SOMETIMES THINGS JUST HAPPEN

 By Jesse L. Aaron

She put the tacky novel down in her lap, sighed, and looked out the plane window.  This hadn’t made sense when she’d booked the flights.  It hadn’t made sense when she’d got on the plane.  It made even less sense the more she thought about it.

Leaning back in the seat with her eyes closed, she let her thoughts go back over the last twenty years.  One unfinished college education.  One unwanted child aborted.  One unwanted husband divorced.  Nothing to get excited about, but she had a great job and three weeks paid vacation, taken all at once this year.  Why?  To go home.  Why?  Answer unknown.  She’d left home twenty years ago because the weather was miserable, the people were miserable, the job market was miserable; and she’d had no intention of returning – ever.

Something, however, had moved her in early March to call a travel agency and book a flight to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, leaving May 1 and returning May 20.  Next she’d called home and told her mother when she was coming.  On Monday, before clocking in, she entered her boss’s office and asked for those three weeks off.  He’d said it would be difficult without her, but they’d get by if she felt she needed the time.  She’d said she did and thanked him.  Throughout March and April she continued to wonder why she’d done such a ridiculous, impulsive thing.  She was utterly practical.  So . . . why this trip?  Why back to BFE, Pennsylvania?  Why not the Bahamas?  She had the money and the time.  She had an extra savings account with “Bahamas” written on its file folder, properly filed in her file cabinet in her home den.  Nothing special was happening at home.  Her mother kept in touch,  a couple of phone calls a month and letters.

As she lay there considering these things, still unsure of a motive, she drifted into a restless sleep broken when the stewardess touched her shoulder and requested that she buckle up.  They were on approach to O’Hare International, Chicago, where she’d have to suffer through a three and one half hour layover with Hare Krishnas soliciting and crowds of weary, irritable travelers with wearier and more irritable kids.

On the connecting flight into Pittsburgh, she lay back again and tried not to think about the whole situation.  Growing up in that small town with relatives not worth knowing and friends not worth having was just too painful to mull over.  She’d spent her first eighteen years in that town with those people, dealing with the backstabbing and jealousy day in and day out.  Everyone thought they knew your business and had plenty to say about it.  Leaving the state to go to college had been the first totally right thing she’d done.  Not going back had been the second.  She still had no explanation for making that phone call to the travel agency.  It was as if she’d had no control over it.

The two nicest people in the world (who had no business still living in the hole in the wall) met her at the end of the tunnel from the plane – her parents.  She’d spent years trying to figure out how they had stayed so wonderful amidst all the crap that went on in their two families and that town, but somehow they’d managed to rise above it all year after tiring year.  The only conclusion she could draw was that they had each other, and that seemed to be all they needed.  They had discussed retiring to Phoenix or Tucson or Las Vegas someday, but someday hadn’t arrived yet and probably wouldn’t for another five or six years.  Mom and Dad were just barely into their sixties, and Dad had a lot of good years left to keep working, which he planned on doing.  She, like her father, was a work-aholic and couldn’t blame him for wanting to stay busy as long as possible.

They exchanged hugs and kisses, got her luggage, and began the two-hour drive to “home”.  The drive was quiet but not uncomfortable.  The miles and years between them hadn’t eroded the relationship.  Barbara and her parents had always been close, forced into it by the predominant nature of the town.  Since they spoke to each other so often by phone, there was no catching up to do.  The three of them knew what was going on in each other’s lives constantly, and lines of communication had always been open and three-way.  However, about three miles before the interstate exit to home, her mother asked, “I hate to bring this up, but why have you come home?  We never expected you to, and we understand your feelings.  You were miserable here.  Honey, what’s up?”

“Mom, I’ve been trying to figure it out since I called you in March.  I have absolutely no idea.  Something, I don’t know what, made me call and book the flights.  That’s all the explanation I’ve got.  How about we just enjoy ourselves, and maybe something will happen to fill in the details.  Stranger things have happened.”

She knew her mother and father would understand that comment.  All their lives had been full of odd coincidences and decisions that seemed to come out of nowhere.  They had all learned a long time ago to trust their instincts.  That was how her father had acquired his part-time business that was more lucrative than his regular job.  That had been how she’d chosen a college and her job that gave her a more than comfortable living while college graduates couldn’t find work.  That had been how her parents had chosen the home they still lived in and loved even though they’d had no idea how they were going to keep up with the payments when they’d bought it years ago.  Sometimes things just happen.

The first few days were uneventful – shopping in the old familiar places and some new ones, eating out and becoming reacquainted with old streets.  On the fourth day she went to the neighborhood grocery store to pick up a few things for that night’s dinner.  She’d requested that her mother take it easy and let her cook.  Daddy was a meat and potatoes man, but she’d spent enough time in the southwest to learn quite a bit about Mexican cooking and wanted to make some specialties which required food items never found in Mom’s kitchen.  She found the store easily, but some of the necessary ingredients were hidden well in a store that catered to a community completely devoid of Hispanic people.  She pulled her cart up to the checkout counter and emptied it onto the belt.  Without looking up she moved up alongside the cashier and pulled her wallet from her purse.  When the cashier voiced the total, Barb’s head snapped up.  She was standing two feet away from one of her closest friends from high school.

“That’s $25.78, ma’ame,” she repeated.  Barbara handed Debbie a twenty and a ten and said nothing.

“Eighty, ninety, twenty-six and four makes thirty.”  Debbie counted.

“Thanks.” Barbara murmured.  She stood and watched as Debbie bagged the tortillas, chilies, corn meal, salsa and the rest. 

Debbie still showed no sign of recognition and handed the bags to her.  “Good bye and have a nice afternoon.”

“Yeah.”  She walked out into the muggy afternoon – not hot, but uncomfortable compared to the climate she’d chosen.  She was aware that people changed over the years – she certainly had.  Maturity had been good to her.  As a girl she’d been pretty.  As a woman she was stunning, some called her striking.  But not even a spark, not a second look, a maybe-I-know-her flash – NOTHING.

She got back in the ’56 T-bird (one of Daddy’s toys) and checked her map for the location of the errand she was running for him – an auto parts store.  After a couple of wrong turns and some backtracking she found it.  It was in an area of town that was undergoing redevelopment when she’d left.  Tear down the old and build up the new – the American way – let’s confuse everyone.  She parked and went inside, carrying her list close to her heart.  She knew nothing about cars and was completely reliant on the part names and numbers her father had given her.  The counter was full of people so she wandered up and down a couple of aisles, poked at a few things; and, as she was about to take her place in line, a deep voice behind her asked, “May I help you find something?”

She turned around and looked square into the eyes of . . . do you remember how your heart tries to jump out of your chest every time you see someone special when the relationship is young?  Your hands get clammy, and your throat constricts?  That’s what happened.  The boy (man, now) she’d last dated seriously in high school stood staring at her.  Neither one spoke – both were regaining composure.  He cleared his throat and said breathlessly, “Barb!”  She opened her mouth, but he gave her no time to speak.  “Where’ve you been?  It’s been twenty years.  I can’t believe you’re here.  Are you free for lunch?  Just a minute, I’ll be right back.”

His words fell out one on top of the other, and he was gone.  Barb still hadn’t uttered a sound and still couldn’t.  A minute later he was taking her by the arm and leading her out the door, letting her into his car and driving away.

“Am I allowed to ask were we’re going?”  she managed to summon up the where-with-all to say.

“Lunch.”

She settled into the bucket seat of his old Barracuda (was this the same car he’d had in high school?).  They said nothing for the six or seven block drive to the “downtown” greasy spoon – not to be confused with the east-, west-, south-, or north-side greasy spoons.  He parked the car and led her into the joint and to a booth in a back corner.  He slid in beside her, pushing her against the wall – she had expected to sit alone.  As she opened her mouth to begin small talk, the waitress popped up at the end of the table.

“Same as always, Andy?” the waitress virtually panted in his face.

“No thanks, I’m not very hungry.  Just a large Coke, Laura.  Barb?”

Barb looked up into another familiar face as she said, “Coke, too, please.”

“OK, ma’ame.”

“Laura, for hell’s sake.  This is Barbara Jordan.”  He turned slowly to look at Barb.  “It is still Jordan?” he asked hesitantly.

“Yes, it is.  Hi, Laura – it’s been a long time.  How’re you doing?” Barb said, with no enthusiasm in her voice.

Laura was standing with her mouth open, staring at Barb as if all the skin had just fallen off her face.

“Well, Laura, lost the power of speech?” Andy asked cynically.

Laura had hated Barb openly throughout all of junior and senior high.  Barb was too pretty, too smart and too talented in too many areas.  Laura was the homecoming queen/head cheerleader type – all looks, no brain, no sense.  Barb hadn’t known ‘til just this moment that Andy had known how Laura’d felt (how most of the town had felt) about Barb. 

“I’m sorry,” she stuttered, “I didn’t recognize you.  You’ve changed.”  The cattiness in her voice was unhidden.  She hated Barb more.  Barb had changed for the better.  Not so for Laura.  Twenty or so (heavy on the “or so”) pounds, gray hair showing through the bad bleach job, a few dozen wrinkles in the paper-dry skin – haggard and frayed more than at the edges.  “I’m not bad, Barb, how are you?”

“Doing great, thanks.”  Barb figured that ought to end the conversation.  She wasn’t willing to get into any details of her life with anyone like Laura.  Barb was sure Laura was still ringleader of gossip-central.  It was bad enough she’d shown up here on Andy’s arm.  If he were married (which she was sure he was since there wasn’t much else to do in Nowhere, PA), this little incident was bound to cause a flurry.

It worked.  Laura turned without a word and went to get the Cokes.  Andy slid his arm along the top of the booth, rested his hand on her shoulder (surprising her a little) and turned in the booth to see her face more clearly.  “Barb,” his voice husky and barely audible, “it’s really great to see you.  Laura’s right.  You have changed.  I’ll bet she can’t stand it.  You look wonderful – feel real good too.”  He was caressing her right shoulder.  “I learned something since you left.  I should have told you then how I felt.  It might not have changed things, but I wouldn’t have spent all this time wishing you knew.  It’s probably stupid to bring it up, but I’ve got nothing to lose that hasn’t been gone for most of my life.”

Laura showed up in the nick of time, plunked the glasses down on the table and waited to see if anything was being said that she could profitably repeat.  Andy didn’t move.  He just stared into those big, brown eyes he’d missed since he was eighteen.  Barb, shocked by what Andy’d just said, ignored Laura’s presence and stared back, waiting for Andy to continue.

Andy was waiting too – for Laura to leave.  “Are you going to leave us alone?  I don’t intend to hand you your newest piece of tripe.  You’ll have to work to get it.”  He didn’t turn away from Barb’s beautiful face.  Laura spun on one heel and went back behind the counter, wishing there were a microphone at that table.

“Barb, I’ve loved you since I met you.”

All of a sudden she was back in high school.  “Why, then, did you stop calling me?  It was right before that Christmas dance.  I already had a dress – my mom was pissed.  Or did you think I wouldn’t remember?”

“The dance had nothing to do with it.  I was getting more involved than I knew how to handle.  All my friends were nagging me about spending all my time with you.  I knew you were going away to school.  My father couldn’t afford to send me to college here, let alone somewhere where I’d need to pay room and board.  Barb, I could see August coming, you going, me staying, and my heart breaking.  I know it was stupid, but my decision was to stay away from you to avoid the inevitable pain.  I’m sorry.”

Barb looked down at her hands.  “You should have said something.  It’s not worth much now, but you broke my heart.”

“You cared that much?  I never knew.  You were kind of shy.”

“Andy, I loved you too.  Still do I guess.  Want to feel my clammy hands?  They’ve been that way since I saw your face in Simon’s.  Which reminds me, I need your help finding some parts for my dad’s car.”

“You love me?” Andy said more to himself than to her.

“I said `I guess’.  Look, this is ridiculous.  We haven’t seen each other in twenty years.  Neither of us is the person we were.  Why don’t we try to do this the right way and get reacquainted.  I’m making Mexican food for dinner tonight.  Why don’t you join us.  We can find something to do after, even if it’s just to go for a ride.  I remember that you made rides pretty romantic – one kiss for a stop sign, two for a red light.  Oh God!  I’m sorry.  I wasn’t thinking.  You’re probably married, and I’m making an ass of myself.”

“No you’re not, and no I’m not.  Do you think I could find someone to replace you?  I tried – over and over again.  No one ever measured up.  I’d love to come for dinner.  Laura’s right again.  You really have changed.  Not shy anymore.”

“Had to outgrow that to survive.  Life’s tough enough without letting your own shortcomings trip you up.  I’m not the little girl who left this dump behind to find better things.”

Glancing at this watch, “Look, I’ve got to get back to the store.  What time’s dinner?”

“Seven would work for us.”

“OK.  Your parents still live at the same place?”  She nodded.  “Let’s go.”  He dropped four ones on the table.  As they walked past the front counter he looked over at Laura who was glaring at them.  “Make sure you tell your little friends about this.” And he wrapped both arms around Barb’s waist and kissed her hard.  “Don’t leave out any of the details.  Oh, and make up anything – keep it juicy.  I don’t plan on letting Barb out of my sight for as long as she’s in town.  You have my permission to spark as much of a panic as you’d like.”  And he waved goodbye.

Barb was laughing, hanging on to Andy’s arm to stay standing.  Something in her had wanted to lash out at Laura and her ditsy friends for years – Andy had just taken care of the craving.

Andy had been, and apparently still was, the best-looking guy in town.  Even though there wasn’t much competition there, he could have won contests across the country.  Without conscious thought, Barb had compared every man she’d dated to him.  Since he’d never married, the local ladies had been giving him a rough time for years.  Most had given up, discussing his probable homosexuality behind his back.  What other explanation could there possible be for this major hunk not choosing a mate from among them?  What Barb didn’t know was that he’d become The Most Eligible Bachelor about seven years before her visit.  He’d collected old cars, classics, from people who didn’t know their value.  While working at Simon’s and getting parts at cost, he’d reconditioned them and resold them at 3000% or more profit and plopped all the proceeds in savings accounts and CD’s.  Seven years ago he’d bought Simon’s from the original, retiring owner and had since opened twenty-four more Simon’s all over western Pennsylvania and eastern Ohio.  Thus, he was also one of the wealthiest men in the state.

That evening promptly at seven, he knocked on the front door.  Dinner began at 7:34.  The conversation leaned toward cars almost immediately.  Ray, Barb’s father, also reconditioned classic and antique cars – the part-time business that had kept Ray and Louise on easy street for most of their adult lives.  This was how Ray had paid for Barb’s college almost-education.  This was how he planned to retire in the southwest sun in another five or six years with no financial worries.  Ray and Andy compared notes of year, make and model of nearly all the most popular autos of the last forty years.  Louise and Barb listened at first, but finally tuned them out and discussed the decline in the real estate market.  At nine, Barb interrupted the car talk, currently centering on the shortcomings of certain models’ transmissions, to ask Andy if he still wanted to go out.

“You ready?” he asked, putting his glass down on the table.

“You bet.”

Barb kissed Mom and Dad goodbye, said she might be pretty late.  They went outside.  He opened the door of a 1992 silver Jaguar.  Barb stopped and looked from him to the car and back.  “This doesn’t look like a piece of junk classic you’re restoring.”

“No, this is my car.  Do you think I want to park it at Simon’s and have doors banged into it all day?”

“I suppose not.”  She was feeling a little lightheaded.

Andy was from a blue-collar family that lived in a tract home in a pretty lousy section of town.  His mother had died of cancer when he was in junior high; and his father, not able to get over losing her, had made a career out of scotch and water.  Andy had already mentioned not going to college.  This vehicle didn’t seem sensible to her, but she’d learned to keep her opinions to herself and not to dig into other people’s business.  She let it go, figuring if he had anything to say about it he would do it of his own volition.

They started the drive to Youngstown uncomfortably.  After a few miles Andy said, “You’re wondering how I can afford this, aren’t you?”

“Frankly, yes.  Seems a little ostentatious for a car parts clerk.”

“I’m not a clerk.”  He stated quietly.  He hadn’t taken any offense.  He didn’t think she would have known the truth.  He wasn’t sure what to say next.  He’d spent most of the day trying to decide how to get Barb to marry him, but he didn’t want to play any trump cards, as most men would have done, and mention his financial situation.  He hadn’t even thought about explaining the car.  It was habit.  Go to work in one of the cars he was working on.  Drive the Jag for pleasure.  He knew she expected he’d carried on the town tradition of staying broke, but he found he couldn’t lie to her.  “Barb, I own Simon’s, and Simon’s has a few other locations, too.  I’m doing pretty well.  Sorry I didn’t warn you.  I feel kind of funny.  Like I’m bragging.  I don’t mean to.”

“That’s OK.”  She calculated this new information along with what he’d told her that afternoon and added it to what she’d known when she was eighteen.  Love + Devotion + Personality + Looks + Money = something she wasn’t sure she wanted to consider.  He seemed to be weighing how much he told her at one time, and she wasn’t sure why.  He’d had no trouble throwing down the Love card.  He must have become cynical over the years too and calculating – they had more in common.

“Barb, are you angry?”

“No, just thinking.”  She hesitated, then, “Seems like you’re being overly careful about what you tell me.”

“I am.  I told you I’ve always loved you.  Maybe I should have taken more time to tell you, but I’m thirty-eight and a little scared.  You won’t be here very long – two weeks?”

“Three.”

“See.  I don’t want to carry this out five years through the mail and on the phone just to find out I’ve wasted five more years.  OK.  What do you want to know?”

“I want to know what this is leading up to.”

He bit his lip, looked at her out of the corner of his eye and said, “That depends on a couple of things.”

Barb had always been intuitive.  This occasion was no exception.  “I don’t think so.  I think you have a very clear picture of what you’re after.  I think you always do.  Let’s just say you could have exactly what you want.  What would that be?”

“Alright.  You asked for it.  I want you to marry me.  I want us to be together forever, and I want you to be happy with that arrangement.”

“There now.  That wasn’t so hard, but something’s bothering me.  Do you think your income has a bearing on my decision?”

“I sure do.  I watched my parents argue about money.  I watched my mother die, and she might not have if we’d had more money.  I watched my father commit a long, slow suicide because he couldn’t save my mother.  I know money in and of itself doesn’t make people happy, but it can stop suffering.  I had nothing to offer you twenty years ago.  Now I have a big house, the ability to get you almost anything and take you wherever you want to go.  Our future together would be secure.  I didn’t buy Simon’s to buy you.  I had nothing else to do, no one to do it with, and the opportunity arose when I had the assets to take advantage of it.  Actually, I didn’t want you to know at this point.  It was accidental.  I really wanted to know how you felt about me, just me.  Do you understand?”

“I guess so.”  She hesitated, not sure she wanted to ask the next obvious question.  “So . . . what do you propose?  Poor choice of words.  What do you think we should do next?”

“It would be stupid to run off and get married just to find that we can’t stand each other later.  We’re both pulling on cobwebbed memories.  I guess I could ask you to stay here longer than you’d planned – a couple of months maybe – and spend as much time together as possible to see if this might work.  Would you have a job to go back to if things didn’t go well, and you decided to go back to New Mexico?”

“I don’t know.  In all honesty, you’re rushing this.  Keep in mind that all these years you’ve known how you felt – I haven’t.  When you dropped yourself out of my life, I thought is was over, as in , for good.  I haven’t been miserable because I didn’t have you.  You’ve had loads more time – twenty years of it – to think over the possibilities.  Come to think of it, you could have tried to get in touch with me.  You knew where my parents lived and could have asked them for my phone number.”

“Barb, honey, I’ve driven past that house a million times but could never find the guts to go knock on the door.  I was pretty sure you hated me.  I didn’t break off our relationship very gracefully.  When you looked at me this afternoon after you recognized me, your face lit up, your eyes gleamed, and you smiled at me.  Then I knew I should have tried to find you.  Your reaction to me was the only thing that let me know that it was OK to tell you I still love you.”  He reached over and took her hand, squeezed it a little and pulled her toward him.  He pulled the car off the road and stopped, put it in park and turned to face her.  “I love you.  Will you give us a chance to have a life together?” and he leaned over to kiss her.  She put both arms around his neck and pressed her lips firmly on his.  They stayed in that loving embrace for many minutes.

Barb still felt pressured and thought maybe it was because she’d been on her own so long that having anyone involved in making a decision besides herself was frightening.  While Andy was simply enjoying being close to her, she was trying to make a decision that would change her life forever.

“Andy,” she pulled away and looked at him, noticed the tears on his cheeks but didn’t acknowledge their presence, “I need more time.”

“Honey, I didn’t expect you to answer me now.  After all, I’ve waited this long.  All I want you to do is think about it – that’s the best I could expect.”  He repositioned himself behind the wheel and took a deep breath, staring ahead for a few moments and trying to get his mind and glands back to normal.  He wasn’t used to the exhilaration he’d felt when holding her.  “Do you still want to go dancing?  I feel like I ruined your evening.”  Andy was and sounded dejected.  “I’m sorry.  I should have kept this all to myself.”

Barb sighed, “No, it’s OK.  I’d rather you were honest.  It’s a point in your favor, no matter how disturbing that honesty is.  Let’s go dancing.  We’ll have a nice evening.”

They did.  Barb nearly forgot about the episode at the side of the road – until they were driving back.  “Andy, we’ll talk about our futures more.  What are you doing tomorrow?”

“I need to go to the store in the morning.  I should be done by noon.”

“Is the Old Mill still there?”  He answered in the affirmative.  “What would you say to a picnic and a hike?”

“You’re on. Shall I pick you up?”

She smiled.  “Please.”

“I’ll call when I leave the store.”

They drove the rest of the way in silence.  When they pulled in the driveway, Andy reached over and took her hand.  “I do love you, Barb.”  She squeezed his hand, smiled and relaxed.

When she woke late the next morning, rain was pouring.  It was 45 degrees outside.  She dragged herself to the kitchen, not being used to late hours and poured a mugful of coffee.  Louise walked in from the den, “Andy called and asked if you’d call him back.”  The look on her face told Barb that she was curious. 

“OK, Mom.  I now know why I had to come home.”

“I thought you might.”  She and her mother had always been tuned in to the same channel.

“Andy asked me to move back here.  He wants us to pick up our relationship where it left off.”

Her mother snorted softly.  “Just like that.  Is he nuts?”

“Not really, but I guess I’ll need to think this through.  I can’t deny that my feelings for him haven’t changed.”

“Honey, you know the job market stinks here.  You can, of course, stay with us; but you won’t be happy sitting around.”

“According to Andy, I can if I want to.  Do you know what he does for a living?”

“Something with car parts.”

“`Something’ equals owning Simon’s.”

“Excuse me?”

“He owns Simon’s – all of them.”

“You’re kidding . . . you’re not.  Then he’s doing well.  I read in the paper not long ago that it’s in the top fifteen businesses in the state – the only one still owned by an individual who also lives here in state.  From that angle I guess you could sit and watch soaps for the rest of your life, although it doesn’t sound very fulfilling.  What else have you considered?”

“He’s honest.”

“That’s good.”

“Sensitive and understanding.”

“Good and good.”

“Maybe I’d better call him.  We made plans for a picnic at Old Mill today, and it doesn’t look like that will work.”

Louise touched Barb’s arm as she walked past her to get to the phone, “Why did you change the subject, dear?”

“I might talk myself into marrying him if I keep this up.”  Her mother watched her pick up the phone.  She wasn’t sure whether to feel happy or sad.  She didn’t like the fact that her daughter lived alone or that she might spend the rest of her life alone, but she didn’t want her to make any hasty decisions either.  There was a friend of hers who might have a job Barb would enjoy.  “You remember Ruth, don’t you?”  Barb nodded.  “She’s got a small business as a liaison between importers and retailers.  Do you want me to call her and see if she could use an assistant?”

“Thanks, yes.  If she does, make an appointment for me to see her on Monday.  I love you, Mom.  Thanks again.”

Barb and Andy decided on a picnic in his living room.  Barb showered, took some Tylenol, put on jeans and a sweatshirt.  She went to the kitchen and kissed her mother goodbye and gave her a big hug.  She wasn’t used to anyone doing favors for her.  “I’m going to go wait in the living room for Andy.”

“Goodbye, dear.”  Louise could tell that Barb needed  to be alone, so she had already decided to get herself ready for her interesting afternoon of doing bookkeeping for her husband.  How delightful.  “I take it you’ll be home late?”

“Probably.”  She went to the living room, looked out the window and sat down in Dad’s favorite chair to wait.  Dad didn’t know it, but it was her favorite chair too.  It smelled like him.  It reminded her of being a little girl and jumping up on his lap after her bath to watch TV with him.  Their favorite shows were about cowboys – Cheyenne, The Rifleman, Sugarfoot.  Handsome cowboys to fantasize about when you’re in kindergarten were wonderful things.  She thought back to childhood and how good she’d felt on those evenings with her head leaning against his strong shoulder and his arms wrapped around her.  She usually fell asleep there.  Things had been so simple.

She heard the car pull into the driveway and sat up to see out the window.  It was Andy.  Her heart doubled in size in her chest as she jumped out of the chair, threw on her jacket and gathered up her purse.  “Bye, Mom!”

“Bye dear.  Have a good time and quit thinking so hard,” her mother yelled back at her.

Barb smiled and opened the door.  Andy was on the porch, hand poised ready to ring the doorbell.  She dropped her purse, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.  “I’m so glad to see you.”  They kept holding on to each other.

“I didn’t expect this,” he sighed into her hair.

“Neither did I.  Sometimes things just happen.”  Her mind clicked, filed the information and, taking her mother’s advice, decided to think about it later.

They got in the car and pulled out of the driveway.

Still feeling uncomfortable, Andy tried to keep the subject light, “Anything special you want to eat?”

“You know what they say about bread, cheese, wine and thou.  `Thou’ is the important part.  I’m really not in the least bit hungry.”

“Have you had a change of heart since last night?”  Andy felt confused and hopeful all at once.

“No, I’m just not thinking today.  I’ve decided not to analyze for awhile.”

“Thanks,” Andy smiled at her, “the rain’s bad enough.  I don’t want you cloudy too.”

“Why don’t we rent some movies?”

“OK, we have to stop at the grocery store anyway.  I don’t eat at home much.  My cooking’s lousy.”

“Oh, so now I’m cooking too?”

“If that’s alright.”

“Boy, they say `marry me’ and think that turns you into The Happy Homemaker.  I’ve got to give men credit for their attempts at the power of positive thinking.”  She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye and smiled.  He hadn’t realized her speech was full of sarcasm ‘til he saw the smile and the gleam in her eyes.  He relaxed and smiled back.  She continued, “I’d love to cook your dinner, but I’m not washing your socks, at least not yet.”

They picked up four movies, recent releases since neither of them went to theatres very often.  Barb noted that this was another common factor.  They stopped at the A&P and picked up some goodies for dinner – lobster tails, potatoes and salad items along with a few munchies and beer.  As they pulled into the driveway to Andy’s place, Barb remembered that these had all been  vacant lots when she left town.  “How much land do you have?”  She had also noted that nothing but plant life existed on either side of what must be his driveway since it was a single lane that they’d been driving down for quite some time.  There was also a sign at the entrance about a mile back that said, “Private Drive – Do Not Enter”.

“Forty some acres – all woods and hillsides.  I keep a couple of horses in a stable up behind the house.  I can ride on my own land and not bother or be bothered by anyone.”

“I didn’t know you were into horses.”

“I wasn’t ‘til you made me go riding with you way back when.  We can ride tomorrow if the sky quits leaking.”

“Sounds nice.”

They finally came up on a garage door which Andy opened using a keypad on a remote in the car.  He parked the Jag next to an old Rolls, and they started to get the groceries out of the trunk.

“What year’s the Rolls?”

“Forty-seven, Silver Wraith – needs paint, huh?”

She saw the love in his eyes for that car.  It was an admirable piece of machinery.  “She’s my baby.”

“What makes you think it’s a she?”  They had put the bags back down in the trunk and were walking slowly around the Rolls which he patted lovingly every once in awhile.

“Cars are female.”

“I don’t think so.  Not all the time,” she said coyly.

“OK.  They’re not,”  He smiled at her not wanting to get into any heavy discussions..

“No really.  My dad calls them bastards and rotten sons of bitches when they give him trouble.  Those terms hold male connotations.  Haven’t you noticed that they’re female only when they purr like kittens and look sleek and sexy, but they’re male when they don’t run right and are being a pain in the ass?”

He laughed, “You’re right.”  He reached toward her, then pulled his arm back.

“What’s wrong?”  She took a step closer to him, liking the quiet, confidential tone they’d been using.

“I’m . . . not sure.  Let’s go in the house,” and he turned fast and went to the Jag’s trunk to get the groceries.

She easily let the subject drop, not wanting to get into any heavy discussions today either.  They got the food and movies and went into the house – mansion was the first word that came to Barb’s mind as she looked around.  All the rooms were huge and open and airy and cold – not by temperature but by lack of being lived in.  A showplace only, it was gorgeous, well decorated, extremely neat (too neat), not a home.

“Nice house,” she said, not knowing exactly what to say, given what she was thinking.

“Thank you.”  He sounded distant or distracted; she couldn’t tell which.  They went to the kitchen and put away the food for dinner, fixed a tray with cheese, croissants, jam and a few cut up apples and went into what Barb guessed one could call a rec room.  The oak wide-screen TV and eggshell leather twelve-piece conversation pit were dwarfed by the size of the room.  Andy placed the wine bottle and glasses on the coffee table and went to the stone fireplace, turned on the gas jet and lit it, waited a few minutes ‘til the logs caught and turned off the jet.  He turned to Barb who had seated herself and was checking through the movies to see what to watch first.

“How about . . .” her voice trailed off as she looked up and saw the expression on Andy’s face.

“I feel very uncomfortable.”

“It’s your house.  I don’t understand.”

“I know if I get close to you, I’ll do something that will upset you.”

She wasn’t sure, but she thought she’d caught his drift.  “My mother may not approve, but how do you know how I’d feel about it?”

“All I can gauge by is that in high school you were one of the `good girls’.”  He was looking at the floor.

Barb grinned.  “I’m still good, thank you very much, in fact, maybe I’m better.”

“Sounds like you’re adjusting Mae West.”

She curled her legs up next to her on the couch, smiled coyly, and said, “I am.”

“Don’t you think we’d be moving too fast for you?”  There was a bite in his tone.

“That depends on how you view a biological function.”

“Is that all making love is to you?”  His tone didn’t change.

“No.  I care about you.  I want to be close to you.  Just because I don’t want to marry you tomorrow doesn’t mean . . .”  He’d seated himself next to her on the edge of the couch.  As she was making her point known to him, he put both arms around her, placed his lips on hers and slid his tongue into her mouth, leaving her sentence unfinished.  She didn’t feel compelled to complete it verbally and allowed her body to show him instead.  The videos and snacks lay on the table for three hours unwatched, untouched and unthought-of.  Pieces of clothing littered the area around the conversation pit, having been thrown randomly, lying where they may.

“You sure know how to warm up a room.”  She was cuddled into his side with her cheek pressed against his muscular chest, enjoying the aroma of his cologne mixed with the more pungent scent of his sweat.

“Stay where you are, my love.”  He sat up, opened the wine with the corkscrew, poured two glasses, cut two pieces of cheese with the knife, picked up the corkscrew again.  He eyed it for several seconds.

She lay in the pool if her own blood, the cheese knife sitting jauntily above the frayed and dripping remnants of her left breast, the corkscrew dangling languidly over her right hip bone, still attacked to the piece of her small intestine in which it had become tangled.  There wasn’t enough left of her face to know if she’d been aware of how she’d spent her final moments of life.  Andy sat on the edge of the leather cushion closest to the coffee table, sipping wine, chewing cheese, thinking, “Sometimes things just happen.”

THE END

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My Child Naked

By Jesse L. Aaron

 A two year nightmare was over.  The future would hold what it held; but, for this evening, she sat holding her baby girl, rocking her as she had every night for four years until it had begun.

Her “baby” was seven now and more beautiful than she’d remembered.  Her thoughts drifted over the hundreds of nights and days filled with loneliness, despair, fear and all those tears.  For the moment, at least, she was content just to touch her and to look at her thin face.  Her older daughter was on the floor by the chair, holding her sleeping little sister’s hand.  She, too, was thinking about those days, wondering if she’d ever be able to forget . . . forget the looks on her mother’s face, the strain, the sense of loss, the pain, when it hit her fourteen-year-old mind, “Mom,” her voice cracked as she spoke, “what’s going to happen now?  Is Donna going to be alright?”

“Honey, only time will tell.  I’m sure we’ll need to get some help – for all of us, I imagine.  For right now, just be thankful she’s back with us.  I won’t tell you that the worst is over because it may not be.  Donna’s been through more than you or I can imagine.  Lord knows what she’ll be like after almost three years in that place.”

That Place.  Every time she thought those words she could hear her heart pound, feel her pulse race, as rage streamed through every fiber of her body. Those beasts!  No, that word was too good for them.  They’d locked her baby away from her.  She’d felt the child’s cries every day and night for so long it seemed that every second of those thirty months lasted a year.  Her beautiful, beautiful baby.  She closed her eyes tight to try to block out the anger and the visions of what must have happened.  She took a deep breath to calm her voice. 

“Laura, let’s try to get some sleep.  Come on, honey, I want you both next to me tonight.”  She rose from the chair awkwardly, trying not to disturb her sleeping child, but the movement caused an outburst from the emaciated body in her arms that caused her to fall backward into the rocker.

Donna’s arms and legs flailed, her face distorted in pain and screams of seismographic intensity filled the silence of the home saddened so long by her absence.  Miriam suffered several bruises from the pummeling of small fists, but she didn’t notice until the next morning when she was brushing her teeth and realized her lip was swollen.

It had taken thirty eight minutes to quiet Donna.  No one slept in their small house that night.  The three of them sat huddled together on the couch, eyes open, staring from one to another, silently wondering what the next moment might bring.

Miriam put down the toothbrush without finishing, swallowed the toothpaste, and wiped her lips on the back of her hand as she walked resolutely to the phone.  She picked up the yellow pages and opened to the psychiatrist section, closed her eyes, put her finger down on the page.  She dialed the number she’d chosen with her blind finger and made an appointment with the receptionist who answered the phone – and the nightmare repeated itself and repeated itself and repeated itself.

The Beginning

Miriam was feeling a little extra proud.  She was on her way to the Gifted Children Evaluation Center, recommended to her by a woman with whom she worked.  The whole thing had come as quite a surprise.  The woman, Nancy Riggs, was not her favorite person by any means.  Nancy lived with her nose in the stratosphere.  She would date only doctors and lawyers, would shop at only the most expensive stores (though no one could figure out how she afforded it), would pass judgment on anyone whose standards didn’t meet hers.  Her enemies amounted to at least ninety percent of her acquaintances, but she never realized how poorly she hid her feelings toward the people she met and/or worked with.  Nancy was the best brown-noser and back-stabber in the insurance office where she and Miriam worked.  Women who’d been there longer, had much more experience and knowledge, and had larger client bases had been passed over for promotions to Nancy’s benefit several times.  Nancy, of all people, had told Miriam that her most recent doctor friend, a pediatrician, had mentioned the Center and its work with overly-bright kids.  Nancy had thought it might be a way for Miriam, who had very little money since her husband had left her with two children and all the bills a few years ago, to get Donna involved in programs geared to the over-achieving child without any monetary out-lay.  Miriam had jumped on the chance, asking for the phone number and immediately placing a call for an appointment to have her bright four-year-old tested.

The morning of Donna’s day to shine was crisp and exhilarating.  Miriam had dressed Donna in a special occasion outfit, packed her Shrek lunch box with her favorite lunch (ham and cheese sandwich; a cored, sliced apple; two Suddenly S’Mores; milk and a note to tell her that Mom loved her very much – Donna could already read at a sixth-grade level) as instructed by the Center, put both kids in the car and after dropping Laura at her elementary school, drove to the Center in Midvale and took Donna in to meet the doctors and college students who would be testing her that day.  She kissed Donna and gave her an especially long hug, whispering that she was proud of her and to have fun.  Donna, a naturally out-going child who looked at everything in life as a new and exciting adventure, took the hand of the closest person she’d just met and said, “Shall we get started?”

Miriam watched her little girl walk down the hall, smiled and waved though the child didn’t see her, felt proud all over again, and went back to her car to drive to work.  The whole day she resisted the temptation to call the Center and check on Donna’s progress.  She did not want to be perceived as either overly protective or overly anxious.  At five o’clock she hastily cleaned up her desk, drove to the day care that normally tended both her children, picked up Laura and drove as fast as possible to Midvale to be at the Center by six.  Donna’s testing was to be completed by four; more observations made of her at play would be over at five-thirty.  Miriam pulled into the parking lot at five forty-seven.  She and Laura, both excited, ran in the building and stopped at the front desk.

“Miss,” Miriam addressed the receptionist, “where would I find Donna Butler?”

The pleasant young woman smiled and looked down at her log.  “I’m sorry; Donna was picked up at eleven-thirty.”  She looked up at Miriam’s confused expression. 

“No.  I’m Donna’s mother.  She was here for the Accelerated Testing Program.”

“I’m sorry, but Dr. Schmidt signed her out at eleven-thirty.”

“Signed her out to whom?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then would you ask him, please?  Donna was supposed to be here all day, and I’d like to know where she is and why she left.  She’s only four years old.  She didn’t just walk out your front door alone.  She knows better, and I would think you do too.”

The woman picked up her phone, hit a button and waited.  “I’m sorry, there’s no answer in Dr. Schmidt’s office.”

Miriam leaned over the counter and put her face two inches from the woman’s nose, “WHERE’S MY DAUGHTER?”

The woman cowered under her, “I don’t know.”

“Then you’d better find someone who does!”  The rage in Miriam’s voice was intense.  Laura backed away from her, never having heard her mother sound like that.  A door opened across the hall and a man in jeans and a western shirt emerged.  “May I help you with something?”

“Maybe.  Where’s Donna Butler?”

“I was testing her this morning, and she didn’t return after lunch.”

“Don’t you think it’s a little odd that a four-year-old just didn’t `return after lunch’ and disappeared from your facility?”

“No.  Dr. Schmidt told me that she’d been picked up and would return at a later date.”

“PICKED UP BY WHOM, AND WHO IN GOD’S NAME IS DR. SCHMIDT?”

“This is the craziest thing!” she grumbled as she drove toward Nancy’s house.  “Where could she be?  Laura, I’m really worried.”  Laura, age eleven, might not have been as brilliant as Donna; but she was no dummy.  She’d also been her mother’s friend and confidante since her father’d deserted them three years before, making her mature well beyond the average adolescent.

“Me too.  Donna wouldn’t leave there on her own.  She knew we were coming to get her.  Someone’s lying.”

They drove in angry, confused silence the rest of the way to Nancy’s house.  After pulling in the driveway, Miriam marched to the door and knocked ‘til it shook in the casing.  Nancy’s voice could barely be heard over her hammering,  “Coming, COMING, for shit sake!  What do you . . . “ she opened the door and her voice failed.

“What have you done with my daughter?” Miriam screamed in Nancy’s face. 

“I don’t know what you mean.”  She stammered, trying to grasp control of herself.  She hadn’t expected Miriam to come so close to the answer so fast.

“You’re the one who thought this up.  You must know something.  Now WHAT do you know?”  Miriam was backing Nancy down the foyer and into the kitchen.  Laura was right behind Miriam.

“Miriam, calm down and tell me what you’re talking about.”  Her control was returning, but not fast enough for Miriam to miss the blush rising on Nancy’s cheeks, the changing pitch of her voice and the darting of her eyes.

“I think you know exactly what I’m referring to.  In fact I think you know everything!  Now, where’s Donna?”  She spit out the words between clenched teeth.

“Dear, tell me what happened.”

“Don’t `dear’ me.  I went to pick up Donna from the Center, but there’s no Donna to pick up.  `Someone’ picked her up earlier today.  `Someone’ I don’t know.  `Someone’ with no permission from anyone, anywhere to pick her up.  Are you grasping this?”

“Sit down.  You’re overwrought.  I’ll get some tea.”  She turned her back under the auspices of putting the water on to boil so she could hide her sigh and a deep breath to calm down the rest of the way.

“I don’t want tea.  I WANT DONNA!”  Miriam was behind Nancy with her hands ready to circle Nancy’s throat, ready to squeeze as hard as she could, when her eyes picked up a familiar sight – Donna’s Shrek lunch box – the edge was visible from behind an oak breadbox on the counter.  She put her hands down before Nancy even knew they were there.

“Nance,” Miriam whispered so close behind Nancy that it startled her. 

“How did she get so close to me so fast?”  Nancy thought.  She froze, not sure how to proceed. 

“I could use a cold, wet washcloth.” Miriam hissed.

“OK, I’ll get you one.”  Nancy left to go to the bathroom for it, thanking her lucky stars as she went.  She needed a minute to regain her composure, and Miriam had given her one.  Miriam seemed to be calming down and believing that Nancy didn’t know what was going on. 

In the kitchen, Miriam pulled the lunch box from behind the breadbox, grabbed Laura’s arm and ran both of them to the car.  They went to the nearest police station.  Back at Nancy’s, she heard the screened door slam shut, ran to see Miriam’s car roaring out the driveway, and immediately placed a call to Dr. Schmidt.

The sergeant listened to Miriam’s story and started typing up a report.

“Wait a minute.  Aren’t you going to go to Nancy’s house and get her?  She’ll know I have the lunch box.  Do you think she’s just sitting there waiting for you to drag her in for questioning?”

“All in good time, all in good time, madame,” was the response she got.

When the police arrived at Nancy’s house five hours later, she was gone along with most of her clothes and personal items.  When the police called on the Center the following day, all they could find out was that, “Yesterday was Dr. Schmidt’s last day,” and that he was going to another clinic, but no one remembered its name.  The signature on the sign out sheet showing the last known location of Donna was illegible.

Miriam and Laura spent sleepless nights and distracted days from then on.  They were angry together; they cried together; they sought help from every known source together; but no one could find Donna – not a trace.  Miriam called the police station six and seven times a day at first, asking if they’d found or heard anything.  Their answers all amounted to the same thing – “You’ll be the first to know if we do.”

Miriam, although she hadn’t suspected her ex-husband but had to be sure by his reaction to the news, contacted Jim by phone and told him that Donna was missing.  At first he’d thought she was trying to get money out of him, so he hung up on her.  He called the West Valley City Police from his home in Castle Rock, Colorado; and, finding that her story was true, called her back, apologized and offered his help.  He took a leave of absence and flew to Salt Lake City the next morning.  He and Miriam hired a private detective who was able to add nothing to the minimal amount of information the police had gathered.  After taking Miriam’s ex-husband’s money for five months and getting nowhere, he refused to take more.  He couldn’t watch the physical deterioration of the mother and sister of the pretty, little girl for whom he was searching and continue to be paid for finding nothing over and over again.  He kept working the case, and eventually he was the person who lead to Donna’s return home.

Nancy and Schmidt were never found.  Miriam found out from a friend with connections that the Midvale Police were refusing to cooperate with the West Valley Police and hadn’t run an investigation on the Gifted Children Evaluation Center.  She contacted the State Attorney General and reported the matter – the Center issue was handled.  No connection to any other incident of this sort was found.  It was found that Schmidt had given false information on his employment application and resume.  The Center received a hand-slapping for not being conscientious about checking the backgrounds of their employees.  No other leads concerning his identity or location ever surfaced.  He’d been there only three months and had given a two week notice showing he’d accepted a position in a fictitious clinic in Georgia.  Nancy had also used an alias.  She’d been in town only ten months – where she’d come from remained as mysterious as where she’d gone.  The initial position she’d taken with the insurance company had not required a background check, so the fact that the real Nancy Riggs had been deceased for six years surfaced only after the police investigation had taken place.  That investigation was shelved after the first few months due to lack of evidence.

For Miriam and Laura day and night, month and year, became indistinguishable.  Work days went by, Miriam was running on automatic.  She knew her job.  She knew how to approach new clients and how to please existing clients.  Her warm, helpful smile had been one of her best assets; and it continued to pay off, covering for the pain she felt every minute.  Laura did reasonably well at school after the first few weeks of fear and disorientation.  She was enough like her mother to gather the necessary strength each morning to continue through each day until her mother came to get her at the day-care center.  Their rides home, as both of them relaxed and allowed themselves to feel again, were lonely, too quiet, and too reminiscent of old rides home with Donna, the vivacious one of the  three, monopolizing the conversation.  By the time they got home Monday through Friday all they managed to do for the first hour was sit on the couch and hold each other, sobbing quietly or crying convulsively. 

And then one night . . .

The phone rang only a few minutes after they’d begun their ritualistic observations of the empty chair at the dinner table.  Miriam went to the kitchen, sniffled, composed herself and picked up the phone.  “Hello?”

“Mrs. Butler?”

“Yes.”

“This is Scott Rivera.”

Pausing for a moment in disbelief, not lack of recognition, “Oh, Scott.  I’m surprised to hear from you.  I’d thought you’d forgotten about us.”

“No.  I couldn’t forget you or your daughters.  I know it’s been a long time.”

“It certainly has.  Almost two years.”  She then realized that he’d have no reason to call unless he had some kind of news on the whereabouts of Donna.  Private detectives whom you hadn’t heard from for extended periods of time didn’t just call to shoot the shit.  Her excitement was evident in her voice, “What’s happened?”

“Please don’t get your hopes up, but I think I may have a lead.  May I come to see you tonight?”

“Certainly.”

“I’ll be there in a half hour.  You still live at the same place?”

“We do.”

He hung up  Miriam stared at the phone a moment before placing it in the cradle.  After all this time, what could he have?  She talked incessantly until he arrived.  Laura sat and listened to her mother hypothesize for the entire half hour.  Both of them were breathing too fast when Scott Rivera pulled in to the driveway.  They met him at the door with sparks of hope showing through their dark-circled eyes.  He noticed that Laura looked too thin.  She’d grown about four inches since he’d seen her last but didn’t seem to have put on an ounce of weight.  Miriam, who was an exceptionally pretty woman, had streaks of gray through her jet black hair and the wrinkles of a sixty-year-old in her forehead and around her eyes and mouth.

“Mrs. Butler, I came across something I think you should see.  I don’t think it’s a good idea for Laura to be with us though.”

“Mr. Rivera, Laura has been through every detail of this with me.  Her sister is as important to her as she is to me.   What is it that you have?”

“I’m . . . this makes me very uncomfortable, Mrs. Butler.”

“First of all I hate that name.  I’m Miriam.  Second, I’m very impatient.  What do you have?”

Scott took a deep breath.  Showing what he had to a fourteen-year-old girl would be one of the hardest things he’d done in his career.  “I came across this magazine while I was running an investigation for a client with a cheating husband.”  He pulled the rolled up rag from his pocket and opened it to a page he’d marked.  He noticed that both mother and daughter were so interested in what he was specifically going to show them that they hadn’t yet noticed the type of publication he was holding in his clammy, shaking hands.  He held the glossy pages open for them to see, stealing himself for their reaction.

Miriam and Laura were silent, mouths clamped shut, eyes wide.  No one in the living-room breathed.  Miriam’s hands clenched into fists.  Her nails dug into the heels of her hands making eight small slits.  Scott choked out, “Does this look like it could be Donna?”

“Yes,” she mouthed, no real sound came from her throat.

“I thought so.  I’ve already begun inquiries into the source of the photos, the location of publication, anything that might lead me to Donna.  Miriam, are you going to be alright?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Do you have someone who can come and stay with you?  I know you’ve had to deal with a lot.  I wasn’t sure how you’d take this kind of shock on top of it.”

“I’ve seen my child naked before, just not with some son of a bitch’s penis shoved in her mouth.”  Her voice became more shrill with each syllable she spoke.  Scott dropped the rumpled piece of rat shit, as he thought of it, on the carpet and leaned over to take Miriam by the shoulders.

“Miriam,” he yelled at her face, ”Miriam,” louder this time, “for Laura’s sake get a grip!”

Miriam closed her eyes, the picture of Donna burned into her brain.  She opened them again and, setting her jaw forward a bit, said, “Scott, get those fuckers.  We’ll be fine.”

For the next few weeks Scott pushed all other cases aside and concentrated exclusively on finding Donna.  The kiddy-porn magazine was sold in Europe and South America and also to an “elite” group of upper snobby Americans.  His secretary was able to access the mailing list on the internet.  The publisher’s address was, according to the New York City Police Department, an abandoned building in an industrial area – not too surprising.  The man who’d purchased the copy of the magazine that Scott had in his possession claimed he’d picked it up while on a business trip in London.  He wasn’t able to come up with any clue to Donna’s location, and this case was pissing him off.

During those same weeks Miriam and Laura slowly got over the shock but not the anger.  Miriam called the police and asked them to reopen the case based on the photograph that proved that Donna was still alive.  They told her to call the FBI since the photograph also proved that it was not a local issue.  She did and was told that they’d request the police file and get back to her but it would take at least six to eight weeks.  She wanted to scream, ”Yes, six or eight weeks more for those scum to do more unspeakable things to my baby girl,” but she knew that making enemies out of the authorities would not make them move any faster.

Four weeks later at three forty-eight AM, Miriam saw the flashing of red and blue emergency lights reflecting off the walls in the hall outside her bedroom.  Something told her to get up.  She grabbed her robe, got Laura up, she wasn’t sure why, and had her put her robe and shoes on too.  Although she’d never been one to run to see a building burn or slow down to see a car wreck, she and Laura went outside to see what all the flashing was about.  Outside of their circle, down the access street and west three houses was a roadblock of police cars and a lot of screaming and shouting.  Miriam and Laura crossed the circle and walked to the edge of the ruckus.  Three handcuffed men and a woman were being pushed, pulled or dragged through the house’s front door.  An officer carried a bundle wrapped in a blanket behind the last one.  Miriam ducked around the officer blocking the sidewalk with Laura running right after her.  Their hearts pounded as they both ran to see the bundle.  Two policemen ran up behind them to pull them back.  One of them snagged Laura’s arm, but Miriam’s hand pulled down the edge of the blanket just as the other officer grabbed her by the shoulder.  Miriam’s scream woke anyone who still happened to be sleeping in the neighborhood.  “DONNA!”  She pulled away from the hands on her shoulders and yanked the body of her child away from the man who was carrying her.  “YOU BASTARDS!  YOU SAID YOU’D GONE THROUGH ALL THE HOUSES HERE!  YOU SAID THERE WASN’T A SHRED OF EVIDENCE TO PROVE THAT MY BABY WAS STILL IN THE STATE.  YOU BASTARDS!

 Miriam and Laura walked home.  Not one officer moved to stop them.  Miriam’s cheek rested on the brown curly hair that had once smelled of Johnson’s Baby Shampoo.

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Thoughts on Modern Medicine

By Jesse L. Aaron

I am 50 years old and have been through very few medical procedures.  Some would consider me very lucky.  Some think that I’ve never had any physical problems with which to deal.  WRONG.  I just have a more metaphysical way of looking at things. 

A number of years ago (sometime in my late 20’s or early 30’s) I was diagnosed with Endometriosis.  This is a painful, messy, disgusting, debilitating disease.  Anyone who has had to deal with it knows that the tests to find out if that is what you have are bad enough.  The only known “cure” is surgery.  Since several organs are involved and since there may be cysts in the abdominal cavity as well, the surgery carries with it more pain and has a difficult recovery period.  My mother had a complete hysterectomy and cyst removal which involved the dissecting and re-secting of her small intestine along with the removal of pieces of several other organs besides the reproductive ones.  Although it takes an atom bomb to get her down, she was in sad shape for several months and has had repercussions during her later years.  Her surgery took place when I was 12.  I remember it well.

That, I think, was why when I heard that I had the same disease, I started seeking another solution.  I did a lot of reading and research.  I found one.  I stuck with it.  I have never had surgery.  I show no signs of Endometriosis.  I apologize right now to any readers who currently suffer from this nasty affliction, but since I do not want to endure the consequences of being sited for practicing medicine without a license; I can not tell you what I did.  I can give you some hints – read a good herbal book and search through some natural healing sources.  Go to a reputable health food store and ask questions of staff members who are knowledgeable.  Consult a good herbalist.  Diligently follow the program you find for several years and do not give up.  Read all the instructions concerning herbal ingestion.  Use at least 3 herbs in combination to kick the mess – one is NOT ENOUGH.  Follow your doctor’s orders, but refuse surgery unless you absolutely cannot stand the pain.  I didn’t listen to a thing my doctor said, but that was my choice.  I do not recommend it. [Disclaimer]

Since I had so much success with my first stab at nutritional and herbal healing, I have used my resource materials numerous times over the years to alleviate symptoms and improve my and my family’s quality of life.  Please visit Amazon.com [button here] and search “nutritional healing”.  They have numerous valuable books on the topic.  Also feel free to visit some of the sites we have listed in Choices and Resources [make this a link to the Herbal listings] to locate additional useful data.

I have a friend who has multiple physical problems.  The medications she takes fight each other.  One makes the other not work and vice versa.  She was so miserable.  The combination of medications made her black out but stay functioning.  She’d go to work during a black-out phase and then come to, not even remembering how she got to work 5 hours ago.  She never knew when these episodes might occur.  This had gone on for well over a year.  Anything her doctor recommended did nothing to improve her situation.  Since my dad had one of these conditions and Mom had the other, I called home to find out what supplements they were taking.  I looked up a few things in an herbal book, and she tried them.  By this point, she’d have eaten elephant shit if she thought it would help.  Within 6 months, both infirmities were improving.  She didn’t have to continually guess what and how much medication to take each day.  She was no longer blacking out.  Upon hearing about the improvement and looking at test results that substantiated the improvement, her doctor asked what she was doing so differently to cause such a development.  She felt that she had nothing to hide, so she told him about the 4 supplements she was taking.  His comment back to her was that if she wanted to use them as a crutch she could continue to do so, but that those were not the reason that she no longer had all the side-effects that she’d been suffering through.  After a rather lengthy battle with him, he refused to acknowledge that the natural substances she’d been ingesting (most of which are found in any Seasonings Section in your local grocery store) had any possible bearing on her partial recovery – but nothing else was different and the two problems she has have no cure and do not improve as time goes by.  She simply decided to not discuss it with him in the future and to continue with her regimen of herbs and minerals.

She is not the only person who has told me of similar experiences.  There are natural remedies that shrink tumors, heal skin disorders, reduce the need for insulin for diabetics, stabilize blood pressure, decrease the deterioration and pain of arthritis – the list is very long.  They also are much less expensive than their pharmaceutical counterparts (if they exist at all) and have few and mild or no side-effects.  Although the University of Arizona has courses in holistic study in it’s medical program and additional proof of the viability of natural substances such as garlic and other common spices as healing agents increases daily, the AMA and the FDA consistently do their utmost to disavow any knowledge of or give any credence to their effectiveness in treatments of many medical conditions.

It is sad that the closed-minded have so much power.  It is a sin that disease continues to go untreated when treatment is but a regular dose of tea away.  It is a crime that our populace continues to be plied with chemicals merely because the pharmaceutical companies pay doctors kickbacks in order to get them to prescribe their drugs – the ones you hear about on TV where the side-effects are worse than the disease.  It is travesty that there are people suffering for absolutely no reason other than the cure is too inexpensive and too readily available for a medical practitioner to find any advantage for recommending it – it won’t help him pay for his new Porsche.

Do I see doctors often?  Hell no – don’t much need to.  I read.

By the way, there’s been a cure for cancer for years. To learn more about it, go to Amazon.com and search Books for Ruth Montgomery. Threshold to Tomorrow tells the story of Sir Jason Winters.

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151 Days

By

Evelyn Tada

In the fall, he reached out to me and our fingers touched through the taps on a board that send messages afar like the ancient sound of drums.  He stood once within my aura and his shadow captured my spirit.  Then a calling came to him from the highest power in the land to undertake a task he was fitted for, which took him to the other side of midnight where the flow of timeless sand is the ocean.  I did not know then that the ninth day of the twelfth month was the beginning on my winter that would last 151 days.

The last time he spoke to me to wish me was, his voice was clear but already weary, which was the thirty-first day of the twelfth month of the year.   I later froze for a moment when remote became a reality.  I knew that if he could he would, then messages became few, brief and vague, then a periodical flash of his well-being.  Then on the ninth day of the New Year his message read “We start soon”, then all ceased.  When the butterflies consumed me, I knew then he would be within the curtains of silence and live the life of a seal in the ocean to defy the enemy for what would be infinity. 

Each day after the twentieth day of the third month was filled with images of the war, the unheralded loss of life and more of the unknown.  Our nation of the free became a nation of anxieties and terror, and I wept.  There were many nights of glare that I searched through windows for what I did not want to see, and what I did see, I could only guess.  My sleep would come only with the melodic sounds transmitted through the vastness of darkness that would shroud my uncertainties.  These sounds became my companion in solitude that would calm me, were trusted like we were PARTNERS IN CRIME*, and like a wall of BRICKS*, it was one CAUSE* of my strength that delivered me from one day to another for 151 days.

The unknown haunted me to wonder why someone that I knew for only a brief time could suspend me, and then transcend me to his side as if I were his guardian angel to keep him warm while the snow fell all around me.  There were moments of anger when I came to know I could not walk away from it.  There were moments that I felt the challenge of time was too much of a battle.  There were moments that I trusted that fate brought me to this and would take me through it.  There were moments that I felt tested.  There were moments that I did not want to think of it. Then there were moments……the face of he not returning stared at me.  These moments were 151 days. 

The colors of red, white, blue and yellow waved everywhere. I could not escape it, and I did not want to escape it for fear that I could be deserting someone who I hoped still had me in his thoughts of a better time.  I resented that I became my own prisoner within the very walls of what was once my sanction.  I resented that I could feel this way for anyone who walked into and out of my aura without leaving it.  I resented that I may once again have to be steadfast to endure one more tragedy in my life.  My resentment lasted 151 days.

My fears were compressed by the grace of my passion to love and care for anyone which smothered the anger and hate I felt during this season.  I would manifest that all would be well because I believed in him.  I would manifest a bond between us that grew in his absence that made me whole and complete because I believed in him.  I would manifest that he would once again stand within my aura because I believed in him.  I would manifest that he was well by refusing to abort my messages because I believed in him.  Because I believed in him, my passion to love care and resent became entangled into an emotion of one and the same I believed in him for 151 days. 

At what would be the end of the war, the butterflies of anticipation swarmed in the hope that he was well as there was not any means for me to confirm that.  Despite what should have been enlightening, chaos continued to exist within a nation of two thousand years while the curtains of silence remained in place and time became motionless.

It was not until the seventeenth day of the fourth month of the New Year that snowfall would begin to soften.  The message of a lifetime was waiting on my window that read, “In GM for debrief, all went well.”  Once again I was frozen as tears welled and began to stream away the chill of my winter as I read his message a thousand times.

In the days to follow, the season began to change as my heart began to warm as fear, resentment and anger washed away with the melt to the snow.  There was one more message from him before his name appeared with a chime, and I heard his voice tell me he was finally on my side of midnight, which was the ninth day of the fifth month which marked 151 days.

”God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”  -Reinhold Niebuhr

“151 days”  is dedicated to Captain Robert Adams who was missed while serving our country in the Iraqi conflict and who inspires me.

My love to all my friends and family, especially Alan, Miki, Miguel, Woody, Bobbi, Joan, Patsy, Nichole and Paula, whose compassion embraced me during my winter of “151 days”

My aloha to Alan whose hand is always there for me to reach out to.

My gratitude to Bobbi who believes in me. 

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A K A STELLA

The time has come for her to pack and move on, for what is here is just an old con.

It finally hit her to leave what is gray, to seek an adventure to challenge her day.

She’ll go forth to find the prism of colors from sunshine rays,

for at the end of her rainbow bright dreams await her for the rest of her days.

She's made a pact with herself to  once again be, a true and free spirit, for Stella is no longer and Edie will be.

DEDICATED TO MY FRIEND EDIE

It is my wish that she finds another circle to surround her with warmth & love, so the laughter from happiness and joy is part of the rest of her life.

September 19, 2004  Evelyn  Tada

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“The Gift”

Only the few will come to have and know what others can only dream about and wish for. Only those fortunate souls will know that it is better to have had than not to have had at all.

We are who we are because of those that came into and walked out of our lives leaving a significant trace of their being. We choose whose traces to behold as time transforms the simplicity of a friendship into love like no other that becomes a gift.

The Gift of Love paints tones of joy, sorrow, anger, denial and acceptance, and too often questions our self worth, however is timeless.

The breath of life was not meant to be forEVer whereas the Gift of Love is forEVer!

Dedicated to my friend Edie in her time of sorrow!

November 2, 2003

Evelyn Tada

          ForEVer is as Far as I Can Go

By

Evelyn Tada

I am one of few who understand the purpose of my existence in this life. However, having to first bear the agony of sorrow and the jubilation of happiness within what seems to be worth more than one lifetime.

I have not had to do without the comfort of living but have had to do without the comfort of life with people who colored my existence with hues of profound intent. I am the creation of their charity of sorrow and happiness which is the hand I hold as it leads me through this plateau of life, so I may one day rise to the ultimate Shangri-La rather than descend to a shade of fade.

The hand of sorrow is stronger that the hand of joy, as joy is only a reward for a moment to be lost in time. The hand of sorrow is a strength that has pierced deep into my heart and as it eased, it drew the goodness of my soul. At that moment of the draw, a chosen one less fortunate is placed within my reach for me to care for and love at a time not set as I know it.

When my heart tells me to, that is the time which I then know is right. Whom I give to lets me fulfill my mission in this life as a caregiver, for it was not meant for me to keep what is needed by someone else. But what I give away will forEVer be replenished to enrich another again, and again, and again.

Because I serve as a caregiver, ForEVer is as far as I can go.
 

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Sunday At Twilight

By

Evelyn Tada

Sunday at twilight, the best time of the day.  The time zone between today and tomorrow.

Once night falls, today will be gone forever and the dawn will mark the beginning of the rest of my life.  The rest of my life, with all it's mysteries belong to me.  It cannot be altered, treaded, or given away.

My life's quest is to create and be surrounded by positive energies of others especially those that love me.  That love will generate a perpetual synergy and provide me strength for them. Because of that, those that I love will be stronger then I.
 

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Beyond Sunday Twilight

By

Evelyn Tada

Ten Months have passed since "151 days", and I am reliving the stir of butterflies that remind me that he is beyond the edge of twilight again.

A tropical turmoil brews with forces like those in the region of timeless sand, shedding the blood of passionate hate and tears for those lost in the battle for human rights.  The Captain in amid this political cloud of black as summoned to be by my rival whom I have not any power over. 

I can and will breathe through this chapter while he gives it life as already written for my role is to remain silent and see his image within my heart as I've always done.  

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  I Have Been

By

Evelyn Tada

Once more a year comes to an end in my autumn and this time the sensation is like it was, for I have been, and feel the déjà vu of an absence that stirs the butterflies that were the same the exact same day last year.

Today I know that he will forever drift in and out of my presence for he answers to the command of another that is my rival. My rival serves both of us, and he serves my rival and me, while I serve them not I do not rule, but I am true to them for we three are subjects of the same.  

It is my chosen task to remain in the shadows while he fulfills his missions that let me be who I want to be and so I can choose as I have been. When the shadows are stronger than I, it crushes my heart and makes my tears bitter for the chill of myself as one, and sweet for the warmth of myself that makes us one.

Tomorrow begins a new year and like the last same day where I have been, “151 Days” I will not once more have been.

December 31, 2003 Thank you Captain for the inspiration!  E. Tada

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DARK SIDE OF MIDNIGHT

The Captain, Protector from Evil

As commanded by my rival, from the island on latitude 20 when a puff of smoke can be his heaven’s scent where he was staged, the Captain again fades into the life of a seal with the troops that are to cool the heat of violent clashes in the aftermath of an attack which was to liberate a nation a year ago on the other side of midnight. The fury of this aftermath breathes life into an undercurrent of rebels that erodes all that is good and like lightning from dark clouds of a storm strikes bolts of deceit and mistrust which has turned the world upside down as the people of two thousand years and our glorious nation cry for those who slip from us for we are severed from them.

Traces of the Captain’s well being are far and few as I open familiar windows in the darkness of my midnight to seek what cannot be seen while the mute sound of chimes have become painfully deafening to my ears. Too many days have already passed since he was first summoned to the deliverance of and to protect a dictator from an island society which can now reconstruct their rules for their democracy. The days will count to the end of the sixth month of the year as marked for sovereignty for a nation of “After Christ”.

The price to bestow this privilege will be the sacrifice of our men of honor who were taken away from safe warm havens and are now weary and frustrated as they battle to stabilize factions of uncommon goals forcing their way to become the new regime in power. Like I, loved ones on the home front reject their orders for them to be where we do not want them as we bear news of disturbing events of intentional sadistic and barbaric infliction of physical and psychological pain upon captives of war that have been enslaved as subjects of cruel and inhumane acts. Their dignity viciously stripped by those who stand behind tarnished armor as they are forced to become obedient to evade pain or death.

Militants are merciless in the eyes of my God, but not in who is theirs for an eye for an eye abduction and decapitation of lambs are like the demon’s grip that shadows the world with clouds that cast the dark side of midnight. This cannot be valor but a demise of hope as darkness comes over me and I am swallowed into the truth that we have descended to a race of hatred. I feel a pain incomparable to that of God’s as read in the book of Genesis that He is grieved by the wickedness of His children and I fear what His wrath will be in the end.

Our soldiers who wear untarnished armor in allegiance to our flag are being killed in battles to maintain order and peace in this region of turmoil struggling for a cause that has become foreign and confused as to who is friend or who is foe among nations divided.

I am dismayed and feel conquered as I too wonder who is the enemy of this war and how did it become a beast so evil to seem that hell has taken charge with a force of faceless princes of demons who from the core of darkness does the work of Satan’s terror, who is in celebration that we are in the creation of our own destruction for this is not a natural cycle for the survival of the fittest. Or have we evolved to a sophistication of self destruction that this is today’s peril of survival?

My compassion is marred and twines with fear as I taste the salt from the stream that flows from my eyes when I think of the Captain who weaves in and out of the lives of people that need him. The butterflies were agitated when he was first distanced from us prior to this event in his civilian life as chief of a group soon after the New Year.

It will not change for I am with care for   his safety and well being for he is brave, relentless, focused and true to our country as he protects us and those who hold the key to banish terrorism, serve justice, and restore freedom without fear. I will stand by him as I seek shelter from all evil and a passage to overcome my own fears.

       The Archangel, Fighter of Evil

Like waves of a high tide, anticipation of the unknown mounts higher and stronger, then rolls and breaks as it smashes against my heart to crush it, and as the foam of the white water dissipates it burns the wound like it was acid. I desperately reach out with eyes blind as I do not know where to go to seek comfort to set me free from this fear. Without speaking, I hear myself pleading “Dear God, please make this stop” as I look at framed words, next to my window, encased by the softness of a childlike angel which read “where there is LOVE, there are always MIRACLES”. The salty waves surge again as I like a beggar wonder what is this love, how and where do I find it?

From the pages of my fate, a glowing image holding a shield with a broken wing appeared in my window and said that he may not be worthy but asked for welcome to come in. His deep eyes were like those of a soul that was weary from battles with shoulders tired from the lift of burden for others scarred by their own demons, voices, broken hearts, or bruised spirits. Without the passing of time, I felt his compassion from the depth of his heart through his eyes for he will not look away from one that reaches out to him for he radiates peace and embraces the truth of love that will be found in faith of the King of Kings for infinity.

I ask, was our world destined to contain so much evil and how do I free myself from this fear?

As gentle as his deep eyes, his wings flutter open the new pages of the Greatest Book written in the version of King James for  man to find answers to our existence in the past, present and in the forever lasting time given by the Lord of Heaven and Earth. The Archangel links me on a flight through these pages which will not be the last in my quest for what can be read are events of the prophecies that are now unfolding before me. These events are the awakening calls of our sins but the faithful and those that repent will be led to the passage of God’s saving grace with His love with eternal peace. The  whisper of the Archangel cautions not to miss the answer within the verses for the last flight of rescue not to miss of God’s mercy of love will be signaled without warning by a bright sudden rod of light which I must prepare for now by first learning to walk so I will never have to run again.

The first message to find readiness is found within the vision of his namesake Daniel. I then know he is an Archangel that fights evil as his missions in this life for only one like he that walks with and serves God would know how the healing can begin.  

He will lead me to see how the peril within ourselves has led each individual astray for fear of standing alone in truth, and this fear will take us back to the shade of fade among those that in fact live in fear. He will show me within the pages how the kings of this world have dissected all mankind into nations of beliefs and faiths other than that of the one God who created man and woman, our origin, who walked the Garden of Eden and committed the first sin that revealed our weakness. The other nations  are the adversaries and communists of our divine Lord described in prophecies that lead us to perish for their teachings are for policies to rule mankind and not for the natural birth rights of the good seed. Those of the good seed will be succumbed slowly like fire being smothered as the degree of wickedness multiplies like cold becoming the harshness of a blizzard. The power of wickedness will rule the blind who feast on Satan’s venom believed to be their Braille to truth.

The truth the blind worships is disguised in a façade of righteousness like the  queen draped in purple and red who entices them to abandon compassion and to passionately thirst to commit the acts of corruption. The will of choice is made to prostitute their souls to the devil for wealth and power to control and destroy the earth and mankind.

The rich will be symbolized by twins of silver who will dictate one’s worth to all what shall and shall not be in the market of trade. The twins will tip the scale of balance with poverty the heavier and the rich insatiable, immoral and depraved. The symbol…  tall and gleaming dwarfing the city towered near water close to the Lady of Liberty, shattered, burned, tumbled to the ground and the black smoke that clouded the sun was signage to look up for He is above all that is corrupt and He weeps that within an hour the stab of a foreign sword penetrated the symbol to bleed the world. The foreign sword will be swung by those   believing that the ultimate act of love for their god for reward to heaven is self sacrifice and destruct. That act was the nightmare of silver torpedoes with wings that exploded in the heart of the twins which was the beginning of what is now unfolding before every nation. It will come to be that evil will eradicate evil for when He said be fruitful and abundant, He meant for all that should be one nation in His empire to reap the harvest in equality for greed is a sin.

A group of kings, another symbol of control over man, unite but will be divided as they walk from regions that do not honor the King of Kings of the universe. The powers of this group of kings rule with queens, bishops, knights and pawns, and have come to terms stale and insolvable for their war of wars are among the strongest that perpetuate evil. The symbol of the nations united sit where the Lady of Liberty stands. These nations will become their own enemies and divide for they do not defend the same principles of two kings and fall for the last time.

“Under God” was silenced and removed under the pretense that faith is prejudice in our system of freedom. The system will devise a test designed so many will struggle and fail life then turn to the wickedness of Satan’s work exemplified by artificial chemistry of gratification. This will be the trade that supports evil symbolized by institutions of power and the makers of the trade are scored by the beast of evil. These symbols will be the targets for the hand of the foreign sword to diminish power and control over the globe.

In desperation, the guillotine will be used as a weapon of persuasion to remove knights and pawns from the dark side of midnight for their conflicts among factions cannot be resolved with interference of political strategy.

The most compelling symbol of sin is signaled by a beam of light lased from the top of a pyramid which can seen from distances far and beckons  the human spirit to a carnival where east meets west, the wine flows, the game of chance rules, time has no essence and reality escapes the mind. This pyramid, among architectural displays of castles, forts, palaces, mosques, canals and oceans depicting Baghdad, Persia, China, Rome, England, New York, and Egypt, is nestled on a strip of land stretching from north to south in the meadows of a valley. The night is illuminated like a mirage in the desert by neon, illusions vivid, harlots many with sharks, lions, tigers, and dragons among people hastened without destination for the magic that is nonexistent for all of this is a masquerade of exploitation.        

While the human race searches for peace the fury of natural forces will cleanse the earth removing evil in its path, to humble survivors and make way for new beginnings.

The sweetness of rain turns to storms that flood and wash away sanctuaries and changes the earth as lakes dry. The shudder deep within the planet splits open the ground to engulf life while the black flow of fire burns everything in its path like the heat of the day burns the forest that gives us life’s breath of air. In that air disease is born and inhaled as natural disaster destroys the food of our bodies and famine will be the mainstay. The sun will continue to rise in darkness for the turmoil is within our hearts as to who we are who stem from the same root of creation.   

The Archangel has set me free from my  fears in the existence in this life of hardships, terror, and hate for I now understand why he is saddened that his goodwill does not suffice for all to be rescued from evil. He opens the doorway of the Great Book and fights evil from entering as he leans forward into the wind and never looks back for those that do not go with him have chosen not to be led to the sacrifice of struggle for eternal love and peace with the only God of mercy. And for one moment I wonder if the answer to our peace among nations is within the faiths of all for the one common denominator is that there is one ultimate power over us for the land of “After Christ” is of all continents inhabited for the dove is not enslaved.

August 15, 2004

Evelyn Tada

As of this writing, the Captain has not returned from the Middle East and has now been gone for over 151 days. My prayers are for God’s love and mercy to keep him and his comrades safe, in good health of mind and body as they fearlessly execute the most dangerous of missions.

My gratitude to the Captain, Dr. Dan the Archangel, Bobbi and Brenda for the inspiration of “Dark Side of Midnight”.

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Here

by Dan Schmucker

1/25/04

In a culture where appearance is so emphasized, and where control and power are so amplified as positive attributes, we become lost.
It is no wonder that fear has become so deeply rooted in the thought process that we do not believe we are afraid at all...

We fear rejection.
In this fear we try desperately hard to make ourselves desirable.
This is where the world of marketing has spawned the ever elusive, constantly changing realm of fad and fame.
If I looked just right, you would love me, wouldn't you?
The most highly paid people, the most popular people in my culture are those who make their living by performing...acting like someone they are not.
Performing on stage...selling thoughts and sounds.
They are sought after and desired, although often their lives in reality are as trashed and hollow as those who seek to be like them, or to somehow garner their favor, or gain some ancillary approval by imitation.
Perhaps family is where this monster, and her sisters are birthed.
We learn how to be pleasing to others, even at the cost of being true to ourselves.

We mire in the fear of failure.
When success is reduced to increments of power, wealth and prestige, our humanness is demeaned.
I need some status to be acceptable, desired and wanted.
If I am not accepted, it is because I am not successful enough.
And we all want to be wanted, desired and acceptable.
If I fail, I am rejected.
If I succeed, my glory only lasts until my next defeat.
If I am defeated, others will gloat over my loss, which makes me either want to win even more, or to become distant and rebellious...maybe a combination of the two.

We fear abandonment.
If I say the right things
Look the right way
Act appropriately
Shower you with things
You will stay with me, right?
You would commit to me, and not discard me, right?
You would love me, right?

We are immersed in guilt and shame.
I fail.
To acknowledge my weaknesses and failures makes me vulnerable.
To be vulnerable is to allow for pain.
To be honest is to risk rejection.
To feel invites heartache.
I hate pain.
Failing does not fit in the culture that demands success on the streets of power wealth and prestige.
In my shame and guilt I am orphaned.
Forgiveness is a slippery pearl, clutched at but rarely believed.
I must believe it if I am to become real.

Love.
I see myself as unlovable.
We are taught to see ourselves as unlovable.
If that were not true, why would I need to look a certain way, have a certain body, dress a certain way, smell right, have the right vehicle, house, job, financial resources, and shiny prospects for the future to be seen as OK?
I sin.
I fail.
I fall.
I hurt.
I am flawed and imperfect.
Where I am successful, others have eclipsed me.
Where I shine, others are brighter.
I need to love myself, I am told...in the same culture that does not really believe it...that places so many conditions on me being loved and accepted, needed and wanted that I could never keep up.

I believe Love is the cure to all this madness.
I know it in my soul.
I will never earn Love.
If I could earn it, I could demand it.
It would be diminished to a mere wage then.
And after I had earned some, what would I have to do to gain more?
I am insatiable.
It is the stuff addictions are made of.

But Love is not earned.
It is a gift.
As a Gift, it has a Source.
The Source sets the terms and conditions, not the world which tries to control through manipulation and cunning.
A Gift is something that can be received or rejected.
I realize I am not worthy of this Gift.
But I desire it with all my heart.
I have accepted my brokenness.
Love looks even better after you have been broken.

I am Loved because God chose to Love me.
I have value, because God has ascribed value to me.
I am wanted by Him, even if by no other.
I will get Home, because He will take me there.

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____________________________________

View from the Dumpster

by Dan Schmucker

9/25/2005

There is always something happening in the city.

There are things to do, people to see, places to go, and many ways to be entertained.

There are stores everywhere.

Convenience is the hallmark of the city…

At least the cosmetic, idealistic view of the city.

Cities draw us from the country.

Once we are out of the country, or rural areas, not unlike an uprooted plant, if we are not placed again in a favorable setting, we become weakened-- malnourished.

We change.

It is difficult to maintain the knowledge of who we are, and from where we come, in the city.

In trying to distance ourselves from nature, we become aliens of earth.

We need Love, and we know it.

We seek it out with fervor. In the city, there are thousands of opportunities to find Love, we think. And it makes sense -- in the city, there are thousands of people.

We learn however, as we cruise the city, that most people are driven by fear, not Love.

In part, it is this wide array of fear that distorts us.

We fear rejection.

We fear abandonment.

We fear failure.

The media and marketers know we want Love and acceptance, approval and ease.

They link material to emotion, fabric to fantasy, wheels to sensuality, drink to sex, food to activity, music to relationship, and gorge on our fears.

Without a strong foundation, these fears crack our Foundation.

We become vulnerable to the opinions of others in very unhealthy ways.

We become what we think others want to see.

What we have and how we look become more important than who we are.

And that trek takes us away from Design.

In distancing ourselves from our Design, we become superficial, selfish and self-centered.

We become what we despise. We act out how we feel, and the city becomes dark, no matter how many artificial lights illuminate it. We see the darkness everywhere.

We become the villains about which we warn children.

We become the vagabonds we don’t want to see on the street.

We become the inconsiderate fools we jeer from behind the steering wheel.

The worst place we see it is in our mirrors.

It is our internal darkness that separates us from our Designer.

We block the Light in which we were formed.

We are distanced from the Love that could sooth our souls and bind our wounds…

We have engaged in cockroach behavior, and the Light has become our enemy.

We scurry from exposure. We become vagrants of the Creator’s Earth.

We are engaged in artificial life -- we have become spiritual zombies.

In trying to distance ourselves from our Maker, we become strangers to our own souls.

Driven to survive and spurred on to “succeed”, we have turned to the machines of science and power, wealth and state to aid us in this plight from Reality. The results so far are a strange mix of technological awe and a vampiric drain of Individuality and privacy. In a combination of being both passive observer and willing participant, experiencing the duality of Hope and Dread, we plod onward.

We have become like a brood of cockroaches that feasts upon the residue of Creation in the darkness when we think no one sees. Fearing the Light, we de-sensitize ourselves in drug and drink, sound and sensuality…While Love waits for us.

Love calls us.

Love beckons us to come out of the shadows and dare to open the eyes now so maladjusted to the darkness. Love invades our world.

Once exposed to Light, we must make a decision. Most of us scurry away to find the darkness in which we can hide until a more opportune time.

Some of us dare to stay in the Light.

If we were not created in Love, we would be hopeless.

But this Light, this Love, has a relentless compassion and desire for us.

The Creator loves us so much that we are confronted with Choice.

Deciding not to choose sides IS choosing -- choosing to be away from God, away from Light, away from Love.

It seems that our real option is to decide if we wish to remain in the refuse, or turn to the Refuge…

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The Drive
by Dan Schmucker

It occurs to me that we have purchased vehicles largely on how they appear on the exterior. The majority of the time we have with the vehicle is inside it however, not outside of it. We largely lose our external perspective of what the vehicle looks like when we are driving it or riding along as a passenger. We see little of how it appears to others once we are inside...the interior, not the exterior becomes more pertinent.

We now become much more cognizant of the vehicles others are driving, once we are on the inside. Color, style, age, popularity, function, paint, upkeep, body condition, and trim are all realms of observation. The passengers become a mere part of a larger schemata. Some have invested much currency to make the sound system inside their vehicle so loud that others can not avoid hearing what they are listening to... so desperate to be noticed and to be recognized. Is it not strange that I see this transition in such a blurred manner? (...like a man who looks at his face in a mirror and, after looking at himself, goes away and immediately forgets what he looks like.- James 1:23)
I find the same process at work in other areas of my awareness. We see in shadow.
We dress in clothing that we like initially from an external vantage point that we believe will make us look attractive to others, as it has appealed to us. We are seeing it from the outside; but, once we have it on, our perspective takes a radical shift to how others are reacting to us. Once we are adorned, our sense of how we appear has altered, and we become alerted to it by the responsiveness of others more than by how we feel.

Schizophrenia to the lay person is largely seen as a malady of hallucinations, but to professionals it is more accurately understood as a processing disorder. When I worked on an inpatient psychiatric unit, it was common for a person with schizophrenia to dress themselves with their clothing inside out. T-shirts, blouses, button-down shirts... Perhaps they are acting on the logic that we chide in public, but actually embrace internally.

We put that which is externally observable closest to us... thinking it in fact has the same effect to those outside of our perimeter. Are we crazy?

Is this madness we have adopted as a world view merely a bastardized embellishment of the self-centeredness chronicled in the Garden of Eden, and perpetuated to this day?

We seem to be forever looking externally for comparison to promote or chastise ourselves. While awareness of this extensive illogical process may occasionally surface from the ocean floor of our thinking, rarely will it become more than the annoying buoy that signifies the need for us to exercise caution, or more troublesome than that when we are being self-promoting and self-aggrandizing--- to slow down.

It is this propensity to hold that which has appeal externally- and then to internalize it, that impedes the success of the true inner desires for true acceptance, forgiveness, and at the Essence, Love.

You may think I am very wrong about this- that we are not really subject to such a radical shift. We are more individuated and independently minded than that...
I am contending that it is folly to retain this mind set, yet in this folly we are persistent...
There, in our not-too-distant past, was a time when to advertise their products, businesses and corporation would have to pay people to sport their logos, and their slogans. It was certainly not fashionable to expose the label externally, and considered bad form. There has been a marked shift from that. This departure can be seen in the successful marketing by many corporations that have millions of folks buying clothing that have the logo prominently displayed, with the name clearly visible. Shameless self-promotion of the corporation at the expense of the person wearing it! Not only on clothing, but proudly displayed on the vehicles we drive for others to see. Aren't we, in reality, pleading for inclusion by others as we bow to the ruthless and fickle vendors of acceptance?

Could we safely assume this fits with the fear of rejection which has so infected us?

Maybe the sufferer of schizophrenia, wearing the inverted clothing is merely more openly expressing the perceptual distortions we are trying so hard to evade dealing with.

We hold the appearances close and think that conceals what is happening to us internally, while it is precisely that front that we project, that bellows out our real insecurities.

I am not suggesting that appearance is unimportant.
I am suggesting that we are severely over-emphasizing them.

It would be healthy for us to remember that we are created as spiritual beings, who lodge in vessels of clay.

We are created in the image of the Invisible God, but often we over-rate the clay, and under-value the life within it...
Until pain or something changes our focus.

Divine Love embraces both the clay and dweller simultaneously.

It transforms the receiver and the giver.

I'm going for a drive...

4th July, 2006 / 14 January 2007
 

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BUGS AND BOYS

by Dan Schmucker

April 1, 2007

When we were living in Santa Fe, New Mexico, while my son was in the toddler stage, he and I were leaving a department store, with me firmly holding his hand as we walked to the edge of the sidewalk forming the perimeter of the parking lot. Before we set foot out in the crosswalk, venturing toward our vehicle, I scanned the area to make sure there were no cars or trucks that could be considered dangerous to us. I was being protective.

We started into the crosswalk, still holding one another’s hand, when he shouted, “Daddy! Wait! Stop!”

There, mid way into the crosswalk, he had come to a screeching halt, and immediately squatted down. With the amazement that toddlers can bring to bear in moments of awe, he was pointing excitedly to a pill bug, otherwise known as “roly- poly,” those bugs that roll themselves into tiny armored balls in times of defensiveness.

“Save it!” he shouted, still pointing at the bug, now rolled up after my son touched it.

By now, a couple of vehicles were stopped, waiting for us to move. My son was oblivious to anything occurring outside of the two of us and the bug, which had little color differentiation from the pavement and whom he was intent on rescuing.

I decided the fastest way to resolve this dilemma (between getting out of the way of traffic and dealing with the bug facing sure death), was to take a card made of plastic from my wallet, get the little gray and curled fellow onto it, so we could relocate the bug and let traffic move on.

My son was quite invested in the process, and provided a running commentary about how the critter needed a safe haven, free of the risks of human feet.  To a casual observer, we may have been an annoyance - holding up the wheels of progress for the rescue of a bug . . . to my son, we were on an important mission to save a living organism from impending doom, which we did, at least temporarily. We managed to navigate back to the grassy area adjacent to the department store, and after my son scouting, found a suitable place to drop the critter off. Once my son saw the bug unroll from its protective ball and start to ambulate, we had his blessing to move on - back to our truck.

I had been so focused on what was urgent - traffic, strangers, vehicle proximity, making sure I had my son’s hand firmly grasped in mine, that I  would not have seen that bug. It’s not that the bug didn’t exist; it is just that my focus was diverted. My son felt secure enough to explore.

I am thinking that is part of how God is with those of us who want to take His hand - when we take His hand in Child-like Faith, He watches the traffic, and we are given the Freedom to explore . . .

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Risk . . . Again
by Dan Schmucker
3.27.07

How I got to be a guy who “has to get things out” would require speculation for some time.  I think of it as both a blessing and a curse.  A curse, because I become a haunted man when I realize the need to communicate something, in spoken words, in touch, written form, musically or in sculpting, to name a few avenues.  A blessing because that makes me resolve things instead of letting them dangle within me and haunt me. That is particularly good in relationship, so arguments and guilt are resolved, and professionally where business gets settled and concluded.

That is what brings me to this . . . here and now.

I am a man who has intense desires. Fiery passions. Wild dreams. A recipient of Visions.
If I do not fervently go after that which inspires, I feel a part of me fade, and a wake of loss follows.
If I subdue my passion, it is as if a treasure has slowly seeped through its container until only wishful memory remains.
If I do not acknowledge and invite Dreams and Hopes, my direction becomes occluded and I grope along in Fog.
And without Vision, I shall surely perish.
It is this mix which I carry in the Vessel of Clay which is part of my Essence, that helps define who I am, particularly in comparison to whom another is.
If I try too hard to be appealing by imitation of another (with the clear and definitive exception of my Maker and Savior) I lose who I am and become a lesser caricature of whom I was designed to be.
 

When I present myself to another, I try to do so as honestly as I can at the moment, realizing that I may well be rejected. But if I am to be rejected, I would prefer to be rejected honestly, knowing that I do not belong there, at least not at that time. The inverse of that is seen when I am accepted - that it was the “real” me who was accepted, not a front that I must now muster the energy to keep up for others to see.

It is now, sitting here, trying to etch out thought and feeling, where I am battling my loneliness. I have such a passion to Love and to be Loved, to Give and to Share . . . and that desire rages against the Fears that have assaulted me through the battles which have left me scarred and battered. It is not as if I have realized the relationship which I yearn for in a woman. I haven't. Nor do I expect all to go sailing along on merrily glassy seas without storms bashing against the SS Love-Relationship. But I do expect my partner to want the same . . . not to give up on me and cast me aside like one who wanders the beach picking through sea shells, and discarding one with dings and chips - I have both. She has to be able, probably through Divine Providence, to realize that I am worthwhile.
She has to do what I have to do . . . risk . . . again.

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Cup Bearers

by Dan Schmucker

6 May 2007

We are born needy. At birth we are incapable of caring for ourselves. Totally reliant on others. Helpless. Nurturing and Instruction, Discipline and Love prepare us to become more Independent. This independence, however, is better stated as Interdependent.

We are created as Social Beings.

Humans reared in isolation, in abusive settings, in neglectful surroundings do not fare nearly as well as those brought up in Loving and Caring environments.

In our Cultural confines, we are taught a variety of twisted notions about what Love is, and the Commercial renditions are generally much more about becoming entrenched, enticed and enmeshed, not in Love.

Our conceptualization of Love has become so distorted that we rely on the Media to define it for us, rather than our Creator, Whose Essence is Love. Isn’t that ironic?

We want so badly to find the Right Person for us. We crave having the Relationship that romanticists write about . . . but we have drifted so far in our reasoning that we misplace where the emphasis should be – what the Foundation needs to be. As a result of placing our emotional weight on a poor foundation, we find ourselves falling repeatedly, for the wrong person, in poor andor abusive and repetitious relationships, and wondering, “What went wrong?”

Picture yourself holding a chalice with both hands.

Inside that Chalice is what we affectionately refer to as our Heart – the seat and substance of our Friendship, Care, Fondness, Affections, and Love. At the root of that is your Spirituality. You can not escape the fact that those elements of your base composition are tied to your world view.

This Chalice then, represents what you have to offer others.

As time goes on, and you have invested in relationships intimately and romantically, you may find that the level of the contents of your Chalice has gone down. You have engaged in damaging and painful relationships. You have been heart broken. Deceived. Maybe you have become very reluctant to give much as you take inventory of what you have left. You gave to those who did not give back in equivalent measure. You gave to those who were emotionally unavailable.

In the counselor’s office this often is sounded out in terms similar to this: “I gave and gave and gave . . . He/She took and took and took, and never returned what I gave. Maybe I am too giving.”

For those of us who have been in failed relationships, our losses do not go un-noticed. We are aware of the pain and anguish that has beleaguered us as we poured out ourselves.

When we approach another with interest in relationship, we are mindful of our need. How we see the relationship and our expectations have much to say to how we behave and think. We are not without expectation. That is nonsense.

If we think the relationship should be 50-50, and we are starting out with a Chalice half full, do we reduce ourselves to a quarter of what we started with (assuming we were 100 percent full when we ventured into external relationships!). What a tremendous risk! Do we wait for the other to give us 50 percent of what they have left, or 50 percent of what they started with? Do we toy with the idea that the other person with whom we are enamored will fulfill us? The mathematics of this proposal should stun us away from this thinking: Do we really believe that two half people, coming together, even with the best and most energetic of intentions, will somehow make two whole persons?

To evade repeating disaster, we embark on the journey to Self-Help. This fallacious thinking implies that a half-full person immersed in information will somehow be filled with the needed Essence. But the Essence needed is not Information. If that were the case, we would be seeking Knowledge, not Love.

Behind us, around us, we hear a Sound,

Close enough to discern when we attend to it.

Waves. Ocean-like waves. Massive. Powerful. Consistent. Relentless.

When we listen with our hearts we can hear it clearly.

When we dare to turn, we realize it has been there the whole time.

The Essence we crave. The Essence we need.

The Scripture says God is Love. God is Love. Listen with your heart. God is Love.

Let that crash on the shoreline of your thirsty Soul. God is Love.

If I go to God and am filled, until my Chalice runs to overflowing, I have plenty to give without being consumed with what you offer in return. If I stay near the Source, I do not have to fear running out. There is an abundance. I could never give more than what is available to me.  What if the other person accessed it too? You both would be able to give in Freedom, more cheerfully, recognizing the interdependence upon God as critical for establishment and maintenance of a healthy relationship.

Then we really would be Cup-Bearers for the King.

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Non-Descript Entities

by Dan Schmucker

20 April 2007

Crowds.

Masses.

Sometimes it is easy to feel reduced to a non-descript entity.

Think about the crowd at a major sporting event. 50,000, 60,000, 70,000 people physically present. Millions more watching through another medium.

Think about being on the sidewalks of major cities. Thousands of people walking among each other but having recognition of few, if any, of the people.

Traffic. Thousands of people encased in a mix of plastic, metal and glass, rolling through the veins of cities, only vaguely aware of each other as living people inside adjacent and tangential vehicles.

Foot traffic. Seas and streams, conglomerates and varied grouping of humanity.

Faces.

Shapes.

After exposure en masse, the images become blurred.

Smudged as multiple colors of chalk on a chalkboard rubbed by an erasure long overdue for cleaning.

Those that become individuated for good, bad or mixed reasons remain with us.

Is it any wonder we strive for some recognition in such scenarios?

For us to realize our significance, we have to adopt a world view that affirms our value and which grants us dignity and respect simultaneously. While major world religions (Humanism/Atheism included) compete for prominence in this, is it really merely the world view and philosophy that will grant solace? Granted, ideas have ramifications; but ideas are insufficient by themselves. The contrast in philosophy is played out daily world-wide.

Scripture tells us that God is not so remote, as a Passive Observer. It tells us He knows our thoughts, attitudes, motives . . . and that He is Personal. He knit us together. He has numbered our days on Earth. He has even numbered the very hairs on our heads. It tells us we are designed with individual and corporate plans, and that we are created purposefully. And it tells us that we can become His friend . . . mind-boggling isn’t it? The Creator of over two billion solar systems sees us individually, not as a speck, a number, or a statistic . . . we are not non-descript entities.

We have value and significance we did not and will never earn.

Defies the notion of being unimportant, doesn’t it?

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Blindness

by Dan Schmucker

21 May 2007

Claiming to be wise, they became fools [professing to be smart, they made simpletons of themselves].                 Romans 1:22 (Amplified Bible)

I remember being taught that “Knowledge is Power.” 

Information not properly applied does not yield Wisdom . . . I have spoken with thousands of folks who thought all they needed to overcome addiction was “knowledge”.  I would ask them when they entered a drug/alcohol rehabilitation program what they felt they needed from a program for them to get and remain clean and sober, and they would often say, “Information.”

When they were asked if they realized that drugs and alcohol were bad for them, they concurred. When asked in classroom settings if they had lost friends, family, jobs, possessions, employment, been incarcerated, damaged their reputation, lost confidence and health, or lost custody of their own children, there would be some who would raise their hands for each of those categories.

Some would appear startled when asked, “What more information do you need then?”

That certainly does not hold true only for addicted people. It happens with people who find themselves making the same wrong decisions over and over, or ending up with the same type of malevolent person.

In counseling it is not unusual for someone to appear to “have the light go on”, who says they grasp the principle and discipline of what is being conveyed, only to leave the session, and sometime later return, in emotional disarray, having fallen into the same or a similar trap.

Nor is this limited to individuals. It probably seemed “wise” to some people in positions of influence (courts or seats in government for examples) to adopt plurality as a construct, valiantly attempting to hold all beliefs as equal,  rather than to be regimented in remaining with a Christian based Republic as the ideal in governmental affairs. We are slowly “learning” that while everyone may hold their beliefs equally, the ramifications of those beliefs are not equal . . . Truth is not made false by a vote, an opinion, a majority, or by passionately held opposition. To make a point, not believing fire would burn me could result in blisters or worse, despite the strength of my belief.

There have been many moments when my “knowledge” has been confronted with the God of Reality. I could demand justice for a wrong, and feel smugly comfortable with that jurisprudence, until I have become the violator, when mercy becomes the more favorable outcome.

Acts 9:18 And immediately there fell from his eyes something like scales, and he regained his sight…

Those times, when I am granted insight, are moments when I see with greater clarity. Having shed “something like scales”, I have to wonder . . . Since I thought I was seeing before the scales fell away, just how blind have I been?

How blind am I still?  

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One of our readers submitted the following.  In order to protect the identities of both of the parties involved, many changes have been made to the text, but the essence of the original piece remains.  Although the writer of the first part of this piece laid herself bare in a most touching and poignant way, it was necessary, for the protection of her privacy, to completely rewrite that segment.

The Aftermath Goes On and On

Anonymous Contribution

I’m just going to sketch out the bare bones.  I won’t get too graphic, but I must do this while I have a moment of clear courage.  I’m frigid.  I can not engage in sex – even the thought fills me with dread.

I’m happily married, which may sound odd after what I just wrote.  However, I have vaginismus (an involuntary clamping shut of the muscles of the vagina whenever anything enters) and nothing seems to help. When I'm touched in a sexual way, I disassociate right out of my body into a gray zone.

My parents divorced when I was about 10 (I’m not sure, I have very few memories of my life before age 15). I can remember visiting my father when I was 16.  He grabbed my breast when he was drunk, and he came to me while I was still in bed and rubbed my back in an overly sensual way.  I have no direct memory of the incident that caused my overall condition of sexual avoidance except what my body carries in its inarticulate and relentless way.

I’ve read that this disfunction (not disease) is typical of women who were sexually assaulted at a pre-verbal age.  My mother certainly thinks that my father was capable of such a thing.  I have no evidence except the way my body shuts down, except the sense that my sexuality was wiped away.  If I could remember being assaulted, it would give me something concrete to confront. As it is, all I have are illusions.  I wonder if I'm overreacting or just making it up.

I have no more words.

THE REPLY

I guess I have 2 cents to rub together on this subject.  I was a victim of sexual molestation by my first step dad from the age of 8 to 13 when he died of a massive heart attack and liver failure. I know my mother knew, but she turned a blind eye to it because he was the bread winner, and she made out like a bandit when he died.  I still have a lot of anger issues with my mother.  She's still in denial about it, and I wonder if I can ever work up the courage to tell her what's really bugging me.

As for my step father, the bastard is dead! I felt a great sense of relief when he died.  I suffered for many years with the mental problems associated with this, but I've been working on it. I still have to work on my anger issues toward my mother, but as for any kind of sexual dysfunction, I don't suffer any.

I'll tell you what though, I don't fall within current day norms of being able to speak freely on the subject, like hanging around with the girls over drinks giggling about men's body parts.  I tend to be more discreet in my approaches, and I think it's uncivilized of society today to pressure women into thinking it’s normal to talk of such things; and, worse, accept inappropriate behavior such as lewd comments and discussion. This is just bullshit, and the internet is a breeding ground of people who foster this behavior.  Society has changed so fast.  Bad people are prevalent on the internet and hunt like wolves those who would be innocent, trying to change them. Once changed, they repeat the vicious cycle of abuse, and many half-wits think it's perfectly okay.

I'm digressing.  Regardless of you lack of memory, your experience obviously traumatized you.  If consulting a professional psychologist is not up your alley, there are some other ways to release the negativity you hold against your step-father and against yourself.

I have found that having great friends who can lend an ear, listen objectively, and have useful input on the subject (input that is not accusatory toward you in any way) help a great deal.  Focusing on your own accomplishments is very helpful. They are great self-esteem builders.  Like what, you say?  Well, it could be as simple as learning something new, maybe like riding a horse, learning to do arts and crafts, going back to school and getting a degree, or maybe what I learned to do on my vacation this week. I learned how to shoot a gun.  Learning Martial Arts, or at least taking some self-defense classes, can always boost confidence levels!  You can walk down the street proudly with your head up due to newfound confidence.  I'm a Black Belt in Kendo (Japanese Fencing style based on the Katana). It took me 10 years to get my black belt, and it was worth it!

Physical health is akin to mental health.  Keeping yourself fit is very important.  Group therapy is sometimes helpful (I hear, but I've never attended for my own problems).   I actually attended a group therapy with a friend so that he had someone to hold his hand and make him feel good.  We went to Alcoholics Anonymous and Drugs Anonymous, and let me tell you, when you hear the problems of other people, you begin to think that your problems aren’t all that bad.  Accept your problems and let go.  This is an extremely hard thing to do.  It takes years to accomplish; and, in the end, NO ONE can do it for you. You have to do it for yourself.  Forgive your self-loathing -- another really tough thing to do.  Spirituality.  It doesn't have to be an established, mainstream religion, but having beliefs and faith in something (especially in yourself) is very important. Without it, there is no structure or order to our lives.

Last, as a woman, you should find time to take “Me” days away from the hubby, away from the rat race that is your life.  I don’t mean this in an evil way, but it’s really important you find ways to relax.

Here are some suggestions:

Go to a day spa and get the royal treatment -- a massage, a manicure and pedicure, a facial, get your hair done.

If this is just too expensive, you can try the alternative:

Kick everyone out of your house for a day and treat yourself to a hot bath with relaxing bath salts, candles lit in a darkened bathroom, maybe some incense burning, or using an oil warmer with your favorite scents for aroma therapy.

You have already taken the first, and probably the hardest, step – opening yourself up to your own past.  Self-scrutiny can be essential to self-healing.  Don’t stop now.  You’re on the road to wellness.

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One of our readers submitted the following.  In order to protect the identities of both of the parties involved, many changes have been made to the text, but the essence of the original piece remains.  Although the writer of the first part of this piece laid herself bare in a most touching and poignant way, it was necessary, for the protection of her privacy, to completely rewrite that segment.

Stories of Struggle

Excerpt from a Blog Entry

Submitted by Anonymous with Permission to Reprint from Philip T.

Philip: Hi, my name is Philip T.  I come from Melbourne, which is Australia's second largest city.  Jerry Seinfeld called it the arse end of the world.  Apart from complaining about his love life and making a fuss over nothing, he can point out truths.  I am pretty much right at the bottom, and on the other side of the world from where all the dramas of humanity come.  My city was named “The Most Livable City” in the world for the third straight year now.  We have clean streets; we have good education; and we treat everyone fairly.  Ask this poor beggar on the street about Melbourne.  [The original article contained a photo, which has not been reprinted here, of a homeless man on the streets of Melbourne.  We do not have permission from the subject of the photo to publish it, nor have we asked for permission in deference to the individual’s privacy.]  Ask him about how fair life is.  I took this picture about 6 months ago while I was unemployed and going though a tough time.  No car, no money, but only the lenses to capture my life.  I spoke to this poor man for about five minutes, and he pretty much confirmed to me that even though we are labeled THE MOST LIVABLE CITY IN THE WORLD not everyone feels that way.  Hell, he'd been pushed about by expectations which his inner spiritual self could not handle, and society gave him the flick.  Society looked at this man and said, "No sir, your ideals do not work side by side with our CONSUMER NATION. Sir, go take a hike.”  I took a picture of this man to show everyone that no matter where we are, there is struggle.  Perhaps you have never had struggle.  I have come close, but never as close as this man and never as close as millions of others who are faced with challenges that could decide whether they are dead or alive.  I handed him some change so he could buy a coffee and perhaps a loaf of bread.  This is my first journal entry.  I'll have many more to come.  I say...."If you got just one tiny small piece of feedback or thought, then let me hear it.”

Anonymous:  You told a very good story and make a very good point, but there are many reasons why people are homeless.  Maybe this gentleman truly IS one of the people to whom life has been unfair, and his situation was created through no fault of his own.  The unkind truth that many of us abhor and often deny even to ourselves is that many people are homeless by their own doing, created by vices such as gambling, drug addiction or alcoholism, or situations resulting in teen runaways.  There are also the few who have mental problems that the state/government have turned away from facility care, like they do here in the United States, when insurance runs out; and there are no family members willing to pay the bills or offer support.

In my city in particular, there is a high rate of what I mentioned above, and some other reasons like (I know many people will argue with what I'm about to say, but it's the God's honest truth) too many body piercings and tattoos.  These are mostly kids who thought it was cool body art but don't realize that they are not only making themselves entirely repugnant to the majority of the population (to the point where people won't look at them), but have made themselves unmarketable in almost any field of business, predisposing themselves to failure.

Another reason with I personally have had experience is what we call dead beat dads or parents who are irresponsible for their obligation to paying child support.  These parents get so far behind in their payments that, no matter what job they get, the state will take their whole paycheck, forcing the individual to live on the streets, going underground so to speak, in order to dodge making payments for their children's welfare -- to say nothing of what happens to the single parent who is forced to attempt to survive on one paycheck while supporting his/her children alone.

Trust me, I'm not unsympathetic to the homeless.  I've been there 3 times myself, and I was one of those people who was truly unfortunate due to circumstances in my life.  However, I worked hard, took any legal work I could at any time of the day or night, used public assistance services for only as long as I needed, and it took me no longer than 6 months to get out of my situation.  It IS possible to get out of a homeless situation if you work hard enough at it.  The state/government bent over backwards to help me with assistance since they saw I was making a genuine effort to change my standing in life.

Many people are habitually homeless because they don't want to work, they want a hand out.  I'm curious, did you inquire of this gentleman his reasons for homelessness? Did you get the full story, or was this intended to be a good yarn?  If you're so sympathetic, why don't you do something to help him?  I help two people here as much as I can on my meager income.  One is already off the streets and now has her own apartment and a job.

Philip:  It's a fair enough point.  This Gentleman spoke to me for five minutes, and in that five minutes, I got a fair bit out of him.  Funny thing was, people who were walking by looked at me very strangely as if to say, ”Who the f*** are you to take advantage of this man.”  He was a victim from the time he was born, as his parents neglected him; and, as he grew older, he got himself into too much trouble eventually having to sell off everything he owned.  He got himself back into the scheme of things, pulling his life back together; but it fell apart again with his marriage breakdown.  He was actually a very warm gentlemen; but his low self esteem, as his story that quiet clearly ensured me, caused him to just lose hope in himself and the system.   From the time that he was born, and probably until the time he dies, there will be nothing but struggle.  That brings me to the point of my story.  It was about struggle, not about why we have Homeless people, just about struggle.  Also the fact I spoke about my city being voted “The Most Livable City in the World”, and yet it also has stories of struggle.  Do I wish to help this man?  Bloody oath I do -- with all I can.  Truth is I am building my own life together after my own personal struggle.  Yeah this story had a sense of daring persona about it, having to take photo's of a homeless man on the street as people walked by; but as I am only 24 and in debt, looking after other various issues, it's hard for me to help anyone else.  But in my 24 years that I have lived, I have supported many people through my journeys.  It's funny because a lot of the stories I hear are genuine stories, and people have certain mind sets from which they struggle to get away.  It's not just a case of gambling, tattoos or failed marriages, or even the fact that some are too lazy to work.  It's also a case of being born into it, and dying with it.  My dreams of helping Indigenous Australians when I pull my life together is something I endeavor to achieve day in and day out, and experiences like the one I had with this homeless gentleman only help confirm that I will always give a helping hand back to the community.  I am also grateful that you help people in the same situation.

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RANTS FROM THE BLACK SIDE

by Suzanne Paul

I’ve been tasked with examining my spirit and discovering three things I am willing to give up in my pursuit of spiritual growth.  Initially I approached that idea with excitement enthusiasm, and no small measure of fear. 

But the universe has a way of forcing the glaring light of truth on areas we would rather leave hidden; and the light I’ve felt these past few days has left me blinded and stunned, knowing that I have to make my peace with this issue before I can even think to begin to set foot to path.

We all have our journeys, our contracts with the divine for our lives on this plane.  Lessons we think we should learn and gifts we can manifest are determined by us long before our birth.  Embracing this and making the most of our journey is the first step on the path to living in the divine.  This is where I fall woefully short.  I hate this journey that I’m on.  More specifically, I hate this birth choice, this body.  Everything about it feels wrong.  It’s like there’s a spirit that I love and recognize trapped in a shell that I don’t know and don’t like.

I feel guilty for being so angry about it.  I’m relatively healthy and have been blessed in many ways.  Certainly there are many who have had more difficult roads to follow.  So I’ve kept my mouth shut for years and tried to learn the lesson of gratitude, all the while feeling that I was the butt of some karmic punishment.  After all, if you could choose to be anything you wanted and you had the burning desire to see how far your intellect and talent could take you, then why, out of all creation, would anyone choose to be a black woman?  I wasn’t humiliated enough in my past lives, and I’d like some more?  I made a mistake, and I want to take it back please.

Don’t misunderstand me.  I don’t see anything wrong or ugly about being black.  It’s not the blackness itself that bothers me but the journey that this blackness has placed me on.  Everything is harder and the obstacles are higher.  Even though we live in a world where Oprah and Colin Powell are possible, the struggle is intense because we also live in a world that finds it easy to hate and even easier to just dismiss.  While I do believe that we all have our struggles, the truth is that a lot of our individual advancement in society depends on how other people see and relate to us. 

Imagine Brad Pitt’s talent and drive born in an average looking shell.  He’d probably still be an actor but not the leading man everyone loves.  Now take it one step further, he has the same talent and the same drive but now he’s black and he’s a woman.  Can he still act?  Sure but there isn’t a single example of a black actress reaching his current level of success.  How is that spirit supposed to thrive?  Now imagine the frustration of knowing that you’re capable of big things, of even feeling inside that you’ve done them before in a prior lifetime or two, but knowing in your secret heart that even being true to your calling and manifesting all the positive energy you can won’t bring you things the universe isn’t ready to give you no matter how badly you want them.  If it did Jesse Jackson would have been president years ago.  I’ll agree that this lesson is true for everyone. Desperately wanting what the Universe does not seem willing to provide is agonizing.  Should you work harder?  Do you need to be more patient?  Or should you realize the dream you’ve held so close isn’t meant for you?  Tough questions only spirit can answer. 

It could be said that it’s all in how you measure success.  There is truth to the idea that a street sweeper and a king can be equally happy, that success is defined from within.  I agree with both ideas.  I also believe that we find happiness when we use our gifts to our fullest potential.  So if the king has a calling to write poetry and a spirit too sensitive for the rigors of politics, he could have some problems finding his path and if that’s complicated by a world where ‘people like him’ can’t write poetry…you see where I’m going with this.  And I’ll agree with the creative aspect that says it’s about the journey – as long and the king enjoys writing his poetry then he’s a success no matter what.  However, there comes a point where every artist wants validation because art is about communication; and, without the audience, the king who writes poetry in the closet is the sound of one hand clapping.  In my mind, ambition is not about the acquisition of stuff but about the passion to fully realize our gifts.  So how do you get people not to judge your work or your capabilities by what you look like?  I’m all questions and no answers.  I do know that if this same spirit that I love had come to this planet in a different container that my journey, my ability to manifest my gifts and the choices available to me would be entirely different.  But then that’s true for everyone.

I love my spirit and everything that is inside of me, but I’ve felt disconnected from and hampered by my body my entire life.  From the dirty old men who used the fact that I was too pretty to justify marring the purity of my young sexuality, to the counselors who thought I should take typing instead of advanced Chemistry, to the bosses who see my degree and work experience but can laugh in my face at my achievements, telling me I think too highly of myself – this body and the stereotypes it represents has caused me much pain.  She’s black so she’s stupid.  She’s black and a woman so she must be stupid and oversexed.  She’s a woman so if she’s not married with a man to speak for her then she has no place and no value.  The same old outdated, worthless hates that are attached to me long before I open my mouth.  I’m tired and I don’t want to do this anymore.

The woman thing I can work with.  I have the spirit of a Goddess, a ruler of men.  She’s just trapped in the body and living the experiences of a slave.  I don’t like it.  More importantly, I don’t want it; and I haven’t made my peace with it -- not even after all this time.  There’s a secret place inside me that wants to ask the Universe, “Can I have something, please, to make this journey less hard because I’m so very tired.  May I please have a different lesson?  I’m ready to renegotiate my birth contract.” 

And while it is true that hatred is the problem of the hater, it becomes my problem when the hater won’t give me my well-earned raise or conveniently looses my apartment application.  Throughout all of this, I know that the Goddess will provide and that the Universe has a way of repaying those who hate; but I hate having to bring this ugliness to her.  I hate that it exists, and I hate having to experience it because sometimes it’s just too hard.  I want to be certain that if I failed in anything in this life it was solely because of my actions.  Being black means a lifetime of being uncertain.  Was it me or was it something else?  I hate that too.

I’m not saying that every bad thing in my life has been because I’m black, only that it seems to be a magnet for people looking for someone to devalue.  Bad things happen to everybody.  I’m not saying that this journey, this path, is so much harder than what anyone else experiences.  Plenty of people have dealt with worse.  Truth be told, this is not the most difficult thing I’ll deal with in my life; but it’s the most crippling because I resent it; it’s the most damaging because I feel limited by it; it’s the most exhausting because I’ll always be black and there will never be a shortage of people who hate it; and it’s the most unsettling because you spend your entire life questioning every situation, trying to be fair, looking for the flaws within yourself first but never being sure if it’s not really “a black thing.”  Talk about a waste of energy.  It’s no wonder we die younger than the national average.

I feel better for having released this deep dark secret - that I don’t like the journey of being black, that I love me but not how people sometimes react to me.  Heaven knows I’m tired of seeing the same situations, the same lessons because, instinctively, when faced with a challenge and looking for the lesson, we think the lesson is about us.  I’ve spent years wondering why I was attracting this and what was wrong with me.  Thinking, “Why could I find success in school and with my friends but only to a certain level at work?”  I can no longer believe that I’m drawing every racist in a tri state area because I need yet another lesson in humility, patience or fighting back.  I even had a friend tell me last night that this was continuing to happen because there was a lesson I hadn’t learned, that I needed to fight the situation.  That reasoning is flawed because it assumes that if I’d learned all my lessons then I wouldn’t see any more racism in my journey, and that’s just not realistic.  Rather, my belief, newly discovered, is that the lesson is not about me but about them and that I’m not the student in this but the teacher.  Yes, black people tan.  No, I don’t have a baby’s daddy.  And yes, there are black people with IQ’s over 100.  You’re talking to one.

So how do I learn to love this journey when I’m so tired of it?  How do I learn to love this shell when I resent the way it makes people sometimes treat me?  How do I protect myself so that, even after all the ugliness, I enter my next experience with hope and openness?  How do I get past feeling like:  this life is a punishment?  How do I get past the envy I sometimes feel at other people’s lives?  How do I forgive?  How do I get past these feelings to get to the real reason for my journey?  I do believe this is just an annoying side trip.  How can the Goddess within me shine through all this crud?

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Putting a Rant in Perspective

– or –

Taking a More Balanced Look at a Walk on the Black Side

by Suzanne Paul

While time doesn’t make the things I said before any less true, distance from emotion does lend a certain level of objectivity and rationality to my circumstances.  Since one of the signs of self-awareness is the ability to review our thinking and emotions and put ourselves in check when we stray, I think this review of the subject is valuable.

First and foremost I have to accept responsibility for the journey that I’m on.  For some reason I cannot remember, I chose this life and everything that’s in it.  I have to trust that wisdom and accept this journey with graciousness and dignity.  It really does no one any good for me to whine about how I don’t want to do this anymore or complain about how unfair it is.  The truth is, that as difficult as my journey is, I am so richly blessed compared to some.  It’s true that this black shell has the potential to limit some of my choices but I live like a queen compared to my brothers and sisters in Ethiopia or Haiti.  There, but for the grace of God, go I.  It’s humbling to remember that I make more in a week than the average Ethiopian makes in a year, to know that the clean water and local drugstore is a luxury that they don’t have.  Consider being on a journey where things like aspirin, bandages and antiseptic just aren’t available no matter how much money you have.  I’m certain that many of these souls are more evolved than I because, even in the face of spirit crushing poverty and rampant death and disease, there are those who find joy in their lives.  So what was I complaining about again?

This brings us to the first lesson at overcoming my feelings of hostility and resentment.  Understanding and practicing compassion makes me realize that through this I reconnect to the divine.  When we want more for others than we want for ourselves, we open the door for the universe to reward us.  When I judge things in my life as being unfair, I’m placing the focus of my thoughts on me; but, when I place that focus on others and look for ways to serve, then I allow the divine to work through me and isn’t that our purpose?

There is another Buddhist idea, which states that, pain is inevitable, but suffering we choose.  What that means is that we all will experience pain in this life, it is how we view that pain that determines if we suffer.  By suffering we hang on to the experience, attached to reliving the pain and increasing its power, instead of releasing it.  Some hurts have long memories and racism is one of them.  And what makes it even more complicated is that, as a survival mechanism, being able to recognize racism is essential so the challenge becomes remembering the lessons without the pain attached to them.  A tall order for so volatile a subject, and one I’m sure I’ll be struggling with for a long time.

The other idea that I think will help bring me through all the anger is the concept of forgiveness.  And I don’t mean the Judeo-Christian version where I elevate myself to the level of judging others, then dispensing forgiveness on my terms.  In judging others we wound ourselves and when we feel the need to forgive someone it is an indication that we have already judged them first and found their treatment of us lacking.  Rather, there is an idea at work here where I have to understand that if I had not judged the individual in the first place I would not feel the need to forgive them.  The key here for me is releasing the need to judge.  That’s not to say that people don’t commit horrendous wrongs in the world or that I have not been or won’t be in the future the victim of a bad event.  But the concept here, I think for me anyway, is to separate the act from the individual and to understand that at this particular moment in time that they are operating from the highest level they are capable of.  In my mind, I forgive you is the same as I no longer judge you.  Another concept that’s easier to say than execute but I’m working on it.

I have to be honest and realize that much of my rant, much of my anger and disappointment stems from the fact that I keep attempting to impose my expectations for my life on the universe and when I don’t get what I want or what I think I should be getting the first response is to stomp my foot like some spoiled child and rant that this isn’t fair, that this shouldn’t happen to me that this isn’t what I signed up for.  But in this I have to accept that part of my suffering is of my own making.  I cannot impose my will on the universe, I can only operate in concert with the Divine; I cannot control it. 

That’s not to say that there’s no place for recognizing or challenging injustice.  There’s plenty of it to go around, and it’s proper to challenge it when we find it.  But the key here is action.  It’s all about choice.  What do we do with the pain after we feel it?  In taking action in a positive manner, we again operate as a channel for the divine as long as we remember to attack the problem with the spirit of serving others and not retribution.  But I do no one any good when I play the wounded victim who complains about my life but does nothing to reclaim my power.

So like most people I was asking questions that I already had the answers to, I just wasn’t ready to see the truth.  And I suppose that’s the nature of experience and emotion; they’re fleeting and transitory; and sometimes it’s only once they’re past that we see things clearly.

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Why? Why not? What’s the use?

          A Rant

By Brenda Abrigo Rich

Warning: Okay first and foremost, I am going to warn you before you read any further.  This is a rant, one that I feel I have to do to heal and I doubt that it will be a nice one either.  I haven’t a clue where this rant will take me, but I assure you it’s going to use more then just colorful language.  It will more then likely offend some.  Thus, having said that; if you continue, you will be reading this at your own risk and do so by your own accord.

In the last year or so I have wondered more and more, why?  Why am I here in this existence? What the hell am I doing? What the hell am I doing it for? What do I get out of it? What the fuck? And there are no answers. 

Okay, I’m bitching but I’m not whining.  I can take this shit just like anyone else, and I have taken it for 41 years and more then likely I’ll be ‘taking it’ for another 41 years, o joy, but damn it comes to a point you have to bitch about it for every time you take a step forward you are picked up, pushed, kicked, or bitch slapped back two or even three steps.  Mine are feeling like definite bitch slaps. 

I think: When is it going to be my turn? When will that man knock on the door with the oversized check? When will someone just pick me out of the blue and give me a make over?  When will I feel secure in my own skin? When will I be able to look to the next day with out dread? 

I can hear it now, “you should be happy with what you have”.  I am. More so then I am sure other people are.  It looks like a lot of people don’t appreciate what they have. That is one thing I can say I do.  I thank the Great Spirit I have a job, I have resources, I have a wonderful husband, great family, fantastic friends, and great healthy babies (3 cats), and I have my health.    It’s what others who don’t fucking deserve it get handed to them on silver platter that piss me off.

Hell I must have been Hitler or one of his scientists or the right hand of Satan because sometimes it feels like every time I think I am on the right path, it changes on me, and things go to shit.  I think the ones, who get all these wonderful breaks and seemingly don’t deserve them, must have been friggen Gandhi or a saint in another life, what the hell did they do to get this luck or prosperity to shine on them?  Who’s ass did they kiss, who did they scam? What the fuck did they do? It just gets me to think that I am not doing this life again, I refuse.  I’ll come back as something practical like mutated bird flu. 

 And now more....2/10/06

How can one be depressed? Especially after coming back from Disneyland?  Well, you can especially when reality comes up and smacks you in the face, not just once repeatedly  (yes these are bitch slaps still).  As I stood in line at Disneyland waiting to see if I can hold onto my lunch while speeding though the neon and darkness of another mind blowing ride, I watched people. 

Who were they? how did they come to this point on the world or in their life?  Did they feel as I did?  I didn't know, but it was amazing watching them interact.  The happiest place on earth...shouldn't that be in yourself at any given moment or point in your life?  Not in a place of make believe or made up happiness.  Not that I am knocking Disneyland...trust me I'm not, Disney is a saint.   I am sure I would have seen things differently if I would have made it to Disneyland or Disneyworld when I was a child.  I wouldn't be looking through the pessimistic eyes I do now.  It's a stigmatism ya know. 

As I would go though the 'younger' rides and even the 'older' rides  would see where reality met the make believe, where the tracks would meet the tea cup or the wires would hold up the pixy dusted pirate ship. 

Why? Why couldn't I forget the tracks, the wires the over use of fluorescent paint?

Age can be blamed.  Reality had a hand it in too. 

Everything is a lesson.  What did the Happiest place on earth teach me?

As all good things it will pass?  it ends? behind the make believe there is a harsh reality? happiness is a facade?

What if I wanted to keep that facade up? I wanted to be happy? my luck the men with the little white jacket would give me those meds that would take the choice from me.  "you're late, you're late for a very important date" with electric shock therapy.

Ahh well

One thing, I do believe I've learned is who my friends are, they gave me a gift I will never forget.  May they always be able to clap when the hero asks if they believe.  Thank you Bobbi and Cara, you are both and will always be magical to me.  And if that is what I needed to learn...then I am happy.

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