The fruit of the tree

 

Sometimes I think that I have not accomplished those things I want in life, but sometimes I have to admit that the really important things seem to have happened.

I look at my children and I am content. I am proud of who they are and what they have accomplished. None of them have had an easy life, but they all seem to have flourished in their own way.

I really can't take credit for that, but I did try to give them well rounded childhoods with as many skills as I had to share. 

My youngest son can do anything I can do and so much more! He cooks, sews, plays music, reads, is very social and a great father, as well as being able to fix or make almost anything under the sun.

My older son is also an accomplished cook and father. He's a fantastic musician, great athlete, very adventurous and a wonderful lawyer.

My daughter has come the farthest! She has turned from a little girl who could not speak at four into a beautiful woman who grabs life by the lapels and makes it grand! Her daughters do her credit, her home is lovely and her smile is genuine. She is an asset anywhere she goes.

I am so proud of them all. 

Spirit Week

 

This is spirit week at school. Every day we are doing something different to involve the children and I feel it is important that they see the grown-ups embrace these moments with passion.

Today was crazy hair, or hat day. I wore my Raggedy Ann yarn mop wig and it was the talk of the classroom. Some of these children are already reticent about looking different or silly, so it was important that we talk about it and that I persevere.

Almost everyone, at some point, had to come up and finger my wig, or ask why I wore it. 

It is fun to wear! It is silly! I like wearing it for crazy hair day! Why not wear it?  There was lots of conversation, which is what we want for 3 and 4 year olds.

Later we were dancing. It is their first time dancing to the music here, so it was all new too. Around and around in the circle we danced. We strutted. We stomped. We wiggled. We waved and every time the music said "Boo!" we dropped to the ground on our hands and feet.

I was having a ball when suddenly my center of gravity shifted and I rolled backwards, cracking my head very hard and landing on my lower back. Of course I hopped up and assured everyone I was okay and I think I am, but I had to stop dancing.

Tonight my head feels like my brain is rattling around loose in there and my body feels like it was on the rack. I don't think I'll be doing a lot of dancing in the future. At least not the kind with drops!

Tomorrow is orange and black day and I have a pumpkin shirt to wear with my black pants and shoes. Later will be sports day and on Friday I am wearing the whole Raggedy Ann Character, bloomers, apron, socks, et al.

Life is no fun if I don't get really involved.

Perfectly flat

 

There is nothing wrong with my life right now. In this moment my tax problems won't appear until tax time 2024. I have a good job. My health seems much improved. I have everything I need to survive.

My apartment is very comfortable and clean. I can eat pretty much whatever I want. I have drawn a picture for Bestest, painted some today, finished a good book. I have played my keyboard for an hour or two. I've even watched television and could watch my favorite actor on any one of many DVDs. 

My life should feel perfect, but it is flat.

I can think of nothing that will turn it back into a three dimensional occasion. 

I have been compressed into nothingness for the time being.

Chrysalis dreams

 

They say the butterfly dissolves into nothing but goo inside the chrysalis. It evolves from that creepy little caterpillar into a beautiful butterfly after undergoing agonizing changes.

I am there now.

Totally destroyed.

I've lost nearly everything important to me in this moment. My Muse has disappeared. The person who supported me on my chat is gone. I am not drawing my pictures. I am not painting. I am barely able to think, let alone write lately.

I am starting a new job in my mid seventies working with women who are sometimes a quarter my age. I come home so exhausted that I can barely function and only rest until the next time I go to work.

But I am still alive! I am beginning to acclimate. l will survive! 

I think maybe my wings are beginning to form and I wonder.

Will I be a butterfly? Will I find myself out seeking the nectar from the flowers once more? Will I find poetry in these last beautiful years of my life on earth? 

Will the light finally lift me up into what I was meant to be? Is it too late, or just in time?

These are the dreams I dream tonight.

Scammers, a real Halloween story

 

I recently read this article:  

https://www.ohchr.org/en/press-releases/2023/08/hundreds-thousands-trafficked-work-online-scammers-se-asia-says-un-report

It speaks to something that crossed my mind when I was scammed last year. I do remember thinking, "What if this person is only trying to put food into the mouths of their hungry children?" 

It never occurred to me that they might be being coerced, or tortured, or their families threatened to get the money they got from me, but it makes sense, because even after they knew I had filed a police report and that my account was totally dry, gone, empty, they tried to find a way to keep getting some money from me.

It also makes sense of all the fake Instagram people reaching out trying to pass themselves off as other people.

I was cruelly scammed. My heart was broken by the fake love affair, but if it had been real it would have been the greatest love affair of my entire life. 

This person fed all my dreams. He sent me flowers and center pieces at Christmas. He sent truffles and a teddy bear. He spent hours telling me sweet things and making me feel good about myself. I have a note he wrote telling me why we belonged together. He made the house "we were buying" so real that I can walk through it in my mind today. He was an incredible dream weaver. I had thousands of texts from him, all of them intelligent, thoughtful and kind. Some of them did seem desperate enough for money that I occasionally had doubts even in the middle of it all, but those were always explained away.

I do feel betrayed and used. I feel embarrassed and shamed. I have had to go back to work in my seventies to make ends meet, but I still would not want to think of this person being forced to do it all under fear for himself or his family. 

I still think of him when I wake at four in the morning and remember those simple but sweet conversations. How they could have been so fake and yet so perfect I will never know.

Suffering is a lucrative sport

 

One by one tragedy strikes. Retribution. Frustration. Greed. Fear. Pain.

Who do we trust? Who does not benefit from dealing with these things?

Politics, religion, military, health, they all make money off of misery.

Suffering is a lucrative sport to take part in, whether the claim is to alleviate it, or profit from it.

For every hand out, there is a wily coyote lurking nearby selling snake oil in heavenly doses.

A case can be made for almost anything and it is, but if there is no profit, it cannot last.

Yet it is the profit that sullies the water. Profit is defined by dollars and cents, not quality of life.

Top dogs will not live in discomfort, but the line between honor and zeal is often slim.

The price of living today makes monsters out of most of us.

Each tiny step we take to eliminate our own suffering often adds to someone else's, whether that is shopping at the wrong store, eating the wrong food, fighting the wrong fight. Any grappling for a hand hold tugs someone else down the ladder. 

So where does the stand begin?

Breathing

Take a breath.

My life is accompanied by internal music.

Pipe organ sounds reverberate through my being.

My chest convulses.

I dream of being unborn, under water.

Panic fills what air is left.

Medicine is hard to come by, not because of the doctor, but because my body rejects it all.

I live in a misty world of hives and electric tension from the prednisone. 

Dreaming in the chair I call my bed exhausts me.

I move through this world like a zombie

Seizing small moments to clean or shop, or take out the trash

Life has become eternal small moments.

Until this morning.

Breathing!

Such a glorious gift!

A room with no ties

 

There is no real time table for growing up. Some of us grow up and die at three, others never grow up at all. Maturation is a series of stages, of tests, of coming of age again and again and again until our souls are too full to continue.

And then we die.

To what? 

To something else? 

To nothing? 

In between our dreams carry us onward, ever onward.

Once I woke up in a room with only a bed. No curtains on the windows. No shades, No hanging lights. Nothing in the room longer than ten inches. Even the shower had tiny towels and that day, two days after my first baby turned 18,  I knew I was older. No longer an innocent if not yet mature. 

My dreams changed. My life changed and it has kept on changing. 

Life is but a dream.

When I grow too tired to dream who knows what will happen.

Love isn't

 

There is a difference between love and self fulfillment.

Fulfilling my wants and needs at the expense of another is not love.

Love is doing the very best I possibly can when dealing with another soul. 

It may not be convenient. It may not feel good. It may even feel counter intuitive at times, but if it helps them become a healthy independent person who has a chance at happiness it is worth it.

Love is not all hearts and flowers. 

It is common sense, hard work, and consistency.

Fearful love

 

It is right to fear being hurt and nothing hurts more than a broken heart, but what youth does not realize is that the rubble from that heart becomes the building blocks for the next adventure.

Fear of failure is okay as long as it does not stop me from living my life to the fullest and for me that means finding what makes me happy. 

I am happiest when I am caring for someone I love. I have discovered it is possible to love completely and lose. It is possible to love an idea. It is possible to love from only one side. In the end, all love is love.

And all love lost is shatteringly painful.

But even that pain cannot stop the fact that the rubble is there to be sifted through and put to a better use. In the end I can say that I have loved with my whole being and I do not regret one second of it. What better way to live than to look fear in the face and love and love and love.

Limbo

 

I've been watching a new movie where the main character is a highly tatooed drug addicted policeman investigating a twenty year old unsolved case.

It is in black and white and everything about it would indicate that this will be a film noir piece that would generally not appeal to me. Yet it did. I have watched it and rewatched it quite a few time, always gleaning something new from each viewing.

First of all the people are real people, living lives I can relate to. Emma, with her three kids in the back seat is reminiscent of my childhood. My mother never left us alone. She piled us into the back seat of the car and took us with her as she attempted to do various low paying jobs to make ends meet. Charlie is the typical small town, man, working hard at a dead end job, trying to deal with being a man in the local sense, while finding himself not able to connect with his own kids, being raised by his sister. These are not hollywood people who whip through their lives meeting impossible barricades with gloss and glitter. They are down to earth, day to day people dealing with hard every day situations the best they can. It's feels real.

Travis, the policeman, comes into their lives, unwanted, knowing he probably can't do what he's there to do and yet he makes a difference by simply being a decent human being who is cognizant of their situation. Tattooed with angel wings and various other graffiti all over his body he tells one of the children he is from up there. (He simply points at the sky.) The savvy child knows this isn't true and yet his choices of what he listens to in his car and his demeanor make me wonder.

Even the dogs in this movie cause me to ponder. It is that kind of a film.

I wanted to watch this film because my favorite actor is in it, but I never expected to find myself so entranced by the slow unfolding depth of it.

Holes

 

I have not written a thot for a while because I have been sick.

Not sick enough to stay home. I'm still going to work but in order to have enough energy to do my job I need to rest or sleep most of the rest of the time if I am not working.  I am exhausted.

I love my job though and think that once my body readjusts to all the germs kids bring to day care, we will all thrive. I was never a fan of Day Care, but the place I work is as close as you can get to a good home. The food is fresh and nutritious and the children eat it. The ratio of adults to children is amazing. The attention to time spent outside and in is regulated by well educated people who care deeply about the children in their care. There are laps to sit on, hugs to help. and kisses for boo boos.

My life is good except for the holes and one of those is my brother who died a few years ago. It still doesn't feel right to have Autumn without his birthday. He would have loved these kids I work with. They are definitely his kind of people.

Why do they do it?

 Why do some people annoy me more than others?

What is it that sparks my indignation, or anger? I wonder, because it bothers me to feel those things.

 I spoke about it with my son and he thinks that maybe these are people who try to purposely be crass. They express themselves in rude words and phrases. Possibly thinking it makes them cool, or sophisticated, but possibly just out of sheer ignorance.

Or sometimes they say the same crass thing over and over. Are they waiting for me to comment on it? Some stubborn part of me wants to ignore all their needs in that moment, but it doesn't seem to discourage them.

I wonder if they are simply unaware of who they are, would it be a kindness to tell them? It doesn't feel like it to me, but them I would be appalled to hear these things said about me. These same people talk about the "bad" things others do and mention numerous things they do themselves, which leads me to believe they have no idea how they are coming across.

How do you tell someone you love that they are saying crass things, talking with their mouth full of food and complaining about the very things they do? It makes me wonder if they do it on purpose as a passive aggressive way of expressing their anger with me. Frankly I would rather they just tell me what is bothering them.

Personal movies

 

Without an imagination my life would be unbearable.

I've weeded out most of the unsavory characters in my life. If you live long enough that only makes sense. It takes a lot of energy to do the important things, so why keep up with the unimportant ones?

I have no regrets except that maybe I never met the one true love this time around. I say that believing there is one, but not sure if I believe there will be more times around.

Thank goodness for books. They provide those vicarious experiences I crave but do not have. How do people survive without books in their lives?

Now, of course, they have television and movies to give even more realism to those fantasies that once only danced in their heads. 

But books and movies aside, my mind and my imagination enhance my life immensely. They are the spice that makes dull days and tedious hours bearable. When it is too dark to read and the power is off, my mind goes to work double time. Creating dreams and nightmares where I feel I have no control and day dreams where I am everything.

I sometimes wonder if other creatures have imaginations. I know some people seem to lack the ability to use theirs for enjoyment, but all people have access to a realm that exists only in their head. Mistaking it for reality can be the source of their downfall, but grabbing hold of the reins and using it to experience all those things they are dying to have can be extraordinary.

A child's life

 

I was once a private preschool teacher. Our students came for two hours a day, two days a week when they were three years old. Four year olds came two and a half hours a day, three days a week.

That is a huge difference between preschool and day care. Day care includes preschool skills, but it also lasts up to nine hours a day which is a huge portion of a child's life.

The children are the same as they always were, but now those hours spent one on one with mama, or grandma must be shared with seven to nineteen other children!

It makes a huge difference when a day care hires more people to support these classes. Two teachers can handle the job, but three, or four make it much less hectic and allows much more time for children to have one on one attention.

If children sleep ten hours and go to day care nine hours,  That means all but five hours of their day is spoken for. 

They need to learn to play with other children and follow rules, but they also still need cuddles and hugs and someone who listens to exactly what they are saying and helps them articulate their feelings.

A good preschool allows for all of this in their curriculum and staffing, but that takes money and it makes it expensive for parents, who are often young themselves and just starting out. Still, all children deserve this kind of care.

Teachers

 

My daughter't teachers have played a huge role in both her life and mine.

Diagnosed with learning disabilities thanks to her first grade teacher, she started a journey that is still continuing. 

These people are still in our lives. When I decided to go back to work this year I asked one of them to be a reference for me and she gladly accepted.

These teachers not only taught in the classroom, we camped with them on vacations, celebrated with them on holidays, became neighbors for a while and are still friends on Facebook.

They made the difference for my child. Instead of a life long struggle living in confusion and poverty she now lives in her own beautiful home with a pool. It was a long hard journey, but it was worth it for all of us.

People often forget that teaching involves not just the student, but the parents, siblings and everyone else in a child's life. Making a difference requires round the clock work, because consistency is the greatest tool anyone has for making a change.

If a teacher can't reach the parents, a child loses at least half of his or her chance to succeed. When a teacher suggests testing a child for anything it is not a prescription for doom. It is not labeling a child as defective. It is offering that child a chance to reach their full potential.

Choices

 

I will be many things in my life, but I hope most of them will be things I orchestrated or chose for myself.

That means I have to taker responsibility for myself and understand that what happens to me is usually the result of something I did, or did not do.

I can't help if I am born with a disability, but I can help how I choose to live with it and I realize some things are harder to deal with than others. My granddaughter has cerebral palsy through no fault of her own, but she has learned to cope. Most of us have something we have to cope with even if it isn't so big. Coping is a very useful skill to have.

Sometimes I am better at coping than others. Long term things can wear me down, but eventually I usually discover some way to take control back and move forward. The important thing to remember is that it is never too late to change directions and try something new or more productive.

I am a mother, grandmother, sister, friend, writer, musician, artist and many other things, but I refuse to be a victim, which isn't always easy because when I grew up I was led to believe victims got more care and love than other people. Now I realize that love and pity are not the same thing.  Being pitiful makes you a victim not only of yourself, but others too. Respect and pity seldom go hand in hand.

I was on my way to being a victim when my daughter reminded me of something I had taught her long ago. One simple sentence got me back on the right path. "Mom, you could get a job." And I did. 

Best shot

 

Once upon a time there is you! 

And your fairy tale is true. You will climb glass mountains, ford raging streams, fight dark knights and fall madly in love with something or someone.

You may not recognize these obstacles for what they are, but they are the journey fate set before you and how you deal with them  tells your story.

Who knows what will happen? You might climb the glass mountain only to discover the love of your life is a dark knight ready to give you a shove over the edge into the abyss. How you fall and where you land will change everything!

The King landed on his feet and began the climb again. This time wearing cleats and carrying a diplomat on his back. The Queen did the same. Only she dressed better.

The Beggar just lay at the bottom whining with his hand out and the peasant grabbed a torch and began melting the mountain because he knew there was wealth deep within.

All of these people lived happily ever after except for the beggar who never even looked in his cup because he just knew nothing would be in it. (Had he only seen that rare coin worth a million dollars would he have fared better?)

All of these people would have done fine in other fairy tales too, because they are doers who never give up on hope. A sad secret is that many other people did the exact same things, but didn't live happily ever after. 

Happiness is a state of mind and ever after is sometimes very short, but they are still your best shot.

Games people play

 

Games are part of being human. We play all kinds of games as a way of teaching, learning and coping with a world where our actual power is somewhat limited.

In the beginning children simply learn that games have rules; we take turns and we perform certain acts. Later on those games take on strategy in sports and even video games. And eventually we play the games that make society work.

Successful people learn to play to the egos and needs of those around them, complimenting, kowtowing, making sure not to overstep. These games are so common most people don't even know they are playing them. 

Husbands and wives used to play awful games. Some still do where they talk to their friends complaining about how bad they have it. Many people like to act like their job is the worst or most unfair, or their coworkers the most unreliable. Somehow we have taught people that complaining is cool and looking for the worst part of the job is what you do, but I've never found that useful. If I felt that way I would find another job.

But there are games I play and they are too personal to write about here. Games where my emotional well being relies upon me overlooking things that don't fit my imaginary relationships with some people. I like my idols on pedestals, safely surrounded by irrevocable love. The rules for this game are relatively simple. I am a detail oriented, very curious person who loves to sort out mysteries and codes and complex puzzles, but I set all that aside in favor of a fairy tale of my own choosing. 

If anyone had really investigated the witch, they would have discovered that she was just a clever old woman who liked to bake, but if they had done that where would all those stories go to? Instead they saw her in a way that fit what they needed from her. Games like that can work against some people and benefit others, but the most important thing to know is:

They are games people play.

The fringe

 

I no longer trust most people online and very few people in person. 

It is not that I do not like them. Most of them seem like very nice people.

I just do not expect the best from them anymore.

I'm not sure what online imposters get besides money when they are scamming people, so I assume they will all have some way of asking for money at some point.

It's kind of a shame, because it pretty much assures me of being alone the rest of my life, but it is necessary. I have two online friends I talk to and one is my dream come true. He will always be online. He will never be in person, but that is okay. There is less danger that way. I also have my son and my brother.

That means there are four safe people in my life. I can get by with that.

Everyone else will have to stay on the fringes.

Emptiness

 

I have everything I need now, a job, an apartment, enough money for essentials, but there is still an emptiness here.

I cannot think of one thing I need to buy, or even want to buy.

What I want cannot be bought, but it would be nice if I could at least define it.

I dream of the unattainable. 

I ache for something that I have always yearned for, for as long as I can remember.

This emptiness sits in the middle of my being waiting, even expecting, to be filled.

I know somewhere in time it was a whole part of me, but not in this lifetime.

As a small child I thought it would come when I became an adult. I thought it was a grown up thing, but it did not come.

Sometimes I see a presence, like a shadowy memory of someone who once filled that place, in my dreams.

I remember a touch, a look, a smile and yet none of these are clear enough to really remember. They are just ephemeral glances at something that is not there.

Judge not

 

People forget that it's okay to like, or not like, anything. 

It doesn't mean you are sophisticated, or unsophisticated.

It doesn't mean you are educated or not educated.

It merely means you know what is important to you.

People forget that it's okay for others to do the same thing.

Not being like you is okay.

Not being like some current trend is okay too.

Being unique doesn't make you any more or less than you already are.

Thinking your way is the only way is self limiting.

An open mind has room to grow.

Expanding your horizons means more room to live

And life is so short it would be a shame not to do that.

He's my brother

 

Imagine a yard filled with flowers, vines and trees. There is a water fountain and a large pot filled with water that the mother deer brings her triplets to drink out of. She was born here, one of a pair of twins and she knows this is a safe haven.

I know it too.

This is my brother's yard. He takes good care of those people and animals he loves. His decisions are humane, kind, and comforting, but he is no push over. He stands up for what he believes is right. I trust him.

He took such good care of our old neighbors, who were like surrogate parents around him, that they actually lived in his house at different times before they died of old age. He also cared for his wife's sister when she needed help and he will care for me if I become incapacitated.

I do not plan on that happening. I expect to live a long and healthy life and then hopefully just die in my sleep at some unexpected moment, but if that doesn't happen I want someone who knows when to pull the plug and he is it.

He's my brother and he is one of the best.

I admire them

 

I like good people. So, you ask, who doesn't, but I'm not talking about handsome people, well bred people, rich people, or even just kind people.

I'm talking about people who stand for things that are important. People who make a difference by simply being who they are. 

People who don't just talk the talk, but actually walk the walk.  They pay attention and really listen.

Nobody is perfect, but good people try to do the right thing. They don't enable others because it is easier or makes them feel good. They are not snobs or reverse snobs.  

Good people are open minded and fair. They want to know the truth and will go out of their way to find it.

It is easy to confuse labels with reality. I've known a lot of people who should be good people if all I do is look at their titles, or job descriptions, but you really can sound like a good person and not be one. You may not be bad, but you are not necessarily good by default.

A truly good person has character. Their word is as good as their life. They actually do treat others the way they want to be treated.  Most of them are life long students in one way or another, always wanting to learn more in order to do the right thing.

They may not do everything I want them to, or you want them to, but they do the things their heart tells them is important. They cannot be push overs.

It isn't easy to be a truly good person.

Sacred moments

 

What brings you joy?

Is there one thing in particular that makes it impossible for you not to grin from ear to ear and quiver with excitement?

Are there moments in your life where you literally want to dance with joy?

Moments when tears fill your eyes and your heart melts?

What makes you unequivocally happy?

These are the sacred moments.

Looking for love

I am amazed at how many people jump on the love band wagon without really knowing what music is going to be played.

So many people seem to feel that anyone is better than no one, but believe me when I say there are far worse things in this world than being alone.

After last year I am skeptical of everyone, but especially of those people who begin asking me to be their girl friend, or love, or whatever right away. Those first innuendos are the wind that slams the door between them and me. 

I've seen what bad relationships are like. I've been in one. I have no desire to repeat that experience. 

Understanding and respect are the warp and woof of true love. These things take time to develop, but if they do then they weave something extraordinary.

Extraordinary is worth waiting for -- forever if necessary.

Faltering

 

I find  a lovely chalk picture outside my front door and I am so surprised and happy. Then I begin to think and wonder if maybe it was for my neighbors? I have a conversation with someone who likes my paintings online and then wonder if they are going to ask me for money later on?

People I have chatted with for a very long time disappear for days and I wonder if they are tired of me? 

I go to work and wonder if people at my new job like me, or have problems with me that they aren't telling me about. 

I play my keyboard and sometimes I take off the headphones and play out loud, but then I worry that I might be annoying someone.

I live in a town where many of the people who play music are professionals, where the artists sell their work, where degrees are more common than factory workers. Everyone around me seems to be an expert on something.

I am a jack of all trades and master of none and that actually serves me well until I begin questioning myself.

Without my Muse to encourage me I falter.

Kindred faces

 

I took the cup of milk from her trembling hand and placed it on the table. Her eyes met mine, grateful for being noticed, an adult needing an outlet for some emotional distress.

In my heart I knew she was hurting, but I also recognized the need to be dramatic and noticed. I've felt like that before when I was miserable and didn't know what to do, but needed to do something.

Forever conscious of the words drama queen and terrified of ever being one I have kept myself in check for most of my life, but there are subtle ways of doing the same thing.

I am an actor with amazing skills if the need arises, simply because my mind believes what I tell it and it becomes real for me. Not the kind of actor who performs upon a stage, but one who sheds tears over a made up story, or produces some other visible example of distress when it feels needed. My emotions hover just below the surface of my being, always ready to step up and take over.

Everyone knows someone who gets sick when they need attention. They are really sick, but there is that niggling doubt in our head about its cause. They've used their mind to work themselves into a frenzy that manifests in physical ailments.  It's not a skill anyone would cultivate on purpose, but one that seems to start in childhood and because it works, continues.

These people ignite a righteous indignation and intolerance in me. Probably because I recognize myself, or my own tendencies somewhere in their make up. Instead of reacting to that I try to look deeper and see if I can find the real pain in them, but it isn't always easy.

Bringing up baby

The world is a big place.

When I was bringing up my children I would sometimes wonder how I would survive them leaving home, but isn't that the goal of a good parent?

We want our children to have the skills to survive on their own. Honestly we want them to thrive!

My children are now scattered across the country, the closest one still nearly eleven hours by car away from me. 

I miss them, but I am confident they are okay, or more than okay without me there. Each one has gone off in their own time and used the skills they have to make a good life. I feel good about that.

I might wish things were easier for them, but I know they will each continue to grow and learn and adjust to whatever comes their way. 

If I never do anything else in my life that is a great accomplishment. I gave each of my children the best life I knew how to give. They were loved, fed, clothed, given music lessons and played sports. They were taught about religion and politics, health and manners. All of them could sit down at any table in the world and hold their own. They are kind, empathetic human beings who know how to work, how to play, and how to love.

Bringing up a human being is something that will ripple outward for generations to come.

The Angell's Tale

 

I am searching for the fairy tale with my name on it. The one that ends, and she lived happily ever after. 

I am a child of the fifties. Television came into my world at the age of three or four when I was naive enough to believe those little people galloping around on tiny white horses lived inside that box and if my Daddy would just open it up, I could play with them like I did my dolls.

I napped to Queen For A Day. I imagined a field filled with plants that had baby kittens just waiting to be picked. My Daddy took me to a store where he bought me my first pen. It was silver and sky blue and I knew I would write wondrous things with it. Most of the world lived outside of mine.

My world was a Mommy who told me she could be anyone, that the woman before me might not really be Mommy, but Santa Claus watching to see if I was good. It was a Daddy who sat with me at the dining room table for conferences about giving up my bottle at bedtime and to show me photographs of a real crown in a book.

They were the powers that governed my first four years. My mother was busy. Our time together was spent ironing, me the handkerchiefs, her, everything else, while we talked. I "got" to clean the bathroom floor on my hands and knees with a rag and Ajax, because I was a big girl. No one thought about safety in those days. At least not in our house. I began doing cross stitch at four and learned to write the number 10 with my pen on the back of a shirt cardboard that my father's shirts came back on from the cleaners.

It never occurred to me that there was any other time and place for everything. For me the time was always now and here. The only stories I heard were my grandmother's oral tales about country mice and city mice, or the occasional little Golden book my mother might read. Books for me were almost nonexistent until I learned to read. Then on my sixth birthday my father's mother, my other grandmother, gave me a book of Grimm's Fairy Tales. All those words and no pictures! 

But that same grandmother also took me to see a puppet show called, Rumpelstilskin, and my imagination was set on fire. Hungry for stories and with no access to the city library, I began devouring my book of fairy tales along with the books my father put on the hall bookshelf. Junior Classics, Books of Lands and People, The Book of Knowledge. These were the places my dreams began.

All of these things, stories, books and television programs, had a beginning, a middle and an end. I assumed my life would too. I cannot tell you how often I have found myself as the narrator of my life in that moment, almost as if I were outside it looking in.

My marriage, instead of being the glory years, turned out to be the Cinderella years with my children taking the place of the prince to change the story around to happily ever after once they were part of my life. My divorce was the time spent locked up in the wicked witch's candy house, wondering if I would end up in the oven, or outside eating cake. And this past year was the great love affair that ended in soul shattering despair! 

Now, for the first time ever maybe, I have stepped out of the fairy tale and onto the pages of my own biography. Not an autobiography, there is nothing auto in my life. Ever. But this life where I am aware everything depends on me is a novelty. Whoever wrote my story forgot that it had to end happily ever after. It might not! Or maybe it will, if I choose the right adventure each time.

I keep searching for the right words, the ultimate authority, a fool proof God, a belief system that survives all intruders. I keep hoping to find The Angell's Tale.