Monthly Archives: July 2009

Simply Being Me

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Ratchet up your words my brothers and sisters, we’re movin’ on out of here. Let’s hit trails and unwalked hillsides, climb  some mountains, cross some rivers,  sit quiet on an island beach and watch the sunset paint the sea.

Wind up your tunes and lift up your voices my brothers and sisters, times a wastin’ and there’s so much left to see. Newspapers deliver everything but themselves and broadcasts speak in dysfunction’s voice, no reason not to be free.

I’m walkin’ on powered legs striding, tasting morning coffees and midnight dreams, knowing many things and people aren’t what they seem but I’ll be damned if let them blind me to those that are, ‘cause I’m simply being me.

I say sing out loud and dance out front,  let your laughter fill the air and when you kiss the one you love, mean every move. You need be no one but who you are, ‘cause look here now my brothers and sisters,  I’m simply being me.

You too, you too.

 

Why Not Take Care of You?

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It’s June 2007 in the evening  and I am in the emergency room and the doctor says, “If you don’t let us admit you and walk out now, you’re at risk for a heart attack or stroke, you’ve lost too much blood.” 

I say, “I can’t be admitted.”

The doctor asks, “And why’s that?’”

I say, “I have two dogs, and I have a presentation tomorrow at a brain injury conference.”

The doc says, “You walk out of here now you may not live to see tomorrow.”

Now I would love to tell you that as soon as I heard him say this I fell into a momentary lapse of common sense and allowed myself to be admitted. But I didn’t. I dug my heels in. Finally, the doc says, “Okay, stay here in the ER and let’s give you three units of blood and see how things look after that. How’s that sound?”

I got the three units of blood, went home, collapsed into sleep, went to the conference the next day, presented, came home and collapsed into sleep again.

I know what stopped me from accepting admission to the hospital – pure terror. The question is, what stops so many of you?  

I retreated from accepting the suggested help because I was completely and utterly terrified. I’ve faced death up close, real close, in the ER before and didn’t feel like doing it again. Now don’t waste your time tossing reason at me here by pointing out that I would’ve been as close to death away from the hospital as I was in it, closer even. You’re right. I know that. But reason often has little say in moments like this – kind of like a feather in a windstorm.

What stops so many of you from taking care of you? I know people with emphysema, clogged arteries, diabetes and so on who avoid taking care of themselves as if doing so was tantamount to joining the Nazi party.

I want to look you in the eyes and from my heart to your heart ask you several questions.

  • Where and when (What period of your life? Childhood?) and who gave you the message you are so fucking worthless you don’t deserve the care?
  • Where and when (What period of your life? Childhood?) and who gave you the message you are so fucking worthless you don’t deserve the care?
  • Who taught you that asking for help or allowing help is an act of weakness?
  • If you think going for the help you deserve is an act of weakness, then why on earth is it so hard for you to do it?
  • And do you not realize that the people in your life are influenced by your life and the decisions and choices they see you make – or not make?
  • Do you have young people in your life? Children? Grandchildren? Nieces? Nephews? If they watch you die because you didn’t choose the care you deserve what influence do you think that will have on them when their time comes? Will they too short change themselves and die too soon, just like you might, and I almost did?

I am not about to say I know all the answers, I don’t. But I do know one thing as much as one can claim to know anything. No amount of fear or dysfunctional fucked up messages we got about ourselves in our respective histories deserves so much say they drive our decisions and then, in a very real  and tragic way, become part of what ends our lives.

Remember to live, dammit. Take care of yourselves.

 

Just ‘Round the Bend

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It’s been many years since I’ve had a good relationship with August. We just don’t get along. I never wronged August, least I can’t remember if I did, but I must’ve. After all, August contains some of the biggest wounds of this man’s life. Shot on August 24th, mother commits suicide on August 12, and the biggest wound of all, my father dies on August 16 when he is 55 and I’m 15.

Now don’t be whipping out any sympathy violins for me, that’s not the point here. I am alive and well and happy and testimony that things can be survived and grown from and while wounds leave their marks and shapes, they don’t mean to stop your life, ‘less you hand’m more control then they deserve. Life happens to us whether we like it our not, it’s how we manage it that makes the difference, our living breathing relationship with it – that’s the point.

Suicide’s anything but fuckin’ painless and the same goes for getting shot and your father dyin’ when you’re fifteen’ll fuck your world up too. But you know what? Sunsets are beautiful and the same goes for sunrises. Friendships and family are precious and Springsteen songs make my heart soar and the sound of children laughing will lighten the heaviest heart and have you seen the flowers blooming lately?

Old wounds don’t stop life. Old pains don’t slam doors. Old scars don’t close your eyes or shut your ears. Open wide your soul and breathe. Lift your hearts up by the fuckin’ bootstraps if you have to. Open your eyes and ears, love people, love life. There’s life gifts in front of you and there’s life gifts ‘round the bend. You might not see’m now, but they’re just ‘round the bend. I know it’s scary, but don’t let it frighten you.

We all got our Augusts. You got yours and I got mine. You keep living now – and I’ll be seein’ you ‘round the bend.

Old Wounds, Healin’ Dreams, You Too

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A train whistles in the distance, tellin’ me someone’s dream is underway. I’m thinkin’ it’s a good sign like a bright lit diner on a stormy night. Old wounds vanish in healin’ dreams and I’m thinkin’ it can happen for you too.

A good woman’s marrow heals ‘cause it damn well should, may the warm sun light touch her healing heart, ‘cause old wounds can mend in the soft touch of healin’ dreams, and I’m thinkin’ it can happen for you too.

Time moves and the days like pages turn, mornings come and then move on, the sun rises and sets in human hearts, and I sit soft-smiling knowing old wounds fall away when faced with the love of healin’ dreams, thinkin’ it can happen for you too.

Mother and father, sister and brother, cousins, lovers, friends, and more, all joined in the tapestry of life. May your old wounds fall away and set you free, thinkin’ old wounds fade in the arms of healin’ dreams, the way it’s supposed to be, thinkin’ it can happen for you too.

Finding Tischa

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We were about nine years old when we met and were fast friends right from the beginning. Tischa was a wonderful ballet dancer at an early age, was rapier sharp and thus demolished any and all myths that blondes are dumb. Yes, she was and is a blonde, for all you brunette and redhead readers in need of an explanation.

There are old friends and then there are old friends who are family members in our hearts. At least this is my truth. To this day the friends I grew up with on Buchanan Street in Pearl River New York are family in my heart: Patty and Barbara are, then now and always, sisters in my heart a soul. Billy and Brian and Mark and Richie are now and always brothers in my heart.

I fell in love with the ballet at age five and began taking classes at age eight. In my first year of dancing I met Thea, a remarkable girl my age. She didn’t love dance to the extent I did, but we became fast friends and Thea is now and always a sister in my heart.

Recently I reconnected with Tischa and I am overjoyed. She is happily married to a wonderful man and they have two sons. Tischa is a social worker and all that I’ve known and know of her tells me she is a great one. Like all those mentioned in this missive, Tischa new my father and mother. They knew her and both loved her.

Tischa’s mother was a wonderful woman named Lee. She was one of my dance teachers. Her father was (in my mind) named Colonel. He headed the New York Military Academy in Cornwall on Hudson in New York. My grandfather, Prescott Beach, attended the academy, then under the leadership of Sebastian C. Jones, many years earlier before he went into the Army and fought in World War I.

This September I will see Tischa again for the first time in more than 30 years. We talked on the phone recently and it was as if we hadn’t missed a beat. I guess that’s the way it is with sisters some times, especially the ones you love and love you back.