Cheers to 55

 

Monday, October 7^th was my 55^th birthday.  I awoke feeling a wee bit melancholy.  I longed for my mother and Walter, wishing I could talk to them, to hold them in my arms.  I decided to take flowers to the cemetery and reflect on memories of them, of what has transpired since their passing, Mom in 2005 and Walter in 2019.  Those thoughts helped lift the melancholy and filled my soul with such gratitude for what has transpired over the years.    

When I returned home, I went through the multitude of messages on my social media, in my emails, and through text messages.  Each name I saw, I’d reminisce on moments shared and how they fit into this life of mine - from the past, the present, through acquaintances, or are family.  My heart filled with emotions, such love and appreciation.

There are more years behind me now than there are ahead.  Looking at the years gone by, there's been good.  There’s been bad. There's been happy.  There’s been sad. From the highs to the lows and back. I look at the constants throughout. Family. Friends. Love. Support. Laughter and tears. Welcoming the new, and tearful goodbyes. Watching my children grow up to become such wonderful men. And holding precious grandchildren in my arms.

It may not be a life exciting enough to be worthy of a movie, but damn, I am happy to own my story. Those years not only made me who I am but allowed me to accrue beautiful memories and fill my life with wonderful people.  

I don’t quite know how many chapters I have left, nor what happens in my story.  But what I do know is that between now and the last page, I plan to fill each page with as much vim, vigor and vitality as I can.  

Cheers to 55!

 

SHE

She is they.

She is ze.

 She is them.

She is we.

 She is you.

She is me.

 

She is your friend,

Your sister,

your cousin,

 your teacher.

 

She is a stranger.

Your aunt,

your boss,

your preacher.

 

She is many voices

Choked back by tears

of criticism

of humiliation.

 

She can’t even whisper

Silenced from fear.

of rejection

of retaliation.

 

 She is the phoenix

Risen from the flame.

Left in the ashes

Sorrow and shame.

 

 She is the woman

Who no one will tame.

The past behind.

The future she claims.

 

 She is the C.E.O.

in power suit and heels.

She is the grandma

who makes the best meals.

 

She is the celebrity

you would love to meet.

She is the destitute 

living on the street.

 

She is the small child

cowered in fear.

She is the woman

you  see in the mirror. 

 She is they.

She is ze.

 She is them.

She is we.

 She is you.

She is me.

 

BACs of fault

 To the bullies

Who joined in on the torment…

...you’re forgiven

...you were just a child.

To the bullies

Who poked, prodded, and hit …

…you’re forgiven

…but understand what you did.

To the bullies

who enjoyed their sorrow and tears…

…you’re forgiven

 

…hope the child healed from the pain.

To the adults

Who knew it was happening….

...it’s your fault

…you could have stopped it.

To the adults

Who didn’t stop the bullying…

…it’s your fault

…your inaction enabled them.

To the adults

Who did nothing…

…it’s your fault

… you should have stopped the abuse.

 To the child

Who was shunned by their peers…

…it’s not your fault

…kids can be mean.

To the child

who was teased, mauled, abused…

...it’s not your fault

...you didn’t deserve it.

To the child

Whose innocence was tarnished…

…it’s not your fault

…don’t let them define you.

 

…dig deep into the rubble of your heart, find your light and shine.

  

The Trunk

In our family “the trunk” is a metaphor for the unspoken.  Be it a wrongdoing, an embarrassment, a taboo, or a secret, it’s best to “just put it in the trunk” where it’s hidden, safe and sound; to be forgotten, never to be spoken of again.  

In my mind’s eye, the trunk is old, like a large steamer trunk that my grandparents would have brought over from the old country.  Held in a cold, stone chamber, this worn wooden box, wearing marks from a long, hard voyage’ sits in the center on the cold, wet floor.  Its rusty metal clasps hold the lid hiding its contents.  Inside, it’s dark, damp, deep.  An ominous vibe oozing from cracks and crevices.  Secrets quietly humming, anxiously waiting to be released. 

The protectors guarding the trunk vary, depending on when one enters the chamber.  Dressed in long dark hooded robes, the elders have inherited the duty to guard the trunk and all it contains.  Should those approaching speak to the guards, they would be urged to leave, to never look back as the past is best left where it lay. 

Those entering the chamber with their burden, head hung low, dragging their bare feet across the cold stone floor must face the guards. With wisdom, compassion, understanding, and little judgement, the heavy lid is lifted just enough to slip the burden inside, and ensuring those inside do not escape.  Although the unspoken is left behind, the bearer carries the weight of guilt, of shame, pushing it deep inside their soul, taking it to their grave.

Noone could ever guess the number of contents inside the old trunk.  Some so deep, hidden for generations, lost to time.  At the changing of the guard, knowledge of some contents may be shared with the new as the old step away.  But more often, what’s known of the contents is taken with them to their grave, absorbed into the earth.

There are many secrets carefully laid deep inside, with the intent to stay within its walls for eternity.  Those are protected by the guards with fortitude. No matter what one came armed with, they would be turned away with warning to never question again.

 On occasion, if approached with the right information; a physical clue, a flicker of a memory sharp enough to carry details; or overheard whisperings as a child; the seeker may be permitted a mere, yet distant, glimpse of one of its contents.  A hypothetical scenario, a flimsy clue to follow, or if extremely lucky, a confirmation.  Enough to satisfy the need to know, and maybe, but not always, just enough to stop any further inquiries. 

Not all secrets are intended to be kept in the trunk indefinitely.  The protectors ensuring the trunk is a safe place until ready to be released.  When the occasion arises, the heavy lid is opened ever so slightly for the unspoken to be carefully removed from its resting place.  The weight of it lifted as it meets the light, allowing it to take shape, fly with the breeze, sharing its message, then dissipate into the atmosphere.    

Through the years, the decades, the generations, the use of the trunk has gradually changed.  As culture, as society, as mindsets have changed, the need for it has lessened. Judgement, ostracism, disdain, progressively replaced by understanding, acceptance, compassion. Another choice emerged, to “kiss it, bless it, and let it go.”  A difficult choice to make at first, but eases with time.  The weight of the burden lifted into the light instead of a heavy heart.  The protectors stand guard of the trunk, as the trunk will always remain.  Although they mourn for those who hadn’t such opportunity; they quietly cheer on the new generations, pleased to see that what was once unspoken, can be. 

Where do I Feel Safe?

 

ONE OF Nine Questions for Journaling and Introspection – Where do I Feel Safe

@vanessaandheriphone

 I was watching a video by Vanessa Laterza on TikTok called Nine Questions where she poses nine questions to inspire journaling and introspection.

Out of the nine questions, one really stood out as a topic to explore.  The question at first seemed simple enough to answer.  But when thinking of the response, I found it was a much more complex question.  One that I needed to dig deep and explore.  The question was “Where do I Feel Safe?”

When I thought of the question, the first thing that came to mind was ‘in Walter’s arms.’  Immediately I felt a knot in my throat and the walls of my chest tighten around my heart, squeezing all the air out of my lungs.  Then followed emotions encircling me like a cyclone. I couldn’t answer “where do I feel safe”.  Thoughts swirled around me, the intensity uprooting questions I needed to explore.

I first tried to think back to moments where I could honestly say that I truly felt safe.  I suppose it was before I learned about life and what kinds of dangers can lurk in the shadows.  Back to when movies monsters and the boogey man under the bed were what nightmares were made of.  If I woke up from a bad dream, I knew I’d be safe with Mom and Dad.  They were only across the hall from my room. 

Like yesterday, I can easily recall those nights.  First, I’d have to gather the courage to crawl out from underneath my blankets, then prepare to make the mad dash from my bed, out the door, across the hall to my parents’ room, and hop up on their bed.  My eyes would scan the dark room, looking for potential danger.  Could there be a monster in that corner, peeking at me through the crack between the closet doors, or would hands reach out from under my bed?  I’d create an escape plan, from where to place my feet on the floor to reduce the chance of being grabbed.  Next, take a few deep breaths, gather up the courage, then make the mad dash, jumping off the bed onto the area rug, then run across the cold hardwood floor out my door, across the hall and scramble all the way up on my parents’ bed, crawling over Mom to snuggle in between them.  I could then breathe a sigh of relief, knowing that I was safe, no monster or boogey man would ever chance stepping near us.

As I grew, my small world grew.  From the perimeters of my neighborhood, to encompass the world beyond my parents’ purview.  Dangers existed beyond the imaginary monsters under my bed. Boogey men were real, not just those which lived in our TV.  From a child growing into adulthood, I learned that danger came in many forms: people, actions, words.  Malice incites fear and insecurity.

Since reading the question “where do I feel safe”, I ‘ve spent considerable time trying to scan through the decades, searching for another moment which conjures a sense of feeling safe.  There may be small snippets throughout the years, but nothing exceptional, nor complete.  Except for my time with Walter.

I remember when Walter and I first met, and how when he first put his arms around me for our first dance.  He gently enveloped me, emanating such a sense of security.  To describe it would be a protective, calming strength.  As our relationship grew, the more we shared not just time together, but thoughts, worries and insecurities.  Trust quickly built – solid, supportive, judgement-free.  The days where I felt weak, vulnerable, spent; I just needed to hear his calming voice, even if only over the phone, I could feel the stress, that pressure in my chest wane as he comforted me.

Through Walter, I learned how to be completely vulnerable.  So freeing.  I could be as silly as I wanted, could bare all, body,  mind, and soul, knowing that he accepted every bit of me without judgement, and with love.  I knew without a doubt that he would always protect me, comfort me, encourage me.  Walter would be there to scare away the monsters;  pick me up if I fell, brush off any negativity and offer his shoulder to lean on so I could carry on.

After his death, there huge void in my chest, the spot he once filled.  My comfort, my security gone with his last breath, leaving me weak, vulnerable.  Over time, as I worked through my grief, step by step, the overwhelming void started to shrink as it gradually filled with memories of him, of us.  With each flip of the page on the calendar, my strength grew, creating a new sense of self.  As months turned to years, I’ve worked to build a solid foundation for myself.  Using Walter’s words, I try to encourage, comfort, and reassure myself.  I use those softer words to be kinder, less judgmental.  

Will I ever feel safe within another’s arms?  I really couldn’t say, as I have no idea what the future holds.  What I do know is that I've developed a desire to experience, to explore.  To accept with grace and enjoy what fate has to offer.    

The emotion and fluster caused by the question “where do I feel safe” has waned with each word I write.  Each sentence brought me closer to my answer.  I am strong. I am brave.  I strive to be true, be vulnerable, yet find the balance to feel safe, secure, and confident in myself.  I can scare away the monsters from under my own bed. 

Where do I feel safe?  The answer is within me. 

April 8, 2024