Recently, I’ve been having a hard time understanding and acting on these lessons.  I think it’s because I haven’t been able to get past the initial hurts to see them clearly.  Over the last five years I lost three people very close to me.  The first, my Dad, was not surprising as he’d been sick.  It didn’t hurt any less knowing that it was coming but at least I had the chance to say everything I needed to before he was gone.

I guess it was the next two that I have the most trouble with.  The first issue I have is with God or the higher powers that be.  It’s because they were sudden and, in my opinion, undeserved.  Al was my former fiancé and while he wasn’t the right spouse for me, he was still a good person.  The last time we spoke he was just getting his life together.  All the issues that had plagued our relationship were finally becoming clear to him.  I even told him that it was good that he was figuring these things out now while he was still young enough to make the changes he wanted.  He was worried he was too old.  We had no idea he was right.  Three days after we spoke, he was gone.

Are we fated to live only a certain amount of time?  Why take away a person’s chance for a fresh start just when he was finally ready?  In Al’s case it was a freak accident while cleaning his truck.  My regrets are small potatoes compared to how unfairly his life was cut short.  I was sorry I hadn’t kept in touch with Al more closely over the years.

The last loss was probably the hardest and most shocking.  It was the hardest for me because I had so many regrets and missed opportunities.  Connie’s loss ripped a hole in our family.  I lost my sister, her son lost his mom, and my mother lost a daughter.  It doesn’t get much more shocking than a brain aneurism late at night. At six weeks old, Claire didn’t understand her Aunt’s funeral.

In the following two years, the only time I’ve seen my mother happy like she used to be was when she spent time with my daughter.  Why do I never hear about these kinds of things happening to bad people?  I remember a friend once remarked ‘What makes you think God wants the bad people any more than you do?’

There are plenty of things I’m still struggling to understand.  The basic things I get.  Appreciate the time you have since you can never tell how much you’ll have.  Cherish your family and loved ones since they are only on loan from God.  Do what you love, life is short.

So why do I find myself stuck in my own personal vortex instead of acting on the lessons that hurt so much to acquire?  Wasn’t this sinking in?  Was it complacency and fear of the unknown?  I’m sure that’s some of it.  My vortex is a comfortable place, after all.  Breaking out of this pattern I’ve established takes more than courage, it needs justification, too.  If I’m not earning money, cleaning something, or spending time with Claire, I’m goofing off, right?  Focus on writing for the joy of it and the rest will take care of itself.  Have faith.

Treating the pursuit of my dream as important as a job – what a fairy tale!

She was a wild child when they met, red hair flying, prairie girl dresses, passionate speech.  He was calm in his jeans and pullover sweaters, his kind brown eyes.  She was a social worker.  He worked with people who were disabled.  Their attraction was as surprising as it was compelling.  They talked earnestly.  He liked the way her hazel eyes turned green when she felt deeply about something, which was fairly often.  She admired his purposeful manner, felt something dissolve when he focused his quiet gaze on her.

Very quickly, and with full certainty, they knew they were supposed to be together

Their friends worried.

“He’s so conservative!  Are you sure you’re not looking for a father figure?”

“She’s a character, isn’t she?  You’ll have your hands full with her!”

“I never thought I had many needs,” he told his mother, “but I do, and she meets them.”

“My heart settles down when I’m with him,” she told her friends.  “I feel like I am home.”

They decided to be married on their second date.

For everyone’s peace of mind, they waited another eight months for the wedding.  It was a family event, attended by all of the people they worked with.  A regal-looking  man with autism began to sing, a high-pitched wail that faded as a staff member lead him outside.  An elderly man with Down’s Syndrome and a soft heart began to cry sentimental tears, and another man began to mock him, crying even louder.

“It was a very unusual wedding,” guests later told them, and, laughing, they agreed. On the video, they both smiled throughout the ceremony; dazzled, happy grins that transformed their faces.  Everyone laughed when she was promising,” to speak and to listen” and he whispered, “to speak and to speak.”  When the minister said he could kiss his bride, he whispered, “You are my rose,” from The Little Prince, and then kissed her so long and so hard that her feet came off the floor and the audience began to cheer.

It’s been 24 years since that giddy, tremulous day.  To tell the truth, it has not been “happily ever after.”  It has been a lot of hard work, a journey of struggles and upheaval.  The very things they loved about each other, the very things that first drew them together, have caused them much pain and difficulty.

“Show me some emotion!” she has implored, again and again. “Open up and share your feelings!”

“Don’t you think you’re over-reacting?”  he has been known to argue.  “It’s natural for things to settle down.  I’m glad for the butterflies to be over. I want us to be comfortable.”

The two golden-haired girls they were given, peach and ivory, song and swallow, piercing sweetness and heart-stabbing love, entered adolescence and shocked them with their disdain.  They survived that season and can laugh again with their daughters, now bright and luminous young women with strong minds.

Then came Empty Nest, all pain and possibility, blended with loneliness.

“Who am I?” she asks herself these days, heart and tears overflowing.  “And why is my husband so distant?”

“What does she want?” he asks himself, mind full of plans and projects, heart resentful of her intensity and need.

Still –

Sometimes he grins at her, and the laugh crinkles around his brown eyes still make her heart soften.  Sometimes they still make a little magic together.  Sometimes they feel the strength of their love, the security of their union, the sweet and distinctive peace of so many years of trust.  And they are grateful.

Maybe that’s all “happily ever after” really means.

It didn’t matter that Priscilla had beady eyes, a few stray hairs on her nose and a figure that resembled a beer keg on its side, supported by four squatty legs. No, for in the world of pot-bellied pigs, my four-year-old Priscilla was quite the looker.

She was in her prime and, whenever the moon rose ripe over the mountains to the east, nothing could keep Priscilla from looking for a mate. Nothing — Not fences of board or wire … not rebar rods of steel … not even rocks the size of basketballs – nothing would stand in the way of her lust for love.

She would dig, tunnel, root and, in the end, somehow manage to squeeze out of every confinement I built. Deep gashes ran the length of her back as if “keyed” by a malicious pedestrian. But that didn’t deter Priscilla. Her hide was tough. Her heart was free. Her desire was wild.

Unable to watch her tear her backside to shreds in the name of romance, I found Priscilla a new home. I packed up the pig and her two possessions – two blankets she slept with every night – in the back of my pickup and headed to the Mule Creek Post Office where Pumbaa lived.

Pumbaa had to be the biggest, ugliest pot-bellied boar I’d ever seen. The size of a cedar chest, a roll of whiskered fat hid his watery pink eyes and one of two thick tusks curled right up into his snout. He belonged to the post mistress, growing up all by himself behind the small, country post office in Southwestern New Mexico. Raised a vegan, Priscilla’s favorite foods were summer squash and broccoli. Pumbaa was a junk-food addict, given Oreos every day by children who came for the mail with their moms or dads.

But Priscilla didn’t seem to mind. She calmly went to her side of the barn and waited for her blankets. Pumbaa stuck his snout between the wooden slats that divided his side from hers and snorted with the power of a raging bull. I was worried for my sweet Priscilla. Could she live with such a beast?

I went into the post office to discuss my concerns. The post mistress chuckled, said she’d make sure nobody got hurt, and I walked back to the barn to say goodbye. Even in the world of pot-bellied pigs, love must be blind. There was Priscilla, pushing one of her blankets under the slats. It was her favorite blanket, the one with the yellow and pink ducks on it, and she was sharing it with Pumbaa, who had never had anything but dirt for a bed.

Priscilla looked content. She’d finally found her man and, as I drove back home, I knew they would indeed live happily ever after.

They married, and over time, he was still nice and still beautiful. They spent Sunday mornings listening to the Beatles, reading the paper, talking. They started a life, bought a home, spoiled a cat, waited for a baby. Friends came into their life, most stayed, some did not. They rejoiced in their friends’ babies, and they waited. People in their life died, several tragically. They moved.

And then a beautiful baby came. He was their world; a sweet, happy, lively, silly, rambunctious baby boy, with enough love for everyone, and tons of energy that spun their world around upside down and right side up again. They moved back.

This boy of theirs. Charming and sweet, with sufficient mischief to keep them running. A boy fascinated with bugs and birds, frogs and toads; a boy looking at the world with wonder.

And then one day, they sent their lovely, brilliant, beautiful, happy boy to school, where he grew to be a very sad, very angry, little boy. The other boys turned to baseball and soccer, while his teachers cultured obedient little boys who sat at their desks, studied math and science, and brought back educational projects designed to busy the entire family.

And so, one day in an act of desperation in their love for this boy, they decided to make haste to a faraway land. A place where people practiced love and tolerance. A place where little boys could learn about the world by traipsing through forests and meadows, digging for creatures. A place where people cared for each other. They bought a cute little house with a front porch swing. They’d sit outside on warm summer evenings, swaying to the sound of tree frogs, enjoying the moment together. Neighbors would walk by and wave. Boys ran about, indifferent to property lines. Children gathered together without taunting or teasing one another. Some played ball, others collected bugs, some stretched out on the cool evening grass, simply staring into space. No hurry, few worries. They worked enough, played enough, loved even more. Life was good.

The boy was happy. He had found his place. And they all lived happily ever after.

“Let’s get out of here. I’m so ready to go.” It’s not a lie. I really am. I want nothing more than to take off the caked on version of me that everyone wants to see, the blushing bride. Do they realize that yesterday I almost refused to go through with it? Completely fed up with the woman that was once my mother, whose body is now being inhabited by a psycho whose concern of image is frightening. I want him, always wanted him, but never wanted this plastered smile, the one I know they all want to see.

Wasn’t this supposed to be the happiest day of my life? That’s not only what the fairy tales tell me, but also my parents, grandparents, friends, TV, media, etc, etc, etc. Well aren’t I a shit because all I feel is the desire to get on with my life and be rid of the whole charade. I’ve felt like molding clay for the last year, bended and prodded and pushed into the shape everyone wants me to be, the me they think I am or should be.

I remember watching all the Disney classics as a child: Cinderella, The Little Mermaid, Aladdin. All of these beautiful, talented girls wanted nothing more than to snag the man of the dreams, each one having this thing or that stand in their way. And in all these iconic movies, The End pops up conveniently as the decked out couple leaves the church (or sails away on the boat or kisses under the stars, you get the point), as though that’s it! You’ve found your man! Your life’s dreams and goals accomplished.  Good work!!

No wonder I feel so shitty.

I know he’s not like that, the one who was in cohorts with me to cancel this whole thing half way through, completely satisfied to do it our own way, leaving everyone else behind. No, he’s only standing here because I was too chicken to ever stop the process mid-stream. But it’s over now right? We can ride off into the sunset and…

Then what? Ahhh, so that’s where this dread is coming from, this 50 pound weight crushing my ribcage. The part of the story that always got left out and that I always wondered on.

What the hell do I do with my life now?

For years we walked in all kinds of days.  We never questioned things around us.  Things were as they were and there was no point in questioning the obvious.  We were totally invested in our relationship.  It just happened spontaneously, out of need for a partner who would understand, appreciate, trust, respect, excite and love truthfully, as the mirror image of self.  Without narcissism.  With admiration for the perfect match.

We did not know any couples that were so well grounded and perfectly harmonious as we were.  We were not obnoxious.  We just knew that we were exceptional.

One early summer Sunday, on our usual walk through the Green Park outside the city we were holding hands as usual, exchanging glances and smiles of satisfying love.

Suddenly I wanted to tell you how extraordinary our happiness was.  Turning toward you, I realized that your facial expression seldom changes.

“What are you thinking about?”  I asked.

“What a strange question.” I see his right eyebrow rise a bit.

“I will tell you what is strange.  I think you are hiding something from me.”

“What is happening to you?”

“I may be just waking up from a long sleep of false self congratulatory one way mirror image, which now I see is you on both sides.  The visible and the invisible.”

“You are really crazy.  I will not listen to your insane remarks!”

“Oh, good.  Let us, then, stop our perfect charade.”

“Please forgive me.  I did not mean to say that.  I don’t know how those words came out of my mouth.” His voice sounded sincere.

“Sorry, I cannot believe you.  Those words did come out –not only out of your mouth—but also out of your real self.  This was the real you speaking.”

“No, honestly not.  I really did not mean it.  They mean nothing.”

I never heard him pleading before.  I hesitated: should I just drop it?  Why to rock our smoothly sailing boat?

“Granted, maybe you did not give it much thought.  You just responded with the first thing that came to your mind, before you had a chance to feel what you were saying. Those words actually helped you to get something out of your system that only your subconscious mind was waiting to release.”

“Are you talking to me or giving me a lecture?’’

“Let me give you an example:

There is a happy couple, married for ten years.  Wife finds out that the husband is having an affair.  She is crushed and starts packing to leave.  He starts to panic, – he loves her, – he cannot leave without her, etc. etc, etc.

‘Then how could you carry on love-affair for a year?’ she hardly utters the words trough the tears.

Looking uncomfortable and tense he explains,  ‘She does not mean anything to me.  I would never do anything to hurt you.  I don’t know how that happened; it never meant anything to me, etc. etc. etc.’”

“Your example has nothing to do with us.”

“Oh yes, it does.  Indeed,” her voice is pressured.  “As complex as we humans are, we have capacity to accept our whole selves, with the truth, pleasant or not.

“When you say that you do not know how those words came out of your mouth, listen to them carefully and you will discover that those words are your real feelings you are suppressing out of fear to show what your instinctive feelings are.

You made a choice.  If you are ready to accept the truth now, we still may have a second chance.”

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In between these two extremes is a Broca (corpus) trying to find a sense of balance between the two. The asphalt – along with civilian corridors for the airlines, and the railroad tracks are how the cells (American citizens) service and thrive between the two coasts the central parts feel at odds with.  The change scares these middle spots.  While the Pacific hand doesn’t always know or like what the Atlantic hand is doing.  America is an evolving, perpetually growing entity.  Its first settlers being humbled before nature and then were violent shoved by the second set of settlers.  And now this second set doesn’t want any new citizen-cells despite the fact that the American entity only improves because of new ideas and those new hearts and souls wanting to immigrate and renew the optimism behind successful past immigrant arrivals.

The asphalt – like vain walls – will get weak or clogged if the elected cells in Washington forget that immigrants are the antibodies that American needs to keep up its endurance.  All of American’s freedoms, success stories, and immigrant parents going without sleep or food so that their children will know of only America’s continued interests in free enterprise, free worship, and free thinking.  Not letting the immigrant/antibody cells in mean and America weak from stagnation and over thinking.

All of us know the story how a parent, grandparent, or great grand relative fled to become part of the antibody.  And later the antibodies descendants were (or are now) citizen-cells indistinguishable from the others.  So why would the entity suddenly refuse any new antibodies?  Why not let in the new ones so versions of the same stories of fleeing [Belfast, Beirut, Baghdad, Belgrade, and Beijing] can be translated again.  The names of this out-going generation can now work, worship, and study without having to hear names like Castro or Khmer Rouge.  My contemporaries are content never to Kim Jong-Il or Qaeda ever again.  The refugees turned immigrates are more than elated to put that treachery and brutality behind them.  Why would the current citizen-cells greet them with similar hate rhetoric? Let them in.  Nod your head yes when you hear the familiarity based on your own personal or your ascendants experiences.  Whether it’s the flooded Netherlands of the early 1940s or a walled up Berlin twenty some years later these new stories must be heard.  The American entity needs these new antibodies, these new neighbors and new coreligionists, else there will be further disrepair.

M.J. Gleason
Somerset, MA
June 13, 2010

I took driver’s education in school, but that did not compare to those nightly driving lessons. On the first outing with my father, he was quite impressed with my driving skills. What would he have said, had he been privy to those late night lessons given with your gentle guidance and tender kisses?

Too bad there isn’t one single lesson for broken hearts, soured marriages, or friendships gone awry. We lack a go-to manual, when your world is spinning out of control amidst chaos.

And parenting. There’s a book for potty training your child. Another will give answers to common childhood illnesses. A book for the spirited child, the indigo child, the explosive child. There’s books on OCD, ADHD, and every other diagnostic acronym we place on our children. But no one can tell you how to handle the surfacing despair and rage, when your child is ostracized. Or how to really answer your son when he asks you why he’s different, or how to keep your wits about you as he acts out from anger and sorrow.

There isn’t an answer to the plethora of worries that keep a mother awake into the wee hours… “Will my beautiful son find his place in this world?” Will his heart mend? Will he find someone to truly care for him?” There are no directions for a mother’s self-doubt.

We need lessons in tolerance, empathy, and kindness. We need connectedness that isn’t wired. We need room for differences, that doesn’t require a diagnosis. We need driving lessons for the heart.

“Look at me, Bill,” I had told him, my jaw set. “I am not a minivan woman. I am a car woman.”

“Why? It’s got a lot of room, and we can use it on trips,” he said reasonably.

“All right,” I told him. “If you want a minivan, we can buy one as a third vehicle. Then I can have my car, you can have your truck, and we can have a minivan for the family.”

On the day before our Thanksgiving trip to North Carolina, he arrived home with a brand-new minivan.

“It’s your favorite color – green!” our young daughters shrieked, climbing across the seats, unfolding the adorable storage trays, already setting up house with their dolls and blankets. My heart pounded, my Irish blood rising into my flaming cheeks.

“Just try it,” Bill said. “Drive it for the holidays. If you don’t like it, we’ll use it at the office and you can get another car.”

So I did. It was roomy and useful. It was an attractive mom vehicle. And it wasn’t what I wanted. At the end of the holidays, I bought myself a navy blue Camry. It caused one of the worst conflicts I have ever had with my husband, one where he tried to act like my father, and I stormed and cursed and packed a bag to go to the lake.

“GET TO KNOW ME, BILL!” I yelled. “But even if you don’t, just accept the fact that I have earned the right to choose my own vehicle! And it won’t be a MINIVAN!”

So years later, there seemed to be something meaningful in the many ways in which our teen-aged daughters wrecked that Camry. They each ran it into a tree, one of them smashing the left side and the other smashing the right. The insurance company declared the car totaled each time, but their steady and resourceful father found the missing parts at a junk yard. He got the car looking brand new after our oldest daughter wrecked it, and when our youngest wrecked it again just six months later, he went back and got the other half of the junkyard car’s parts.

“You got any other kids?” the junkyard owner asked him, “because I’m putting my daughter through college on your girls’ accidents!” My husband half-grinned and half-grimaced as he paid the man. “No, that’s it,” he said, his voice as calm as ever. Three weeks later, someone ran across the middle line and our youngest daughter went off the road again. This time she rolled the car three times. Miraculously, she was all right. As I held my shaking 16-year-old close, the police officer asked my husband what he wanted to do with the car.

“You can have it,” Bill told him, his voice tired. As the tow truck arrived, I wonder if he thought of what that Camry had represented: his three headstrong women with our stubborn hearts, the driving forces with whom he had chosen to share his life, the driving lessons he will no doubt always be enduring in his alignment with us.