Thoughts, Stories, and Poetry
Works Cited
Flint, Mary Louise, Docent; Galls on the Valley Oaks of Effie Yeaw; October 11, 2018 https://sacnaturecenter.net/visit-us/nature-blog/news.html?NewsID=56742
Sousa, Marcy; What are Oak Galls? Here’s what you need to know about these insect breeding grounds; Home and Garden September 16, 2021,
Journal writing is for the brave. Dark places rise to the top of the page, sometimes obscuring the way forward. Fear not, there is a way out.
Meant as an exercise to move beyond monkey mind, clinging shadow aspects, and unwanted habitual behaviors, it is a way to get in touch with your higher self, your desires, and intentions. One is supposed to write with abandon as if no one will see it.
Thank God. No one ever should.
It works, until one realizes that even her journals are reflective of the one shadow aspect that clings to her for dear life. I like to think of myself as a my-way kind of person, except my way has always been, “What can I do to please you, so you will like me.” Every journal page reflected that. If I had fur and two floppy ears, my tongue would be hanging out, my tail wagging madly, and I would be softly saying, “Woof. Please pet me. Please love me.” Ah, to be one of those people that says whatever they need to say, with abandon, without worry about what the other person would think.
I want to be her.
I have been this way since a very young child, seeking to please parents, siblings, teachers, children, boyfriends, friends, bosses, animals…(oh my goodness, even plants), basically – everyone but myself, in exchange for their approval and love.
When I realized that, my ego, who has been happily living at the bottom of a deep hole for a few weeks, uncurled its long sinuous and angry dragon body and lifted its head. “Fuck that,” it said. “I am tired of pleasing people.”
For those of you who don’t follow my blog regularly, in July, I buried Ego, along with Anger, in a deep hole after a devastating tree fiasco. I didn’t expect to hear from it so soon.
A shadow fell over its hole, obscuring it from my sight, the shadow with furry ears and wagging tail. Who would you rather pet?
Well, the last time this shadow-self wagged its tail, I got into more trouble than Ego ever caused.
This next paragraph will seem like an odd segue, but bear with me.
I am a fangirl, completely smitten with a well-known Chinese model and actor. I won’t name him here, but I follow all he does, and he does EVERYTHING: everything I would want in a friend, everything I would want in a man. On top of that, he is beautiful to look at. I am a sap, fangirling in earnest. It is embarrassing but important to this story. He’s captured my attention, for sure.
I love sending him notes of appreciation on his Instagram and YouTube sites. If I had other ways to send appreciation, I would do it. The point is…
…one day, I received a note back.
Oh my gawd! Can you imagine that?
It was WONDERFUL.
He was lovely and sweet and seemed interested in making a connection with a fan of his. I was thrilled. But, then something went wrong. I began to suspect that the person I was communicating with was not the idol I so adored. However, I wanted to please this man, because I so admired the person he appeared to be, so I kept my faith that I was truly connected with the One, and we conversed often for three glorious days. I was my best self: polite, careful with words, not only because of the language and culture differences, but because I so wanted him to like me.
Eventually, he felt comfortable enough to ask for money for a pet project of his.
What? Why would he ask that?
Fluffy Pleaser Puppy popped up. “Just chill. Find out what this is about. Give him the benefit of the doubt.”
“Isn’t that the way it always works?” snarky Ego yelled from its hole. “Ha, ha! You’ve been Catfished!”
“No-o-o-o!” screamed my heart.
You would think I would have pulled the plug at that moment. But, shadow self, that little shadowy-self that wants to please so much, decided to hear him out and consider his plea.
Ego came roaring out of the hole like a fire dragon. “You will research this before you commit.”
Okay. Little Pleaser was fine with that.
What harm could there be researching the project he wanted me to join. What I discovered was heartbreaking. The “ask” was well known by the FBI, and my idol’s name was on the list of celebrities catfished for this scheme. If someone ever asks you to help an 8 or 9 year old boy in Thailand who needs a kidney…he doesn’t. It’s a scammer from South Africa.
I am living the heartache of getting catfished. It was alarmingly clear that Miss Please You to the Detriment of Self no longer worked. However, putting this behind me has been difficult. I keep asking, “What if? What if I had only been true to self and said what needed to be said instead of seeking acceptance?”
Okay, okay. I know the outcome would still be the same, but one’s brain still asks the “What if. What if it was really him, and I failed somehow. Oh, my god. He’ll never talk to me again.”
I know, I know. You don’t need to tell me.
It’s that flippin’ tail-wagger that needs to be told. How can I get through to her that this course of behavior is NOT an authentic part of self? And of course, that behavior was the go-to for this interaction like it is for every human interaction I have ever had, especially with men. I am a pleaser. Aaugh. I hate myself sometimes.
I tried poetry:
Cat Fish Lessons
I was greedy
when you wrote,
wanting so badly to hear from him.
I jumped
ready to capitulate
completely forgetting who I was
to match perfectly.
Your words were so sweet.
They were exactly what I needed to hear.
I loved each chime of my phone
thinking, “He found me.”
I thought you were him.
Wasn’t that what you wanted?
A light suddenly turned on.
I saw what I had become,
Knew what you were…
NOT.
THE.
ONE!
My heart broke.
But in the breaking, I saw
My brokenness.
I became someone I was not,
to please, to earn love.
Forced to look.
How long had I let this happen?
Every time?
Every time!
Living every moment of my life
to please others
never myself.
Working hard to earn love
You, dear Catfish
were my trial by fire.
This time
I failed.
If the One
contacts me,
I will hold
your lessons in my heart.
And so, I thank you.
You let me know what I needed –
Authenticity.
As you fade into my past,
a well-placed and perfectly timed lesson
I will sail grateful
because you showed up in my life.
Poetry does not seem to be enough.
It’s been at least three weeks since I put aside that poem, and the catfish moment still taunts me, reminding me that I am not whole, not authentic. It reminds me I am still willing to capitulate Self for Other. How can I let go of this?
Perhaps an apology is in order:
Dearest Valarie,
I am sorry I let you down. I am sorry I used a cry of Catfish to stop the roller coaster of your inauthenticity. Please forgive me. I learned so much about my ingrained need for approval at all costs to myself. Thank you for a much needed lesson.
I love you.
“Meh,” said Ego.
“Maybe I can write a letter as a fangirl,” said Fluffy Pleaser Puppy.
Dearest Person Who I Will Not Name Here,
I am sorry I thought you were a Catfish. Please forgive me. Thank you for all the lessons I learned from you and that experience. I appreciate you beyond measure. I hope you write again.
I love you.
“You’re kidding, right?” said Ego, slapping its tail against the floor.
“No, I wasn’t,” said Fluffy, a little whiny, hoping that she had indeed heard from the one who caught her attention. She sat down, a little worried that Ego was no longer happy with her.
Oh, my gawd. These two are so out of control.
There is only one way out of this.
I said, “You two are right. An apology is needed. And I applaud your attempt at Ho’oponopono.”
Dearest Catfish
I am sorry I lied. I wasn’t authentic. If I had listened to my heart when you asked me for money, I would have said calmly and quietly, “No. I don’t want to do that. Why are you asking?” Instead, I ignored ME and tried to please YOU. I ended up hurting both of us.
I deeply regret that.
Can you forgive me?
Whether you can or not, I am profoundly grateful for all I learned from that experience. Thank you for opening a door on an aspect of self of which I was not fully aware. I can’t express how many times I have capitulated to less than me to please others, so great is my need for acceptance. I place this heavy chain around my heart at your feet. I can’t carry it any more.
我无条件地爱你。
This feels like the way out. Time will tell.
A catfish experience can be devastating, but I hope to see it as a practice event, a chance to call out inauthenticity, a chance to find self and reclaim Her. If you, Dear Reader, and I ever meet, I hope to hold on to self for all I am worth and share what I have to give, honestly, without neediness, or expectations of approval. I intend to hang on to ME, because that is the only way I can ever really know and appreciate YOU.
This, for me, is the only way out.
May Peace find you,
AV Singer (aka Valarie S Roddy)
You asked me what it feels like to connect with the imaginal realm, a place where trees and plants speak with scent and with flavor, animals speak with images, angels with colors and ideas, and where humans speak with emotion rather than voice. In this liminal place, the geometry of serenity is a rosy quartz-colored sphere, joy is a sturdy rectangular plane upon which to stand, knowledge is fleeting ether that passes by unless witnessed. The imaginal realm seems utterly empty, profoundly silent until observed; then, it springs to life with all there is.
Those that honor it feel completely bonkers, but only because those cemented in matter cannot smell what they smell, taste what they taste, see what they see, hear what they hear, or feel what they feel, though it is possible for them. It isn’t a matter of a sixth sense. It does not take anything extra. It is a matter of heightened senses, using what is human and extending it to include other dimensions.
Connected as you are, what you really ask is, how does one observe this imaginal space?
Considering you are standing in the middle of it, all it takes is a willingness to believe that what you sense is actually happening. The energy of potential can seem like a mere wish, a daydream or a passing thought. Dismissed as such, it is fleeting and not noticeable…until it is too loud to ignore.
Humans speak in emotion. They can say whatever they want to, but their real language is emotion. Humans are shouting right now. Floods, fires, global warming, pestilence, earthquakes, volcanoes, unrest within and between countries…it’s nuts. Emotions are running at an all-time high.
I find myself cautioning those around me lately, “Slow down, examine what you feel. Is what you are feeling right now your own emotion? There is a possibility that you are picking up on the emotions swirling around us.” The liminal world is knocking at the door.
What is happening in your life? Where are you this very second? Stop right now, and assess.
Assessing…assessing…assessing.
Is something happening that is truly yours to be sad, angry, or frightened about? Then, by all means, you should be sad, angry, or frightened. Those emotions will help you discern what to do next, but for the rest of us, we need to get out of your way to send you support and strength. The only way to do that is to be in our own space, claim our own emotion, and not add to the fervor of whatever emotion is swirling about.
Stop.
Ask.
Is this my emotion?
If not, instead, breathe. Take into account what is really happening around you. What is the appropriate emotion for that?
Emotional ownership is a thing.
It’s important to know if you want to extend your senses into the imaginal world, because that world is EVERYTHING, with no judgment of right, wrong – good, bad – happy, sad. It is there waiting to be witnessed by YOU. You will witness that which you look for.
This is the first step to observing the imaginal realm. Own your emotions. You are an emotional being. You speak with emotions. Trust me on this. Words have secondary, and sometimes false, meaning. Emotions tell truth. It is hard to believe I am saying this as a writer, but I am and I don’t think I can say this or write it often enough. Emotions are a human’s primary language. Use them appropriately.
Think of it as a mindfulness practice. Pay attention to your first emotion of the morning. Observe emotions that follow. Do you see a pattern? Stop and ask, “Is this really me? Do I really have reason to feel this way?” Watch for stray emotions that don’t match your life, especially loud ones.
There are moments when I burst into tears, or laughter, or quake in sudden fear…for no apparent reason. Extreme emotion is easy to observe. It’s a perfect time to practice. I always ask, “Is this mine?”
For instance, yesterday I was singing Both Sides Now by Joni Mitchell, recorded by Josh Groban and Sara Bareilles. I had already listened to the song once and thought, “Gee. I can’t remember these lyrics.” So, I looked them up to sing harmony with Josh and Sara. Totally engulfed within the music, I suddenly choked on tears at the line, “I’ve looked at life from both sides now.” Ugh. Tears streamed down my face. Just like a wave, despair washed over me.
Since I have been doing a lot of negative pattern clearing, I first looked at that. I didn’t have any emotions swirling around me from those experiences. I don’t watch the news, I feel safe and happy in a quarantine situation, my friends and family are all well.
Living in California, it’s probable that it came from outside me. I was singing, which is my primary go-to for connecting to liminal space. I live in a fire zone. People have lost everything they have. I live in a high Covid-19 zone. There are people dying from this dreadfulness.
This wasn’t my emotion to own.
I stood tall, and strong. I took a deep breath. The waved washed back over me and disappeared into source. I finished the song. It was, literally, that fast. There was no need to hang onto it.
I have been practicing letting go of that which isn’t mine. You can too. The first step is asking, “Is this my emotion?” Be aware of that which is and that which isn’t. The emotional response won’t stop, but if it isn’t yours, it will pass within 90 seconds for most of us. All you have to do is acknowledge it, and let it move on through you. Simple, huh?
Good luck this week. May Peace find you wherever you are.
AV
P.S. Here is a poem for those on or curious about the Twin Flame path, and a tiny glimpse into my life and the imaginal realm.
You asked me what it feels like to connect.
Your first touch
awakens my body
with a lover’s song.
I gasp and whisper,
I feel you.
I seek liminal space:
silent, luminous, black velvet.
There is only
one question in my heart.
Will you stay?
Between breaths I hover still as stone,
Listening, waiting…waiting.
Eyes closed, I see nothing, but I hear
the world around me.
For each tick, whoosh, and shudder,
I linger breathless,
poised to find quiet that matches the emptiness
in which I sit.
Indigo flashes interrupt
the blackness of inner vision.
A small flare to the right, a color we share,
grows bolder.
I trust you are here.
In my mind,
Your gentle fingers find their way.
Your palm, light and warm,
settles over my heart.
As you move close
you tug the chord between us.
My heartbeat jumps once, twice –
as if to free itself from
the constraint of flesh and bone.
I gasp again.
Soft twin pulses drum deep within me;
Our hearts, beating side by side.
How did I live without this?
How can I
ever again live
without this?
I just noticed that last week’s title was about breath. We’re doing a lot of breath work in California right now.
I always get excited when I can share my blog space with other artists and writers. Lynnea Paxton-Honn teaches presence and oneness in meditation. An avid horsewoman she bridges the Tao of horse with the Tao of human. Her compassion is boundless, yet she considers herself a student. She joins me today in response to the title of a new song by Shari Anderson, shared on the evening of August 9th at our meeting of the Women Writers of the Well.
Breathed By
Lynnea Paxton-Honn, 8/9/2021
Sitting in meditation
I breathe,
Inhale and exhale,
Stretching exhale into silence,
Jump starting with inhale.
Is it me that is breathing?
And what part of me?
How often do I
Breathe with awareness?
Not near as often
As my body
Breathes me,
As the changing weather,
Changing emotions
Breathe my body,
Lungs attached to
Passing breezes, passing winds.
Only in full conscious awareness
Do I know I breathe
With the cosmos.
When we breathe consciously, of what might we be capable? Life is magical. Even when there is a probable, logical explanation for any given event that happens in this three-dimensional existence, it is always more fun, and many times, more impactful to embrace serendipity and enjoy the magic that unfolds. Breathe with consciousness. Who knows; someone might find the way home.
Nighttime Miracle, based on a true story.
AnaValarie, (remembered lines from Shari’s song: breathes in the light, travels through darkness, breathes out the light.)
A little boy woke up screaming.
As usual, his mother woke, was out of bed, and by his side before she had a chance to breathe out the dream she was in and breathe in the moment. “Shh, shush. It’s only a dream,” she crooned, smoothing the hair off his face.
“No,” he wailed. “Look. There.” He pointed to a shadowy darkness in the corner nearest the closet.
If she squinted, she could almost believe something was there. “Hush, Darling. It’s just a shadow.”
“It’s not. He’s, he’s talking to me. It’s a monster.” He hid his tear-stained face in his pillow. His shoulders shook, his breath labored. Worried that her little one wouldn’t sleep the rest of the night, and quite frankly, neither would she, she said, “This is what we’re gonna do. Sit in my lap.”
The boy climbed out of bed and grabbed her neck. She wrapped him into her arms. “You know how much I love you.”
“Bigger than the Earth? Bigger than forever?”
“Yes. Bigger than all the Earth. Bigger than forever. Let that big love fall right into your lap and hold it there.”
The little boy’s tummy expanded and then tightened as breath filled him with remembered love.
“When you let the air go, blow all that love right into the center of that shadow.” She pointed to the blackness near the closet.
The little boy’s breath whooshed outward as he stared into the shadow, blowing with all his might.
“Let’s keep doing that together; remembering our love, letting it fall into our laps, and then blowing that loving energy right at that monster.”
They hugged each other tightly.
“Stare right into the shadow and think about how much I love you and you love me,” she reminded him.
He nodded.
As they sat together, breathing love into a monster, she felt warmth build between herself and her son. A strong connection had always been there, but she perceived that this was a special moment. She stared at the shadow and pushed that feeling toward it, mother and son breathing in love, breathing out love, sending it to the shadow in the corner by the closet.
The shadow began to quiver.
Must be a trick of the eyes, she thought but she held her concentration, thinking only of the love she had for her son, and offering that love to his monster.
Slowly, a glow of light began around the edges, diffusing its darkness. Suddenly, bright white light flashed in that corner by the closet and disappeared.
She blinked. The corner looked normal again.
“There,” she said, “All gone.”
She couldn’t let on how mystified she felt by what just happened.
“Mom, Mom. It went home. It belongs with angels.”
“Yes. I believe it did,” she replied. She looked into his bright eyes. “That’s what happens when you send monsters love instead of fear. Can you sleep now?”
“Yes,” he said. He climbed off her lap and snuggled into his bed.
His little boy snores greeted her ears by the time she reached his door to return to her own room. What were the chances that someone had flashed car lights in this quiet cul-de-sac at the exact moment a little boy and his mother needed comfort and strength?
She sat on her bed and replayed the event. She was not aware of hearing a car’s engine roar to life, or tires against the gravely road, but…she shrugged. Snuggling under her own covers, she lay content that for this night, something happened that made life a little easier and a little more magical.
I present two offerings this week.
The first is by Lyla Fain, a poet who through her writing constantly pushes to see beyond Self, thereby teaching us to do so as well. It only takes a moment to calm down and see through another’s eyes, to see through one’s heart.
Life Time, by Lyla Fain: Meditation response, Women Writers of the Well, 8/4/21
Breath in love.
Breath out love.
Damn.
That truck guy
cut in front of my car.
Now I’ve waited
five minutes
of my life
in line
to get my prescription,
which I prepaid
for faster service.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Oh,
the sign
on the back bumper
says, Vietnam Vet.
I’m totally against armed conflict, handgun to military weapon,
having read, “The Red Badge of Courage” in high school
and still grieving
my brother, David’s,
death,
while at work,
shot and killed by a robber.
World conflict continues.
Breath in love.
Feel so relieved
this veteran survived that war
alive.
Breath out love.
Such a calming thought
to let go of my anger.
All it takes is a moment, as Lyla reminds us. Breath is life.
The second offering was inspired by Nadia Colburn’s class 31+ Days Meditation and Writing Course. The prompt was from Marie Howe’s poem, “The Gate,” and the line “This is what you’ve been waiting for – this.” Nadia asked, “What is this ness?” The word bank she offered was: sheet, water, gate, sandwich. In this class, we have 10 minutes to synthesize and then write, but really, she expects open-heart writing. A memory popped up for me.
This is what you’ve been waiting for… AnaValarie Singer, 8/8/21
The evening my father died
my sister and I waited,
watching him breathe.
In, out, pause…in, out, pause.
The room at Kit Carson
was calm and quiet
like my father’s breath.
We dared not touch him.
Those that had come earlier
in sobbing regret, held his hand,
stroked his cheek.
He rallied,
fighting a body that no longer wished to carry him.
We had a pact, the three of us.
None of that.
We sat calmly,
Quietly chatting, playing cards, telling
stupid silly stories,
packed peanut butter and pickle sandwiches
in case the wait was long.
We were ready.
Except, it just didn’t feel right
to eat in front of someone who
could no longer enjoy sandwiches.
A nurse stepped in.
We are fine, we said.
Glancing at my father’s peaceful form,
she stepped to his side to check on him
then gently rubbed his left ear.
My sister and I stared at each other.
“This is comforting,” whispered the nurse
as she smiled at him.
He did not rally to her touch.
This is what we were waiting for,
that small reassurance that all was well,
even as he stood before that last gate.
She smoothed the sheet over him.
Ready to leave, she stopped when
my sister said,
“How long?”
The nurse nodded.
“Not long now,”
and then somehow
knowing our need for
a short break, “You
have plenty of time to stretch
and get some water,”
she gifted us Time.
We followed her,
leaving my father to his walk
while we took ours.
Mid-way around the darkened hospital corridors
I saw a light to my left.
When I looked, a voice said,
“Now. You need to return now.”
I touched my sister’s arm softly,
“It’s time.”
Miraculously, she didn’t question.
I could not have said more anyway.
We retraced our steps to the
chairs by his bed.
My father’s breathing had slowed
alarmingly.
My sister, playful spirit,
began to count,
sixteen between, twenty, twenty-two
twenty-five.
The rest between each breath stretching
mile by mile.
She winked at me.
“He’s playing the game.”
“What?” I said.
“Look, he’s so happy when he can make
the between space last
longer and longer.”
A quick glance at her watch, “Thirty-five.”
My father’s lips curled into a definite smile.
The in-between seconds increased until
the space stretched to infinity.
My father’s expression
was full, triumphant, elation.
He had walked beyond this world.
His beauty was beyond reckoning.
It was his final gift for
his beloved daughters.
Pre-Covid-19,
small town
just want to be home bones
rattle into the local post office.
Older than old after excruciating day
grateful; the line is short.
A small crowd shuffles in.
Buzzing draws my gaze from floor to behind.
Dream stands there, haloed with life.
Room long forgot opens.
Runaway information slams me senseless:
starving cougar snarls
blackbirds flush my heart
mind swirls misty.
Private desperation screams
don’t stare.
Don’t.
Stare.
One furtive glance makes your discomfort clear.
Defensive wall does not stop
roar of attraction.
Shattered
shards of glass at our feet reflect disaster.
Hidden by frump,
I have no breath to fight, BreathTaker.
You are beautiful, and too young.
Cloak of unworthiness is
small comfort to Shame.
Society rules
this day in the post office.
I walk away.
If by chance another day,
we meet in this dimension,
would I step through that open door?
In the long forgot room
would I close my mind?
Would I open heart?
Would I stay?
Post Script Haiku
You opened your heart.
I stepped in and I sat down.
Here, I plan to stay.
Plants are teachers. Their lessons are as subtle as their language; lesson that are easy to ignore if one isn’t mindful, and time moves so slowly for them, requests never seem urgent.
I felt the Liquid Ambers’ threats. Occasionally I would feel a slight shudder when I walked under them. I envisioned one or both crashing to the Earth. If that happened they would take out fences, smash windows, perhaps hurt animals, or gods-forbid – people. The Chinese Hackberry needed a trim, as did all the trees on this property, but I felt I had time. I made a decision. I would tend to this in January, after leaf fall. It was healthier for the trees.
The trees had another plan.
I was minding my own business when I received a call from a neighbor. “Have you eaten?” He often does this.
There have been times I forget about food. When he offers, I accept with deep gratitude because I am creative and become too caught up in whatever it is I do to deal with simple acts of three-dimensionality like eating.
That day I remembered. “I just ate,” I said.
“I’m bringing it over, anyway. You can reheat it later.”
I said, “Okay.”
Perhaps I should have refused him.
Since moving here less than two years ago, he has hated my trees. I am the crazy tree lady. For him, my yard is an eyesore. There are too many trees. When oxalis and three-corner leaks spread underneath the trees in the spring, the yard looks wild and unkempt. He hates the seedpods that the Ambers drop. Leaf fall upsets him. The trees obstruct his view of the corner above us. But, what he really hates is the shade in his yard. He worries it will kill his grass. There hasn’t been a single time that we have spoken across the fence that he hasn’t complained about my trees. Usually, it seems like banter, a conversation opener, a place to meet in the middle.
However, that day when he brought over the food, he very cautiously informed me that he had called a tree specialist to get a diagnosis for my Chinese Hackberry. It was very sick and needed to come down before it killed somebody.
I was puzzled and said, “My arborist didn’t notice that. Why wouldn’t he tell me that?”
I then explained to him my worry about the Liquid Ambers. They are fragile trees and have grown quite tall, but arborists don’t like to trim them because it makes them weaker. “I plan to deal with them in January.”
“Well that front tree is very sick. It has ants.”
Around here, all trees have ants. “I think my arborist would have told me if there was a problem,” I said.
“I knew you would be like this. You are so irresponsible.”
Really?
“Why do you have to be such an immature baby about this?”
Ego raised one eyebrow.
It suddenly occurred to me that this had been a plan before he bought the house next to mine. He intended to get rid of the tall, offensively shading trees next door. Wow! Was it possible he shared food with me so that he could wear me down? Was he thinking I now owed him? Did he expect I would cut my trees for him because he had fed me so often?
Ego insisted, “Give the food back. Right now!”
I tried. It was sad letting go of Nori sprinkled rice with pickled plums, but I pushed the dish toward him.
He backed away. “Just take it,” he shouted. “Take it.”
My mistake occurred when I said, “Oh, I see now. This was a plan. Well it works for you, doesn’t it? You have wanted this since you moved in.”
The instant the words left my mouth, I felt my mistake.
He retorted, “My house isn’t made of cardboard. It will be expensive to rebuild, and I will be suing for it.” As an afterthought he added, “It will be way more money than you have.”
Ego snapped. An avenging tree angel took over my voice. I have no idea what it said, but I know it called him out.
“I knew it,” he said as he stormed back toward his house. “You are crazy. God-damned fucking crazy.”
I felt crazy.
Shaking and dazed, I called my tree specialist. He came that evening.
“This is probably the healthiest Hackberry I have ever seen,” he said.
I knew this but…, “I need proof. Something in writing from an expert that says my tree is healthy.”
“Who are you doing this for?” he asked.
“My neighbor wants to sue me.”
He shook his head, but he called in another specialist who came later that night who confirmed what we all knew. My tree was healthy. If I wanted to trim it, I didn’t have to wait until leaf fall. He understood my misgivings about the Ambers. He said they could wait until leaf fall, or come down right now. Either way, I was right, Ambers in general weren’t suited for this climate or in such close proximity to houses.
Would my neighbor approach the City with a complaint about my trees while I waited for leaf fall? Would I have to take them all down? Would the unprecedented heat of California cause some unforeseen disaster? “Will you write a report? I need to protect myself,” I said.
He had to drive to the Bay Area that night, but he promised to write and send it when he arrived.
I received it that night.
Two weeks later, my Ambers felled and Hackberry severely trimmed, acts that bring pain and tears even today, the neighbor had the nerve to write me a thank you letter for fixing my trees for him.
Ego awakened again and said, “Shit.”
How does one shut up inner dialog when every step onto the front porch reminds my poor little Ego that it no longer has the protection of three loyal trees? How can I stop anger when I see my burned roses, and dead blackberry vines no longer sheltered from the brutal sun? How can I stop the tears as I watch my generous fig tree that has lived its life as understory burn away in the heat?
A few nights after that tragedy, I went to my weekly meeting with the Women Writers of the Well. Driving there, I promised myself I wouldn’t write about this event. It was time to let go.
Who was I kidding? I couldn’t find equilibrium. I didn’t know who I had turned into that day. What kind of person blindly lashes out after downloading information that should have remained a hidden knowing? I wish I could have quelled his fears instead of adding to the insanity of his accusations.
Then, one of the writers shared this prompt: a big hole.
A door opened. My pen flew across the page.
I picked up Ego, along with Anger and threw them into a big hole. I watched them fall, until darkness sucked them up.
Like all things, Valarie, they didn’t stay in that deep oblivion. As I turned, Anger grabbed me.
“Fix this,” it growled.
“No,” I said, fully prepared to kick whatever crawled out of that hole back into its depths.
“Where is this going?” Ego pleaded.
“Back into the hole, with you,” I shouted, pointing an angry finger.
Shaking my head, I stormed off. Sometimes it’s best to turn your back on a thing.
As if reading my mind, it shouted, “Not true. I’ve always been there for you. You need someone to protect you, guard against that world out there that doesn’t understand.”
I flashed a middle finger at it. “I can protect myself. I make good decisions. I don’t need anybody telling me how to run my life. I have rights, you know. I deserve to be free of the likes of you.”
“You’re ungrateful.”
“Oooh. And you’re gone,” I said, shoving at it, hard enough to knock it back into the big hole.
It wouldn’t stay there. I knew better than to expect that, but I didn’t want to listen anymore.
“You need me,” I heard it shout from a deep, deep place. It wasn’t going to leave me alone until I grappled with it.
“Dammit!” I hate when Ego whines like that.
Sometimes it is hard to see a train wreck coming. Sometimes we can’t step out of the way. So, here I stand in front of the computer, grappling with the story I started during a writer’s meeting a few weeks ago; writing and rewriting, wondering if it will ever be smooth enough for a blog. Time will tell.
In the meantime, does anyone have a shovel I can borrow?
Aaugh!
Bristol board, white as white can get for paper.
I can’t do this. I don’t have the talent. It has dripped off my fingers to sully the floor instead of inking this paper.
Dang, it’s dusty in here. Where’s the broom?
I forgot to wash the dishes.
I need to wash clothes for tomorrow…
…I don’t have the time to do this right now.
Time. What else do I have? I live alone with no one to attend but myself, I retired from twenty-four years of teaching one year ago precisely to make more time for projects like this…I have time.
I need another excuse to avoid this impenitent white.
I’ve accomplished a lot this year avoiding this project: published a novel, finished another. I maintain a blog site, I have created two book covers for projects not mine, taught art lessons, voice lessons, drawn 36 portraits. I have done all kinds of things that have ousted the premier project I promised to do, a project of the heart, a project for and with a writer whom I love, my son.
Why?
I ask my body, listening to the senses given to navigate this dimension. What does it have to say when I think about this project? I imagine the heroine, Colenso, and all the people with whom she connects. I start to feel hollow, constricted…saddened.
Tears start flowing from my eyes.
Aaaugh. There is so much pain here.
She is beautiful. She is brave. She is creative. She has the energy of a younger woman desperate to follow her purpose on Earth. Where will it take her?
Abandoned by parents, raised by a grandmother who committed suicide to escape untenable lower class working conditions, and burdened by magical gifts that drive her to right impossible wrongs…I…I feel…I feel trapped by her. I do not know how to express a grief that closely matches the vibrational magnitude of my own pain, the pain of a single mother raising two fatherless children, another layer of generational abandonment heaped upon generations behind us, so much suffering.
Will Colenso find peace before she ages and becomes inexorably tired? Will the monsters that hunt her catch up before the Old Ones bring her to her proper place?
Only if I can forget that I am the old, tired one.
There must be a way to reclaim my youthful strength, an ability to put myself in her shoes, to jump ship and put myself in the shoes of the other characters, to face the evil with her, and not flinch from my ego who warns me of my own reflections, “Don’t go there.”
I will go there…when I find the strength…when the dishes and floor are clean and I find enough self-love for both of us. I will go there. I will.
I will go there….
I knew the instant he turned and looked into the camera that he was the emerald I had lost so many lives ago. Also, he was the man I had sketched into the middle of the night, nineteen years ago.
For as long as I can remember, I have been looking for another, the one that vibrates with me, someone who was supposed to come to Earth when I did. I often felt him even as a child, but I could not see him. During the summer Solstice of 2002, his presence was strong. I attended a full moon ceremony with some friends. The hostess and I were chatting when she stopped, stared over my shoulder, and loudly proclaimed, “Who is that tall, dark man standing behind you?”
I could feel him.
She could see him.
I was jealous.
That night, after settling my children, I took up pencil and paper and asked, “Who are you. What do you look like?”
Hours and several attempts later, I had an image that spoke to my heart. I hung it on my wall, grateful that he had appeared. I no longer felt alone as a single woman raising two young children on her own.
I have drawn him often through the years when I have felt his presence touching mine.
Trapped inside by Covid-19, I watched endless hours of Netflix. Suddenly – there he was. My phantom friend, no longer a ghost as narrowly defined by me.
Like a hawk, I hunted through vaults of images on the internet, seeking matches to my own images of him. It felt surreal when I found them, creating more questions than answers. Six thousand, seven hundred, ninety-two miles away, there is a man I have been drawing for years, standing next to me in some other dimension, who is actually alive and successful.
How does that happen? Why does that happen? We don’t speak the same earthly language, but somehow there is a communication between us.
I hope he is blissfully happy. I am forever grateful he has graced my life with his presence from time to time. I don’t know if we will ever meet during this lifetime, but I hope we do.
I wonder – when I imagine him, does he feel me?
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