The wind howled, whipping my hair into a frenzy as I stood on the familiar shoreline of Sherwood Island State Park. It was one of the windiest days of the winter, yet there I was, drawn by an unseen force to this place of memories from my young adulthood, offering me once again a refuge I desperately needed.
Suddenly, tears welled up, hot and heavy. Tears for George, for the loss of a dear friend, for the fleeting nature of youth, and for the profound absence of my son, gone too soon just over four years ago. It were as if my defenses had crumbled, leaving me raw and exposed to the harsh winds of life.
The release of pent-up grief became a cleansing storm, mirroring the fury of the wind around me. And then, nearly an hour later, something shifted. Exhausted, but paradoxically refreshed, I looked around. The wind still raged, but the world seemed sharper, more vibrant and my senses heightened, my heart open to the raw beauty of life.
In that moment, faith wasn’t about words or doctrines. It was about the wind in my hair, the sand beneath my sneakers, the immensity of the ocean stretching out before me. It was about feeling fully alive, without restraints or judgments, simply existing in the present moment.
As I returned to my car, three small, smooth, white stones caught my eye, each one whispering tales of the sea. They were like perfect replacements for the missing ones I’d left at my son’s gravesite – the ones inscribed with our family’s names, now likely swallowed by the earth. Clutching the newfound stones in my palm, I carried them back, already picturing them marked and repurposed. It felt like a symbolic victory, a reclaiming of strength after weathering the storm.
I realized the wind still felt strong, however there was a lightness to it that intensified my sense of victory. I had faced my pain, embraced the rawness of life, and emerged feeling more connected, more alive than ever before. The beach buoyed me up as it always had and reminded me that even in the midst of grief, life persists, an ever-changing evolution, ever-renewing, just like the tide rolling in and out, forever constant, forever powerful.
Remember, your faith may not look like someone else’s, but it doesn’t make it any less valid. Trust your own journey, find solace in the unexpected, and know that you are never truly alone.
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Beyond whispered sweet nothings over candlelight dinners, chocolates and bouquets of roses and all the feel-good-stuff associated with Valentine’s Day, which is tomorrow, let’s delve deeper into love’s transformative power, particularly its ability to mend the shrapnel of trauma, as well as war’s brutal scars.
Two weeks ago I wrote a blog post about George, a combat marine veteran, and mentioned his dedication to fellow vets.
But what about his own wounds? Those battlefields that weren’t confined to Vietnam. PTSD, an unseen enemy, gnawed at him, and at another friend, Mike, a combat army vet, for decades. In fact, Mike supported my own brother, Mike, who passed away in 2002, for numerous years through his own PTSD from Vietnam. A community of brothers.
Anyway, George and Mike returned to Vietnam, not with weapons, but with open hearts, decades after their service in Vietnam. That trip, fueled by a desperate need for closure, turned into an unexpected journey of healing.
Mike paints the story, saying that during their stay, the two men had reserved two rooms at an upscale resort in Ho Chi Minh City, formerly known as Saigon. Unable to sleep during their first 24 hours there, it was four in the morning when they found themselves sitting outdoors in front of the resort.
“What the hell are we doing here?” As they looked at each other, the words ricocheted between them, each syllable a deafening shot.
Over the time span, the familiar sights, smells, sounds – initially triggers for nightmares – became catalysts for forgiveness. Four different trips, four chances to confront the ghosts of war, hand in hand, not as combatants, but as brothers bound by shared pain soaked in the balm of love.
Not to minimize the undeniable charm that exchanging Valentine’s Day greeting cards hold, but the most transformative power of love lies in venturing into the darkest corners of our own souls. Armed with nothing but self-compassion, we confront our demons, not with clenched fists, but with arms outstretched, ready to embrace every shadow, every scar. This is where forgiveness blooms for the wounded parts of ourselves. The process, as both George and Mike attested to, is far from painless, but we are able to emerge and, as a result, forgive. In the end, the metamorphosis of love does not contort us, but transforms us. Only then can our giving unconditional love become a routine sacrifice.
And faith? Faith isn’t only about blind belief in a distant deity. It’s the necessary starting point that jump started both men in their first journey: believing in the inherent goodness within us, even when buried beneath layers of pain. It’s about trusting that love, like sunlight, can penetrate even the most hardened hearts, coaxing forgiveness and healing to bloom.
This Valentine’s Day, let’s reimagine love’s battlefield. We needn’t travel 8,810 miles as these courageous men did on their return trips to Vietnam. Sometimes, the hardest acts of forgiveness lie not on distant horizons, but right under our own roofs. Those closest to us, navigating their own internal battles, might unknowingly leave emotional minefields in their wake. But remember, beneath the surface, they too might be hurting, carrying invisible wounds from their own experiences. In these moments, victory through dominance is impossible.
Let our weapons be kindness, our armor vulnerability, and our victory measured not in conquests, but in the quiet bonds of compassion forged. A listening ear, a gentle touch, a heart overflowing with love – these are the silent artillery we bring to bear against the residue of past hurts. Love becomes our exposure therapy, dissolving the scars and ushering in a future bathed in the golden light of reconciliation. Even if you’re the sole bearer of the white flag, remember, this isn’t about waging unwinnable wars; it’s about mending the tapestry of a wounded soul.
❤️Happy Valentine’s Day! ❤️Whether you celebrate with loved ones, cherish quiet moments of self-love, or simply reflect on the power of connection, may this day remind you of love’s transformative power. May your heart be filled with gratitude, compassion, and the courage to share love in all its forms.
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Life, isn’t it a curious thing? One moment, basking in the warm hum of sunlight, the next, trudging through knee-deep burdens and sorrows. Shoulders that once held dreams become stooped under the weight of worries, the ache in our hearts echoing the echo of unanswered prayers. We carry loved ones lost, dreams delayed, anxieties that whisper tensions into our ears.
That’s how I feel often, like a melody stuck on repeat, minor key and somber. Even the sunlight seems to carry a nameless weight that is all too familiar. Then, in the midst of that personal symphony of despair, on my way to George’s funeral mass, a song washed over me, unexpected and pure. “Only Passing Through,” it whispered, sung by voices I didn’t recognize, The Taylors, they called themselves.
Since I first heard it that morning on the radio, I’ve been listening to it, a gift of faith in the midst of mourning. I haven’t looked the group up, purposefully. This song, it carries no dogma, no sermons veiled in melody. Metaphorically, you can say that it simply sings of journeys and departures, of resting places beyond horizons. You can say that it speaks of life as a passing train, each stop a pause, a goodbye laced with the promise of a hello.
When the darkness presses in, the chorus of “Only passing through” rises, a gentle reminder that this isn’t all there is.
The song helps me to get through the noise, take a moment, close my eyes. Listen. I find peace in knowing that I am just at another bend in the track, leading me closer to that final, glorious station, bathed in the light of eternity.
P.S. Maybe one day I’ll look up The Taylors. But for now, I’ll pass. Clear mind, open heart, and a whispered ‘all is well’ at the moment.
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It’s not often a funeral mass leaves you with a heart full of warmth and a smile tugging at your lips. But then again, George wasn’t your average man. He lived a life etched in humble heroism, a canvas painted with the vibrant hues of love and duty.
A few weeks ago, we gathered to bid farewell to this gentle giant, a 75-year-old veteran who wore his service to his country and his fellow veterans not as a badge of honor, but as a thread woven into the fabric of his being. He fought as a marine in Vietnam, bearing the physical scars with a stoic grace that mirrored the silent depth of his compassion.
George wasn’t a man of many words. He wasn’t one for gossip or grand pronouncements. His eloquence resided in the steady gait of his helping hand, with a quiet resolve etched on his features, to assist in the best way he could when faced with another’s despair. The priest, delivering a homily that seemed spun from the very essence of George himself, reminded us that God asks only one question upon our arrival at the celestial gate: “How have we loved?”
And oh, how George loved! In his younger years, he loved his country, serving it with unyielding courage and an unwavering sense of duty. He loved his fellow veterans, dedicating his later years to easing their burdens and mending their shattered souls. In his later years he also embraced those lost to addiction, offering them a guiding hand and a glimmer of hope in the abyss, participating in a supply chain of love, passing on what he had been given.
His love wasn’t flamboyant, it wasn’t performative. It was a quiet river, carving its path through the hearts of those around him, nourishing them with its unwavering flow.
So after George’s funeral mass, I ran into many old friends. One of them was my friend Lisa and her husband, both of whom I haven’t seen for nearly a decade. After many shared memories, Lisa and I inked a future calender date for a get-together. The following is an excerpt from her text to me that I received later that evening:
“Hi Stacy!!! I can’t stop thinking about the amazing day I’ve had saying a proper goodbye to George at that beautiful service and reuniting with YOU and seeing so many of my core group. I didn’t realize how much I miss you all! I am so grateful for today … Even in death George carries the message.”
Reflecting on the tapestry of his life, it dawned on me: not on battlefields nor in fogs of self-importance are victories won, but in the heart’s quiethaven, where love’s embrace melts fear’s searing touch and doubt’s whispering shadows, a sanctuary of faith blossoms, a gentle rose amid thejungle’s harshclasp.
Rest well, dear George. Your love echoes in a friend’s laugh, a soldier’s courage, and ripples of kindness, whispering your name in heaven on earth.
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Today, my blogging community welcomes my little faith-based blog into their personal worlds, and what better way to celebrate than by singing the praises of a woman who shines brighter than any launch party sparkler – my dear friend, Camille (or Ethel, as I, the Lucy to her Ethel, know her!).
Photograph in the Carol M. Highsmith Archive, Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division
Camille, where do I even begin? Life has thrown you some hefty curveballs, the kind that would leave most people curled up, defeated. But that’s not you, Ethel. You’re the epitome of grit, a true warrior.
We connected after you lost your son, Robert, my son Marshall’s best friend in 2011. He was your sunshine, and you were his unwavering rock. And when the world tilted on its axis for me over eight years later after I lost Marsh, you, Ethel, were there with a steady hand and a fierce “Mamma Bear” spirit that chased away my shadows and ignited my faith.
I remember your kindness, the quiet gestures, the shared tears, the unspoken understanding that only two mothers who’ve walked through that fiery furnace can truly share.
But oh, Ethel, to me, you’re so much more than just sorrow-shared. You’re a firecracker, a laugh that spills just when you need it during a dry spell and an insight like no other; actually an insight that duplicate’s your intuitive son’s. You’re fiercely loyal, with a heart that could hold a universe of compassion. You’re the life of the party, even when all you want to do is crawl under a rock.You are who you are. You wear your scars like badges of honor, proof of battles fought and won and, yes, lost too.
And yes, Ethel, you can be a pain in the Lucy! We wouldn’t be Lucy and Ethel without our little spats and quirks. But even then, I know, deep down, that your fire comes from a place of love, a relentless desire to protect those in your orbit.
So, on this day, as our little community welcomes my little blog, I celebrate you, Ethel. I celebrate your birth, your life, your love, your unyielding spirit. You are an inspiration, a testament to the human capacity to not only endure, but connect deeply.
Photo by PhotoMIX Company on Pexels.com
May your birthday be filled with laughter, sunshine, and sweet cake. And may the year ahead be your brightest yet, paved with joy, renewed hope, and the unwavering knowledge that you, Ethel, are loved beyond measure. Happy birthday, my friend!
Imagine this: a cherished ceramic vase, shattered into a hundred pieces. Grief hangs heavy in the air, mirroring jagged shards scattered across the floor. However, instead of discarding the wreckage, you choose Kintsugi – the Japanese art of mending broken pottery with gold. Using careful hands and a patient heart, you join the pieces, each gilded seam tracing the story of the vase’s fall and rebirth.
I mentioned the art form in last week’s blog. Kintsugi, meaning “golden joinery,” is more than just a repair technique; it’s a philosophy. It celebrates the idea that brokenness is not an ending, but rather a new beginning, infused with unity and strength. In the same vein that I wrote about last week, what if we applied this philosophy to our own lives, especially when they feel tragically broken and faith seems like a distant dream? Especially when we believe our brokenness defines us.
How do we apply kintsugi in our own lives? The first step is to stop pretending the cracks don’t exist. Ignoring them only prolongs the suffering. Let the tears flow, let the anger roar until it dissipates. Then, with courage, reach into the depths of your pain, your vulnerabilities, your struggles. Only then, through this act of bravery of facing what hurts the most, can the healing begin.
The next phase of the process is to embrace the imperfections. I get tripped up in the fact that our society often glorifies the “perfect,” airbrushed version of life. But Kintsugi reminds us that beauty lies in the authentic, in the unique imperfections that make us who we are. Embrace your scars, your stumbles, your quirks. They are the gold that makes your story shine.
From that vantage point, it’s easier to lift your head high and seek out the light. Do you not see it? I remember over 39 years ago, I could not see beyond the darkness, and the world around me seemed equally eclipsed. As fate would have it, my journey of crafting my own kintsugi began when I panned in the rubbish. It wasn’t the fear of judgmental stares that fueled my courage, but rather a community of open hearts, unjudging ears and warm embraces. People who saw my worth, not my cracks. Slowly, like moss finding purchase on a weathered rock, self-compassion aided me to recognize the shimmering parts of my life’s inventory, like gold dust on the wind. Accepting my fractures became the catalyst for healing. I gained a new set of eyes to see myself not as a broken vase, discarded and forgotten, but a work of art in progress.
My kintsugi journey is far from over, and, I’m guessing, neither is yours. As the new year unfolds, let us walk this path together and continue to share stories, tips and resources. Let’s kintsugi together, one shimmering piece at a time.
To recap, I learned that the doctor had faced serious sexual assault charges, including allegations involving a minor in 2020. I was unable to find out the final verdict, and it appeared that the records had been sealed.
As I said in my previous blog post, “On the one hand, I’ve never had any personal experience with him that would make me think he’s guilty of any criminal acts. On the other hand, I’m a half person, and, as already mentioned, I guard myself fiercely and certainly don’t intend to invite any more stress than necessary into my life.”
The incident left me shaken, and my mind began to wander down dark paths. I felt angry and self-righteous, wondering how people who did commit such heinous acts could get away with it. This was the final straw that broke the camel’s back when it came to my faith in people.
To backtrack, I started seeing the doctor in question two years ago after receiving a postcard advertising his services. Prior to that, I had been going to an optometrist for routine eye exams for over a decade. Optometrists are not medical doctors and cannot perform surgery, unlike ophthalmologists, who specialize in the diagnosis and treatment of eye diseases and vision problems.
Mind you, I had NO eye problems, but I switched to an ophthalmologist last year thinking that a doctor with more credentials would be better. To make matters worse, the new doctor found that my eye pressure was elevated during my routine eye exam this year. I didn’t learn about the incriminating information about him until after my appointment, when I had a month to wait for my follow-up visit.
So, my imagination ran even more wild. I obsessed about going blind without a doctor “in sight.”
I called my old optometrist, Dr. S., with my tail between my legs. She held no resentments against me and scheduled an appointment for me within the week.
Upon entering her office, she did not inquire about the reasons for my sudden departure or my return, nor did she probe me about my “personal reasons” for not going back to the other doctor. Instead, she focused on running a battery of tests on me.
I sat in a chair that felt as if it were getting harder by the minute, waiting for the final results. I thought about all the people in the universe who were at that very moment waiting, waiting in a doctor’s office or hospital, waiting to receive some catastrophic medical results that could potentially turn their neatly made worlds into a tsunami that would leave nothing unharmed and shaken.
I had spent so much time in the past “learning to breathe,” but now I had totally forgotten how.
On the verge of passing out from lack of oxygen, I inhaled sharply at the sight of a white cat with gray patches poking its head into the examination room. The cat was so pudgy that I wondered how it could fit inside a litter box. Its face was slightly askew, and when I got off the chair and reached for it, it darted away, only to return out of curiosity.
“Kitty! Kitty!” I called.
“I guess you met Marlon.”
“Yes.” My reply was followed by my long pause of anticipation.
Without further ado, Dr. S. explained everything I ever wanted to know about eye pressure, including the fact that eye pressure ranges could change in a course of a day. In the end, she told me that there was nothing wrong with my eyes.
“Really?” I asked in total relief.
I had been sickened by all the bad in the world as of late, but I knew that I would rather see it than be blind to it. I needed to be aware of the world’s problems in order to make a difference. Now, I was breathing with a familiar comfort again, relieved to know that there were still some good eggs out there.
Marlon jumped onto Dr. S’s floral skirt at this point, his gaze fixed on her soft-featured face and brown hair. It came as no surprise that she had rescued him, as she had rescued so many other cats over the many years I knew her.
Marlon was different, though. He was a sweet and loving feral cat that she had rescued after an animal rescue organization said he would never be domesticated. But she did it!
Soon after, Marla became Marlon and was nursed back to health, neutered, and domesticated against all odds by Dr. S.
Marlon’s safe home for the last few years has been Dr. S’s office, since three other rescues live at her home. Marlon is locked inside at night and comes and goes as he pleases during the day.
On a couple of different occasions, the sweet and loving cat has brought a few kitten rescues to the good doctor.
“Kittens are always easy to place,” she told me as she explained the wonderful world of Marlon.
World? At least on this territory. Marlon and the good doctor helped me to remember that there are still good people in the world. I’m just grateful to SEE them and to SEE the not-so-good and the awful lot of awful too.
After hitting some of my lowest points recently, following nearly four years as a halved person, I left the doctor’s office clicking my heels, my renewed sense of faith purring throughout my body.
My therapist Louis has taught me that when you take something out of your life, you need to replace it. In my case, I had to give up my 12-step support group due to PTSD, but I found a new support system in my blog community.
I’ve been blogging for over 10 years, and it’s become a lifeline for me. When I’m feeling down, I can always count on my readers to offer words of encouragement and support. They’ve helped me to feel less alone and more connected, and they’ve given me the courage to share my story in a safe space.
My birthday last week was a tough one, but your messages (& Judy — thanks for your email!) really helped me get through it. I’m so grateful for your kindness and support. Thank you for filling in the colors of faith into the empty lines. You make it possible.
As midnight approached last Saturday night, I felt like a broken-down, aging Cinderella. Instead of a pumpkin coach carriage, I reclined inside a rickshaw, glowing with strung neon blue glitter lights, a “Good Vibes” sign fluttering behind my wind-swept hair.
My Unplanned Rickshaw Ride
The familiar discomania tune “Stayin’ Alive” blasted on a continuous reel as the lean but powerful driver pedaled, snaking and snarling through the prism-lit, panoramic nighttime streets from the west side to our destination, Grand Central Terminal in New York City.
If you know me personally, you know two things: 1. I’m always reading a book of fiction. 2. I’m always mentally plotting a work of fiction. This past Saturday night, I felt like the unfolding scene created its own book of fiction.
Along our route, the driver expertly avoided a few near-collisions, including a head-on accident with a cab driver when he made a U-turn to drop me off right in front of Grand Central.
Stayin’ Alive was also the theme song of the day as the driver helped me power through a very unfortunate set of circumstances. It all started that morning with last-minute plans to stay overnight in New Jersey, where I had arrived by train from Connecticut. However, after a series of misunderstandings and mix-ups, by 9:30 pm, I had nixed those plans and, without another plan, boarded a train that I nicknamed “Tipsy Tracks” to Penn Station in New York City. I was exhausted when I arrived at Penn Station. I didn’t want to deal with the subway, so I tried to flag a taxi. I had a fairly new phone and had never gotten around to downloading the Uber app, and I was too tired to think straight enough to download it at the time.
Although all the taxis seemed off-duty or unavailable, a dirty brown mid-sized SUV suddenly zoomed out of the traffic and stopped directly in front of my rather dejected body, as the shadow of another birthday loomed three days ahead.
“Want a ride to Grand Central?” asked the rather innocent-looking man in his mid-40s, angling his body toward the passenger seat. He had clearly overheard me flagging down taxis.
I was exhausted and my legs were starting to ache, so I was tempted to just jump in his backseat. But then I remembered an ominous book I had read a few months ago, and the scene felt vaguely familiar.
“Who are you?” I asked, suddenly suspicious.
“Uber,” he said.
“Uber? I don’t have the app. I didn’t call you,” I replied.
“I’m off duty. I’ll take you to Grand Central for cash.”
I felt a glimmer of hope. I was tired and getting older, and I was ready for an easy way out. I felt as if I were a half person as I had written about in my last blog.
But then I remembered the name of the novel: Disappearing Earth by Julia Phillips.
The book begins with two young girls accepting a ride home from a stranger and then going missing.
I wasn’t a girl, but I was still vulnerable, an easy target.
The next vehicle that came by was a rickshaw with a couple in the backseat. My spirits fell, thinking that maybe I had to have a reservation to ride in one, since I had never ridden in a rickshaw in NYC or anywhere else. That was when I spotted another one that resembled a floating disco ball with a vacant seat.
“Excuse me …” I hollered to the driver, “Can you take me to Grand Central …”
Once the driver and I bargained and agreed on a rate (even in the midst of stress, I still hold tight to my frugal nature), the adventure began.
The ride was exhilarating and terrifying at the same time. The driver, as I mentioned, took some pretty crazy shortcuts, but he got me to the train station safe and sound. If I had accepted the ride earlier from the stranger in the SUV, by the time my birthday rolled away, I might have been one of the many missing people, hacked up and buried underneath some rural Pennsylvania soil.
I thanked him for helping me “stay alive” and wished him well, especially considering his daredevil pedaling.
“Hope you stay alive too!” I called out sarcastically to him before I ran into the station and managed to grab a train home to Connecticut. My dear friend Camille, whom I called earlier, was waiting for my 1:45 a.m. arrival at the station. (A true friend is someone who is always there for you, no matter what, especially in the wee hours of the morning!)
Interestingly, today is the big day, but it really means nothing to me anymore. However, Bryan’s comment made me think twice about the blog I wrote last week. He said, “I often wonder if the reason I feel halved is because I moved away from what I found meaningless.”
Although I identify as a half person for other reasons, this made me widen my perspective and think that maybe I have found a new meaning in life after all. And maybe this meaning doesn’t need a meaning because it just is. It’s like being in a rickshaw at a climactic point in your novel of life, not knowing what’s coming around the bend.
As I plan to meet Brother Paul later today and then my dear daughter and her boyfriend, the kids’ godmother, and possibly a few others, I can’t help but smile, knowing that I’ve received my wish: a very low-key birthday after all.
So, as I mark my birthday today, I am grateful for the people who have loved and supported me along the way, including all my fellow bloggers. They have been my neon-lit rickshaws through those saturnine nights that cast a pall over my world, making it seem like a lonely place of ghosts and shadows.
I know that I am not alone in experiencing these dark times. But I also know that we can all find light, hope, and faith, even in the darkest of places. We can find community and connection, as well as developing the strength to pedal through as long as we trust our gut and don’t get into just any stranger’s vehicle.
Smart. Cute. Not-so-cute. We all have inner self-identifiers.
We all have ways of defining ourselves, whether consciously or unconsciously. We might think of ourselves as smart, funny, kind or brave. We might also think of ourselves as less than perfect, with flaws and limitations.
A few weeks ago, I started to understand all on my own that I am now a “half person” as opposed to the whole person I once was before our family tragedy. For me, I find it very empowering to define myself in this manner.
I used to be afraid of my limitations. I thought they made me weak and inadequate. But now I see them as a source of strength. They’ve taught me to be more realistic about my expectations and to appreciate the things I can do.
Looking back, I appreciate even more the time I spent watching the aging process of my parents. As they grew older, they became acutely aware of their limitations. For instance, after my dad’s retirement at 70, he used to be able to work about eight hours a day in the garden. But as he grew older, he cut his gardening back to a daily hour or two. My dad would come into the house after gardening, his face, the color of the beets he grew in the rich soil, and dripping from sweat, and announce with conviction, “I’m not so good anymore.”
There wasn’t a hint of self-pity in his tone. Instead, it sounded as if he had landed at a new place in life, and he opened his arms wide with acceptance. He left me with a poignant picture of what it means “to age gracefully.”
That place parallels with how I feel about being a half person. I’ve retired from my Atlas position of holding up the world, and now I just lean into it.
I used to think I had to be strong and capable all the time. I needed to be the Atlas of my family and friends, holding up the world for them too. But now I know I can’t do that. I’m just a half person, and that’s okay.
Given this new state, I am proactive and fiercely protective of myself. I’m not going to let anyone take advantage of me or make me feel bad about myself and how I feel. Walking on egg shells is becoming an impossible feat for me.
For obvious reasons, I steer clear of the real-life nemesis in my life and others who fall into that category. Right now I’m not up to exposure therapy of any form. And just because that particular therapy is not in the cards at the moment, it may be at another time.
Anyway, all this being said, I want to address two things.
First, I recently learned that my eye doctor had faced some serious sexual assault criminal charges in 2020. I’m still processing the information and at the current time, I have no updates about the crimes, which also allegedly included a minor. On the one hand, I’ve never had any personal experience with him that would make me think he’s guilty of any criminal acts. On the other hand, I’m a half person, and, as already mentioned, I guard myself fiercely and certainly don’t intend to invite any more stress than necessary into my life.
Second, my birthday is coming up next Tuesday. I’m really not looking forward to it. I wasn’t too thrilled about my birthday before I became a half person, but now it’s utterly meaningless. I used to be afraid of growing old and becoming wrinkled and frightful, but now I couldn’t care less. So it’s not about growing old and falling out of grace. It’s about staying in grace, which means being true to myself, and, to me, the day symbolizes just another day of the year.
So, here’s what I’m going to do on my birthday. I’m going to be alone. I’m going to minister to my half person. I’m going to be honest with myself and with others, the way I used to be with my son. He would always listen to me without judgment, and he would always say, “That sucks!” I miss that.
My life as a half person has made me surrender so much unnecessary energy. It has also made me realize that nothing has the same meaning as it used to. Everything is vanilla now. But I’m okay with that, too, and vanilla has always been one of my favorite flavor choices.
I do, however, find meaning in other people’s lives and in the joy they find. It fills my empty vessel with hope and faith. I know that I’ve been passed up for a number of invitations over the years because people see me as a walking image of pain. But I don’t take it personally. I’m grateful for the joys I’ve had the opportunity to share in, such as my dear friend Pat’s 85th birthday surprise party in 2020. It was a time of such raw pain, but it was also a time of great joy. I remember Pat’s radiant joy, and I felt her deep connection and compassion for life, however fleeting it was for me. These are the moments that get me through my vanilla life. These are the moments that make it all worth it.
I’m not sure what the future holds for me. I may never find meaning in life again. But I’m okay with that too. I’m content to live my life in vanilla, as long as I have the occasional cherry on top.
WTF? (Where's the faith?) 