Tag: alice in authorland

A Spark in the Tunnel of Grief

Alice LundyLeave a comment

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You’ve got to own your grief. It’s part of the package: deep love/deep grief, immense loss/intense pain, unique love/special grief. Your love hit by grief is unlike anyone else’s. Yet, it’s the same.

You can’t recognize the universality until you acknowledge, feel, wrestle with, allow, respect, resent, release, and then gather the gifts of your own pain.

If you spend your life resisting and denying sadness, focusing only on the positive, you resign yourself of many of life’s most valuable experiences, the kind of challenges that make way for one to grow into a stronger, wiser, more compassionate individual.

That’s why I own my grief (not because it’s so fun!). Because I’ve been here before, one of the many dark holes in my life. The dark holes lead to dark tunnels where I’ve tripped and fallen, crawled and clawed in the dirt, cursed the dark, and begged for the light.

When it didn’t arrive in a nanosecond, I considered ending it all or finding a way to live in and make peace with the darkness. Yet, I kept moving forward toward the light, even when I was unsure if it existed or if I’d lost the ability to see it.

Still, I kept making my way. I caught glimmers that made me think I was close. But, in the tunnel of grief, there are many holes, hills, and ladders—like the game of Chutes and Ladders. In the tunnel, it doesn’t feel like a game. It doesn’t feel like winning. It feels rigged, like being lost in a foreign land without a map.

Then, randomly in the tunnel, when you least expect it, you find a flashlight or a candle and matches. Wahoo! I’ll find my way out of this! Then come the huge strides forward, right before the flashlight batteries die or the wind blows out the candle and you drop the matches in the water.

Shit! But, oh my God! Water! There’s water. And a strangely foreign feeling of elation and determination rises like hunger.

That feeling carries you far in the dark twists that await you in your tunnel. What you may find, as I have, you don’t seek and then suddenly get greeted by the light. Isn’t that how we want it to be?

La la la! Then, I felt no more sadness, no more darkness or pain.

I wish. I so fucking wish it went that way. Maybe for Pollyanna, who I spent years trying to emulate. Maybe for all those gals who call themselves princesses.

For me, the light out of the tunnel comes in flashes—at first like falling stars, easy to miss and nothing to grab.

Rather than getting out of the tunnel, the darkness fades. It’s hard to measure because you’ve come so far in the tunnel in darkness.

The tunnel is like a shell around you. Or maybe it’s like a birth canal.

Here’s what I know: there’s light out there. Unfortunately, I can’t command it. But, I believe. I seek. I wait, notice, and embrace the light when it arrives.

I pray to someday reflect a little back into the tunnel. May I be a spark.

Trying to get up out of the Casket

Alice LundyLeave a comment

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Believe in your dreams. Make your own path. Make your mark. Let them know you lived. Let them say you fucked up or let them say you hit it big, but damn, give them a reason to talk. Live a rich life. Losers aren’t the losers in this world; the people who choose not to play are.

Go for it—your dream, goals, love, marriage, art, kids, travel, writing, a degree, a business… What calls you is your true north. Go! Boldly. Trust. Have faith in something or someone. Hell, the more you believe in, the better. Love at first sight, the American dream, you name it.

What’s your four-minute mile? Run it. You know all those people who believe in you? Prove them right. You know all those cynics? Fuck ‘em!

You know those people dying? One day you’re going to be one of them. Could be soon. If you’ve got something you know you’re meant to do, you damn well better do it. Is there some gift you’re supposed to deliver to the world? They won’t wait forever. When 50’s horizon is behind you, you start realizing guarantees aren’t a good bet.

Life is for living, loving, laughing, learning, enjoying. You can’t live someone else’s life. Their rules won’t fit you and vice versa. Find the common ground, but make sure you’re not just following the common path because it’s easy or you’re afraid or nobody gave you permission or you don’t know how.

It’s your life. Figure it out. What do you want? Not some dream that impresses. What’s your dream that presses on your chest if you imagine today is your day to die?

Don’t be someone who dies saying, “I wish.” Be the gal trying to get up out of the casket because you love your life so damn much.

 

Skipping Winter

Alice Lundy1 Comment

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Pain. It’s part of life. Yours. Then your sister’s. Then yours. Then your nephew’s. Yours. Then your friend’s. Your siblings’, parents’, and strangers’.

Pretty soon, you better learn to manage this shit. Or make peace with it. You can’t keep pretending things are going to smooth out for good at some God-approved time and la-la-la, from here on out, we’ll have only spring!

Somehow, absurdly, optimistically, we keep thinking we’ll skip winter. Or, may they all be mild. Some years, we might like to go to the beach. So, make it warm, but not too hot. Eighty-five and a breeze, please. No rain.

I used to say, “I hate it when it rains at the beach.” Now, I say, “If I’m at the beach, I’m happy.”

The first time my boyfriend Kevin took me to the beach in Florida, I told him, “If I’m depressed someday or on my deathbed, just bring me back here and set me in a chair to be soothed by the ocean waves.”

He said, “Okay.” In that moment, I pictured being old with him. It was the spring of our relationship. He was falling for me and I was following behind.

All those 25 years I knew him and never considered dating him. Ha! I thought he was a player, until he decided to get serious with me.

I watched Kevin crack before me like a coconut. Inside: purity—the rich white meat of his soul. The juice of his spirit ran free without his personality protecting him. I couldn’t have imagined the magnificence that man carried. Or that he could heal my scars and nourish my heart.

Did you ever want a clean slate? To be able to get into a relationship with your long lost hopeful innocence rather than a long list of things that could go wrong?

That’s what happened when Kevin’s shell cracked. Mine did, too. He was a bad boy gone good. I was a woman at peace with herself—finally.

We walked through the seasons in love, holding hands. Then came his death, sudden and worse than the coldest, darkest winter in Minnesota.

I thought I said no more winter! Ah, “we plan and God laughs.” Yet, because of Kevin, I hold out for spring. And summer. And fall. I embrace it all.

Rising like Sunshine

Alice Lundy3 Comments

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Sissy the Cynic snuck in my head and started telling me how my life sucks and nothing I’ve done is working.

You little ungrateful bitch! Let me tell you how hard I’ve worked and how beautiful my human, painful, miraculous life is.

First of all, I’ve been through some shit. And, I’ve always taken time to reflect on the role I played, lessons I learned, and how to do it better next time.

See Sissy, this 5.1 version, 50-freaking fantastic, feminine power is just getting started. On the other hand, you my dear are on the way out.

I’ve spent a lifetime building my character. How dare you imagine you could use Kevin’s death to your advantage?

No, you won’t. I will. I’ll use Kevin’s death as a catapult into my future. This experience doesn’t defeat me; it deepens me. Just because I don’t like it doesn’t mean I can’t grow from it. Just because I didn’t deserve my beloved dying doesn’t mean I can’t make the most of it—my way.

Not for Kevin, with him. With his love, I’ll rise. With Kevin, my Fire! I’ll burn like sunshine.

I don’t deny the night. I’ve been here before. I know blackness, the stumbling and the holes I fall into. I also know the hands and hearts holding me up. I’ve seen the brightest stars on the darkest nights. I’ve stayed up late and risen early to greet the darkness, to witness stars and miracles.

Seven or eight stars sprinkled in my sight after my brother died. It still gives me chills.

I could list the miracles and signs for you Sissy, but cynics don’t believe. They belittle ideas and dreams and try to discredit faith.

In the morning—every morning of my life—the sun rises, no matter how dark and grim the night before. You may not always see the sun, but she’s rising. And, so will I.

RAPED, THEN BETRAYED

Alice Lundy5 Comments

How many times can a woman feel betrayed after her rape?

Every time someone questions how it happened “so easily.”

There’s nothing easy about being physically pinned down by someone stronger than you, having your body entered by someone you did not invite while your arms are held above you and your legs and body are positioned by his power.

How many times can a woman feel betrayed after her rape?

Every time someone suggests she should’ve reacted differently.

We respect grief and people’s right to do it their own way. But, with rape or sexual violation, we only give validity if a woman immediately goes to the police and says, “I’ve been raped.”

Is there no understanding of the internal schism in a woman’s psychology when she’s been violated physically, sexually, and emotionally? Over 70 percent of rapes are committed by someone the victim knows: schism.

How many times can a woman feel betrayed after her rape?

Every time a woman is doubted for how she got into the situation and how she handled the aftermath betrays the fact that she was raped—a violent physical act whereby the aggressor completely controls the victim.

Yes, she’s a victim—even if she wasn’t threatened with a knife or gun.

When I was young, I used to joke, “If I ever get raped, they’ll find him because he’ll be the guy with his dick cut off.”

And there it is. I thought what many still think: 1) I’d never let it happen to me. 2) If it did, I’d destroy him. I’d react to violence with violence.

But, I’m not a violent person. I’m strong. I’m smart and I can be damn persuasive. Still, at age 23, I was raped by my boss. My boss raped me.

He didn’t have a knife or a gun and I didn’t say no; He didn’t ask.

He threw me down physically. He physically overpowered me. He didn’t persuade me to have sex with him or scare me into it. He took my body with his body. It’s an act of power and violence. Yet, he didn’t punch me, slap me or cut me. He attacked me with physical force.

How many times can a woman feel betrayed after her rape?

A woman is betrayed again every time a so-called evolved man who believes in a woman’s right to choose chooses to believe that somehow she chose this. Or let it happen. Or reacted poorly after the fact.

We’re so bent on not having a victim mentality in our country maybe we’ve forgotten women who are raped are victims—not forever, but in the moment.

Shame on you for shaming her, not believing her, and betraying her belief that you trust her and she can trust you with her truth.

How many times can a woman feel betrayed after her rape?

Maybe that’s why rape is the most underreported crime, why victims of incest and even sexual harassment don’t tell. It’s easier not to.

Who wants to be betrayed all over again? And again. And again.

 

 

 

Playing Brave

Alice LundyLeave a comment

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If I only find pain, I’ll sit with her as if she’s a lost child. I’ll let her tell me stories of her ill treatment and bad lot. I’ll listen to her fears and ask her about all she’s already conquered.

I’ll watch as she remembers the battles before, the brokenness and how brave she became even though it started as pretend.

I’ll see the light in her eyes—that quick glimmer she can’t help but feel, too. I’ll ask her to play brave and imagine light where there’s only darkness.

I’ll take her hand in mine and we’ll begin again.

Every Step (in Grief) Counts.

Alice Lundy2 Comments

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On the road to metamorphosis, every step counts. Those books you read on grief count. The prayers you prayed, walks you took, tears you shed, hugs you embraced, the contemplation, questioning, wishing the truth away, wasting days watching Law & Order or submerging yourself in Facebook—all part of the process.

It all counts. The phone calls you took and the ones you resisted. The words and prayers you let seep into your heart. The warmth you felt on that one sunny afternoon for one minute—a special step forward.

You can’t see it now. You feel stuck, frustrated, so done with not being done with this! I get it.

You’re not alone. You’re a work in progress. Part of your divine destiny is learning to process grief. You’ll always be learning and taking steps forward.

Some will seem miniscule. Moving your beloved’s picture from your bedside stand to your dresser will feel like divorcing the yesterday you love. You will crumble.

What was once little will become huge. What was once important will become meaningless.

Plans taken by the tornado of life don’t make one eager to plan more. You will.

You’ll make many plans in your head and carry out few—for now.

The good news is you’re still here. Even that may feel like another bad hand.

Question that. Find answers worthy. Or don’t. Just stay. Stay for the next act, next character, the next scene of your life.

Keep turning the page. You don’t have to learn the meaning of every word or sign, unless that helps.

Just know: every step counts. Play the music and dance when you can, even with tears. Let the laughter sneak out. When you need to, break glasses, throw eggs, or punch pillows.

Or, better yet, hold your anger and sadness like babies. Just hold them. That sitting with your feelings is a championship, albeit counterintuitive, move out of the depths.

Remember: it all counts. You can’t lose points or do it wrong. You won’t be punished for any of your moves.

Except getting drunk and falling on your face. You’ll pay for that.

But seriously, you’re growing and changing—like adolescence, pregnancy or menopause.

You’re giving birth to a new chapter in life. An old chapter is being ripped away. There will be pain.

You may be in the worst of it. On the road to metamorphosis, everything baby crawl counts. Just don’t count yourself out.

 

Going First

Alice LundyLeave a comment

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How do you thank a sister for being big and bold, for taking life on first?

How can I thank her for knowing everything and explaining our parents’ divorce to me when I was in 5th grade? How can I thank her for taking me to Australia to swim in the Great Barrier Reef and pet wallabies? For enduring hardships I only had to taste?

Is there a Hallmark card for a woman who did it her way first in marriage, career and kids, giving me an example to look at and freedom to say, Me, too! or No way! and never judged me for my choices—even the ones she would’ve never made, the ones that landed me on my ass?

How can I thank my sister for creating a marriage masterpiece for herself and loving someone unconditionally when for me it was only a concept? How can I thank my sister for not throwing a fit when I didn’t pick her to be a bridesmaid in my first wedding? For fully supporting me in my second marriage—both the beginning and the end?

There’s no way to measure how my sister’s destiny spreads its arms before me like a world map.

How can I thank her for all the times she told me what to do and I defied her—like the time I wanted to make a pie in elementary school and I didn’t need her help! I forgot to cook the crust. She’s the one who got in trouble from my dad. It happened often because I was the baby and I knew how to play it. I was just a kid, but so was she. How do I ever thank her for that?

How do I thank Jayne for taking me on dates with her boyfriends and later taking me in to live with her and her husband? I was in high school and left halfway through the time I’d allotted to stay, never thinking how it might cut her to have me—the only family she had in Michigan—run home to New Mexico.

Is there a bouquet I can send that says thanks for opening your home to me in college—as you and your husband juggled a baby and low-paying jobs, while I squandered my education and exercised my independence like it was a marathon?

How could I possibly thank you (but I do) for going before me in losing your great love to death? Then, with a brutalized heart, encouraging me to trust love and the man who lit up my life in all the ways I longed for? Without her permission, her presence, safety, and security, would I have made the leap?

How do I thank her for giving me more than a place to stay—a real home in a way I hadn’t known, after being kicked out of and running from so many?

Can I send a card, a letter, a parade to say thanks for what you went through when my lover died and you had to relive your loss while watching your little sister get slapped by the same?

How do I thank my sister for smiling in the mornings, and when she comes home, and loving my dog who feels like my lifeline?

Jayne’s love is action, but it’s more. Have you ever seen someone look at you like you can do no wrong—even with all the evidence?

One way I can thank her for the thousands of ways she’s lifted me is life itself—living mine to the fullest, even when it’s dark and I’m lost.

There’s more, though. My sister says she could never endure the loss of me. So, I promise to live longer. Losing her would be brutal, but I’d go through the shredder for my big sister.

Besides, we’ll be in our 100s by then and I’m sure I’ll have a handle on this grief thing, right?

 

 

Divine Destiny

Alice LundyLeave a comment

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I’m torn between the best excuse (my boyfriend died; I’m grieving!) and the reality that I must go on, I will go on. I try to care as deeply as I once did, but I prefer organic over manufactured passion.

I make big plans for progress, but greet days with procrastination. I lost my hurry. Excitement is as fleeting as dragonflies. Metamorphoses, change, growth (I know!) arise from grief grappled with rather than denied. This shall not be me life! I, Alice Lundy, refuse to turn into a sad little sap.

So, I trudge on into days that unfold fast and defeatingly slow. I acknowledge my pain, loss, and aching heart, as if doing so earns me a ticket out.

I do the same and different things as when I’ve been immersed in grief before. I remember all I’ve been through—and want a reprieve from being here again. Even though I know better. Knowledge is both helpful and useless. I’ve endured death’s arrows and stood to rise. I will again.

There’s no minimizing. The death of my man was sudden and unfair. What an extraordinary love we shared. I long for his voice, eyes, touch, laughter—his everything. To grieve is to yearn for the impossible.

To transform requires acceptance. No, thanks, I’d like to say. The gal who’s always been about growth and learning and making the best of everything resists the lessons today.

Somehow, destiny determines me open to it all. Death and angels. Scars upon my heart and enlightenment. Solitude and open arms. Darkness and light. Overwhelming sadness and undeniable hope. The loss and the leap. And so I ready.

My Old Friend Grief

Alice Lundy5 Comments

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Hello, my old friend Grief. You used to sneak up on me, back in the day. I wanted you to go away. You held me like a gangster with a gun. I let you guide me into the darkness, even threaten my life.

That was long ago. This time, death didn’t take my family, but the love of my life—not the one love, but the man and relationship that epitomized all the lessons I learned and all the joys I deserved. It was that for him, too. Then, Death came.

You, Grief, come swaggering behind like the sassy little sister with a permission slip. I know your game—the game that’s rigged so I can’t win. Grief is a game with no rules, no seasons, no play book.

I don’t need one. I’ve been in the ring with you. I used to attempt escape, to avoid your blows.

The smack down was inevitable. Maybe you didn’t plan on me getting up? Twice. Then, supporting my sis going rounds with you. You thought you’d take her down? Turns out, she’s a champion and a warrior and you look silly taunting her.

So, now Death delivers a blow to my beloved, sneaks up on him in the dark of the night? Grief, you’re like the toxic relative who always shows up at the party and gets wasted. Or the ex who keeps forgetting we broke up.

I get you. I recognize you. You no longer scare me. Are you bigger than me? Can you hurt me? Absolutely.

But, you won’t kill me. I didn’t know that in the early days. I do now. Now, I stand up and say Death might’ve taken my man, but the love he gave me? It’s staying. You can stick around all you want and I know you will. One day in the future, though, you’ll go away and all that will be left is Love.

Right now my pain is raw and you, Grief feel righteous. I say ok to that feeling. And the tears, sadness, and the ache in my belly scrunched up to the lack of hunger, accompanied by the sudden loss of memory.

Oh, God, what was I saying? Oh, yeah. God’s got this, along with 1,000 angels.

Welcome, Grief, my old friend. Make yourself at home, but don’t settle in.