Ruby, a precious gemstone prized for centuries for its beauty, rarity, and strength, also symbolizes love, passion, and faith. While some wear ruby jewelry to mark milestones, I found myself drawn to a 14k gold ruby ring during my tumultuous divorce in 2011.
Some people might have questioned why I had chosen to wear it daily at such a time of emotional and financial upheaval, perhaps perceiving it as flaunting wealth amid chaos. However, the truth was, the ring gave me a sense of control I desperately needed in my vortex of life.
Most of us have our personal ways to seek grounding and stability in life’s unpredictable moments, and sometimes it’s the “things” we hold dear that guide us back to our center. While some might find solace in religious symbols, such as a crucifix, for me, a simple ruby ring had served as a powerful anchor. It offered a sense of calm and strength, much like the red shoes provided balance for the woman I wrote about in a previous blog post.
While I rarely wear the ring anymore, whenever I come across that beautiful ruby ring tucked away in my jewelry box, it serves as a powerful reminder. The ring whispers tales of past chapters, highlighting the importance of personal anchors. This realization also prompts me to soften my judgments when I see others clinging to their own possessions, whether it be a cherished trinket or a flashy car. All things considered, life’s journey is rarely smooth. If driving a ruby red Mercedes or wearing a ruby ring helps someone navigate life’s bumps and roadblocks, who am I to judge? Perhaps the truest faith lies not only in traditional beliefs, but in the quiet understanding that many of us possess our own personal talismans that not only help stabilize us in life’s storms, but power us forward. Ultimately, we all carry our own burdens, and sometimes the most faithful act is simply acknowledging the quiet battles fought behind the projected facades as well as victories celebrated within the hearts of others.
All rights reserved. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author is strictly prohibited.
Note: I mentioned this artificial Christmas tree experience in last week’s blog post.
The attic stairs groaned under my weight as I lugged the artificial, five-foot Christmas tree down.This year, decorating it was my mission, but it turned into a stark reminder of what had been and what was no longer.Over four years had passed since I had last touched it, the weight of tragedy replacing the joy and family healing it once symbolized.
As I set it down in the living room, I remembered way back to 2009 when the economic recession hit. Despite the hardship, our four-member family had weathered the storm. As per tradition, my then husband, two children and I had brought home a freshly cut tree that year. The next day when I had stood back to marvel at the tree I had finished decorating by myself (no one else liked decorating), the entire tree had toppled over on me! It was a strange, almost foreshadowing event, a prelude to the emotional avalanche that would engulf our lives just a year later. My sudden divorce, husband’s abandonment, the financial ruin, the loss… it all came crashing down the following year in 2010 like that heavy Douglas fir.
My soon-to-be ex-husband’s breakdown also had shattered our family in that year, leaving just me and my two adolescent children to face an uncertain future together. During that sad Christmas season, in the gaudy, multi-colored artificial tree we found at Walmart, my daughter and I saw a reflection of our broken selves, along with a flicker of determination to rise again. And rise again the three us us did, against all odds. Despite its disco ball appearance, the artificial Christmas tree symbolized strength, and we had purchased it, replacing our usual fresh tree that year. When we looked at it, it filled us with faith in the future, and we enjoyed it every year until 2018.
But then came 2019, the year that shattered what remained of our world. My daughter and I spent Christmas in front of greasy cartons of Chinese take-out food, the bare house echoing with sorrow. Holiday decorations lay banished in the attic, mere ghosts of past joy. In 2020, I ordered a three-foot “pencil” tree and a few handfuls of decorations that became our new holiday tradition.
This Christmas, stroking the Walmart-bought tree, memories of 2019 washed over me, the sharp sting of grief still fresh after all this time. The idea of decorating it with its own ornaments, relics of childhood Christmases, which I had also fetched from the attic, exasperated my silent ache, a reminder of the son I’d lost too soon. The once joyous act of decorating the family tree now felt like a painful, unbearable ritual, each ornament a monument to a life that was stolen from us. I opted for the familiar comfort of the pencil tree and its decorations.
Yet, returning those old treasures to the attic felt impossible. As tears welled up, a spark of something else flickered within me. While the pain of being a survivor remained, the memories of other past Christmases reminded me that the same decorated artificial tree had weathered countless storms alongside our one-time family of three, and had become a testament to the resilience of the human spirit, even in the face of fleeting life.
And that’s when I knew what I had to do. I decided to let it go. I posted an ad online, offering the Christmas tree for free.
The first two responses led to disappointment, but then came a message that tugged at my heartstrings. A single mother, struggling to make ends meet, desperately wanted the tree for her four-year-old son. My heart softened, and I did the unthinkable. I decided to give her not only the Christmas tree, but almost all of the rest of it — the lights, the ornaments, even the memories they held.
In that moment, I knew this was more than just giving away holiday decor. It was about passing on a flicker of hope, a spark of joy that could illuminate someone else’s holiday season.
“My son would have wanted your son to have it,” I explained after informing her of my decision, her profuse thanks still ringing in my ears.
Final Letting Go …
Since I was going out that evening, I left the bundle outside my garage door for her to pick up. Before pulling out of the driveway, I took a final photo of everything. A wave of bittersweet emotions washed over me. Sadness for what I had lost, but also a sense of relief and liberation.
This Christmas, like the last four before it, my home may not be filled with the familiar sights and sounds of our pre-tragedy celebrations. But in my heart, I know that the spirit of Christmas lives on. It lives on in the kindness of strangers who lend an empathetic ear, in the joy of a child, and in the quiet strength that allows us to rise from the ashes and stand ourselves tall, like a noble fir.
All rights reserved. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author is strictly prohibited.
About this time last year, Harry was surrounded by stacks of files and folders piled high on his desk, and the phone was ringing off the hook. He was a commercial real estate agent who was used to working long hours and after a brief retirement, his real estate business seemed to be flourishing.
In addition to his business dealings, Harry had been keeping years of notes about his personal experiences. He wanted to write a memoir so that future generations could learn about his life, and the Holocaust.
I first knew Harry through my dear friend Pat’s husband and then through her. Now, over this past weekend, Pat and I found out that Harry, who had the onset of dementia and suffered a recent stroke, was admitted to a hospice facility. The doctors gave him a couple of days to live. *
Harry turned 90 this past May. He had a twinkle in his eye and a smile on his face. Harry loved to ballroom dance with any woman who knew the steps, no matter her age. He would whisk her into a rhythmic routine, whether they were in a doctor’s office or the snack bar of an assisted living facility. He was a reminder that age is just a number.
His mother survived the Holocaust, and they managed to flee to America when he was seven. This was a Houdini-like feat, considering that the United States had restrictive immigration laws and policies in place during World War II, including the Johnson-Reed Act, which made it difficult for Jewish people, and other nationalities, to immigrate. These laws and policies were motivated by anti-Semitism and discrimination. (Interestingly, among this group that was denied visas to the U.S., as well as other countries, to flee the spread of Nazism in Europe in the 1930s was the family of Anne Frank.)
In America, Harry fought the bullies in grammar school but didn’t let them define him. He excelled in math, and in his spare time, helped his mother sell a variety of items from her truck that she and her new husband had scrimped and saved to purchase. Their hard work, determination, and entrepreneurial skills provided all the necessities they needed.
During his pre-med years at UConn, one of his professors gave him a dead cat to dissect. He looked at the cat, put down his scalpel, and said to himself, “I guess being a doctor isn’t for me.”
Harry’s change of heart led him on a different course.
Approximately 1.5 million Jews served in the Allied military during World War II, including 550,000 American Jews. Of these, 52,000 received U.S. military awards. Harry was one of them. His fluency in German made him a key player in the development of missiles, and he was awarded many distinctions and honors for his efforts. Obviously, he never held the discriminatory Johnson-Reed Act against America.
During the war, Harry married his first wife, a prominent Southern Belle, and started a family. Decades later, after his divorce, he married a second time and had a second family. His children from his first marriage are in their 60s, and his youngest son is in his 20s.
Harry’s career was as colorful and varied as his personal life. But he consistently worked hard and made money, until he lost it in his later years through no fault of his own. But he flexed his faith muscle, got back into the ring for another fight, and won another round of financial success, which kept him going to the sunset of his life.
I could tell countless stories about Harry, and I would love to write his memoir one day because I am wild about him in so many ways. But for the sake of brevity, I will focus on his humility. Even though Harry was a larger-than-life figure in business, and the last person you wanted to negotiate with, whether it was retail or real estate, he never forgot to share his wealth in many ways.
As a young entrepreneur trying to hit it big in the 1980s, I remember how Harry helped my t-shirt business. He purchased my entire stock for his thriving retail store, saving me from bankruptcy. Sure, my kids’ Godfather had requested his help, but Harry did this on his own accord and sold out of the entire line. (Pat met Harry through her now-deceased husband, and both men had met through their love of playing tennis, cementing their friendship on the court.)
Later on, when Harry went into commercial real estate, his primary job, as I see it, was providing mentorship. Sure, he was successful, but what’s success if you don’t pass it on? That’s what he did. Instead of getting wrapped up in his very important wheeling and dealing, he humbled himself to make room for others. For instance, one of his college-aged administrative assistants from Haiti, who was challenged financially and had no clear picture of the future, ended up with a highly successful career in real estate.
If only the world had mentors such as Harry. What a world it would be, wouldn’t you say?
So, around this time last year, Harry was wheeling and dealing again, until things started working against him, such as when he would get into a panicked state for the most innocuous reason. One of the last times Pat saw him, shortly after he was diagnosed with an onset of dementia, she had driven them both to dinner. During dinner, Harry became belligerent and argued with the professional and kind staff about the swift manner they were serving their meal. He insisted on “European dining.”
Needless to say, they never returned to that restaurant. Harry was confined to an assisted living facility at that point, and I knew his qualms about “European dining” were not about dining at all. He now faced a new enemy: deterioration and death. His goal was to rescue his life with the same chutzpah his mother had. Harry wanted to live longer and maintain his healthy lifestyle. After all, he was the kind of guy who could stroll through a burning building unscathed. Somebody or something was watching out for him, or he was plain lucky, at least most of the time.
Harry’s story is an inspiration to us all. He overcame incredible adversity in his life, yet, he never lost his faith or his sense of humor. He was a true mensch, often putting others before himself.
I toast you, Harry, with a glass of lemonade, your recipe that started with bitter lemons, now sugar sweet. May your legacy inspire us all to live our lives to the fullest and make the world a better place.
I imagine Harry, wearing one of my old custom-designed t-shirts from the 80s, smiling at me and raising his glass in return. “To life! To love! To lemonade! And to t-shirts!” he says.
* We received word only a few hours ago that Harry passed away peacefully this morning.
Enduring divorce and a host of other hardships and tragedies, I can’t seem to stop opening Pandora’s Box. The only consolation is that I am at the sunset of my life. As I mentioned in last week’s blog post, I spend most of my days in insolation (detachment) rather than isolation (seclusion). I also try to remind myself that I cannot understand certain things, such as the apathy of certain ill-wishers in my life.
In my previous blog post, I also wrote about “a symbolic nemesis that had infiltrated my world.”
This week, I’m lifting the lid on a real-life nemesis who has been a source of friction in my life like a thigh-sized bur since I was 14. I try to understand that she is struggling with her own issues, and that she is simply incapable of showing love and compassion. In addition, the woman’s continuous erratic behavior suggests that she may have dissociative identity disorder (DID).
I need to remember that I am not responsible for her traumatic childhood or her behavior, no matter what the reason. I can only control my own actions and reactions.
Fortunately, I don’t struggle to keep the faith when I am able to believe that things are the way they are meant to be. This belief takes the pressure off me, and I can leave the rest to the great creator, God, all there is, Greater Good, or whatever he or she or it may be. As long as my ego doesn’t get enmeshed into things out of my hands, it’s going to be a good day.
I also know that I am worthy of love and respect. I am a valuable person, and I deserve to be treated with kindness and compassion. The real-life nemesis in my life, most times, quite frankly, I wish she would simply disappear. But I remember back in the 80s when a few of my mentors advised me that she was here to teach me valuable lessons.
What these lessons are, I don’t know. I do know, in retrospect, that at the lowest points of my life, she tried to beat me even lower. Did her acts of cruelty make me a better person? No, I can’t say they did. Hurt supersedes all the memories of her in my life. Typically, my only desire is to shovel my hurt on her until she seeps into it like quicksand.
I suppose, though, one thing I’ve learned from her is how to bar out the negative thoughts and erase a real-life nemesis from my mind. Release her back to her own creator and go about my life, channeling whatever positive energy is left. That’s what it’s about.
“Don’t give up. It may take time to heal from the pain of indifference and deep wounds, but it’s important to remember that you can get through the pain. Don’t give up on yourself or on your faith.”
That’s the message I find without my having to consult any particular guru, because the inner voice is divine, and I don’t mess with divinity.
About six years ago, when my friend, Richard, a retired art director, celebrated his two-year sobriety milestone, he donned an eye-catching crimson bow tie that juxtaposed his somber expression. The poignant declaration he uttered at that moment has remained ingrained in my memory ever since: “This is not my world anymore.”
Richard was faced with the realization that his marriage of 50 years was not only coming to a close, but also that his children had grown distant from him. In addition, he also needed to reconcile with the reality that he had wasted a considerable amount of his earlier years as an alcoholic who functioned nevertheless.
His faith in what once was, had come crashing down.
Richard’s realization that “This is not my world anymore” is a sentiment that we all may encounter at some point in our lives. It represents the stark (sober) realization of what truly holds significance in life, and conversely, what does not; such as an unfulfilling marriage that has become a matter of convenience and habit rather than one that is rooted in love and admiration.
Over the past two decades, and particularly during the last three years, I have encountered numerous epiphanies that have left me feeling disconnected from my surroundings. These experiences forced me to recognize who my true friends are while accepting that most of them, for various reasons, have vanished from my life. Furthermore, it is clear that the path I had once envisioned for myself will never come to fruition. Each time I catch sight of my age-spotted hands that no longer resemble my own, I can’t escape the fact that before I know it, a significant birthday is just around the corner. In truth, “This is not my world anymore” often morphs into “This is not the world I imagined at 19,” which serves as a poignant reminder of life’s perpetual evolution.
Richard’s and my journey serves as an example to illustrate how life is constantly changing. We may not always be in control of these changes, but we can choose how we respond to them. While conceding that there are numerous occasions when my faith falters and my perseverance wanes, it is evident that I am able to persist through such moments due in large part to inspirational figures, such as Richard.
Richard is not, as far as I know, a religious man. However, he does believe that there is something that is ultimately good and benevolent and, despite all his challenges, Richard never lost faith that things would turn out okay. He faced each obstacle head-on and emerged stronger from it all. Sure, it’s still not “his world” anymore, but he never falters as he adds a colorful array of bow ties to his wardrobe reminiscent of a blooming garden filled with vibrant peonies.
Sadie, who was the spitting image of iconic Elvira except she donned a white streak running down her charcoal colored hair, and I volunteered to coordinate weekly Thursday community lunches at a church hall back in the late 80s. Dressed in casual work attire, I’d leave my day job, located a few minutes away, during my lunch hour, which typically turned out to be more like an hour and a half. Sadie’s small, “clown car,” that her boyfriend purchased for her, usually pulled up instantaneously when my Subaru did. I’d recognize her six-foot-long stature crunched behind the steering wheel. All four doors would fling open and, along with Sadie, about a half dozen characters of an eclectic combination flew out. Each one, it appeared, she picked up at different spots throughout the region – starting at a drag show and ending at the homeless shelter.
“Hey! How ya doing?” she’d shout. Everyone within earshot heard her thick, Bronx accent. Additionally, when she asked the question, it appeared that she actually cared to know about you.
In fact, over the next two years of our volunteer commitment, I tested her sincerity and, likely, dumped way too many issues, mostly about living the single life, on her. Even though we came from two completely different worlds, she never judged or flinched, only listened and validated my feelings. About twenty years older than I, I not only appreciated Sadie’s listening skills, but also her sharp tongue that she attributed to tending a bar in the South Bronx, New York, for most of her life. In addition, she had an acid wit and an uncanny ability to make people laugh in spite of themselves.
Unlike most everyone else who fit into society’s norm, Sadie despised the norm. She was an outsider from her very beginning and, thus, found it difficult to connect with others, even though she tried to conform to the norm in her younger years by marrying her high school sweetheart at 21 years old. You see, she was raised in a traditional household at a time when women did not work outside the home. The only roles available to them were being wives and mothers. Shortly after Sadie’s marriage, she birthed her first daughter. By the time she had her third daughter, she had sunk into alcohol during her unhappy marriage. She eventually ended up divorced and married two more times afterwards. During her third marriage, when she heard about an opening for a barmaid at the local bar, she applied for it because it seemed like an interesting job that would allow her to use her skill set and allow her to earn her own money. As soon as Sadie found success as a barmaid, she divorced her husband, with whom she shared a daughter, her fourth. He was not supportive of her working outside the home, and she was not about to stop. A few months after her third and final divorce, she hitched up with a new boyfriend. With a burning desire to quit alcohol and turn her life around, what she would soon learn as she sought therapy and dealt with her insecurities and struggles was that she bought society’s “faulty bag of goods” early on and, by doing so, never acquired the faith in herself to believe she was good enough as a woman to survive on her own without a man meeting her needs instead of her.
Long story short and a trail of boyfriends later, Sadie managed to kick off alcohol and live sober and, in the interim, quit her job at the bar. Her current boyfriend supported her, and she was not afraid to admit it. In fact, she was proud of it because she accepted her human fragility and was the first one to laugh at her foibles.
I met her at a wonderful crossroads in her life. She was in the process of meeting two of her personal goals. One, she was saving money in order to enroll in a nursing program at a university. Two, she was trying out for community theater auditions to quench her thirst for theatrical endeavors.
After peeling off all the damage from the wrong influences, she finally became true to herself. She wasn’t afraid to be different and she refused to conform to societal standards. In other words, she wove all her many painful moments in her life into a one-of-a-kind tapestry.
Sadie believed she was given a second chance and wanted others also to feel connected and loved and not shunned like a misfit. Guided by her new vision of self-acceptance, she befriended the friendless. Through their relationships, she discovered that they had a wealth of knowledge and experience that she could draw upon in her own life.
Anyway, I wasn’t as accepting. For instance, while we prepared the Thursday luncheons, none of her so-called friends lifted a finger to help. One of them, likely in his mid-twenties, who wore brown sandals with thick blood red socks in every season, sporadically stormed in and out of the building. His fury made you think he was a doctor headed to save someone’s life. Most of her other friends literally slept where they were seated. It was easy to figure out they were on some heavy duty meds. The one who really annoyed me was Jenn, but sometimes called Jim. Jenn, as I’ll refer to her now to keep it simple, was not a fan of mine. She shadowed me unbearably close wherever I went except, thankfully, to the restroom. Sometimes, I felt Jenn’s sour breath on my neck directly below my ear and, on occasion, I’d hear murmured grunts.
“Sadie!” I commanded nearly every week, “You just can’t bring these people here! They are not in their right minds. I’m waiting for the Thursday that Jenn just punches me. I mean, I don’t feel safe.”
“Safe?” Sadie asked with a cackle. “Safe? And, who would you say is safe in this world? Do you think my friends are safe? Jenn follows you around because she likes you. Is that so bad? If she were dangerous, do you really think I’d expose her to you or anyone else? I will ask her to step farther away from you, but my friends deserve the same sort of respect you do. Don’t we all have a right to be here? Can’t we all breathe the same air even though we are different? Is this YOUR world alone?”
“Well … “
“Are you saying they are different from you? That they don’t belong here with us?” she roared. During the pregnant pause that followed, all her friends, even the ones asleep, woke up and edged closer to us, forming a circle around us.
“Are they?”
“Well. Umm. No,” I reluctantly admitted.
“Okay then, we’ll see you next Thursday.”
Thursday after Thursdays, I grew to know Sadie and her EXTREMELY interesting friends. In the same manner as Sadie, through their relationships, I was able to learn more about myself and grow in ways I never thought possible. You see, the common theme among Sadie’s group of friends that supplies faith to me to this day is how to overcome a series of unfortunate events and sad circumstances.
The story, though, doesn’t end here. I’ll share the rest in next week’s blog. I won’t spoil the ending, but I will divulge that it is sad, but one that leaves you thinking about faith and hope and how we can still find purpose and a deeper meaning during some of our darkest moments — if we can decipher and are willing to wear the right corrective lenses.
Another one of the things that my mentor, Kelly, whom I wrote about two weeks ago in a blog post, taught me is that tragedy transforms people into one of two personality types:
1.) Bitter and resentful. These are the people who have a need to be right and view the world as a place of injustice, where they are unfairly treated.
OR,
2.) Faithful and grateful. These folks need to feel connected to something bigger than themselves, whether it be God or nature.
Few people, if any, who survive tragedies, Kelly emphasized, end up with a lukewarm or neutral attitude towards life.
I agree that tragedy typically shakes you up in one direction — or another. Bernice is a woman who is a example of this belief. In fact, she exhibits the polar opposite traits of Kelly’s.
Bernice’s then 21-year-old daughter was diagnosed with a brain tumor in the 1980s. Eleven months after her diagnosis she died, leaving Bernice and her husband to grieve for their only child.
The loss of a child is one of the most heart-wrenching tragedies that can occur in a person’s life. Whereas few, if any, parents can “move on” from this type of grief they can “move with it” and, typically, learn to find a place for it inside themselves, as if it is a massive piece of permanent furniture. In the process, they can fall into one of the two aforementioned categories.
In Bernice’s case, while grieving her daughter, she ended up fitting category #1. Not to minimize her horrible set of circumstances, but, to this day, it’s easy to spot Bernice anywhere she goes; she’s the one with the sour, lemon-face expression. She’s also quick to lash out and blame others when something, anything, goes askew.
Actually, after her daughter died, she blamed the doctors and medical staff as well as her then husband. Needless to say, her marriage dissolved and she and her husband divorced within a year’s time. Luckily for her, the divorcee met another divorcee, Ernie, a few years later. He was calm, patient and understanding of Bernice’s struggles. Bernice felt he understood her better than anyone else, and she felt calmer around him.
The problem, though, stemmed from her being a bossy, nasty stepmother to his three daughters, who were adolescents at the time. Opposite of their own birth mother, who was understanding and balanced in her parental approach, Bernice was strict and demanded perfection. She forbid them from dating boys or going out with friends, because she felt the only way they would succeed in life was to be focused on school. Ernie did not interfere with his second wife’s method of running the household. In this way, he could focus on his high-profile copywriter position for a large marketing agency.
On the other hand, Bernice’s ability to find a work-personal life balance was easier since she worked full-time in a far-less stressful environment then he did. Plus, Ernie willingly accepted his wife’s “parenting skills” of always telling his daughters what to do and how to do it, because he felt her motive aligned with his: helping his children grow up into good, responsible adults.
The sisters started to rebel against the rules of their stepmother, which led to a chaotic and difficult situation for Ernie. His daughters likely sensed what Ernie did not. Bernice had no control over herself and her tragic past. Unable to find peace in herself, she was an egotistical, unruly stepmother who created her own personal war in her husband’s family. The tactic was a great distraction for what mattered the most — sitting in her pain and taking responsibility for herself.
Basically, Bernice’s approach was the EXACT opposite of Kelly’s step-mother approach. I wrote about the positive building blocks that Kelly achieved in her relationship with her step kids in my previous blog post, but what do you think happened to Bernice’s stepfamily? Yep. It fell apart. It got to the point where Bernice gave Ernie an ultimatum: “It’s either me or your daughters!” Needless to say, although his daughters were heartbroken, Ernie abandoned them and instead, choose to be with Bernice. From there, for decades, the couple fell off the radar of family and friends.
Fast-forward to over thirty years later. The revelation of losing his own daughters caused Ernie to experience feelings of guilt and loss and he wondered if this was his wife’s desired intent. It made sense since, in this way, he could feel sad and grief-stricken in the same way she did. The more he thought about it, the clearer things became. He escaped his resentments and own guilty feelings by having extramarital affairs. Bernice, on the other hand, coped with the turbulent marriage by numbing her feelings with alcohol. Not long after, their marriage ended in a bitter, costly, miserable divorce.
Bernice has always been angry, but now she has reached her limit. She lives in her own small apartment rental and, apart from her kind-hearted brother who checks in on her every so often, she is left to fend for herself. Her only friend, at least as far as she is concerned, is alcohol.
Ernie is still playing the field, but slowly, very slowly trying to mend bridges with his daughters who carry their own load of anger, resentment and hurt toward their father.
Bernice and Ernie remind us that we all want to believe that there are things we can count on to make us happy, but life is not like that and neither is love.
Loss can be devastating and leave people feeling helpless in its wake. It can feel like a tornado has swept away everything familiar and left nothing intact. The question is:
1.) Do we shut ourselves off from all love if we fear the cruel twister of loss? In some cases, yes. (In the manner that Bernice did and, in a different way, how Ernie did.)
OR,
2.) Do we dare travel the open road with courage and an accepting heart while navigating uncertainty? (In the manner Kelly did.)
Do you choose, #1 or #2?
Don’t let anyone kid you, love is always a choice. All it takes is a little faith — or none at all. It’s in your pocket. Dig deep within you to release the strength you will need to walk your unique path and keep your eyes forward to meet the twists, turns and obstacles head on; remembering always, the best lesson in courage is not a lesson. It’s how you take life in stride.
because you take your life in stride
because you take your life in stride Because you take your life in stride (instead of scheming how to beat the noblest game a man can proudly lose, or playing dead and hoping death himself will do the same)
because you aren’t afraid to kiss the dirt (and consequently dare to climb the sky) because a mind no other mind should try to fool has always failed to fool your heart
but most (without the smallest doubt) because no best is quite so good you don’t conceive a better, and because no evil is so worse than worst you fall in hate with love -human one mortally immortal i can turn immense all time’s because to why
I was in the middle of writing the final paragraph of this week’s blog and then realized it was Valentine’s Day TODAY! Although the last string of my blogs have centered around love themes — figures that the blog I initially worked on for today pertained to a woman who was removed from love. I had to quickly change my plans and attempted to “force fit” a Valentine’s spin on the blog post, but failed miserably and decided to give up the reins of control and post the piece next week.
Interestingly, while trying to edit my original blog post, I conducted a quick Google search and found the following information about today’s holiday below:
“Today, is Valentine’s Day in America. The name Valentine comes from a Latin word meaning “strength.” There are many legends about it, but it’s ultimately unclear how Valentine’s Day became associated with the tradition of exchanging the affectionate gifts and love notes that we call valentines.”
I never associated Valentine’s Day with the theme of strength. When I learned this information, I thought about how love is beautiful, yet it can be difficult and take a lot of strength to get through each day in a relationship with someone you love. Worst still, is finding the strength to live as an unhappy couple under one roof.
Valentine’s Day is meant to be one of the most romantic and sentimental days of the year. It’s a day for lovers and couples to celebrate their love. For single people, it can be an especially hard day — a day that requires extra strength to get through.
And so this reflects my son’s story. From the time he was an adolescent, he became introverted and socially isolated. Every Valentine’s Day seemed harder than the last one and on those holidays every night seemed more difficult than the last one in the previous year.
I shared a similar history when I was his age. In fact, I wrote a string of maudlin-sounding articles dealing with being single and alone in America and, feeding into my sad, painful state, they were all rejected by editors.
At any age, it’s a challenge to find the strength to combat feelings of loneliness and isolation. That said, Valentine’s Day has also taken on a few new meanings to me in recent years. It is no longer just about a traditional couple’s love and romance, but also about celebrating the LGBT community, marginalized and voiceless. It is a time for me to get unstuck in MY dark feelings and, instead, find the strength to get proactive and distribute a few “sweet treats” JUST BECAUSE, I care. JUST BECAUSE, I don’t want others to feel hopeless and fall into faithlessness.
And that’s what I’ve done over this last week, sprinkled a little Valentine’s magic in the form of greeting cards, gift cards and homemade candy (NOT homemade by me though!) to a few kids and adults I haven’t seen in a while.
My Heart-Shaped Sweet Potato GIFT
Now, I am going to tell you about a surprise gift that I received yesterday. It was a sweet potato in the shape of a heart, right out of the bag. It was such a simple thing, but lifted my spirits and gave me the strength to get through the rest of my day!
No matter how your spirits are today and regardless of your situation, my wish for you this Valentine’s Day is that you have the hope, faith and strength to celebrate the little things that warm your heart. For example, whipping up a sweet potato pie, a classic American dessert, to share with a neighbor will fill the bill (and your belly AND DEFINITELY WARM YOUR HEART!).
As I watched the performance, it reminded me of how love transcends all boundaries and brings people together in ways that nothing else can, which, full circle, was what I intended initially to elaborate on. You see, when I was in my mid-twenties, I met a mentor, Kelly, who taught me this vital lesson.
Kelly married later in life for the first time to a divorcee. Her primary focus was on her husband, who was a big-hearted guy, and the couple’s goal was to embrace this new chapter of their lives with confidence and joy. However, as a stepmother, it is not easy to win the hearts of all your stepchildren. In the case of this particular woman, most of her then adolescent and young adult stepchildren immediately accepted her with open arms. Nonetheless, the youngest child, Maggie, was not so welcoming and, conversely, threw verbal pointed darts. Whenever Kelly was in her presence, Maggie constantly talked about her mother’s beauty and intelligence. It was an obvious manipulative tactic to pit Kelly against Maggie’s own mother to make Kelly feel inferior.
Kelly managed to not take anything about how “perfect” Maggie’s mother was to heart. Eventually, Kelly was able to put herself in Maggie’s shoes and realized that her stepdaughter wanted her dad to remain married to her birth mom. Kelly understood her motive, but rather than trying to force Maggie to accept her presence, she chose a different approach. She decided to listen and understand Maggie’s feelings in order to work towards helping her adjust to the new family dynamic. Subsequently, when it came to Maggie’s mother, Kelly made sure to be extra careful with her words. The most important thing to Kelly was that she be keenly aware not to put down Maggie’s mother in any way, shape or form.
(I should note that Kelly WAS NOT a pushover. If Maggie had verbally attacked or hurt her directly, Maggie would have drawn a healthy boundary so as not to subject herself to her stepdaughter’s abuse.)
Ironically, Maggie was an atheist and Kelly was a devout Catholic. Kelly never tried to convert her, (although would have liked to!). Because she allowed Maggie to be who she was without judgment, she found out soon enough, you don’t need a particular belief to have faith. In fact, Kelly found out that Maggie had a lot of love in her heart, which, to Kelly, was all that mattered.
This attitude allowed Maggie to feel heard and understood. By allowing Maggie to be who she was, warts and all, Kelly managed to build an understanding relationship with Maggie and eventually helped her accept the fact that she had another mother in her life.
But the story doesn’t end there. About ten years after Kelly married Maggie’s father, Maggie was diagnosed with a rare blood disease. Her odds of survival were next to nil. Who do you think she wanted by her side as she went through the terrible medical ordeal that followed? You got it! Kelly! Although she loved them both, it was the second mom who happened to be the most instrumental, because Kelly was a physician’s assistant. With her extensive knowledge of medical terminology and her ability to explain complex concepts in a simple way, Kelly was able to help everyone understand the medical lingo.
Despite the fact that her doctors gave Maggie less than a year to live, she ended up living for 10 more years with her illness. Ten! In the process, her parents, all three of them, were with her every step of the way, and, after a brave battle, she died peacefully at 43 years old last year, in the presence of those who loved her, including her two moms and dad.
It is easy to preach, but to teach by example is what counts. Kelly’s story helps me make difficult decisions in my life and gives me the faith that no matter how hard things appear, I can push through with the right attitude and determination. Her influence is not just something that I carry with me in my life, it has become a strong source of guidance and comfort and a force I turn to, like the power of light, which helps guide me through the darkest of times.
The date repeatedly magnified in front of my face on the oversized black- and-white 2010 calendar, the only wall décor in the attorney’s office where I sat for three and a half hours (no, she didn’t tell me she was charging per hour!) rehashing a month-long account of what had propelled me to file divorce proceedings against my then husband.
Trying to grasp the end of my 19-year marriage, my stressed brain couldn’t differentiate between November 1st and November 2nd, and which one commemorated All Saint’s Day and which one was All Souls’ Day.
If you are not familiar with the dates, the internet definitions are below:
All Saints’ Day, also known as All Hallows’ Day, Hallowmas, the Feast of All Saints, or Solemnity of All Saints, is a Christian solemnity celebrated on November 1 in honor of all the saints of the church, whether they are known or unknown.
All Souls’ Day, also known as the Commemoration of All the Faithful Departed and the Day of the Dead, is a day of prayer and remembrance for the souls of those who have died, which is observed by Latin Catholics and other Christian denominations annually on November 2.
I finally realized that November 2nd was indeed “the Day of the Dead.” From that bleak day forward, the day slapped a bookmark into the pages of my life and paused a full spool of memories made prominent with lace-up-the sneakers, leaf-peeping adventures. From that autumn on, it took eight years to refill the fall time colors into my black-and-white, gray-hued calendar world. Finally, the afternoon arrived when I drove through the neighborhood, and the sudden sight of crimson, golden leaves inspired me to recite poetry out loud in the car.
A year after color poured back into the lines of my life, little did I realize that the bottom of my world would completely unhinge, and I would be left fluttering around in a pool of profound grief that became my permanent autumn shadow.
Recalling the eight years of robbed autumn color, I appreciate the reawakened awareness of the hues. Consequently, they will never represent the same brazen fire irons they once did. Long lost are the years when the children were young, and we sipped fresh steaming apple cider that wafted through our sunny kitchen with an aroma that was a recipe to create optimistic dreams that seemed as real as finding the perfect fit in a new pair of lace-up sneakers.
Of course, some memories can be like leaves running their final course and dropping silently like dribbles of rain, composting and disappearing into the good earth. Clearly, in the cycle of life, there are new seeds to sow, harvest and grow.
Time takes time. There are no magic seeds that bloom instantly. From November 2nd, 59 days remain until the end of the year when the earth is frigid and stubborn. From there, all we can do is mull around in the new year and wait until spring softens the ground. Live a day at a time. Drink steaming hot cocoa to compensate for winter’s barren wasteland and warm us with the faith of knowing we have passed another day of life’s test, and we are in the process of learning an important lesson: patience. Colors may fade, strip and vanish, but year after year, cycle after cycle, the master painter’s palette is infinite.
WTF? (Where's the faith?) 