A HARD AND HAPPY CHRISTMAS EVE

Photo: "Winter 2013"
By Skitch

NOW:

Journal Entry

Tonight I saw my grand kids. I was in a store, just placing items on the counter to be rang up, and then I saw that the mom and two kids in front of me was my step-daughter and my grand children. I waited to catch one of the kiddos eyes. Knowing that my step-daughter would not meet my gaze, would not smile at me, or say hello, I focused on the little ones. When my grand daughter looked at me I smiled and said, "Merry Christmas. I love you." She looked away quickly, and she and her mom and brother, finished with their shopping now, left in a hurry. I thought perhaps she had not heard me. I called after them, "Merry Christmas. I love you!" They rushed away. I must admit it knocked my heart for a loop. I've been through it before, people that used to love me, that I still love, ignoring me. But somehow I thought these innocent and bright eyed little guys would always love me and respond to me with joy, whether their mother liked it or not. My heart was broken, but I tried to hold back the tears. The clerk looked at me oddly, no doubt wondering why I was calling, "I love you," at complete strangers in a check out line. 

I made my purchases and got outside before the first tear fell. I cried through the three parking lots I had to cross to get back to my car. At first I wondered, "Could they really have forgotten me?" No! Surely not! "What did she have to tell them to get them to ignore me?" I was suddenly so miserable that I just wanted to go home and cancel Christmas. Worse, I wanted to go home, and crawl into bed, and not sleep, and not think, and not eat, and not drink, and not breathe. But I knew, because I've been down this road before, that not breathing is not an option. I cannot ever put those that do love me through that. I cannot ever give the signal that giving up is acceptable. 

I almost called my husband, but I didn't want to bring my sorrow into his world. He is out of town, working on a car for our oldest son, giving everything he has to give (time, money, energy) to one of our children. I did not think I should share this pain with him and distract him when our son needed him. I started to call my sister, who is going through such similar pain with her own family, and then I imagined her happily spending time with our parents. I did not want to rain on that parade. My middle son was at work in a store nearby. I thought, "Maybe I'll just go talk to him." Liam is an adult now and very understanding about pain. He always says the right thing to put life into perspective. But he was working. I thought of my oldest son who also gives sage advice and manages to make me see the world at a new and better perspective. But Cozy was working on the car with my husband. No way to contact one without alarming the other, and they were busy. My best friend Mary was at work. I took a deep, painful sigh. Suddenly I felt the need to hash this out for myself. So, I went through, in my mind, what my husband might say, what my sister would likely tell me if I were to call her, what Liam, and Co, and Mary might advise. I wiped the tears from my face, and I realized that what my step-daughter may have told them did not matter, if they had forgotten me even that did not matter. What mattered was that I do not forget them, and that I survive this pain, and all pain, with every bit of strength and dignity I can muster. I knew then that I could look at this two ways: 

"My Christmas is ruined because it's painfully clear now that even my sweet, and innocent, and joyful grand kids have been turned against me."

OR

"The best gift I got for Christmas 2013 was a peek at the two kiddos dearest to my heart. I got to see my grand kids that I haven't seen but once in the last two years. What an unexpected Christmas blessing!"

I think I'll go with door number two, and I'll be grateful for those two precious children that I will love with every beat of my fierce heart, and be grateful for all those that are subject to my stubborn adoration, and for the ones that see my love as something to be sought instead of shunned (what blessings, what miracles they are!) and be grateful for those I could have called but didn't. Just think, their good advice has been there for me so many times that I can just about guess what they would say. Time after time, gift after gift, their words and encouragement have been there for me.

Merry Christmas to you and yours. I hope you are as blessed as I am.

WHY I WRITE.

Photo: "Skitch Writing"
Taken By Spousal Unit
Edited By Skitch

NOW:



     Sometimes you just have to have a good cry. Two nights ago I had one. I started thinking about how a writer is a lot like a prophet: “Truly I tell you,” he continued, “no prophet is accepted in his hometown." Luke 4:24
     
     I've always wanted others to hunger for my words, and I've long felt that they would. But, quite frankly, to those who know me best, my writing is of little interest. I used to keep my journals locked up. Now that's a bit of a joke. No one bothers to read my words, not even those secret ones I write to myself. For a while, thinking of that upset me greatly. As I confessed, I had a good cry over it. I wondered why anyone would ever read my work when those nearest and dearest to me could not muster much interest. If those who LOVED me did not hunger for my work how would anyone ever? And this is not just a person or two. This is across the board. My parents, spouse, children, sisters, best friend, cousins, etc show little interest in my writing. The only exception being my sister. She not only read my novel, she helped me edit it. But she's shown no interest in anything since, and that was many years ago. A few cousins and friends also read it but they've largely done the same. And I was hurt about that, for a time. Then I realized that when people knew me less they found me more interesting. I've published several poems and some short stories. These are the exact same poems I had to practically corner people and force into their ears, the same short stories that I received mostly criticism for when I read them to the those closest to me. A writer is not accepted in his hometown. 

     I think it has something to do with the idea that writers are arrogant. The general consensus seems to be that if you dare to write something down on paper and expect others to listen to it or read it and (God forbid) like it then you are, as my people call it, "putting on airs" or "getting above your raising". It is the same idea that made being a writer such a frightening prospect in the first place, the same thing that inspired me to hold that secret dream deep inside me like a hatching robin's egg. And yet, the fear of it kept it alive as well. I went after the adventure of writing, in part, because it's important to face your fears. Nothing scared me more than admitting to a dream that big; nothing was any more terrifying than bleeding my introverted mind out on that blank piece of paper for anyone and everyone to read. I often don't know what I'm doing or what to expect in this world, but that time I saw the good cry coming. I was right to be afraid. It is a painful, lonely world, the writers world.

     People read my writing. I know they do; I can see the stats. It's not my friends and my family usually but some stoic Russians bend over these words and try to understand the thoughts and feelings of a writer that is not from their hometown. And one day, I hope that my sons, or their children, or my great grandchildren, or one great-great-great grandchild brought to me by blood and/or a lovely adoption will take an interest in these words, in the mental meanderings of someone that loved them before they were born. And so I write. I write for the Far Reader, the Far Russian, The Far Child, and for my own peace of mind . I write to boldly face who I am, to know me. I write because I must face my fears. I write because if I don't I'm miserable. 


     Did I share these fears and this horrible writers arrogance with you because I like to whine about how my friends and family aren't interested in my work? No. Was it because I like to be afraid and I enjoy "putting on airs"? No, I share this with you because I'm a writer, because I'm miserable when I deny my fingers the pen or the keyboard. I share these words because somewhere, someday, someone will read them and say, "Yes, I must write. No matter how foolish they think I am, no matter how much they criticize my work, no matter how many good crys it has brought me, I must write!" I share this so that person will know: Those around you aren't going to give you the support you crave; you must give it to yourself. If you are a writer, if you have chosen this lonely world, or it has chosen you then write for yourself, for your far children, for the stoic Russians, to face your fears, to keep from being miserable. Find a reason -- or ten -- and write!

I WENT TO A FUNERAL LAST NIGHT: Unloved III (Dream Journal)

Photo: Skitch at a Film Funeral

NOW:

Dream Journal


    Last night, I went to a funeral. I was sitting alone and feeling the loss of a loved one, but for the sake of the gone-one, and for the sake of the living, and for the sake of goodness I was trying to keep my thoughts on the living and the suffering, specifically on my niece, Tanya. She was sitting in an isle of pews that ran in the opposite direction from the ones where I was sitting. I glanced her way now and then, wanting to offer comfort and wanting to avoid offense; it was a fine line I tried to walk. I knew the chances were good that she didn't want my comfort, but I wanted to be there if/when/the second she ever did.

    Once I looked and she had her son Riley sitting with her. Riley has never had the time or the chance to bond with me. He was very small the last time I was allowed to interact with him. He always treated me like a visiting relative he didn't know, which was exactly what I was at that time. No one bothered to tell him I was also his biggest fan, that I loved him to the bottom of my deep heart, and that I thought his skin felt better than anyone's in the whole wide world. No one besides me, that is, and I think he didn't believe me. Now he shows fear when he sees me, if he recognizes me. I'm sure it's fear of disappointing his parents by interacting with the "enemy", but fear it certainly is. I did see him in school once and say hello. He responded and there was no trace of fear in his face, but he didn't know who I was. He didn't even recognize me. To be unknown by those you love... it is an odd thing. Once he knew who I was the fear came into his eyes and he turned away without a word. This time he knew me and the fear was evident. I tried to smile at him but he would not meet my eyes.

    I concentrated on the service a while, and when I looked back Max was sitting with Tanya where Riley had been. Ri had moved to sit elsewhere, probably with his dad. Max is another of my great-nephews but he is Tanya's nephew, not her son. Max and Riley are nearly the same age, but Max has had four years to get to know me better, four years that Riley and I were denied. More importantly, he's had encouragement in getting to know me. Many of the people he already knows and trusts, his mom, his dad, his "Nan" have said to him in their actions, "Here is Dee Dee. She loves you. You can believe her. You can love her back. You are Family." Max loves me. He knows that I adore him to the bottom of my deep heart. He knows that I am his biggest fan. I call him "Hero" because he is just that. My Hero. He knows that I think it's marvelous that he did nothing more than scowl until he was about three years old and then he rather suddenly turned into one of the most cheerful, loving, selfless people on the planet -- just as his mother had done before him. Max has been very sick lately. He has been in and out of hospitals, in a lot of pain, unable to eat properly. His digestion is just not working as it should. I've been concerned for him. Max met my eyes, smiled back at me, and in his smile I saw an apology for all the pain, and apology for how much Tanya and Riley were breaking my heart. I was struck by the difference in my relationship with these two great nephews, dealt a blow with the realization of all the time I had lost with Riley. When last I held Ri both he and Max were unsure of me. Now Max knows and loves me. I smiled as bravely as I could at him, then bowed my head and tried to hide my tears for my lost time and memories with Ri.

    When I dared to look back, Tanya deliberately caught my eye. She pointed to the woman sitting beside her and mouthed with force and defiance, "This is my lover!" My first thought, I confess, was, "If she were inclined to, Tanya could find prettier women than that lady." I was immediately ashamed of that idea. If Tanya liked or loved her, that was all that mattered. And many years on this Earth have taught me that pretty on the outside is not as important as pretty on the inside. I mouthed back, "Good. I am happy for you." And I smiled. At that same moment, my mind was asking me, "Why is she telling you this now? At a funeral? In a crowded church? Why does she seem so defensive? Is she trying to shock you? Hurt you?" As my mind asked me these questions I watched Tanya's face register surprise and then deep uncertainty. She dropped her gaze. I did not know if the woman were her lover, probably yes, but I did know that she had chosen here and now to tell me this because she had expected it to shock and maybe hurt me. I then grasped on an optimistic thought, "Is this why she keeps such distance between us? Was she also or even mostly fearing rejection all these years? If so, would she come around now that she sees you love her regardless?"  I wanted to shout across the church. "You can love anyone you want and I will support you. I will always love you!" But I too dropped my head.

    After the sermon everyone got into cars to drive to the burial site. It was cold and everyone was dressed in coats and boggins. We were outside on a hill and trees lined the road and were peppered about in front of the church. Tanya and her friends pulled a car over beside mine, and suddenly another vehicle came sliding sideways in front of us. It passed right by the noses of our cars, picked up speed as it went down hill, hit the tree line hard, broke through several small tress, and rolled over the hill. The road was a solid sheet of ice. Tanya said, "Dee Dee, jump and roll." I looked at her face and saw that she had surprised herself. She was torn between helping me and regreting the warning she'd already given me. My car, which was in park, began to slide sideways. I jumped and rolled and it went down the hill alone, driver's side door open, and crashed near the other one. I knew Tanya's car would do the same. "Jump and roll!" I told her and all the occupants of her car, I could see Max and Ri and several other women and children, but no one moved. They seemed paralyzed with fear. I knew I could not get them out of the car in time! It started sliding as I realized that. I was between it and the bottom of the hill. I turned, ran just a bit, fell on my bottom, and slid down the hill deliberately and as fast as I could. I narrowly missed plowing into a huge tree, and immediately fought to get myself behind it. There was a dip in the ground behind it, deep. It would protect me even if the tree went over. Tanya's car hit the tree before I was completely into the hollow, and I watched as the roots shook but held. I fought my way quickly back up and around to the car and saw the occupants all seemed shook up but largely unhurt. The danger now came from another car crashing into thiers. I said, "Tanya, come here!" But she huddled in a corner away from me. Another car was sliding down the hill. One of the women in Tanya's car came toward me and allowed me to help her out and to the ground which was about three feet lower than the ground where the car's tires stood.  I unloaded a few more of the women and girls and helped them hide in the hollow behind the tree. I kept calling for Tanya, Max, and Riley but they would not move. They all huddled together in the fartherest corner of the front seat. The car that was sliding down the hill narrowly missed us and landed further down, but I could see other cars sliding our way. They would not all miss us. I kept pulling women and children from the car, but Tanya and the boys would not move. My plan was to get the other people out of the car and then go into it myself to get my family. The women in the hollow were allowing the children to fall in the hole in a frightened heap. "Help them down!" I yelled. "Help them to you as I get them from the car! Then keep everyone back as far as possible." I was wanting to both keep the passage to safety open and get the survivors further back in the hole where they would be safest. Two of the women came over and started helping others down and directing them to the back of the hole. They took the little ones I was handing down. More people were in that car than I could have ever imagined, and still I could not make a way to Tanya, Riley, and Max. They needed me and I could not yet get to them.

    I awoke and started crying.

    This morning I added to my morning ritual of prayer and rejoicing. Between "The Lord's Prayer" and "This is the day the Lord hath made, let us rejoice and be exceedingly glad in it." I cried and I asked of God, "Father I cannot get them out of that car, but You can. I cannot steer the other dangers from them, but You can. Please wrap Tanya in your loving hands, let her know that You love her always and forever, no matter what. And then please let her know I love her too, always and forever, no matter what.

    "Please wrap Riley in Your loving hands, let him know that You love him and that everything will be alright soon. Please take the spirit of fear from that child. And please let him know I love him too.

    "Please wrap my Hero in Your loving hands, remind him that You love him. Please heal his broken little body, and take away his pain. And please tell him I love him too.

    "And Father God, please delay the funerals as much as You can see fit to. I do not know who was in that casket. I do not want to know for a long long time. I thank You, and praise You, and I love  You, for what You have done for us and for what You will do..."