Category: self

No Match for Grief

Alice LundyLeave a comment

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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

Alice LundyLeave a comment

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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

Alice LundyLeave a comment

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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.

 

It’s Not the Other Person We Want Back

Alice LundyLeave a comment

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Sometimes we fool ourselves into thinking it’s the other person we want back. What we want is the part of ourselves that pranced bold and brave into the hands and heart of that lover.

We crave our confidence and strength. Mostly, we long for the kind of faith our infatuation and falling in love ignited. Faith like that feels like flying.

After we’ve fallen, getting back the other person appeals and feels like setting things right. WRONG.

The effort we put into praying for and attracting another is the energy we need to enact for ourselves. From our deeper selves we give birth to our new and better selves.

It’s metamorphosis. You don’t stop transforming because it’s a little sticky in here. Do you not imagine yourself a beautiful winged bird, the phoenix emerging from the ashes?

There’s no magic. You will go through darkness. Perceive yourself having the iridescence no less than a dragonfly.

The lover back there, the one you wanted to go back for, the one you’d turn your back on yourself for, maybe all along, he was just a mosquito.

 

 

Letter from My 81-year Old Self to My 51-year Old Self

Alice LundyLeave a comment

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My Dear,

You’re more beautiful and powerful than you imagine. You’ll be published, well-known and paid plenty. You’ll touch lives. But, you will not be without struggle.

My goodness, have you not yet discovered you thrive on challenge? Stop saying you want it’s easy. It’s not. You wouldn’t like it if it was. That’s not your style. That’s not your story.

Yours will be a rich story now. From here on out, you’ll be rich in love. You’ll have all the money you need.

Here’s the thing to focus on: joy. If you don’t enjoy what you have and where you are, you disinvite more and better.

Of course you’ve had and always will have struggles. You’ll find your way. You must make sure it’s YOUR way.

No person can steer your path for you. Even if you let them take the wheel for a while, you’re still in the driver’s seat.

The more you scoot over and let God do the driving, the more you’ll enjoy the ride. Relax, honey. God’s got this.

Everything you know to be true is true. You’re surrounded by angels. You have a divine destiny. You’re going to be okay. You don’t have to figure it all out.

Everything you know to be false is false. You, my dear, don’t tolerate bullshit.

So, don’t. Not from others, and certainly not from in yourself. Your dreams are your daily life. And yes, it just keeps getting better.

Keep praying. Keep writing. Keep believing. Nurture yourself. You are high maintenance. You need to take your time alone.

You have love. You are love. Your books are your way of loving the women in the world, the ones like you who lost their way. Their gratitude will shine on you like light from the heavens.

Your writer’s life is the rollercoaster you love to ride. Don’t forget how much you love it, even though it’s scary and sometimes makes you sick to your stomach. It’s the greatest rush you know.

You’re right where you’re supposed to be, doing exactly what you’re supposed to be doing.  Enjoy it.

At a least expected hour, you will meet with your destiny. Dance with her.

 

 

 

 

 

 

How to Awaken Your True Self When She’s Gone Quiet

Alice LundyLeave a comment

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How do we give birth to our own authenticity when we’ve gone unconscious under society’s rules and our chosen roles? When our true selves have gone quiet under our desire to serve others? How do we lift the blanket of pleasing others when it’s covering our true essence?

First step—we resist this one—admit to ourselves that maybe we’ve gone too far down wrong roads. Hey, we were enjoying the scenery. Maybe we missed a turn back there. Or several. It’s time to admit we’re not where we want to be, ought to be, or once determined to be. Then, we honor our good intentions and forgive our fears that landed us here.

No matter. No guilt. No regret. There’s no turning back or unriding roads ridden. You must start where you are.

Often, when I realize the choices I made took me to someplace I don’t want to be, I first blame others. I wasn’t even driving! But, I went along for the ride and didn’t speak up, at least not enough to be heard. Mostly, I told myself everything was beautiful, took a little nap, and awoke to say, “Where the hell are we?!”

Then comes the deciding where I want to go from here. I want to go someplace that’s going to make me feel good, allow me I to be myself, and welcome me to connect and grow. When that’s a foreign feeling, we begin small.

There was a time when all I knew was that I wanted to write. But, I felt angry and trapped in situations I put myself into and commitments I made that now felt fake. I needed a compass.

I asked myself two questions: 1) Is it good for my writer self? 2) Does it make my soul sing? Believe it or not, these two questions led me moment by moment to my authentic self. Suddenly, I was seduced into soulful days and blissing out on the basics—like sunshine, fresh air, and autumn leaves. And I was writing!

Returning to oneself when you you’ve betrayed her is like climbing a brick wall. There’s a door called acceptance. We all take roads that lead us to where we didn’t want to be—because we can’t see the future! We’re human! We can’t imagine all that comes with our determined manifestations.

That’s ok. Pretending otherwise is pushing away the lesson and gift of our evolving experiences. Stagnation is the sin. When we reset our internal GPS to head for joy, we run across our own authentic selves. Then, we reawaken.

Cutting Words

Alice Lundy4 Comments

I remember the first time my boyfriend at the time belittled me. We sat with two of my favorite people in the world: my stepsister, Emily and her husband, Aaron. The ocean crashed beautifully below us in Laguna Niguel, California, where they lived. The sun rose a perfect day, leading us into lunch, laughter, and Bloody Marys.

I started telling a story. My boyfriend interjected, “Alice doesn’t have a very good memory.” I was taken aback, but let it register no more than had he said, “Look at the bird.” It was the interruption to my story that momentarily perturbed me.

Emily and Aaron defended me. Aaron said, “Dude, what are you talking about? Alice has a phenomenal memory.”

Emily followed with, “I think she has a great memory. Have you heard some of her stories?” The detour passed like a salt shaker across the table.

Aaron laughed and said, “Come on, Alice! Tell us the rest of your story.” I did—because that’s what mattered to me.

Now, fifteen years from that scene, twelve years after marrying him, three years after leaving, two years after divorcing, it registers.

What was I thinking? Why didn’t I stand up for myself?

Why didn’t I question why he made such a statement? Based on what? Why didn’t I kill the monster while it was small? Set a more enriching tone for our communication?

I didn’t do any of those things because I’d been letting comments like that slide my whole life. They slid from my father, another man who loved me and was mostly good, but without evil intent could make words cut like a scalpel into a lemon.

Like when I took a summer job across the country and he told me if I failed he’d buy me a bus ticket home. Like when I headed to my ten-year high school reunion and he told me not to feel bad about my lack of success, as my peers were likely in the same boat. After all, he informed me, mine was the first generation to be less successful than our parents.

When my sister landed a job with a software company, my dad said he was concerned for her because to do well in the position one would have to be smart and learn about computers. (She rose to the executive level in that company.)

My father once told me, of course he chose my stepmom and her kids over my siblings and I; we’d grow up and leave, but she’d always be there.

Later, I chose a man’s condescension to mirror my father’s arrows. Comments I long since resisted registering, but that never stopped stinging on an unconscious level. That’s why I didn’t defend myself.

Now, at almost 50, I’ve learned to call my father on his insensitive remarks. He’s learned to apologize. We’ve come to a place of peace and pardon. But that husband?

The worst part wasn’t that I didn’t defend myself. It was that I ingested his unintended insults like one takes in negative news—like he revealed the fucked-up facts of life I had to deal with.

I didn’t have a good memory. I wasn’t good at math. My humor hurt people. Business wasn’t my forte… There was just enough truth for me to trust, especially early on when I believed that his was the love I longed for my whole life.

Truth is a funny thing. What I told you here possibly paints a false picture of the man I spent a big chunk of my life with. He wasn’t mean or malicious. He was kind, giving, generous, and certainly delivered as many compliments as hurtful words.

He’d just learned to point out the “facts” with the confidence of his father, who had put his own ploys on his seven sons. And so it goes. Or, so it did.

One can’t do better until she knows better. Now I do. Not in a 20-something defensive way. Now, as I near 50, I know myself better.

I know my faults and my weaknesses. I don’t need someone to shine a light on them. Nor do I need to hide, deny or defend.

I know my strengths, starting with my memory. I remember men insulting me, approaching me inappropriately, or dismissing me with male superiority, while their words whittled away my self-worth.

My self is worth more. I can see what’s mine and what’s yours. If you’re mine and you can’t see that I’m more, I remember how it hurts to let that shit fly. So, I don’t.

I’m not a child anymore. I’m not obligated to agree. I’m a woman. If you don’t get that, you don’t get me.