Tag: story

Thanksgiving 2018

Thanksgiving 2018 is now history. Time doesn’t stand still. Life propels us forward.

Ours began with a drive to a pathway, which sits at the foot of our mountains. Six miles walking and talking was a breeze. The briskness of the early morning was soothing to my soul.

A little down time before we put our hands to the task at hand – our thanksgiving spread. Turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy…the works.

Out table was set for all of us, including an “empty chair” for our Angie. We stuffed our faces with no other sound than our grubbing. Once, completely stuffed, we each shared what we were thankful for. So much could be said. And, yes, my heart was so incredible grateful. That “empty chair” didn’t cause me additional pain…it was simply “appropriate”.

Angie was “not” missing, she was fully present in our hearts and minds. AND, we were able to enjoy each other and continue to make memories.

⇐Not perfection, just the next step in the process⇒

~~~Spring always follows Winter~~~

Constant Change

Thanksgiving week with all the buzz and frenzy. Plans of the perfect table and yummy family recipes. Traditions kept for generations or the start of new ones. And, yes, the stress to make it all picture perfect.

Growing up, we did not celebrate the thanksgiving holiday. Our little village hadn’t been touched by the traditions of the USA. I remember when we came to “el norte”, Mom had no clue what to do with this “bird” that Dad brought home from work. I gift given to all employees on Thanksgiving. We had an over abundance of turkeys because many family members worked at that place. So Mom, in her industrious self, got to work. For Thanksgiving she made turkey-birria and for Christmas she made turkey-tamales. And, so we had a semblance of new found traditions.

As a married woman we had our share of complete leanness to the “enough for everyone to eat”. As my kids got older we decided to build our own traditions with a traditional thanksgiving meal. I don’t know that any one year was the same, but nothing compared to the complete rending of all we knew to be normal.

Last year, our first without our daughter, I sat in a chair staring at my kitchen. No trip to the grocery store in preparation, no marinating the turkey…NOTHING! Not even a desire to move…just frozen in time with a deep, deep sense of loss, and so much pain.

My two men (my husband and son), as usual, gave me space and allowed me to simply “be”. Eventually they went and found a take-out-place that was open and brought home some food. I know I sat at the table, I know I ate, but the numbness gives me no other details.

This year, by God’s grace, I want to attempt to make a traditional meal and have a traditional dinner. My daughter loved, loved the holidays. I want to honor her memory by making things a bit normal for our family. And, I want to convey to my remaining family, that they are loved, too.

What will happen, remains to be seen. BUT I, at least, have the desire to want to move forward. And, that is enough for today.

How have things changed for you? I’d love to hear your stories ❤

Continual Process

Morning ya’ll! It sure has been quiet around here, but man has my brain been in a frenzy. Thankfully it is not one of those “brain explosions” that lay me flat, unable to function. No, it has been a steady flow of pondering, meditation, a-ha moments and just plain rethinking. Geesh, you’d think at my age, I’d be done “thinking”. Yeah, not going to happen, not this side of heaven.

As my brain churns, I have found it difficult to “sit down” and put into words what is coming out. In fact, I haven’t even done my regular journal writing, which says so much, since writing is typically the way I sort things out. It’s like having a pile of dirty clothes, which is so overwhelming you don’t know where to start. So instead of doing anything…just one thing…I simply do nothing. And, it is so bugging the heck out of me!

There is also so much apprehension in putting things “out there”. I thought I was doing better, but I’m realizing that I am still “fearful” of speaking/writing whatever my mind is pondering, given that the process is still being worked out. Deep in my sub-conscience I desire to put forth a “finished product”, whatever that may be, instead of the “journey” and the processing with all its twists and turns and deep valleys and mountain highs. Once again, I gasp at this, because I don’t want to put forth a Porcelain Doll image.

I pulled out some of my notes from Natalie Goldber’s Book, “Writing Down The Bones”:

“…doubt is torture…” “If you are not afraid of the voices inside you, you will not fear the critics out side you.” “…be present, unafraid, open, let the situation give you the subject…” “Dive into absurdity and write. Take chances, be fearless of failure.”

DOUBT, FEAR, OPEN…fearless of failure…! How is it that one gets to the point of not caring what “critics” have to say, yet somehow one finds oneself right back in that funk, that paralyzing funk that threatens to shut ones voice! My therapist says I give people too much power over me. Ya think! It’s my life long story :-/

Questioning what I have to say has been an ongoing struggle (Love of Writing, The Runaway ) Also, thinking that I have to “fight” my way to be heard or having to explain myself over and over. My concept of “healthy” relationships is, well, really skewed. Working on it, though 🙂 I heard actress, Leah Remini say, “I thought I had to fight for everything.” Ok, this sent me into deep, deep thought…which, by the way, continues.

I believe we are always evolving, learning. The day we stop learning, then, we stop maturing and hearing others around us; being open to change and not rigid statutes. I remember a time when I thought 40 years of age was ancient. Let me tell you at 52, that mind set has really changed. There was also a time that I thought if I fulfilled that “proverbial checklist” ALL would go well in the camp. Yup, that magic checklist is non-existent. Hardship and pain are part of this life journey. The question is not avoidance, but how will we handle “it” when comes? And, are we willing to receive help and ask for help when needed? Being vulnerable, transparent, learning to trust.

As you can see, lots going on in this brain of mine. I desire to continue to listen deeply, and write freely. To allow my pen to be ready to write even when the process is messy and unfinished, not waiting until “it” is boxed up, tied neatly with a pretty little bow. Cause let’s face it, if I wait until then, this temporary vessel will be resting in peace (Gosh, I am so ready, but I’m accepting that it’s not time yet).

Monday Musings

The beginning of a new week. Fresh, clean, ready to take on the world! “What will this week bring”, I ask. With energy and stamina after an “off day”, I head to the gym. Oh, Gymboland, you never disappoint with your many side shows and aggravations. It’s usual locker room antics, with it’s noises and views. The selfie station in front of the mirror. The “I own this whole row” spread and the mad-dog faces wanting to look mean and tough. I sometimes wonder if “we” ever left high school? (Gym Rant , Another Gym Rant, Inquiring Mind)

California’s weather is changing and with it lots of coughs and sniffles. Would it be rude to carry a disinfectant spray? People simply do not know how to cover their cough and sneezes. Then you have people with open mouth breathing…goodness! Why?!?!

Nonetheless, got it done! Endorphins flowing to the brain. Ready for the day. Here’s hoping for a “balanced”, productive day 😀

Surreal

Have you ever been in a place that seemed like you were experiencing an out of body experience? Like you are in the audience watching “you”? Yesterday, I was doing my usual grocery shopping, when all of the sudden I became aware of a “whistle”. WHAT?! ME?! WAIT?! NO?!

Today, I came across this:

AND, so in the little things; in the seemingly unrelated things; in the messages that seem to be separate yet are so entangled…I will ENJOY the sound of the whistle 🙂

A Year Plus

One year and six months…547 days…lots and lots of hours, minutes, seconds. Each second your absence is felt acutely, deeply. Life continues, even when I want it to…STOP! Your room is still the same. Your bed has the same sheets, unwashed, to preserve your essence. Remember Cam (a stuffed animal)? You held that thing, close to your face. Now, I hold it to my face. I miss YOU!

I saw some of your friends on Sunday, they miss you too. It was difficult to be around them, but it was good. Someone said to me, “We are glad you are here. We miss Angie so much. By you being here, we feel like we have a piece of her.” Angie, I hadn’t thought of that. You are missed by so many.

The holidays are coming. Goodness, how you loved the holidays. Not sure how it’s going to be, but hey, today is here. I’ll just do “today”. We will see about “tomorrow”.

I long to hold you, to hear you, to simply be with you. Time makes it feel like you are further and further away. Pictures and videos are just not cutting it. However, I am so thankful for technology, and that I have those videos with your voice and beautiful face. I view them often.

I LOVE YOU so very much and MISS YOU to no end ❤

My Family

Greetings from from my neck of the woods, and no I am not little red riding hood 😉   Thank you to all the new follows and likes. Whether you visit or stay a while, I am grateful for each and every one of you fellow sojourners.

Some reasons I Write… And I Write…

A time of great celebration and joy. Little did we know what was around the corner, however, this day was a day of making wonderful memories. Tomorrow is not here, yesterday is past, today is what we have. Those around us are precious gifts. Let us lavishly love! Let us dance like nobody is watching, and even if someone is watching…let them see YOU – dancing, crying, smiling, splattered on the floor…let them see the real you. TODAY is a gift…what will we do with it?

 

Stigma

The stigma and shame behind “labels” can create enormous havoc in an already broken and fragile state of mind. The struggle to cope and understand is greatly affected by once upbringing and the prevailing mindset of those around you.

I grew up in an environment where the mindset was that you fended for yourself and vigilantly hid any sign of weakness. Talking about “it” was a resounding NO…not an option. Going to the doctor was not an option, either, let alone a mental health specialist. Finances were slim to nothing. Any monies had would go to feeding the many mouths that begged for a piece of tortilla to appease their growling stomachs.

Any reference to a psychiatrist or psychologist was in disgust or disdain saying, “that person must be totally crazy to go to that! That’s not needed. They are good for nothing.”

There was an auntie who dared to venture into that forbidden territory. Oh, the things that were whispered about her. Those words cut to the heart. No one else dare venture out. They did not want to be part of those cutting conversations and side glances.

Do to extreme circumstances, another family member saw herself in need of venturing out. She did, however, in the strictest most hidden way. No one must know. Eventually, she stopped going. Maybe it was too difficult to keep up the front…we will never know. In her ultimate darkest moment, the “help” needed was denied and with no power to keep fighting, she ultimately succumbed to it all.

Many months have ensued, the memory of accepting my medical doctor’s advice comes to mind. The initial phone call. The first appointment. All the voices within and without. The fight to not get up from that chair. The fight to not flee that office…to run out. Each session, a struggle to accept.

I think I’m starting to accept…I think I’m starting to give my therapist a chance…I think this is NOT weakness, but strength…I think this is not shameful, but a necessity.

~ ~ ~ AND…it is…OK ~ ~ ~

Junior High

Her awkwardness was evident. Not really sure she belonged. She and her mother had ventured a long way from their quaint little village. A never ending, so it seemed, highway brought them to the much talked about “norte”. All she knew was that she was with her mother on a journey to “visit” her Dad. At 9 years of age, no details are needed, just that you are going on a trip. Little did she know that “el norte” would become home.

Years passed rapidly since their arrival and now here she was in another unknown, chaotic environment, where puberty was at its peak. Who knew “bullying” would become such a hot topic? Who knew “mean girls” would be made into a movie? All she knew was she needed to find a way to survive. Why was it that every place she went, including “home” was a fight to stay alive? Life and the pursuit of purpose and meaning continued, hoping to find less pain.

She was not one of “them”. She was not one of “those”. Where did she belong? Where did she fit in? Her clothes had no label, but always clean. Her shoes needed to last and last, cause unless they were falling apart, she would not get another. Who knew outfits needed to match? Well, she knew, she just couldn’t do anything about it. New clothes and shoes and supplies for the school year was not in her radar.

Mr. Diaz was a kind man. He invited her to “The Mecha Club”. She decided to go, maybe she’d fit in? Who knew? Walking in with heavy feet – her feet have been heavily dragging for most of her life – there she was. Her thrift store attire was no match for this clean and pressed group. Stared at, looked up and down to see if she matched the criteria…if she fit in. What torture for a girl who couldn’t hang with the outside crowd, but she sure didn’t seem to fit in with the in crowd.

What was it that attracted her to the gang life? She sure didn’t fit in. She sure didn’t belong. Somehow she managed to get “similar” clothes, tried the make up and hair look AND got the nickname “La Sleepy” — how’s that for a fear inducing name?

Initiation antics followed. Alcohol and dabbling in other illegal substances. Although alcohol had already been the numbing agent of choice. It was the only way to numb the pain of the abuse ( The Runaway).

Junior High, a bridge between kidhood and younghood. A place where fitting in felt more like a pinball machine, however, the “scoring” was way, way off. And, being an immigrant girl with an accent did not help the volley from one place to another, from one group to another.

It seems like ages ago, and yet so readily available in the memory bank. Survived, and life continued with more road to travel on this journey of life.