Second Christmas Widowed

                                    Hi my Honey,

Our second Christmas apart is almost here

Has your spirit well spent this year?

Now, no longer as frantic over your demise

Precious moments can feel you near

What universe can be seen from your eyes?

Tropical isle, travel, dreams we shared

Meant so much more when we were paired

Did your soul unite with loved ones past?

Love, I’ve learned is not selfish, be happy

Always on a quest, I charged through life

You often wondered

What does it take to satisfy or make you happy?

Honey, the answer was just being your wife.

Mother Love Energy

Maternal energy abounds on the isle of Puerto Rico. It wraps around you like a warm hug. Mama, the core of the family earns her place with a loving vigilance. She touches and caresses, while suggesting what you should be doing.

Have something to eat. What can I get you to drink? Those are the tools of caring, that bring Puerto Rican hearts home. Daughters and sons sit at the table to tell mama all about it. She listens and asks questions. When she tells the hard truths, you know that she’s right.

In Mundelein, Illinois, I met a woman exuding the mother love energy. Her smile and make it right resolve captivated me. I had to have someone like that in my life. No matter what the universe threw at her, she handled it, believing that God would be there for her and her family.

Her dream of retiring on the island of her ancestors became reality. God blessed her with a beautiful home overlooking the ocean. When God blesses a friend in the circle, all in the circle are blessed, and so I visited my friend in Puerto Rico. Of all the places in the world I dreamed of visiting, this wasn’t one. This was my husband’s dream.

Her love and joy showing off her island infected us. Gracious rituals seduced us. The simple way a person passing your table in a restaurant says, “Buen probecho,” brings a dollop of love to the day.

Puerto Rico, the curve ball blessing of our lives came from the grace of my love for a wonderful wild woman of Puerto Rico.

Thank you for loving me and being in my life.

Love Hurts Pain Real

People do horrible things because not being loved hurts so much; not being able to express or change the pain of the void inside makes us do wicked things. Some days I hurt so much that a wicked behavior just hops right out of me.

I’m at a level of awareness so I recognize it and then, of course, get upset with myself. My tendency to beat myself up over the smallest infraction of behavior has diminished thanks to a thoughtful God, who has given me so much to want to beat myself up over that I’ve almost quite given up on it. What do they call it in psychological terms? Flooding?

Drowning in sorrow, but not actually dying has given me a new perspective, lucky me. Caroline Myss talks about seeing our archetypes. I read the book, have the playing cards and worked on understanding the mess with little success. There should be a dummy card with a girl in the corner with the dunce hat on for one of my archetypes.

When I was a married, fat and happy lady, I looked at the prostitute card and wondered if under a different set of circumstances it would apply to me. Little did I know the need for another new card, the occasional asshole, which applies way more than the prostitute.

The people who have loved me the best are passed. I have time to remember why I miss them, to absorb the love bonds we created together. Knowing that never again in this lifetime will I have the joy of time spent in their love hurts.

I would rather endure the beatings of my childhood all over again, to feel every physical pain I ever had than suffer the feeling of love lost; that’s how painful this has been.

Healing, holding on, letting go, growing are the bad with the good. This is the part where what doesn’t kill me will make me stronger for the task of my life. The conscious me is still in “Duh” mode on whatever that is. What surprises me is that I am actually learning to go with the flow. Who says you can’t train an old control freak?

My next story will be about true love and surprise, surprise; it’s not about me.  

Who Loves Me

Ever wonder, how many people care about me? It’s not always the same as those I care about. All other things being equal it seems like a fair barometer. With a cadre of intimates who love me, I have been blessed.

My dearest Aunt Margaret, my confidant, my mentor, my god mother passed away this month. Kirt, Darlene and Margaret were my inner circle.

These wonderful spirits graced my life. Their physical presence sadly missed. How much of my confidence came from who I was in their eyes? My life feels deflated.   

Each morning while making the coffee I say, “Good morning, God. Good morning, Kirt. Good morning, Darlene.” And now I add, “Good morning, Aunt Margaret.

Blondie, Chi-Ping, Lucky and Robert Redford greet me with the exuberance of the living to keep me balanced in this world. Some days it doesn't work as well as others.

This weekend was made possible by dvd movies. Inner circle, my core people are on the other side. My embrace of the day is pretty half ass lately.

Margaret was the adult I could be a child with. She loved me even when she was angry with me. She listened to me, really listened, the way my Kirt did.

Aunt Margaret was the adult I wanted to become. She earned her own income, married Uncle Lou, the coolest man in New Orleans, showed horses and dogs among other outdoorsy activities.

She had the best dog. Staunch could read my mind. When I felt all alone that dog was there for me. Aunt Margaret told me in order to understand Staunch I needed to learn to speak dog.

 Thanks to Margaret and many dog friends my dog is way better than my Spanish. 

Half of We is Who? Me?

Silly, sweet, sometimes stupid, seldom mean, never wicked, lately sad and self-absorbed, smart upon occasion describes me, so does smart ass once in a while.

Self-discovery! Shit, I remember taking that trip many years ago. I liked the adult I became as a result of the journey. Easy had nothing to do with my life. Whacking at it, sooner or later, got me where I wanted to go. I worked hard, and had the life I wanted.

They tell you to visualize what you want, to stay focused. We had retirement plans for winters in Puerto Rico and a few summers in Europe. Many nights in Illinois we sat before a blazing fire discussing whether we wanted to live in Tuscany or The Netherlands first.

The Big Recession obviated any further thought on that, so winter in Puerto Rico and summers in New Orleans staying at my sister, Darlene’s became our back up plan with touring the states in a camper as sub plan. We had a new plan.

Sister and husband took off without me last year. With the most important person in my life gone; I wanted to die with him. My Darlene gone three months later; how do I picture my life with no one in it?

Their deaths are birthing a new life for me, a painful delivery, my essential identity; proving once again you’re never too old to be scared shitless.

The Widowhood Who am I Now Blues

Identity, when I have a firm grasp of who I am, dealing with others becomes easier.

I picture a young woman reading this and saying, “Well, duh!”

The complex facets of identity on a superficial level change with the mask we put on for each other.

I’m not a diamond; I’m more like coal under pressure, so who I am has changed from when Kirt was alive. We were diamonds in the rough.

Demoted to coal under pressure, but I still know what it feels like to be part of diamonds in the rough, so happy wants to be part of my identity.

We had real love. We put each other first; that’s real love. I know what love is; it’s a part of me.

  Dealing with facets of humanity not always pleasant, I feel the barbs of my defenses grow.

Demoted from having money to head above water, the one per cent still piss me off with their shallow behavior. My crusader heart is still on my sleeve.

I’m a lonely old woman, no gently aged like a good burgundy, full bodied and lingers on the tongue.

Having read that, you, now, know I am still a positive thinker, which was hard won after Kirt’s death. I stared bitterness in the eye. My sister, Darlene, turned bitter. She became mean and spiteful. I am not that.

There’s so much more about being a single woman of age. The single part looms large because thanks to my husband; I really like men.

Identity is all I own. I need to know what's in the vault. My view of myself affects how I deal with other people and everything else. 

Who

Who are you?

Who, not what, like wife, dog trainer, etc.

For almost a year and a half I've been screaming that I don’t know who I am without my husband. Being alone with a stranger sucks!

Who, as in one who stops to soak in sunsets; that’s a facet falling under nature lover, a big fan of God’s handiwork.

Accepting the bad which always goes with good is the lesson. It’s the bitch slap to get my attention before the lesson can begin. Ouch!

The need to make it better part of my makeup kicks in constantly, saving had become my specialty. How many times do I have to stuff a sock in my mouth? Bromides spewed without a wanting ear falls like spittle. I need a sign on my forehead. Smile. Shut the fuck will do for me and you.

Who I am is a heterosexual woman without her man. We hugged and kissed liberally during the day. He pinched my breast and smacked my ass. Love lit his eyes when he looked at me. Sad.

Honor and value, the depth of relationship possible between two flawed human beings. He and I did so well; now, no one knows me and few care.

 Left on my own, my lesson to be learned is, duh, what?

Be strong, hang in there because this feels like an essential lesson.

Kirt, my honey, had a tattoo of a duck pointing to itself saying,

“Who, me?”

I miss my smartass little duck.

Sorting It Out, I Hope

Good morning,
      Today won’t be another spent hugging the sofa; not that I’m complaining about days with the World Wide Web in my lap. It’s just that leaving the house feels like a great hassle.

     Days padding around the house replaced last year’s spent in bed bawling my eyes out. Healing from the worse experience in your life is like healing from disease; duh, I just figured that out.

     My life, our life was never easy.  It’s funny; we knew some very fortunate people who complained constantly. As long as I knew Kirt Carr he never was a complainer, and God gave him much to complain about.

     Fear, pain, and sorrow tie me to negative energy. Letting go of my yesterday will come when today becomes a reasonable substitute. How morose can I sound?

     This is not me! I’m the adventurer. I fascinated my husband because I was always getting into something. In later years Kirt was not only content to endorse my quests; he actively participated. He was one of the best dog show husbands ever!

     Not to digress, but 90.3 FM has the best jazz in Puerto Rico. A tremendous trumpet and a bawling sax make it impossible to not be kind of positive. My Honey’s head would be bobbing while his eyes searched the lake for fresh activity. This morning’s jazz offerings have been perfect.

     Actually, the jazz energy has motivated me to want to go out to tonight for a trumpet and a sax.

     

What To Do

Lonely, but not in abject horror like last year, still wondering what the hell am I going to do now.

My way is to stroke for what I want, stroke hard and keep stroking away. It serves me well. We, my husband and I, had a fine life.

Floundering, the byproduct of not knowing where you want to go, is better than last year, but who likes it?

Detours feel like normal changes in course, but going round in circles sucks.

Yes, I know Kirt wouldn't want me to:

Be unhappy

Feel lost

Not give a shit.

Until I find new purpose, that’s the way it is. Only I can find my purpose. So far nothing seems to be working out.

Filling my life with the pleasures of parties, shopping, beaches, and jazz is poor substitute for what I've lost. I’d feel embarrassed about whining, if I wasn't so serious.

Passion for pursuits, causes or just interests ruled my adult life after a childhood of be quiet and stay out of the way, try not to get hit. On balance feeling blessed about life, I am not complaining; no, I just lost my husband. I am complaining.

Being open to the universe is one thing, but sitting on the mountainside waiting for it to happen is hard; or is it foolish?

As my honey used to say, “Do something, even if it is wrong.”

Figuring out what that is will be better, if I didn’t feel desperate. Let me just take a deep breath and enjoy the rain. 

November Reflections

God, the Universe laid out an interesting odyssey for my life, the details of which sometimes amaze me.

Looking out my window at lush green fields with the wind whipping through the valley I am contemplating this year’s events, the first year after my honey, my husband Kirt died.

Who would have thought I’d be spending a couple of months on some guys couch; yeah, no shit, who would have thought that?

The advantage of accepting an offer of a sofa at my age is I can be fairly certain nobody is going to lose his mind in the middle of the night and pounce. The guy was a dear to share what he had and proved to be a huge distraction from my sorrow.

Only the wind and a rooster crowing bring my mind back to my island home and now. November brings reflection, time tempered my pain to find me sad, but resilient.

I slept in a kitchen-living room combo in a one bedroom, one bath, cozy apartment. My desperation for returning to New Orleans outweighed any fear, until the night he flipped the kitchen light switch on, followed by fumbling with pans. Awake and alert beyond belief, I sat up.

“Oh, you’re awake,” he said with a bemused smile. “Would you mind listening to the poem I just wrote?’  

At one in the morning I listened to poetry and stories of the man’s life.

My dogs return home barking and wagging their tails. It’s time to go rub some tummies.

God, I promise to enjoy each day you give me as best I can. I realize the day is your gift to me; I pray to use it wisely.

  

It's the Little Things

How freaking petty can you get? It was just a bottle of Perrier. Why did that piss you off so much? It wasn't as if she asked for your last bottle of San Pellegrino.

When you were working, you would have gladly given a friend the last bottle of whatever in your fridge without a second thought. You’re ordinarily generous to a fault; why get so uptight about someone coming in your house, opening your fridge and asking for the not last bottle of your best water?

Money’s tight, living on a budget takes discipline. You went to San Juan spending money like a drunk, so it’s your fault you were down to the last three bottles of mineral water for the month.  

You’re not letting this go; why? It was only a bottle of water. You make spritzers with the mineral water and juice when friends visit. Why is this different? Don’t you think you’re making something out of nothing?

Yeah, this is a stupid little shit nothing. Granted mineral water is expensive at twenty bucks a case, but you serve it to your friends all the time. What’s so different?

Being on a fixed income I offer my guests the best I have when I have a full supply or can afford more. Sometimes I offer mineral water; that’s a flush month. When times are tight, I offer the filtered water I drink when I’m home. Had I not been occupied with another friend; I would have offered her a glass of my filtered water because finances are crap for me at the moment.

So am I really being crabby about my lack of handling my finances better? 

Kirt would have told me to open up my mouth and tell her to have some filtered or regular bottled water that I was running low. What was wrong with me that I didn't do that? His feedback kept my head on straight; what am I going to do?  

Sights N Sounds of a Widowhood Side Street

Recently, I ran into a woman I hadn't seen since I was fat and happily married. “You look so wonderful,” she chirped. “Really, you look marvelous; what are you doing? What kind of diet are you on?”

“No diet,” I replied.

“Seriously, you have to be doing something. You look so good.”

“My husband died last year. I've had no appetite.”

She knew he passed. I saw her shortly after. Mourning will do that; she should understand. She sent me a condolence, surely she knew why; didn't she? Sometimes I find it so difficult to be sweet. Attempts to mask my pain fall short on me. I thanked her and walked away.

This conversation opened the door to my sorrow, so I sat on a ledge overlooking the ocean collecting my thoughts.

A few years ago I saw a friend some months after her husband died. She’d lost a lot of weight also. As long as I’d known her, she’d been fat like me. I couldn't take my eyes off her. She looked so little and fragile, somewhat broken. Behind wire rim glasses her eyes looked huge, like a deer’s.

Never before had I seen her as tiny and cute. My emotions conflicted between wanting to tell her how good she looked and sadness for the lost little girl I saw. This dichotomy disoriented me. She still attempted her standard: it’s no big deal, I have everything under control persona.

Damn, it’s my turn on the other side of that equation.

God, you give strange, yet wonderful gifts. I’m still thanking you for that man you made to be my mate, and have finally forgiven you for taking him away. 

Relationships Harmony, Hmmm

Relationships are never easy for me. Dealing with myself is difficult enough without embracing a strange soul’s behavior. God, how quirky you've made me.

Love’s goal, our highest ideal offers challenges at every turn. With one human being I managed love. We knew each other, accepting faults as part of package. That didn't come freaking easy, but we did it. All I wanted was to be with him, pushing his wheel chair or in his hospital room; it didn't matter.

One Sunday you took him and that life away from me. My niece called it a new chapter for me to write. She’s a good girl. I wish I knew her better. 
The one person with whom I achieved a truly loving relationship died despite all of my efforts. My heart and soul are traumatized, battered into what?

I still don’t know, but finally calmed down enough to look around without frantic fear lost in space deer in a head lights, oh shit on my face. So God, I’m here for a reason. Right?!

What is it? Forgive me if I’m too stupid to figure this out. Whose idea was it that humans only use 10% of their brains? Okay, bottom line is I have difficulty with my concept of God, the Universe, or the big parent of it all. I've had your help in the past, so I do believe, but I don’t get you.

Perhaps it a question of harmony; Kirt and I became harmonious over a lifetime. When I quit bouncing off other beings, I may have my answer. Shit, this sounds so hard.

Today I will practice gliding, being in harmony with myself, not bumping into other beings. The lesson for the day shopping in harmony, egad; I’m going to the mall. 

Widowhood Phase Two or 15 Months Later

Days filled with activity live better than those uncluttered. No matter how beautiful the scenery, sadness is my background. Darkness slipped into the window in my head. It tiptoed across the bottom corner. In the depth of my sorrow I saw it. Warning! My subconscious said.

Life as I knew it, loved it died; how could it get worse? Worse how? I die; bring my relief. And yet, that void scared me, even in the depth of my grief. The possibility of my life spiraling down the hopper gave me something else to think about whenever I had a lull in thoughts of my honey, my husband’s death.

When happily ever after ended, I felt stuck in the you don’t know what you've got until it’s gone, but I did know what I had. We found love, polished and took care of it for the most part.

Realing with few things to disrupt my morass, the lurking void frightened me out of chaos. Not to over-dramatize, but this was the dark night of my soul and darkness in a sinister cloak infiltrated broken defenses.

Have you ever met a bitter widow? A woman previously benign becomes so mean that you think of her in terms of hell on wheels has been taken by this void.

My heart ached when I’d see old couples in the mall, remembering when my honey and me used to be. One day I stared at a woman, who looked a little impatient with her old guy, with savage hate in my eye. Where the hell did that come from? Another look told me the woman did not deserve that; it came from me.

The first step to Motherfukerville begs a second, before you know it a capped conductor welcomes you with All Aboard!!

A plan with goals, that’s what I needed. I always handle things better when I have a plan.

My sweet man required much of my time for so long that without him I had little to do. As the lone survivor, I deserve some care. Taking better care of me, a concept whose time arrived, seemed strange, but in a good way.

Goal #1 Personal: I joined a gym. A ton of toiletries followed me home. Even the bags under my eyes felt threatened.

Beach front parking for gym 

Goal #2: Be good to my dogs; the cat has me well trained.

Goal #3: Be the advocate the animals of Puerto Rico need me to be. As my darling Kirt would say, “Do something even if it is wrong.”

Goal #4: Write, my story is worthwhile. I must learn to write it well.

Goal #5: Living well isn't the best revenge; it’s the best plan. Learn to live my new life by applying the lessons learned; hold on to the love and be open to what the universe offers.

Days filled with activity live better than those uncluttered. No matter how beautiful the scenery, sadness is my background. Darkness slipped into the window in my head. It tiptoed across the bottom corner. In the depth of my sorrow I saw it. Warning! My subconscious said.

Life as I knew it, loved it had died; how could it get worse? Worse how? I die; bring my relief. And yet, that void scared me, even in the depth of my grief. The possibility of my life spiraling down the hopper gave me something else to think about whenever I had a lull in thoughts of my honey, my husband’s death.

When happily ever after ended, I felt stuck in the you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone, but I did know what I had. We had found love, polished and took care of it for the most part.

Realing with few things to disrupt my morass, the void lurking in the corner frightened me out of my chaos. Not to over dramatize, but this was the dark night of my soul and darkness in a sinister cloak infiltrated broken defenses.

Have you ever met a bitter widow? A woman previously benign becomes so mean that you think of her in terms of hell on wheels has been taken by this void.

My heart ached when I’d see old couples in the mall, remembering when my honey and me used to be. One day I stared at a woman, who looked a little impatient with her old guy, with savage hate in my eye. Where the hell did that come from? Another look told me the woman did not deserve that; it came from me.

The first step to Motherfukerville begs a second, before you know it a capped conductor welcomes you with All Aboard!!

A plan with goals, that’s what I needed. I always handle things better when I have a plan.

My sweet man required much of my time for so long that without him I had little to do. As the lone survivor, I deserve some care. Taking better care of me, a concept whose time arrived, seemed strange, but in a good way.

Goal #1 Personal: I joined a gym. A ton of toiletries followed me home. Even the bags under my eyes felt threatened.

Goal #2: Be good to my dogs; the cat has me well trained.

Goal #3: Be the advocate the animals of Puerto Rico need me to be. As my darling Kirt would say, “Do something even if it is wrong.”

Goal #4: Write, my story is worthwhile. I must learn to write it well.

Goal #5: Living well isn't the best revenge; it’s the best plan. Learn to live my new life by applying lessons learned; hold on to the love and be open to what the universe offers.

Working on this plan is saving me from the abyss. Am I being a drama queen? Maybe, but the world doesn't need another bitter old bitch. Some days I feel good again, happy to be alive, enjoying this gift.

Recent anniversaries: 1st of Kirt’s death and 2^nd wedding anniversary without him knocked the crap out of me. The lows don’t rival the early days after he died, which doesn't reduce my… Misery comes to mind, but it’s an overstatement these days; unless you catch me on a bad day.

Days filled with activity are followed by nights slept soundly more often than not. I believe in karma so I know this to be penance. Please, God give me the grace.

Thank you to my friends. I am blessed with wonderful friends. I have love in my life thanks to my friends.

Thanks to my best buddy in his incarnation as Kirt.

  

   

  

Going in Circles

Laying in a pool of feces and blood Saturday night, it occurred to me that living alone may not be wise.

No family, few friends, I am a rock in a hard place.

My writing, which admittedly wants improving, may receive more nurturing elsewhere.

What else do I have here? My projects? My big goal was to help the activists I admire. To date my efforts here have failed. I can’t even get the attention of the people I want to help, so it’s time to rethink that goal.

I like my house, being alone in it is NOT bad, except maybe for the little prick, who as I’m writing this is under the almond tree just my side of the property line, doing what; who the fuck knows?

A few afternoons a month I get together with the girls for a movie or a swim in Glo’s pool; the remainder of the time I’m alone except for the kidz, sadly their conversations are limited.

In my life I've never had such a difficult time finding a handyman, a plumber that doesn't want to rip me a new asshole. Gee, my butt’s so sore I can’t bear to think of it.

All of the problems I’ve had since coming back I could have solved much more quickly. It’s one hassle after another.

I’ve been working hard to be positive, to not fall into depression. It’s been a battle. I’m not sure how much better, I’d be elsewhere or if I’m willing to give up what I love here.

Going places, doing things alone is an acquired taste. After a lifetime with my best buddy, the flavor is a touch strong for me. A year ago I couldn't stand the thought.

Most of the best friends I have are here. I just don’t have enough of a social network and I’m not really good at it.

I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do, but having my ass ripped open and hitting my head gave me something to think about other than how much I hurt.

As Kirt used to say, “When you’re going around in a circle, do something different even if it is wrong.”

Sorry to be such a drama queen.     

On Being Alone

Recently I've read things that say if you don’t like being alone, you don’t like yourself. If you don’t like yourself, you can’t really like others; blah, blah.

Alone is how I've spent most of the last year after being with my husband 24/7 for twenty-eight years. We were married for forty-five. I've had a difficult time with being alone; it’s an adjustment I didn't want to make. I loved being married to my husband. We were the old couple who didn't have to talk, just being together was the thing.

Was focusing on him a way of avoiding myself? I've wondered, so I began to treat myself special, being good to myself. I’m the only one I have to please, what a concept. In part it’s very nice and another part it feels too self-indulgent.

What I've learned is that I like myself, have for a long time. When you know that someone loves you as much as you love them, it’s easy to put them first. I’m lonely for a good reason. I signed on for a life with someone and it worked out. We were great together. I've lost that. I have a right to be lonely. That doesn't mean there’s something wrong with my relationship with me.

He Passed One Year Ago

     A year of mourning came in stages. The first six months tortured me with the greatest loss of my life; everything I ever did wrong during my marriage haunted me. A harsh look or loss of temper poked me in the middle of the night. Oh, how I wished I hadn’t done that. I was tired, lazy didn’t want to do the little things that would have meant so much to the man I miss so terribly.

     I lamented my mistakes. My darling, I am so sorry for all I didn’t do. My inadequacies plague me. It hurt so much to realize I’d never be with you again in this life. This loss grieved me beyond what I thought I could bear.

     The depth of who you are never came to me completely while you were alive. The beauty of you unfolded in a year of remembering. How being with you allowed me to become more fully the self I am supposed to be astonished me as I saw in retrospect. You had to be a strong man to put up with me all of those years. That you loved me as much as you did never failed to amaze me. I didn’t get why you loved me so much, but I’ve always been grateful.

     That your (Kirt’s) soul, spirit, or essence is intact became my overriding concern. I meditated on that until I realized it was a matter of faith that I must decide and give conviction to whatever belief I chose. In some moments my belief is firm, solid and then there are times…  

     If I believe that Kirt’s essence exists in a meaningful way then it’s my duty to live out my life with purpose. The law of karma guides my position on things. I may doubt most things given the chance to talk myself out of it; I may have been one of the early sophists, but I have a perfect acceptance of karma, which is not to say I have depth of understanding on anything.

     When I’m in harmony with my higher purpose, I’m in good spirit despite the troublesome items of life. This harmony eludes me since Kirt’s passing.

  

       

Your Best Days Are Over

Just what does the mean? Your best days are over.
After a certain age beauty fades, strength wains, and brains...
Tell me about it today; remind me about it tomorrow.
Decline inevitable. 

What a worker, an acknowledged success in my prime,
I strived hard, focused on the next challenge,
 but didn't savor the wins. 
What tomorrow brings never let up.

Talent and tenacity traded for success and respect.
Dashing, dating success.
Just settled back beginning to enjoy the flavor.

Next thing ya know only social security
Retired on a tropical island.
Best days are over; are you kidding?

Contentment with age and achievement
There's no rush. Challenges are my choice.
It may not be my best, but so what? 

Homeward Bound

NOLA friends thank you one and all

I really had a ball

The festivals were grand

As was each and every band

Conversations over coffee au lait and beignet

Really brightened my day

Next year at the same time

I’ll be back in the second line

Till then love and hugs

On all your mugs

Mark It as a Learning Experience

The morning in question, there was no scene. I fixed you a cup of coffee and placed it on the table. As I was leaving, you finally woke up and I wished you a good day. I certainly wasn't angry. Maybe you had a nightmare.

I never chose not to talk to you. I merely stated that it was you who ran out, implying that I was there to talk and you did not seem to want to--also inviting you to do so. Another instance of your misunderstanding.

What you refer to as "verbal abuse," you started on many occasions. To me, it was just a game we played. My humor is often self deprecating, indicating that there is really no harm intended. And this is something that is not likely to change--despite your trying to remake me.

"The best poet in the state of Louisiana"--really? What I think about myself and what you think I think about myself are so far askew that it doesn't even make sense to comment on it.

Guess I must be a "bad boy" in your perception, and that was the implication--with lots and lots of annoying habits. "I’m not going to vent listing your short comings." 

I don't pretend to want to "make you over" at all, just want you to be aware of what you look like to others as you have often done for me. And I don't perceive that to be a bad thing. My diatribe was only designed to do that. Did you not see it that way?

Thank you for the good times.

He’s right, the morning I actually got my stuff out of his apartment, that Tuesday, there was no anger, I hoped to sleep until after he left, just in case there was a repeat of his outburst the morning before. When someone yells in your face, getting spittle on you, well, I felt threatened.

Anyone who knows me knows I don’t engage in win loose games for fun. Verbal jousting is hurtful, I told him so, and that I didn’t like it. “That’s a challenge, like waving a red flag in front of a bull.” He danced in excitement. It was a clue I chose to ignore.

After weeks of listening to put downs I began to defend myself. I should have left then; that was a mistake. Self deprecating humor: at first I thought what self deprecating humor. Ready to deny that his humor was ever self deprecating, I then realized it must have been the wrinkled clothes he pulled from a pile on the floor coupled with the Brill Cream slicked hair which made him look like a jester; that was his self deprecating humor, hell, I almost missed it. I never understood why he did that. He’s right; my perception’s off. All the bragging coming out of someone’s mouth dressed like that was self deprecating. I guess he, too is smarter than he looks, which was his favorite thing to say about me.

It doesn’t even feel good to have the last laugh. It’s sad when people intentionally put themselves in combative postures with each other. I resonate best in a win-win, which isn’t possible with this man.

No, I wouldn’t dream of trying to change anyone; that’s not my way. I think distance is the solution. 

Thanks and Good Bye, the Sequel

.

The topic of What do I Make of This, his letter screamed for a reply. I didn't know what to say; finally, this is what I sent. I can  be such a sophist talking myself in and out of things. The warning of my Aunt Margaret in my head, "What's wrong with a man who's had three wives and can't stay with any of them. Women just want to nest." I wasn't nesting, I just needed a place to stay, which put me on his couch. 

I didn't not want to be friends with this guy. How bad did his behavior have to be to  push me away? I'm a mature, hetero sexual woman, alone for almost a year, endless hours of listening to " I did this, and I did that," told me how lonely I was for male company. I was attracted to him; God forgive me. 

My first almost relationship, since I'm a teenager fizzled, oh woe is me.

This my reply to close the gate on this puppy. 

I’m sure my perceptions are often incorrect; none the less they are MY perceptions. I decided to flee the morning you raised your voice to me and got in my face, shouting, “My opinion is the only one to count,” at first I thought you were kidding. I have no idea why you were so angry that morning, but I choose not to subject myself to that behavior, yes, I run.

I asked if you wanted to talk; you chose to not. More than two weeks later you send this diatribe about changing me for a better Patricia.

Thank you for everything good you did; there were many enjoyable times. The day we went to on errands and played name that tune and who sang it stands out in my mind a fine day. I believe I treated you to an oyster po boy; Short Stop makes the best po boys. It wasn’t all bad which made it sad to leave.

I am not angry. You characterize yourself as an evil, bad boy. Your goal was to get a rise out of me. I told you, you wouldn’t like the results. 

Respect for others means that you don’t try to remodel people. It’s not your job or right to make a better Patricia.

As I offered from the beginning, you are welcome to stay at my home in Puerto Rico; that was the swap. I did not sign on for verbal abuse. I asked you repeatedly to not do that. You said, “That was like waving a red flag in front of a bull.” Equally annoying was having you insist on me telling your friends that, “I’m the best poet in the State of Louisiana.”

I’m not going to vent listing your short comings. I’m just going to say, “Thanks for the kindness you showed. May God bless you and keep you.”

What do You Make of This?

On 4/29 I wrote Thanks and Good Bye to a man after the level of verbal abuse crossed a line, which frightened me. It was one aggressive verbal outburst. The daily verbal abuse masqueraded as jokes with me as the butt.

The day after I wrote Thanks and Good Bye, I sent him a text thanking him for all he had done for me and asking him if he wanted to meet to talk. I sincerely honor all that he did for me and didn't want to part on unfriendly terms.

On 4/29 He sent me this email:

Deeply sorry that I hurt you. Believe me when I say that was never my intent. Please keep positive, and if there is ever anything I can help you with let me know. You're welcome for the place to crash and for everything. A bit late for this, but I shall use kid gloves with your feelings in the future. Please forgive me for the oversight. Keep doing your things--the writing and observing of nature and her creatures. And learn more of the other things that you would do but don't do yet.

May God go with you and guide you,

My reply was: Got your email. Still friends. Hate to see us uncomfortable with each. Talk?

The email below came today. We haven’t talked. I don’t know what to think about this 5/16 communication.

You once asked me if we could talk though I doubted you were sincere when you mentioned this. But I have some thoughts about you that you probably should hear, and so this letter with its information follows:

I hope you take it in the loving way it is intended, yet I know you don't do well with people who analyze you or offer any kind of critique. Before you react to circumstances that upset you, you should take a deep breath and realize that folks are not all dead set against you, and it's not you against the world. Your perceptions on such matters are often incorrect. Despite the fact that you hold your insight in the highest regard, it is often “out there.” I can just hear you saying, “Well that's your thought on the subject.” Of course it is—just as your thoughts are yours, but you have expertise in some fields I would not pretend to challenge because you've been steeped in them so long and know what the standard fare is in those areas. You should afford the same respect to others. Does that mean the norm and general patterns are always right? Of course not, but they are how things are interpreted in this life at this moment, and they are generally accepted. Do your ideas hold more weight than others in fields you are endeavoring to learn? Hardly—regardless what you might think. Of course your opinions hold great value for you, but not necessarily for the general population—not in some areas.

By your own admission, you are a runner. Whenever a situation you don't like presents itself—you flee from it, even when there is no danger to you. Are your feelings fragile at this time in your life? Perhaps, but believe it or not, others have feelings too. A word of advice: You can't run from yourself. Wherever you go—there you are, stuck with yourself again. Oh well. That's a problem we all have, but many stay and face situations, seeing through the eyes of  with their flawed selves, coping with the what we like about ourselves as well as what we don't like. Are you perfect? You tell me. I hadn't thought so. All that is said to you and all you think is screened through your imperfect perceptions. Whoopee—we all have to deal with imperfections, even me.

I offered you a place to stay for no charge, helped you find a good vehicle, took time from my day to show you around and help you with your touring, helped with gas money, gave an assist with your storage, introduced you to people—all with no other purpose than to “hopefully” make a friend. I was taught by my mother that you can't buy friends, you have to be one. So I tried to be one and failed in your eyes. Nonetheless, if you find me offensive, I understand. You have some flaws in that regard as well, but I learned to cope with them. If you don't like me, well that's on you, and I can live with that. However, the WAY you left, like me or not, spoke volumes about who you are. I deserved better than you leaving with no explanation or note or call.... Though it was already established that you're a runner, I gave you credit for better than that.

Am I “mean” for writing you this note? Maybe in your mind, but that's not my intent, and don't think you know how I “mean” anything. For the most part, you don't have a clue. My taking the time to think this out, write it and send it should say something? You're always the one who is obsessed with “owning” things—own these facts about yourself and create a better Patricia.

As for this evil, bad boy, he expects nothing from you. And you've taught me just how much you would prefer not to know me. So goes it. Be well, and get over your hate—all of it. Just let it go.

Blessings,

What do I say to this?