So, I know I've written about family and friendship quite a little bit. I often have written about how completely screwed up the family I grew up with was, and about how it has sometimes left me wanting for relationships in my life that just can't ever be. I'm never going to have a father, and I'm never going to have a mother who understands what a mother is supposed to be. I've been lucky. I've had people in my life who give me some of the things my parents just couldn't, and still can't. This has been another one of those weeks that remind me family isn't always what nature provides us with, sometimes it's what those around us nurture us to build.
On Wednesday, I found myself prepared to spend half the day at my car dealership while my car was being serviced. I had brought my Kindle, magazines to catch up on, my laptop and plenty of snacks. A longtime friend noticed my "check-in" at the dealership and took pity on me. Four hours at a dealership translated to a need for a rescue. She didn't promise any excitement--she was just visiting her parents and her "sissy." I hadn't gotten to hang out with her for a while and decided that I'd take a chance anyway.
As I sat at the kitchen table with her, her mom and her "sister," it took around an hour or so for it to finally click with me that my friend's "sissy" wasn't her sister at all, but her best friend. Her best friend was staying at my friend's parents' house, and this hadn't been the first time they had welcomed her into the family so fully. It warmed my heart, and made me think of what it would have been like to have a safe place where I would have been so welcomed when I needed it myself.
I think for some, family comes easily. Family is an extension of who they already are, and as a result, it never occurs to them to make it difficult. That's not to say that these folks and families don't have their ups and downs, but in the end, the lack of judgment and the warm embrace of acceptance and love overshadow disagreements, alternative lifestyles and hard life lessons learned.
Probably with the exception of my grandmother, nobody in my family is like that. At times, I would say she is accepting to a fault, but as I think about the rough road my friend's "sister" has traveled and the acceptance she has found in my friend's household, I start to wonder if this is what family is really supposed to be--taking the bad with the good, and loving and caring for someone in spite of all the bad decisions and tight situations in which they find themselves. Maybe that's what's supposed to be normal, and the lack of that in my family is what makes me believe that a child who has made more mistakes than good decisions should be left to their own wilderness.
I know several gay men and women, whose families love them very much, but openly pretend not to notice or acknowledge this aspect of their sons' and daughters' lives. It's as if their demonstrative love can make up for the fact that they aren't openly accepting their very special children for everything that they are. On the surface, it looks fine, but when I think about these men and women, it makes me sad that they know this is a part of their lives they can never fully share with their families in the way that I am able to openly share my own love for my spouse with mine. What's worse, the political rhetoric of many in our nation actually reinforces that it's okay to treat family and each other in this way.
Sometimes, lack of acceptance doesn't even have to be related to a lifestyle out of "the norm." Many parents wouldn't choose the careers, lifestyles or decisions their children have. They often don't relate to what makes those choices right for their kids. As the years pass, that lack of relation and understanding comes across as misunderstanding and lack of acceptance. I think many parents don't even realize the distance that they are putting between themselves and their grown children when they openly question why anyone would want to walk the path their on. When I have seen this happen, it immediately occurs to me the harm that is done to the relationship.
As the capstone of this week, my husband and I attended a family wedding. It happens to be that both people have children from previous marriages. As a symbol of their coming together, they each poured sand into a larger container. They hadn't practiced this before the ceremony, and so not all of the sand fit. When they realized this was happening, each adjusted the share they poured into the larger vase. Sure, it was just an oversight. But when I think about it, that's what family is really like. We don't know how much of ourselves we have to give to make a family work. We don't know how much of ourselves will be accepted and loved in our family. Sometimes, it's very uneven. Sometimes, families fail, fall apart, and everyone is left adrift to start over on their own. Everyone in this new family has had a tough road--sometimes by fate, sometimes by choice. As they pour their uneven lots into their new family, they are doing so with hope. That's all you can really do.
When I think of my friend's family, and how openhearted they have been in taking someone into their family the way they have, it reminds me of what my husband always says when I pack up my things to visit the town in which I grew up: "That's not your home anymore. This is home." He usually has to remind me of this when I start grumbling about all of the things that grate on me about each trip. When he says "this is home," he's really saying "this is your family." This is the family I have made--the family that we have made. It has been two people and three dogs. We've been two or three hours from the families in which we grew up. We've done things our families don't understand and wouldn't do. We didn't plan it this way. We didn't know what building our family was going to take. Sometimes he gives more. Sometimes I give more. Ultimately, we've been making it up as we go along.
http://youtu.be/VqyW1XQrNhk
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Monday, July 25, 2011
July 25--"Isms in my opinion are not good." I agree, Ferris.
So, I'm pretty sure that I've quoted Ferris Bueller before, but I think that in light of recent events, as always, he is my go-to philosopher: "Isms in my opinion are not good. A person should not believe in an ism, he should believe in himself."
Right wing conservatism and left wing liberalism currently hold our nation's financial future hostage, leaving the whole world economy in a state of jeopardy. While most of us realize that we are very much beholden to China, financially speaking, the American economy is so important that if it falls, many other economies will fall as well. While our leaders fight over Democratic altruism and Republican and Tea Party support of capitalism, the rest of us can only hope that at the eleventh hour, a compromise can be found that will help us avoid certain disaster. I think many of us have forgotten that much of our dire financial straits are a direct result of being held hostage by a current war on yet another "ism," that being terrorism.
Between 1925 and 1933, a political movement promising a new era of prosperity, hope and redemption for the people of Germany slowly rose to power. Nazism's success was buoyed by a wave of nationalism from a people that had been stripped of so much after its loss to the Allied Powers in what was then the Great War.
The heady intoxication of rhetoric and nationalism gave a radical extremist the power to set a chain of violence and destruction in motion that resulted in the deaths of approximately sixty million civilians and military servicemen combined.
The disturbing and heinous level of antisemitism, propelled to the fore by Nazism, resulted in the deaths of approximately six million Jews. Those deaths resulted in a powerful fertilization of the seeds of Zionism, which now pits Israeli against Palestinian in a no-win struggle for homeland territory.
I think it would be impossible to accurately calculate the number of deaths that have been a direct result of racism here or in other countries.
Thousands have been killed as a result of Islamic extremism. Still thousands more have been killed in the Global War on Terrorism.
And this past weekend, extreme nationalism and anti-Muslim sentiment became the most recent deadly "ism" to put an end to about seventy-five lives--mostly young ones.
When I think of "isms," they all seem to have one thing in common. They are typically the expression of an extreme and exclusionary view. In many cases, those expressions start out innocently enough, but off-kilter individuals radicalize them until they become unrecognizable.
"Isms" dehumanize us and turn us into something we are unable to see. It's as if we become vampires and cannot see our own reflections. If we could, I want to believe that we would not so easily fall behind those who lead the charge.
No, "isms" are not good.
http://youtu.be/ULKWm3HxqQo
Right wing conservatism and left wing liberalism currently hold our nation's financial future hostage, leaving the whole world economy in a state of jeopardy. While most of us realize that we are very much beholden to China, financially speaking, the American economy is so important that if it falls, many other economies will fall as well. While our leaders fight over Democratic altruism and Republican and Tea Party support of capitalism, the rest of us can only hope that at the eleventh hour, a compromise can be found that will help us avoid certain disaster. I think many of us have forgotten that much of our dire financial straits are a direct result of being held hostage by a current war on yet another "ism," that being terrorism.
Between 1925 and 1933, a political movement promising a new era of prosperity, hope and redemption for the people of Germany slowly rose to power. Nazism's success was buoyed by a wave of nationalism from a people that had been stripped of so much after its loss to the Allied Powers in what was then the Great War.
The heady intoxication of rhetoric and nationalism gave a radical extremist the power to set a chain of violence and destruction in motion that resulted in the deaths of approximately sixty million civilians and military servicemen combined.
The disturbing and heinous level of antisemitism, propelled to the fore by Nazism, resulted in the deaths of approximately six million Jews. Those deaths resulted in a powerful fertilization of the seeds of Zionism, which now pits Israeli against Palestinian in a no-win struggle for homeland territory.
I think it would be impossible to accurately calculate the number of deaths that have been a direct result of racism here or in other countries.
Thousands have been killed as a result of Islamic extremism. Still thousands more have been killed in the Global War on Terrorism.
And this past weekend, extreme nationalism and anti-Muslim sentiment became the most recent deadly "ism" to put an end to about seventy-five lives--mostly young ones.
When I think of "isms," they all seem to have one thing in common. They are typically the expression of an extreme and exclusionary view. In many cases, those expressions start out innocently enough, but off-kilter individuals radicalize them until they become unrecognizable.
"Isms" dehumanize us and turn us into something we are unable to see. It's as if we become vampires and cannot see our own reflections. If we could, I want to believe that we would not so easily fall behind those who lead the charge.
No, "isms" are not good.
http://youtu.be/ULKWm3HxqQo
Saturday, July 23, 2011
July 23--You don't know me at all, and clearly, I don't know you either.
So, friendship is a precariously fragile and slippery thing.
I think it would be an overstatement to refer to myself as a loner, but I have always had a relatively small circle of friends. I would compare that circle to the ripples left behind when a raindrop hits the water. The ripples near the center are the deepest, and the farther the ripples get away from the center, the more superficial. That doesn't mean I don't care about you ripples out on there on the edge, but I'm willing to bet that if you're one of my outer ripples, I am probably one of yours. It doesn't hurt my feelings to be out there on the edge, and I hope that you aren't hurt by being off in the distance for me either. At least we both have a place in each others' lives.
Occasionally, life happens. It interjects itself into our day-to-day, and as a result, the ripples seem to get disturbed. I think we mostly don't even know why. I think it's probably fairly rare for some major event to occur that completely disintegrates the circle, and more frequent that little things create distance over time, until all of the ripples seem to be of the same depth.
It's only when we realize that our circle isn't intact that we feel the hurt of it being damaged, because friendship is so precious. We believe in it like we believe in whatever religion we subscribe to. If we can count on a higher power, friendship is at least one embodiment of what that higher power might look like. It's the support system we need in times of trouble. It's the place in which we share joy at times of celebration. It is our "church." Or at least it's mine. I'm guilty of believing in it so much that I believe when I most need it, it will always be there, because that's how I practice this "faith" myself.
In the last year, I've had friendships jump from one ring to the next, and in some cases disappear from the ripples completely. I've had ripples on the outside make their way through tumultuous storms to find their way to the center, and sadly, then back out again.
I think this happens because sometimes, we just know each other enough to become friends, but not well enough to stay friends when things get tough. When "life" happens, we fall out of the habit of thinking about each other and who we are. Little irritations, or shifts become like grains of sand in an oyster shell. They layer and layer until we have this giant pearl of confusion, hurt and eventually--distance. It's easier to become friends in the first place, than it is to repair friendship when it gets broken. And I think friendship gets broken because we forget what we know about the other person.
I had a conversation with someone from my inner ripples today. We've had distance between us for several months, and I have been heartsick about it. Life happened, and instead of behaving the we normally would, we didn't. She didn't recognize in the way she once did that I was hurting and troubled, and that I needed her as much as ever. And I didn't trust that she would understand.
And so we retreated away from each other instead of holding tightly to each other. She thought I was angry with her. I thought she no longer cared for me. We were both wrong, and unable to bridge the distance before it stretched out as far as our eyes could see.
In a couple of days, I'm having dinner with another friend with whom I have been out of touch for some time. It has taken a long time for us to start finding the direction back to each other. I think if we can get to know the things about each other that made us close to begin with, that ripple might survive the disturbance of the rough winds of the past. At the very least, we're taking steps.
It gives me hope. After all, Confucius said that "a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step." Friendship is precarious, fragile and slippery. Sometimes we hurt each other and as a result, our faith in each other takes a hit. If friendship is a part of the "faith" I practice, then I hope returning to friendship is my faith's equivalent to the parable of the "Prodigal Son."
http://youtu.be/UskSU5BoyZs
I think it would be an overstatement to refer to myself as a loner, but I have always had a relatively small circle of friends. I would compare that circle to the ripples left behind when a raindrop hits the water. The ripples near the center are the deepest, and the farther the ripples get away from the center, the more superficial. That doesn't mean I don't care about you ripples out on there on the edge, but I'm willing to bet that if you're one of my outer ripples, I am probably one of yours. It doesn't hurt my feelings to be out there on the edge, and I hope that you aren't hurt by being off in the distance for me either. At least we both have a place in each others' lives.
Occasionally, life happens. It interjects itself into our day-to-day, and as a result, the ripples seem to get disturbed. I think we mostly don't even know why. I think it's probably fairly rare for some major event to occur that completely disintegrates the circle, and more frequent that little things create distance over time, until all of the ripples seem to be of the same depth.
It's only when we realize that our circle isn't intact that we feel the hurt of it being damaged, because friendship is so precious. We believe in it like we believe in whatever religion we subscribe to. If we can count on a higher power, friendship is at least one embodiment of what that higher power might look like. It's the support system we need in times of trouble. It's the place in which we share joy at times of celebration. It is our "church." Or at least it's mine. I'm guilty of believing in it so much that I believe when I most need it, it will always be there, because that's how I practice this "faith" myself.
In the last year, I've had friendships jump from one ring to the next, and in some cases disappear from the ripples completely. I've had ripples on the outside make their way through tumultuous storms to find their way to the center, and sadly, then back out again.
I think this happens because sometimes, we just know each other enough to become friends, but not well enough to stay friends when things get tough. When "life" happens, we fall out of the habit of thinking about each other and who we are. Little irritations, or shifts become like grains of sand in an oyster shell. They layer and layer until we have this giant pearl of confusion, hurt and eventually--distance. It's easier to become friends in the first place, than it is to repair friendship when it gets broken. And I think friendship gets broken because we forget what we know about the other person.
I had a conversation with someone from my inner ripples today. We've had distance between us for several months, and I have been heartsick about it. Life happened, and instead of behaving the we normally would, we didn't. She didn't recognize in the way she once did that I was hurting and troubled, and that I needed her as much as ever. And I didn't trust that she would understand.
And so we retreated away from each other instead of holding tightly to each other. She thought I was angry with her. I thought she no longer cared for me. We were both wrong, and unable to bridge the distance before it stretched out as far as our eyes could see.
In a couple of days, I'm having dinner with another friend with whom I have been out of touch for some time. It has taken a long time for us to start finding the direction back to each other. I think if we can get to know the things about each other that made us close to begin with, that ripple might survive the disturbance of the rough winds of the past. At the very least, we're taking steps.
It gives me hope. After all, Confucius said that "a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step." Friendship is precarious, fragile and slippery. Sometimes we hurt each other and as a result, our faith in each other takes a hit. If friendship is a part of the "faith" I practice, then I hope returning to friendship is my faith's equivalent to the parable of the "Prodigal Son."
http://youtu.be/UskSU5BoyZs
Monday, July 18, 2011
July 17, 2011--Humanity. It's a "good ol' fashioned nightmare."
So, I was listening to National Public Radio on my way home from work today and I heard a story by Eric Deggans that riled me about several aspects of human nature. His story delved into the recent increase of stories on ABC News about "women-in-peril."
It has been about two weeks since Casey Anthony was acquitted of charges that she killed her daughter Caylee--intentionally or otherwise. I don't know if she killed Caylee. I think she probably knows how her daughter died, and she was definitely wrong not to report her missing in a more timely manner than thirty-one days. I think even if the truth about what happened to Caylee had come out in the course of Anthony's trial, and she had clearly been proven innocent of the crime, we'd all still be outraged by her lies and the fact that she waited so long to say "Oh, by the way, that little toddler girl that usually hangs out with me, she's totally missing." I don't think anyone would question that she was a very bad mother, regardless of her guilt or innocence.
On the other hand, there's something about everyone's outrage and attention to this case that outrages me: our obsession with it. People waited outside the courthouse overnight for opportunities to be right there to witness the court proceedings. They wanted to be there to hear all of the juicy details. They wanted to be there to try and imagine what the smell of "death and decay" emanating from a car trunk is like. They were hoping to hear firsthand that Casey Anthony had gotten impatient with her child and killed her accidentally. They wanted to be the first to hear that her clubbing lifestyle didn't have room in it for a two-year-old, and so she offed her as a matter of convenience.
When we salivate over every detail about a two-year-old's death, are we really that much better than someone like Casey Anthony? I don't know.
Over the last week, I saw a story about an 8-year-old Orthodox Jewish boy who had been snatched while walking home for the first time from his day camp. The reporter said that what had happened to the child's body was so terrible that his mother wasn't being told. Right or wrong, I wondered, what could the killer have done that was so horrible that I as a mother couldn't be told?
As I think about the sensationalism that surrounds crimes like these, I realize that's really not any of my business. My knowing what happened to that little boy won't change the fact that he is gone forever. It won't rebuild the trust within a community that rarely experiences any incident even remotely like this. I should just walk on.
When Eric Deggans was talking about ABC airing their interview with a rape victim, not once, but twice, because the ratings for the first airing were so high, it made me ashamed of all of us. When he said that he was told ABC hiring Elizabeth Smart (another victim of sexual crime) as an on-air commentator to discuss crimes like these and this interview being aired multiple times was purely coincidental and not a sign that sensationalizing horrific crimes committed against women and children is a new ratings push, I doubted those words.
Sex and horror draw attention. We all want to know just how bad bad can be.
News organizations have a gun to their heads because we just can't get enough of the horror of everything. Reporters working for News Corps have been arrested for participating in voice mail hackings of politicians, celebrities, the royal family and a murdered thirteen-year-old girl. Why? Because we all want the story. Nearly fourteen years ago, a thirty-six year old woman in a car with her date in Paris was chased into a tunnel by paparazzi on motorcycles. Her car tragically wrecked, and she was killed. She was a princess, but wasn't she a human first? We wanted the pictures of her and Dodi together, and when she was dead, some clamored for the last pictures of her alive--or even dead.
It seems to me the exploitation of victims in this manner is another crime committed against them, even if some of them become active participants. It's almost a twisted kind of Stockholm Syndrome, in which victims willingly relive their crimes because their media and audience captors tell them things like: "You're so brave, telling your story will save someone else;" "Sharing what happened to you will give you closure;""You have the right to tell your side of things."
It's a great big load of crap. The truth--you telling your story will sell some Cialis, or maybe some face cream. Human nature led to your initial victimization, evolution is the only thing that is going to save someone else. Being sharper, faster or stronger is the only thing that is going to help you protect yourself from someone who is trying to hurt you--period, because unfortunately it's also human nature to stand by while someone else is being hurt. It's very rare for anyone to intervene.
I know this, because another recent story in my local news is beyond the pale. A woman walking about two blocks away from my house passed out and multiple witnesses saw her being sexually assaulted by someone who "thought she was dead" and did absolutely nothing. When we all want the trashy details and the scoop, is it really that hard to imagine that the reason people did nothing is because they just couldn't take their eyes off of such a riveting scene?
I know that there are mothers out there who saw the outcome of the Casey Anthony trial and thought that even though raising a child is difficult, trying, and sometimes drives them nuts, they would never kill their child. Anyone who would kill their child should be strung up and hanged while the rest of us throw rocks at her. I wonder, before Casey Anthony allegedly killed her daughter, if she ever thought the same thing?
Sorry folks, show's over. You have to accept the fact that you don't get to know.
http://youtu.be/FV6bFBNHlpg
It has been about two weeks since Casey Anthony was acquitted of charges that she killed her daughter Caylee--intentionally or otherwise. I don't know if she killed Caylee. I think she probably knows how her daughter died, and she was definitely wrong not to report her missing in a more timely manner than thirty-one days. I think even if the truth about what happened to Caylee had come out in the course of Anthony's trial, and she had clearly been proven innocent of the crime, we'd all still be outraged by her lies and the fact that she waited so long to say "Oh, by the way, that little toddler girl that usually hangs out with me, she's totally missing." I don't think anyone would question that she was a very bad mother, regardless of her guilt or innocence.
On the other hand, there's something about everyone's outrage and attention to this case that outrages me: our obsession with it. People waited outside the courthouse overnight for opportunities to be right there to witness the court proceedings. They wanted to be there to hear all of the juicy details. They wanted to be there to try and imagine what the smell of "death and decay" emanating from a car trunk is like. They were hoping to hear firsthand that Casey Anthony had gotten impatient with her child and killed her accidentally. They wanted to be the first to hear that her clubbing lifestyle didn't have room in it for a two-year-old, and so she offed her as a matter of convenience.
When we salivate over every detail about a two-year-old's death, are we really that much better than someone like Casey Anthony? I don't know.
Over the last week, I saw a story about an 8-year-old Orthodox Jewish boy who had been snatched while walking home for the first time from his day camp. The reporter said that what had happened to the child's body was so terrible that his mother wasn't being told. Right or wrong, I wondered, what could the killer have done that was so horrible that I as a mother couldn't be told?
As I think about the sensationalism that surrounds crimes like these, I realize that's really not any of my business. My knowing what happened to that little boy won't change the fact that he is gone forever. It won't rebuild the trust within a community that rarely experiences any incident even remotely like this. I should just walk on.
When Eric Deggans was talking about ABC airing their interview with a rape victim, not once, but twice, because the ratings for the first airing were so high, it made me ashamed of all of us. When he said that he was told ABC hiring Elizabeth Smart (another victim of sexual crime) as an on-air commentator to discuss crimes like these and this interview being aired multiple times was purely coincidental and not a sign that sensationalizing horrific crimes committed against women and children is a new ratings push, I doubted those words.
Sex and horror draw attention. We all want to know just how bad bad can be.
News organizations have a gun to their heads because we just can't get enough of the horror of everything. Reporters working for News Corps have been arrested for participating in voice mail hackings of politicians, celebrities, the royal family and a murdered thirteen-year-old girl. Why? Because we all want the story. Nearly fourteen years ago, a thirty-six year old woman in a car with her date in Paris was chased into a tunnel by paparazzi on motorcycles. Her car tragically wrecked, and she was killed. She was a princess, but wasn't she a human first? We wanted the pictures of her and Dodi together, and when she was dead, some clamored for the last pictures of her alive--or even dead.
It seems to me the exploitation of victims in this manner is another crime committed against them, even if some of them become active participants. It's almost a twisted kind of Stockholm Syndrome, in which victims willingly relive their crimes because their media and audience captors tell them things like: "You're so brave, telling your story will save someone else;" "Sharing what happened to you will give you closure;""You have the right to tell your side of things."
It's a great big load of crap. The truth--you telling your story will sell some Cialis, or maybe some face cream. Human nature led to your initial victimization, evolution is the only thing that is going to save someone else. Being sharper, faster or stronger is the only thing that is going to help you protect yourself from someone who is trying to hurt you--period, because unfortunately it's also human nature to stand by while someone else is being hurt. It's very rare for anyone to intervene.
I know this, because another recent story in my local news is beyond the pale. A woman walking about two blocks away from my house passed out and multiple witnesses saw her being sexually assaulted by someone who "thought she was dead" and did absolutely nothing. When we all want the trashy details and the scoop, is it really that hard to imagine that the reason people did nothing is because they just couldn't take their eyes off of such a riveting scene?
I know that there are mothers out there who saw the outcome of the Casey Anthony trial and thought that even though raising a child is difficult, trying, and sometimes drives them nuts, they would never kill their child. Anyone who would kill their child should be strung up and hanged while the rest of us throw rocks at her. I wonder, before Casey Anthony allegedly killed her daughter, if she ever thought the same thing?
Sorry folks, show's over. You have to accept the fact that you don't get to know.
http://youtu.be/FV6bFBNHlpg
Saturday, July 16, 2011
The Hag's Hair Oak
She could tell that the twisted magic of time had deceived her. As she reached the threshold to the house, she noticed the edge of the door and the door jam were covered in the old hag’s hair—evidence that she had been gone much longer than she had thought. It was a trick the old woman used to track how long her apprentice had been gone from her responsibilities, and a signal to Raven that she had lost track of time again.
It was easy to get lost in time while wandering in the forest. Raven often spent long hours watching the sun dance on the surface of the stream, as dragonflies seemed to be trying to capture the tiny pieces of glitter on the water. She would rest against the base of a great oak, where its twisted roots wrapped around her like strong arms. The tree was just at the water’s edge. A small slab of bedrock provided a smooth dry place to sit. She dreamed of flying free like the dragonflies.
Clearly the hours had been longer than she realized, as the old hag’s trick of leaving a strand of her hair upon the door to grow and mark Raven’s time away provided ample evidence of her thoughtless revelry.
The long, silvery strands attached to the rough façade of the door, and hung over its facing like the steel cables of a suspension bridge. They were fine, like spider silk, and just as strong as the cables they imitated. Raven knew this. She had read about the strength of spider silk and wondered if the old hag’s hair was equally strong. She had decided to make an experiment of it one day, weaving several strands together and casting a spell on a mouse to walk the strands like a tight rope.
Raven heaved a sigh, anticipating a tongue lashing from the old witch. She had been told, repeatedly, not to wander off, aimlessly into the forest where the Fae lived. Even if she did not slip into their world, the essence of time shifted in their presence and one could get lost for hours. Those lost hours were supposed to be dedicated to working on her studies and her chores—two things Raven found dull and exhausting.
When she thought about reading the passages out of the old spell books for hours on end, and directing cobwebs over the windows to create ambiance for the strangers who happened by to have fortunes told or to pick up potions for this or that ailment, her heart sank. Surely there was a faster, more pleasant way to become the witch she hoped one day to be.
Her mother had been a great witch before she went missing, and Raven had never seen her mother spend hours reading spells to become powerful, nor had she had to basically be a servant girl to others. It was frustrating. Thinking about the unfairness made Raven long for the days before even more.
She slowly cracked open the door, trying to be as quiet as possible. She knew it was useless. The old witch could barely hear a word when you spoke directly to her, but if you were actually trying to be quiet, she could hear every creak in the floorboards beneath your feet and every breath that you tried to hold.
The entryway was dark, and there wasn’t so much as a peep coming from the workroom where the old witch passed her days. As Raven cautiously looked around, she was startled when Two-pence leaped out of the corner at her, and let out an annoyed yowl. The giant black cat quickly wove through Raven’s ankles, nearly tripping her as she tiptoed through the hallway. She stuck her head in the doorway of the kitchen, only to find it empty as well. It occurred to her that the source of the cat’s annoyance was the empty food dish in the corner by the small greenhouse just off the room.
It wasn’t like the old hag to leave Two-pence waiting for breakfast like that.
The house felt stale and old in the silence—even less inviting than usual. Even less than when she had come to live here. She could still remember the day.
The old hag had taken her in after her mother’s disappearance. She had explained herself to be a long time, distant friend of her mother’s family. It was her obligation to care for Raven and direct her studies, the woman had told her. Raven had listened to the news of her mother’s disappearance, and the hag’s “adoption” in stony silence. She knew it was useless to argue. Without her mother, Raven already felt she had lost everything. There was nothing left for which to argue.
Raven corrected the issue of the empty food dish for Two-pence and poured herself a glass of water. As she took a sip, she could not help but immediately spit the liquid out. The taste was stale and old like the house. It smelled of the old hag and her hair, and Raven nearly wretched with disgust.
Something wasn’t right.
She sat the glass aside, and quietly stepped out into the hallway again.
“Hagathelia,” Raven called into the dark silence of the corridor. Her voice echoed against the wood panels.
There was little light in the hallway, but Raven knew where every uneven board in the floor was and how many steps there were from the kitchen to the workroom by heart and by feel. She chided herself as she remembered promising the hag she would loosen one of the floorboards, which had contracted and tightened with the cooler temperatures of the fall. It occurred to Hagathelia that the floor didn’t make quite the creepy sound her clientele was used to and that the jingle in her purse wasn’t as loud as during the warmer months when the whining of the floorboard mimicked the poignant whimper of a wounded banshee.
Raven continued down the hall toward the old woman’s workroom. Usually by this time of the day a cauldron was brewing and bubbling on the counter, a faint smokiness would emanate from crumbled herbs that burned in one of the corners, and a crystal ball would provide a faint glimmer at the table where Hagathelia would tell people’s fortunes for money. She tiptoed into the room, only to find it completely empty of activity. There was no evidence that the old woman had even been in the room today.
Raven had sneaked out of the house before Hagathelia awakened that morning, but it was mid-day, and she couldn’t imagine that the hag would still be upstairs asleep. In the few years that she had lived with the hag, Hagathelia had never been ill, and she had never missed opening her house to visitors who might reward her handsomely for the right fortune or the right love potion. Hagathelia often muttered irritably about the people who dropped the most coins in her purse, saying they knew nothing of true magic. Raven silently agreed, but would never tell her so.
Raven thought the fortunes and potions Hagathelia sold were shameful and a sign of the hag’s diminishing powers—if she’d ever had any powers at all. Raven would never stoop to selling fortunes, potions and trinkets to get by. And it wasn’t even as if the old hag made such a fantastic living. There was always just enough food and just enough turf for their fire. There was never enough for Raven to have a fine, new cloak or even a pretty new dress. She often wondered why the hag even bothered. If she were a witch of any quality, surely she would be able to acquire anything they needed with her powers.
Thinking of this, Raven let out a heavy sigh. She remembered the days of pretty dresses without tattered hems. She remembered the stories her mother told her, as she quietly drifted off to sleep. She missed her mother. She had never known her father, but had been told that he, too, was a powerful wizard. It seemed unbearable that she had been left behind to worry herself with the whereabouts of the old hag who never had so much as a kind word for her, let alone any sweetness or love.
Nevertheless, she climbed the stairs after finding the workroom empty. If the hag wasn’t working, perhaps Raven would have the opportunity to find Hagathelia in her bed and be able to accuse her of laziness instead. How satisfying might that be?
She didn’t concern herself with sneaking. After all, if Hagathelia was still sleeping, she could hardly reprimand Raven for shirking her responsibilities. She reached the top of the stairs, and made her way to Hagathelia’s door. Respectfully, she knocked and called out to her guardian.
“Hagathelia! Are you well?” Raven stood waiting for a reply, but heard no response.
“Hagathelia,” she called out again—just in case the hag was sleeping too deeply to hear her. Still—no response. Raven slowly turned the knob and pushed the door open, shocked by her discovery.
The old hag lay there, seemingly more than asleep. Raven approached the woman’s bed and attempted to wake her, but the old woman appeared unable to respond. Raven could see Hagathelia’s chest rise and fall with her breath and was reassured that the hag had not passed in her sleep. While she had no strong affection for the woman, she had no wish for harm to come to her. Perhaps years of long work and a hard life had finally caught up with the old hag and she simply could not wake. Raven placed her hand on the hag’s forehead, checking for fever, but withdrew it quickly as she felt that the woman’s skin was cold as ice. The hag moaned as Raven looked upon her in horror.
“Raven,” the hag whispered, but not in her own voice. The voice was like a dream. It was the voice of Raven’s mother. As Raven stood there, she became even more frightened. “I am dying,” the voice whispered.
Raven shook her head violently. Was this some cruel punishment for her dillydallying in the forest? She could think of nothing more terrible than the old hag using whatever powers she might have to mock the pain she felt about having lost her mother. Anyone who would do something so horrible could only be described as heartless. If Hagathelia could inflict this kind of cruelty, Raven would leave to find her own way.
“How dare you speak with my mother’s voice, hag! You mock me.” Even as she tried to sound assertive and commanding, Raven could feel a lump forming in her throat as she blinked back tears that were involuntarily forming in her eyes.
“Child, come close please, and pour me a cup of water. There isn’t much time.”
In spite of her anger, Raven obeyed the sweet voice emanating from the gray, twisted and gnarled hag. She knelt on the floor next to the bed, and brought the cup of water up to the hag’s lips. The hag opened her eyes slightly, sipping at the water sloppily. Raven was disgusted as some of the water dribbled from the sides of the old hag’s mouth, but she dutifully dabbed it away with a rag that was on the bedside table. The woman rested back on her pillow, took a breath and seemed to be trying to collect herself and her thoughts. And then, she finally spoke again.
“When you were a child, you used to wander into the forest,” she whispered roughly, but still in the sweet voice. “You were so beautiful. I worried when you would go away for hours, but I could not tell you no. One day, you left and the sun traveled from one end of the sky to the other. Darkness fell, and you never came home. I ran into the forest, with only the moonlight and the dim light of my wand to guide me. As I stumbled through the forest over the roots of the great trees, I heard whispers. I knew the Fae were there. I hoped that they had not taken you.”
The old hag grew quiet for a moment. Raven lifted the cup to her lips again, and the hag eagerly sipped, dribbling again. Hagathelia took a few breaths before continuing.
“The whispers grew louder and I grew more frightened and more desperate to find you. I was afraid my fears would be realized. I called out into the night. ‘Give her back to me, and I will do what you will.’ The whispers became silence. The only sounds I could hear in the forest were the songs of the crickets and the mocking bird. Long moments passed before I could move. Suddenly, a faint light floated into the forest where I was standing. The queen of the Fae was standing there before me. I shook with fear, knowing that my Raven had been taken from me forever.”
Raven heard the words, but was unable to take them in—unable to believe them. Despite her disbelief, she remained silent as the old witch continued the tale she was weaving out of Raven’s pain.
“The queen looked upon me with disdain. ‘You are a powerful witch, what need have you of this simple child?’ The child you speak of is my sweet, baby girl, I told her. I beg you to give her back and I will do what you ask. The queen stood there, staring at me as if she was intrigued by my offer, and I could only hope that she truly was. ‘My people have been kind to your family, Andreya. We have given the daughters of your family their power for generations, and we have asked for very little in return. If we return Raven to your world, you must come to ours in exchange.’ I cannot come to your world, for Raven needs her mother. ‘Then you must return your power, and your life will be shortened. Raven will have you, but she will never know who you are.’ As I stood there, my heart breaking, I could think of no other way to get you back, and I knew I would be even more heartbroken to leave you with the Fae. And so, I agreed to the queen’s conditions.”
As Raven knelt beside the old hag’s bed, she noticed the creases in the old woman’s face were softening and her pale blue eyes were deepening and becoming luminous. The staleness of the woman’s skin was replaced with the sweet fragrance of the mimosa tree. Tears filled Raven’s eyes, as the features of the old hag were being replaced with those of her long lost mother.
“Mother,” Raven exclaimed, as she threw her arms around the woman lying on the bed.
Andreya exhaled fiercely as her jubilant daughter squeezed the breath out of her. Realizing her strength, Raven released her hold and knelt beside the bed again.
“Now we can be together,” Raven said smiling. “Always.”
A tiny tear trailed down Andreya’s cheek. “No child, not for always—only for moments. The Fae demand the rest of their price for returning you. My life is drifting away.”
“It cannot be,” Raven replied, as she shook her head in denial. “It’s not fair.”
“The Fae do not live by what we think is fair. I denied them the joy of keeping you a child in their world forever, and for that, you and I have both paid a price. You have not known me, and now I may not stay with you.”
“What will happen to you?”
“I will become what all powerful witches do when their lives come to their end. The gray, gnarled and twisted body I have inhabited will become my own as I take root by the stream.”
Raven looked at Andreya with confusion in her expression.
“The oak, Raven, I will become the oak you rest against as you watch the dragonflies light upon the stream in the glittering sun.”
Raven could not help but smile through her tears. Though her heart was breaking, she took joy in knowing that her mother had been watching her all along. She was saddened by her own selfishness and her inability to see through the wrinkled grayness of the old hag’s form. Surely she should always have known that her mother was right there. What kind of witch could she be without the power of sight.
“I know what you are thinking, Raven. We are powerful witches, but our power comes from the Fae who are more powerful than you can imagine. They said you would not know me, and you did not. The magic was theirs to command, and not yours to unravel. As I pass, the powers that were once mine will become yours. You may have a daughter someday. I know you will now understand the choice I had to make, and you will forgive me.”
“I hope, my mother, that you can forgive me—for being willful and thoughtless.”
“Raven, I cannot forgive you.” Raven flinched at the words. “Why would I ever need to forgive you for being just who you were meant to be? It’s like the water asking to be forgiven for being wet.” Andreay smiled as she reached for Raven’s hand. “The very essence of who you are is what I could not bear to live without, even if you could not know me. I will remember you and love you forever, my child.”
Andreya squeezed Raven’s hand firmly, and Raven squeezed back. They held hands silently for what seemed like hours. Slowly, Andreya’s grasp began to weaken, and Raven knew her mother was slipping away forever. Her mother’s breathing slowed and finally stopped. Raven wept quietly as the sun slipped below the hills in the distance that she saw through the window.
As the moon rose, she lifted Andreya’s lifeless body from the bed and carried her downstairs, out of the house and deep into the forest. She walked through the dark trees until she found a small meadow of flowers and lemongrass. She laid her mother’s body on the ground and quietly said goodbye. She knew the Fae would come for her mother and she would be left alone.
Days went by, and Raven had not been able to leave the house in which she had lived with the old hag even to go for fresh water and firewood. She had shuttered the windows and doors to keep visitors—Hagathelia’s customers—away. One day, as she sat in the darkness of the sitting room, the front door suddenly flew open. Raven stepped out into the hallway to see what was happening. She heard something drop to the floor and roll toward her feet. When she stooped down to see what was before her, she was surprised to find a beautiful green acorn. Tears welled up in Raven’s eyes.
She ran out of the house and into the forest, not caring about the bushes and tree branches that flew at her as she ran. She finally reached the water’s edge and threw her arms around the old oak. Raven hugged the gnarled, rough tree for a long while, before sitting down against it to watch the dragonflies light upon the water as the sun glittered upon its surface. She could almost feel her mother’s arms around her as she rested within the twisted roots of the ancient tree. She noticed a few tiny, silver strands hanging off of some of the branches. The old hag's hair. Her mother would always be with her, and she would always be known.
It was easy to get lost in time while wandering in the forest. Raven often spent long hours watching the sun dance on the surface of the stream, as dragonflies seemed to be trying to capture the tiny pieces of glitter on the water. She would rest against the base of a great oak, where its twisted roots wrapped around her like strong arms. The tree was just at the water’s edge. A small slab of bedrock provided a smooth dry place to sit. She dreamed of flying free like the dragonflies.
Clearly the hours had been longer than she realized, as the old hag’s trick of leaving a strand of her hair upon the door to grow and mark Raven’s time away provided ample evidence of her thoughtless revelry.
The long, silvery strands attached to the rough façade of the door, and hung over its facing like the steel cables of a suspension bridge. They were fine, like spider silk, and just as strong as the cables they imitated. Raven knew this. She had read about the strength of spider silk and wondered if the old hag’s hair was equally strong. She had decided to make an experiment of it one day, weaving several strands together and casting a spell on a mouse to walk the strands like a tight rope.
Raven heaved a sigh, anticipating a tongue lashing from the old witch. She had been told, repeatedly, not to wander off, aimlessly into the forest where the Fae lived. Even if she did not slip into their world, the essence of time shifted in their presence and one could get lost for hours. Those lost hours were supposed to be dedicated to working on her studies and her chores—two things Raven found dull and exhausting.
When she thought about reading the passages out of the old spell books for hours on end, and directing cobwebs over the windows to create ambiance for the strangers who happened by to have fortunes told or to pick up potions for this or that ailment, her heart sank. Surely there was a faster, more pleasant way to become the witch she hoped one day to be.
Her mother had been a great witch before she went missing, and Raven had never seen her mother spend hours reading spells to become powerful, nor had she had to basically be a servant girl to others. It was frustrating. Thinking about the unfairness made Raven long for the days before even more.
She slowly cracked open the door, trying to be as quiet as possible. She knew it was useless. The old witch could barely hear a word when you spoke directly to her, but if you were actually trying to be quiet, she could hear every creak in the floorboards beneath your feet and every breath that you tried to hold.
The entryway was dark, and there wasn’t so much as a peep coming from the workroom where the old witch passed her days. As Raven cautiously looked around, she was startled when Two-pence leaped out of the corner at her, and let out an annoyed yowl. The giant black cat quickly wove through Raven’s ankles, nearly tripping her as she tiptoed through the hallway. She stuck her head in the doorway of the kitchen, only to find it empty as well. It occurred to her that the source of the cat’s annoyance was the empty food dish in the corner by the small greenhouse just off the room.
It wasn’t like the old hag to leave Two-pence waiting for breakfast like that.
The house felt stale and old in the silence—even less inviting than usual. Even less than when she had come to live here. She could still remember the day.
The old hag had taken her in after her mother’s disappearance. She had explained herself to be a long time, distant friend of her mother’s family. It was her obligation to care for Raven and direct her studies, the woman had told her. Raven had listened to the news of her mother’s disappearance, and the hag’s “adoption” in stony silence. She knew it was useless to argue. Without her mother, Raven already felt she had lost everything. There was nothing left for which to argue.
Raven corrected the issue of the empty food dish for Two-pence and poured herself a glass of water. As she took a sip, she could not help but immediately spit the liquid out. The taste was stale and old like the house. It smelled of the old hag and her hair, and Raven nearly wretched with disgust.
Something wasn’t right.
She sat the glass aside, and quietly stepped out into the hallway again.
“Hagathelia,” Raven called into the dark silence of the corridor. Her voice echoed against the wood panels.
There was little light in the hallway, but Raven knew where every uneven board in the floor was and how many steps there were from the kitchen to the workroom by heart and by feel. She chided herself as she remembered promising the hag she would loosen one of the floorboards, which had contracted and tightened with the cooler temperatures of the fall. It occurred to Hagathelia that the floor didn’t make quite the creepy sound her clientele was used to and that the jingle in her purse wasn’t as loud as during the warmer months when the whining of the floorboard mimicked the poignant whimper of a wounded banshee.
Raven continued down the hall toward the old woman’s workroom. Usually by this time of the day a cauldron was brewing and bubbling on the counter, a faint smokiness would emanate from crumbled herbs that burned in one of the corners, and a crystal ball would provide a faint glimmer at the table where Hagathelia would tell people’s fortunes for money. She tiptoed into the room, only to find it completely empty of activity. There was no evidence that the old woman had even been in the room today.
Raven had sneaked out of the house before Hagathelia awakened that morning, but it was mid-day, and she couldn’t imagine that the hag would still be upstairs asleep. In the few years that she had lived with the hag, Hagathelia had never been ill, and she had never missed opening her house to visitors who might reward her handsomely for the right fortune or the right love potion. Hagathelia often muttered irritably about the people who dropped the most coins in her purse, saying they knew nothing of true magic. Raven silently agreed, but would never tell her so.
Raven thought the fortunes and potions Hagathelia sold were shameful and a sign of the hag’s diminishing powers—if she’d ever had any powers at all. Raven would never stoop to selling fortunes, potions and trinkets to get by. And it wasn’t even as if the old hag made such a fantastic living. There was always just enough food and just enough turf for their fire. There was never enough for Raven to have a fine, new cloak or even a pretty new dress. She often wondered why the hag even bothered. If she were a witch of any quality, surely she would be able to acquire anything they needed with her powers.
Thinking of this, Raven let out a heavy sigh. She remembered the days of pretty dresses without tattered hems. She remembered the stories her mother told her, as she quietly drifted off to sleep. She missed her mother. She had never known her father, but had been told that he, too, was a powerful wizard. It seemed unbearable that she had been left behind to worry herself with the whereabouts of the old hag who never had so much as a kind word for her, let alone any sweetness or love.
Nevertheless, she climbed the stairs after finding the workroom empty. If the hag wasn’t working, perhaps Raven would have the opportunity to find Hagathelia in her bed and be able to accuse her of laziness instead. How satisfying might that be?
She didn’t concern herself with sneaking. After all, if Hagathelia was still sleeping, she could hardly reprimand Raven for shirking her responsibilities. She reached the top of the stairs, and made her way to Hagathelia’s door. Respectfully, she knocked and called out to her guardian.
“Hagathelia! Are you well?” Raven stood waiting for a reply, but heard no response.
“Hagathelia,” she called out again—just in case the hag was sleeping too deeply to hear her. Still—no response. Raven slowly turned the knob and pushed the door open, shocked by her discovery.
The old hag lay there, seemingly more than asleep. Raven approached the woman’s bed and attempted to wake her, but the old woman appeared unable to respond. Raven could see Hagathelia’s chest rise and fall with her breath and was reassured that the hag had not passed in her sleep. While she had no strong affection for the woman, she had no wish for harm to come to her. Perhaps years of long work and a hard life had finally caught up with the old hag and she simply could not wake. Raven placed her hand on the hag’s forehead, checking for fever, but withdrew it quickly as she felt that the woman’s skin was cold as ice. The hag moaned as Raven looked upon her in horror.
“Raven,” the hag whispered, but not in her own voice. The voice was like a dream. It was the voice of Raven’s mother. As Raven stood there, she became even more frightened. “I am dying,” the voice whispered.
Raven shook her head violently. Was this some cruel punishment for her dillydallying in the forest? She could think of nothing more terrible than the old hag using whatever powers she might have to mock the pain she felt about having lost her mother. Anyone who would do something so horrible could only be described as heartless. If Hagathelia could inflict this kind of cruelty, Raven would leave to find her own way.
“How dare you speak with my mother’s voice, hag! You mock me.” Even as she tried to sound assertive and commanding, Raven could feel a lump forming in her throat as she blinked back tears that were involuntarily forming in her eyes.
“Child, come close please, and pour me a cup of water. There isn’t much time.”
In spite of her anger, Raven obeyed the sweet voice emanating from the gray, twisted and gnarled hag. She knelt on the floor next to the bed, and brought the cup of water up to the hag’s lips. The hag opened her eyes slightly, sipping at the water sloppily. Raven was disgusted as some of the water dribbled from the sides of the old hag’s mouth, but she dutifully dabbed it away with a rag that was on the bedside table. The woman rested back on her pillow, took a breath and seemed to be trying to collect herself and her thoughts. And then, she finally spoke again.
“When you were a child, you used to wander into the forest,” she whispered roughly, but still in the sweet voice. “You were so beautiful. I worried when you would go away for hours, but I could not tell you no. One day, you left and the sun traveled from one end of the sky to the other. Darkness fell, and you never came home. I ran into the forest, with only the moonlight and the dim light of my wand to guide me. As I stumbled through the forest over the roots of the great trees, I heard whispers. I knew the Fae were there. I hoped that they had not taken you.”
The old hag grew quiet for a moment. Raven lifted the cup to her lips again, and the hag eagerly sipped, dribbling again. Hagathelia took a few breaths before continuing.
“The whispers grew louder and I grew more frightened and more desperate to find you. I was afraid my fears would be realized. I called out into the night. ‘Give her back to me, and I will do what you will.’ The whispers became silence. The only sounds I could hear in the forest were the songs of the crickets and the mocking bird. Long moments passed before I could move. Suddenly, a faint light floated into the forest where I was standing. The queen of the Fae was standing there before me. I shook with fear, knowing that my Raven had been taken from me forever.”
Raven heard the words, but was unable to take them in—unable to believe them. Despite her disbelief, she remained silent as the old witch continued the tale she was weaving out of Raven’s pain.
“The queen looked upon me with disdain. ‘You are a powerful witch, what need have you of this simple child?’ The child you speak of is my sweet, baby girl, I told her. I beg you to give her back and I will do what you ask. The queen stood there, staring at me as if she was intrigued by my offer, and I could only hope that she truly was. ‘My people have been kind to your family, Andreya. We have given the daughters of your family their power for generations, and we have asked for very little in return. If we return Raven to your world, you must come to ours in exchange.’ I cannot come to your world, for Raven needs her mother. ‘Then you must return your power, and your life will be shortened. Raven will have you, but she will never know who you are.’ As I stood there, my heart breaking, I could think of no other way to get you back, and I knew I would be even more heartbroken to leave you with the Fae. And so, I agreed to the queen’s conditions.”
As Raven knelt beside the old hag’s bed, she noticed the creases in the old woman’s face were softening and her pale blue eyes were deepening and becoming luminous. The staleness of the woman’s skin was replaced with the sweet fragrance of the mimosa tree. Tears filled Raven’s eyes, as the features of the old hag were being replaced with those of her long lost mother.
“Mother,” Raven exclaimed, as she threw her arms around the woman lying on the bed.
Andreya exhaled fiercely as her jubilant daughter squeezed the breath out of her. Realizing her strength, Raven released her hold and knelt beside the bed again.
“Now we can be together,” Raven said smiling. “Always.”
A tiny tear trailed down Andreya’s cheek. “No child, not for always—only for moments. The Fae demand the rest of their price for returning you. My life is drifting away.”
“It cannot be,” Raven replied, as she shook her head in denial. “It’s not fair.”
“The Fae do not live by what we think is fair. I denied them the joy of keeping you a child in their world forever, and for that, you and I have both paid a price. You have not known me, and now I may not stay with you.”
“What will happen to you?”
“I will become what all powerful witches do when their lives come to their end. The gray, gnarled and twisted body I have inhabited will become my own as I take root by the stream.”
Raven looked at Andreya with confusion in her expression.
“The oak, Raven, I will become the oak you rest against as you watch the dragonflies light upon the stream in the glittering sun.”
Raven could not help but smile through her tears. Though her heart was breaking, she took joy in knowing that her mother had been watching her all along. She was saddened by her own selfishness and her inability to see through the wrinkled grayness of the old hag’s form. Surely she should always have known that her mother was right there. What kind of witch could she be without the power of sight.
“I know what you are thinking, Raven. We are powerful witches, but our power comes from the Fae who are more powerful than you can imagine. They said you would not know me, and you did not. The magic was theirs to command, and not yours to unravel. As I pass, the powers that were once mine will become yours. You may have a daughter someday. I know you will now understand the choice I had to make, and you will forgive me.”
“I hope, my mother, that you can forgive me—for being willful and thoughtless.”
“Raven, I cannot forgive you.” Raven flinched at the words. “Why would I ever need to forgive you for being just who you were meant to be? It’s like the water asking to be forgiven for being wet.” Andreay smiled as she reached for Raven’s hand. “The very essence of who you are is what I could not bear to live without, even if you could not know me. I will remember you and love you forever, my child.”
Andreya squeezed Raven’s hand firmly, and Raven squeezed back. They held hands silently for what seemed like hours. Slowly, Andreya’s grasp began to weaken, and Raven knew her mother was slipping away forever. Her mother’s breathing slowed and finally stopped. Raven wept quietly as the sun slipped below the hills in the distance that she saw through the window.
As the moon rose, she lifted Andreya’s lifeless body from the bed and carried her downstairs, out of the house and deep into the forest. She walked through the dark trees until she found a small meadow of flowers and lemongrass. She laid her mother’s body on the ground and quietly said goodbye. She knew the Fae would come for her mother and she would be left alone.
Days went by, and Raven had not been able to leave the house in which she had lived with the old hag even to go for fresh water and firewood. She had shuttered the windows and doors to keep visitors—Hagathelia’s customers—away. One day, as she sat in the darkness of the sitting room, the front door suddenly flew open. Raven stepped out into the hallway to see what was happening. She heard something drop to the floor and roll toward her feet. When she stooped down to see what was before her, she was surprised to find a beautiful green acorn. Tears welled up in Raven’s eyes.
She ran out of the house and into the forest, not caring about the bushes and tree branches that flew at her as she ran. She finally reached the water’s edge and threw her arms around the old oak. Raven hugged the gnarled, rough tree for a long while, before sitting down against it to watch the dragonflies light upon the water as the sun glittered upon its surface. She could almost feel her mother’s arms around her as she rested within the twisted roots of the ancient tree. She noticed a few tiny, silver strands hanging off of some of the branches. The old hag's hair. Her mother would always be with her, and she would always be known.
July 16, 2011--Expelliarmus! The battle between life and death--within ourselves.
So, I think we all know that there's a message for readers in "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows." I think many of us who have read the series and watched the movies would agree that there are multiple messages. When you boil it down, of course, the most obvious message is good triumphs over evil. But as I was watching the final film installment last night, I realized there's a message in it for all of us that's more applicable.
We all have within us the seeds of our own destruction, as well as the seeds of our own triumph. Our lives are the result of the struggle between the two within us.
Throughout the series, Harry catches glimpses of Voldemort's thoughts. He discovers early on that without any instruction, he can speak parseltongue, the language of snakes--just as Voldemort can. He learns that when he taps into Voldemort's thoughts, Voldemort is also able to tap into his own. In the final installment of the series, what we all have begun to think about Harry is confirmed--within Harry is a sliver of Voldemort.
Aside from the obvious juxtaposition of good and evil between Harry and Voldemort, there is the equally interesting juxtaposition between Harry and Voldemort's former identity, Tom Riddle. Harry enjoys relative popularity and support from his peers in the world of Hogwarts, but prior to learning of his wizard identity, he was miserable and shunned within his mother's family who took him in after his parents were killed by Voldemort. Tom Riddle was an unpopular orphan, and never achieved any level of support or popularity until he sought the power of the dark arts, and then, he achieved magnetism and charisma through coercion and fear.
The success or failure of our lives is often based on our response to how others react to us. Because Harry defied death when Voldemort tried to kill him along with his parents, he never had to work on achieving heroic status. With the support and love of others, and that sliver of the very powerful Voldemort within, Harry was almost certainly "doomed" to succeed.
The big underlying question for Harry is the same question we all have to ask ourselves--are we willing to destroy the pieces of ourselves that seek to undo us in order to triumph? In the Harry Potter series, Albus Dumbledore reveals to Harry that Voldemort has created seven horcruxes, or pieces of his soul, that are hidden and spread out all over the place. Voldemort cannot be destroyed unless all seven of these horcruxes are destroyed. A horcrux is a magical name for something simple: a horcrux is a flaw or foible that prevents us from achieving our ultimate triumph.
Insecurity, doubt, sloth, jealousy--horcruxes. They hold us back. They keep us from trying. They whisper to us in a slithery tongue that we can't achieve our dreams. They seek to destroy the triumphant life we want for ourselves.
Until we go after our own horcruxes--however many there are--and destroy them, one by one, we will never be able to overcome the destructive nature within ourselves. The Voldemort in our lives wins. The orphaned Tom Riddle never gets to be Harry Potter.
It isn't until the last half hour that the true hero of the story is revealed to us. Of course, Harry defies death a second time and Voldemort is turned into ash, but he's not the hero.
Severus Snape is the secret savior of Hogwarts, Harry and the whole lot. The dark, taciturn professor, who appears to be in cahoots with Voldemort throughout the series, has been living a very well hidden duplicitous existence. For deep and enduring love of Lily Potter, Severus goes against his dark nature and aids Albus Dumbledore in keeping Harry safe. The deep wound of losing Lily to James Potter never leaves him, but even in his hurt, anger and deep sense of lifelong rejection, he loves her enough to keep her son alive by ingratiating himself with Voldemort and displaying loyalty to him in order to help fate along. In the end, he allows everyone to believe he himself is evil, and he sacrifices himself for the greater good. In the end, his dark image becomes a redeeming beacon of light for Harry, guiding him to do for love what Severus has done--give his life for it.
Severus Snape took control of his own horcruxes and mastered them. He knew who he was and what he was meant to be. He loved Lily. Harry was the embodiment of Lily. His triumph over his horcruxes allowed Lily and his love to live on in Harry. And they allowed him to become something he otherwise never could have been. The dark, taciturn, unpopular Snape became the shining, glowing Severus. Like Harry, he is marked by light.
Expelliarmus! Disarm your horcruxes. Disarm your self-destruction. And set your triumph free!
http://youtu.be/3_slOp6yhjQ
We all have within us the seeds of our own destruction, as well as the seeds of our own triumph. Our lives are the result of the struggle between the two within us.
Throughout the series, Harry catches glimpses of Voldemort's thoughts. He discovers early on that without any instruction, he can speak parseltongue, the language of snakes--just as Voldemort can. He learns that when he taps into Voldemort's thoughts, Voldemort is also able to tap into his own. In the final installment of the series, what we all have begun to think about Harry is confirmed--within Harry is a sliver of Voldemort.
Aside from the obvious juxtaposition of good and evil between Harry and Voldemort, there is the equally interesting juxtaposition between Harry and Voldemort's former identity, Tom Riddle. Harry enjoys relative popularity and support from his peers in the world of Hogwarts, but prior to learning of his wizard identity, he was miserable and shunned within his mother's family who took him in after his parents were killed by Voldemort. Tom Riddle was an unpopular orphan, and never achieved any level of support or popularity until he sought the power of the dark arts, and then, he achieved magnetism and charisma through coercion and fear.
The success or failure of our lives is often based on our response to how others react to us. Because Harry defied death when Voldemort tried to kill him along with his parents, he never had to work on achieving heroic status. With the support and love of others, and that sliver of the very powerful Voldemort within, Harry was almost certainly "doomed" to succeed.
The big underlying question for Harry is the same question we all have to ask ourselves--are we willing to destroy the pieces of ourselves that seek to undo us in order to triumph? In the Harry Potter series, Albus Dumbledore reveals to Harry that Voldemort has created seven horcruxes, or pieces of his soul, that are hidden and spread out all over the place. Voldemort cannot be destroyed unless all seven of these horcruxes are destroyed. A horcrux is a magical name for something simple: a horcrux is a flaw or foible that prevents us from achieving our ultimate triumph.
Insecurity, doubt, sloth, jealousy--horcruxes. They hold us back. They keep us from trying. They whisper to us in a slithery tongue that we can't achieve our dreams. They seek to destroy the triumphant life we want for ourselves.
Until we go after our own horcruxes--however many there are--and destroy them, one by one, we will never be able to overcome the destructive nature within ourselves. The Voldemort in our lives wins. The orphaned Tom Riddle never gets to be Harry Potter.
It isn't until the last half hour that the true hero of the story is revealed to us. Of course, Harry defies death a second time and Voldemort is turned into ash, but he's not the hero.
Severus Snape is the secret savior of Hogwarts, Harry and the whole lot. The dark, taciturn professor, who appears to be in cahoots with Voldemort throughout the series, has been living a very well hidden duplicitous existence. For deep and enduring love of Lily Potter, Severus goes against his dark nature and aids Albus Dumbledore in keeping Harry safe. The deep wound of losing Lily to James Potter never leaves him, but even in his hurt, anger and deep sense of lifelong rejection, he loves her enough to keep her son alive by ingratiating himself with Voldemort and displaying loyalty to him in order to help fate along. In the end, he allows everyone to believe he himself is evil, and he sacrifices himself for the greater good. In the end, his dark image becomes a redeeming beacon of light for Harry, guiding him to do for love what Severus has done--give his life for it.
Severus Snape took control of his own horcruxes and mastered them. He knew who he was and what he was meant to be. He loved Lily. Harry was the embodiment of Lily. His triumph over his horcruxes allowed Lily and his love to live on in Harry. And they allowed him to become something he otherwise never could have been. The dark, taciturn, unpopular Snape became the shining, glowing Severus. Like Harry, he is marked by light.
Expelliarmus! Disarm your horcruxes. Disarm your self-destruction. And set your triumph free!
http://youtu.be/3_slOp6yhjQ
Sunday, July 10, 2011
July 10, 2011--Talk isn't cheap.
So there are times I think our society is obsessed with problem-solving and discussion, but we never really do anything. After something that happened at work this week, it has me wondering how much all this talking costs.
If you walk into a book store, you almost can't get ten feet in without running smack into the latest self-help book, the latest diet book, the latest get-rich-quick book, or the latest book on management strategy. And my guess is that if you work someplace where staff meetings are routine, there's probably one problem that you talk about every single time. And every single time people throw out ideas and there's this great sense of accomplishment that the problem is on the way to being solved. I hate to be Debbie Downer, but six months from now, you're still going to be talking about that same problem.
As I look forward to yet another very important meeting, I know that we're going to talk about at least one problem that we have solved a million times, but have never really resolved. And there is a difference between solving a problem and resolving it. I'm currently the black sheep in my flock, and sharing ideas isn't something I feel comfortable doing anymore. Even if I did, I've lost confidence in the idea that anything will ever truly be done.
I don't think it's that much different in our personal lives sometimes. Blogging is a good tool for me. I like to think of it as working out sans heavy weights and the cardio. But I recognize that I sometimes seem to be pushing the same pebble up the same hill a lot of the time. The question is, how do you stop pushing the pebble and finally get it onto the pile, and what is the price we pay for never getting it there?
This week, an overloaded day taxed everyone physically and mentally. In many jobs, the result is frustration, complaining, poor morale and possibly lost productivity. In my job, it nearly cost a life, and it emotionally devastated a coworker for whom I care very much. If I had a nickle for every time we gathered and discussed what an appropriate workload is, I could quit my job and spend more time pushing this pebble. Sadly, every time we analyze the problem and we think we've come to an agreeable solution, we go back on it. When things happen like they did this week, it makes me wish the overload was burgers not patients.
Many of us are working in jobs we didn't plan for. Our lives led us down paths with strange and unexpected twists and turns. Meeting "the one" led us to move to a small town where our career options are limited. Losing a job led us fearfully into a safer position that gives us security, but not as much fulfillment. As a result, we end up living a life of shoulda, coulda, woulda, and "I wish."
Sometimes we find ourselves in friendships and relationships that are uneven and may be doing us more harm than good. We stay in them because we fear rejection, we fear being alone, or it's easier than trying something new.
Since here's no way to measure the emotional toll, we're doomed to continue. What I wish is that we had to put a dollar in a slot every time we said "I wish" and did nothing about it. I think only then would we realize how much of our time we are losing everyday and how much that time and all this talk really costs us.
I know it seems extreme to say that every "I wish" is one step closer to our undoing, but "I wishes" are like days. Every day that passes leads us one day closer to our last one. Life is too short to be filled with "I wish" instead of "I will." How much of your life can you afford to give away? Is there any part of your life that should belong to someone or something that doesn't turn your "I wishes" into "I did" or "I am?"
I think about the patient we almost lost this week because of crazy, and I want to look at my life with the same care and attention she deserved and should have been getting. Her life is precious. My life is precious. What about yours?
http://youtu.be/W0uqLM1uj_k
If you walk into a book store, you almost can't get ten feet in without running smack into the latest self-help book, the latest diet book, the latest get-rich-quick book, or the latest book on management strategy. And my guess is that if you work someplace where staff meetings are routine, there's probably one problem that you talk about every single time. And every single time people throw out ideas and there's this great sense of accomplishment that the problem is on the way to being solved. I hate to be Debbie Downer, but six months from now, you're still going to be talking about that same problem.
As I look forward to yet another very important meeting, I know that we're going to talk about at least one problem that we have solved a million times, but have never really resolved. And there is a difference between solving a problem and resolving it. I'm currently the black sheep in my flock, and sharing ideas isn't something I feel comfortable doing anymore. Even if I did, I've lost confidence in the idea that anything will ever truly be done.
I don't think it's that much different in our personal lives sometimes. Blogging is a good tool for me. I like to think of it as working out sans heavy weights and the cardio. But I recognize that I sometimes seem to be pushing the same pebble up the same hill a lot of the time. The question is, how do you stop pushing the pebble and finally get it onto the pile, and what is the price we pay for never getting it there?
This week, an overloaded day taxed everyone physically and mentally. In many jobs, the result is frustration, complaining, poor morale and possibly lost productivity. In my job, it nearly cost a life, and it emotionally devastated a coworker for whom I care very much. If I had a nickle for every time we gathered and discussed what an appropriate workload is, I could quit my job and spend more time pushing this pebble. Sadly, every time we analyze the problem and we think we've come to an agreeable solution, we go back on it. When things happen like they did this week, it makes me wish the overload was burgers not patients.
Many of us are working in jobs we didn't plan for. Our lives led us down paths with strange and unexpected twists and turns. Meeting "the one" led us to move to a small town where our career options are limited. Losing a job led us fearfully into a safer position that gives us security, but not as much fulfillment. As a result, we end up living a life of shoulda, coulda, woulda, and "I wish."
Sometimes we find ourselves in friendships and relationships that are uneven and may be doing us more harm than good. We stay in them because we fear rejection, we fear being alone, or it's easier than trying something new.
Since here's no way to measure the emotional toll, we're doomed to continue. What I wish is that we had to put a dollar in a slot every time we said "I wish" and did nothing about it. I think only then would we realize how much of our time we are losing everyday and how much that time and all this talk really costs us.
I know it seems extreme to say that every "I wish" is one step closer to our undoing, but "I wishes" are like days. Every day that passes leads us one day closer to our last one. Life is too short to be filled with "I wish" instead of "I will." How much of your life can you afford to give away? Is there any part of your life that should belong to someone or something that doesn't turn your "I wishes" into "I did" or "I am?"
I think about the patient we almost lost this week because of crazy, and I want to look at my life with the same care and attention she deserved and should have been getting. Her life is precious. My life is precious. What about yours?
http://youtu.be/W0uqLM1uj_k
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
July 6, 2011--Say it already! (really)
So, there's a scene in the movie "Twilight" where Edward the vampire, and Bella the human are in the woods and Bella has discovered Edward's secret. She's uncertain. The situation is dangerous. She loves him regardless of that danger and the risk involved.
As she begins to unfurl her theory about what he truly is, Edward wants Bella to face that truth, finally becoming impatient and demanding that she just come out with it.
"Say it!" He demands, and then pauses for dramatic effect. "Out loud."
And finally, Bella relents. "Vampire."
It's amazing to me how well this scene actually mimics real life. I know, you must be thinking I'm delusional, after all, nobody I know actually believes that vampires exist--not even me. What I mean is, the hemming and hawing, and fearfulness of being direct.
Most of us are afraid to share our true feelings about a lot of things. We're afraid, sometimes, to tell people what they mean to us, or that they have done something that is particularly meaningful for us. Other times, we're afraid because we don't want to expose too much of ourselves to someone else.
Why after unraveling Edward's secret did Bella hesitate to say the words? Vampires are dangerous, to be sure. Their diet consists, after all, of blood and they prefer human blood to any other kind. So it's plausible that Bella might have been in fear for her life. But those of us who have read the books and seen all the movies know that the real reason she was afraid was because she was afraid saying it would drive him away. She was more afraid of losing him than losing her life.
That's the common thread. We're afraid to damage or lose our connections.
In the last few days, I've had get-togethers with two friends--one new and one old. Both brought things to the surface that I don't like to look at, let alone talk about. And some of those things are unfounded and unreasonable perceptions and feelings that only serve to make me feel bad and allow me to stay in a pattern that's failing to serve any good purpose.
We all make choices in our lives, for better or worse, and those choices shape the paths that our lives take. If we're lucky, we aren't on that path alone. But sometimes, when we're unhappy, we start to wonder if we aren't dragging the other person along our own path and disregarding theirs. Sometimes we think that we can't take an exit to get back on the right track because we feel like we've gone on a wild goose chase and we don't want to harm the other person more with our galavanting around.
There was some deep discussion coming back from our trip to Chicago today. Time in a car and sleep deprivation tends to lead to deep conversation. During that conversation, Jeph said something to me that was a lot like someone grabbing me and violently shaking me. The thing about it is, he'd said the same thing before, just not in the "in your face" way that he said it today.
The fact that I hadn't ever really "heard" it is a tribute to one simple fact: He loves me.
Most people who know Jeph would never describe him as indirect, but unlike most people, I live with him, we have two dogs together and we've been together for more than eighteen years. That's a lot of connection and a lot of history. But he loves me, and he knows that just right now, I'm in a place where one "wrong" word can and will push me over the edge.
The problem--sometimes we need to be pushed over the edge. Sometimes the only way to stop teeter tottering is to fall of the cliff so we can try to find a way back up. By the same token, sometimes we need others to reach out to us and tell us what they're thinking because it's the rope we can hang onto when we're trying to climb back up.
I have a friend that I am just getting to know. She reads my blog and some other things I write, but it's hard for her to tell me what she thinks sometimes.
In returning to that scene from "Twilight" with Bella and Edward, I think we've already cleared up that Bella wasn't afraid of being breakfast, lunch or dinner. So, what else might she have been afraid of? What if she was wrong? Then she would have been embarrassed--mortified. How could she face him again after revealing such a ludicrous idea? Just because she figured it out, what right did she have to assume he wanted her to know? She might be overstepping. After all, it's not like they knew each other that well.
The fear of embarrassment ties back to fear of loss of connection. If we say too much--if we gush, will we be rejected?
In the case of Edward and Bella, the only way that they could know each other better or strengthen their connection was to take away the wall between them. That wall was Edward's secret. Without Bella knowing his secret, Edward couldn't be himself. Without Bella knowing his secret, he couldn't learn that he also could trust her to keep it. He might have preferred for her not to know and, for her safety, for the connection not to have strengthened, but at least in the case of Edward and Bella, love conquers all, and there was never really any other reasonable outcome.
In the case of my new friend, she couldn't know that my biggest dream harbors my greatest fear. I have dreamed of becoming a real writer for most of my life. The tiny, early stabs I took at it weren't successful. It doesn't matter why they weren't successful, like most people, the scars of those failures have handicapped me. I'm too afraid to really put myself out there, because I'm afraid those losers I failed with were probably right--otherwise, why would I have failed? And so, at the risk of appearing egomaniacal, I need feedback like most people need air. Without it, I can't breathe.
So, say it! Whatever it is. It's a risk. It's a leap. What's on the other side really matters.
http://youtu.be/oYJR6F6AiXE
As she begins to unfurl her theory about what he truly is, Edward wants Bella to face that truth, finally becoming impatient and demanding that she just come out with it.
"Say it!" He demands, and then pauses for dramatic effect. "Out loud."
And finally, Bella relents. "Vampire."
It's amazing to me how well this scene actually mimics real life. I know, you must be thinking I'm delusional, after all, nobody I know actually believes that vampires exist--not even me. What I mean is, the hemming and hawing, and fearfulness of being direct.
Most of us are afraid to share our true feelings about a lot of things. We're afraid, sometimes, to tell people what they mean to us, or that they have done something that is particularly meaningful for us. Other times, we're afraid because we don't want to expose too much of ourselves to someone else.
Why after unraveling Edward's secret did Bella hesitate to say the words? Vampires are dangerous, to be sure. Their diet consists, after all, of blood and they prefer human blood to any other kind. So it's plausible that Bella might have been in fear for her life. But those of us who have read the books and seen all the movies know that the real reason she was afraid was because she was afraid saying it would drive him away. She was more afraid of losing him than losing her life.
That's the common thread. We're afraid to damage or lose our connections.
In the last few days, I've had get-togethers with two friends--one new and one old. Both brought things to the surface that I don't like to look at, let alone talk about. And some of those things are unfounded and unreasonable perceptions and feelings that only serve to make me feel bad and allow me to stay in a pattern that's failing to serve any good purpose.
We all make choices in our lives, for better or worse, and those choices shape the paths that our lives take. If we're lucky, we aren't on that path alone. But sometimes, when we're unhappy, we start to wonder if we aren't dragging the other person along our own path and disregarding theirs. Sometimes we think that we can't take an exit to get back on the right track because we feel like we've gone on a wild goose chase and we don't want to harm the other person more with our galavanting around.
There was some deep discussion coming back from our trip to Chicago today. Time in a car and sleep deprivation tends to lead to deep conversation. During that conversation, Jeph said something to me that was a lot like someone grabbing me and violently shaking me. The thing about it is, he'd said the same thing before, just not in the "in your face" way that he said it today.
The fact that I hadn't ever really "heard" it is a tribute to one simple fact: He loves me.
Most people who know Jeph would never describe him as indirect, but unlike most people, I live with him, we have two dogs together and we've been together for more than eighteen years. That's a lot of connection and a lot of history. But he loves me, and he knows that just right now, I'm in a place where one "wrong" word can and will push me over the edge.
The problem--sometimes we need to be pushed over the edge. Sometimes the only way to stop teeter tottering is to fall of the cliff so we can try to find a way back up. By the same token, sometimes we need others to reach out to us and tell us what they're thinking because it's the rope we can hang onto when we're trying to climb back up.
I have a friend that I am just getting to know. She reads my blog and some other things I write, but it's hard for her to tell me what she thinks sometimes.
In returning to that scene from "Twilight" with Bella and Edward, I think we've already cleared up that Bella wasn't afraid of being breakfast, lunch or dinner. So, what else might she have been afraid of? What if she was wrong? Then she would have been embarrassed--mortified. How could she face him again after revealing such a ludicrous idea? Just because she figured it out, what right did she have to assume he wanted her to know? She might be overstepping. After all, it's not like they knew each other that well.
The fear of embarrassment ties back to fear of loss of connection. If we say too much--if we gush, will we be rejected?
In the case of Edward and Bella, the only way that they could know each other better or strengthen their connection was to take away the wall between them. That wall was Edward's secret. Without Bella knowing his secret, Edward couldn't be himself. Without Bella knowing his secret, he couldn't learn that he also could trust her to keep it. He might have preferred for her not to know and, for her safety, for the connection not to have strengthened, but at least in the case of Edward and Bella, love conquers all, and there was never really any other reasonable outcome.
In the case of my new friend, she couldn't know that my biggest dream harbors my greatest fear. I have dreamed of becoming a real writer for most of my life. The tiny, early stabs I took at it weren't successful. It doesn't matter why they weren't successful, like most people, the scars of those failures have handicapped me. I'm too afraid to really put myself out there, because I'm afraid those losers I failed with were probably right--otherwise, why would I have failed? And so, at the risk of appearing egomaniacal, I need feedback like most people need air. Without it, I can't breathe.
So, say it! Whatever it is. It's a risk. It's a leap. What's on the other side really matters.
http://youtu.be/oYJR6F6AiXE
Sunday, July 3, 2011
July 3, 2011--If you have something someone covets--share it.
So, holidays and family are kind of weird for me. I grew up as part of a family that always made a huge to do about the holidays. At times it was tiring, because there always seemed to be a fight at our house about how to spend any holiday, at others, it was a blast.
While I'm not particularly patriotic, the Fourth of July was always a special holiday growing up. Among the many components of the perfect Fourth were the trips to one or more fireworks stands, burning sparklers and snakes all over my Grandma Beeman's walkway, running in and out of the house after big glasses of instant iced tea, fried sun perch and blue gill, and homemade ice cream.
It wasn't a successful event if I hadn't eaten enough to almost be sick, there hadn't been at least one near encounter with a copperhead or water moccasin, and so many fireworks that it seemed like it would take days for all of the smoke to clear.
Those wonderful Fourths ended about 20 years ago for me, when my stepfather and my mom divorced. It was an easy trade-off. I'd rather have my life (literally) as those fish fries, but I still miss sitting at the big red picnic table my grandfather built, and listening to all of the ruckous of family everywhere.
People often look at the things that Jeph and I do and think we're living the life. And in many ways, we are. I wouldn't trade being able to jump in the car and road trip to see U2 this Tuesday night for much of anything. I wouldn't trade the four trips we've made to Ireland in the last ten years (well, maybe one of them). I wouldn't stop going to eat in restaurants, going on trips or seeing movies by myself when I really want to go for anything either. And because of all the freedom I have in my life to do all of these things, I wouldn't trade my husband for anyone. But in living the life we live that other people might want, just like everyone else, we sometimes see the holes nobody else sees.
Jeph's good friend, Angela, invited us to her family's Fourth of July barbecue. I'm not much of a social butterfly, and acclimating to a slew of strangers is never an easy or comfortable prospect for me. I am the classic wallflower. I always worry about that, because I think that makes me seem aloof, when I'm anything but that. I'm also always sure that I won't have anything to talk about with anyone, which will make my uncomfortable awkwardness even more obvious.
In spite of all of these apprehensions, we went. It was the closest thing to my former family's Fourth of July celebrations I've had in forever. There were children running around and being obnoxiously loud and violent. Menfolk sat around and talked about the things that menfolk sit around and talk about. Others grilled and served. Women chatted about what their kids were up to and about the recent tornado just thirty short minutes south. The pool was full, until the rain started and the festivities had to be moved indoors.
And when the tell-tale bucket was brought to the edge of the patio carrying the one thing that I remember most about the Fourth celebrations of my family, I felt myself tearing up a bit. My cousins and I used to take turns cranking the ice cream maker, and adding rock salt and ice when we were kids. It was years before my grandparents bought an electric one--and only then so we could have more than one flavor and not have to wait so long. Seeing that bucket at the edge of the patio was like a gentle whisper in the cool breeze that came up with the sudden thundershower that broke out--"you can still have a home."
It seems like a crazy thing to take away from a bucket of vanilla ice cream, but it's no more crazy than when I tell friends that they can jump in a car or a plane and go someplace they've never been and not to be afraid.
I long ago accepted that my family was irrevocably altered by the years of abuse in my household and the broken minds of the family I had been a part of. But even with that acceptance, the longing is ever-present.
We all long for something. No matter how great our lives are, there's always some underlying secret or even publicly disclosed wish that somehow seems always to be just out of our reach.
I often don't think of it as sharing, but what I do right here in this virtual space is giving a piece of what I have to people who don't live the same life I do. Just in the same way Angela so easily gave Jeph and me a piece of the life she lives with her family.
Life's short. Everyone should try to go after the things in their lives that they really long for and most desire. But in lieu of dropping everything you're doing that can't be dropped, look to the friend next to you and accept the piece of those dreams they want to share. It's worth it.
http://youtu.be/qkk5wViJo-I
While I'm not particularly patriotic, the Fourth of July was always a special holiday growing up. Among the many components of the perfect Fourth were the trips to one or more fireworks stands, burning sparklers and snakes all over my Grandma Beeman's walkway, running in and out of the house after big glasses of instant iced tea, fried sun perch and blue gill, and homemade ice cream.
It wasn't a successful event if I hadn't eaten enough to almost be sick, there hadn't been at least one near encounter with a copperhead or water moccasin, and so many fireworks that it seemed like it would take days for all of the smoke to clear.
Those wonderful Fourths ended about 20 years ago for me, when my stepfather and my mom divorced. It was an easy trade-off. I'd rather have my life (literally) as those fish fries, but I still miss sitting at the big red picnic table my grandfather built, and listening to all of the ruckous of family everywhere.
People often look at the things that Jeph and I do and think we're living the life. And in many ways, we are. I wouldn't trade being able to jump in the car and road trip to see U2 this Tuesday night for much of anything. I wouldn't trade the four trips we've made to Ireland in the last ten years (well, maybe one of them). I wouldn't stop going to eat in restaurants, going on trips or seeing movies by myself when I really want to go for anything either. And because of all the freedom I have in my life to do all of these things, I wouldn't trade my husband for anyone. But in living the life we live that other people might want, just like everyone else, we sometimes see the holes nobody else sees.
Jeph's good friend, Angela, invited us to her family's Fourth of July barbecue. I'm not much of a social butterfly, and acclimating to a slew of strangers is never an easy or comfortable prospect for me. I am the classic wallflower. I always worry about that, because I think that makes me seem aloof, when I'm anything but that. I'm also always sure that I won't have anything to talk about with anyone, which will make my uncomfortable awkwardness even more obvious.
In spite of all of these apprehensions, we went. It was the closest thing to my former family's Fourth of July celebrations I've had in forever. There were children running around and being obnoxiously loud and violent. Menfolk sat around and talked about the things that menfolk sit around and talk about. Others grilled and served. Women chatted about what their kids were up to and about the recent tornado just thirty short minutes south. The pool was full, until the rain started and the festivities had to be moved indoors.
And when the tell-tale bucket was brought to the edge of the patio carrying the one thing that I remember most about the Fourth celebrations of my family, I felt myself tearing up a bit. My cousins and I used to take turns cranking the ice cream maker, and adding rock salt and ice when we were kids. It was years before my grandparents bought an electric one--and only then so we could have more than one flavor and not have to wait so long. Seeing that bucket at the edge of the patio was like a gentle whisper in the cool breeze that came up with the sudden thundershower that broke out--"you can still have a home."
It seems like a crazy thing to take away from a bucket of vanilla ice cream, but it's no more crazy than when I tell friends that they can jump in a car or a plane and go someplace they've never been and not to be afraid.
I long ago accepted that my family was irrevocably altered by the years of abuse in my household and the broken minds of the family I had been a part of. But even with that acceptance, the longing is ever-present.
We all long for something. No matter how great our lives are, there's always some underlying secret or even publicly disclosed wish that somehow seems always to be just out of our reach.
I often don't think of it as sharing, but what I do right here in this virtual space is giving a piece of what I have to people who don't live the same life I do. Just in the same way Angela so easily gave Jeph and me a piece of the life she lives with her family.
Life's short. Everyone should try to go after the things in their lives that they really long for and most desire. But in lieu of dropping everything you're doing that can't be dropped, look to the friend next to you and accept the piece of those dreams they want to share. It's worth it.
http://youtu.be/qkk5wViJo-I
Saturday, July 2, 2011
July 2, 2011--The spirit of truth and its malleability in the hands of a lie.
So, yesterday would have been Princess Diana's fiftieth birthday. I'm a day late, and sorry about that. I've thought of her several times this week.
Her image is on the cover of at least a couple of magazines, including Newsweek, which put her on their cover next to Kate Middleton. She's on the cover of a commemorative edition of Life magazine as well. In addition, she is the subject of a new novel written by Monica Ali entitled "The Untold Story," which explores the idea of a Diana who survived the terrible crash in Paris and subsequently faked her own death in hopes of living a simpler and more peaceful existence. The novel is causing a little bit of a stir in the UK, and some people believe it to be tacky. I'm torn.
On the one hand, I understand that Diana has a family who would give anything for one more day with her, and someone exploring this painful wound so publicly and fictionally is an unwelcome reminder that there never will be another day with her. On the other hand, the idea that Diana lives on is not truly a myth or story, because for those of us who admired her and followed her, up close, or from a distance, she most certainly lives on in our hearts. There is the legacy of her two boys, the legacy of her charitable and humanitarian work, the legacy of her beauty, and the legacy of relation and understanding that made her "The People's Princess."
The controversy over this novel, and the speculation over what she might look like at fifty started me thinking about something else--truth. What is the truth? I think that there are different kinds of truth.
In recent months, another controversial author returned to the spotlight--more like the afterglow, given that his most recent media appearance was in two of the final episodes of the Oprah Winfrey Show. James Frey, author of "A Million Little Pieces" sat down with Oprah to talk about what happened in his life after the televised "lynching" he endured after confessing that portions of his memoir were embellished and fluffed up to make his story more interesting for the reader. I've never read "A Million Little Pieces," but I understand it to be Frey's memoir about dealing with drug addiction and recovery. James Frey had a drug problem. He struggled with it and he recovered. The spirit of the memoir is no less true because he did what we all do--he pushed the lines of anecdotal information so his audience would find his story more meaningful and entertaining. The result he sought to achieve was to give others suffering in the same struggle hope that they might also be able to recover. Setting aside pieces of his truth that might have gotten stretched in the process, Frey says he still hears from readers that his story has meaning for them. "A Million Little Pieces" is true.
The controversy over truth and stretched truth also reminds me of the 2003 Tim Burton movie "Big Fish." In "Big Fish," Edward Bloom is a master of "tall tales." His son Will is confounded after discovering what he believes to be proof that his father's stories aren't true. As Edward spends his final days in a hospital bed, he insists to Will that his stories are absolutely true. After his death, Will begins to discover little pieces of truth that bring veracity to his father's tales. He finally comes to realize that for his father, every bit of every tale he ever told was true--it's a matter of feeling and a matter of perspective.
No matter what we know to be true about ourselves and others, truth is relative. Truth is fragile and slippery. Just this week, I dealt with the consequences of someone else's truth. A simple conversation I had with someone turned into something that hurt and frustrated me, as well as planted the seeds of harm and doubt in the minds of others. We can't control other people's versions of our truths, no matter how we might try. Even the smallest germ of information, when planted in fertile soils, can blossom into something we never anticipated or intended--good or bad.
And so truth becomes malleable, and it serves its purveyor's purposes. The risk of our own truths being stolen can make it tempting to never share any part of ourselves, for fear that those small pieces of ourselves will be reshaped and we won't recognize them in the hands of others. That's the challenge of life--knowing when it is worth it to take those risks, and knowing when, in the hands of others, the truth of who we are is nothing more than a lie.
http://youtu.be/vGVGove7IsI
Her image is on the cover of at least a couple of magazines, including Newsweek, which put her on their cover next to Kate Middleton. She's on the cover of a commemorative edition of Life magazine as well. In addition, she is the subject of a new novel written by Monica Ali entitled "The Untold Story," which explores the idea of a Diana who survived the terrible crash in Paris and subsequently faked her own death in hopes of living a simpler and more peaceful existence. The novel is causing a little bit of a stir in the UK, and some people believe it to be tacky. I'm torn.
On the one hand, I understand that Diana has a family who would give anything for one more day with her, and someone exploring this painful wound so publicly and fictionally is an unwelcome reminder that there never will be another day with her. On the other hand, the idea that Diana lives on is not truly a myth or story, because for those of us who admired her and followed her, up close, or from a distance, she most certainly lives on in our hearts. There is the legacy of her two boys, the legacy of her charitable and humanitarian work, the legacy of her beauty, and the legacy of relation and understanding that made her "The People's Princess."
The controversy over this novel, and the speculation over what she might look like at fifty started me thinking about something else--truth. What is the truth? I think that there are different kinds of truth.
In recent months, another controversial author returned to the spotlight--more like the afterglow, given that his most recent media appearance was in two of the final episodes of the Oprah Winfrey Show. James Frey, author of "A Million Little Pieces" sat down with Oprah to talk about what happened in his life after the televised "lynching" he endured after confessing that portions of his memoir were embellished and fluffed up to make his story more interesting for the reader. I've never read "A Million Little Pieces," but I understand it to be Frey's memoir about dealing with drug addiction and recovery. James Frey had a drug problem. He struggled with it and he recovered. The spirit of the memoir is no less true because he did what we all do--he pushed the lines of anecdotal information so his audience would find his story more meaningful and entertaining. The result he sought to achieve was to give others suffering in the same struggle hope that they might also be able to recover. Setting aside pieces of his truth that might have gotten stretched in the process, Frey says he still hears from readers that his story has meaning for them. "A Million Little Pieces" is true.
The controversy over truth and stretched truth also reminds me of the 2003 Tim Burton movie "Big Fish." In "Big Fish," Edward Bloom is a master of "tall tales." His son Will is confounded after discovering what he believes to be proof that his father's stories aren't true. As Edward spends his final days in a hospital bed, he insists to Will that his stories are absolutely true. After his death, Will begins to discover little pieces of truth that bring veracity to his father's tales. He finally comes to realize that for his father, every bit of every tale he ever told was true--it's a matter of feeling and a matter of perspective.
No matter what we know to be true about ourselves and others, truth is relative. Truth is fragile and slippery. Just this week, I dealt with the consequences of someone else's truth. A simple conversation I had with someone turned into something that hurt and frustrated me, as well as planted the seeds of harm and doubt in the minds of others. We can't control other people's versions of our truths, no matter how we might try. Even the smallest germ of information, when planted in fertile soils, can blossom into something we never anticipated or intended--good or bad.
And so truth becomes malleable, and it serves its purveyor's purposes. The risk of our own truths being stolen can make it tempting to never share any part of ourselves, for fear that those small pieces of ourselves will be reshaped and we won't recognize them in the hands of others. That's the challenge of life--knowing when it is worth it to take those risks, and knowing when, in the hands of others, the truth of who we are is nothing more than a lie.
http://youtu.be/vGVGove7IsI
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