It’s turning cool in Wisconsin; the mornings are damp, with the sun showing its face late in the afternoon. When the day grows dark, the moon looks like it is covered with ice, light in the distance where life does not exist. Then, the body finds comfort in the warmth of the day. Today I watched a TV program about homelessness; it’s crucial to remember that homeless people are our brothers and sisters, cousins, aunts and uncles, parents, and children.
I do all that I can financially, buying bags of food sent to my hometown’s food bank. I advocate when possible, for the homeless. I am thankful that my children are adults and have decent jobs. I live in a Senior Housing complex with a food box in our lobby. Seniors here sometimes reach into the box, retrieving one or two items. I put things in this box as well. I wrote how I feel about this enormous problem worldwide.
I am in my second year after being diagnosed with Multi Myeloma (Bone Cancer). The life expectancy is as low as 2.5 years and tops 4 years. I kept the depression and anxiety levels down the first year, not because of denial but the sheer strength of my mind. In the second year, the depression and anxiety returned with a vengeance. I have gotten weaker and fatigued and have this sense of urgency about accomplishing what I have wanted since retirement: writing. I have published several books of poetry, including an autobiography about my daughter, who passed away in 2010. I have begun my own life story this past year. Then this cloud that many carry above them, depression, and anxiety. I have found that poetry is making a comeback, but slowly. Sales have not been at the top of my money chart. Another worry is that I am starting something that I will not have time to finish. My life has been long, more of a saga, filled with bits of happiness given to me by my children and emotional and physical abuse woven in and out throughout the years.
The urgency involves my writing. I have been writing since I could print words, simple words. Poems for my aunt and daddy, which she would destroy if found by my mother. I had been told since I was old enough to remember that I would never be anything because I was not as beautiful as my sister Billie nor as bright; all I could hope for was to marry and have someone take care of me. This non-encouragement caused me to work toward good grades and educate myself if schooling was not available. Like many southern girls, I was married “off” to someone much older than me, an abuser. I never gave up wanting to write. I was a closet writer until I retired from the public workforce, fearing that it would be destroyed if it was found.
This brings me to when I give thought to be a writer. Also, what type of writer did I want to be. I have always loved poetry; my poetry books are filled with heartache and anguish that was my life. Many have said that it was “dark” poetry. It was mainly dark as it was given birth from that dark place within me. Many have suggested that I seek help and counseling. Don’t we all need counseling in some form, depression, and/or anxiety?
To be a writer, one must have good communication skills and be able to share a point concisely and clearly. I began years ago by keeping a daily journal; with this journal, I could draw upon incidents in my life that would allow me to put them into my poetry or short stories. I have been told that writing is never a lonely activity; for me, it was because I have always thought of myself as a loner. I turn within, thinking about what I wanted to say, how I wanted to write it to bring others into my “dark” world of reading what I wrote. I know I am not alone; many carry the same burdens that I do, much worse than mine. We may not be alone, but it is a lonely world for me. A world where I can hide and play the part needed to be played.
I have never looked at my writing as a job, one I could make a living regularly doing; be another Sylvia Plath or Grace Paley. That was why I waited until retirement to pursue my desire to write. I write because I love to create, to share with others. Yet, to share those, others must buy my books; maybe poetry was not the best choice. Perhaps a collection of short stories would have been more profitable? However, once again, urgency raises its worrisome head. There are constant changes in publishing and marketing, and I try to keep up with those when necessary. Writers must have adaptability when needed. Discipline is something that comes naturally to me. However, with cancer, treatments and the side effects that come with it does override discipline. It overshadows time, fatigue takes over no matter how committed I may be, and my challenges are health problems I have no control over.
I am organized, have a designated workspace, and have all the proper writing tools; I research what is needed to put out the correct information. I edit, edit, edit…I know what I want to write. I follow all the principles and have proofreaders. I copyright my material. I have had this blog for years. I am a people watcher, listen to tones, and am always mindful of syntax. I try to switch topics, poetry, short stories, newsworthy information, and opinions in my blog. I try to think critically, change styles, and learn new techniques. I follow some social media. However, I am a loner and a lone thinker.
There are two things that I need to observe. Slip away from fatigue and pain; my work may be more productive. Secondly, sales!
It has been a very long day for me, so I will leave you with this, never give up on your dreams.
The hours before dawn, and a cold rain pounds into my heart. The grief is fierce as it raises and consumes my spirit, assaulting my senses. Memories emerge from the darkness, becoming one with my soul. In the depths of my wounded courage, I am listing in a sea of sorrow, my life filled with more grief than many can bear. It is the hard cold hour before departing this misery.
I search for a miracle; hope merges with despair; my destiny is to leave all I have ever loved. I am uncertain and afraid. Hope has expired. Sometimes waves of anger and fear hang above me, a cloud circulating over the earth. I do not speak of death. Yet, the elderly where I reside; talk until they see their own grave over the horizon.
Much is written about grief, soft words meant to calm the grieving heart. There will be those who say how lovely these words are, and I doubt they are all true. Grief is not calm and comforting; the comments do not stop the pain. Words penetrate the brain; they shatter the heart.
Most are choked with emotions under the flesh where the heart is sheltered by outward affliction; they close their eyes, hoping to have the scene before they disappear. Grief has no place to hide! The speaker believes the words that enter the ears will comfort despair.
I recently returned after being away for a few days. My granddaughter and I went to Door County, a vacation spot for many from Wisconsin and out-of-state people. I had to get away after over two years of being shut in because of Covid. I was going “stir” crazy. I decided that cancer could do no less harm than being out and about.
We also had my great-grandson, who will soon turn ten. That is something to write—a spoiled ten-year-old. Of course, this is not anything new to me. If I heard “Mommie” once, I heard it a million times over four days. I doubt if spoiled is the correct term. I believe his parents try, yet they are not too successful in setting boundaries. They allow him to decide everything from ordering off the menu in a restaurant to when he wants to stop at some money-making game place. By the fourth day, I was living on my last nerve! We would leave on the fifth day and not a moment too soon.
Like Tina Turner sings, “What’s love got to do with it .”I love him very much, and he is a sweet loving kid who is spoiled. I sometimes wonder if there is enough time for him to get out of this entitled stage. His half-brother, who has lived an entitled life, does not know anything but to be catered to. He is thirteen years older than the other one. To clarify, neither comes from a “well-to-do” family. Yet the parents and a grandmother want to be friends with the two of them. I believe the term “will they love me” comes into play.
The grandmother is my youngest daughter, I have raised five children by myself, and as they grew up, they knew that I loved them and wanted them to love me. Yet, I was never their friend, each taught to respect me, and they have all turned out to be fine citizens and outstanding children. I believe that they have brought up their children as I did them. The youngest daughter is the only one with grandchildren; they are, as stated, brought up to be entitled to have all they need and too much of what they want.
However, it was a good trip. I enjoyed getting away from my own home, my book had slowed down, and I needed to recoup. The walls seemed to be closing in. I understand that this happened, but I did enjoy the trip. I came back with a much clearer head than when I left. The pain went with me, but it is only with pain that my mind remains clear. I refuse to take enough to stop the pain; it is then that the mind stops as well.
I wish all of you a wonderful day.
Altered Senses
Existence, scene after scene, characteristics of life environment, genetics, and promises that reveal nothing, the past descends like rain from the sky, washing away all dreams.
Phantoms of youth chanting within the soul, paths blocked; evil has spread across the landscape of a lifetime.
Rethink the future! Loneliness limits love and happiness; boundaries set slow down the process of moving into the future. Nevertheless, a future shrouded with abundant solitude from which there is no escape.
My mother did not know if I were alive or dead. When the car drove away, she did not come out to see who it was; it would be four years before she saw my face. My cries are forgotten. A man I thought to be my daddy was my uncle. Yet they never hid who I was, and my daddy came to see me when he could always say he would take me home one day. By the time I was three years old, I could take care of myself. I took to the boys like a fish to water. They made me tough. Aunt Vina taught me manners; She was a brilliant individual. She took me to the local library and taught me how to read. By the time I left, I could read some simple words. That last year I could remember my life there, but nothing before. I could dress, tie my shoes and eat without help. I was toilet trained. There was nothing left to teach me, or so they thought. One Sunday afternoon, my daddy came to Birmingham. He said it was time for me to go home.
As the years have gone by, I have thought about how my life would be if I stayed with Aunt Vina. On that ride home, I had no idea who I was or where I was going. My life on the farm was simple; I wandered the hills above my family’s house and cared for myself. My mother ignored me, my sister hated me, and there was no love in that home, not even from my daddy. I don’t think he knew how. As the years went by, the only thing I could not do was get on the bus for school. I came home to chores. From age four until twelve, I ran the hills during good weather, always exploring. I learned to not care that my sister had pretty clothes and mine were hand-me-downs from my mother’s customers. I learned to not care that I was not loved. Eventually, my mother would not allow me to go to Aunt Vina’s during summer breaks from school. The clothes she bought me my mother gave away. If she found my journals, she burned them.
More and more each day, I see the hypocrisy and pettiness of humankind. I also see hate and jealousy. Outside my apartment, I have a “Black Lives Matter” sign in my garden. It is not gaudy but of good taste in design. It also states that other things I believe to matter are “women’s rights, human rights, gay rights, love is love.” I support all these things! A “Pride flag with large Native American feathers” is hanging from my patio porch. This flag represents my beliefs in its Pride colors and my Native heritage.
My neighbor came over to say that all they can see wherever they go in June is PRIDE, PRIDE, PRIDE, and she has had enough. Not to be spiteful, or maybe I was, I told her that I never watch football; however, the large “whirly gig” (half the size of my flag) she had in her patio area was quite beautiful. Painted her team’s colors were gorgeous, and the sound it makes is almost like windchimes, which I also love. She walked away without another word.
We must all realize that we are made up of different likes and dislikes. I continue to state that I am not perfect, but I try to understand everyone. I love parades showing how loyal we are as Americans. I try to recognize that we have many facets to our lives which, if not hurting anyone (Other than their feelings), we need to let everyone live their lives as they wish. That does not include rapists, murderers, hateful, harmful people.
My four-legged companion loves everyone like they all belong to her. I wish we could all be as innocent and loving as she. We should make the path we are traveling one that we are not judgmental. Each person’s preference is theirs, and we only have it if we believe God to answer too.
The Last Chapter 