Category Archives: Human Experience

I’m Still Here: Tara Darlene Smith’s Incredible Comeback from the Edge

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It is my intention with this website, to provide hope and encouragement to others, primarily through the power of music. Before I share the article Tara composed for us, there is no better introduction to this remarkable woman and the things she accomplished than this short video and song written and produced for her by Songwriting with Soldiers:

Sunflowers in Iraq

By Tara Darlene Smith

Sunflowers grew in Iraq, too.

In Ireland, my chosen home, I drive past a bright cluster, and remember. 

Sunflowers were the perkiest part of any convoy I drove on. Sometimes they were a blur of yellow, other times, I luxuriated in a longer glance. In Iraq, I could have gotten someone killed for tracking beauty instead of potential danger. Behind ballistic-grade sunglasses, I’d glimpse their sunshine petals and deep brown flesh. When their faces turned towards light and danced on the wind, my grin was tough to conceal. I did my best.

Smiling was frowned upon. As was joy. And those were the only two things I was ever any good at. 

I pretended to be proficient at soldiering. My fear was that no one, especially not me, bought my act. I came from a land of greens and blues, golden light and malls that sprawled. Desert air wasn’t so different from the feel of summer in the suburbs. And without all of those Targets and Starbucks in the way, in Iraq, I had a better view of the horizon. Pinks, oranges, and purples stirred parts of me I had to re-stifle daily. 

I hadn’t expected anything beyond desolation. How could the enemy live beneath such lush skies? Parched earth was the neutral backdrop of my musings. Or rather, a stage that showcased every violent contrast. I was told we were there to help. I was also trained to kill. Protectors or predators? At war, there was never time to reconcile such conflicts.

We remained coiled springs, tense and ready for release. But whenever mortar rounds were launched at our base, we did not fire back. We hunkered in bunkers, down, down, down, like ants. More like contained cockroaches, never free to scurry from the light of explosions. Why were we taught to fight if retaliation was unauthorized? And how could peace grow from such unstable soil? 

No answers came from questions I dared not ask. Instead, I fixated on micro-battles within. I supressed a lilt in my heart whenever desert rain washed over us. Or when those defiant sunflowers brightened the beige landscape. My smile bloomed through the cracks in my Kevlar. You could send the California girl to war, but you couldn’t (fully) remove the song in her soul. I held on to the rhythm that sunrises, sunsets, and starry nights provided. 

Cranes delivered more stacks of cement, placed around our sagging, mustard yellow tents. Unless their dusty roofs took a direct hit, we were “safe” because of those thick gray walls. Smooth on the sides and flat up top, we waited until the sky blackened, scaled them, then perched. The cool night air felt closer atop the barricades. A constant threat of death inspired the stars to twinkle with greater intensity. Or maybe, war had permanently altered my vision.

When I believed the enemy was everywhere, I was constantly rewarded with evidence. Blasts of bombs and color intermingled in my mind’s eye. A fiery sunrise as we started the day’s convoy foreshadowed the abandoned vehicle we drove past that afternoon. The scent of burning tire flesh clung to my clothes. How that green overturned truck came to be engulfed in flames was a mystery. Explanations were not handed down to low-level soldiers; confusion was part of the collateral damage. 

The underbelly of patriotism was ignorance. I was blinded by mine. But I started asking myself silently, secretly, What am I doing here? Question marks in my heart twisted and rotated, then morphed into anchors. 

And what about that roadside bomb, perfectly designed to harm from a distance? A few seconds delay in detonation meant that I was not converted into mist. Everything rattled as I drove through, but my HMMWV was only dusted with fine blue powder. Beyond the immediate gift of more time to exist, I craved clarity. Why did they want to kill me? Decades later, part of me still can’t help but take that IED personally. 

Sometimes, I have reimagined the attack. Like the blast happened near a golden expanse of fields. No sunflowers were about that day. But in my reclamation, seconds before impact, their petaled faces have appeared. In slow motion. The explosion. Then, catapulted leafy green bodies. They rose. They hovered above the tan armor of my truck. They fell. Left to wilt on hot pavement after I drove away. Forever released from joyful wind dances.

No matter how far my mind wanders, fresh Irish fields, and the air they sweeten, bring me back. On Ireland’s rugged soil, I am grounded. 

My California roots flourish in this soft rain, and the longer I’m here, the brighter I bloom. What has faded between war and now is my desperation for certainty. I could fill a thousand pages with all that I don’t understand. As unanswered questions remain in the ether, what matters most is that here, I am safe to ask them.

Then the greens, blues, and gentle light remind me to focus on what I can feel. Like warmth in my core that spreads to my limbs when I rest near an open turf fire. Or a grin that lingers on my lips long after I drive past a vibrant garden. Because I am free to savor this simple truth—sunflowers grow in Ireland, too. 

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TARA DARLENE SMITH feeds her soul by writing and reading creative nonfiction. She hopes to move ever closer to her truth one word at a time. She has studied creative writing in California and Colorado, earning her B.A. and M.A. Tara believes that where she writes is as important as what she writes about, and most recently has moved to the captivating west coast of Ireland to work. Tara’s love of the sea, traditional Irish music, and building community through storytelling have collided in the most fantastic ways in County Clare. As she continues to craft her memoir, Tara is fueled by caffeine and fierce optimism. Please visit her website at www.taradarlenesmith.com

***If you, or anyone you know is contemplating suicide, the 988 Suicide & Crisis Prevention Lifeline provides free and confidential support for people in distress, prevention and crisis resources for you or your loved ones,  24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Simply call 988.

For more information on Songwriting with Soldiers: https://songwritingwithsoldiers.org

Sunflowers photo credit: Susanne Jutzeler, Schweiz from Pixabay

Colorado Burning

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Photo credit: Dee Walker

An apocalyptic dark-orange sky shrouds the deep-pink sun as if it’s 7:00 at night while, in reality, it’s only noon. Ash rains down like snowflakes and collects into black piles on cars, in cracks in the cement, and against buildings. You can’t go outside for long because the air is toxic. We live less than 15 miles from the fires and are staying informed through local updates. This has been our lifestyle for more than two months now.

About 1:00 in the afternoon. Normally you can see the mountains in the background, but not now; there’s too much smoke.
Photo credit: Dee Walker

Many have had to evacuate and many have lost their homes. 

Ignited on August 13, 2020, the Cameron Peak Fire is the largest forest fire in Colorado history, and, as of this writing, according to https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/cameronpeakfire, with the assistance of unrelenting 40 mile-per-hour winds, a tremendous of amount of fuel, such as beetle-kill pine, very little precipitation, and steep terrain, the fire has consumed nearly 207,000 acres thus far and is currently only 55% contained. The ravenous monster grows daily, creating new spot fires like the East Troublesome Fire, which grew in a matter of hours from 1,000 acres to an astounding 100,000 acres, burning into the majestic Rocky Mountain National Park, and threatening the picturesque towns of Estes Park and Grand Lake, and could join forces with the Cameron Peak Fire. And the CalWood Fire is threatening the cities of Boulder, Lyons, and others.

Confluence Spruce and Forest Canyon, photo credit: Rocky Mountain National Park Service

Firefighters like those from Glen Haven Area Volunteer Fire Department, joined by firefighters from all over our state, have come together to subdue the beast, risking their lives in severe and unpredictable conditions. 

Photo credit: Glen Haven Area Volunteer Fire Department

Per an email I received from Fire Chief Kris Kazian with Windsor Severance Fire Rescue:

[The] Glen Haven Fire Dept. is a very small fire dept. that has exceeded their budget. They have over $3,000 in fuel costs that they do not have funds for and will not be reimbursed.

Photo Credit: Glen Haven Area Volunteer Fire Department

And

The impacts of these fires are not even being felt yet. We have the impacts to people losing their homes but the subsequent potential flooding and water contamination concerns, I think we are sadly just getting started!

Photo credit: enriquelopezgarre, Pixabay

Also, in an email from a representative at GHAVD, I was told,

Right now they (GHAVD) are $3,000 out of pocket expense for fuel and anticipate approximately a total of $10,000 for [their] volunteer crew. [They] have reached out to all for help… many times they get left behind when it comes to help.

2020 has been a year of constant turmoil and fear for many, and in the face of so much adversity, I believe that the best thing we can do as human beings, is to be of service to others. I most humbly request that you join me in supporting those who put their lives on the line each time they go to work to unselfishly help save our families and friends, our homes, our wilderness, our pets and our wildlife–our world. We cannot begin to know the tremendous amount of mental, emotional, and physical stress they must be dealing with as they work through all of this. They are truly our unsung heroes and we are forever in their debt.

Please direct your donations here: Glen Haven Volunteer Fire Department

Thank you and God bless. Together, we will get through this.

Finding Peace amid Chaos

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If we stop long enough to appreciate the small things, they can greatly enhance our lives.

Like snow. 

Last weekend, it was so warm out, I was certain that spring was here at last so I put fertilizer down on the lawn. It snowed the next day. And the next. Then it warmed up a bit, melted the snow, then dumped on us again. We got at least fourteen inches or more. Heavy, wet stuff.

It was hard work shoveling that heavy snow, so with our bodies aching, my husband and I decided to get take-out food from a nearby Mexican restaurant. As we drove home, we noticed how the trees on both sides of the road, some as tall as four-story buildings, were covered with a thick frosting and glitter of snow. And silence. Everything that had been outside for the past few days was covered in intricate patterns—houses, mailboxes, wire fences, electric boxes, meadows, shrubs, cars, lawns. Evergreen trees’ branches were bent to the ground as if bowing to the splendor (and weight) of the world. It was truly a magical sight.

Before the snow fell, my daffodils and hyacinths were in bloom, so I cut several of them and brought them inside since I knew they probably wouldn’t survive the predicted snowfall. I set them in a glass of water on the kitchen table and marveled at how their perfume filled the entire room and at the complexity of their beautiful faces—bright yellow frills and petals and stamens on the daffodils and little purple drops of sunshine in the hyacinths. Pure brilliance. Pure joy.

The weekend before the snowfall, my husband and I went for a drive to a popular nearby lake. Because of the social-distancing orders in place due to coronavirus, there were no boats on the lake, something I have never seen on this lake. The water was calm, making its expanse seem even larger than before and I felt a sense of peace come over me as I gazed at its grandeur and inhaled deeply of the fresh mountain air.

I’ve also been missing my family something fierce lately, so our son emailed me a photo of our granddaughter, which I promptly saved as my desktop background on my computer so I can see her shining face everyday. And he sent me a video of her laughing. I think the sound of a baby laughing is the most beautiful sound in all the world.

And those eyes. So innocent and full of hope. I can’t stop looking at those eyes. There comes a time in a child’s life, when the innocence goes from those eyes, and to me, that’s a rather sad time because I think if we could all practice some of that innocence and lack of prejudice as we grow older, our world would be a better place.

Then there’s my dog. I let her out first thing in the morning after all that snow had fallen and the first thing she did was find her ball, that looked like a giant marshmallow in the yard because it was covered with snow. She pushed it around with her nose, romping and playing in drifts there were up to her chest, and she’s not a small dog. My dog didn’t complain that it was cold outside. She simply enjoyed the moment.

As I watched her pounce and spring with the exuberance of a deer, I thought about how I need to be more like that.

I need to appreciate the small things and live in the moment. I need to stop worrying about things over which I have no control—will I lose my job due to this virus? When will I be able to hug my family and friends? I pray with all my soul that none of my family or friends die from this and that people all over the world continue to recover and that no more will die… When will this be over? What’s going to happen to us? To our world? What about those on the front lines who are putting their lives in danger on a daily basis? And the grocery store workers and those with small businesses that have had to close their doors for good? What will happen to the homeless people and the elderly who are like sitting ducks in nursing homes?

My dog doesn’t worry about these things. She lives to chase squirrels and bunnies from the yard and surrounds herself with getting pets and whether or not I’m going to share a bite of my dinner with her.

My granddaughter doesn’t worry about stuff either. Her parents take care of her every need.

My flowers and trees don’t worry. They bloom every year in spite of the fact that they may get covered with snow before they have a chance to truly shine. 

The robins and the finches, the hawks and the eagles that visit my yard don’t worry either. They continue to sing their cheerful songs in spite of the global pandemic that’s happening all around them.

All of these have enriched my life, and perhaps, if coronavirus hadn’t forced me to slow down, I may not even have noticed them, much less appreciated the gifts they have to offer—peace within chaos. Peace and healing within grace…

…my prayer for the world.

What I Learned About Panic from Nearly Drowning

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I was about 14 years old on that hot and humid summer afternoon in Connecticut. Several of my friends and I were planning on going to a local lake to spend the afternoon swimming and basking in the sun. My friend’s parents dropped us off, then left us to enjoy the day together.

We positioned our beach towels on the shore, then my friends all ran excitedly into the lake and swam out to a platform that was floating in the water. Don’t ask me how far the platform was from the shore; I have no idea.

Now I’m not the greatest swimmer, but I’d had a few lessons, so I was a bit unsure that day, of whether I should try to swim to the floating platform, but, as teenagers tend to do, it was important that I follow the crowd, be part of the cool people, so I pushed my apprehension aside and proceeded to swim toward the platform.

Well, I got halfway there and suddenly my body just sort of gave up and since I had stopped moving, I sank beneath the surface of the water.

I managed to kick my legs and get my head above water, but I quickly sank a second time, and this time, I started to swallow lake water. Again, I somehow managed to get myself to the surface, but then I sank a third time.

Everything in my field of vision was green because the lake water was green with little bits of debris drifting past. I could see the surface about five feet above me. I couldn’t see the bottom.

As I sank, the surface of the water was rapidly growing higher and higher above me. I was exhausted and inhaled even more lake water.

Something inside of me said, “If you panic now, you’re going to drown.”

I began to move my feet and arms to propel myself to the surface. It took every bit of strength I had, but I did it.

When I got to the surface, I turned myself over onto my back and floated. Gasping. Heart pounding.

Then I thought, “Should I swim out to where everyone else is on that floating platform or should I go back to shore?” I was almost exactly halfway between them. Then I realized that if I were to get to the floating platform, sooner or later I’d have to swim back to shore, and the next time, I just might not make it, so I decided to move toward the shore instead.

Good thinking. Slowly swishing my hands and arms and feet, I kept moving toward the shore, floating on my back, until I could feel the bottom of the lake beneath my very tip-toes at last. It seemed like it took me a very long time to get to where I was. I was still pretty far from the shore, but now that  I could barely touch the bottom, I stopped there and rested, throwing my head back and gasping and gasping and gasping for air. And spitting out that gross water. Safe at last.

After several minutes, I was finally strong enough to propel myself back to the shore. I didn’t go back into the water that day.

You know what the amazing thing was? No one noticed that I was in trouble. My friends were too busy playing in the water, diving off the platform, laughing and having a good time to notice that I was struggling.

The other amazing thing was that I learned a valuable life-lesson that day: that if I had panicked, I would certainly have drowned.

This applies to our present-day situation as well, with this coronavirus pandemic sweeping across our world.

I went to Walmart a few weeks ago. A woman in the checkout lane ahead of me had a whole cart full of toilet paper. I said, “I’m not buying into that bullshit,” and she replied, “Oh, me neither; I was just out of toilet paper.” I thought, “Uh huh. When I’m out of toilet paper, I buy a whole cartload of it too…”

One week ago, I was in the grocery store and the shelves were picked bare of toilet paper, paper towels, tissue, hand sanitizer, disinfecting wipes, soap, dry rice and beans, and canned vegetables; and the frozen food bins were completely void of chicken! It freaking looked like a zombie-apocalypse. I have never experienced anything like this in my whole life.

Like my near-drowning experience, I see here again, that panic can lead to even worse things.

I’ve heard horror stories from all over the United States, where physical fights are breaking out between grocery-store patrons over freaking toilet paper! Come on, people! How about we consider the thought that we are all in this together? Yes, people are going to die, but people die from the flu and other things every single day. A few years ago, we had the SARS virus scare and the swine flu and the bird flu and the ebola scare and people didn’t panic like this! Maybe those diseases weren’t as contagious; I don’t know. All I know is that trampling one another like stampeding cattle causes more people to get hurt than if we were to simply slow down and think about what it is we truly need (without hoarding) and what we can do to help others. Everyone matters—from the elderly person in a nursing home to the homeless person on the street, to the pregnant woman or the families with and without children or those who are single or incarcerated, to the privileged to the underprivileged and everyone in between.

Amid all the doom and gloom, several of my neighbors have posted online that they are available to help anyone who might need food or medical supplies or that they are willing and able to help in any way possible. That’s how it should be.

I do not claim to know any of the true statistics or facts about this virus—anyway, “the facts” change daily and depending on to whom you listen. All I’m saying is that mass hysteria doesn’t help matters; it only makes things worse. Let us think clearly here. If I hadn’t done that that day, I would have certainly drowned. Let us help one another to keep our heads above water so that we don’t drown in this mass hysteria.

We will get through this TOGETHER!

 

*All photos courtesy of Pixabay

Once Again, I Have Grown As A Human Being

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I am grateful for so many things, one of which was the recent privilege of experiencing an incredible opportunity that most will never know—a trip to Cabo San Lucas, Mexico, where, once again, I have grown as a human being.

I’m grateful for getting to witness a severe rainstorm in Cabo; the loudest thunder and lightning I think I have ever heard; the force of the water creating raging rivers out of ordinary streets and washing away entire cars. I’m grateful for the humility this taught me.

I’m grateful for getting to witness the ocean—her majesty, her beauty and her insistence of respect for the sheer power and magnitude of the giant waves crashing on the beach like twenty locomotives roaring along on the tracks. This reinforced in me, my smallness, yet my attachment to something that is so much greater than I.

I’m grateful for bearing witness to the splendor of the rocks of Land’s End. After not having seen it for several years, I was awestruck all over again, at her magical and mystical beauty that seems surreal—like a human-made sculpture or a painting rising proudly out of the sea and overwhelming me, encouraging me like a loving mother, to pick up my pen and write again because that is respite and freedom for my soul.

Land’s End

I am grateful for our friends who invited us to spend an entire day at their home in Cabo—a home with an entire wall of windows that slid open across the whole room—to a patio with overstuffed outdoor furniture, a fire pit, hot tub, infinity pool with its own swim-up bar, and an outdoor gas grille, overlooking the turquoise waters of the Sea of Cortez. The interior of the house was like nothing I have ever seen—heavy wooden furniture, a large kitchen with an island made of more dark wood and granite countertops—three huge bedrooms, two of which had sliding doors to the backyard overlooking the ocean. And all of it in traditional Mexican style, summoning images in my mind of long-forgotten conquistadores and beautiful dark-skinned señoritas with flaming red lips and brightly-colored flowing skirts. I felt like a celebrity there.

Our friends’ house–like nothing I had ever seen before

I’m grateful for the chance to lounge in the hot, hot sun by the pool at our hotel, to float in “my” lagoon, to enjoy too many gloriously yummy chocolate pan dulces (sweet breads), too many plates of delicious thick tortilla chips and creamy guacamole, sweet Miami Vices (half strawberry daiquiri and half piña colada) and wonderful bananas, pineapples and grapefruits.

To have gotten what, to me, was one of the best rooms the small hotel has to offer—not because it really is the best room, but because, to me, it is—with a large patio for sunbathing each morning, my body soaking in the healing golden sun of Mexico, while enjoying an unobstructed view of Land’s End (if there are no cruise ships blocking the view).

I’m grateful for the friends I have, most of whom I was unable to hook up with or was only able to see for a few moments because I arrived there much later than most of them and they already had plans in place. Still—seeing their beautiful faces, looking into their beautiful eyes, and getting long-overdue hugs, meant everything to me. These are people for whom I would do anything and vice versa. And people I would never have met if it hadn’t been for Sammy Hagar.

I am grateful to Sammy and his music, and for the opportunity to attend one of his shows while I was there because he changed my life years ago; he encouraged me to pursue my dream of being a writer and to never give up.

Sammy Hagar and Jerry Cantrell

I am grateful to those who purchased a copy of my book “Dance of the Electric Hummingbird” because it has been a labor of love, one that Sammy once called, “your baby,” because he gets it. The book is now out of print, except for a few remaining copies,* so the ones I have in boxes in my basement, are all that I have left of the dream that I wanted so badly to share with others. There is a piece of one’s soul that goes into creating art—all the time, energy, personal pain and joy, money, etc. Most artists don’t make enough money to support themselves on the sale of their art—we do it because we must; there is no conscious choice in the matter, so when someone purchases your art, it connects creator and observer together on a soul level, and that has value far beyond monetary.

My visit to Cabo went by much too fast, just as my life is going by much too fast. But the older I get, the more I appreciate all that I have and know–and each day, I strive even harder, to be at least a tiny speck of love and light to others.

As I returned home the other day, I attended a memorial service for a friend who was killed in a motorcycle accident a month ago. She was much too young—had everything to live for, and was one of the kindest, gentlest, most loving and giving people I have ever known.

And I realize that what I am most grateful for, is to have awoken this morning so that I may live another day, to hopefully get to experience another Thanksgiving and another Christmas with my family and friends, or even just to hang out on ordinary days, simply being with them and taking in all the beauty that surrounds me, in the small things, in places I’ve been and in the people I love because one thing I know for sure–love is all that matters. 

For these and for each new day, I am most grateful.

*ebook version still available here: Dance of the Electric Hummingbird

or signed by the author copies here: Author Signed Copy DEH

Guest Appearance on Twin Flame Divine Fire Radio Show this Sunday!

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Author Patricia Walker is honored to announce her appearance on Twin Flame Divine Fire Radio show this Sunday, April 23, 2017 from 11:00 am – 1:00 pm. MT.

Hope you’ll join us!

For info, please click here: Twin Flame Divine Fire Radio Show

From their website:

Twin Flame Divine Fire Radio Show on Truth Frequency Radio

Sandra and Alan are dedicated to having guests on that enhance spiritual tools available in a variety of healing areas and teaching tools of which music plays a big part! They also bring guests on from the secular world who are making a difference around the globe with their special gifts of music, writing and various healing modalities just to name a few. It is designed to be lighthearted and fun but informative!

Truth Frequency Radio is a team of individuals focused on expanding the consciousness of humanity by shining the light in the darkness. We are here to promote love, unity, and respect for every human being, as we combat and expose the elements that systematically divide and enslave mankind. While our opinions may sometimes be the opposite of one another, the foundation and goals upon which we stand are always aimed at forging a better world for the next generation.

Truth Frequency Radio was established on November 5, 2009 (remember, remember, the “Fifth Of November”) and has since operated on a 100% listener supported basis with continual growth and evolution. We do not censor, regulate, or micro-manage the content on our airwaves, therefore the views and opinions expressed on TFR are of those who make them. We do however ask that our team minimizes foul-language in order to keep our station classy and safe enough to listen at work or school.

Our promise to you is that you will always be able to trust what you hear on our station.

We are TFR. Your protection from deception.

Tune in and support Twin Flame Divine Fire Radio Show every Sunday 11am – 1pm mst:

http://truthfrequencyradio.com/listen-live/
http://truthfrequencyradio.com/iheartradio/
http://truthfrequencyradio.com/chat/

What is Love, Really? (How My Youthful Ideas May Have Impacted My Perception of Reality) Part II

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(Continued from last week)

red-rose

I was “in love” with a gorgeous boy in high school. His name was Bob. He looked just like Robert Conrad on The Wild Wild West. He really did. But our family moved to another state just when I was starting to think about boys like that.

I didn’t really date in high school, but when I graduated and started working, I met a handsome boy. I liked him a lot, but I can’t say now if I truly loved him.

I ended up marrying him and we had a child together, but as the months went by, he became more and more abusive until it got to the point where I was afraid for my life and that of our son, so I divorced him. My life at that time, was a nightmare.

Looking back, I can’t say that I felt love for him because the bad memories far outweigh whatever good ones there might have been.

A few years later, I met my current husband. He made me laugh. He was kind to me and we had fun together—went places, did things. I would say that I was in love with him, but this time it was perhaps more of an adult form of love, with some protective barriers put in place. I was apprehensive about getting married again after what happened to me the first time, but we eventually tied the knot.

Life became a whirlwind of raising kids and all that family life entails. I loved every minute of it. I loved being a mom. Those were the happiest years of my life.

But something happened to the love between my husband and me. It got lost in the raising of kids and in the paying of the mortgage.

I love my husband, and I know he loves me, but now that the kids have grown up and moved out, sunset couple kissingand after reading all that recent hoopla about David Cassidy, I found myself asking myself, What is love, really? Did my innocent devotion to the likes of David Cassidy and Bob, that boy in high school, stymie my chances of ever finding those kinds of feelings within myself, that, to me, were proof of real love? I’m sure that I had those kinds of feelings–fireworks and all–when my current husband and I got married, but was it to the same degree that my childish notions told me they should be?

Because there are so very many different types of love besides the romantic kind, like the love I feel for my friends and my family, and even my pets.

My love for my husband has morphed over many years of having to compromise and get along with someone even when you don’t agree with them. It comes from growing together, then apart, then together again. It comes from being able to finally see the sacrifices that person made for you, for the family you share. That is love. But it isn’t the flowery, floaty, frothy, fiery kind of love or lust, that first made you turn your head in their direction… and wonder… what if?

Does that fiery kind of love really happen to real people or is it just in the movies? Is it possible that the protective barrier I devised could now be hindering my ability to see beyond it?

And why do I love movies like “The Bodyguard,” “The Ghost and Mrs. Muir,” and “Message in a Bottle” where the lovers can never really be together? Those stories that are bittersweet and heartbreaking. Maybe because that’s what my definition of love has shifted to after all the life experiences I’ve had: real love is supposed to be bittersweet and leave you alone in the end—forever longing for those feelings you once shared with someone or for someone, even if for a very short time. (Like my feelings of aloneness after the passing of both of my parents.) Even if you are still married to that person and those types of feelings have gotten lost in the shuffle of life and you forever long for their return.

And what about attractions to people that we can’t or shouldn’t be with? For instance, in my case, David Cassidy and my first husband. Why are we attracted to people like that? Is that really love? Misguided love? Or, in my case, was it my childish fantasies that left me feeling so smitten I could hardly function and therefore ended up cheating myself out of life because I was so enrapt with that one person, ad nauseum? In “The Road Less Traveled,” author M. Scott Peck said that sexual attraction is nature’s trick to get us to spread our seeds as much as possible—survival of the species. Could be, I guess, but that can’t be all there is to it.

girl-lying on her back dreamingI don’t know where I fit in any of this. I keep waiting for that pie-in-the-sky sort of all-consuming, soul-baring kind of love with my husband, but I also know that he does the best he can. We both do. It’s my own fault if I fell into a trap of complacency, of mostly just survival with a few fun things thrown in. Or maybe I just need to change my focus and concentrate on all the blessings I have–and the man (my husband), who loves me in his own way of loving. At the same time, maybe that’s why I have an insatiable need to write. I can create fictional characters to fulfill my ideas of what love is or isn’t. But … in the long run, is it ever really enough?

What is Love, Really? (How My Youthful Ideas May Have Impacted My Perception of Reality)

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IMG_5239I admit it. I am obsessed with love.

I espouse the notion that love can solve anything. Heal us. Make the world a better place. I look for it everywhere and in every person, place or thing.

But love can be a very difficult concept, or, at least we make it that way. When I was young and thought I was “in love,” was that really what true love is all about? The naive, flowery, sharing a soda, holding hands, dreamy, floating feeling? Kisses under oak trees with falling leaves, walking through the park, spending hours just gazing into each other’s eyes?

Did those notions cloud my perception because I was sure that that was real love and anything less didn’t qualify? (Besides the unconditional love my parents had for me and that I too, have for my own kids and grandkids.)

The other day I saw the following video online about David Cassidy falling off the stage during his concert: TMZ

I took it personally and couldn’t figure out why. I don’t know the man. Never have.

(Today, Cassidy is announcing that he has dementia, which is supposedly the reason for his not being able to remember the lyrics to his songs, and that may very well be true. But I’m not here to debate Cassidy’s mental health, or his personal issues. This piece is about love. The recent news about him is what got me thinking about all of this.)

I was “in love” with David Cassidy when I was a young girl in the ‘70s. I was going to move to California, become an actress, and marry him. Thousands of other girls had the same dream, I knew, but that didn’t hinder me one bit. I just knew that when he saw me, we would instantly fall madly in love and get married and live happily ever after.

That was before David Cassidy was a real person.

In my teenage mind, he was the epitome of the perfect boyfriend and husband. He was handsome, sexy, romantic, caring, sensitive, and had a beautiful singing voice. He seemed to respect women. He had kind of an androgynous look that wasn’t threatening, that was safe and protecting. He seemed smart and kind and all the other things I thought would make the perfect life partner.

Then one day, Rolling Stone Magazine featured an article about David and he appeared nude on the cover—and in the centerfold. I was flabbergasted. I was probably 14 or 15 at the time. The bubble of naïveté that encased my fantasy wasn’t just popped, it was sliced into a million pieces by shards of cold, thick glass and lay hemorrhaging at my feet.

I remember sitting on the floor in the drugstore and reading the article. I couldn’t tear my eyes from the words, “Aw shit man, take drugs,” and the words that spelled out what a “great fuck” he was and much more.

I bought the magazine and took it home with tears running down my face. It couldn’t be! This perfect man—he was all a lie???? Something the TV show and the fan magazines all constructed?

It was inconceivable to me that anyone would make up blatant lies about someone and pass them off as “the truth.” The media had me believing that David’s favorite books were “The Godfather” and “Siddhartha.” Reading “Siddhartha” made me believe that David was a deep thinker and it only endeared him to me more. Reading “The Godfather” at 14 caused me permanent mental damage.

Either way, David Cassidy became an important part of my life, of my newly-forming ideas of what love was all about. I had no concept of sex back then. I really was that naive.

After reading the Rolling Stone article, David was dead to me and I mourned for a very long time. I remember my dad using the experience to teach me that David was a human being just like the rest of us, something my young mind refused to accept.

But to this day, I still love to listen to some of Cassidy’s old songs—the ones where he croons in his soft breathy voice about making me his, and trips to my father’s summer cabin and holding me in his arms—being together. Impressionable young girls take these things personally. At least I did.

And now, seeing what a disgraceful performance he gave on that recent video, I am embarrassed for him. I know that his dad was an alcoholic and that he perished in a fire started from his lit cigarette which he dropped while sitting in a chair because he was too drunk to move.

I also know that David has been arrested for several DUIs and has been to rehab to help him overcome his addiction to alcohol. He apparently has a few issues, but then, who doesn’t?

I heard David, himself, say that those who managed him took full advantage of him, that he never got a cut of any of the paraphernalia with his name and picture on it—books, lunchboxes, bubblegum cards, pillow cases, you name it. I don’t know if any of that is true, nor will I ever. I do know, because Cassidy has said it many times, that he felt he could never measure up to his father’s standards—it seemed that Jack Cassidy was jealous of his son’s fame and fortune—and nothing David could ever do was good enough to earn his father’s love.

It just goes to prove that he is a person just like the rest of us. Just because someone is famous doesn’t mean they are happy or have it all together mentally. I can think of many examples, among them—Michael Jackson and Robin Williams. They had all the talent in the world, and money and admiration, but they had issues. Serious issues.

This leads me back to love.

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I based my idea of what love should be, on false impressions of a person I didn’t even know. And now that I’m older, I wonder if those ideas were really what love should be or if they were simply unrealistic fantasies of a young mind. Let me see if I can explain.

So if I have these raw, untainted emotions as a child, are those more authentic simply because they aren’t based on preconceived notions of what something should be? Or are they just fantasies? And, in any case, aren’t these the sorts of emotions that make artists great? Baring one’s soul and raw feelings and observances of the world in a way that provides a connection to others? The fact that the message conveyed is universal?

(To be continued next week…)

 

One Sky

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img_2815If I could have slept the entire day away today, I would have.

You see, today was the day, eleven years ago, that my wonderful father left this world. Less than two months later, my mother died of a broken heart. And while my grief will never completely dissipate, losing the ones I love forced me to look at life in a new way.

I’m more tolerant than I used to be, and I see the many ways we all take our blessings for granted, how we fight amongst ourselves to prove who’s right, when, when it all comes down to it, what difference does it really make? We are all colors that make up one, beautiful rainbow. One sky.

I’d like to tell people to allow others their own opinions and beliefs, to forgive those who may have wronged us, to let go of all the petty bullshit we fight over…

…to just be kind. To the earth, to animals and to each other.

I’d like to tell people to hold those you love close, to hug them, tell them that you love them, spend as much time with them as possible. Call them on the phone once in a while. But don’t wait to make that phone call or to get together with them because you’re too busy at the moment. Cliché; yes, I know, but so very true.

Today I wait on pins and needles for the phone to buzz with a call or a text announcing the death of my favorite aunt, Marilyn. She had a stroke a few days ago, and all I’ve been getting are brief texts from my cousin asking for prayers, but I have no real information other than the few words she sent me yesterday, telling me that her mom suffered a massive stroke and that she isn’t going to recover. She said that her mom isn’t responsive other than an occasional squeezing of their hands and that it’s going to be a matter of days. I have so many more emotions than just feeling heartbroken.

Eleven years ago, along with her two remaining brothers, my dear Aunt Marilyn made the inconvenient trip on Christmas Eve, to attend my dad’s funeral. I’ll never forget what she said to me. In the kindest, most loving tone, she told me, “Isn’t it wonderful? Jack is in heaven with Jesus to celebrate His birthday!” She meant Christmas. She wasn’t being superficial; she truly believed it to be the biggest honor bestowed on a human being.

And now, here she is, getting ready to celebrate Christmas in heaven with Jesus too. I pray with all my heart that she isn’t in any pain, but for my own selfish reasons, I also hope she will at least wait until tomorrow if she has to leave this world because this date is one of the worst memories of my life.

In my imagination, I can feel my dad’s spirit hovering over his dear sister’s bedside, and the spirits of her husband, who died when all their kids were still little, leaving my aunt to raise four kids all by herself in the ‘70s, something I always respected her for. I can feel the spirits of her other brothers who preceded her in death as well—my uncles. And the spirits of her wonderful parents, my grandparents—all waiting to welcome her into their arms and into the arms of Jesus and the angels, because that is her belief, and to stand in the shining presence of her Lord and God this Christmas Day.

But I am sad beyond words, for having to lose those whom I adored with all my heart. And it seems even worse for these things to happen at Christmastime—a time that for me, used to be the happiest time of the year, a time to celebrate those I love with all my heart. I still do, but there’s a huge hole in my heart for those whose physical presence had become part of my identity and made me feel whole.

I love you, Aunt Marilyn.

I love you, Dad. (And Mom.) I miss you so very much.

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Another Name for Fear

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I’m tired of living in fear.

I was taking a shower recently, when suddenly, those words popped into my mind. It was almost as if someone had whispered them into my ear, as if it were a new concept I’d never considered before, and my brain took the notion and ran with it. Thoughts tumbled out of me faster than the warm water washing over my skin—all the ways I lived in fear, commencing with my childhood religious lessons, which, incidentally, probably effected my psyche more than just about anything, beginning with the ubiquitous FEAR THE LORD which absolutely HAD to be at the very top of my list.

And then came:
fear of failure
fear of terrorist attacks
and tornados, earthquakes, floods and fires;

fear of having my identity stolen
fear of being in a car accident
of being alone
or misunderstood;

fear of having people know too much about me because they might not like me if they knew the real me,
fear of thinking that my health issues are with me forever just because I’ve had some of them for a very long time;

fear of not being in control
of pissing people off
fear of not having enough money,

fear of not being an effective teacher, speaker, guide, writer,
of not being a good enough wife, mom, grandma, sister, daughter, friend, citizen…

And as these fears tumbled out of my brain, my brain also said, Damn! Do I really have that many fears inside of me? I was under the impression that I’d been doing a pretty good job of managing my fears, my limiting beliefs, but apparently, there are things still imbedded deep in my soul that continue to have me by the throat. And I bet if I thought about it even a little bit longer, I could come up with a whole bunch more.

No wonder I feel like I’ve got one foot nailed to the floor; my fear is keeping me from moving forward. Believe it or not, there is also the fear of achieving one’s goals; I could probably add that one to my list as well. You know, because if you achieve your goals, what then? You’ll be a different person! You’ll have responsibilities you never knew existed! It’s safer and less-stressful to remain miserable.

Well, I’m tired of living in fear. It is not serving me. It has no positive ramifications. Anthony Robbins said, “Life is found in the dance between your deepest desire and your greatest fear.”

I love that quote. To me, that almost makes it sound as if fear and desire are made of the same stuff—just on opposite ends of the spectrum—and could very well be true. They are, perhaps, two flavors of the same sweetness, which is why it seems there’s a fine line between the desire to do something that elicits fear, in spite of the fact that it is terribly exciting—and the ability to exhibit self-control no matter how tempting the sweet, because in the end, the long-term payoff (living in fear) is sweeter than the temporary desire. And by desire here, I mean the desire to achieve your goal, or your lifelong dreams.

How can fear be sweeter than doing something one desires? Desire, combined with fear, is exhilarating, enticing. Which is why people do stuff like jump out of airplanes, go bungee-jumping or parasailing, ride rollercoasters, drive fast cars, etc. because it’s an acceptable way of doing something that goes against our better judgment of remaining safe at all costs. Under normal conditions, it’s against the law to drive too fast, to jump off a bridge or a mountain because if any of these things were done without safety gear, the result, obviously, is death.

Like desire, fear is intoxicating, but it is also suffocating. Fear seduces us with its lies, then slithers into our minds like a serpent made of black smoke, then it smothers us. Like smoking, or a drug, it feels so fine as we suck it into our lungs and blow it out–in and out, in and out–and all the while thinking it’s comforting us, but before we know it, it rules us. Fear is a rotten, lying, deceitful drug addiction, and I’m so angry with myself for allowing it to control me all these years.

Not any more, baby.

From now on, I choose to use fear, not as a means to cause me to freeze in my tracks, to back off, or to run and hide, but as an opportunity to look at things from a new perspective. I’m going to use fear as a signal that I need to change my thoughts, my beliefs and my emotions instead of allowing them to control me.

I’m going to use my fear to change my life for the better. Methinks it will be a lifelong process, but then, that’s what life is for—learning and growing, and sharing what we’ve learned.

Cheers.