IMPERFECT Lady

Soul Trail

I was in her home today, way in and able to see so much.  All the insides to the many many packages I had delivered over the years.   

I am not sure what I expected, but how fun to see there was very little practical stuff.  Instead there were things that made you smile.  There was bright glass in wonderful odd shapes and in many colors.  Dishes that would add such character to dinner parties and quiet evenings. There were oodles of stuff, birds of all size and shapes and designs.  A flower that was a huge bowl that made me laugh out loud. I was able to run my hands over expensive warm glass that was signed by the Artist, and it felt alive. There were counters filled with jewelry that would add interest to each outfit, just that special touch. 

As I walked about it all made me happy, intrigued, and interested, wondering and present. 

She purchased with love, not need or guilt.  She purchased to enhance her experience of life. She purchased just because she liked it.

In the expensive things you felt her self worth.

In the whimsical you felt her young years.

In each piece you understood what she meant to herself.

In her house you felt the remains of a happy soul.

I brought home a bowl, small and purple, odd shaped one, to sit on my mantel as a reminder; if I were to die today, what would I leave behind, what clues to how I lived, how I loved and what made me smile. 

Would people walk around picking up my stuff and understand me?

In life we hear of a paper trail, but what of a soul trail?

What part of you do you leave behind?

What trails behind you as you leave a room, a job, or relationship?

What feelings do you leave behind?  What lingers after you are long gone.

This woman lived to be 100 years old, and there are 100 years worth of delightful treasures which will be passed on like good memories.  Another eye to enjoy, another hand to caress, another woman to feel worthy.

She inspired me to live without looking at the end, but instead believing that there is no end. 

Her trail leaves you wanting more.

 

There she was......

She didn’t know, as she twirled on the tire swing, her hair grabbed by the breeze and taken prisoner, the tree creaked above, the sound mingling with her carefree laughter, her white sandals scuffed by the moist soil below, the smell of charcoal and barbecue filled the air, the other children ran in the yard, chasing each other and staining their clothes with the deep green grass, her bright eyes gazed up to the tree, the branches covered with leaves, down, down, down, they fell spiraling to the ground, she spun around on the old tire swing, her surroundings blurred and she closed her eyes until the tire stood still, she opened her eyes and looked innocently at him, unknowing, that he would be the one to hurt her.   

 

Written by my daughter.

Sisters

Three Sisters, three lives, three dreams, One Source.

Each life has it's own path, unknown to all and maybe even her.

Each life is filled with passions for things she wants to do.

Each life has sorrows, failures and growth.

Each life reaches towards dreams beyond her wildest hopes.

The Source can change from time to time, depending on her lesson.

Sometimes we love the things that hurt and hurt the things we love.

Sometimes we lead and at times we follow, all with a loving heart.

Sometimes we know, sometimes we don't  and times we need each other so.

Sisters come in all shapes and sizes, some related some just feel connected to.

Sisters, there isn't one perfect one, but one that fits our needs.

May us sisters always find each other in our own truth and honesty.

May we heal our wounds and celebrate all the pleasures on the way.

May we always have one right near by just in case of need.

I love the sisters of this world, all the broken, abused, happy, and sad, delighted, at peace, in trouble and at need.  I want you all to know there is no imperfect sister to be found.  A sister always fits with me.

Bucket

 

Hands.  Simple hands. They speak a language of their own.

What makes them tell their story, what makes them do what they do, what powers these hands, makes them move, or lay silently.

Hands.  It seems to me they mean more than a name. 

Hands lift you up when you are small and when tasks seem too big.

Hands can slap you down and away, when all you want is love.

Hands can teach you to survive, or keep you hopeless.

Hands….watch those hands…..feel those hands….listen.

They are speaking a message, what are they telling you.

I held a sleeping hand.  Now that sounds weird, but I did.  It was warm, it was caring, it was pure love.  It lay part curled in total peace, gentle and silent.  It lay there just for me.  I held it and was filled with peace, with gratitude.  I held the hand and tears slipped down knowing.

Knowing what?  What did I know?  It seemed I could read the message of this hand.  I could now read the true message of another.

I could read or could I feel?  What was I feeling?

Feeling? Hands can bring you feeling?  Hands deliver our feelings?

Now that seems weird. 

I always thought we had feelings, like it is a given, like it comes with our hair color and our eyes.  Isn’t it part of the package?  Don’t we all come with a nice assortment of feelings?  Where are they stored and how do they get there?   Are we responsible for our feelings?

Hands without feelings, what would that be like, lifeless, useless, hopeless?

Feelings where do they come from?  Who makes feelings?

Who teaches us feelings?  Is there a class on feelings when we are young?  Who decides our bucket of feelings?  Do we get all kinds?

Do babies come with their bucket full and little by little do they seep out?  Do they seep out or does one kind overflow the others.  Are little children responsible for what they carry in their bucket of feelings, or is it possible that is our job as parents?  Little hands with a big bucket full of feelings. 

Inside my bucket was overflowing with feelings, murky, dark, swirling, sad, scary, frightening, too little, heavy, to much out of control, vulnerable children, keeping safe too many, no one is watching, all alone, no one to tell, no one to listen, I am responsible for too many, not my children, can’t stop the flow, twisting and pulling, falling, I can’t keep holding this bucket, it is far to big for me….or is the bucket too small.

One day the bucket crashed to the ground and all my feelings fell out.

All. They lay on the ground, messy.  And I lay on the ground. Empty.

Sad. No love was in my bucket.  Loveless, hopeless, lost. I had carried that bucket for nothing. I had dragged it around for naught.

Me. A Bucket. Both Empty.

Empty, I reached for a hand. 

In it I felt something.

I held that hand. 

That hand carried me, accepted me, loved me, cared for me and waited.

With patience, It knew I would find my own way.  It knew I had it in me, long before I knew. 

I held the hand of God.

 

Mental Lady.........a poem by my brother.

                                

I see a lady,

with bushy eyebrows and a faraway stare.

Who would appear to be mental

to you.

She is not responsible for your thoughts

about her.

You are your thoughts,

while appearing not be mental.

Turn that around,

Is that more true?

Keep walking, keep walking,

reality is walking away from you.

Words,

thoughts, and NO Action,

scare her.

She should appear mental

to you.

You do nothing and expect to be something.

Something that moves her away from you.

She can clearly see you,

alone in your thoughts,

that will form your beliefs,

of your right religion.

Your mind is right, of course,

only from the left side

of reality.

How mental you appear

to the lady who giggles, and

is at one with nature,

and reality.

 

 

Reality

Names.  What does a name mean?  You call someone by their name, or even by their title.  What does that mean?  What does that really tell you about a person, and what does it cover up?

A name covers things up? That seems weird?  Can you hide behind a name?  Can you use it as a mask?  What does a Mask cover?  How do you know there is a mask, can you ask, can you peek, will they tell you? Do other adults warn you?

In the Native American way, they name people, such as Run Fast.

And you could pretty much know what that person was Know for.  They don’t have names like Slow Walker for someone who runs fast.  And I wonder if they ever name the baby wrong and have a new renaming ceremony.

When my son was little, he and his cousin seen a huge man trying to wiggle into a booth at Burger King….and they both were amazed and said “do you think he will fit?” of course in a voice that carried far and wide!  As a mom, my first instinct is to protect the Man and tell the boys, you don’t say that, and in fact I did. I also remember these big brown eyes look at me and say plainly, Why?  It seemed goofy to them?

Think of how we go around and label things correctly for them.

A tree.  The sun. A house.  The easy and plain things, but get us into an area we feel uncomfortable in….and we start to disguise, twist, sortakinda name it.  Hoping that they will not discover our lies.

Now bring this into abuse? 

What I would like to see is the opposite happening and teach all children to be ok with proper naming of actions….sorta like the Native Americans.  Or see all adults being true.

Maybe in one day a person gets many names.

In the past four years, I began noticing I no longer called or seen myself as just one role, mom.

I would say “cooker girl”…when cooking.

I called myself by what I was doing, not who I was.

It sounded almost childlike, but I couldn’t stop myself.

If you go to www.messyguru.typepad.com you can see what I mean.

However, I will warn you right now, this is a dialogue between an abused boy and what he calls his editor.

The editor is the one who refused to see what is, now and back then.

Maybe you could also call him, Mr. Denial.

It is with the greatest respect that I enter his site. 

He and I are very much the opposites. While he remembered everything, my mind forgot it all. 

I was literally blasted into reality with a mind full of wrong information.  It seemed a Mental Lady in reality for so much I had wrong.

Abuse lives in the mind.

The body holds the truth, but the mind controls our lives.

An abused mind is the hardest thing to make right.

I had said, “It is literally like being lost, trying to find yourself and you don’t even know your missing, or what in the Hell you look like. “   Where do you begin?

The courage it takes to willingly go into a mental mind and sort things out, is an adventure I wouldn’t wish on a soul. 

The greatest tool an abused person has is REALITY, Period.

Without reality we are lost forever.

We must go back to the seed of the abuse to see where we got it wrong and speak to denial to get it right, to argue to challenge to use our grownup big words this time.  For when the initial abuse happened, you can be sure we were left alone in our minds without adult supervision.

Reality what a Blessed place to be!

Reality or Denial, Pick one.

 

Faith

I never thought I would step into a church again, yet I found myself there. In fact I really didn’t see the church, until months later. Like how can you walk into a church sit in a pew, listen and not see the Church? Isn’t that simply impossible to do?

How about if you go to the church without going to church, instead you go for the message? Would you then see the building? What if you go because of all the interesting people you find there? What if you go because it seems this is where your people are, this is where you might fit in, this, is where you hope to find the answers?

What if you have a burning question you want answered? Would you see the church, or instead would you look closely at what was said, who said it and you got to decide if that fit you. If it fit your experience of what you know to be true. If you went to find a perfect match, would you see the church?

I even did like most loyal members, I found a seat, and it became my special spot. Imagine I have a special seat. This time, I was tentative, unknowing, very much aware, and listening closely and then I would let the words come real close and see if I could find how that could be true for me too.

Suspicious at best, discerning of all, I literally felt like I was a fly on the wall, just watching, listening and soaking up words. What was also so weird to me, I did not feel inclined to speak, and better yet no one expected me to. Shy smiles, little nods, a room full of strangers, or to me at least, yet I slowly became comfortable there. No one acted like I didn’t belong….yet I was still unsure.

Months went by, and I eagerly awaited each week, each new message, and each time I walked away unsure. Not really buying the message, the faith I wanted seemed to just outside the fence, freely dancing, twirling in joy of its assuredness. The general theme seemed to intrigue me, but when I measured myself, I seemed lacking, I didn’t have what it took, something was missing, something just didn’t ring true. But each week I entered and had no clue what the message would be, each week a new insight came out. I learned a lot by listening, just sitting and hearing words.

One day, a day that would be my last, I heard what I wanted to hear. I finally heard the one thing that would set me free, to show me that I indeed did belong to this group. I heard her speak, and before the hour was over, I knew.

My Writer’s Journey Class was held in St. Mathews Church on the Campus of Finlandia University. My writing class did not speak of God. Get this, the last Author to speak wrote a book called Sundays in America. A year long road trip in search of Christian Faith! And she gives this talk to me, in a church, a church I vowed I would never ever enter.

She and I are not even aware of all it took for this to come to fruition.You see, she was supposed to arrive here in February, but a snowstorm kept her literally circling above unable to land. What she didn’t know was that it was my fault. I wasn’t ready to hear her message. I first had to begin doing what I wanted her to teach me.

I had to start writing. Now get this, get what Day was her first day she entered a new church? Easter. Guess what day this Blog started? Easter. Now I am not a real good religious girl, but even I know that it is the day of re-birth a day that means a new beginning. Ok, and guess where she gives me the message....a Church. 

And I am sure you have to be asking what could this Suzanne Strempak Shea have to say? What did she do? What was the secret I needed revealed? What was right in front of me all the while? What again, did I fail to see?

She stood there and began to just tell us how each book was created from her life experience! Oh she was a fast talker, you could not squeeze a word more into that hour! Animated, excited, colorful and with humor she looked at her life simply as the seeds of another great book! It was like she wasn’t personally involved, but yet she was. Like her life was there for her to write about, and the more interesting the better. She looked at people like Characters, places a new scene in a future book, a nagging thought the inspiration for whole book.

I sat there and smiled knowingly. I was looking into my future. Ironically or not, she is the mentor of the lady who started the Writer’s Journey. A full circle moment for me and I wasn’t even there in the beginning, yet some how I was.

With her signed book in my bag, I opened the door and walked into a whole new world, with a whole new me, with my Faith restored.

Suzanne’s husband is very encouraging. He is known to say. “Write about it.”

I think I am.

 

Trying.

What does being the voice of your life mean? 

How do you temper what comes out, what stays in, what to say and where?  Are there rules that say when we speak and how, even to whom do we speak.

Is it more about whom we are in front of?  Does the voice change depending upon who is in the room?  If the voice can change, where are these voices coming from, who decides who gets to come out and when, what to say and how and why?  This seems confusing to say the least.

Wayne Dyer has a phrase or at least he was the first I heard using it.  “Beyond the good opinions of others.” 

Somehow we have been taught to shut down voices that may hurt others, or switch voices to smooth over rough waters…and are they really voices or just simply words.

Can you really change a voice, is it more like you take a word and exchange it for another.

What happens to the action when you switch the words around, can you really use words to make a correction of actions?  Is that possible?  Do words have that much power?

Actions to me became law.  Actions to me are real.  Actions are truths upon themselves.

Actions rule.  Actions became vital when all else failed.  So words although useful to explain an action really really in reality cannot change it.

There is another saying “you can’t un-ring the Bell”

Now this to most people again are just words, words with a harmless ring.

But to some people who so desperately need actions, words are just simply words.

Letters shuffled around, sorted through, and flung at you.  When you are waiting on actions words just never see that big. 

Oh and how actions can damage, how actions even the slightest can hurt.  An eye turned away ever so slightly, shifting, wanting to escape our truths.  Seeing folks in a distance that duck down aisles so not to have to see/say/be in our world.  Silence is an action too.

When you have a canyon full of devastation, a mountain of ruin within you….you too wish you could do the same.  But that is not an option….where I go, it goes!

The very very very hardest part is to accept it.  Accept what so many are turning from, you can’t afford to leave yourself.  You can’t afford to walk away.  You can’t do to yourself what so many already have done. 

There is another saying “be the change you want to see in the World”…

I had to do what so many could not do.  I had to be the one to save me.  I had to be the one to sort through the trash that so many could not bear to see.  I had to put proper name tags, use words I never ever thought I would use….I had to be the one. 

I could no longer pretend to pretend to be someone I no longer was.  No matter the ‘good’ opinion of others.  The only opinion that had to matter was mine.  There was only one voice I had to use, the voice of a damaged little girl in an adult body in a mess beyond her wild imagination, without instructions.

I began small.  I began to put the proper labels on each and every action.  Words.

Words. Words.  Who in the world could imagine that by putting the wrong word on an action your whole world changes….and lucky for me you can unravel it the same way!

Simple word…action. Action word…the hardest part is to speak the proper word for a very improper action!  Little did I know, I would have a real hard time convincing others to change their labels, to say nothing of their actions.  Hopeless but hopeful I continued on.

And of course some files are harder to switch for there is huge amount of emotion attached, hopes and dreams, futures….well you get the picture.

I have a whole new file system…..well almost…I just may have to begin one labeled Author.

If I write, I have to use the word writer.

Life is much easier if actions and words match.

Life is easier if I label myself correctly.

Labels are meant to be changed.....dont' get left with the one that says "she didn't even try".

Two Ways

The two different ways to experience this world! The first, like you are the main character in a wonderfully delightful suspenseful book!  Where all around you are scenes of intrigue, stories untold, places you are excited to explore, people with curious features and doing odd things in odd places just begging you to ask “Why?”

 

And in this book you get to be the Main Character, the person of focus, the one who moves the book in any direction, you are the bus driver and the only boundaries are the fear of the answer!  If you have an open mind and a thirst to understand, your passport is good to enter into any situation!

 

You get to decide which ‘supporting or minor’ characters you bring along.

Do they add to your story, do they make you better, hold you back, kick you into un-chartered waters?  If for some reason, they are stuck to you, how do you deal?  With humor or hate, do they control you or do you proceed and allow them to tag along!  Are you willing to allow a parade of people to maybe see you as an odd person doing an odd thing….could it be perhaps you are adding color to their stories, maybe you are there for them to ask “why?”

 

As your story or life moves ahead, you also get to decide what will the main characters personality be, what traits is she wanting and how does she go about getting them. What are her strong suits and how can she turn her weakness into colorful life lessons.

 

Oh, and you can be the Dreamer while living in the Dream…Where is it you want to go, do and be, you pick!  But you sometimes are walking into Nightmares, but even then, you can become a villain or a saint, you can let the moment define you or not!  This is your book, you decide.  You are the Author of you life! 

 

Yesterday I had the opportunity to witness a woman who lived just like this!

She was bright, full of wonderful energy, open and eager, she looked at you and you could see the wheels churning….what is her story, boy I surely would love to know.  And all the while oblivious of herself in the present moment, she was not just thinking about life, but being Life.

 

I said there were two ways….well the other way is to be a character in someone else book

Never knowing what it is like to be the Main Character.

 

I love that I am allowed to be in my story and that there is a real good chance it won’t match yours, but that is the beauty of having separate bodies and our very own minds.  I truly get to do my own book, and I can be as imperfect as I want, doing way imperfectly perfect things. 

 

Maybe I am doing things just to make my life more colorful, maybe I am learning as I go, maybe the mistakes I make are really opportunities in disguise, maybe it is a chapter I want in my book!   I love the freedom to be me, being the main character in my book, the book called My Life.

 

 

 

The little blue note...

Sometimes you are just floating along in your day, and out of nowhere the past comes and stops you dead.   Unexpected and loud, it blows away the energy of inspiration taking with it your happy day.  You are made to take a detour.  Unscheduled it demands your attention, now!  Overshadowing the delightful Author in my writing class.  In seconds the world tilts.

 

Part of you hesitates like a stubborn child reluctant, but the curiosity wins, again.  Dare you not look, dare you look.  What is the risk to just turning away, not peeping even once?  Who will it hurt more this time, the hope or the hopeless.

 

When my son was little and I wanted him to do something he didn’t like or if I was the Mom he was unhappy getting, he would say, “I am not going to be your boy no more.”  To him that solved it all, if he was not my boy, I no longer could tell him what to do.

 

When I opened the mailbox, a large manila envelope poked out behind a few innocent white envelopes.  In the corner the address unfamiliar but the scrawl was familiar and carried the weight of the world.   What do you have to say now?  Why are you so determined to come into my world, what do you have to say to me, what?!   God why?

 

The mind can scroll many different possibilities, but my body couldn’t take the stress, so I just simply opened it up.

 

Recipes?!  Recipes for real?! 

With a small square blue posted note, and the same handwritten scrawl;

Hello!

Additional recipes for the family cookbook.

I miss you very much.

Please cash check by end of May I want to balance my checkbook. 

Will stop payment June 1^st.

Love you always Mom

 

I flip through them absentmindedly and a few family names float around, mixing in with Taco Soup and Waikiki Meatballs.  Not knowing what else to do, I eat my tuna sandwich, looking deeper unseeingly into the many pages of how to prepare meals for a family.  This seems sort of odd, coming from a family that can’t even be one. 

 

Is there a recipe to put a family together?  How about one that can combine listening ears, seeing eyes and loving arms to create a different mom?  Is that in this pile of paper?  Can you make that?  How long does it take?  Is there time?

 

What to do with the recipe of a family that doesn’t work?  Can you just get a new recipe? Gather the right ingredients and if you follow all the directions, do it right, will a great tasting family pop out?

 

This cooker girl can’t find the right ingredients that I need, it seems they are all wrong for the recipe I want.  What appears is the stuff for a family that I no longer have the appetite for.  What I am craving and longing for just isn’t there.

 

They say you can choose your friends, but families are forever.  I guess they are right, no matter what flavor they are.  There is simply nothing I can do to change them, nothing to make them easier to swallow I am left with this dish that has been handed down from generation to generation. 

 

All that is left for me to do is refuse to eat.  Refuse to partake.  Go hungry.

My heart grumbles and rumbles, but this is not where it will get fed, again.

Empty and hallow it walks away.

Hopeless won again.

I am not going to be your girl no more.

The little blue note never asked how I was.......