasn’t thrilled that I still insisted on keeping our relationship a secret, but he never pushed. As I think back over the last twenty years since we parted, of my multitude of failed relationships, it seems that Richard was the most gentle, accommodating, forgiving man I have ever had the fortune of knowing. And I blew it!

I blew it because I refused to acknowledge the jewel that I had found. Even though he had gotten in trouble and spent time in prison, I still believed him to be a keeper, and yet, I threw him away.

While Thomas was in Florida, I got letters from him declaring himself to be a changed man. Professing his love for me, he wrote many times that he missed me terribly and wanted me to move to Florida to be with him. I believed that my years with Thomas should not be spent spent in vain, so I said goodbye to Richard and packed all my household belongings, put them in storage and took the bus to Florida. It didn't take long for me to regret my decision. Thomas was the same, drunk, abusive and absent partner he'd always been. He worked 6 and a half days a week, gone before the sun came up and home long after dark. I was left alone in our tiny apartment with only my books and my own imagination for entertainment. There was only the one car, Thomas's, and the Florida weather was too harsh and hot for me to get out much on foot. We were midland, so no beach trips for me to ease and feed my soul. Next door to us was a high rise retirement home and I was able to find some part time work doing housecleaning and errands for the residents there. On the day when one of my clients would need grocery shopping done, I would ride to the prison with Thomas which was an hour long trip one way, and keep his car. After a month there, it looked like I could make my life work, especially if Thomas could eventually work fewer hours at the prison. He promised me one Saturday evening that he would only work half a day next day, Sunday, and that we would spend the afternoon and evening together. It sounded like heaven to me. That morning, I got up early to clean the apartment, do laundry and pamper myself, getting ready for our “date.” I was ready and waiting by 11, and kept running to the window in anticipation of seeing his car pull up to the parking place in front of our apartment. When he wasn't home by 2 pm, I just took to pacing back and forth in front of the apartment, even walking to the lake and the surrounding park, eventually hibernating inside because of the intense heat and humidity. As the day dwindled into evening and I hadn't even heard the phone ring, I became angry and disappointed. Richard filled my thoughts for the rest of that evening and I needed to go somewhere. I was dressed for going out and immensely angry that I seemed to be stuck. I remembered that there was a movie theater within walking distance in a shopping mall and determined to walk in the cooler evening air to watch a movie, alone. And of course, I cannot today remember the movie. When it was over, close to about 10 pm, I called our apartment because I didn't want to walk home alone in the dark. In my crazy head, I imagined that Thomas would be home and he'd come get me and would be frantic with worry as to where I could be. There was no answer. So I called a taxi and went home. Walking through the door of our apartment I was devastated to see Thomas passed out drunk on our living room floor. My anger was burning so hot that I kicked him in the ribs so hard, I was afraid his ribs broke. His grunt sounded like some kind of muffled gurgle. Disgusted, I locked myself in our bedroom and didn't come out till morning. Thomas was up by the time I crept out for my morning coffee, but hazily informed me that he was off for the day, yet he was so hung over that all he would be doing would be resting. He never mentioned his broken promises, only commented curtly that a coworker had invited him to go for drinks at a local bar after they got off work and he lost track of time! When I asked him why he didn't call to tell me what he was going to do, he simply mumbled, "A guy doesn't call his girlfriend to ask permission to have drinks with a friend." By evening, I told him that I was going back home to North Carolina.

Thomas and I said our goodbyes at the bus station and I rode for eleven hours with a broken spirit and heart. I could think of nothing but that I wanted to find Richard still in his apartment. I dared to hope that he would forgive me for leaving. It had been a long two months.

Arriving home to my Grandmother's house after my bus ride, it was too late to drive back into town to find Richard. But the next day, I drove in. It was a sunny, cloudless day in May. Lush, leafed trees lined both sides of the roadway that led to Richard's apartment creating a shady canopy. Getting closer to the complex, the radio was playing some smokey saxophone tune and I saw a figure walking, slack shouldered along the edge of the roadway looking like someone carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. I knew that form. It was Richard and my heart stuck in my throat. Passing him, I found a place to pull over to the shoulder of the road and he approached my car. Poking his head in the passenger side window and flashing that infamous smile at me, he drawled, “You're home.” “Yes I am, do you want a ride?” Climbing into my car and folding his long legs into the too small space in front of him, he reached over to give me a whisper of a kiss on my cheek. We drove back to his apartment and the rest is a blur of blissful reunion. I couldn't imagine at that moment why I would ever leave him again.

Our time together had to be short lived, because Richard needed to return to his home county. He was still serving parole and needed to find permanent work. One day he told me he'd made arrangements to take a taxi home, but that he would call me. And he did, many times. Always telling me he loved and missed me. But before he left he took one of his earrings out, a tiny musical note, and asked me to wear it while he would always wear the other one. It was to be a promise that we would always be connected he said. And that is what I did. But then, Thomas returned home, and the turmoil began anew. I bounced back and forth between these two men so many times that my head is spinning to just think about it. When Thomas asked me to marry him, I went against everything that screamed inside my spirit to say no, and answered instead that I would!

I don't understand why I rejected Richard and chose Thomas, other than maybe I was being a complete snob about being with someone who had served time in prison for breaking and entering with a weapon, regardless of how wonderfully sweet and attentive he was. There was an ever looming belief with me that I couldn't let my family know that I was with someone who had been in that kind of trouble. However, I didn't seem to have any doubts about spending my life with an alcoholic jerk. And then there came that dreadful day when I was sitting at home with Thomas and Richard called me. The hateful, and harsh way I ended that conversation with him, haunts me till this day twenty years later. I barked into the phone that he was never to call me again, that I was getting married. The silence on the end of the line after that tirade was deafening. I can only imagine now what kind of gut wrenching pain it must have caused him to hear that because I know he cared for me deeply. He didn't deserve that. And Thomas didn't deserve me. Our marriage ended after only one year and it was a brutal one year.

Now after the passing of twenty years, as I am here in my home, far away from Thomas, and missing Richard still, I have searched for him through online computer searches to no avail. Like the sun falling out of a clear blue sky, I know that I have lost a jewel of great price. Every search I make turns up nothing. And I am reduced to sending out telepathic messages to him with my plea for him to somehow find me. Find me so that I can at the very least, know that he moved on to have a good life, and so that I can apologize for my brutal brush off. A brush off that was unwarranted.

Somewhere Richard is out there. Living what I hope is a carefree and happy life. My lesson is starkly real and a hard one to live with.

The Smile

It was well into the late morning of her work day and her sleep heavy eyes kept flying up to the old dusty clock near the rafters of the furniture factory. The morning had been unbearably cold, and her workstation near the shipping room doors kept getting the occasional blast of frigid air through, each time the doors were opened to receive more freight. Already, she began to dread that the rest of the day would be dragging by at the speed of the clanky old garbage truck that woke her even before her alarm sounded this morning. Katie had slept a whole hour last night due to the drunken antics of Thomas, the man in her life, who had decided to park his truck in her driveway and start playing his country music so loud that she was afraid her neighbors would call the police out to quiet things down. At one point she had gone out to the truck to sit with him and try to convince him to go home. Nothing worked. Thomas had stayed there well into the early morning hours with his bottle and his tapes blaring though the speakers. She sneaked out one last time around 4 am to find him passed out, and she was able to turn off the nerve shattering noise and creep back to her bed, dropping off to a fitful sleep.

Katie ached all over and was so clumsy with her furniture assembly that the foreman kept giving her glowering looks every time he walked by. She mused to herself as she worked, wondering where this obsession with Thomas had begun. She felt she must be losing her mind, to be so lonely for companionship that she would accept such a relationship with someone who could bring nothing to the table but aggravation and abuse.

Her mind was full of thoughts of last night and the weariness that consumed her, when she glanced up from where she worked and let her gaze absentmindedly wander across the great expanse of that noisy, dusty room. That's when she saw him. He was straightening up from a stack of table tops he had been sanding and he looked right at her. The smile that flashed across his face sent shock waves throughout her whole body, bringing it magically back to full life. Suddenly the room was quiet, the light streaming through tall, dirty windows spotlighted his slender body and for a moment, time stood still. The two of them stood motionless, with nothing between them but that smile.

There are moments in your life that burn forever into hard drive of your brain. Moments that you rehash repeatedly because they affected you so profoundly. That was one of those moment for me. I am the Katie in the story and the man with the smile was someone I'll call for now, Richard Logan. After that eternity of a smile, the buzzer sounded off in the plant, signaling it was time to stop work for our thirty minute lunch break. The sound was so startling to me that it distracted my gaze for a split second and when I looked back, the smiling man had disappeared just as quickly as he had materialized. Panic seized my being and I hurried to the door on the other side of the plant that would lead me to our cafeteria. Holding my breath, wondering if I had dreamed him up. As I passed quickly through the double doors, and tried to adjust my eyes to the change of light in the darkened corridor leading to the cafeteria, there was a strong sense that someone had fallen in behind me and I turned around so quickly that we collided, throwing each other off balance, and he grabbed my shoulders to steady us both. He was more impressive close up, and the smile that so readily spread from his full lips, revealed perfectly aligned, white teeth, and dug deep crevices into cheeks, brightening up his tender eyes and illuminating the whole corridor. He spoke, his voice deep and fluid. His Southern drawl, comforting. “Hello, my name is Richard Logan and I've not been able to keep my eyes off you ever since we came to work this morning.” I had to catch my breath. My surprise at my reaction to this man was unsettling. “I'm Katie.” I couldn't say anything more. “Will you sit with me in the cafeteria and will you let me buy your lunch?” He asked. “I would like that.” Was my only reply. I tried to pretend some semblance of calm, as we continued down the corridor to the bustling cafeteria where other coworkers were hurriedly getting their noon meal. I don't remember what we ate, or what we talked about. I only remember his smile and his easy manner. I don't remember getting off work after our shift, nor of whether or not we even said goodbye. I do remember the days and weeks after that encounter and learning that he was in the prison complex in the town where I lived and that he was on the work release program. He was brought to the plant every morning for work and returned on the prison bus to his confinement every evening, while I went home to my empty house and an emotionally abusive and controlling Thomas, the man in my life at the time, who would visit when he thought about wanting my company, or a place to hang out to drink and make my life a torment. Richard would call me from the prison every evening and we had 10 minutes to talk intimately without enduring the curious glances of our coworkers at the plant. He was scheduled to be released on parole in a few months and we both counted the days and the hours until that day came. When it did, he was released with only the clothes he had on his back along with a couple pairs of blue jeans, and shirts in a small backpack filled with other personal items. The prison gave each released inmate some of the cash they had earned on their jobs. It wasn't much because inmates didn't earn even minimum wage at the time and I wondered how he was ever going to survive on that, and get back to his home in a county that was over 6 hours drive away. None of his family nor friends were present to pick him up on his release, but I was.

I had taken a bold move to find an apartment for Richard to rent to give him time to think about his next options, even providing household things to make it more comfortable. By this time, Richard was claiming to have fallen in love with me, but I couldn't break my destructive obsession with Thomas. Then fate, being kinder to me than I deserved, intervened as Thomas got ready to move out of State for a job. Ironically the job was at a prison. He was to be a manager at a furniture production facility at one of the Federal prisons in Florida. It could have been the perfect answer to my dilemma and my conflicted mind and heart.

After Thomas left, Richard and I evolved into a more intimate relationship. We were happy for a time. He wasn’t thrilled that I still insisted on keeping our relationship a secret, but he never pushed. As I think back over the last twenty years since we parted, of my multitude of failed relationships, it seems that Richard was the most gentle, accommodating, forgiving man I have ever had the fortune of knowing. And I blew it!

I blew it because I refused to acknowledge the jewel that I had found. Even though he had gotten in trouble and spent time in prison, I still believed him to be a keeper, and yet, I threw him away.

While Thomas was in Florida, I got letters from him declaring himself to be a changed man. Declaring his love for me, swearing that he missed me terribly and wanting me to move to Florida to be with him. Believing that my years with Thomas should not be years spent in vain, I said goodbye to Richard and packed all my household belongings, put them in storage and took the bus to Florida. It didn't take long for me to regret my decision. Thomas was the same, drunk, abusive and absent partner he'd always been. He worked 6 and a half days a week, gone before the sun came up and home long after dark. I was left alone in our tiny apartment with only my books and my own imagination for entertainment. I had no car and the Florida weather was too harsh and hot for me to get out much on foot. We were midland, so no beach trips for me to ease and feed my soul. There was a high rise retirement home next door to us and I was able to find some part time work doing housecleaning and errands for the residents there. On the day when one of my clients would need grocery shopping done, I would ride to the prison with Thomas which was an hour long trip one way, and keep his car. After a month there, it looked like I could make my life work. Thomas promised me one Saturday evening that he would only work half a day next day, Sunday, and that we would spend the afternoon and evening together. That sounded like heaven to me. That morning, I got up early to clean the apartment, do laundry and pamper myself, getting ready for our “date.” I was ready and waiting by 11, and kept running to the window in anticipation of seeing his car pull up to the parking place in front of our apartment. When he wasn't home by 2 pm, I just took to pacing back and forth in front of the apartment, even walking to the lake and the surrounding park, eventually hibernating inside because of the intense heat and humidity. As the day dwindled into evening and I hadn't even heard the phone ring, I became angry and disappointed. Richard filled my thoughts for the rest of that evening and I needed to go somewhere. I was dressed for going out and immensely angry that I seemed to be stuck. I remembered that there was a movie theater within walking distance in a shopping mall and determined to walk in the cooler evening air to watch a movie, alone. And of course, I cannot today remember the movie. When it was over, close to about 10 pm, I called our apartment because I didn't want to walk home alone in the dark. In my crazy head, I imagined that Thomas would be home and he'd come get me and would be frantic with worry as to where I could be. There was no answer. So I called a taxi and went home. Walking through the door of our apartment I was devastated to see Thomas passed out drunk on our living room floor. My anger was burning so hot that I kicked him in the ribs so hard, I was afraid his ribs broke. His grunt sounded like some kind of muffled gurgle. Disgusted, I locked myself in our bedroom and didn't come out till morning. Thomas was up by the time I crept out for my morning coffee, but hazily informed me that he was off for the day, yet he was so hung over that all he would be doing would be resting. He never mentioned his broken promises, only saying that a coworker had invited him to go for drinks at a local bar after they got off work and he lost track of time! When I asked him why he didn't call to tell me what he was going to do, he simply mumbled, "A guy doesn't call his girlfriend to ask permission to have drinks with a friend." By evening, I told him that I was going back home to North Carolina.

Thomas and I said our goodbyes at the bus station and I rode for eleven hours with a broken spirit and heart. I could think of nothing but that I wanted to find Richard still in his apartment. I dared to hope that he would forgive me for leaving. It had been a long two months.

Arriving home to my Grandmother's house after my bus ride, it was too late to drive back into town to find Richard. But the next day, I drove in. It was a sunny, cloudless day in May. Lush, leafed trees lined both sides of the roadway that led to Richard's apartment creating a shady canopy. Getting closer to the complex, the radio was playing some smokey saxophone tune and I saw a figure walking, slumped along the edge of the roadway looking like someone carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. I knew that form. It was Richard and my heart stuck in my throat. Passing him, I found a place to pull over to the shoulder of the road and he approached my car. Poking his head in the passenger side window and flashing that infamous smile at me, he drawled, “You're home.” “Yes I am, do you want a ride?” Climbing into my car and folding his long legs into the too small space in front of him, he reached over to give me a whisper of a kiss on my cheek. We drove back to his apartment and the rest is a blur. I couldn't imagine at that moment why I would ever leave him again.

Our reunion had to be short lived because Richard needed to return to his home county. He was still serving parole and he needed to find permanent work. One day he told me he was arranging to take a taxi home, but that he would call me. And he did, many times. Always telling me he loved and missed me. But before he left he left he took one of his earrings out, a tiny musical note, and asked me to wear it while he would always wear the other one. It was to be a promise that we would always be connected he said. And that is what I did. But then, Thomas returned home, and the turmoil began anew. I bounced back and forth between these two men so many times that my head is spinning to just think about it. When Thomas asked me to marry him, I went against everything that screamed inside my spirit to say no, and answered instead that I would!

I don't understand why I rejected Richard and chose Thomas, other than maybe I was being a complete snob about being with someone who had served 8 years of a 10 year prison sentence for breaking and entering with a weapon, regardless of how wonderfully sweet and attentive he was. There was an ever looming belief with me that I couldn't let my family know that I was with someone who had been in that kind of trouble. However, I didn't seem to have any doubts about spending my life with a jerk who was an alcoholic. And then there came that dreadful day when I was sitting at home with Thomas and Richard called me. The hateful, and harsh way I ended that conversation with him, haunts me till this day twenty years later. I barked into the phone that he was never to call me again, that I was getting married. The silence on the end of the line after that tirade was deafening. I can only imagine now what kind of gut wrenching pain it must have caused him to hear that because I know he cared for me deeply. He didn't deserve that. And Thomas didn't deserve me. Our marriage ended after only one year and it was a brutal one year.

Now after the passing of twenty years, as I am here in my home, far away from Thomas, and missing Richard still, I have searched for him through online computer searches to no avail. Like the sun falling out of a clear blue sky, I know that I have lost a jewel of great price. Every search I make turns up nothing. And I am reduced to sending out telepathic messages to him with my plea for him to somehow find me. Find me so that I can at the very least, know that he moved on to have a good life, and so that I can apologize for my brutal brush off. A brush off that he did not deserve.

Somewhere Richard is out there. Living what I hope is a carefree and happy life. My lesson is starkly real and a hard one to live with.

The Tale of A Twisted Crone

One Twisted Crone, The Tale of A Twisted Crone, A Twisted Crone's Story

This is my story. Whenever I finally get the right title.

To Be or Not To Be An Empath

Chapter 1

I never knew until I became an adult and ran across this pigeon hole label, just what and Empath is. I refuse that label unequivocally. “Why,” you might ask. All my life I've been taught the importance of fitting in, of being in my right place, and yet all the while, trying to be what I'm supposed to be, not feeling a senses of belonging. Feeling alienated, on the outside looking in. So the logical thing for me to do was to push back, to not fit in, to do the most outrageous things I could think of in order to be different. Maybe that behavior would serve to make me feel part of something. To be a rebel sounded and felt like a romantic way to live my life. So rejecting the label of Empath seems to me the right thing to do.

But what is an Empath exactly? Google...I love Google search because I can now find anything and everything that interests me and I can do it without the painstaking look through countless volumes of heavy books. Google search tells me that an Empath is a “highly sensitive, finely tuned instruments when it comes to emotions. They feel everything, sometimes to an extreme, and are less apt to intellectualize feelings. Intuition is the filter through which they experience the world.” Yes, that is what I have experienced all of the years of this life. And I suspect to some degree other lives as well. But of course I must not give into the temptation to put this label on myself, because I am so much more than that.

Being so sensitive to the feelings and the emotions, energy of another person is, to be honest, a heavy burden. I don't know if other people who have chosen to experience this state of being think of it as a burden, but it can be. Because of being such a conduit of energy from everywhere, a person can become overwhelmed. At times, I have withdrawn into complete solitude just because it was too painful to be physically, in the range of another person's energy. I will give you an example or two here.

One such experience comes to mind right away when I think along these lines, so I will recount the experience as best I can.

I was called one morning by my second ex husband with the news that his Mother had been discovered early that morning in her bed deceased. As anyone might expect, even though this man and I were no longer together, still, there was a connection with his family. I had known them all for many years. I went immediately to the home to find it overcome with the energy of grief and loss. Not only was I having to deal with my own feelings of loss for this Woman who had spent years trying to accept me into her family, and finally doing so, there was her husband. His feelings of loss, of fear, of shock, of deep despair over the death of his wife was too much for me. I just wanted to run from the place, to get as far away from that tragedy as possible. I could feel real physical pain right in the middle of my chest area, that hurt me so much, I didn't know how to make it stop. I did care deeply for this Woman but her passing should not have been felt by me that deeply. I was soaking up the pain that her husband was feeling. The more he talked with me, and the longer I sat with him watching silent tears stream down his face, the more distraught I became. There was nothing to do or say but to cry right along with him. As much as I wanted to run out of that house and get away from that energy, I had another discovery. I could run away and be free of that pain, but he could not! He was going to be dealing with this loss and grief for a long time. He could not get away from it just by leaving that house. A house that his wife had made come to life so many times with her Sunday morning family dinners, her Christmas time decorations when she took every picture, every nick knack, away and replaced it all with the Christmas season treasures that she had accumulated over a lifetime! Her very presence in that house brought it to invigorating life. He could not get away by running away, because he had spent his entire adult life up until that day, with this Woman by his side. So I found myself wishing fervently that I could be the kind of person who only sympathizes with someone else's trouble. Wishing that I could gently comfort, hold his hand, sit by him and listen and try to sooth, rather than feel that tremendous pain and loss and loneliness that my own essence was soaking up like a sponge. I couldn't block it, I didn't know how. And I stayed.

Both sides of Happy.

I'm as happy as anyone can be in this life. I have everything I need, and some of what I want...I have no bad health issues...and yet....I see my children's needs and that some are not always being met and I grieve and I worry. I see suffering in the world and I feel panic for them. As I live and breath I am happy and content. But I cannot stop the worry that I have over the people that I love the most. And I have had to train my brain to accept that they are creating their own reality, and it's for a reason known only to their higher selves...and I stop worrying for about 5 minutes, while I focus mindfully on my own happy situation.

Doing What's Necessary

The Woman had just settled three small children, ages 4, 5, and 7 into the car and was starting to get behind the wheel when she remembered something from the house that she had to have for their trip into town. The year was 1955 and they had moved from her mountain home to the foothills of North Carolina only two years before. Their little three room house sat back against a tree lined bank, cut off from the scarcely traveled graveled road by a deep ravine that had been carved out by a small mountain stream. Both sides of the embankment were steep and overgrown with honeysuckle and wild fern.

Just the year after they moved, her Husband had built a wooden, swinging bridge across the expanse between the road and the house, so she thought to herself, the kids would be safe sitting in the car while she hurried across the bridge to fetch her forgotten item, and then they could be on their way.

She was halfway across when something urged her to glance back, and to her horror, the car was rolling slowly toward the steep embankment! She could see clearly her three children staring, unaffected out the side window of the 1954 Chevy Sedan. She had a sickening sensation as she envisioned the car reaching the embankment and tumbling headlong down into oblivion. The Woman could not seem to make her body move fast enough as she strained in what seemed to her, slow motion, back across the bridge to the potential death trap that held her precious cargo.

She reached the car just as one front wheel reached the edge of the road and was about to roll off, and knowing that she didn't have time to fling open the door and put on the brakes, she wedged her body right in front of that wheel! She scotched the wheel with her body and the car came to a dead stop!

She was then able to yell instructions to her 7 year old daughter on how to put the car that someone had thrown out of gear, back into park. Fortunately, the wheel of the car never really had her pinned and so she was able to wriggle herself free and everything and everyone was alright.

That Woman was my Mother and the children were me, my Brother and our 4 year old cousin. She most likely saved our lives, or at least from getting very seriously injured.

When Love Isn't Love

His idea of a date consisted of buying a cooler full of cheap beer and driving with her beside him along the back, graveled country roads. It never occurred to her to question why she would be so accepting of so cheap, not to mention disrespectful, a gesture, because she had been blinded by what she thought was love for a very long time. She allowed herself to suffer through many of these dates, falsely believing that just because he was gracious enough to take her along during his drunken binges that it made her a special person. She didn't even decide to stop going when the closest he ever came to romance was the time her best friend decided to tag along for the ride and he stopped once to get out to pee on the side of the road only to return to the car, opening the back door, and leaned in to stick his tongue down her best friend's throat in a sloppy kiss that she witnessed, paralyzed with horror and humiliation.

Who knows why we think we love who we think we love? The memory of this young, insecure woman is a far cry from the person I have become. Perhaps it is moments like this from my past who has made me who I am today. Well, really, it is. The man who never flinched after kissing my best friend in front of me is the man that I met shortly after divorcing my first husband and throughout the 12 or so years that we dated, broke up and got back together again we finally married. It was a marriage that lasted six years, but only one of those years did we actually live in the same house together. There are all kinds of different ways to abuse and disrespect someone. Many women suffer physical abuse from their husbands and boyfriends and the outward manifestations of those abuses are there for the world to see, so that no one could ever doubt the visible signs of violence. It's much easier to gain the support from one's friends and family when you show up at a doorstep in the middle of the night with your mouth bleeding and new bruises showing up on your arms, legs and face.

Emotional abuse is more insidious. The scars are invisible. The lack of self-esteem that develops over years of having a mate call you stupid, or worse, and treat you like you are always his second, third or fourth priority never leave your mind. Many women never feel they can leave these relationships because for many reasons, they become dependent on these men that they think will finally turn around and be sorry and love them with the kind of love they so desperately seek. That is the trap of being in an abusive relationship that is common to both physical and emotional abuse. The belief that if you behave perfectly, that if you look good enough, that if you never question his authority over you, that he will one day look at you adoringly and tell you that you are his one and only and that you are deserving of better treatment and that you have won his love and undivided attention.

Thank goodness I have never been physically abused. No one has ever lifted a hand to slap me or beat me up or break bones. I have never been taken to a hospital emergency room to be treated for those kinds of injuries, but I have spent the night before in a Woman's Shelter because I was afraid to go home to someone who had become so drunk that he thought it would be ok to go load his gun and sit with it on his lap as he drank one beer after another. And yet I have chosen to live with many situations where I have not been respected or loved the way in my mind, is real loving. So you may ask, “why if you knew what love was supposed to be like, did you live that way.” My only answer is that I lived those experiences because I got something from it. I have wanted and chosen all my life experiences, good and bad, so that I can make comparisons. How can you know how beautiful a sunny day can be if you never stand in the rain. And although rain in itself is beautiful, I believe in the two contrasts.

I am now living a single life and it's a good one. I will know a good man when he comes along because I've known one who was not so good. For me. I don't know where he is now, or how he is living his life or if he ever thinks of our life together, and if he does, if his memories are different from mine. They probably are different. But that's his memory, his reality.

I don't write this to degrade this man who I chose to have a relationship with because he has some goodness and he obviously had some qualities that I loved. But I write introspectively and to share something that might help someone else to see the difference between love and obsession. To see the difference between nurturing and abusing. And to know when to get out. And you can get out.

First Love

The first sweetheart that I can remember having an impact on me came into my life when I was 13. We lived near the Naval Weapons Station Yorktown in Virginia. I accompanied my parents to the home of one of Dad's Navy pals and his family who had a son named Skip. To this day I don't know if that was a nickname and can't recall his last name, but that evening over a nice meal cooked by his Mother, and amid happy family banter, we became instant friends. To my eyes he was the most handsome boy I'd ever seen, with black hair, deep blue eyes and a brilliant smile!

After the meal was finished, Skip and I migrated away from the adults and with a surprising lack of awkwardness began our inquiries into our likes and interests. Never before had a boy paid much attention to this skinny, fuzzy haired girl and I couldn't help wondering if his interest was just the politeness one shows to a guest in their home. For hours after we returned to our home and I was snug in my own room, I rehashed the events and the giddy feelings of the night, harboring the desire of my heart that we would meet again.

We had no telephone in our home at that time and the only means for Skip and I to stay in touch was through the mail, so we had exchanged addresses. Our schools were in different districts and even though I begged Dad to have a telephone installed he kept putting it off. Perhaps he thought keeping a phone out of the equation would be the cause of our relationship fading away. He didn't know nor did he believe in the extent of our devotion to stay in touch, and only a few days later I got my first letter from Skip. Reading his sweet words of friendship in the fortress that was my room, made my spirits soar to heights never experienced before and immediately a plan was born. Remembering that just a block down the street from our apartment was a telephone booth, I quickly put on my coat,slipped out of the house and walked breathlessly down the sidewalk where I jotted down the telephone number of that pay phone! Then, returning to the warmth of my room, composed an answer to his letter and asked him to call me at a certain time in the evening at that phone booth where I promised to be be waiting for his call. Those next few days in anticipation found me, every evening at the time specified, shivering in the cold, standing in that telephone booth. Calculating that it would take my letter at least three days to reach my new friend, but not being certain, there was no way that I was going to miss that call, and on every trip down that sidewalk, there was always a nagging dread that there would be someone else in the booth. Magically it seemed, and much to my relief there was never anyone else there.

On the third day as I stood in that cold and stinking telephone booth, holding my breath, the phone jangled and it's sound was so loud that it made me jump out of my skin! Letting it ring a number of times so I could pretend not to care that my much awaited call was at last coming through, I grabbed the receiver and almost dropped it from shaking hands. “Hello?” “Hello back!” was his happy reply.

Every evening after that first call, come chilling, harsh winds, freezing temperatures or the embarrassment of huddling and shivering in that booth, Skip and I created our own reality with our words through the receivers as our paint brushes, and the rest of the world outside vanished for the long hours we spent there.

Then came the day that he told me he was going to make arrangements to take the bus the next Saturday to come visit with me. He had saved for the bus fare. I was in heaven. After what seemed like ages since that first and only meeting, Skip was taking the bus to my house. I was worried that my Parents would say he couldn't come but much to my relief they consented.

Skip arrived early on a brilliantly sunny Autumn Saturday. Not wishing to sit all day in the house under the gaze of my parents we decided to take a long walk in the woods down from our apartment building.

Today, as I sat at my window watching the wind toss dead leaves around the lawn, the memory of that walk in the woods with Skip came flooding into focus. The sounds of the deep leaves in those woods as they scrunched beneath our feet is a memory that is so close it seems like it happened just yesterday. Shuffling with our feet through those ankle deep, dried leaves, holding hands, quiet with our thoughts and feelings, we occasionally stopped to just look up through bare branches at a cloudless, blue November sky. And then, with our fingers still laced together, he leaned down to kiss me! It was a soft, shy kiss, filled with promise and stirred my heart to fluttering. It was my very first kiss and everything that I had previously in my daydreams thought a kiss should be, it was! I don't recall how long we stayed in those woods, but I do remember that later that evening he had to take his bus ride back home. There were many more days of our secret meetings in my phone booth and even another Saturday afternoon when we had a movie date, driven and picked back up again by his Mother.
That time spent in sweet bliss with Skip talking with me on the phone is a memory that has never been too distant to recall from time to time when the late November winds whip up the fallen leaves sending them them twisting and dancing through the brisk air.

Leaving The Room

The room is stark and empty, with only one wooden, straight backed chair where you sit in silence, waiting. But the room hasn't always been empty. When you first came here, it was aglow with the soft light of love. The room was once filled with beautiful artwork, paintings of wild storm tossed seas brilliant sunsets, dappled forests and steams and of some sun drenched deserted beach marked with the trail made in the smooth sand of a boat being dragged across it, only to disappear into the curling, foaming waves. There were sculptors of dancing lovers, and of birds in flight. Shelves lined the walls filled with books telling of a love story. The stories recorded every tender word spoken from loving lips. They told of every soft embrace, every heart felt declaration, every musical note created with the delight of two lovers. Yes this room once rang with laughter and joy. Now that laughter is absorbed into the walls and as you continue to speak your words of love, they merely echo back to you, piercing your heart with every syllable.

The fountains of joy, have evaporated though time, the gardens of whispered delights have withered. And the sweepers and dusters have come while you've been focused on the hope of your future together, and have cleaned the remnants of your hopes away, and you have only now noticed. You have only now noticed that you are all alone, left with nothing but memories. Your voice, your love your yearning, reaches no farther than the empty walls around you.

How long have you been sitting here with your hands quietly folded on your lap, barely breathing and squinting with your eyes trying to see his form appear in the doorway? When did the love he gave so freely and poured so lavishly on you, turn to just the occasional crumb to keep you in this room. That kept you from walking out that door you see on the opposite wall. The door that has always been there but that you didn't see until the room was emptied?

It is a door isn't it. It's color the same stark white as the wall that frames it. The only thing that sets it apart from the room are the rusty hinges and doorknob. You stare at it for a long time, frozen with wonder as to what lies beyond it. Could there be life and freedom outside this room? You certainly were happy here. You had dreams and expectations for a time in this room. Those dreams and expectations left with each painting, each sculptor each volume each musical note that have vanished from the room almost without your notice. Now it's only you sitting in your lone chair, staring at that door.

There is no reason to stay. No longer a reason to wait. You rise slowly from your chair and move with hesitant feet toward the door. Before you realize you've even gained an inch, you stand with outstretched hand and take hold of the rusting knob. It doesn't turn with ease but is that because of the condition of the doorknob or your own reluctance? You hear a soft click, and a thin beam of brilliant light pierces through the cracked open edge. As you open the door wider, your eyes behold the most beautiful garden you've ever seen. Trees and flowering bushes line a pebbled path, wet with dew and sparkling like diamonds as the sun paints each drop with the colors of the rainbow. Birds sing a symphony in tune with a fountain in the small courtyard carpeted with wildflowers. Leaves suddenly start a dance with the breeze.

You take a deep breath and turning to look back into your empty room, you remember when it was full of the life the two of you had given it. You know that it's time to close the door to that life because one of you left it long ago. One of you gave up on the dream. One of you might drop in one day and find you gone and you wonder if he will question why. Then slowly turning to quietly close the door for the last time, you listen for that final click of the latch and begin the walk in your own garden.

To Cover Or Not To Cover

During a chat I had online with a Muslim man, the subject came up about why Muslim women wear the Hijab and the Niqab. Of course I know it's part of their religious belief and I do believe that most Muslim women who wear these traditional coverings, wear them willingly. Some I have heard, say that they feel liberated when they cover themselves. That is all well and good if they believe that.

In my mind though, I believe it is born of the same mind set as we see here in the Western world that has created a culture where women are subject to men. After all, in the Christian tradition women are taught to be subject to their husbands. Here are some examples from scripture where we are told how women and men are to think of themselves.

Genesis 316
Unto the woman he said, I will greatly multiply thy sorrow and thy conception; in sorrow thou shalt bring forth children; and thy desire shall be to thy husband, and he shall rule over thee.

And in Ephesians 5:22-24
Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands, as unto the Lord. For the husband is the head of the wife, even as Christ is the head of the church: and he is the savior of the body. Therefore as the church is subject unto Christ, so let the wives be to their own husbands in every thing.

And again in 1 Timothy 2:11-15
Let the woman learn in silence with all subjection. But I suffer not a woman to teach, nor to usurp authority over the man, but to be in silence. For Adam was first formed, then Eve. And Adam was not deceived, but the woman being deceived was in the transgression. Notwithstanding she shall be saved in childbearing.

There are many more examples in the Christian bible that I can show here to point out the fact that both men and women have been taught by the hierarchy of the church that in order to make certain that they remain in God's good graces, that men are in charge. Under God of course. Women are just not on the same level as their male counterparts.

The Muslim man I was chatting with explained his view from his religious standpoint of why he thinks it's a beautiful thing for Muslim women to be chaste and pure out in public and to cover their bodies from view by men other than their own husbands because if they flaunt their uncovered hair or their uncovered bodies they are inviting rape. Yes he actually said that to me.

I was amused. And so I mentioned to him that in this kind of belief system they are putting the responsibility for a woman's rape entirely on her shoulders. That this is a belief system that tells men they cannot control their own desires. I also asked him to consider the number of women in his culture who are covered from head to toe and still suffer rape. This he passed off with the comment that perhaps the Niqab was much to “clingy” to her body, thus showing the body's form, thus tempting the man to lust and therefore rape.

If this mindset were not so very similar to the mindset in the Western world where I live hadn't sounded so hilarious I would have become angry. But I didn't get angry with him for his stubborn tunnel vision on this subject. Because no matter how many times during our conversation I pointed to the fact that it's not a woman's responsibility to control a man's reactions or impulses toward her, he just wasn't getting the point. In his mind this tradition is a beautiful thing.

In my tradition it's not a beautiful thing because I do not and will not accept the responsibility to police every man I meet as I walk down the street. Wondering to myself constantly if I am too provocative, am I dressed in something that is going to invite lust in the mind of every man I see. If he does, then it's his issue to deal with accordingly, not mine!

So this thought occurred to me after that conversation. What if I turn the tables on the men I meet? I mean I do see great looking men sometimes that cause me to start to fantasize about having hot sex with him. According to religious teachings it's a sin for me to even have those thoughts. Both in the Christian tradition and the Muslim. Probably Jewish tradition as well.

So to keep me safe from sin, I think I will insist that all men cover themselves. After all women can lust just as much as men do.

And if I marry again, I will insist that every time my husband goes in public that he wear a paper bag over his head and a long trench coat. After all he's mine and he's hot and other women he meets have to be protected from the sin of lust and the temptation to approach him with a proposition to be unfaithful to me. Wouldn't that save some marriages from divorce! So these crazy, weak, lustful women who are ogling my man won't even look at a man walking round with a paper bad over his head and wearing a trench coat!

Yes I know it's the silliest idea ever dreamed up. But so are all the ideas that the religious dogmas purport. Let's just end religion once and for all and start thinking for ourselves. Let's stop being such sheep and drop all the pretense at piety. And be the creative, free people we were always meant to be.

Daddy's Pink Shoes

(A fictitious story about a fictitious Dad and a pair of fictitious pink slippers)

When I was a little girl, My Daddy was my hero. He would wake me every morning with a song and a soft kiss on the top of my head. As I opened heavy lidded eyes, his smile was the first ray of sunshine I'd see. He made my days begin with perfection and at night, his bedtime stories and gentle tucks to my bed covers, sent me off to dreamland feeling secure and greatly loved. My Daddy never once made me feel he didn't have time for me. He would always stop what he was doing whenever I would come into the room to ask him to tie a shoelace or find a hiding kitten, or help me ride my bicycle.

I recall once when it was just days away from my sixth birthday, My Daddy asked me for a date. My Daddy wanted to take me out to a fancy dinner and a movie of my choice. With great anticipatory joy at this request, I asked my Mother to take me shopping to buy a special dress to wear on my date with my Daddy. As we shopped from store to store, wanting to pick out the perfect outfit, I saw a display of shoes. “Mommy,” I quipped. “I want to buy Daddy a pair of new shoes that he can wear on our date.” Mamma thought that was a great idea and took my hand in hers to walk us to the men's shoe rack. “No, wait!” I pleaded. “I already see what shoes Daddy needs, right here.” My eyes had fallen to a pair of ladies pink slippers. They were smooth satin and were a soft pink color.
“But my dear, those might not come in your Daddy's size.” My Mother was and still is a very wise and diplomatic woman. “Please ask if they can, because I want my Daddy to have the prettiest shoes here.”

And so Mother asked the clerk to please see if she could find this shoe in a size 11 and a 1/2. Much to my delight she came back from the storeroom with a box of size 11 and a 1/2 pink slippers.

The next few days seemed to drag on as I looked forward to a date with my Daddy. When that day arrived we both performed our own separate rituals getting dressed. Of course I was late putting on my final touches of just the right ribbon for my hair and finally adding the strand of pearls my Mother was letting me borrow. I went to present myself for approval to my Daddy but he was not in the house. My bewilderment was short lived though, because our front doorbell rang and when I answered it was my Daddy, dressed in his best suit, his big wide smile and his pink shoes!

If any one noticed in the restaurant or the movie theater that my Daddy was wearing pink slippers with a business suit, I didn't notice. The only thing in my focus that evening was that my Daddy as always was putting my wishes, and my fantasies first on his agenda.

Through the years, my Daddy's pink slippers are always someplace around the house. Sometimes at the foot of his bed, other times by the back kitchen door. Other times when my husband and children would visit my parents, my Daddy would make sure he had on his pick slippers. Even though they became worn and scuffed with stains embedded from his working out in his garden, those shoes remained a big part of my Daddy's life and of his routine.

My Daddy passed away last week and when my Mother and I were going through his clothes to see what might be appropriate to dress him in for his last goodbye to his loving family, my Mother said to me, “You know, I think your Dad would love to wear his pink slippers.” And so we sent my Daddy on his last journey in his famous pink slippers. I'm certain the angels were envious when they saw him.

Mama

My Mother has been getting progressively more fragile ever since last October. When I returned from my three month stay in Spain, I found her so changed from the Mother that I had left in September that I've had a great deal of difficulty adjusting my thoughts and my feelings over our changing rolls. She is no longer the Mother who taught me about life, who talked me through every difficulty of my childhood, my Motherhood, my marriage. She is no longer the Mother who laughed with me, who took care of my hurt feelings, who's feet I would sit at for hours listening to her share with me her wisdom, her joys, her own childhood stories.

I am now finding myself tending to the simplest of tasks for her that she used to so independantly take care of on her own.
When I returned from yet another trip away from home, for just one week, my spirit wrestled with my anger over the new position I was finding myself in. Anger that I didn't understand. Anger that left me feeling guilty because I couldn't understand it.
And so I went to my Crone alter. I lit candles. I saged the alter, I saged my staff, all the while remembering my ceremony, the symbolic saying goodbye to the Maiden and the Mother and welcoming my new rite of passage as The Crone, the Wise Woman. I needed that wisdom now to help me understand where my anger was coming from. Why was I angry with my Mother for simply growing old and feeble? I called upon the wisdom of all my Sisters, present and past to give me an answer.

As I sat watching the smoke curl upward from the sage, and while I watched the dancing of the candles, and as I held my staff, these words came whispering to my heart.

"Anger is but a signal that tells you, a need is not being met. That need is coming from the child in you that doesn't want to be abandoned, that is afraid of losing her Mother. You are no longer that child who needs a Mother's nurturing, a Mother's strong arms protecting you from life's dangers. You are the Wise Woman now and the things your Mother is experiencing is HER experience. It 's her time to choose how she will live out her last days. You and your Mother may have agreed in a previous realm to live this experience together now. She experiencing the pain, experiencing the moments of confusion, experiencing her decline, you standing by as her compainion to help her over the rough spots, to love her unconditionally and remind her that everything will be ok, that everything is as it should be. You must remember that these are her experiences and hers alone. It is not your reponsibility to try and fix what you cannot fix for her. It is only up to you to love her and to be gentle with her and to let her experience this time as she has determined she will experience it."

That is what the whispers from the Women of Wisdom said to me.

So my Mother and I will be companions in this experience and I can let the anger go because it was only a signal. Now that I have identified why it came to me, there is no longer the need to fear that my inner child is in any danger of being abandoned.
Namaste.

A Love Like Ours

A love like ours has no words that can define.

A love like ours has spanned a thousand lifetimes.

A love like ours, when we have picked our way though countless other relationships and have found each other again, deserves a few brief moments for sad reflection.

Each time we have touched, the heights to which our emotional attachment has reached, bridges the chasm that has kept us apart, making that void vanish and there is only you and I, looking into each others eyes with a knowing that tears asunder that temporary veil of forgetfulness. We have always instantly known that we are one and the same. That we have always been we two.

A love like ours deserves to be honored with these moments of sadness for our many separations.
Separations that we have always arranged as a reminder to us both, that there is no love like ours.

A love like ours is more powerful than distance, than time, or other binding circumstances.

A love like ours never dies, never diminishes, but remains strong and is of epic proportions.

A love like ours has a give and take that is balanced for the good and growth of us both.

When I am in need, you are there to give it. Freely.
When you are in need, I am there to give it. Freely.

These two hearts know when the need is shifting and we are always up for the task.
There is an instinct within us that is always on course in this regard.
We may not see each other but we always feel each other.

A love like ours makes it possible for our attention to expand to include others, to include the world. Because,
A love like ours knows no limits.

A love like ours is great because it exists,
Our two hearts have created this love like ours.

We desired it, we molded it, we thought it, we felt it.
We've written about it, we've discussed it, we've shared it.

Although apart for the moment, it takes but a thought to bring us instantly back "home" to each other.

So when I am sad for a brief moment in time such as this, I am honoring with these broken pieces of my heart, in great humility and thankfulness,

A love like ours.

Paradise Found

Took a walk around in the fragrant, fresh cut grass here in my little corner of the world.
My place seems to me to be far removed from everything. As I walk, look and smell my reality here in the now, it's easy to forget that there is anything else, only this.
At one end of the property, the north/eastern corner, the predominate sound that can be heard is the rustling that the wind creates as it pushes through the leaf laden trees lining the hilltop across my narrow two lane country road. Then there is the intermittent call of a bird, and then another answers from some other location.
The sun burns hot on the top of my head and upon my bare arms as my eyes span around the expansive landscape and out to the horizon where fat, bumbling carpenter bees float and zip and bump into one another with no apparent destination or agenda.
The grass is cool and crisp beneath my bare feet and the sky above is the color of blue that only a clear, Spring day can paint. Faint swaths of gossamer clouds decorate that blue sky and when I look away for a moment and then back again they are gone. Evaporated as if blown away by the breath of some great invisible giant.
Continuing on along the back of the house to the north western corner, I find an oasis of shade beneath the gargantuan Arborvitae trees, and there again is another swarm of awkward carpenter bees. One comes down right in front of me and hovers for a good 5 to 8 seconds before darting up and away and into the deep green foliage of the Arborvitae . At this end of the house is where the birds gather in larger numbers. My guess is it might have something to do with the feeders. I marvel that they don't seem at all bothered with the cats who also love to play and lounge here. Sometimes the cats crouch and stare at a bird for long, tense moments and as soon the hunter begins the slow creep toward it, the bird is off, flying toward the safety of a perch high in a tree or a power line, then to sing what might be a victory taunt and a dare to try again some other time.
My sense of smell catches the sweet fragrance of the honeysuckle that now engulfs the back of my little shed. Sometimes I think that maybe it needs to be cut back and cleared away but that scent would be one that I'd miss.
The tall grasses in the field below me wave to and fro with the breeze, the bees buzz, the birds sing, the cats prowl about or lay stretched out in the sun, the wind chimes charm my senses, the gravel crunches beneath the tires of occasional passing cars, a lone dog barks, the sun travels toward the West, and I am at one with it all.

The Caravan

The Caravan:

Sits in the back garden being gobbled up by flowering vines. They crawl in a tangle up the back, one side and across the top, throwing tendrils down the front, reaching to the ground. Their profuse growth would soon obscure the front window and block the doorway if not occasionally cut back. Pink flowers bloom amongst the chaos most abundantly in the Spring and Winter months but still offer the occasional splash of pale color year round.

Sitting inside with a view out onto lush green, with various flowering bushes and trees, watching the morning washing flapping at the breeze and warmed by dappled sunlight, I corral my wandering mind back into this moment and simply appreciate.

Ego And Higher Self

Sitting outside this morning in quiet reflection, watching the rain fall softly on green grass, while the wind made the trees sway and dance and birds sang and flutterd at the feeder. Wanting to just relax and meditate for a while, I first tried to clear my thoughts of memories of songs that kept playing in my head, and the intent to go to Spain, wondering if it could be possible. I remember thinking that while I am meditating maybe my intent should just be my desire to go to Spain to live for a short while.
Lost in these thoughts and just wanting to allow them, almost without my notice, I began to "see and hear" something quiet different than my first desire. I heard the voice of a black preacher. His voice rose and fell and rose again to a crescendo, up into the air, and through the trees branches. I laughed inwardly to think of all things I was hearing a black preacher telling me the most profound message that I have ever heard!

As my feet splashed in the puddles that crept across the concrete patio and the rain continued to whisper down from the sky he said these words.

"The Ego wants it, the Higher Self creates it. The two are one, a team. They work together. Why do you continue to listen to those who have forgotten just as much as you have, tell you that you've got to get rid of the ego, its a bad thing? Without the Ego expressing desire or inent, what would the Higher Self be creating?
Ego has forgotten who they are! Who and what they are a part of. Ego and Higher Self (or God if you will) are one! They are Gods and Goddessess, who are Divine, Eternal, Pure, Higher vibrational energy beings who broke off little pieces of their unique personal Selves to set them into particular realities they made and said, now go live, experience. This is the script I wrote for us so embrace it all. Be appreciating every experience and when that one's done, we'll decide where to put us next. Ego has come a long way from where it started and got to forgetting. Ego now has full stage Alziemers! Ego is now stumbling, wandering, combatting and basically gone off on its own as it moves through this fog of dullness. Not only does Ego have Alziemers, it's got cataracts! Blind as a bat and a little crazy. Lost and forgetting it's Higher Self for ages. It has come to believe that the Source of it's origin is somewhere "out there." That Ego must live to please that "someone out there," and not piss him off or there will be hell to pay!

But it's all been a creative experience between Ego and Source. Ego has reached a time when it begins to remember, slowly sometimes and way too fast at other times.
Now is the time for the new creation. It's time for Ego to remember that it creates the intent and Source carries out that intent.

Ego with the experiences comes to have all the kinds of ideas, desires, inent to make it possible for soure to know what to create. A new era, world, reality?
I don't have all the answers, I have forgotten the same as everone else, and am only just waking up myself. So until we have more complete and total recall. Peace!"

And that's what my black preacher said to me this morning.