Tag: alice lundy

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

When an Introvert Grieves

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People say, “Don’t isolate.” What if I connect to peace, the divine, and my loved ones on the other side in solitude?

Being with others—anyone, at this point—feels confining. Solo, on my deck, with my dog, or walking in the woods, I’m free to let my heart and mind converse while my soul steps forward.

When I’m alone, my beloved talks to me from the beyond. What?! You say the girl’s gone bat shit crazy? When I’m alone, I don’t care because even if it’s make believe (I know it’s not), I’m continuing a relationship I never wanted to end. Neither did he. Maybe that’s why we’re so lucky.

I’m lucky. I’m loved by so many. People want to reach out and comfort me in my grief. In gratitude, I try to reach back, but it’s an uncomfortable stretch for me.

I make that stretch because I live in this world. Being with others grounds me like a teenager in love with a boy her parents can’t understand.

Once grounded, I try what works within those parameters: socializing. But, small talk is like eating sand. Maybe because I was in sales for so long. Now, I can hardly tolerate what I once did so well for a living.

I’ve shifted. If you don’t want to go deep and be real, I’m not interested. I’m not saying I can’t be. It takes work for me to come outside of my mind and be fully present with you. I strive to listen and ask questions, due to my craving for soul connection—or at least erasing the mask of personality and finding the point where we’re the same.

It appears people in this land of extroverts enjoy people’s company regardless of the depth of conversation. Maybe that’s not true, but I’ve found a lot of people not so into being real. They only pretend to answer questions about who they are. Deflection is a mastered art in socialization.

So many people wear masks and shields when they enter the world. It makes sense. We’ve all been hurt. Sometimes it’s unconscious. As authentic and present as I strive to be, I keep my old shields handy. They go up readily and rightfully in the company of certain individuals. Don’t we all do that, even a little bit?

I feel it and I’m tired. I don’t want the weight of my shield and the mask no longer represents me, but I don’t yet know what does. I’m transforming.

I like being at home, alone, naked of my armor, and free to just BE: happy, sad, angry, blissful, and bereft. Here at home, I feel secure and comfortable—the safety extroverts get out there with other people.

Let me be clear: I don’t like a lot of people. So, now you know. I spent my life trying to like everyone and judge no one. Kevin helped me to see and accept this truth and many others about myself. I judged myself for not being like Kevin or my sister Jayne. They seem to like most of the people they meet. I find it fascinating and impressive, but I no longer pretend I feel the same.

I don’t like a lot of people. That’s true, but it’s not that I dislike, disrespect, or wish them any harm. It’s just that their company doesn’t spark anything in me. Nor mine in them.

Then, others light me up, turn me on, ignite my energy, and help me remember who I aspire to be (ME!) and who I am without my mask or shield: a beautiful soul playing a role on earth. I recognize the same in them. Although I despise the word tribe, it fits.

I come from a small tribe. Currently, it’s a tribe of one plus. In my tribe, we hold private ceremonies. My dog, God, guides, angels, and loved ones on the other side, even Mother Mary, the Holy Spirit, and Jesus Christ are invited.

If I share this truth outside my in social circles with unspoken conventions, I feel self-conscious, pretentious (even though I’m only sharing my experience), and defensive (as if I have to prove what you’ll never believe). Why?

At home alone, I relish my introvert status. I feel no dispute in who I am. Well, that’s not quite true. I see my inner conflicts and sit with them. I read (solo). I write (solo). I pray, walk and think with myself and my (imaginary?) man. I never enjoyed anyone’s company so much as when Kevin was here. I still do. It’s my private heaven.

I know he’s dead. I’m grieving in my weird, wild, introverted ways. Let me.

Let me be alone with him. Let him whisper in my ear, make jokes, send me signs, and dance with me. Maybe I’m crazy. “Crazy, sexy, cool!” Kevin says.

Is this why they say, “Don’t isolate”? You’ve got to be kidding me! I’m an introvert. I like my company.

Here’s the other thing I find happens to me—as an introvert, surrounded by extroverts (people I love). I say yes on their behalf. Or, I say yes trying to convince myself it’s all about the attitude or energy I bring.

So, I find myself in the back of my sister’s boyfriend’s new Toyota Avalon. I’m uncomfortable. Can you direct some air back here?  Not so fucking much! Geez, I’m freezing. I recognize this as a small form of a panic attack, although I don’t believe in such things. But, if a panic attack is like Get me the fuck out of here! Why did I come? I want to go home! This is stupid.

Just breathe, I tell myself. Alice, just breathe. Then, eat. You need some food. I breathe. I eat. I mentally cuss out the waiter. Where’s my goddamn beer?

Don’t worry. I’m not turning into a drunk any more than I’m going to be fat. It’s just that I have an insatiable appetite to feel good. Right now, it’s sometimes cheap leaps. I allow myself because I know myself.

I’m an introvert and a rebel. Basically, I spend time alone thinking of how I can shake up the world. I want to fight the big things—racism, poverty, electing money, the prison industry…but right now I’ve got the ghost of grief on me. That works well for my introvert self.

But, the rebel in me? She likes to slam doors, burn bridges, jump on the back of motorcycles. My rebel self likes to walk away from relationships and jobs. She wants to prove her freedom. I do what I want!

I see her eating and drinking like she doesn’t care. She cares deeply about her health, but she’s so fucking scared that anything can happen to anyone and she just has to hold it together until the next time it falls apart. See, this girl in me, this rebellious, introverted writer has a broken heart the size of the canyons she ran through in her New Mexico childhood.

I’m trying to get that girl back. I remember being that little introvert, the rebel who abandoned Campfire Girls to build a fort in the canyon behind Mountain School.

In third grade, I ditched school to play in the canyon. Even though I got caught, I’ll never regret that day.

Or the ones where I lingered on the edge of cliffs while resisting the temptation to jump into death, darkness and the earth floor of the canyons.

I have within me a need to go to the depths of my grief alone. Just like the teenager who ran her way through more canyons than I can count.

Don’t worry. As was the rule, I’ll be home for dinner. Or I’ll call.

Please don’t worry about me when I isolate. I’m not alone.

 

Walking Female

Alice LundyLeave a comment

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I drove my nephew an hour and a half north to buy a car. I was only there to give him a ride. He didn’t need me for protection. However, if I was buying or selling anything that involved meeting someone I’d never met, I’d ask TJ to come along to make sure I was safe.

Women walk vulnerable in this world. Too many of us know this from walking into danger when we thought we were invincible, or at least tough. We knew our power. Until one day in some subtle, sexist, or violent way a man took it away. Too many of us were taught our vulnerability.

Even those of us who carry distaste for the word victim and wouldn’t associate it with ourselves. Still, we learn to walk in pairs and let people know when we make it home—so they can breathe easy.

I watch girls walk unaware and I pray I never forget. (Lock your doors. Look around. Pay attention. Keep alert. Walk confident. Don’t park near vans. Park near the light and by a door. Shit! How the hell am I walking alone again?) I pray for safety.

Mostly, I’m safe. I try to be smart, but sometimes that means feeling fearful. Occasionally, it means missing out.

The other day, a white panel van was parked where I typically walk in the woods. It was the kind of van they find dead girls’ bodies in on Law & Order.

It’s fine, I told myself. I walk in those woods almost daily. When I moved here three years ago, I’d be surprised to see anyone on the trails. Now, the trails have been cleared and publicized.

I usually go during the day during the week. Now, I tend to see a few men and their dogs doing just what I’m doing, enjoying the woods. But, do they get a twinge of fear each time they run into me? I like to imagine the handsome ones get the rush that comes from the sight of a pretty woman.

I’m friendly if he is, but not too friendly. My vulnerability dances like a word cloud above his head. Because I’m a woman alone. Sometimes, I feel this way even with my dog. Paranoid, eh? Maybe, but I don’t want to be the girl in the back of a panel van.

So, my dog and I stayed on the neighborhood sidewalk that day. It’s the sidewalk where I was walking last year when a neighbor I’d never met ran to me and told me her boyfriend was trying to kill her. Terror screamed from her eyes. I took her to the police. Later, my sister and I knocked on the woman’s door to check on her. Her boyfriend really was a 6’5 badass, scary dude. The police confirmed it when we asked them to check on her. Then, they laughed because Mr. Badass beats her up often and she calls the police, but she won’t get a restraining order. It wasn’t funny.

Violence against women, in speech and action, are too common. I met this gal the other night—mid-40s. She was at a concert with her mom. I was with my sis.

I showed the gal pictures of my now-deceased boyfriend. She showed me pictures of her face after she went on a date with a guy her brother hung out with in high school. She didn’t know until her first date that the guy is now a cage fighter. She didn’t know until something set him off and he used his fists on her face and his feet to kick her body.

I’m 5’4. This gal is shorter than me. The guy is a cage fighter. He may find himself in a new kind of cage soon, as her court date is coming. Now, unfortunately, now she knows her vulnerability through experience.

Isn’t a civilized society supposed to care for its vulnerable?  Remember that whole women and children thing?

What kind of a man would do this?! Maybe a man who forms his character in an environment where cage fighting is a career choice and a Presidential nominee talks about grabbing pussy.

Can we, as a society, take some responsibility for the kind of men we’re applauding and the kind of character flaws we’re ignoring?

This attitude toward women that says, “Hey, let’s take advantage of their vulnerability because we can” is loud in our society. That saddens me.

Do you know some of Trumps’ followers are tweeting #RepealThe19th: women’s right to vote? This should be laughable by now, but it’s not.

I’d like to end this rant by saying thank you to all the men of class and character, men who stand up to shameful words and despicable acts, the men who walk us to our cars for safety AND honor our worth as women.

May this be the ideal that leads us forward as men and women. May we walk together.

 

 

To my beautiful Black Lab, Phoenix in her eighth year:

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You’re at the vet now. Each time I get up to get coffee, go to the restroom, or step outside, I feel your absence like a twinge on my heart. I miss the tinkling of your tags and your body blocking my path. I remind myself there’s no need to check on you. You’re just across the street at the vet.

Yet, I miss your presence. You, Phoenix are my true companion. I’m lucky you chose me to love the most in this world.

I feel so blessed that I got you back after losing you all those years ago. I only let him take you because I thought you’d be happier on a hobby farm.

I had no idea he’d lock you in a dark basement. I’m so sorry that happened to you and scarred your sensitive soul.

Please know I’ll never give you up again. Not for any reason. You’re mine. I’m your mom. I take that role seriously and it’s an honor.

I wish I could explain it to you in a way you’d understand. They say dogs have no memory, but you clearly remember being alone and scared.

Unfortunately, I can’t take you with me everywhere. So, I go to a lot of trouble to make sure you’re not only well cared for, but also well-loved when I can’t be the one to do it. I’ll never leave you in circumstances that would jeopardize your well-being.

I know—you think your well-being is jeopardized any time I’m not with you! You’re so cute how much you love me!

Please know it’s mutual. You comfort me and bring me more peace and joy than I can measure.

One day you’ll have to leave me and I’ll have to let you go. Until that day arrives, I’ll do my best to ensure your health and happiness. We’ll walk, play and hang out like the friends we are.

But, sometimes caring for you will mean things neither of us enjoy, like the vet putting you under to clean your teeth, as is happening while I write this.

Sweet dreams, my baby. See you soon.

The Making of a Home

Alice Lundy4 Comments

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I haven’t eaten oatmeal since my boyfriend Kevin died five and a half months ago. The oatmeal retreat wasn’t conscious.

Today, I woke up thinking I want oatmeal. I didn’t feel especially hungry, more compelled. The temperature here in Ohio is in the mid-70s. It’s summer, but it feels like a fall day. I’m wearing Kevin’s flannel shirt.

I take a bite of the oatmeal I made. I’m mentally transported into his kitchen. How many times did I see him stand at that shitty old stove making oatmeal?

He ordered a new stove once. I somehow convinced him to cancel it. I later realized I was manipulating him. He wanted to make his place a home for me and I was afraid he would.

So, when Kevin ordered carpet in February, I stood in the store anxiously petting samples. I played nonchalant as Kevin tried to include me in decisions. He signed the paperwork. We went home—to his house—with the carpet samples. Together, we picked a final color of carpet that would never be installed. A dead man doesn’t need new carpet.

How can he be dead after eating all that oatmeal, doing all those workouts, and being so damned handsome? He looked healthy and lived vibrant.

At least you can see a falling star fading. Kevin’s light never dimmed. It just went out.

Life is unpredictable. Who knew eating oatmeal today could take me back? I didn’t even like his oatmeal!

I didn’t like his house, except for because it was his. I didn’t want to live in St. Louis and certainly not out in the country.

Now, the memory of my man standing at his stove making oatmeal and sitting down next to me at his new little round table in his kitchen warms like home in my heart. A home I lost.

 

On My Knees

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I want to be the brave girl, the strong one, the bad-ass I profess myself to be. Don’t the signs, angels, faith, and therapy win me some place at the front of the line?

Will I ever be an Olympic champion of life? I want to overcome grief in a single splash, but I keep swimming. I’m in the pool practicing my strokes. Why does grief knock me off my game?!

I yearn for my intentions to match my reality. Yet, I’m still on my knees. Crying.

Finding Love in the Midst of Grief

Alice Lundy2 Comments

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I love my purple pens. I love water, sunshine, smooth jazz, and my Black Lab. I love time to myself, the smell of trees and their tall green leaves stretching into the bright blue Ohio sky. I love tennis balls on behalf of my dog Phoenix who adores them.

I love drinking out of my deceased boyfriend’s coffee cup—the striped one with a chip—once a week. It’s like a special occasion—a flood of warmth and memories that I can’t hold every morning.

I’m in mourning, I suppose—although that sounds morose and inaccurate. Grieving is more to the point. It’s a striving forward with cement boots of sadness. Sometimes each step forward reminds you you’re walking in circles. So be it.

Damn, you know I’m transforming if I’m saying, “So be it.” Anyone who knows Alice Lundy knows she never said, “So be it” in her life unless sarcastically.

Hell, maybe that’s half my problem. I’ve spent my life trying to improve everything, especially myself. What if I just love life the way I loved Kevin? Or the way he showed me love—strong, solid, simple, and passionate?

I must remember my way of being evoked that in him—as his did in me. We were a collaboration of our best selves.

I felt no need to change Kevin. Nor he me. I’d like to say all of my relationships embodied that principle. Well, there’s a difference between truly accepting someone and telling myself I should, if you know what I mean.

With Kevin, I already knew what I considered the worst of him—the things that normally would tempt me to judge or dismiss. I already knew those things and Kevin knew my areas that some might consider character flaws.

I learned the depth of him later. The more he revealed his deep, dark secrets, the more I snuggled into his arms. He showed himself and held me tighter. He let me in!

It wasn’t just that Kevin shared his internal self; it was that I found him more and more fascinating. I felt compassion for his dark edges because he described his journey in a way that connected with my heart.

And when I shared with him? Ha! I told him the worst of me when we were just friends and I didn’t fear him breaking up with me or the look in his eyes changing.

His eyes brightened when he read my book. Kevin got me. He got me when I told him stories, exploded with jealousy, or felt ill. He almost always said just the right thing.

Kevin’s reactions, compassion, and acceptance washed away painful memories that had haunted me.

I always sought more and spent decades trying to improve myself in order to qualify for something grand.

I didn’t realize I was always qualified. I just hadn’t connected with the right man who could recognize my beauty, brains, and crazy as being loveable and let me love him like a mirror loves confidence.

We were crazy, sexy, cool. FIRE! & ICE! I was loved by the FIRE! I am transformed and continue to change. Through it all, I love myself, as I did the day Kevin barged into my heart.

Now, I go back to basics. I love sunshine, mornings, coffee in his cup, watching birds at his feeder and deer in my yard. I love the simple things. I seek them while I grieve.

 

 

 

 

 

Boxers

Alice Lundy2 Comments

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I live in his boxers, t-shirt, and KISS robe.

I smell his cologne like I’m taking a hit to get high on him.

I was high on Kevin. He was my drug—

made my nerves relax

and brain light up.

He ignited me because he

acknowledged the real me.

I’d gotten sick of guys not getting

the gift standing before them.

Then, Kevin saw me.

And I saw him.

In a new light.

Yeah, it was like the lights were turned on

after we’d made peace with the dimness.

There we were face to face with fantastic.

We smiled our way in and Kevin had a

smile on his way out

of this world

in his sleep.

Oh baby, I wear your boxers.

 

 

He’s Here

Alice LundyLeave a comment

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I’m taking Midol, not because I’m PMSing, but because everything hurts—mental, emotional, physical—especially the fact that my boyfriend Kevin isn’t coming back. Because he’s dead. He’s dead.

I keep telling myself that, but it’s hard when he’s saying, “Quit saying that. I’m here, Icey. I’m here.” Part of me thinks I’ve cracked: I’ve gone mad with a dead man. It’s beyond belief, so we call it crazy. Yet, it’s everything I’ve always believed—the tidbits I tasted and the reasons I went to psychics. What happens when faith, reality, and miracles merge?

I resist—because it’s so unreal. I give in—because it’s ecstasy. The man I love more than any person in this entire world, the one who took me from my theory of how a relationship should be to experiencing the ideal with him, yeah, that guy, he died. But then, he didn’t.

Sure, his body did, although I never saw it. But his essence, personality, and crazy-ass words and ways, they all just stepped into another dimension. He tells me it’s just like he’s in another room.

That’s kind of how it feels—like he said it felt different the first time I was in New Mexico without him—like I was further away than Ohio, even though it was all just a phone call away.

Now, there are no phone calls. I can’t see him or hear his beautiful, masculine voice. Yet I tell you what he tells me: he’s here.

Surrendering to Love

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Marianne Williamson says, “We do not surrender to another person so much as to love itself.” Surrender? That’s a word Kevin used in one of his early letters. I’d tried to submit to love before, but had I ever surrendered to it?

Nope. Usually, I tried to control or reject love. I tried to dismiss Kevin by comparing him to previous men. He wasn’t having it. He asked me to believe and surrender to the FIRE!

He asked—not demanded, expected, manipulated, or sold me on putting myself second. He put me—not first, as so many men did in the beginning—but equal, my desires being as important as his were strong.

Hell, yes, I surrendered—not just to the love, but to the relationship and the man. I opened myself to fresh love. I let go of outcome. I never had a man love me in such strong ways that softened my edges without weakening my boundaries.

Kevin said I could trust him. I learned to, as he learned to be more trustworthy. We were each other’s mirror. Not pedestal mirrors—you’re so beautiful, smart, perfect … Those people aren’t mirrors.

Yes, Kevin saw me as beautiful, sexy, and smart and he told me. His actions matched his words. He saw my scars and loved them, too. He was the opposite of a crazy maker. Kevin helped me let go of my crazy and own my weird.

He looked at me sideways if I said I’m sorry for disagreeing, or for being me, as I once had a tendency. He made my apologies unnecessary and my desire to flee disappear.

The depths we went to, the conversations and experiences we packed into two short years was more than the previous 25 years of friendship—even though we’d worked and partied together and talked on the phone for hours many times.

Mathematically, it doesn’t make sense. Kevin’s friend Garry said, “God slowed time down for the two of you so Kevin could have that experience.” Garry said, “I knew it the first time I heard him talk about you. Then, when I saw the look in his eyes and when saw him with you, I knew.”

Those guys knew each other since they were 17. Garry knew. I knew the depth of their connection, too. That’s why after Kevin passed I gave Garry the watch I’d given Kevin.

Now full circle, Garry’s telling me about time and God’s ability to do ANYTHING, praying that God close the gap between heaven and earth. He calls Kevin and I husband and wife, saying that’s how Kevin felt.

Garry confesses his conversations with Kevin—now, after his death, like me. He tells me what Kevin says back, like I’m experiencing. Garry says he and Kevin go walking together, like we do.

Damn, I don’t feel so crazy or alone with this religious man who also touched the depths of Kevin’s soul—and still does. They were brothers, black and white, accountable to the word.

So now, somehow, Garry is my brother and I’m his sister. He calls me and prays for me—fully present in his faith even on the phone. Garry tells stories, laughs, listens, and confirms.

I’m not crazy. Kevin was all that. Time slowed down. I surrendered to love and to Kevin.

He was the FIRE! He didn’t burn me. He didn’t go out. He keeps saying, “I’m here, Icey! I’m here!” Again, I surrender to love.