A Summer of Sifting Through Memories

Unicorns and books, books and unicorns, everywhere in my home, everywhere in my heart, which will stay with me, which will go to a new home? And what about all the photographs?

I fell in love with unicorns after reading Peter S. Beagle's The Last Unicorn more than forty years ago. Immediately, I began to collect them, and friends and family members have added to my collection over the years, so now I have many more than a hundred. Some look regal, some look playful, some sparkle, all enchant. My unicorns represent a lifetime of memories. I love them all, but I must choose which to keep and which to give away.

I love books even more than unicorns. Reading is as necessary to me as breathing. Books are my friends; books are my strength; books are my joy; books are my solace; books never fail me; books never betray me; books never change unexpectedly; books offer hope; books offer truth; books offer possibilities. Books keep me upright when my world collapses around me. I live surrounded by books; every room in my home is full of books--twenty-eight bookshelves of poetry, drama, novels, biographies, myths, legends, writing guides, history, reference books, mysteries, theology, philosophy, political science, and whimsy, all ready to gladden my heart and challenge my mind as soon as they are plucked from their homes in my bookshelves. My books represent a lifetime of learning, a lifetime of joy, a lifetime of memories. I love them all, but I must choose which to keep and which to give away.

I love my children more than unicorns or books. And I have thousands of photos that testify to that love and represent thousands of memories. They are in boxes and Rubbermaid containers, in no order whatsoever. I was always so busy seizing the moments with my children, playing with them, delighting in them, just being with them, that I never took the time to organize the photos. Now the photos wait, ready to be rediscovered, ready to be organized, ready to pounce on my heart and sweep me into the realm of memory, where I shall laugh and cry, and where my heart will rejoice in what was, and, in many ways, still is, and will weep for what is no more. I love all my children, and, fortunately, I do not have to choose which to keep and which to give away; I just have the daunting task of organizing all the photos of them!

So, this will be my happy-sad summer of sifting through my unicorns, through my books, through my photos, and through my memories--all in preparation for the next stage in my life that begins one year from now. I have no idea what my future holds, but I know that when my youngest child, Grant, graduates with his MUP (Masters of Urban Planning) next year in May, life as I've known it for more than thirty years will change, and it will definitely include downsizing.

I am exceedingly grateful to have this summer, to have this year, to adjust to the idea of a change before I must adjust to the reality of a change. For me, gradual is good.

Take care,

Kate

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Home Is Where You Belong

In his poem "Death of the Hired Man," Robert Frost says, "Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in." But that makes home merely a place of obligation, and a home is SO much more than that. A home is a sanctuary where you are wanted and are cherished, a place where you belong.

Regular readers of my blog know that I did not have a home when I was a child. I lived in a house, but it was only a building, not a home. My grandparents' houses were places of sanctuary, where I felt safe, but they did not quite make it into the home category.

My first hint of a home came with my high school boyfriend's family. The Millers cared about me, and I cared about them. They even wanted me to talk at dinner, and I did not have to fear being hit or having my head slammed into the wall. That was a new experience for me, and I did not know how to speak freely. Jim, my boyfriend's dad, teasingly told me that I could not come to dinner again unless I talked, so I squeaked out something, enough to get invited many more times. During those dinners, I felt as if I belonged, and it was a heady experience.

My next taste of home came with Mom Woosley. Her son and I danced for awhile with a love that ultimately became a lifelong friendship, and Mom Woosley became the mother I never had. She loved me unconditionally, and I was always wanted and cherished in her home. I was the daughter she did not have, and while I knew that I belonged in her arms and her heart, I always knew I was a guest in her home, a welcome one, to be sure, but, nonetheless, a guest.

Another glimmer of home came with my roommates Cath and Irma. We three worked in a factory together in our early 20's, and somehow we found each other and became roommates. We lived together almost four years, and we formed a temporary family bond. We loved each other, and, for awhile, we belonged together in our homey apartment, but we were really just marking time until we each got married and went our separate ways, and we knew it.

My brief, first marriage was a mistake, but a mistake that I do not regret, for it led me to my life today. Sadly, my first husband and I did not have one moment when we felt at home with each other. But we figured this out quickly, realized we should not have married but just been friends, and parted amiably, so amiably that my future children called him Uncle Mitch.

Then in 1980, Gordon and I fell in love. The first weekend we went away together I felt something I had never felt before--I felt like I belonged with Gordon and he with me, felt like I had known him forever. Everything was easy; it was as if we were the missing puzzle piece in each other's life. Slowly but surely, we made a home together, a home where we could be ourselves at all times and feel we were wanted and cherished by each other, a home where we belonged.

Our love produced four very wanted and deeply cherished children, and our home was filled with love, joy, and laughter for many, many years. At long last, I had my home, we had our home, and I was grateful every minute for it; I never took it for granted. We six belonged together.

The fascinating thing about a home is that it can withstand the slings and arrows of the outside world because the love inside is armor for the home. It is when the slings and arrows come from the inside that a home can crumble because you cannot have armor on the inside to protect you because interior armor would stifle the vulnerability that is necessary for love to exist. We must be vulnerable to experience love in all its simplicity and glory. So, when a home is attacked from the inside and crumbles, it must be rebuilt on the back of broken dreams. That is what happened to our home when dementia and schizophrenia, both relentless and insidious foes, made their appearances. We four mentally well family members had to create a new kind of home, a home that had lost its trusting innocence in the power of love, but a home that still chose love as its core. We four made a new home, a good home, a home where we belonged, but a home tinged with memories of our lost home.

People say that home is where the heart is, but that's a bit too glib. What if your heart is in several places? Now that my children are grown and with partners, my heart is in different places (except for those joyous times when we are all together). Can I belong in three places, or will I always be a guest in their homes, as I was in Mom Woosley's home? Or worse, an interloper? And what of my missing son? Part of my heart is always with him. So where is my home now? Do I have one?

If home is where you belong, where is your home if you don't really belong anywhere anymore? When your spouse is gone, when your house that was your home is sold, when your children are grown and on their own, where is your home then? A question for the ages! It seems that I must broaden my perception of what a home is, or at least what mine shall be, and figure out a new way of belonging.

Take care,

Kate

"Greater Love Hath No Man"

Easter is a special day. It celebrates the purist love known to man, the love of one human choosing to die for another. I know there's debate about whether the story of Jesus rising from the dead is true, but there is no debate that I can find about whether Jesus chose to die for us, in fact, there's much historical evidence to support this, so Jesus' choice is what I want to focus on in today's Easter blog.

Stories in books and movies celebrate the person who chooses to die for family, friends, or strangers. Why do we celebrate this? Because we all wish we would do the same thing, but we know deep down inside that we probably won't. Self-preservation is strong in most of us, but self-preservation is not held up as the human ideal; rather, it is often represented as cowardice, and we scorn the person who grabs the life preserver out of another's hands.

Jesus said, "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends." (John 15:13) and "Love your neighbor as yourself." (Mark 12:31). But the important point isn't that Jesus said the words, it is that he lived them. He did lay down his life for us, not knowing for sure that he would rise from the dead, and he loved us, his neighbors, more than he loved himself.

I find it telling that Jesus did not ask us to do as he did and love our neighbors more than ourselves. Perhaps it is because he knew that that is too much to ask from us; perhaps Jesus knew we would have a difficult enough time loving our neighbors at all, so asking us to love them as much as ourselves was the task he presented us with, what he wanted us to strive for, because he knew it was the one we could achieve.

Long ago, perhaps forty years ago or so, a friend and I were discussing Jesus' words and whether they had any value if Jesus was not, in fact, the son of God. I'll never forget my friends words, "Sure they do because how Jesus taught us to live is the best way to live. The world doesn't run well at all when people put themselves before others." Ah, a light bulb moment.

And so simple too. If we were all willing to die for one another, and we were to love others, friend or foe, acquaintance or stranger, similar or wildly different, as much as we love ourselves, the world would be, quite simply, a heaven on earth because no one would strive to be more than, to have more than another.

And maybe that's what Jesus was telling us before he died for us. The secret to making our world a heaven is in our own actions.  We act like Jesus, and we create a good world for everyone. We scorn his words, and we get the world we have today--war, poverty, greed, inequality, ugliness, despair, and hopelessness. 

Easter reminds us of our potential. It's not too late to change our ways; the choice is always ours. We just have to make the choice.

Happy Easter,

Kate

Be Open and Rob Silence of Its Power

      Long ago and far away, though it seems like only yesterday, my mom wrapped herself in a cocoon of silence. My dad viciously beat her regularly, but she refused to tell her mother or her sister about it. Most nights from the time I was nine years old, I would lie in my bed, locked in my bedroom, listening to the pattern of abuse, hearing the swearing, hearing the flesh being whacked with a fist or open hand, hearing the insults, hearing my mother crying.

     One particularly bad night occurred around the time of my 8^th grade graduation. My parents had gone out to dinner to celebrate their 15^th anniversary. For some reason, probably because he was drunk, my dad had forgotten to lock my bedroom door. When the beating was in full swing, I went into my parent’s bedroom and saw my dad in his underwear, kicking my mom into the wall. I shouted at him to stop, but he told me my mother deserved it, and he spewed out vile, ugly words. Again, I shouted at him, and this time I threatened to call the police. He sneered at me and told me his "brother cops" would never do anything to him, which, sadly, in the days of the early 1960’s was probably true.

     My heart broke to see my tiny, nearly naked mom, huddled in a corner of her bedroom, curled into a ball in order to protect herself as well as absorb the beating better. I walked toward her and bent to pick her up. She looked so broken. My dad shouted obscenities and stormed out of the bedroom.

     The next morning when I got up to go to school, I saw my dad sleeping in the chair in the living room. He woke up when I passed his chair. I ignored him. He asked why I didn’t say “Good morning” to him, and I said that I had no respect for him anymore because he was a bully who beat my mom. As usual, he called me insulting names, but I stayed silent.

     When I got home from school, I discovered that my mother could barely walk. She was wearing pajamas and a robe, though it was very hot that June day, and we had no air conditioning. I pleaded with her to tell her mom, my grandma, about what dad had done to her. She told me that I didn’t understand, that my dad had apologized, that she loved my dad. I was disgusted and told her if that was love, then I hoped to never love anyone.

     The next day was my 8th grade graduation. My mom could not attend the ceremony, as she could still barely walk. My dad told everyone that she had the flu. When we got home, I pleaded with my mom to go into the living room and show everyone her bruises. I told her that I’d help her walk. She refused. I threatened to tell the whole family and bring them into her bedroom because it was the only way to stop dad from beating her. I turned to leave her bedroom. My mom got out of her bed, and with tottering steps came toward me. She touched my arm and told me she loved me and was sorry to miss my graduation. Then, she told me that if I told anyone in the family what had happened that she would tell them I was lying.

       I was shocked!

     I spent the rest of the evening in a surreal fog of bizarre comments about how everyone hoped my mom’s flu would be over soon. I will never forget the triumphant smile that my dad bestowed upon me. The bully knew he had me beat. He knew that I couldn’t bear the thought that my grandparents might think I was a liar (though how they would think that if they were staring at my mom's bruises, I have no idea). To this day, I feel shame that I did not speak up, that I was a coward.

     Fast forward five years, and I am startled awake at six in the morning by a strange sound. It was a gunshot. My mother had finally freed herself of her brute of a husband by ending her life.

     I decided, then and there, to break my silence, and I told everyone about the years my dad beat my mom. No one believed me. My dad told everyone that I was a liar and had started using drugs. This would have been funny if I could have made anyone believe me. I had never used anything stronger than aspirin! I was lectured by the police, who investigated my mother’s death; I was lectured by neighbors; I was lectured by family; but the most heart-breaking moment was after the funeral when my beloved paternal grandpa cupped my face in his hands and, with tears in his eyes, pleaded with me to stop using drugs and stop lying about my dad. Alice down her rabbit hole never felt crazier than I did at that moment.

     Soon after the funeral, I moved away to live with friends. Before my mother died, I had been my dad’s backup punching bag. After my mother’s death, I had been promoted to primary punching bag. I had not protected my mom, but I was determined to protect myself, and the only way to do that was to leave. If only my mom could have, would have left...

     I deeply regret my silence on the day of my 8^th grade graduation, but regret is meaningless unless it translates into action. Consequently, I have spent my ensuing years talking openly about everything. Some might suggest that I am too open, but I don’t know if you can be too open. I know first hand that silence can kill, and, at the very least, silence causes unnecessary misery, and I am determined to lessen some of that misery.

     But being open isn't easy. Sometimes it hurts; sometimes it results in ridicule or misunderstanding; sometimes it is lonely. Being open requires the conviction that the risks of being open are worth taking in order to reveal the truth hidden by silence. 

     To that end, I am willing to talk openly with anyone. Talking frees you from the prison of silence, and talking results in change and understanding. After all, if people don’t know you need help, how can they help you? If they don’t know you are in pain, how can they comfort you? Being open is freeing. Being open is lifesaving. Being open leads you from the darkness to the light. And most importantly, being open robs silence of its destructive power.

     In loving memory of my mom, who died, smothered by silence, 43 years ago this March.

Take care,

Kate 

"By naming and framing our stories in words, we can face the truths of our lives in little steps which allows growth to take place organically, without devastating crises." Gabriele Rico

    

The Comfort of Constants

Every winter, I welcome Orion back into the night sky. I wave at him when nights are clear and blow him a kiss. His presence comforts me and puts life into perspective. Whether good things are happening or bad, Orion shows up faithfully each November when I turn the clocks back, and strides across the night sky until I turn the clocks forward.

My guess is that each of you has something outside your sphere of influence that is reliable and comforts you too. For some, it's the moon; for others, it's the waves. Usually it's in nature because nature seems the most immutable.

But other constants comfort us too. As a child in urgent need of escaping a nightmare home life, libraries became my constant source of comfort. No matter what was going on at home, I could find a new adventure story or mystery or biography or play or poem to help me make it through the days and nights, and even more than that, these stories showed me new worlds and new ideas and gave me something to look forward to and to hope for. The overflowing library shelves offered me, as a young girl and teen, dreams of a different life, a better life than the one I was currently inhabiting. The gems that a library contains, books, became so precious to me that I've built my own personal library full of thousands of books. Every room in my home has books,  and my bed is surrounded by bookshelves. No matter what my mood--light-hearted, pensive, or sad--there's a book to match. And on sleepless nights, the books surrounding me provide soothing balms to the desperation of insomnia.

Some constants do more than comfort us; some remind us of cherished memories. When my children were young and we lived atop a mountain, when the sky was clear and the moon full, we would dance in the moon shadows in our orchard. To this day, when I happen upon a moon shadow under trees, I'm instantly transported to those magical moments of delight and joy, and I can feel my children's small hands in mine and hear their laughter.

Perhaps the most powerful comforting constants of all, at least for me, are Christmas Eve and Easter. They are the two days each year that represent our hope that mankind can achieve it's highest potential of living together in love. Whether you believe that God and Jesus exist or don't believe, it's irrelevant to the topic because the story of Jesus' love and sacrifice for us, true or not, is the point. That a love like that exists in our collective unconscious and in our imagination shows that we are all hoping for, waiting for, and wanting that love to become our reality. So, when the hope of Christmas Eve becomes a Christmas day bringing a surfeit of store bought gifts, and the hope of Easter's sunrise becomes a hunt for plastic eggs, we hide our disappoint and remind ourselves that there is always next year's Christmas Eve and next year's Easter, and we feel a renewed, reassuring hope that the deep, abiding, universal, unconditional love we long for might then, finally, become reality.

Sigh, it's almost time to wave good-bye to Orion for another year. I will miss him, but I am comforted by knowing that regardless of whatever good or bad happens to me or to the world this year, Orion will stride across my night's sky again when it's time to turn the clocks back again in the fall. Orion, books, moon shadows, Christmas Eve, and Easter, these are some of my constant comforts, what are some of yours?

Take care,

Kate

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