For Thor - 7 - Explosion

There are a million cross-currents running through all of us who are grieving your death, Thor. I've tried to gain my bearings and get a feel for these unpredictable rogue waves and whirlpools that toss me about from moment to moment, hour to hour. There is no pattern, but I am beginning to recognize the edges, the boundaries of what I can absorb before I am shaken to the core and cannot breathe.

There are other travelers on this sea of grief; trying to make their way and they, too, are blinded by tears and heartbreak. They have other ways of coping with this horror. Sometimes we find ourselves very much in each others way and looking to the other one to yield, to give a little room.

A skilled negotiator, usually, I can make almost any situation work for all concerned. But not now. All the nerves in my body are stripped bare and raw to the tiniest hint of stress. The barest idea of taking on more right now is overwhelming. The usual agreements your dad and I have in dealing with a the little compromises in our relationship are off the table right now. I feel selfish for not being able to continue to expand in this way; to accommodate these old contracts at a time when he needs me to do it.

Mainly, I am scared that I won't have the necessary skills to be gracious, magnanimous, adapting, empathetic, listening - my usual strong suits. I am afraid I'll lash out and cause harm when everyone is in so much pain, already. That I won't have a filter or the will to use it; that I'll say or do something that will just be plain mean.

We had a huge fight last night. It had been brewing. Everything is so intense right now that we haven't been able to talk, so a fight was inevitable. Your dad wants or needs me to give ground and I, for the first time ever, cannot do it. I collapsed under this weight in the kitchen floor and sobbed. I am usually so strong and capable. I can compartmentalize and move through all kinds of trauma, stress, unease, unpleasantness with empathy. Not now.

He tried to give me a comforting pep talk, holding my hands there in the kitchen floor. It just made it worse. He doesn't realize the depth of what I am feeling. Your poor dad, he has the hardest time choosing the right words to tell me, I just end up angrier…remember the other boys…have to get your shit together for them (and me, was implied)…come on don't flip out like this. And then when he can't reach me, he loses his patience and storms away yelling at me. I know the intensity of my grief scares him because he can't fix it. No one can, I try to remind him. It just fucking sucks.

We hurled verbal barbs at each other for a while. Testing the limits of our relationship and love.  Exposing other hurts that had gone unreconciled over time. That's one thing about grief, it strips you bare. To the bone. There is nowhere to hide those parts of me that I'd really rather no one had to see.  Your dad's hurt eyes begged and pleaded with me with me to show him that the gal he loves, that I, am still in here. His plea went unanswered.  I don't know where I am or who I will become when all this blows over. I know I love him. That is all. I hope it's enough.

Later, when we'd yelled and cried ourselves to being empty hulls, I rested my forehead on his back and then a hand and he turned to me. He is haunted by seeing your body at the scene of the wreck. I wasn't permitted to go, so he went for both of us, to kiss you on the forehead like I used to when you were a baby and hold your hand. He did that because I asked him to. I couldn't bear the idea of your body going anywhere without love and comfort from your parents. 

I feel so sorry that I cannot graciously do this thing he needs me to do. I'm being selfish and I know it.  We are doing it, grace or not, and I will be praying that I can find some shred of decorum and strength to cope - for him. For his sake, I'll get up off the floor and quietly take a Xanax and weather this shit.  Next week, we are going to find a grief counselor for us and the boys.  We need new tools so we can begin to rebuild our Family Ship.

For Thor - 6 - Sunbeam

Dozens of little dark-eyed juncos are scampering for seeds on the frozen ground, their feathers puffed up to insulate them. I can relate. I need insulation from the frigid cold finality of your body's death; of your departure from the life we shared. I admit it, it's painful and horrible, and I want to go back and rewrite the script.

The new story would have me being more for you; more fun, more present, more loving, less judgy, easier to laugh, less caught up in stupid crap. It would have you on-stage with us, still, playing the part of the bigger-than-life beauty that we all love so much for a few more decades.  I did my best and wish it could have been more. For you. For all of us.

We are so precariously perched on this planet. Nothing is guaranteed. There is no promise of anything except now. This moment is the only one we have, for sure. And even it could be the last one. Remorse and regret and even a mother's longing for a different story have no place here. They are thieves bent on stealing away the gift of the present; Peace and Joy. 

Just. Be. Here. Now.

The sun is shining in the window at that low, winter angle that cuts through the trees and sparks on the front-door glass. It's warm, even if the air is frigid. You reached out of the sky to touch my heart with a single sunbeam. You are here. I know.  My sore heart opens to what is possible; to where this journey will take me - us.

It is enough to know that you will help me along this road. I'll pack light and look for the signs you send. Those signs reassure me that It's All For Good and It's All for God. That is wasn’t a waste, as I lamented yesterday. Not one second of the precious time I had with you was a waste. I need to hold onto the Big Picture; we cooked up a potent life plan, one that was daring and bold and scary as hell. One that would push us all beyond what we think we know and into what is Real Knowing. Into Real Love.

Keep sending me these sunbeams and little birds, Bubby. They insulate and lift my heart. They ease the way when I am cut by a million shards and am bleeding on the path.  I'll call on them when those tsunami waves come crashing - and I know they will. This is a marathon. Not a sprint. Just like when you were a little boy and were scared and would reach for me, I need to hold your hand, okay? Please, don't let go.

I love you, Mom.

For Thor - 5 - Refugee

What a waste. I can't help but feel what a fucking waste it all was.

Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. I appreciate the time I had with you. I have fond memories to replay in syndicated reruns in my mind's eye. I had 19 years of you being my boy. Yada, yada, yada…life's purpose and what greater good can come of this. Blah, blah, blah…I'll get through this stronger and better. I have the dozens and dozens of friends telling me stories to keep you alive and assuring me that I'll be okay. Not the same, but okay.

Lemme tell you what, I want you back, dammit! Fuck this fucking process. Fuck this fucking pain. I just want you back.  I want to go back and the way is closed forever.

Refugee. That's me.

There is no going back to where I was before the Night of Horror. The way is barred. The world that I knew and built with you has been blown to smithereens. I am shoved out of my cozy life ill-equipped to weather these elements.  I am being force-marched on a terrible journey into a strange, dark and forbidding landscape. Bleak. The sky opened up and rained down obsidian glass that froze into a million tiny scalpels. This is the path. It cuts deep with every step I take.

It is so much easier to sit down and not move.

I bought you an urn yesterday. In what reality is that shit okay? Huh? I took great care in its selection. I know it's one that you would choose for yourself if you could. But it laid me out. I googled, found, compared and bought an urn for my son's ashes online. They even had a coupon code. Bitter laugh as I was able to score free shipping and a 10% discount. The juxtaposition of something so normal -- online shopping and the victory dance of scoring a discount, with something so damned awful -- selecting a pretty box in which to put your mortal remains blew my damn mind.

There were so many visitors this weekend. They keep me from falling into the abyss; that sucking black hole where the totality of this anger, anguish and longing swirl. Instead, we sit on the shore and let the waves of these dark feelings lap on our toes, taking it in small doses. Company keeps me from diving in head first and drowning.  They also keep me distracted for the most part. But sometimes grief simply won't be denied for even one second more.  It holds me in its grip and dashes me against those obsidian shards.  That's when I call my lifelines.

Text "911" to the family. 

Thank God for champagne, and for Aunt Radha for reminding me that I might need a little something. Tiny little bubbles of anesthetizing fruity goodness percolate into that black mire to loosen its death grip and allow me to breathe.

Thor, sweetheart, right now there is not one single part of this that is okay.  Greater plan? Ha! Purpose, schmurpose! I don't give a damn about that right now. I am pissed off and selfishly irritated that I have to do this.

And at the same time, my heart is weeping with more love and more compassion than it ever has. So maybe there is one tiny thing that might, someday, be okay. Just don't push it, alright?

For Thor - 4 - Tsunami Ambush

Thor, even if it was a short-lived respite yesterday, I thank you for it.  I caught a glimpse of how this will eventually be made right. It felt good to have that vantage point where I could see where I am going. For just a few moments, I could rest in the knowledge that I have a course. It is not an easy course, but I am not lost. I can head into that blasted landscape; that sea of grief with direction and purpose. And with you by my side as my most loving guide.

I was ambushed in the kitchen. I was cleaning the counter and washing cups from morning coffee. The warm sudsy water and the smell of dish soap were soothing to me.  The next thing I knew I was doubled over, trying to catch my breath. Great wracking sobs shook me and your dad swooped in to keep me from falling. Oh, yes. I was heading for the floor. Your Dad is strong, Thor. And your brother, too. I am pretty sure they thought I was having a heart attack. They held me as this agony washed over my psyche and through my heart. I thought I was drowning, honestly. I couldn’t breathe. I had no orientation. Everything was spinning around. My heart and lungs felt like they were literally on fire.

The thing is, I wasn’t even thinking anything in particular. I wasn’t fondly caressing a poignant memory or replaying The Night of Horror in my mind. I was blithely doing something mundane and a wave of grief rose up and up and up. It pulled all the hardest pain up with it. The kind that any smart person would run away from. It pulled it up out of the deepest part of this broken heart and then... It. Crashed. Down.

I left as quickly as it came. It just rolled away and left me sputtering. I didn’t trust my legs for a bit. They had a newborn foal feel to them that had me convinced I would end up on the floor and rather ungracefully, at that.  On the inside I was shell shocked and bewildered; all the little cubby holes of where I’ve been gathering collections of memories and was keeping track of day-to-day schedules and other random things were thrown into a wild, jumbled pile. Grief, apparently, is not a fan of order. Like a marauding horde, it overtook, ransacked and looted my tiny vessel of sanity. What the fuck?

There was no warning of the tsunami ambush. I was doing nothing in particular that would bring it on. It just rose up from deep inside and wiped everything out. And like a real ocean tsunami, it was presaged by a recession of the waters, an invitation to go deeper and not be afraid. They say that’s why tsunami’s are so deadly because people run out deep into the receding water line never guessing that it is just the water drawing back for a knockout blow.

Unlike real tsunamis, these waves of grief are not deadly. As terrifying as they are, I can see how they help me heal. Leaning into the pain and staying open to the love is so important. Any sane person would want to curl up in a ball and hide from this shit. If the dentist asked you if you’d like to have your teeth drilled without novocaine you’d run like hell, right? These waves are painfully purposeful; pulling up pieces of my heart that I might want to hide, to protect, from the agony of this new story. The one that is going on without you here. To be healed and to be whole, I lean in and let the waves find the pieces of my heart and bring them to the surface. Once here, in the open, I can reveal and release that agony and then, gradually, let the gentle sun shine upon them.

One piece at a time, the Crystal Heart that was shattered will once again be whole. It will shine again with the warm sun and even more vibrantly and with even more dancing rainbows.

I know a few more things today than I did. I know that grieving your loss, Thor, is an epic journey like The Fellowship of the Ring. I have all I need to embark on this path; a map (One Love), a destination (One Love), some guides (You and all the angels), some allies (our family and friends who are showering us with love and prayers) and vast resources (Inner Strength and Fortitude). Most of all I will keep Faith and Love with me at all times to fearlessly meet the unforeseen obstacles, pitfalls and scary-ass ambushes that await me on this journey.

I love you, Thor.

Mom

For Thor - 3 - Love

I’m not angry today, what a relief. That really sucked, yesterday. Today I feel a deep well of gratitude and love rising up in my heart. It must be you, sweetheart, wrapping me up in some big ass angel wings. I am really grateful for this because my heart is shattered and scattered. There are pieces of me all over the place.

The corporeal mom, the one that lives here on this planet -- living and breathing and suffering -- is churning through turbulent waters. The good news is that I have charted a course across this raging and unpredictable sea of grief. I am headed for a shore that promises to reconcile the disparate parts of me. That shore is Love.

The winds howl and the swells threaten to capsize my little vessel, but I will get there. Likely I’ll be a bit battered and will have tattered sails, but I will find that shore. That Love. I will find you.

The deepest part of me, the part that knows The Infinite, is really good. It is here that I feel you - connected to me, connected to all of us. It’s hard to stay here all the time because the other part of me is in so much pain and suffering.

For today, I am grateful to be smothered in wings of pure love that emanates from you and the love we share. A calm has descended over me to offer a respite from the intensity of this journey. I truly feel all the love and prayers and connections that have been awakened since you left our physical realm. It is astonishing and awesome to behold.

A heart, cracked open, can let love flow and shine so much more freely and brightly. It is the biggest gift of a tragic sacrifice like yours. It is a tough one to accept when I am split between grieving a mother’s loss and stepping into the work of the soul.  Since your physical death, I feel there is a challenge laid before us - to awaken and see our true reason for being here. It is simply to Love All. To live my life’s purpose here, I must be brave and recognize this heart-shattering gift. I must pick it up and accept it. Any mission or challenge that is so important that it required the life of my son to wake me up has my full fucking attention.

I wrote a poem several years ago that I reworked it a bit. I feel emboldened to find the way through this to where you ARE.

Vulnerable. Shattered. Willing. Here. Cracked open. I love you, Thor.

My heart is cracked open

In the jaws of your death,

This heart bleeds the ichor of a mother’s grief.

Anger and anguish are flushed away on a wave of sacred tears

I lay upon the altar of my surrender.

Face down and stripped bare before God;

Who touches me upon my furrowed brow

and knows the depth of my suffering.

My clenched fists slowly unfurl into praying hands

As a desert flower in opens in the rain

Divine Grace radiates into the hole in my heart

It is a cooling salve to smooth

the broken bits, the shards, the rubble

Of my human frailty.

There is hope here.  A softness that I melt into and breathe.

No wracking sobs of agony and emptiness.

This is the breath of Peace.

I am loved.  I am Forgiven;

I hear your voice encouraging me. Assuring me;

Do not cower before your potential.

Love all.  Be bold. I will help you.

I must leave the notion of separation behind

On the altar of surrender.

It cannot carry me to where you are.

This heart is cracked open.

Grace pours in.

It sings;

Be Lived!.

For Thor - 2 - Anger

Today there is an angry edge to my thoughts. I’m mad at you, Thor, actually. Go figure, right? You’re used to that, I suppose. But I am also angry at myself. It's enough anger to go around, believe me.

I’m trying to do a few normal things. I washed the dishes and put in a load of laundry. I made the bed and fed the cats. What’s new is the dialogue in my mind. It swirls in and out of a one-way conversation to a plea to the Universe for a Goddamned Do-Over. “I miss you, Thor. Oh, look at how cute you were in this picture. I can’t believe you are gone. You never know when shit’s gonna happen. You’re so vulnerable. God, can’t we go back and try this again?” Then I get mad.

“Why the hell did you have to do {fill in the blank}.  If only you hadn’t {fill in the blank}. If only I had {fill in the blank}. What the fuck were you doing in that truck in the first place? Why didn’t someone tell me you were thinking of getting behind the wheel? Still feeling 10-feet tall and bulletproof, darling boy? Is it wrong to want to yell at you “I told you this would happen, dumbass!”? Yeah, I want to yell I Told You So to my dead son. I’m pretty fucking ticked.

I bet it was a heck of a surprise to you to find your Self severed from your body and floating above it. What I would give to know what your consciousness was experiencing at that moment. Do souls have remorse? Did you want to come back? I know you didn’t intend to leave me. I know you wouldn’t ever intend to hurt me like this. But dammit, it happened. And you are free and here I sit with all this shit to sort through. Here I am mourning you, worried for your dad and your brothers - and everyone who loved you - and how we recover from this impossible wound.

And you, having completed your time here with us, you are expanded into the Realm of Angels. It’s not supposed to be this way. You and your brothers are supposed to hold each other up many years from now when your dad and I take that journey. You are supposed to have had practice in grieving deep loss by mourning the passing of beloved grandparents, first. This is a bizarre plot twist in the natural order of things.

I’m mad at myself for failing you. It’s my job to keep you whole, healthy, happy and alive; has been since the day I gave birth to you. You were determined to make my job really hard --and apparently impossible. Early on, I realized I had to simply give you to God.  I would do my best to protect and help you, but ultimately you are God’s child, not mine. If he wanted to take you, he would and there’s nothing I could do about it. This doesn’t mean I didn’t do my part... from baby gates to vaccinations and being hyper-selective of media and friends, eating right and all those little life skills and lessons. The lessons you learned and shared with so many, in turn. I worked to keep you here where you could thrive among us. I failed. God won. He wanted you back and took you. Asshole move, God. Really.

Each morning I light the candle that sits next to your ashes and look at the beautiful photographs of your smiling face. I tell you good morning. And I wait. What will today’s grieving be about? Which barbs will snag my heart today? Will it be a sweet savoring of memories? Will it be sobbing jags poured forth from the rend in my heart?  Today along with the agony of missing you it seems to be anger. Again, this is apparently normal. What the hell kind of normal is this that a mom is pissed off at her dead son.

Just writing those words is inflammatory. Dead. Son. Holy shit, Thor. How did we get here?

For Thor - 1

Today marks the two-week mark of your leaving your life here with me. I can’t believe it’s been two weeks. Hell, I still can’t believe all this is real. There is much evidence to convince me that I won’t see your sweet smile or have a big bear hug from you ever again. I sit with the little black box that contains the remains of your earthly form...and still I am not convinced. The evidence cannot be true. The words I read on cards, and the mountains of food and flowers, and streams of calls and visitors; all are trying to tell me your beautiful life with us, as we know it, is done. Still, I cannot accept this terrible thing. The books on grieving say this is normal, that someday I’ll accept and move along. It seems a long way off.

We say you’ve gone on to bigger and better things. We say that you were always bigger than life. We say there is a purpose in your tragic exit at such a young age. We say that there is comfort in knowing you are so well loved. We say these things to somehow make sense of it all, to give meaning to something that has ripped out my heart and left it bleeding on the ground in the same place where you drew your last breath.

I want to yell at you for leaving me and not telling me where you are going. And why. And when you’ll be home. I want to hold you in my arms again and tell you it’s okay. I want to fix you supper and hear about your day at work and how you are making a name for yourself. I want to dance in the kitchen with you a few more times. I want you to tell me what it’s like where you are now and if you can hear me when I say, “Goodnight, Thor.” I want to hear you and your dad and brothers play guitars again while I soak it up and am quietly proud of all my men. Moms want a lot, don’t we?

The Big Ma (The Mother of All) in me knows that you are infinite and immortal - as we all are - in the One. The Mamma that brought you into this world and nurtured and raised you is not so willing to let it go. I mourn the fact that your beautiful body is gone and I can no longer hold your hand. I mourn that we won’t get to know each other as adults. I am heartbroken that I won’t get to see you be a daddy and get to help you learn to walk this hard and beautiful parenting road. A road that is fraught with so much more peril than I could have ever guessed.  

Oh, Thor. We must have made a deal; we must have struck some terrible contract before either of us was born. I agreed to be your mom and you agreed to be the wild, beautiful child that would captivate, inspire, love, help and heal so many. I must have agreed to the terms that you would live like a thunderbolt and rock us like a hurricane leaving countless people scoured clean of petty hurts and the fear of living life fully in the wake of your passing.

As horrible as it is right now, as tempted as I might be to want to go back in time and renegotiate that deal we made with Fate, I wouldn’t do it. There is a terrible perfection in all of this. Like a firestorm that consumes everything and leaves the landscape blasted only to awaken in full technicolor bloom at the first healing rain. My vantage point isn’t high enough for me to see the Big Picture. I cannot envision the thread of your amazing life woven into the tapestry and how many other threads are connected to it. I cling to my faith that everything is God and that this inexplicable happening is part of this Divine Plan, too. I cling to my faith that the healing rain will come. Probably in the form of tears from all who love you. Today the tears are shed out of anguish and sadness and maybe even a little rage. Someday they will be shed with fond love and warm remembrance of your beautiful heart and soul.

One day this blasted landscape will bloom again. And it will be beautiful.

I love you, Mom.

Fair Value

The barker's enthusiastic enticements encouraging me to spend a coin at his road-weary carnival attraction hangs suspended, along with the smell of funnel-cake grease and cotton candy, in the thick August humidity. The sun is beating down on my shoulders making me rethink the wisdom of wearing a black tee-shirt to the fair. I slurp the last of my now melted Icee and look around for someplace to take refuge from the heat. The haunted house and the fun-house, my favorites, have lines of sun-wilted patrons snaking across the dusty fairway. No way am I standing there kicking dust about, shuffling in line with Spandex bedecked, sweaty people.

I wonder where my little brother is, since I’d rather just get out of here and go swimming in the river. It’s too hot. The fair, on days like these, is best saved for the nighttime when the crickets and fireflies come out to sing in the cool air.

My unease in the heat is more though. I'm still gutted over the sudden death of my grandmother three months ago. And as if that wasn't enough, Alex broke up with me on the same horrible day that she died. What kind of person does that?

I feel nothing inside these days, I am a walking zombie. I feel as dead as dear Gram. Grief lurks under this layer of numbness until the early morning hours when the stars are heavy and the world is hushed. Then it claws its way out of my heart and runs down my face in hot, angry tears. I don’t know which is worse feeling nothing or feeling everything.

A trickle of sweat rolls down my forehead. I wipe it away in haste as if I can wipe away this listlessness, too. I stroll to a trash can to toss my Icee cup. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a brightly colored tent that sits back a bit off the main midway. It doesn't have a sign to invite people in, or even give a hint of what lies inside. Just an Arabic-looking symbol adorns the side of the flap that leads to the shady interior. There is no line in front of this attraction, that's a bonus for me, so I step up to the tent and call inside “Hello? Is there anyone here?” A thready voice answers after several long seconds “Come in, dearest. Come and hear your fortune, if you dare.”

My fortune? Do I have a fortune worth telling? I live in a small town with brother and, until three months ago, my grandmother. No career. No boyfriend. No life. No prospects. What harm could there be in having her tell me what I already know? I have no future. I have no life.  At least, I can get out of the sun.

I step inside the tent and feel as if I am transported to a Bedouin yurt on the high steppes. Tapestries cover the floor and incense fills the cool air. There is a low, warm glow coming from an elaborate, serpentine-shaped oil lamp suspended from the center of the tent which illumines a small figure seated at a round mosaic table.

She greets me with dark eyes that glow and beckons with an elegant motion to take the seat across from her. I look back at the tent flap as a tremor of doubt crosses my mind. I push the fear down and step across the plush carpets to sit on a heavily carved wooden chair.

“You have questions you don’t even know you have, yet. Place an offering on the plate. I set no price. There is no price for knowledge. You will get out of it whatever value you place on it.”

Value? How much is it worth it to be out of the 3pm sun? I fish a $5 bill out of my back jeans pocket and lay it on the little pewter plate. I feel like I've anted up. There are dragons and stars adorning the edges of the plate and a small crocheted doily in the center that lend my crumpled bill more dignity than I ever had.

“Very good! I am Darwhalla of the Tilikava Clan. Tell me your name, young one.” My eyes adjusted to the dim light, I look at this woman. She is beautiful in the way a sun-bleached skull is beautiful. There is a luminous glow that emanates from her bony features. Her skin is oiled and smooth, but I know she is ancient.

“Julia.” I say. My voice sounds high and hollow. “Julia.” I say again, clearing my throat.

“Julia. What a beautiful name!” She pauses and peers purposefully at me, studying me. I am unsure how to sit under her gaze and I wriggle in the chair catching my sleeve on the ornate carvings. I am grateful for this tiny distraction from Darwhalla’s intensity. “I have a message for you Julia. A message and a promise.”

“How can you have a message for me? You only just met me.” This ought to be good, she’s got the whole show going on here. I attempt to not actually roll my eyes.

“Comings and goings. Meetings and passings. These are not barriers to we who have The Sight. All that exists in time and space can be seen.”

So now she has “The Sight." I am so totally going to roll my eyes. But it's cool in here and I've got nothing better to do.

“Okaaay. So, what’s the message?”

“Ah. There is a message and a promise. One will bring great joy and one will bring great sorrow. They are bound. One cannot be without the other. Are you ready, Julia? You can still walk away and not hear these things. Knowledge affects the traveler’s course. Sometimes for the good. Sometimes not.”

She pauses. I nod that I am ready. I have to give her credit for the dramatic flair.

“The message is from someone recently departed. A loved one.”

“Gram!” As soon as she says it, I know it’s true. I can feel Gram there with us as if we were sitting on the porch swing talking about the day. I smile and look eagerly at Darwhalla to tell me more. A message from Gram must the good thing!

“Yes. It is your dear Gram. She says she loves you. And she is so very sorry to leave you like this. But the important thing she wishes you to know is that you must beware.”

Beware? Really? I am disappointed with the cliché. Isn’t that what all fortune tellers say? It’s either beware of something or you will find true love. Still, she does know about Gram, so that is something. I pocket my pessimism and decide to roll with it.

Darwhalla places her hands on a brass bowl covered with runic designs and full of water. She stares intently at the water. She is seeing something, but it’s not here where I am.

“You must go to the shed…the corner by the old barrel. Something horrible….something horrible happened. Someone has been slain at the hand of one who was trusted.”

I am no longer too hot. I am chilled to the bone. My hands shake and I feel clammy. Slain, as in murder? Who got murdered? Surely not Gram? She simply passed in her sleep one night. Peacefully. Naturally. I feel bile rising and swallow hard to keep from puking right there.

I stare stupidly at Darwhalla. What now? What the hell am I supposed to do with this information now? As if she read my thoughts, Darwhalla speaks again. This time she is not gazing into the bowl of water. She is staring at the space above my head. And the voice is no longer hers, it is Gram’s.“Find the box. Find the truth. Find yourself, darling girl. Be brave, but careful. I'll be with you, always. I love you so. Tell your brother, David, he's wonderful. Tell him every day."

Darwhalla’s gaze falls to the table and when she looks up, it is her, again. She smiles warmly at me revealing a line of straight teeth, stained by long life.

“You have received a rare gift of rare knowledge, young Julia. I think perhaps you will find your destiny awaits you in the contents of that box."  She stopped and looked expectantly at me. I have nothing. I am still reeling and have no earthly clue how to respond to a fortune teller who has just spoken to me in my dead grandmother’s voice.

Darwhalla takes pity on me and smiles. “Ah, yes. I owe you a promise.” Again she peers not at me, but around me. Like the edges of my soul are visible to her, open for the reading. “You will find the one who killed your precious Gram. And when you do, it will test you fiercely, Julia. Your road is forged in the fire of destiny. It is difficult and...perhaps...deadly. Be cautious, but do not be afraid. You will survive. At times you will think you cannot go on, but you must. A life-road like yours bears great fruit at great cost. On the other side of the coin, not living the great life that is placed before you, if you seek to avoid the challenges, it will result in ultimate despair.”

Already there, I think.

Her eyes fall once again to the table ending the reading. “We are finished. You must go.”

I can’t stand. I have a million questions. I want her to find Gram, again and ask her what I am supposed to do. Who is it that I trust that could slay someone? How am I supposed to find my destiny out of a box dug up in the shed?  “I can’t leave. You have to tell me more!” I am practically shouting at Darwhalla. My fingers dig into the deep carvings on the arms of the chair.

“There is no more to tell. You have your message. You have your promise. How do you value your information, now, young Julia?”

I look at the plate where the $5 is sitting. I wonder if I had laid the $20 out instead if I would have more from her. I reach for my back pocket when Darwhalla hisses at me.

“You have already chosen. Now, go.”

I stand to go moving my feet automatically while my mind reels. A deep cold has settled inside me like a bucket of ice water has been pumped into my veins. I am bewildered and angry.

“I’ll come back, later. Maybe you can see more, then.” I know it’s not true even as the words come out of my mouth. But it comforts me to think I am not alone in the world with this information. Someone, even if it is a Gypsy fortune teller knows that I am fated to find a murderous friend who may or may not have something to do with my Gram's death.

“Perhaps. Sometimes all we are given are pieces of clues. It’s up to us to create a pattern of them. Sometimes the picture makes sense and sometimes not.”

I turn away from Darwhalla and step out of the tent into the heat. I turn my face toward the sun and breathe in the sultry summer smells. The warmth fingers its way into my muscles. The unsettling world inside Darwhalla’s tent is gone. Her message seems counterfeit under the yellow gaze of the sun. I shrug off the last bits of unease and look around for David.

August heat engulfs me in a cocoon, sheltering me from the cold dread of a few moments ago. It never felt so good.

A Gasp. A Whiff. A Promise.

The earth turns in her orbit to warm the southerly side of her round form; warming her down-under side, as it were. Here in the north, we've been basking in the glory of her golden rays and blossom-scented days while our fellow southern hemisphere friends retreated into the cool shadows of winter for contemplation and dreaming.  Now it's our turn to capture those memories of summer, like fireflies in a jar, to carry us through the coming winter.

My friends are planting bulbs, hiding them under the soil where they will be kept an eye on for a hint that the winter is over, and the promise of life renewed. I imagine them sitting with a steaming mug of tea, gazing out over a frozen landscape with hope in their hearts, planted like their tulip bulbs, to emerge with the first warm days of spring.

As for me, I went for a walk on crisp October evening marveling at the stained-glass colors of auburn, gold, crimson and saffron that shone brightly against a cerulean sky. The scent of acorns and fallen leaves scented the air and a breeze, recently a denizen of the Arctic circle lifted a curl from my neck.  I moved easily and joyfully in this cool, dry air and smiled at the kaleidoscopic display nature revealed to me.

It seems intuitive to turn to contemplation or reconciliation in the fall.  For me, it's a time of reckoning and taking stock. I'm like the squirrel storing acorns away to nosh on all winter, gathering the kernels of experiences, feelings, flashes of insight, notions of things I'd like to try and putting them away to savor in the womb of winter.

Strolling over the blue-gray stone path, I took a big lung-full of air, thick with the scent of autumn; I walked through a ray of sun slanting sharply across my path. As I stepped into the light and breathed again, I was surprised to inhale the sweet and sublime scent of honeysuckle. I gasped and breathed again. Stopped in my tracks, I looked around for the flowers that were evidently confused into blooming in October.  And there they were, wrapped on a cedar branch, six perfect blossoms shining in a single ray of sun. Their audacity and bravery transfixed me. They didn't follow form. They were a defiant expression of determined summer to be seen and smelled; remembered and appreciated.

I laughed out loud at these crazy flowers and thought of how I and many of my friends and family are just like them. We are determined expressions of our essential being, out of context sometimes and unapologetic for it. We don't morph to fit into the scene; rather we choose to scent our surroundings with our being, leaving a lingering mark of our passing on the psyche of those who meet us. I seem to keep company with renegades.

Perhaps it's narcissistic to recognize the impact we have on our surroundings. I prefer to think it is a recognition of the grace God has given us - every one - to shine in our unique ways. I choose to be thankful for what I have to offer and joyfully share that whatever is useful to others.
I will remember that whiff of honeysuckle when I feel my surroundings closing in on me and daring me to shine brightly and risk being "put out."  So, I will make myself a promise, if a delicate flower can open it's petals in October then I can surely be at least that strong in staying true to myself, too.

Wholly Consumed - Living Mercurially

I've been slacking on the poetry front. I should have known this would be the hardest time of year to keep my promise to post one poem a week. Summer is too hot. My world turns to Mercury and the energy moves like quicksilver through the days. My muse takes refuge, preferring the cool of autumn and the long winter evenings to mull over the images garnered during the heat of summer.  Forgive me for the lapse - I will make it up to you! Whoever you are.  In the mean time, Mercury rules and I can offer this bit of writing to appease my sense of guilt and as a promise that I am not gone - merely dancing very fast and cannot expand into a poem until I catch my breath!

I am a mercury girl; a Virgo. I am a star-driven multi-tasker, over-achiever and go-getter.  I am also a closet introvert.  A fact, which when announced, brings looks of disbelief if not a blatant “Bullshit!”  That’s because Mercury girls are very, very good at doing whatever they do, articulating their ideas and taking control of situations that need an ordered and strong mind.  Not your usual introvert; not the skulking about the video store, not daring to look the clerk in the eye, sort.  We are bold and clear like a bell in a Buddhist monastery ringing across the Himalayas.

When given a chance to do anything – anything at all – I would usually choose to be alone, at least for a little while.  Empty, unplanned time is what I need to allow this strong and ordered mind to ruminate upon its many and varied interests, apply creative problem solving, logic and strategy and to allow intuitive creativity to inform the process.  For me, no time alone yields no poetry nor art, it breeds a systematic undermining of creativity and productivity.  This Mercury girl becomes agitated and depressed, overworked and stressed. 

Better to take a little time to unplug, unload, undo.  I love to dump the contents of my mind out and sort through it like a child digging through her collection of baubles and trinkets picked up at the fair.  And then put them carefully away, preserved and labeled, ready for recall at a moment’s notice.

With a guarantee of solitude and solace I find that I can be as deeply driven as I care to be.  I feel I can achieve anything I set my mind to.  There are no barriers, borders or rules that cannot be overcome.  I can serve forever from that limitless reservoir that feeds and sustains me.

Life consumes me wholly even as I am replenished.  I bring forth new effort and ideas; they are snatched up by an eager Universe and the nexus between Creator and Created pulls yet more from me in a continuing flux of energy.  I am restored from an eternal fount that resides deep in my intuitive self and is tied to my innermost core.  This is the birthplace of inspiration, motivation and action.

I have been consumed many times over, in many incarnations and reinventions.  I am mother.  Wife.  Entrepreneur.  Executive.  Spiritual seeker.  I have found new depths of being by diving beneath the waters of the well of grief to the still quiet place where the first heart beat its first beat.  I have walked in the fire and faced my foes with courage, spoken the truth from deep love and compassion.  I have become a leader and shelterer of those who are attracted to such truths.  I hold space between my outstretched arms for the world to be born and for lovers to dance and for the weary to rest.  It is not easy.  Sometimes I stumble and fall crying into the arms of that vast unknown and I yell “What more can I give?  What more would you have of me?”

I know the answer.  Mercury-girls, like me, are on the fast-track to dissolve into the Source, being consumed by a serviceful life.  Those blessed moments of introversion and stillness allow me to brush away the detritus and fragments that create drag and confusion and lend handholds to attachment and desire.  Attachment is the devil – if there is one.  I must be wary and ever vigilant against the desire to act for my sole benefit.  There is no lasting joy in serving one’s selfish desires.  It is a costly and painful way of living that is abhorrent to Nature.    

And when I turn my gaze toward the hills where the sun sets and solitude awaits, I know I am connected to the highest truth.  One that sustains and keeps all creation.  I will be lived, Mercurially, in the moment and unreserved.