Tag: alice in authorland

We Were Stargazers

Alice LundyLeave a comment

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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.

 

When Your Father’s Friend Gets His Book Published

Alice Lundy1 Comment

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Carl’s been my father’s best friend since elementary school. He’s now 77-years-old, sitting across from me in a booth at Olive Garden in Wichita, KS.

I’m an aspiring author frantically trying to find my path into the publishing industry. My memoir hangs on me like a child I want to protect, prepare and send into the world.

Over the post-Christmas holiday celebrated with my parents, they once again repeated how thrilled they are that a publisher picked up Carl’s book. Wow, isn’t it great?

I’m not sure they intended to say: What’s taking you so long? Carl didn’t need an agent. Why aren’t you really going for it and getting published, like Carl? If your book is so damn good, why isn’t it published? But, that’s what I heard.

My writing dream is being supported by my older, wiser, and more successful in the corporate world sister. Her grand gesture felt like the lucky tap of a magic wand. It has been, in that I have what every writer dreams of: time to write. Hell, I had enough time to write a book. I wrote a book—a damn fine memoir. I also wrote a book proposal and polished it with some high-priced and well-worth-it editing and coaching.

Still, I’ve yet to land an agent. Carl says he was told you don’t need an agent.

I wasn’t born yesterday. Just because I haven’t proven my publishing knowledge—by way of being published—doesn’t mean I haven’t been studying the industry like a menu at a fabulous restaurant.

Here I am at Olive Garden in Wichita with Carl. He’s my dad’s age. A couple years ago, Carl’s beloved wife, Clee passed away after battling Alzheimer’s for years.

After she died, Carl found the numerous stories Clee wrote in writing classes she took to ward off the memory thief.

Her stories reflected her life in Iran with her first husband. Well, more like life with their daughters and his Iranian family. She wrote about lighting up when Carl came around and negotiating her way out of her marriage while maintaining close connections to the family she’d come to love. The stories revealed Clee and Carl stories, starting in Iran, going on to various places in the US, and Germany.

Compelled by these stories and his discovery that his late wife had aspirations of being published, Carl was compelled to complete a mission. It was a mission of love when he desperately missed his mate, playmate, friend, lover, wife and wise counsel.

Carl put Clee’s stories (along with photos and his words to fill in some missing pieces) into a book. I read the book and wondered what I would say to Carl about it.

I asked him what some of his favorite parts were. I honored both the book and the writer (mostly Clee) by telling the truth.

The truth is, through Clee’s Odyssey, I came to know a woman who was a friend of my parents for decades, but who I “never really knew very well.”

Carl said, “You didn’t know her at all.” I’m familiar with grief’s reflexes.

He was right. Now, I feel honored to know of this woman, Clee Fox, in the same way I’ve known other heroines, like Jackie Cochran or Eleanor Roosevelt.

In this book, I learned of a woman owning mistakes and choices, and leaping into opportunities like failing was foreign. For her, it was.

Carl told me they led a charmed life. As I read the book, I kept waiting for a person to turn on Clee, or a plan to fall through. They did have some travel challenges. Mostly though, the writer Clee’s attitude and life on the page revealed flow, grace and nonjudgment.

No wonder Carl, some 30 years later, and less than a handful of years since her death, remains enchanted.

I’m enchanted with this woman I met in a book Carl paid to have published. I knew when I saw it. I knew when I heard the process. I knew when I looked at the publishers’ website.

I tried to explain to my folks the difference in what Carl had done to what I was doing. “I’m trying to build a career as a writer,” I said. “But, isn’t it just wonderful what happened to Carl?!” my parents said, again.

As I ate my chicken Marsala, which Carl suggested, and drank a wine he favored, I leaned into my memories of the book. Across the table, Carl and I played with Clee’s stories, and marveled at her magnificent character, and the luck of their love! And ski trips across Germany! Stepdaughters blended in like the Brady Bunch. It was all so fabulous I dripped on the inside with hope, jealousy, and sadness over Carl’s loss.

I had to shift gears. I had to know. Had he paid to have Clee’s book published? Yes. He told me the figure, in the ballpark I imagined. The truth I knew all along. If only my only goal was to be published…

Back at Carl’s house, he showed me his earnings on Amazon. So pitiful we laughed. Carl was silly.

Happy to have talked about his beloved, to be sharing her book and the joke of it all, along with the out loud wonder about how a guy who grew up in South Dakota got so lucky.

He told me how pleased he felt when the publisher agreed to take him on. I thought, “Yeah, because you paid him.” Then, Carl said he asked the guy why he agreed to publish Clee’s Odyssey and heard, “When I read about a guy who’d given up on love and then got this life, I was hooked.”

I was hooked, too, as I witnessed Carl glowing talking about Clee. My cynical self quieted. I applauded Carl and Clee and dreams coming true. I celebrated the power of stories and individual paths. I considered the price Carl paid to get this book published—well worth it. For Carl.

 

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It’s Not the Other Person We Want Back

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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.

 

 

Why I Love Christmas

Alice Lundy2 Comments

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I was the baby of three children. In my mind there was my dad’s favorite—my sister, my mom’s favorite—my brother, and the extra child—me. It seemed my parents loved me in a perfunctory way. Of course they loved me; I was their child.

But there was no call for anyone in our family to reach out, hug another or say the words. And for me to tell them I loved them? Well, first of all, it didn’t occur to me and if it had, I wouldn’t have risked the rejection.

My parents weren’t bad people. Somehow though, they took their parents’ failings and rationalized them into sound child-raising principles. When as a little girl, my tongue would get the best of me by offering some idea, or worse, my feelings, a towering figure condemned, “Who asked you?!”

At Christmas though, someone did. My parents asked me what I wanted. They actually wanted to know. There was no right or wrong answer to get in trouble over. They even wanted a list! Then, miracle or miracles, they tried their best to give me what I wanted.

Inside each gift I found proof that my parents loved me and cared about my heart’s desires. For that one day, I was allowed to be excited, have opinions, and even play. On Christmas day, children came first. We were a family. We kids were the only ones who fought, and it was over toys.

For that one day, my parents’ attention focused on us. I was allowed to hug my mother and show appreciation.

On Christmas day we ate a predictable meal, usually ham, my favorite. We weren’t forced to sit at the table for hours “until you finish everything on your plate.”

My dad couldn’t work on Christmas. He stayed home all day.

Spoken or unspoken, my parents obviously decided they wouldn’t fight. No arguments, no anger. Maybe they had their moments, unnoticed by a child, but the peace in our home didn’t feel pretend. It felt real. It was the peace of Christmas, if only for that one day.

Woman

Alice LundyLeave a comment

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I’m not a toy

To be played with

And tossed aside.

I’m not a showpiece

To be displayed

On your arm.

I’m not a prize,

Inflated proof of your

Self-created success.

I’m not a pet or a doll or

A possession of any kind.

I walk by the sight of my soul.

There’s only one man I

Follow in this world.

He’s here and he’s not.

I don’t need your permission

To walk behind you.

I was born from your side

To be by your side.

If you can’t abide by

The beauty of nature,

Mine and yours,

Faults and vulnerabilities too,

Just remember, I got us into this.

Me, and that damn apple, but you

Damn well better believe I—

By the grace of God—

Will get us out.

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

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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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Beauty, Brains or God?

Alice Lundy4 Comments

In both subtle and direct ways, my mom taught me it doesn’t matter if you’re pretty or have a boyfriend; what matters is if you’re smart, strong and capable. Women who rely on their looks, a man or God are weak. Women who use their brains are free and powerful.

I never felt free, powerful or smart as a kid. To this day, I don’t know if when I was young my mom believed I was smart, but lazy or if she thought I wasn’t smart and it frustrated her to think she and my dad’s brains combined should’ve created more. She used to scream when I did something she didn’t like (as if I could predict what that would be). “Alice Ann! You’re not stupid!” I tried harder not to be.

At school, looks mattered. When you’re the ugly kid, the mirror repulses and the looks from other kids shame.

Looking at my mom, I think she hid her beauty, the way some women exploit theirs. I wasn’t hiding my beauty any more than my brains. I was ugly. As a little girl, I wanted to be a boy. I thought I knew how to be a boy.

I didn’t know how to be pretty. No one taught me. Even the most naturally beautiful are rarely recognized until they’re groomed. Mothers teach their daughters to groom, like fathers teach their sons to play sports.

Not in our house. The answer to every question, I was told, could be found in a book. From my perspective, my parents didn’t give credence to the human heart or any sort of spiritual knowing. In fact, both my parents were so smart they knew there wasn’t a God.

They sent me out to churches with friends so I could see for myself. Somehow, intended or not, I got the message that what I was supposed to see was just because they believe in God, it didn’t make them bad. They’re maybe just not as smart was the message. Is that any different from They’re not as educated or as wealthy or well-bred? Wasn’t it just another form of “We’re privileged and we’re proud,” whether it was true or not?

The truth adhered to in our house was tolerance. Decades later, I’d learn tolerance is a distance from acceptance. I was free to choose whatever I wanted to believe, which was supposed to be better. As it was explained, Christian children are told there is a God, like my parents once told me there was a Santa Claus. The poor deprived Christian children never got to choose. Choice was a gift.

Imagine me in 4th grade, scrawny girl who may or may not have combed her hair or brushed her teeth that morning, wearing goofy glasses and clothes from People’s Department Store (which wasn’t a thrift store, but sure didn’t sell style), hanging on the playground, explaining my families’ religious philosophy to a gang of kids heckling me.

That day, especially, ugly mattered. All that thinking, evaluating and deciding I didn’t believe in God didn’t make me feel free or powerful.

Later, as an adult, I’d look back and know that yes, for me, choice worked. It worked for me to develop my relationship with God based solely on our communication, not on reading the handbook, attending the meetings or participating in the philosophy.

God and I just found each other when I was a kid. He’d hang out with me, convince me not to jump off cliffs or run too far from home. He comforted me and often carried me. It was just He and I. I didn’t discuss my relationship with God with my Christian friends, although I occasionally went to holiday services with them. Saying I believed in God out loud felt like betraying my parents.

Plus, I kind of liked the McGrath family, with 10 kids, trying to save me. It meant I always had a place at their dinner table.

I stayed with Theresa McGrath in my late 20s while working in Tulsa, OK. The McGraths are the rare family who live their Christian faith—in their businesses, their families and their excessive successes. They’re American Christians.

“This is what we know to be true, Alice. Jesus Christ died for your sins and unless you believe in Him and follow the Bible’s teachings, yes, you will go to hell. I know you love your parents, but they will go to hell. I’m sorry. That’s just the way it is. Read the Bible.”

I read the Bible the way most people do, picking and choosing the parts I liked the best.

I’d long since announced my faith in God without much apology or explanation. The McGraths seemed to believe I was a beautiful child of God who needed their protection. Theresa, by that time, and by the grace of God and American opportunity, had built a successful salon business.

During the six months I stayed with her, she transformed my appearance, catching me up on a lifetime of beauty tips. Oh, I’d mastered the curling iron and mascara, but I never imagined spending $10 on a lipstick.

During my work time (10 days on) I stayed with Theresa. During my off time (4 days off) I lived with my mom. By then, I’d grown “successful” in my own male-dominated field—sales. I’d done my parents proud, in spite of not having a college degree. I presented myself to the world as, “I may not be the smartest and I may not be the prettiest, but I’ll work harder than anyone and learn whatever I have to because I am a strong woman.” Can you hear my parents clapping? I did, and oh, how it made me dance.

While I danced and worked, Theresa did my hair, taught me skin care, what styles were in and where to shop. When I came home, I visited my mom, who lost her job at age 55 and hadn’t been able to replace it, even with that PhD in her pocket.

I became beautiful before her eyes, and for once, she wasn’t too busy to look. To my mom, beauty had always been a frivolous pursuit. She stood blown away by how it looked on me. She savored my beauty, the way one does when falling in love with a new food she never intended trying.

Beautiful, strong, spiritual 28-year-old me watched my mother’s physical strength succumb to cancer. I knew it was bad when she couldn’t read a book. After she died, I found a scrapbook of hers, filled in with goals, quotes and affirmations. God, surprisingly, was included in her plans. That was beautiful. And, damn, she was smart.