Tag: alice in authorland

The Emptiness

Alice Lundy1 Comment

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Grief is an empty bowl, an empty flower vase, emptiness. Grief is the thing I try to get over, go through, set aside, embrace, honor, resist, or even reclaim. Grief grips me. I try to fall into it like a lover, but in grief’s arms, I’m a hormonal teenager. I determined to rule the world, but I can barely drive a car. I lose my keys, my purse, and my glasses. I’m losing my mind.

Grief’s the gift that keeps giving—pennies from heaven, feathers, and hearts in clouds. I’m earning a new language in a foreign land. I thought I’d travelled before. Not here. Here, grief harasses, condemns, and consoles. Consoles? Yes, and recreates itself each day. Grief is an alien growing in my body, as a friend of mine once said about her baby. It was funny then. I look for the humor now.

Grief grows in the womb of my soul. I never wanted to be pregnant with this (like my friend), and like her, I can’t terminate it.

Grief doesn’t die. It’ll transform. I’ve seen it before. I’ve been down this road where I’m dropped off like a hitchhiker in my own life, with no determined destination.

I could take the bus. Or walk, but to where? I can’t just sit here, but I do. I sit on the curb of life and cry until I’m an empty bowl. I say: Ok, God, angels, guides, Mother Mary, Holy Spirit, Jesus Christ, and all my loved ones on the other side, fill me.

 

 

The Destiny of My Soul

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Life is smooth sailing followed by hurricanes. Everyone will have hurricanes. Or not. Some people seem to have gotten a permission slip from God to travel the smoother road. It’s not that they don’t experience the daily struggles of being human.

However, as an example, let’s compare my little sister Emily to her friend I’ll call Frida. My little sister has a nice life with three great kids and a husband who totally rocks. They’ve got faith and success like they followed a recipe.

On the other hand, friend Frida has brain cancer. That’s bad. Could there be anything scarier than doctors cutting on your brain? Then, Frida’s baby died. They say losing a child is the worst. And a baby who’s born just enough hope in a family to make you believe life’s getting better? Fucking ouch! It might make the other child’s gluten issues seem small, but really, more issues? Then, more brain cancer?! It returns? Are you fucking kidding me?! Do we chalk this up to ridiculously bad luck?

I recently read Destiny of Souls. That book offers me the easiest to swallow answer to why some people suffer extraordinary hardships while others seem to collect blessings. The book says souls choose before coming to earth. Can I buy that? Does it resonate with me? Did I choose this? My sister would say absolutely not!

But, how is it we both knew my brother Bill would die young? He never seemed to have regrets. His motto remained “Life’s a party.” What about my mom? When she had cancer, I asked her if she wanted to do anything, like go to Europe. She said, “Oh honey, I’ve done everything.” (She hadn’t been to Europe!) One psychic said my mom didn’t know she could change things.

So, anyhow, did I choose this life, to be born into this body and these circumstances? What do I see? Why might I have chosen this path? What is it I’m trying to learn?

As a child, I struggled. I didn’t feel loved. Maybe I was, but I didn’t feel it. Even then, I was angry at injustice. I learned to love others unconditionally, but I was hard on myself. Eventually, I learned to give myself the kind of love I sought and when I did, I attracted real love. The truth is, I’ve been blessed with much love and found my way through a lot of loss.

Lessons: 1) Love yourself. 2) Be true to yourself. 3) Change and loss happen throughout life; that’s how we grow. 4) Choose to grow. 5) Help others up when they fall, not through advice, but with presence. 6) Hone your gifts and share them with the world. That’s your destiny.

So, I believe I have a destiny. I don’t really know why some people get brain cancer or why one woman would be raped three different times or why some people live charmed lives. For years, I looked for the skeletons or hardships in everybody’s closet, especially those who seemed happy and successful. Now, I just believe people have different paths. Period. Living mine to the best of my ability and respecting others’ is what I find important. I find it to be my destiny, the destiny of my soul.

 

Sitting My Ass Down into Acceptance

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It’s hard to move forward when you keep one foot in yesterday. Or two. Or cling to it like a child clings to her blanket.

I determine to stand, as if my decision could claim the light and calm the crashing waves in my heart. Unfortunately, it’s not a matter of sitting on my ass, then choosing to stand. I’ve been thrown, no… I dove into the Grand Canyon of grief. I’m clawing to climb out. It’s not like the 12-mile hike out of Havasu, a side canyon I once trekked out of with a boyfriend.

Grief is the triathlon of emotions. Swimming a mile is merely the beginning. Yet, I think I must be done—every time. It’s all imaginary and arbitrary: the race, the time, the power, and the control.

Grief isn’t giving in, but it’s letting go and allowing. Oh, how I hate that! I beg, “Coach, put me in!” I want to be in the game, but I’m injured. I want to run and compete, but I can’t even stand. Please, at least let me play!

Injuries often require physical therapy. I’m in grief therapy. No, I don’t have an actual therapist. Although I consider it, I like to save those appointments for when life crashes in on me and I don’t know what to do.

Experienced in grief, I know what to do. Sometimes, I just tire of doing it.

I must practice acceptance. When I hurry, I think, “Ok, I’ve accepted that. I’ve grieved. Now, back to my goals.” Grief smiles, right before she bitch slaps me.

Like an almost healed sprained ankle can do when too much weight is put on it suddenly. Pain shoots straight up to fire off those neurons that scream, Fuck! Ouch! Ouch! Shit! Fuck! Damn! Ouch! My eyes fill with tears of pain, shame and anger. Pain is the signal to sit my ass back down and do some more healing.

It’s easier to deny or pretend I’ve accepted the emotional pain of grief, but like physical pain, pushing oneself too far or too fast has consequences.

So, today I’m back in grief therapy. I cry, write, pray, walk in the woods, and dance in my kitchen with my man who died seven months ago. I learn to accept a little more—the thing I least want to accept: he’s gone.

Dear Grief Stricken

Alice Lundy4 Comments

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Dear Grief Stricken,

I’m so sorry for your loss. I know your heart is hurting. Yes, other hearts hurt, too. But, let’s talk about you. You had no choice in this pain. Your loss was thrust upon you, like being thrown from a car or poison injected into your system. Everything changed.

People will tell you you’re not alone. The truth remains, although others suffered similar or stand by your side, your grief is etched with your name. Deciphering how you deal with your pain and the people around you resides within you. Yet, I tell you, you’ve got a thousand angels standing guard for your heart alone, even if you think there are none.

Still, the path you must walk can only be carried by your feet. The vision forward and the meaning you give the past—all yours. The tears you shed run down your face. The memories play like movies in your mind.

How long this takes is your journey, but that doesn’t mean you get to choose a time frame or how deep you’ll delve into the pain. You’ll go as deep as it pulls. But, baby, you’ve got this.

Sometimes it feels like you’re a candidate for the looney bin. So, be it. If you can’t go crazy over grief, when will you let go?

You’ll be tested. I won’t tell you it’s going to be okay or don’t cry or don’t laugh. I’ll not advise you, knowing the line at your door for that.

I simply say, and I’m paying it forward here: I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry this happened to you. I’m sorry your heart is hurting. May it hurt less tomorrow.

 

 

Regaining Radiance

Alice Lundy6 Comments

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“Past, present, future—it’s all the same.” That’s what the psychic said my dead boyfriend said from the other side. Now, as I peruse old journals, I see it’s true. What I struggled with then—all the thens, is what is what I struggle with now, just in different forms.

The chapters of my life repeat: ch.1 I’ve Got to Get it Together, ch.2 How Can I Get it Together?, ch.3 I’m Getting it Together, ch.4 Hallelujah!, followed by ch.5 Storm Ahead or, Shit, I Didn’t See That Coming, then ch.6 I’m Falling Apart, often followed by I Can’t Believe I’m Fucking falling Apart Again! leading full circle to I’ve Got to Get it Together and How Can I Get it Together?

Here, bingo! Ding! Ding! Ding! This is the most important chapter, yet maybe my least favorite. It comes after the crash. It’s picking up the pieces of my heart and personality, my shattered identity after making the Dry Diving Team. It feels like my soul is being crushed, but it’s being called.

How Can I get it Together? comes right after my ego gets bitch slapped and my heart crumbles like coffee cake. The floor of my life’s foundation is a mess. My illusions prove untrue. That’s when my soul steps in like a kind, noble queen. She says, “Well my child, that’s done. Now, who would you like to become?”

It’s my moment of choice. When I was younger, my ego would rise, broken, but determined to be victorious. I didn’t take the queen’s hand, but rose on my own two feet—thank you very much! I struggled and won!

In other versions of the critical chapter, I had no fight and knew it. I didn’t even possess the courage to end it all. I hibernated, sometimes for years. I hid in my own dark cave and didn’t encounter the queen.

The queen is my soul. She’s here. She extends a hand. She offers compassion and wisdom. She waits with me and wipes my tears. The queen comforts me. She smiles with a radiance she says belongs to me. She whispers, “Honey, you’ve already got it together.”

She plays music and movies, awakening me to the drama and intrigue of life. The queen—my soul—she tells me a secret: “This is what you came for.”

Like a Beautiful Tale

Alice Lundy2 Comments

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I am a peaceful woman warrior. I’ve journeyed through the darkness, heartache and loss. I’ve said goodbye more often than my middle name. I’ve started over about 117 times. I’ve cursed and kissed death. I’ve battled with her. I may not have always won, but I was in the war. That’s how I became a woman warrior.

I’ve gone blind and deaf. I’ve traveled the tunnels. I’ve seen the light. I’ve carried shields and swords. I’m skilled in using both. I’ve climbed cliffs and stepped barefoot across hot burning coals.

I learned to love the Fire! I learned to love. That’s how I became a woman.

I owned my power, my femininity and my force. I marched on until the darkest of nights captured me under bright stars.

In the heat of the battle, I was hit with sickness. It took me down. I was weary and wretched, lost and delirious. I slept and I dreamed.

When I awoke I was called to be a queen—to put an end to the wars. I declared peace in my soul and it spread like a beautiful tale.

I am a peaceful woman warrior and I smile at fear.

How our Grief is the Same.

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I’m forever the little sister, stomping in line behind my big sister, following in her footsteps closer than I care to admit. I’m the youngest, therefore determined to make my own path.

Yet, each time I forget something, my sister says, “I’m not surprised” or “Yeah, I get it” in a way that makes me think she thinks I’ve come down with what she had: widow brain.

The youngest child in me mentally screams, No, it’s not like that. Geez, I’m not even a widow. I wasn’t married. I was only with him as a couple for two years (the best two years of my life). But, no, my experience isn’t like yours. This is different.

Then, I start noticing how much I can’t remember.

Days are spent walking into rooms to find myself dumbfounded.

I stare at the ibuprofen bottle and only have a 50/50 shot at knowing if I already took them or just thought about it.

Everything is a daze, a dream, leaving what’s unfathomable to feel the most real.

I need quiet; I turn on the TV loud (as he did). I’m lost; I’m found. I’m going away and coming home. I can’t go out, but refuse to stay in. I want my sister’s company, but resent it.

I remember how badly I wished I could be my brother when my mom looked into my eyes after he passed.

Jayne loves me like that—like she’d do anything to take my pain away.

I love her back the way she loved me when her husband died—with all she had left after loving him for 33 years, missing him desperately, daily, and putting on the prettiest public face she could muster.

She was my sister; she was a porcupine. I loved her anyway, as she’s loving me now.

I’m prickly. I don’t give a shit.

It’s exhausting watching people tiptoe around me. How’s she doing? How’s she handling it/things?

I suppose they mean how am I coping with my boyfriend’s death. Today? Defensively. Because the word boyfriend compares him to guys whose names I can’t even remember.

Boyfriend trivializes what Kevin was to me. He was his nickname: FIRE! FIRE! FIRE!

He was smooth jazz after decades of hard rock-n-roll. He was Saturday morning at a Flea Market with a smile on my face. How did that make me feel so free?

Kevin was something to me that all my words can’t capture, yet I can’t stop trying. If you’ve never known this level of love, you may think I’m a girl crushing on and going nostalgic for a dead man—too sweet to be true.

Yeah, I lived with Sally the Cynic in my head, too. Kevin banished her upon their first meeting. She came back with a vengeance—and was flat out rejected.

Without my sidekick to tell me love like this was bullshit, I started listening to my boyfriend.

He sounded like the ocean, smelled like coffee brewing, and appeared like a man.

He tasted like pomegranates and fresh, drinkable water from a cool mountain stream. He quenched my entire feminine being.

Kevin valued my tears and delighted in my stories, even though I tried to tell them tough.

Because I’m the little sister, I want to be BIG. Like my big sis when grief grabbed her by the throat, wrestled her to the floor and forced her to develop a new foundation.

But no, it’s not the same. And it is.

Embracing Contentment

Alice Lundy2 Comments

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Kevin (my boyfriend who died in March) conveyed a contentedness I’ve rarely witnessed. Ok, sure, he screamed obscenities in traffic and don’t mess with his sales leads!

But in the mornings, he sat quietly with coffee and me. Sounds simple, but that’s not a comfortable setting for everyone. These days, quiet for many means on their phone or computer. For me, quiet is often writing or praying.

I’d forgotten how to just sit in peace and contemplation, without restlessness, resistance, chatter, or distraction. Kevin didn’t like it if I grabbed a book or a pen, or God forbid, my phone. He wasn’t into texting. He was an old fashioned guy, in that he used the phone to call and talk to people.

Often in the mornings, we talked. Occasionally, he prayed aloud for his sales days. He wasn’t trying to distance himself the way many of us do.

The cool thing about Kevin, among the thousands I could tell you, was his ability to be fully present.

We’ve come to let people off the hook for being on the phone, in a hurry, rushing to be somewhere, and never fully arriving.

Kevin arrived in his life. He liked where he landed. In the mornings, contentment shown on his face like the rising sun and the birds at the feeder, the ones he taught me to take an interest in.

Kevin wasn’t striving to impress or mentally manipulate me. He knew how to just be and allowed me to do the same.

It’s morning now. I’m at home. Without Kevin. I sit with my coffee, watch birds at his feeder, and embrace contentment in an imperfect life.

 

 

 

 

Still Waiting for Dessert

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October: I was at Kevin’s house at this time last year. All month. The best month. My cup was full. I was on the verge of flight. Everything was lining up. Ahhh.

It felt like I could relax in love and leap into my writing life. Like I could teach yoga and writing and whatever was required and only what I desired.

I was waiting for the rest of my beautiful life to unfold before me. I’d learned to live in the moments. Like enjoying every aspect of a delicious meal, as I did when Kevin took me to Tony’s for my birthday in 2014.

Tony’s is an authentic Italian restaurant in St. Louis. It’s been around since 1946. Kevin used to take his mom there. Tony’s seems a scene out of a movie with real Italian waiters, the kind who replace a fork on a table like a magic act and report the score of the game because Kevin said (to me), “I wonder what the score is.”

And Tony’s food? Every other Italian meal could be Stouffer’s frozen lasagna in comparison. I like Stouffer’s, but the meal at Tony’s delighted me with a flush of foreign, exquisite flavors. The atmosphere, inviting art on the walls, and class without condescension was like a trip to Italy with Kevin holding my hand.

Tony’s is the kind of place I would’ve felt awkward or intimidated in in my youth. It’s a grown-up restaurant. I was in a grown-up relationship with a mature and worthy man who honored me and welcomed my authenticity. I relished that.

The same way I soaked in the fall colors in the country at Kevin’s home in St. Louis. We tried to make our togetherness like real-life (sticking to work schedules, working out, etc.). It was impossible. In each other’s company, Kevin and I were always on vacation.

That October—a month of shared morning coffee, entwined bodies, and conversations sewing us closer—tasted as sumptuous as the evening at Tony’s.

Kevin and I relaxed into our crazy, sexy, cool love. Our in-between times of seeing each other were like waiting for dessert.

Yep, I was waiting for the treat I’d become accustomed to as I anticipated his visit to my place in March. It never came. Kevin never came to my house again.

We didn’t get our dessert and why is October still on the calendar?

Sing into your Life

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Nicole Rivers is her name. She has a voice. She can sing. Like Etta James sing. Like sprinkling fairy dust in a karaoke bar. Her gift is music. She moves people.

Nicole is my young friend, but I often forget our age difference. Not today. Nicole is working her day J-O-B while I wait in her apartment. The 20 years I have on her taunt me.

I want to reach out and save my soul sister from the years that slip by, but who am I?

I’m a 51-year-old writer finally getting my groove back on the page. I’m in it. Even when I’m not playing by all the rules, I’m in the game.

But, oh how I wish I would’ve given into my wonder for words, stirring hearts, and sharing stories decades ago.

Or, maybe I did. All those years I toiled in sales and called it a J-O-B rather than a calling, maybe I was preparing to write. I gathered a life even as I felt I was missing it.

In over two decades as a salesperson, I learned to choose my words wisely and lean into emotions sincerely. I told relevant stories and polished my integrity in a game I thought I didn’t want to play.

Now, in this moment, the truth reveals itself. I was growing into a memoir writer, what I always wanted to be. I needed those years in the sales field. That was my path. I chose it.

Today, I look back and thank my younger self. I didn’t lose those years. They didn’t slip away. I surfed them! There was no wrong.

And, there’s no course correction required for Miss Rivers: single mother, son-loving, day-job-working woman who can sing. Like should be on The Voice sing.

Ok, I still want to whisper: Hurry! Leap! Sing into your life