The Cardinal

There was once a young boy named Jack who lived in a big city where it was often too scary to go outside and play. In Jack’s neighborhood the houses were so close together they almost touched, and there was only one tree in the whole block where Jack lived. This tree was in front of Jack’s friend Mikey’s house. Mikey, who lived two doors down from Jack, found all sorts of fun things to do on the street where they lived. Mikey taught Jack where to look for spiders so they could watch them spin their webs on nearby broken window panes. Sometimes, if he was lucky, Mikey would find some birdseed to attract his favorite bird--a bright red cardinal who would visit without birdseed. Mikey said that when the cardinal was nearby, good things always happened to him. In fact, he was watching the cardinal when Jack first came by his house on the way home. When Jack and Mikey weren’t watching bugs or birds soaring in the air, they would often make capes out of bath towels and pretend that they were Superman flying all over town. They usually talked about becoming pilots, like the ones who flew the big airplanes that roared overhead. During these times, they knew that someday they would leave their neighborhood and soar in the sky, like the birds.

Then one day, as Jack was walking the two doors down to Mikey’s house, he heard gunfire and saw his friend lying on the sidewalk. The police came and then the ambulance arrived without its siren screaming. Jack knew then that he would never watch another spider spin its web with Mikey. In the days that followed, Jack roamed in the street on his block wishing that his friend Mikey was there with him. He would be going to school soon, but it wouldn’t be the same without Mikey. He wasn’t even sure that being pilot would be fun without Mikey. As he pondered on becoming a pilot, he saw a red cardinal perched on a branch of the tree in front of Mikey’s house. “Some lucky bird you are,” he was thinking, when all of a sudden, the cardinal flew around Jack’s head. He did a lazy eight and then a loop-the-loop, pulling straight up in the air. Back to earth he came, slowing his dive like he was coming in for a landing--he was. He landed back on the branch and looked Jack straight in the eye.

It was then that Jack knew--he knew that Mikey would always be there in the form of the cardinal. As Jack grew up and things got bad at home, he would always see the red cardinal and be reminded that someday he would leave the neighborhood and become a pilot just like he and Mikey planned when they were little.

Yin and Yang

Yin peers out the lower right pane of the French door; she moves to the cat door, muscles tense, and tests to see if it is safe. Back again. She goes to the French door and again looks for danger. Her brother, Yang, arrives. Yin moves to the cat door and egresses through it. Yang looks longingly out the French door, but makes no move to leave the safety of his home. After all, there is an intruder within barking distance. Yin comes back inside, leaving me to wonder if her excursion outside to the screened-in porch was an act of torment directed at the dog next door.

Yin is a twelve-week-old black and white Manx kitten. Her brother Yang is similar in markings, but Yang has a tight muscular body whereas Yin’s is softer, more womanly. Yin’s fur is like silk; Yang’s is a little coarser, more masculine. Yang is the lover, Yin the aggressor much of the time. Yin gives way to Yang when there is wet food; quite the opposite when dry food is served.

Yang often lies in wait to pounce on Yin as she strolls by his hiding space. There are times when they move as one, reminding me of the syncopated swimming in the Esther Williams movies. I love watching them play, rolling over together, biting and scratching until one, usually Yin, gets mad and stalks off. Shortly after, I find them curled up together, paws intertwined and grooming each other before they fall asleep, looking much like the symbol for which they are named.

September 28, 2007

The Moment I Knew-an exercise 9-30-06

The water gently laps among the reeds. Distant traffic murmurs like relatives talking in the next room. Doors open and laughter tinkles into the evening air. City noises are muted and add to the dreamlike quality of the moment. I miss the honks of the geese and the quacks of the ducks who are tucked away for the night. A train whistle blows in the distance. A small rowboat passes, its oars kissing the water. Life is settling down to rest and quiet is falling upon this miniature pocket of nature. Voices soften. I watch the darkness creep across the water like a thief in the night waiting to steal the moment. His words are tender and gentle as we speak of our experiences in this moment. The dampness of the earth combined with fresh mown grass triggers a deep longing within me. I yearn for this moment to last forever. The sound of love is in the air as our energies meet and merge into a gentler persuasion. He feels excitement and yearns to keep the spiritual connection that he feels to me. I feel a deep sense of serenity and contentment. As the water flows up the river, an occasional log bumps onto the shore before dislodging again and moving on. The patterns of noise begin to show up in the air. Sometimes the traffic leads and sometimes the lapping of the water leads, depending upon where I decide to punctuate. Periodically a sharp siren or the squeal of tires interrupts the quiet and serene murmurs of the evening.. Silence speaks volumes now. Hearing his voice in the stillness gives me a sense of safety and peace that I rarely experience these days. His voice is deep and powerful with a gentleness that commands respect on the one hand, and a sense of safety and security on the other. He reaches for my hand. I know. I know even before his lips touch mine, tentatively and gently, waiting for permission. I know.

Fear of Fire

It is a hot and sultry summer night in Charleston. I am about three years old. I’m wearing the red polka dotted dress that my Nana made for me. I am sitting on Nana and Papa’s porch in my little wooden chair with its rattan seat. My chair is painted blue with pink, yellow and red flowers. Now that the sun is setting, the porch awnings are being raised to let the cooling breeze float through. My parents and grandparents are talking about an explosion and the resulting oil fire in Texas. “So many people killed . . . spreading even faster now. . . . The winds have picked up. . . . out of control . . . heard on the news . . . not certain when they will be able to contain it . . . get it under control. Houses are going up in flames all around.”

I feel the fear rising in my body. My tummy begins to churn and my heart beats faster. I see the flames licking the earth moving towards us. It is growing bigger and bigger. Will it burn all the way to Charleston? My house could burn down. I could burn up. Daddy and Mommy could burn up. Nana and Papa could burn up.

I am getting sleepy and want to crawl into my daddy’s lap and be safe. Instead, I sit in the chair, rocking with my thumb in my mouth. The air is cooling down and I can hear crickets over the sounds of traffic. The noise from passing cars comes from the bridge beside the house; sounds also come from the boulevard in front of the house. The air hangs heavy with the sweet smell of freshly watered plants and damp earth coming from the large concrete planters behind my chair. As darkness falls, I can barely see the large goldfish bowl behind the glider where my parents are sitting. Sometimes I get to feed oats to the resident fish. I feel the difference in textures under my feet where the straw carpet meets the smooth gray concrete of the porch. I don’t tell anyone that I am afraid.

I go to sleep that night and dream that the earth is burning. I can escape the fire by climbing a tall ladder up to heaven. I am afraid of open stairs and ladders. I begin to climb and I am very afraid. I don’t get very far when the quill from a bird’s feather scratches my leg. I am now marked to remain on earth and burn up in the fire. I awaken and I am afraid. I tell no one. Little do I know that this will be a recurring nightmare for several years.

July 2006

Ponderings from the Weekend

I attended a weekend course which has left me pondering many things about myself. I am beginning to see patterns repeating themselves in my life. Years ago, an older friend told me that the more things change, the more they remain the same. I believe that this is what is happening with me at the moment.

During the weekend, one of the instructors, in trying to explain the concept of personal rule making; i.e., how we each make rules and expect others to abide by them, talked about the rule of eating tomatoes. If he ate tomatoes as a child and didn’t like them; tried them again several times in his life, he had a rule that he didn’t like tomatoes. Then one day, he had tomatoes cooked in a delicious sauce and liked them. Time to change the rule, “I don’t eat tomatoes.”

What is happening with me is that I met someone who lives in Gainesville. I lived in Gainesville for almost two years and loved every minute of it. He is an economist and I had an “I hate economics” experience when I was first married. My husband majored in economics and would try to get me to read this boring book that always put me to sleep. Now I am interested in learning more. I wonder why I wasn’t when my daughter majored in it.

I’ve been thinking about that marriage since I spent some time with my former husband and his wife a few weeks ago. He is just another person who was in my life years ago. I like his wife so we get along beautifully. Dinner was pleasant and then it was over.

My daughter is suggesting that I move closer to her. What a nice thought. I am happy and content here. If I were to move, it would be out of country. More things to think about.

Back to rules: what other rules have I made that don’t serve me? Don’t write men first. Don’t call men. I can’t be in a relationship with a much younger man. This is a big one. Some of my rules around relationships do serve me: Love myself first; otherwise I can’t love another. Practice forgiveness. Better yet, practice letting go of judgment. Let go of all rules that interfere with connection.

The Decision

The Tampa summer between her junior and senior years of high school was hot. Her bedroom was small and without air-conditioning. She spent most of her time there, writing and reading. To gain a little more room and in the hopes of achieving an oriental effect, she dismantled her bed frame and put the mattress on the floor. The gray-green of her bedspread and drapes had a soothing, calming effect on the room. Her small white bookcase was jammed with books from her childhood and adolescence, including a couple of books of very sensual and provocative poetry. “I will write like that someday,” she thought.

As she sat on her bed, she made the decision to become an extraordinary writer; and she knew that she couldn’t write the great novel or poem until she had suffered sufficiently. After all, she had just completed a year of studying great literature and its authors. She was taken with many of the significant poets of the past. In learning about the lives of these notable writers, she thought they seemed to suffer greatly. She had just completed reading Camille by Alexander Dumas when this seventeen year old made the decision to suffer enough to become a writer of eminence.

From that long forgotten decision, she proceeded to live her life so that she would “suffer.” She chose to suffer for ten years with a man who was unfaithful from the first week of their marriage. When they divorced, she gave him custody of their daughter because he would provide well for her and would also encourage having contact with her daughter. And . . . her daughter would have two parents immediately. She chose suffering.

One time within the next three years, she was involved in a bank robbery. As she was measuring the men against the wall and noting their clothing, one of them demanded that she go to the vault and get all the money from there. She had always been told to give a robber whatever was demanded of her. When she replied that she didn’t have access to the money, it was construed as arguing with the men by someone in the home office. Consequently, she made the decision that her life wasn’t worth $2000.00 when she was praised for arguing.

Three years later, she married an abusive, active alcoholic. She took six years to figure out that she had choices and another six years to choose to leave. She went back to school, divorced that man and ended up marrying her best friend. This was an easy marriage, in which she finished her bachelor's degree and began her masters. Four years into their marriage and six months into the master's program, her beloved husband was diagnosed with cancer of the larynx. He died a little over a year later; she received her masters degree in clinical psychology within a few months of his death. She suffered by conscious choice.

It is only recently that she remembered that long ago decision. Only once did she consider the idea that she was suffering. However, when people told her that she had lived such a tragic life, she only remembered that she had many exciting and wonderful adventures along the way.