All Hallow's Eve

For the first time in nearly ten years, we decorated for Halloween and I dressed up.  So did MaryBeth.  In a neighborhood where, historically, there have been only one or two children calling at our door for candy, we had dozens.  We were out of candy in less than an hour.  We made photos of ourselves and emailed them to everybody.  We had a great time.

I am looking at the Halloween full moon in my eastern window and it is beyond beautiful.  As I sit here, I sing moon songs quietly.  Most of them have no words, only melodies in minor keys, as is appropriate for the goddess who presides over the mysteries of the night.  I watch her as she climbs the night sky chasing after the sun.

Make a joyful noise.....

Last night was my first time back in the choir in nearly ten years.  Participation is a part of my penitent return to the church.  I left in anger and pain that I had accumulated over the years.  I discovered there was a new choir directoress and a completely new choir.  I don' know why I was surprised, ten years is a long time.  I also discovered that they were doing new music written by new composers and that there was very little traditional stuff.  Not only that, but the program is complex and ambitious, so we will be meeting two nights a week instead of one to prepare for the holidays.  There are only two other altos besides me, so we definitely have our work cut out for us.  In spite of these factors and in spite of my multitude of personal problems including the "crisis de jour", I was actually glad to be there.  I think that God's favorite instrument is the human voice, but I have not sung for years........ not even in the shower.  Believe me when I tell you that this instrument needs a lot of tuning.

When the past rises up.....

Sometimes the death of a loved one is the impetus for change.  Most people do not change fundamentally without a crisis.  So it is with me.  Along with the obvious grief and stress of dealing with the death of my mother, came the resurrection of ancient memories connected to a tragedy long ago forgotten.......memories buried so deeply that they could not be brought to consciousness by any other means.  With the reclaiming of these terrible memories, hopefully, will come the release of underlying pain, fear and sorrow, and, perhaps, even a bit of guilt.  My responsibility in this event was based on my own incredibly bad judgement........as though I had invited it to happen.  But I did not ask for what happened to me, nor did I deserve it.  I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.  I was the victim of a person unknown to me who was so filled with rage that the only outlet he could find was to beat me into submission and rape me nearly to death.   Now, forty years later, I have to do the work of building a bridge to the past to allow those memories to move forward.  Only by confronting them can I take away their power to hurt me.

                                            

Witchy Women, they've got the moon in their eyes...........

Once upon a time men believed that all women were witches.  They had absolutely no understanding of why these weaker, dependent creatures could exercise such influence over them........could persuade them to risk their lives to feed and clothe them, protect and house them, as well as their offspring, which inevitably arrived on the scene after they began playing the really fun games that women knew how to play.  Since men were stronger and smarter and had a close relationship with God, they realized that women had to be doing something magical to them to get them to do the really stupid things women wanted them to do.  Since men did not know how to do this magic and women did, it had to be evil.  Strong social restrictions were established regarding women and many women were lost as a result of them.  Women sought an alliance with Mother Nature for protection from men.  This is the way religion started.

But let us cultivate our garden.....

There is a lesson to be learned from our favorite philosopher, Dr. Pangloss.  It is not so much that optimism is the cure for depression, but that perception is reality.  Truth is, therefore, subjective and relative as opposed to objective and absolute. That certainly makes the circumstances of fate a lot easier to endure.

Agnus Dei

I walked through the doors of the church, dipped my fingers in the holy water at the door, and made the sign of the cross:  forehead (Father), heart (Son), left shoulder (Holy), right shoulder (Ghost).  I took a bulletin, the news network of the parish, and sought a seat near the choir.  On my way there a rather tall gentleman, probably not much older than me, said hello and walked beside me.  He welcomed me to the church and as I found my seat, he moved on to the choir pit.

As the mass began, memories flooded back......the words, the music......the Alleluia, the Gloria, the Agnus Dei.....Oh, Lamb of God, You who take away the sins of the world, have mercy on us and grant us peace.
Glory be to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Ghost.  As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end.  Amen.....Amen.  Priest: Lift up your hearts to the Lord  Congregation:  We have lifted them up to the Lord. Congregation:  It is right to give Him thanks and praise.   Priest:  This is the Lamb of God.  Happy are we who are called to His supper.........This is my body, given up for you .....in the new and everlasting covenant.......I bid you peace.  My peace I give you.....Go forth to love and serve the Lord.

Let me be a shield upon thy heart for I am the gift that God has sent.

I will always be here..........

As the sun and the moon are always predictably present, so am I.  As we all rest in God's love, so you rest in mine.  I offer myself as your equal and I extend my hands and my heart in willing tribute to our friendship. Compassion and understanding are my strength and my armor.  I am a foundation built by God and secured by Him.  I am a rock upon which you can rest, a stream at which you may drink. I am nourishment to the body and soul and like warm honey, my love is sweet and comforting.

I know why the caged bird sings...with apologies to Maya Angelou

I sing of things barely understood and longed for, but I cannot know the sky or the wind unless you open the door of my cage or bend the bars.  You clipped my wings, but they are growing.  One day they will be able to carry me to a place where the sunrise and the moonset are miraculous and magical and I can sing to both of understanding and freedom, of giving and joy, of tenderness and compassion.  God has given a voice to my heart.  Listen to it and take comfort from it.  Be in love, for I am love.

Fear is the absence of faith..........

I think that "faith" must be tended like a garden......to keep out doubt, to strengthen with belief and understanding.  God provides the tools, but we have to do the work every day.

Listen to the pouring rain, listen to it pour..........

After nearly twenty years of obstinancy, of insisting that I could do it all by myself, that I didn't need help from anybody, I broke under the staggering weight of old grief, a new death, loneliness, financial ruin, physical debility, overwhelming responsibility, and desperation. Fortunately for me, although I had lost God in those years, God had not lost me.  When my desolation was so acute that I finally called out His name, He was there to carry me as He has always promised.  So I went back to church, made my confession, took communion and made a commitment to God.  Next spring I will seek confirmation in the church.

Joining the choir was part of the commitment I made.  Tonight when I went to the church, it was pouring rain.  No one else showed up for practice, but I sat in my car and just listened to the sound.  I used to think that rain was sad......the sky weeping as Mother Nature tried to drown her sorrows.  Tonight, I heard extraordinary music.  It wasn't Mother Nature's sorrow I heard, but her philharmonic orchestra, joyously playing in concert.

And you think that she's half crazy......

Forsaken, not quite human, I sank beneath the sorrow in spite of the medication.  I was a wild creature, empty and without understanding.  I was without spirit or soul.  I thought I had both when I got up that morning, but I had somehow misplaced them.  I got down on my knees to try and find them and when I couldn't, I called out a name I had forgotten.  In my desolation I called out to God.  As I covered my face with my hands and sobbed my despair in the darkness, I felt the awful weight lift from my shoulders.  The prayers I knew as a younger woman came almost unbidden to my lips.  Forgive me, oh, God, my offenses against thee.  I am not worthy to speak thy name, but I make so bold as to beg thy mercy.  I offer up my hands in thy service, my heart in thy worship and my voice in thy praise.  The Lord who keeps me, neither slumbers, nor sleeps, and will not suffer my foot to be bruised.  Amen.

We're Riding On The Carousel Of Life......

Buffy St.Marie had it right......we go round and round and round in the "circle game".  This has been more like a roller coaster than a carousel, but it is still a circle. This spiritual emptiness is like a really dark night that never seems to end.  Just when I think dawn must be breaking, I look at the luminous face of my watch and it is still three a.m.  I am lost in the wilderness.  I have been so angry at God, so angry with myself.  Okay, God, I confess!  Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa!  

The Rubiyat says:
          "The Moving Finger writes and having writ moves on, nor all your piety nor wit can lure it back to cancel half a line, nor all your tears wash out a word of it."

I cannot change the past, but perhaps I can raise the ransom for the future.

Life as I knew it

I have never been comfortable in the world except as a very little girl.......before school.....when the known world was just Mom and Dad and Home.  I have come to believe that I was never really designed to be "in" the world and "of" it, but I cannot think of anywhere else I might belong.  Sounds like alienation and isolation to me.  I am already on a double dose of Zoloft as it is, but there is only so much "better living through chemistry" a person can tolerate.  I do believe I have hit my limit.  I need to do this on my own.  What is it about Mondays?

Tranformation

Once when my niece, MaryBeth, was three years old, I took her outside to the front yard and showed her the magic of the full moon.  I actually taught her that baying at the moon was a way to show appreciation of this incredible phenomenon and that bathing in moonlight was great for both the body and soul.  I am not certain how much of this she absorbed, but in the years after that, we would occasionally go outside during a full moon and howl like wolves together.

A little while back, but during this tranformative process through which I have been traveling, I told  my friend, Robert, about it and I gave myself a new name......Woman Who Bays At The Moon.  He created a sort of portrait of the "baying" woman, which was very inspirational and also reflective of a certain "wildness" in my behavior.  During a subsequent observation of the full moon, I decided that three in the morning was no time to howl in the yard (which could result in a charge of disturbing the peace and possible arrest), so I chose to sing to the moon instead.  Of course, I sang "moon" songs:  Old Devil Moon, I Only Have Eyes For You, I'll Be Seeing You, Give Me The Moonlight, etc.  That night I changed my name to Woman Who Sings To The Moon.  My ritual observation of the moon is much more eloquant now and deeply appreciated by the neighbors.

Suddenly, this summer

My friend, who is a therapist, calls it "an acute grief reaction." In response to the realization in June that my mother had begun the dying process, I turned into a writer of romanticized sexual encounters. I had not personally engaged in sexual activity of any kind since February 14, 1991, the last time I had sex with my husband.

On May 7, 1991, when my husband died, I closed the door on my life. I did not actively want to die. I wasn't suicidal. I just didn't care about living. I picked up responsibility in order to justify my existence. I worked two and three jobs to fill up my time. My response to the world was totally passive. Sixteen years later, we got my mother's diagnosis.

Like my husband's death, my mother's was an anticipated event. In both cases I had a warning about two years in advance. John died from the complications of AIDS and Mom died from lung cancer. Knowing about these things in advance is supposed to give you some sort of advantage in dealing with death, itself. The fact is that all that advance time just prolongs your suffering. You are dealing with a process you are powerless to change. The very inevitability of it is a constant reminder. When death finally occurs, the devastation is complete. The clock stops. Just breathing causes you pain. Your awareness of the world changes. You are locked inside a room that is filled with your pain and it mocks you. You want to scream to relieve the pressure, but you don't know how. It is as though somebody took your voice away. In the case of my husband's death, you could multiply the sensation a thousand-fold because I carried a burden of soul-crushing guilt. I carried around guilt for my mother as well, just not the same kind.

It took me a while to figure out why my reaction to grieving manifested itself the way it did. It took me time and the insight of friends to begin the process of self-revelation. To this day I don't know why I was so willing and able to understand others and not myself.

It began on a rainy day and my observation to a friend was that "wet clothes cling."

When time ran out........

Although the blog is new, my journey began four months ago. It was June 16, 2009, when I took my mother to the hospital and we discovered that her lung cancer, which had been in remission according to the PET scan in December, had metastized to her brain with multiple lesions. On top of that, one of the lesions had bled giving her a "hemorrhagic stroke." She died August 23rd as I sat on her bed and held her hand. For the last two hours of her life, I said prayers and sang to her. I started out with Protestant prayers and hymns. When I ran out of those, I did all of the Catholic prayers and hymns I knew. I sang and wept until after her breathing stopped and I knew no amount of resuscitative effort could bring her back.

The change in me began in June.

Counting "time"

There is a lot of waiting involved in the evolutionary process. Genetically, the women in my family have never been predisposed to "waiting." I have made a concerted effort to change that in myself, but the effort is sometimes overwhelming. The alternative choice to standing around watching a kettle of water start to boil, is to make use of the time for something else. That is my method of coping............peel a potato, sew on a button, read a book, sing a song...........anything that keeps me from counting the seconds as they go by.

The Divine Nimbus

According to Whitman, I am the gates of the body, and I am the gates of the soul. I contain all qualities, and temper them—I am in my place, and move with perfect balance.

It is so and I am as much ethereal as corporeal. My soul moves between the spheres with grace and compassion. My heart was made for loving and does so without let or hindrance. There is no price that can purchase my love. Yet I am boundless in giving and it is multiplied beyond measure. I will take your pain and give you in its stead, love and joy, and peace.

I celebrate the me that's to come

There are people who believe self-analysis has its limits. Someone once told me to be careful how frequently and how deeply I looked inward because you never know what you will find there. I know that I have found some pretty dark places inside myself........one or two that were downright scary, but I also believe it is a trip we all have to make at some point. Someone has to identify and categorize what is there.........discard things, find out what is missing, make use of any tools. It needs to be done after we have acquired enough skills to deal with what we find, but before we are too old to benefit from it.

My mother's journey through the transition from life to death is what started my evolutionary process. This road to enlightment has been difficult.......sad, painful, but it has also brought me a greater capacity for understanding, compassion and love. I continue the journey.............

I Sing The Body Electric

I re-visited Walt Whitman this morning. He spoke to me with wisdom. Tonight I will sing to the waning quarter moon. I will sing to her of love and friendship and time and longing. I will sing old songs that have no words, but in their melodic sounds convey all that my soul can reveal. It was Whitman who showed me the way. His frankness appeals to me. I am no delicate, lady-like creature. I am tactile and lusty. I have been deprived of life for a very long time. I did not stop breathing, but I might as well. I knew no sensation either physical or emotional..........no, that is not true. I knew pain and sorrow.

Life is a banquet.......

Patrick Dennis' Auntie Mame used to say, "Life is a banquet and most poor suckers are starving to death!" Surviving pain, loss, death and disaster can give you a ravenous appetite for life, love, joy and laughter. Just remember, you can starve to death at a banquet if you refuse to eat.