Author: Alice Lundy

I am the woman who rises. I write about getting back up after life takes unintended curves. I focus on women’s issues, relationships, grief, health, and how to be a good citizen in these tumultuous times. Walking in the woods my favorite addiction. I also love hot coffee, cold beer, and big dogs. My memoir and I do the two-step in the agent-seeking process. Connect with me here or on Facebook or Twitter. Read more from me on Elephant Journal, The Good Men Project, and The Urban Howl.

Dear Girl Back There

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Dear Girl Back There,

Thank you for trying. And failing. And falling on your ass when you were so sure you had it right. Again. In business. Relationships. Friendships. Decision making. Thank you for anything that resembles wisdom. It was hard-earned. You, Girl Back There, took harsh punishments.

You didn’t speak the words you wanted. At times, you spoke words that hurt and shamed. All in an effort to get love. Or at least a little attention.

Hey you, Girl Back There, thanks for helping me develop style, through trial and error and dollars spent on desires and designs that were never meant to be mine.

You endured people who rubbed you the wrong way and those who wished you’d go away. You took on heartbreak like a sport. You always won, even when you lost.

Sure, Girl Back There, your expectations evaporated like water on a summer sidewalk, but you obtained an education and you always caught the next train. Girl Back There, thank you.

You delivered me here, but I’m no longer you. And you, Girl Back There, scared of all the bad that’s been before, you don’t have to carry my bags any more. Let’s just set them down and play.

See, Girl Back There, I saw it all. I know how hard it’s been. Your struggle was my birth. I’m a new woman now. I travel light with less baggage. And my ticket to ride is stamped GRATITUDE. Here, I’ll hand it to you. It can take you anywhere. Even HERE, NOW.

The Best Lives On

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My brother-in-law Tommy and I didn’t always get along. I thought he came along and stole my sister. He did. He might say he rescued her from me.

He made her his wife, in a way that I could never make her my sister. She just was.

To get my sister to be his wife, Tom had to win her over: think her both beautiful and smart, be loyal and kind and gentlemanly. He had to be committed. And funny. He had to be respectful and tenacious and the kind of man she’d trust to raise her kids.

Tommy was all those things. He won my sister over. Then, after all that, he gave her unconditional love—not necessarily pretty or perfect—but the thing we all crave—unconditional love, Tommy gave that.

And not just to Jayne. You should’ve seen the parade of people and random acts of kindness Tom attracted into the last chapter of his life. So many people, in so many ways, stepped up to say, “I love you, Tom.” Damn, if he didn’t love that.

Almost as much as he loved his boys. His last Christmas, I asked him if it was hard to say good-bye. “It is,” he said, “but I’ve been fortunate. I got to see them grow up. I think we’ve raised some fine young men.”

Yes, my nephews are fine young men. Through them, best parts of my brother-in-law live on.

Holding Hands

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“He won’t look like you expect. You can go in and we’ll give you some time alone with him. But, I have to warn you…” the funeral director said with an eerie calmness, “his head is covered. It was mutilated beyond recognition. It’s a natural temptation to want to see his face and I can’t stop you. But, I’ve been doing this for a long time and I encourage you to not lift the face covering.” Giving me key instructions for navigating this new turn in my life, this stranger reached out and touched my shoulder, then peered into my eyes and said, “Honey, trust me, you don’t want that to be the last image you have of your brother.”

I walked slow, steady, and stern into the sterile lifeless room where Bill lay on faceless display. I stared at the long tan fingers on the hand that took 27 years to form and would never wear a ring; the hand that punched my upper arm 20 times in a row just for being the little sister; the hand that unclasped a simple gold chain from his neck as his voice said, “Here, it’s yours;” the hand that stuck its thumb out for a ride while the other hand pushed me to follow; the hand that hid under winter gloves while carrying my skis and poles; the hand that power-shifted a green Vega while “Give me two steps and you’ll never see me no more” blasted through open windows; the hand that held the phone while girlfriends giggled on the other end; the hand that slammed a courtroom door good-bye; the hand that slapped Mrs. Sharp in ninth-grade English to signal the secret, “Bill can’t read;” the hand that held cigarettes like an actor; the hand that carried our two-year-old nephew while walking in Juarez; the hand that videotaped my wedding bash; the hand that held a beer and rested on the passenger door just 24 hours ago. The hand was undeniably Bill’s:  sporting small scars from long days doing construction and fixing and fiddling with a thousand car parts, yet still soft from youth and running through dozens of girls’ hair. I held the hand, caressed and kissed it, then cursed it for being cold, for being there instead of with my mother.

I moved my focus up to the covered face I saw clearly in my mind. Death did a little dance and I could watch if I was willing to pull the curtain. I froze. The funeral director said the wrong thing to the wrong girl. He didn’t know just telling me not to do something lit a fire in me to do it. And the temptation to lift the sheet started in my stomach and moved into my chest. A crowd of instigators chanted in my head, “Do it! Do it! Do it!”

I let go of my brother’s hand. I needed to see his face. This is my brother. My one chance. I’ll look if I want to look. Nothing can change the fact. This situation cannot be different. Looking under that sheet is looking at the truth, of which I am not afraid. My hand pinched the corner of the sheet. I heard my mother whisper from the hallway, something I couldn’t understand.

I turned and ran, pushing past my mother, falling onto the bathroom floor, sobbing like a teenager taken over by hormones. “Why’d they have to smash his fucking face?! Why his face?!” My mother and sister comforted me with strokes on the arm while my father, stepmother and stepfather gawked from the doorway. Now, I was the accident.

I flashed back to a ski accident on a run called “Big Mama.” I’d gone over a five-foot jump because Bill had called me a wimp. He stood at the bottom of the hill, daring me down. I leaned too far back and immediately popped out of both skis upon landing. My anger at my stupid brother blocked my tears. And then there was his hand, pulling me up, as he said, “You did it! Are you ok?”

“I’m ok now,” I said to the gathering as I rose from the bathroom floor.

“Are you sure?” my mother asked.

“Yeah, I’m sure. You can go in now.”

I watched my mother walk towards her son, his body and a temptation worse than the alcohol that had once weakened her. Although my brother’s hand would be cold and could no longer hold my mother’s, the images of it would forever hold me and give me the strength to hold my mother’s hand.

No Match for Grief

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First, you dive in, vowing

To ease your sister’s pain,

As if you have power.

You’re no more match for grief

Than you were for cancer or death (HIS).

 

Then, you wince at

The sharpness of her pain.

As if it hurts you, too.

You’ve never been where she is,

Or was — loved wife, then grieving widow.

 

Next, you land on knees

Begging her release from pain,

Knowing it’s beyond you.

You surrender on her behalf

As she braves day by day, breath by breath.

 

Soon, you know your task:

To stand witness to pain,

Facing its shattering reality.

You’re merely, miraculously there:

A place where she can lean and speak.

 

You learn to honor feelings and

Stand steady in spite of turmoil.

You recognize you’re no fixer.

No one is, but the God she resists.

So, you invite him and his angels to sprinkle fairy dust in her dreams.

 

Now, you listen with your soul.

Know presence without pretense.

You observe pain with a dash of hope.

Yesterday teeter-totters with tomorrow,

All up in the air, except the certainty of your sister’s smile.

 

They Never Danced

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They never danced. At weddings and bars, theirs was a party of two—comfortable in some corner chatting and laughing—Gerlach style.

Once he was gone, the music kept playing and the invitations arriving.

Maybe not today, but someday she’ll dance the way she’s learned to laugh. Yes, she’s learned to laugh! No small feat, the way she was knocked down by his death.

I’ve witnessed a woman hearing the music of life, as if for the first time, as if it sings from the hole in her soul.

Someday—you just watch—her hips will begin to sway to an angel’s tune. And together, they’ll dance.

We Were Stargazers

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Santa Fe, New Mexico, the Land of Enchantment. January 4, 2016. 5:00 AM.

Black sky blanketed in twinkles. My sister, her 29-year-old son Trevor, and I (coffee in hand, bundled up), stood outside gazing skyward awaiting the predicted meteor showers.

Jayne saw one! Then Trevor! Then one flashed in my view! For the next 45 minutes, there were lulls, but I bet I saw a dozen falling stars. Fast and bright. They lit me up the way falling stars always do, glistening with personal hope, like the Universe just winked at me. And grandeur—a word that’s too big for my tongue, but belongs with stars, planets, and the vastness of a thing called GALAXY.

Like a miracle maybe you didn’t see, the stars dropped so quickly we rarely witnessed the same ones. When we did, those danced into our view like strings just outside of a kitty’s reach. Then gone.

With each sighting, a rush—like the kind from learning to ride a bicycle—flashed through my body. I got kissed by pure, childlike excitement. Breathtaking.

Worth it. Totally worth it to get up at what I consider a ridiculous hour to share something beyond my nephew’s knowledge and explanation, even beyond the three-ring bonding, which is badass for any family that has a history. Once you get what these moments mean, you stop missing them. Can you imagine missing out on a miracle?

Sometimes, I force myself to go greet falling stars with family and let the Universe sweep my soul and make room for something bigger—like authentic, effervescent oohs and aahs.

 

Unless You’re a Stalker

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Tell us the dress is beautiful—because we’re wearing it. Remind us of our brilliance and our brains. Help us embrace our femininity. Please, men who love us, don’t diminish us.

We’re emotionally attuned to taste your pride or bitterness the way a wine connoisseur detects tannins. The sweetness of your words melts us like ice cream on a tongue. Please, be sweet. Strong, but sweet.

If you will, try to remember that every day we’re told our hair shouldn’t be the color it is, our bodies (even the beautiful ones) could use a little work—at the gym or the plastic surgeon. Or just whitening the teeth, or hey, maybe a little tuck.

If we do it, we’re vain and must deny. If we don’t at least invest in minimal beauty tools, techniques and procedures, we become something less in your eyes. Yet, we can’t help but see you light up when we enter the room polished and pretty.

Admittedly, we women also love to ogle our well put together men. And yes, we mean your physique, too.

But, somehow it seems from this side of the line—which is now quite blurred, but anyhow—life’s invitation to men reads, “Come as you are.” Women’s invitations suggest, “If you could look just a bit better, that would help.”

Listen, after the party’s swinging, the cheap guy chases the plastic girl and the deep characters find one another. Yet, it often starts with someone saying, “You look beautiful tonight.” (Sometimes it’s me, saying it to myself in the mirror.)

The words are about more than looks. When a man says and means it, like that, she feels it. SHE SHINES.

It doesn’t matter if they just met or have been married thirty years. Women don’t tire of sincere compliments. Unless you’re a stalker. So, don’t be a stalker.

Just know, if we look beautiful, we earned it, even if by just being a woman. Still, it’s the owning our beauty that challenges us.

Blah, blah. This is coming off as women are victims, isn’t it? Yes, we’re victims of a beauty industry that we keep ultra-profitable. We’re victims of our own duplicity, wanting to go without mascara or let our hair go gray, but not daring, because what would they say? Not that we care, but then we do.

The truth is we strive to look good so we feel good. Ugly is a feeling we women swerve to avoid.

But, my man looking at me like I’m hot and respecting my ideas, too? Yeah, I can walk that runway. All night long.

Exercise from Danielle LaPorte

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I TRUST: my own truth and authenticity. I trust I was born to be a writer and live in love. I trust in sunshine, nature & being by the ocean. I trust in the stretch—physical & emotional. I trust God’s got my back and my sister loves me unconditionally. I trust my dog has a whole lot of God in her & was sent to be mine. I trust in stories, poems, songs & music. I trust in mornings and full moons. I trust my gut, instincts, and guides. I trust my ability to know & be ok when I don’t. I trust in prayer, the spiritual gulfstream & angels. I trust in the unseen as much as the seen. I trust in the magic & the mystery. I trust in deep listening & friendship—male friends and girlfriends, secrets, laughter, & understanding. I trust in my ability to let go & grow. I trust in saying goodbye & especially hello. I trust in my words flowing and my path unfolding.

Having a Friend in Witness Protection

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I have a friend who says our circle of friends is like family to her. Yet, she keeps parts of her life, like if she’s dating someone or whose car is parked in her driveway, private. Are you kidding me? We’re girlfriends! If we can’t tell each other about the men, mess and mistakes, who can we tell?

I try to tell myself, “That’s just Janet.” I’ll call her Janet because she’d be horrified if I exposed her actual first name (which is as common as Janet), the same way she freaks out if anyone tries to take her picture.

If you ever did and put it on Facebook (which she’s not on), that would be a serious breach of boundaries. So, I doubt she knows that once her picture—taken with another friend and a koala bear when we all went to Australia—was up on Facebook for 24 hours. It’s not like she was tagged or anything, but she would’ve considered that exposure beyond bad.

I try not to push Janet because she’s truly my friend in a step up, be there, invited to our family gatherings, damn, I know how much she cares about me, and more importantly, my sister way. They were friends first and Janet acted as a sister to Jayne (my sister’s real name) throughout her painful journey into widowhood.

Maybe Janet’s in the witness protection program. That’s ridiculous because she and my sister have worked together and been friends for at least a decade, sharing that same circle of friends Janet claims are like family. So, I have to let the idea that she’s in witness protection go.

It’s unfortunate because that idea makes it easier for me to forgive Janet for hiding behind her fortress of it’s none of our damn business if she’s seeing someone or gets a promotions or if her dog dies, which it did a few years back, but Janet considered that her private pain.

Janet will tell us everything about work and talk about sports and…well, that’s mostly what we’re privy to. No religion, although I know Janet’s Catholic and attends regularly.

No politics. I agree we probably disagree, but I consider politics to be societal issues and all of us to be mature, compassionate, intelligent women. We’re in our fifties, for God’s sakes!

Janet doesn’t go to movies that might make her cry. She holds her emotions in like tears are a form of terrorism.

But, a few weeks back when her other dog was lost and I came to help her look, she fell into my arms and cried big, sloppy tears. I love my dog with that intensity, so I get it. I wonder if Janet knows, although it hurt to see her in pain in that moment, I felt honored she exposed her humanity. The dog was found and Janet’s walls resurrected.

I used to be private like that. I kept my personal pain protected. I didn’t trust people not to judge me or still honor me if I wasn’t my happy-girl identity.

Fortunately for me, everything broke—my heart, soul, illusions of security, and wishes for financial stability. I lost it all and found myself. I didn’t find myself hiding my pain and tears behind closed doors as I’d done for decades.

Yet, I’m not saying my way should be Janet’s. I survived the darkest depths because friends and family pulled me out of life’s water when I was drowning. They helped me in unimagined ways that humbled me and allowed me to accept my vulnerability. In years past, I might’ve been tempted to say, “Me? No, I’m not drowning; I’m swimming!” Finally, I was so helpless I accepted help.

I do not wish that situation on Janet. I do wish she knew that we women, her friends, will never judge her for her mistakes, fears, insecurities, or failures. We’re old enough to know our best intentions can sometimes land us on our ass.

I wish Janet knew how much I wish I knew her better—the real her, all of her. I wish she knew how cleansing and healing tears can be and the connection that comes from shared vulnerability. I wish she knew if it was up to me, I’d bulldoze her damn walls and plant a garden with flowers just for her.

Janet doesn’t ask me. When I ask her anything beyond her safe zone, she makes it clear in her eyes and tone, or cold silence, there’s a line we don’t cross. If it was just me, I’d understand, but others in our circle of “friends like family” feel the same.

Still, Janet loves us all. She’s shown up consistently in her words and actions. Lately, I’ve seen her dancing, both literally and with light in her eyes. It makes me wonder if she’s met someone. It makes me sad to think even her joy is private.

Because I love Janet and consider her a true friend in spite of the walls, I give her space. I tell myself, “That’s just Janet.” Besides, she’s in the witness protection program.

 

Sisters into Women

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Sisters. They grew up the same.

And so different.

The oldest spent time with mom.

Homemaking.

By the time baby girl followed brother,

Mom was just trying to make it.

Baby almost didn’t—facing death at two weeks old.

But, she was a fighter, weighing in at over four pounds.

Making her way out of that oxygen tent.

Trying to find her place in a family

That seemed complete before her.

Daddy’s little girl: the oldest.

And mamma’s boy.

Both beat her to the punch.

Oldest being the good girl—good grades, good friends, Girl Scouts.

Brother the bad boy—broken bones, broken down cars, girls and broken hearts. Then, long after parents’ marriage fell apart,

Just on the verge of manhood, brother was gone

With the flip of his car.

Sisters had grown so different.

Oldest married with boys of her own.

Baby still trying to prove her independence.

Now, they shared the loss.

Later, another—their mother.

While each wound bound the sisters

Into strict loyalty and solid friendship,

It wasn’t until the oldest sister

Had the title widow forced upon her

Like a net dropped from the tree of life

That baby began to see all she’d missed,

Like the gifts the girls had gathered

On their way to becoming women.

Sisters. They grew up the same.

And so different.

 

 

Please send me your comments! I would love to hear from you- Alice

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