The Right to Write: Monarks

I am mostly raw. Bare bones adjusting turns to keep Spring winds from gusting through my rib cage and bringing about too many gasps from the floating head on top of a spinal column with slight curvature. Yesterday’s ravens made carrier pigeons look as bedazzled as a peacock – as they laughed mockingly at my forward (slowed, but still forward) movement to make things righted again.

At 12:23pm I received a phone call from the school…something, something full body rash…something, "yes, pick him up."  Engage instinct. In less than an hour I arrived at a monitor affixed to a brick wall and adjusted my dress in the mirrored doors. I pushed the big, black button, wishing it were red and then answered the static-ridden “*garble, garble can I help you?*” from the wall box.

“Yes, I’m here for my son”. The doors unlock.

And as quickly as I am inside, the desire to get back out again jumps to the front of the line. I go through the motions though: sign the pink sheet, initial, date, half-smile, palm breath-check, quasi-admire art work that’s outdated, sigh on the inside, decide which one of the three clocks in the room I want to reference for the time (they’re each different) …and wait.

The waiting part gets the most response. Similar to visiting a zoo to find the lioness on the outside of the bars – you’re gawked at. It is the perfect opportunity for onlooker to throw supposition and what-if theories into the wind and see whose gossipy ad-libs are most favored. Like, “maybe they let her out on purpose?”. I could have saved the Monarks time by proclaiming them all winners and chewing on my arm or sucking on the end of my sweater sleeve. That seems too easy though. I’m not sure what my latest ailment by their count is anymore. I would have to throw the wow-factor in there if I wanted to trip them up.

I started thinking *maybe unkempt and woodsy…or becoming a deliberate fashion faux-pas…possibly painted and rail thin, make them think I’m depressed and medicated*. I stopped when I realized I had just described 78% of the population or thereabouts. Turns out that acting normal and keeping it together is more of a host for presumption than drooling on yourself or eating random paint chips. I had thought myself amusing for wearing dangly earrings that clanged against my necklace like wind chimes; certainly, straightening my hemline before being seen publicly would make them wonder. Eh, anyway.

I queried the art work for origination, read something about a “community of learners” and counted floor tiles on my way to the classroom. I waited again. And then two, three, four ladies came out, gave me the once-over and then returned to their learning den. Lioness. Outside. Bars. No words uttered, but I filled in the script with what I knew was being thought: “Oh, yyyoou’re his Mommmm, ohhhh…”. I almost wanted to do the thought-process aloud for them: “Now you take what you see and add it to what you thought you knew about me. Just like legos! See how they don’t match? Yea, that means that one piece doesn’t fit with the other one. I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to make sure you have the right information to go with the correct observation, okay? Ohhkay.”

*big smile, lots of teeth*.

Not long after I had my son in-tote and we skipped out the front doors; saying goodbye to the wall box until our next showing.

The Road

I remember the day you were sick and would only calm your crying when I would rock-a-bye you in the blue chair that now sits on my front porch. You were four when I left and hard as it was to go, it was something I needed to do. More than a decade later and my actions are driving to get my family home. Funny in a way – how I left, collected my own little family and now want to show them what I had (have) as a wonderful life.

So why did that late night conversation wear on us so? I think it’s because we wish for time that has passed too quickly while we might have been asleep and desire to change the circumstances that leave us wondering now. And you – you’re more awake that I was at your age. In the words of John Lennon, “you may say that I’m a dreamer…” yes, I am. A blessing and a block dreaming is. For me, dreaming is a coping mechanism (for escape) and a planning tool for reality…for manifesting.

And for us – this whole journey, both my independent journey and yours…have been intertwined and crossed many times o’er. They’re supposed to be. In a way, they have been reflections for the other person. Kind of like me running a test, failing, and relaying back to you not to do that same thing. In that case, I’ve been like a researcher. In the meantime, you encourage, inspire and assist with so very much of my life that I’m forever indebted to that huge heart of yours. And both of us walk, talk and speak the line. We try to anyway and that is the point. To continue doing what is right, what is best and what should be done, regardless of the circumstances we find ourselves in. I know that I get stuck somewhere between want and need at times. When I think that things should just be easier, be clearer…be over, and they aren’t, that is the real test of faith. For the moments in time when things could have gone differently we have to recognize them as insights for that moment. We are here. And here, we are together.

The Recipe

Blue and clear glass canning jars with the lids reused, were washed and placed bottoms-side up in the dish drainer in preparation. Yes, there was enough room on the shelf high above the food products and deliberately out of reach. The red step ladder was placed beneath and the curtain pulled back to disclose the space that would soon be closed up for good.

Bitterness went in the first jar with the lid fastened tightly and the jar pushed all the way to the left. Jealousy was next and the contents were siphoned down as the jar was tapped repeatedly on the counter to get the product to settle. Anger, resentment and jaded went into wide-mouth containers. It seemed she had bulk of those, though spite, malice, fury, cynicism, and annoyance ran a close second. Every pain and poison was poured and ladled into their new glasses houses. Some blue, some clear – they each had a home and would hereby be measured by volume, not by weight as they were far too heavy to carry any longer.

Hatred, in its abundance took up the space of three jars – the biggest ones. Four quarts each made a full dozen in quarts of poison. Shameful. What was left after that, she swept from the floor and wiped from the counters into a dust pan. This was promptly emptied into the toilet and flushed. Twice. Regret, envy and worry were the last to go and were layered like a sand sculpture, revealing swirling folds of red-hued pain now encased in the tallest of glass testimonials. She guessed that this might cure her affliction with heartburn hereafter.

And then – like a cookie crumble-crusted and cream-filled hot pocket of goodness, she started again. Faith was the bottom layer and a requirement for this home-maker guru. Courage, adventure, and determination were mixed to a fulfilling base. Spunk, bravery and valor would be blended with spirit to develop a savory crust but would be set aside for the moment. Flavors and energy had to marry while she folded mojo, moxie and grit in on themselves to balance such a rich concoction. These were her most favorite ingredients – splashes of moxie and drizzles of mojo.

The nourishment was sure to be satisfying, yet leave her hungry for more. It was designed this way as an ideal fuel source. The taste would be inspiring; the delivery impeccable. She gave thanks in advance for what she already knew would be bestowed upon her. Joy, peace, contentment and calm were whipped to a stiff peak and refrigerated only until she could pour on the mojo, moxie, and grit sauce, which had become exquisitely aromatic. Lastly, she grated a fine coating of trust over the top and set down her tools.

A step back. Idyllic temptation.

While it baked to a convection perfection she would draw closed that curtain on the top shelf and wipe down the counters. And salivating in anticipation, something about her just knew that this was the answer all along.

Evidently

1995 was the year of the penny picked up and measured in due profit to her cause.  

Of late, she militated wanting to say something valuable but stifled it for the solution of vagueness she knew it marinated in.  With a deep breath in pulled down past her diaphragm and into the belly, she mustered the courage to back up all statements with faith that all would be well in the end, everything would work out as it was supposed to and the push and pull of what to do and when was the exactness of free choice and humanity. 

The surging pulse grew from the inside.  It beat like a base drum from a far-off hillside but grew closer every time she feigned her preparedness to speak.   She had a buffet of thoughts and subjects to choose from, yet it was never enough of that one thing to expedite the voice.  A dull “well” would usually surface, followed by the ever-anticipatory “Nothing”…still, no golden-globe.  

What kept her silent?!  Heads up, tails up it didn’t matter.  Friend or foe, she would listen and friend or foe she would empathize.  Yet, there was still nothing to be said about the greater challenged she was facing.  Mornings were similar to evenings…similar to afternoons and the same as the in-between times.  Silent. Nothing to say. The swell of energy for verbiage would often result in tears and they ran back down the face; materializing as the unspoken words she sought.

What goes up...

Evidently, she was not supposed to speak right now. Proven perspective when one sense is not 100% the other senses magnify to make up for the loss.  Logistically then, not speaking actualizes listening.

Turns out what is more difficult than speaking what she is not exactly certain she should speak of?...listening without speaking.  Tasked.

Brick by Brick

A solar flare at 5am burst rays of light through dusty drapes and shone like spotlights on the many home projects not yet completed. “Yeah, yeah” I murmur as I turn the other way and flop down on my feather pillow just in time to have the alarm blare in my face and blink 5-2-2…5-2-2…5-2-2 a.m. until I fist pound the snooze button on top.



My definition of friend has changed, as has how I define commitment, achievement, passion…depression. It could be that Cinnamon, the nurse practitioner was right when she told me that I didn’t “look depressed” five years ago. Curious if she would change her opinion today? Of course, does it matter when the greater challenge is taking someone named “Cinnamon” seriously?

I am five months into the greatest defining moment of my life today and yet it’s that solar flare highlighting my stagnated home projects that controls my thoughts. To be honest, those thoughts also compete with a failed political system, rising gas prices, the search for employment and neglectful parents. I go to work each day thankful for the consistent schedule yet yearning for the impassioned mind of being home and being free.

A friend spoke just today of this wrestling jive. The “rebuild to fall” of everyday situations we plan and ponder, create, step back, admire and then *crash*. The Jenga brick supporting most of the weight gets pulled too quickly and the tower falls down. In that respect, we are somewhat of a thick-headed …no, persevering population huffing and puffing in our tumbled messes and then reorganizing until we have another base on which to build. Brick by brick the plan is reconstructed with adjustments made where we guess our weak points were the first time.

The supports of strength come through on our rebuilding with the relationships we cultivate; prioritizing those closest to us first and fashioning our thoughts of hope and faith with functionality and some linear logic – at least enough to get those mental blueprints stamped approved. As it was, I am a particularly mutable substance transformed with all things musing and dissolving into a useful element of empathy. How depleting this can be. I am committed however. So my choice is really not a choice, but an assured response to do what is right, necessary and expected of that mutability.

Rebuilding ...

Cessation

Downside: My face is breaking out as if I’ve just hit puberty. I grab the extra-strength cleanser received from my dearest esthetician friend and slather my pores to shut them up. Morning rolls around and I realize I fell asleep in my day clothes again with my knitted scarf choking the stale air out of me as it is still wrapped around my neck. The cleanser has managed to create pools of sloughing skin on my chin, right cheek and left temple. Joy.

I make a mental note to reorganize the bedroom later and put those pillow cases in the laundry. Turns out that fleece bedding, though warm, wicks away all moisture and does nothing for your complexion. Those pesky sun spots are off-setting the dry skin patches now that I look closely at my reflection in the iridescent lighting of a cold, tin building.

How did I end up here?

If I had a belted jacket and some padding to slam myself against, I might feel more secure with this placement. And for as much as I know I shouldn’t say that, my hurdles of stalled motivation are growing larger by the day. So far this morning, I have adjusted the thermostat four times and tried to rework the dirty looks I am inspired to give to the guard who is never lacking a sarcastic retort. I recount the times that my heart has smiled in this most recent past and I realize that it hovers there; my heart. It stays in a place of comfort, afraid to push out into the cold because we are not quite ready to step ahead. There’s no boo-hooing, just adrift. My daily conversations with God tell me to wait – that I have put it out there and now I must just wait. Physical symptom number one which occurs when I become impatient and stressed…my eyes twitch - that’s happening. Just behind my left eye socket an irritating little finger scratches at my temporal lobe reminding me that I am not quite where I want to be and can do nothing about it at the present moment.

Buggers.

Barely, if at all.

I have barely acknowledged the velocity and impact of a life unexamined, or in right perspective - acknowledged the continuance of hurt from those elements of a life unexposed.  I want to write, to paint those stories of news for experiences which have led me to this place.  I am afraid.  I want to expose those tyrants that draw blood and do not stop - though it seems for all my efforts, they continue without pause, and (particularly) without remorse or countenance. Their faces are hidden in ways that escape me. I see them for whom  they are but to outside persons, they are as normal as the definition.  All that said, I write in metaphors and operate in hallucinations.  Why?  It is painful. It's brutal.  The struggle day in and day out with what I have been left.  I care not for the material, but rather for the emotive context of things.  And that is exactly what was bruised and battered. 

Although I sound like I'm whining, I'm not.  I'm simply pissed.  ...and baffled.  And aggravated at this exchange.  If you could see him.   See the way that he operates in daylight versus the behavior that happens when I show up on-scene.  And how does one get that part into the light?  It is not for lack of trying, I assure you.  A year ago I wrote a resolution that led to the impending New Year.  I swore I would be more forgiving, more outright, more...forgiving.  And in honesty, I have.  Yet he does not forgive me.  I am tired of struggling with my thoughts and emotions with no return but a beat-down via those powers-that-be.  Those same powers that promise to uphold the law and "protect and serve". What a joke.  Truth is, I want a return.  I want an apology, and a listening ear as invested in my speak as I am when I promise to listen.  I want someone, something to make this right and so far, it just drags...on, and on...and on...and on...and on.

On some days when the sun is high in the sky and I listen intently to the silence, I am fine.  I can understand and progress on blind faith. Most days are like that really.  Blind faith.

After the Facts

Fact 1: My son is continuously abused by his father

Fact 2: The courts, to this point have been unable to properly attend to the needs of this situation or assign accountability in order to keep my son safe.

Fact 3: My son is honest; yet frustrated, hurt; but maintaining, strong; and growing all the wiser by the day.

Fact 4: The litany of charges against said father (see also “Pop”, “Abuser”), psychological turmoil and abuse at the hands of said father, and undeniable harm is a real and present danger for my son Every. Week.

Fact 5: “The Hitch” (see below) happened only a week ago. This means that juggling the emotions, the hurt, the upset and anger is something that will take time to contend with.

Fact 6: Abusers are enabled by those closest to them (e.g. family, friends) who fail to, or cannot see the truth

Fact 7: My responsibility and role as mother means that I must, at all times, protect the physical, social, emotional, and psychological well-being of my child to the absolute best of my ability.

_______________________________________________________________________
Given the facts – the unfettered allowance for the transgressor to continue violating the rights of others means a little boy is berated, conditioned and abused continuously. Please refer to those facts as I explain the following:

Abuser fights for every-other weekend visitation because he play-acts as if he cares about the time spent with his son. Abuser is granted weekend visitation, plus Monday and Tuesday evenings for a few hours. Law-guardian (a.k.a. : Abuser’s second attorney of record) supports this arrangement as it was she who rallied for Pop / Abuser to have more time in support of her “that Mom is alienating” claim - unsupported as it was. I could carry on volumes about the law-guardian’s moral reprehension, but I’ll leave that for another day. This is about the abuser emboldened by a failed system. So, my son returns from a weekend visitation having spent little to no time with the person having claimed he needed more time, and Monday’s “long talk with Pop that I didn’t like” bore statements akin to brainwashing. As proof, I present (and paraphrase):

“Because you’re honest and tell your Mom what’s happening here, you are making (my second wife leave)…she’s leaving me and it’s yours and your mother’s fault.” “…I cannot continue being a father to someone who makes up stories just to hurt me, or get me in trouble” “Your Mom records everything that you say so she can get me into trouble because she just wants to take you away…You are misunderstanding what I did to you…you hit me as much as I hit you, right? I wasn’t drinking when I did that to you…when I and my (twenty-something) cousin mocked you and punched you, I didn’t kick you or laugh at you…we didn’t do more of the same actions when you asked us five times to ‘please stop’…you imagined it and you helped do it too…you hurt me too, didn’t you?...are you sorry now?...do you see why you can’t tell your Mother what happens here?...if you keep telling her and other people, than I can’t be your father, you understand?”.

This amounts to a sobbing and depreciated little boy questioning, at the end of the night, what he did so wrong that the man who fathered him, not only blames him but “doesn’t love me, Mom”.

After-the-facts torture and abusers will always abuse.

Fact 7: My responsibility and role as mother means that I must, at all times, protect the physical, social, emotional, and psychological well-being of my child to the absolute best of my ability.

Skeletons & Seeds

“Geronimo!” she yelled as she put two argyle sock-covered feet into pant legs that were not flared enough at the bottoms. She was beginning to like herself on the outside and love herself on the inside though she still battled those demons of self-doubt and questioning. She was always questioning…if she had done the right thing, enough of the right thing…if she could do more. Just the evening before now, she had been inspired to paint – and pulling a cigar box of water-colored pigment from beneath her plants, dropped a picture of that little boy who breathed life into her world. She’d picked it up and ran her hand across the heart-shaped framed face of her then six-year-old pictured in his red tie and black fedora. Had three years gone by that quickly that it felt as if it were yesterday? Yes, they had.


She knew he was learning, growing and experiencing everything – understanding only a fraction of it, similarly to her own situation. What concerned her most were the affects that many, many, too many to count situations of abuse, neglect…of psychological warfare upon her child, were having. Intrinsically, she understood that the Mom title afforded her the “best preventative medicine” award, but time moved so quickly. Too quickly. It was like that skeleton and seed analogy she’d drawn the other day; the similarity between the strength of a skeleton and potential of a seed.

She had walked past the wind-blown and weather-worn remnants of a lily seed pod for months. There were no flowers remaining, no foliage, and no green - just the skeletal remnants of a pod which had, at one point, held the seeds for another year of beauty promised by that unseen potential. Had she been there in that garden in September, she may have cut them back when the flowers faded, thinking that besides helping the plant to rejuvenate roots before autumn, nobody enjoys looking at the stalky reminders of a summer almost gone. But she wasn’t there in September, or even October. On the first day of February, she found those skeletal memories and recalled the passing of another year. The pods had transpired the wind, all elements of accumulation and even a quick judgment by the would-be gardener, had she been present. They were beautiful, those masterpieces of transparent mirrors between what was and what might be. She picked them and put them in a vase to admire. To remind. What had her perspective overlooked or neglected when she was certain she was seeing the whole picture?

Mostly, it is the difficulty with the space-time continuum. As in – there does not seem to be enough space to ignore what happens to her little boy all the time. Reflections. She reminisced on those lilies again. They were thought to be dead, used up, done – and yet, she picked them because they were perfect. Like her little boy – no matter the wicked elements put-upon him, he was still perfect; beautiful. He was worth preserving with her greatest concoction of preventative medicine. And at this point as a weary traveler, it may come down to a huge “Geronimo” of faith.

The Hitch

Bullies don't ever stop being bullies. Much like leopards - their spots remain the same.  There is a movement on against the antics of bullies and those that support such foolishness.  The greater good is that bullies are not welcome in most social spheres.  The hitch is that in this case, the bully is dad.  An individual who laughs at a little boy's tears and is maddened by any support in spite of his own freakish behavior. I seek for another name or title, but most of what I conjure is depreciating and (though valid) doesn't encompass the full range of destitute that belongs to this ... thing.  Let's back up a bit, shall we?

7pm: we're waiting in the driveway.

7:10pm: through a dim driveway light comes the sullen figure of a little boy, dragging behind him his belongings with drooping shoulders.

7:12 - 7:20pm: come the story of how said thing taunted and teased, punched, smacked and kicked him while he attempted to gather his things because his mom (me) was waiting outside. The bullying went on for fifteen minutes, maybe twenty...where thing and thing's cousin made fun of my little boy. He mentioned that as he raised his hands to his face in order to deflect a blow from dad, dad's cousin kicked him in the side.  And as he fell to the floor and asked no less than five times to "please stop" - Dad and cousin told him that he would be caught in many a fight because he's "a pussy"...that he should tear off the ear of his opponent and show it to him/her and that they would then go into shock, rendering him the winner....that he needs to "learn how to fight" (said through slurred and staggered speech as supported by the empties around the house)...that he probably had his card turned in school (a behavioral modification in the classroom) because you were looking at other boys' *expletive* (parts)... and that he wasn't to "bullshit (his) mother when you tell her this story".

7:21pm: Gasping cries evidenced this little boy's hopelessness as he proclaimed: "He says he loves me but he acts like he doesn't. I don't like him. I'm not going back".

7:22pm: "I'm not going back there".

7:23pm: "I'm not going back".

7:25pm: "Mom, please don't make me go back there".


7:27 - 9:58pm: Now finally asleep in his bed, my mind continues to stir with heavy emotions and bitter, bitter anger.  Bound by words on paper that entail every detail of life, I feel I am rendered as helpless as I know my child feels.  In good conscience I cannot take him there -- allow him to be entrusted to the "care" of a thing that is no better than an immature imbecile who revels in loathsome antics that serve only to belittle, disparage and depreciate others. If he can get in a tormenting punch, or slap, hit, kick, shove, or festering tease - he does.

And yet, I - as a mother, am supposed to be accomplice to the delivery of my child to a person that should not have anything to do with, or around children.  Bullies = abusive parasites / parasites = bullies. Have to remove the feeding grounds.

The Shovel Theory

Here's how it works:

Take any person and hand them a shovel. It doesn't have to be expensive, or fiberglass, or colorful ... just a shovel.  What would they do?  Personally, I have no less than six ideas right off the top of my head that I could, would, should institute a shovel into in order that they work.  The man (and/or woman) with a quote-unquote blue collar would know exactly how to incorporate a shovel if handed one.  And the suggestion of getting it for free? Bonus. 

But to the politician, the professional talker or the famed representative that thrives on nepotism and one hand washing the other - my guess is that they would be rendered speechless.  That, or they would think me a lunatic.  For several years I have disclosed one such shovel theory to my friends and family on the occasion that we have a few moments to chat and eat and laugh.  And tonight, that shovel theory reached a whole new level.  Now, the shovel theory lends its well-conceived intellect to what we're calling the "Get to Work" campaign for government officials. 

I propose that we collect shovels.  One by one, those shovels are mailed to each state/district representative with an enclosed motivational speech to read: "Get to Work".  The follow-up campaign to this is documentary photographs of real, honest and hard-working individuals who show their hands in a picture with a nicely fonted  sub-statement to read: "I have callouses, do you?".  See to the working person, the shovel is useful. It is an assist, a tool, a means to an end...it is necessary.  Yes, to some it may be little more than a prop, but still - I would bet they have callouses to show they can use a shovel to produce something.  But to the persons elected to positions of power that do the talking for all their constituents, a shovel is nearly useless.  Heck, if it was a pen they would be more obliged to motivate.  An embossed pen and the promise of your vote, and they'll send a postage paid Christmas card.  Excuse me, holiday card. 

So what to do?  I'm thinking that I shall begin tomorrow anew by collecting those pennies that I subconciously pick up on the sides of sidewalks and store fronts and beneath store shelving - and I'm going to save.  Save until I have enough to buy the first of what will become many, shovels.  Sent straightaway to the congressman or woman of my district with that enclosed notation: "Get to Work".  I will most-definately include a picture of my hands since they do have many the callous and I'll begin documenting the responses.  Donations will be gratefully accepted and we might even get so far as to embossing handles and creating memorabilia in honor of those hard working individuals and families who know all-too-well what it means to work with their hands day in and day out without the expectation of gratitude.  And if Washington doesn't like my shovels.  I'll give them to those that will truly appreciate. 

PS: I do have a PayPal account.

Gratefully,
Shovel Theory

Shed

A bow is drawn slowly; elegantly across the strings of an instrument singly sweetly to emotion: it bleeds.  It is a weeping, sorrowful song that enlightens. One long elicited note that sings to reconciliation and suddenly, there is a sense of clarity.  In the distant, there is a strumming - a smooth beat which summons strength. What is brewing?

Ability.


And where from here?

...only God knows.

Truth Has its Pardons

Here I sit at 11:11 in the p.m. recollecting the day's events.  I have glorious friends who fill my life to the brim, children whom I am proud, yet stern with and a love that makes an endless smile spread across my face.  Thinking so fondly of those whom I love brought me to the sequester of the online world in late hours, the time where one sits and somewhat mindlessly stumbles through the pages of the communication age.  I signed in just as I should to my photo portal, and entered under the search bar for "soul mate".  Just that - two words that are entirely meaningful and would certainly pull up symbolic photos which I could promptly copy and paste to my love's page. A momentary reminder that I think of him now, thought of him just a second ago, and will think of him in just another moment.  Soul mate. 

I get the hour glass and take a spot of wine.  Hmmmm.....

"No searches match your query".

Lame.

Dumb.

We are the communication age! We have all facilities at our fingertips to think, inspire, create, regress, and transpire into something, all things...great...and nothing matches soul mate?!  I am utterly irritated.  Just for a moment though.  Because after just a thought or two I realize that communication or not, creativity and then some, and with a splash of technology in this little ranch house - the point remains that the feelings, the inspiration for life still (Only) exists in life.  Soul mates do exist and I bet my last and only two dollars on that fact. There is reason for our plodding.  A masterful technological piece of machinery is, itself skeptical and intolerant of those situations it cannot replicate: i.e. soul mates. 

Take a back seat technology and communication outside my speech.  I laugh at your insignificance yet depend upon it (to an extent), I take note of your indecision and am enthralled at the hierarchy of love yet again.

Praise, praise.   Thinking more highly of our accomplishment, I offer you a toast Lovey -- even high tech industrial science doesn't know what to do with a love like ours!

What She Wasn't

There were days that itemizing the lists of things surrounding her existence, came as a priority to other actions; possibly breathing.  She wasn't rich. She didn't own the best of anything outside her husband and children, and she wasn't sure of where to go when she thought she was lost.  She knew that she could pray, but sometimes praying didn't seem enough.  She prayed anyway.
She didn't own much of anything that was new, and she deliberately shopped for things that were not new. She believed that "new"meant little more than "more cheaply made".  She kept breathing when it got too hard to draw a deep breath and she kept thinking when her brain did little more than hum like a static-filled radio station.  Think, think, think. She hasn't had time to herself in more than half a decade and even that's okay. She would gladly give away all that she owns for the smile it might bring to someone else, or the warmth, or the comfort, the understanding, the enjoyment, the belief.
She fiddled with her new ring; spinning it 'round and 'round her finger until it stopped like a spun bottle on the clock striking twelve - the glass slipper left on the front step, the disbelief, the confusion...what happened? Where did she go?

She was on a mission. One that was known only to her and those select few that shared her thoughts, her whispers and who actually listened.  She had calculated and planned and yet, there was so very much room left that did not make sense.

She prayed again.  Spinning the ring again, spinning the thoughts. It had to lead to some form of materialized event. There had to be a reason.  Where the hell did the slipper go?! What was "she" - as all that embodies "she" missing?  Where did she go wrong? What was so big, or small, or huge, or insignificant - that she missed it?  Mission. Reckless endangerment of self - she had belief. She knew that. She had faith. She fully and wholeheartedly understood that.

With one shoe on and one off, she marched on with a smile.

Her eyes spoke louder than the smile on her face, but she marched.  Consequences be had, she marched.

Burden

Burden comes in such depths of weight. Today, as if all other days were semi-significant - was elemental in change.  A step toward difference. A leap toward manifestation.  I sat patiently awaiting my turn; scraping random food parts from my pants and tapping the toes of my boots to a wall-to-wall carpet that begged for a vacuum.

"Trish, you can go in now," came a voice from behind the half-wall of justice.  I stood, and ran my hands over my pleats, wrestled all handles into a convenient grouping and threw shoulders back before walking. My mother always told me to stand up straight - that point resonated on this day.  The solemn march to a back office where I might find a plush, leather chair and an all-to-anxious legal representative, salivating over my arrival.

"Have a seat".

Thank you, I'll stand...I used the next three and a half minutes to lay out before him, my myriad of jargon and attempted justification.

"The problem...is that you're giving me numbers that don't match. There must be something that I am missing.  What am I missing Trish?"

"Mmmm - well, how much time do you have?"(On the inside).

On the outside, I drew attention to the process that has aided and abedded such a criminal - the thundering march of drums growing louder within - "there is a process," I chant.
Elements of change came in the form of understanding. I detailed and derailed, drifted and scaffolded what would otherwise be a migraine-at-will.  And finally, the look of  ah. ha. came to surface. I think he gets it. My point, my reasons, my challenge toward being a better human.

I cried this morning as I cry at night. No more a bleeding-heart than the next occupied citizen, I want out of this sickness. In the slap of a pen to yellow legal pad and a smirk which signified comprehension, I was suddenly lighter. In as many years and equal sleepless nights, I have worried. If only....

There is no answer yet, but I remain vigilant. In so much as I can understand the elements that cause growth, change, ...becoming, I can understand this.  Oh, to be something other than the targeted. It is happening though. An evolution. Still, I stand. I teeter to the right - sway back to the left - there is balance here in this movement.  I miss them. I miss being looked upon as if I had all the answers. I am good at this even though you question my motivations. I am good at taking care - at care-taking. I am meant for this - justifier to the unjust; advocate for the forgotten.

Remind me when those drums chant louder. Recall the pounding reinforcements of sacrifice and the deafening pounds of vision; of fortitude. They march.

They need care too.

Mediocre Minds

Great spirits have always encountered violent opposition from mediocre minds.
- Albert Einstein

To the Attention of Ms. Valerie Wacks

Ms. Wacks,
This is your client. His name is Garrett. The recent photo is from August, 2011 though you may not recognize this little lad since it has been several months since you have visited him at his father's house. The last recount of you having visited Garrett in my home was ...well, you never have.  Pictured next to this dear boy is me, his mother and the one which you proclaim in a closed-door conference amongst attorneys, that you believe to be "too pretty that (she) thinks she can do whatever she wants".  A most-unprofessional accusation to make, I would have thought you to be of higher moral character than taking cheap and immature shots which can be interpreted (and rightly so) as partisan and subjective.  Though for some time I have thought you to be a impish person with a large, albeit  nonsensical opinion for the disdain of me without due cause - I am again saddened to "need" (use of the word need is being weened from this situation) your loud and obnoxious position within our situation. Why?

Because once again Garrett has climbed into my vehicle at the ending of a ridiculous visitation with Dad, with tears in his eyes. Stifling back his innate reaction to cry, he relays that he has had his things taken from him by Dad and told that they would either be "given to a poor family or burned". Most likely, they have already been destroyed. In addition to this, he holds his chest in the spot where he was punched by Dad after being told not to cry, less he gets "something to cry about". There was little to no warning in that situation from referenced "Dad". Beyond the chest pounding and the illegal seizure of my son's things (Please reference Order on Motion, dated April 9, 2009, page 4, which reads: "ORDERED  that Garrett shall be permitted by both parents to bring his belongings back and forth between households and shall be encouraged to bring items upon his expressing a desire to do so".  This allowance would be found directly above the notice to Dad to "not, under any circumstances, ride a motorcycle on a public highway with Garrett on the motorcycle or permit anyoen else to do so while Garrett is in his care...". The only reason I again refer to the motorcycle incident is due to the in his care clause. Sadly, Dad is unable, incapable, or completely unwilling to provide care for his son. I have witnessed this time and again. You, if you were any kind of decent, capable, and adept law guardian would too. For whatever the reason, you appear to be enamored with Dad and therefore, disregard and blatantly ill-advise (i.e. LIE) to the court of law which you are bound to uphold the mission of. This does not surprise me either because for six years and counting, you have failed your client to such a fault that he can verbalize your alliance to Dad with clarity. 

I have attempted to call you tonight and held my breath while doing so. You live not two miles from my own home and yet, have never stopped. I stopped counting the number of phone calls placed over six years when I got to 77.  I stopped thinking about how sickening your acting position is when you attempted to weasel your way into a situation which you knew/know nothing of outside of Dad's rantings. And yet still, after watching my child relay what could be into the triple digits of a story count for tales befallen him by his Dad, I called you.  Because YOUR JOB is to act as the voice for children that do not contain the vocabulary or comprehension of the unfortunate domestic situation(s) that their parents are in. Because you have taken (supposedly) an oath to Do No Harm to those same children and to speak with ease and comfort, to hear their limited vocabularies describe situations that a decent parent never wishes upon their child - and to then take that sullen story to a Judge who will make a conscious and clear-headed decision for the well-being of the child.

Yet, you fail. You have failed my child many times over and you continue still. You seek the admiration of a crowd you are not fit to stand before. Your lame attempts at vengeance and ill will toward me come as nothing other than a transference of hatred you must hold toward someone else. I can take it. Raised with accountability and responsibility; I can take it. My child; your client should not have to.
Your phone beeped without connection. You must not have power on the other side of the hill - so I stood there thinking of a way that I could get out the information that you absolutely need to heed.  Which brings me to the present: Life does not operate on a nine to five schedule. Most situations which you are charged to recount for the sake of any court of law occur either before or after such luxuries.  I do not expect you to suddenly decide to do the right thing because at half a decade's worth of time, you have neglected to do the right thing. What I do expect is for you to see that you are harming those same persons - children -  because of your obstinate comprehension of your duty and to therefore, remove yourself.  For a child of eight years old to accurately recount the whereabouts of your timely visits with his Dad...for him to be so discouraged at realizing what he told you in confidence, what you swore was between you and he - to watch you march directly to Dad and relay only the pertinent details keeping Dad in your favor - it is grotesque.  You are not there when the reactions hit. You are not there when he is pummeled for crying, hit for speaking, or mocked for knowing. And the most repulsive part? You do not seem to care. So please, do my son as well as any other child entrusted to your position as Law Guardian a huge favor: RESIGN.

You know my number,
Patricia

Shameful

Shameful that your personal growth was stymied long before you reached adulthood.  Consequently you have remained in a position of virtual childhood, owing only to immature antics.  Shameful that you think even with your entrance upon more than three decades of life, you are somewhat entitled to speak as condescending; act as ego-maniacal as you sound, and most-disappointingly - use our child as your scapegoating pawn in order to get to me.

Do your worst I say. But do your worst to me. Leave out the innocent that you could once identify with.  I thought that it was known. You do not manipulate your child. You do not elevate your own agenda by the damage to your son.  You were unfortunately showered with these same sad and sick behaviors through your quote un-quote youth. You learned first-hand how to hurt, despite allegiance to family.  I seriously question at times, whether allegiance of any kind has a place in your life.  It certainly does not in relationships, nor in fatherhood. I can speak to its absence in marriage and now our child can attest to its awakening in his own life, led by none other than his own father. 

The damaging and hurtful dialogue to your child - by both you and your newly espoused, will affect his psyche for years. It already is. He exchanges doubt with the care that he feels for you and that you squander on a target toward martyring yourself and bringing pain to me. Yet,  you are not bringing pain to me except that through our child. He is the one that suffers and questions if you are anything other than empty and mean. I listen intently and give hugs whenever I can. I answer what voids I can account for yet many remain as just that -- a void.  And mostly, I pray for you.  Stymied. That is what you inhabit.  A stale, non-expressive existence that  must lead you to believe you were forgotten. Your own emptiness is quartered and delivered to those closest to you so that they might do your bidding which you are too cowardice to complete. 

I answered tonight with a reply that would make you blush, had you a conscience.  He asked me why you hate me so ...why you hate where I came from with such disdain?  I answered: because there...there, he (as in you) had to be a man ...and he could not.  There - he had to be accountable, and he failed. And there - he had to be responsible and he did not know how.  Here - where he is now requires none of that. It is easy for him (you again) to be spiteful, vengeful and manipulative.  It is effortless to be irresponsible, unaccountable and fueled by your self-serving agenda toward defeat.

And what was the worst part?

After all that...after the listening and the explaining...our child gave a half-cocked smirk, closed his eyes and said: "I'm sorry Mommy".

As if he has anything to be blamed for. Yet my pride in seeing a child of a mere eight-years-old taking more responsibility and insight than the man that so candidly hands out psychological warfare -- it made me happy and sad.  He is going to be far greater, far bigger a man than your greatest desires for a meager existence.  There will come a day when you wish you could measure up to the boy that you portrayed as being led astray. And you will not. Your poor presentation as a caring, doting father, will be massively over-shadowed by the child that you irreverently dismissed. 

And at that point, that half-smirked grin of his will grow in accordance with my own.  I will be the one to apologize for your lacking, shameful solitude, with a hug and an: "I'm sorry son".

Gray Matter

It's the struggle. The personal, internal struggle that keeps my mind buying back into what I already know. 

It's wanting to know what he thinks, and answers as to why what happened, happened.  What I really seek is an apology.  He always fought dirty though, it didn't matter when we were pledged to each other - rather, me to him, him to whomever he wanted, when he wanted - why then would it matter when we split?  Every component of life and self-assured strides that I held near and dear was viciously, publicly and cruelly attached to language that would deal out the ramifications for my life. 

My ability to be a mother, to provide for my child, myself, my aptitude at work, choice of career, place of residence, my family and mostly, the way he would speak to me...over me, through me, as if I had no significance in his life;  I had made no impact at all less being a bother, a bad decision.  When I stopped responding (outwardly) he changed his tactics focusing instead on scape-goating our son in order that I might fall.  Manipulation didn't work and so, deceit came in daily doses, cruelty established roots and honesty was absolutely out of the question.  That still wasn't enough so upping his game, he moved to violence.  I restate: more violence, and threats.  Direct and indirect they were both present.  Harassment showed up hand-in-hand with abuse: 100-proof.

Brought up with a strong sense of pride and responsibility, I asked for help though I may have asked with too much independence - too much accountability, because it seems as though the powers that be, well they just sent me home. 

Home to what?  What home?! 

I wanted, really, truly want(ed) to go home.  Home to my family - home to some place safe where I wouldn't be stalked, threatened, thrown around or mistreated.  I pleaded for my son's safety, took pictures every time another hand print showed up on his face, or arm, or backside.  They always showed up.  I listened intently to each horrible story about fighting, bleeding and words that cut deeper than bruises that had just started to heal. Between tissues and my blanketing sweaters, I dried every tear that fell, matching each with my own and rose to my feet to answer an interrupting phone call only to find that his father had joined his cause and now slung the same cruel, name-calling, heart-breaking statements in my direction. 

Still, I tried.  When he learned the word martyr, claiming he was not eating, not sleeping, that he had no food, I split my food into portions and filled a paper sack.  "I'll be right up," I said.  "I'll leave it on your porch".

He met me at the door that night, gave a sniff in the air and with the phone already in his hand, dialed the police.

Frozen in shock, I watched him eagerly express how scared he was for his safety / the safety of his child in my car since I had just showed up drunk and how I must be driving while intoxicated.

I left.

He got to keep the food.

And now...what is it? Five, almost six years later...I remember that feeling distinctly. THAT is what I couldn't for the life of me, figure out how to let go of. Today I had a little victory.  Yesterday - I had one too. And tomorrow is promising in a wonderous way.  My letting go comes from the way I define "holding on" and my victory resonates from understanding that I'm not in charge of much outside my walking, talking latitude to spiritualism. And from that I can say with all honesty that I tried every. single. time. 

That I try still.

And each day is a promise to compassion and the unfolding of the blessed road before me. 

Character Completion

I met Emily on a black Friday. Her last name ‘Chesterfield’, she was the sole heiress to Chesterfield Arms, her father’s pride and joy though Emily was assured she would see not a dime since resuming her mother’s lineage via last name. This whole scenario came about as Daddy dearest held taught to greed over the responsibility of a father. No worry though, she was old enough to begin discerning truth for herself and made that bold move in a poignant effort to have Daddy realize what he was missing.

He didn’t.


Emily, or ‘Em’ as we called her, had a way of stopping time long enough to have you consider your stance on an issue and defend it until you made her believe what you now questioned. I am pretty certain she got that trait from her mother, one of my dearest friends, but up to that Friday, had not quite mastered implementing it as casual conversation.

Being a Chesterfield gave her prominence in arms dealing that her mother discovered, really meant nothing if even the signing of such a name was vacant. There was no substance - part of the reason why Em only wrote her name in erasable pen throughout her high school years.  This way, she could erase it and script in P-A-R-I-S after showing her father that she'd completed her work.  Paris had significance, it had a robustness and a commanding presence. It rolled off the tongue with delightful pronunciation and depending on how much of a pause she put between Em  and Paris, which she kept deliberately quip, Em could rattle off her presence 'EmParis' while the corners of her mouth raised in satisfaction with how clever she was becoming in her dawning womanhood. 

Gemma on the other hand, Em's mother, had long commanded her own being and gave only as much of herself that she deemed essential for the introduction to continue.  If she didn't like you - you were well aware and could somehow deduct that to continue speaking would be an ill investment, not to mention a risk.  She meant well. Gemma was strong, intelligent, and had experienced enough vacuous relationships to glean significance from a meeting within a first encounter; a trick that served her well.  She appropriately handed down some vice to her daughter and kept enough in her back pocket for when she would inevitably need it.