Tag: writing

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.

Finding Comfort Outside the Comfort Zone

Alice Lundy4 Comments

I started this Lose 10 Pounds in 7 Days Diet along with several girlfriends. By the way, it’s nothing crazy. It’s all fruits and vegetables and I’m just looking at it for a health restart. Plus, I’ve gained weight since moving in with my sister.

It’s interesting to see how our resistance to change and our fears arise in the face of something hard. Day One: I gave into coffee, because yes, I’m addicted. My sister asked did she have to eat all four oranges and all four apples? Our friend Steph had hardly eaten, but had finished her ten glasses of water. Crap, at 8 p.m. I still had seven waters to go! Yep, it was actually hard to eat fruits and vegetables and drink water even though I love fruits and vegetables and water. Just because we love something or it’s a great idea doesn’t make it easy. Just because something’s hard doesn’t make it unworthy. Anything outside of our comfort zone is hard.

If we’re going to make a big change (like losing 10 pounds in one week) it’s going to take moving outside of our comfort zone. Because what’s inside the comfort zone? Chocolate. Law & Order. Beer. Scandal. Facebook. Moving outside of our comfort zone is sometimes as simple as just getting outside. Simple, obvious steps to a better life aren’t always easy.

A lot of things sound good in the moment of decision. Fruits and vegetables for a week, no problem! I’ll do it! This is going to be great! Let’s all do it together! Then, we realize since we’ve been living on pizza and French fries and nachos and drinking beer and coffee, the change feels uncomfortable.

It’s in the uncomfortable where we find out what’s truly important to us. My friend in the group who probably had the most weight to lose questioned the whole thing on day one. I care so much about her health and happiness and want her to remember feeling good in her body. I encouraged her and reminder her, of course we knew this was going to be hard, right? But, that’s the thing. Sometimes we don’t.

We focus on the end results and forget the difficult process. We do this in several areas of life, but each of us tends to embrace or resist the uncomfortable differently. For example, my sister is a phenomenal manager. She’s into having courageous conversations and managerial integrity. She easily confronts situations that her boss avoids.

For me, I’ve had the habit of exercising, at least sporadically, throughout my life. So, even if I go months without working out, I bust through the uncomfortable more easily than my sister who’s never felt the runner’s high. We’ve each got to prioritize which areas we’re willing to push through the uncomfortable. What’s the price of this change, really? How much discomfort? Am I willing? Do I believe? Am I ready? What would be the reward? Is it worth it to me?

For years, I wanted out of sales, but I was so comfortable in a world where I’d mastered the necessary skills. For years, I wanted to complete my bachelor’s degree. I went to five different colleges before finally, at age 37 I completed something I’d started at age 17 and had found too uncomfortable each time in between. I had to finally get to the spot where I was committed to going through the discomfort: of feeling stupid, long nights of studying, asking questions and working in groups that intimidated me. Earning that degree did something for my identity, as challenge and change can do.

Sometimes, it’s the fact that something is hard that makes it worthwhile, whether it’s weight loss or education or writing. We forget that something we love and want more than anything in the world can be the most uncomfortable thing in the world, while things we care so little about can lure us into years of comfort but leave us feeling unfulfilled.

At age 49, I’m now pursuing my writing passion. It’s been my dream since the third grade. Some days, I have to remind myself, of course it’s hard! If writing a book was easy, people would be saying, “Yeah, I wrote a book, too” instead of “I always wanted to write a book.” If getting published was easy, the question wouldn’t be so irritating. If getting an agent was easy, people would be saying, “I’d like you to meet my agent.”

This going for goals and dreams and the things that are really important is hard. It’s uncomfortable. But for those things that really matter, the uncomfortable is worthwhile. And I find comfort in that.

I Envy Her

Alice Lundy1 Comment

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It’s not the secrets of beautiful women I long to know. For what women’s magazine doesn’t try to seduce and sell me those? There’s the beauty you’re born with and that which we enhance with products and procedures.

What I long to know is how the mediocre, or—God, shall I say it?—the ugly dance from their souls as if unfazed by the mirror and society’s sneers. How do those women get over the fence with a presence beyond any pretense?

You know her. You’ve seen her. She catches our eyes without being what we consider eye-catching. She’s deep and alive, making the surface irrelevant. Her beauty bubbles from her soul and we find her unavoidable, undeniable, even enchanting. She’s beyond what ordinary women give chase to. She’s not trying to erase the wrinkles earned in the sun determined to become a bronze beauty.

She doesn’t wear lipstick, but could be a model for an artist. If only she’d stand still. No time for painting her face or dying her hair. It’s not rebellion against or denial of society’s beauty standards.

What I envy is her not trying so damn hard to enhance.

She’s no slacker. Groomed and dressed, often. Yet, she glows of authenticity that can’t be bought, paid for, or put on. Her focus is elsewhere and it becomes her.

I want to know her secret for walking tall, laughing loud, grinning goofy, and dancing anything but graceful.

We all know Victoria’s Secrets. And there’s no maybe about it. Ladies, it’s Maybelline. But, that doesn’t do it for me.

What I want to know, hell, what I yearn to own is not what to put on my eyes or one more cosmetic or cream to buy!

I want to know how to set aside my pride and caress my soul into not worrying about the way I look, but be bold in how I live. I want to live into my beauty. Like her, the one I envy.

 

 

The Widow Cries Alone

Alice Lundy2 Comments

The widow cries alone

After company leaves

And doors close.

Even those who

Share her home

Cannot carry her grief

As she does like added pounds

Piled on by yesterdays

That can never be folded

Into tomorrows.

Dreams that died the day

The disease was born and

Buoyed itself into their lives

Like the blackest sheep

A family could bear.

Husband had to own it,

But wife pays the price

In tears.

In smiles that feel false,

A life that doesn’t ring true, and

A direction that always heads wrong.

Though she tries. Hard. Every day.

Without him.

Wants to shout to him.

About him.

Beg him.

Hold him.

But, he’s gone. So,

The widow cries alone.

Even on days when the sun shines

And music plays

And friends surround.

Even then.

Sometimes, especially then.

Strings on Gifts

Alice Lundy2 Comments

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When your sister’s husband dies

You drop everything

As if you could do anything

About the thing that’s kicking her ass.

Damn, if it don’t make you ache to

Watch her brave it, and badly.

Because there’s no good way to do this;

Grief doesn’t look good on anyone.

Oh, it might make you wise.

Sure, someday, some way

The thing that takes you to the brink

Will bring you back with compassion.

Yeah, soon my sister’s life will

Feel like a call to action.

But, today, this moment,

It’s like a girl—if she had any—

Getting kicked in the balls.

A girl I grew up with.

A girl who stood up to life

When it told her to play it small.

She shouted, “Give me something big!”

It did. And took it away.

A high price to pay,

What she was asking.

Unprepared, as we all are

For gifts and their strings.

The Best Lives On

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My brother-in-law Tommy and I didn’t always get along. I thought he came along and stole my sister. He did. He might say he rescued her from me.

He made her his wife, in a way that I could never make her my sister. She just was.

To get my sister to be his wife, Tom had to win her over: think her both beautiful and smart, be loyal and kind and gentlemanly. He had to be committed. And funny. He had to be respectful and tenacious and the kind of man she’d trust to raise her kids.

Tommy was all those things. He won my sister over. Then, after all that, he gave her unconditional love—not necessarily pretty or perfect—but the thing we all crave—unconditional love, Tommy gave that.

And not just to Jayne. You should’ve seen the parade of people and random acts of kindness Tom attracted into the last chapter of his life. So many people, in so many ways, stepped up to say, “I love you, Tom.” Damn, if he didn’t love that.

Almost as much as he loved his boys. His last Christmas, I asked him if it was hard to say good-bye. “It is,” he said, “but I’ve been fortunate. I got to see them grow up. I think we’ve raised some fine young men.”

Yes, my nephews are fine young men. Through them, best parts of my brother-in-law live on.

Holding Hands

Alice Lundy2 Comments

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“He won’t look like you expect. You can go in and we’ll give you some time alone with him. But, I have to warn you…” the funeral director said with an eerie calmness, “his head is covered. It was mutilated beyond recognition. It’s a natural temptation to want to see his face and I can’t stop you. But, I’ve been doing this for a long time and I encourage you to not lift the face covering.” Giving me key instructions for navigating this new turn in my life, this stranger reached out and touched my shoulder, then peered into my eyes and said, “Honey, trust me, you don’t want that to be the last image you have of your brother.”

I walked slow, steady, and stern into the sterile lifeless room where Bill lay on faceless display. I stared at the long tan fingers on the hand that took 27 years to form and would never wear a ring; the hand that punched my upper arm 20 times in a row just for being the little sister; the hand that unclasped a simple gold chain from his neck as his voice said, “Here, it’s yours;” the hand that stuck its thumb out for a ride while the other hand pushed me to follow; the hand that hid under winter gloves while carrying my skis and poles; the hand that power-shifted a green Vega while “Give me two steps and you’ll never see me no more” blasted through open windows; the hand that held the phone while girlfriends giggled on the other end; the hand that slammed a courtroom door good-bye; the hand that slapped Mrs. Sharp in ninth-grade English to signal the secret, “Bill can’t read;” the hand that held cigarettes like an actor; the hand that carried our two-year-old nephew while walking in Juarez; the hand that videotaped my wedding bash; the hand that held a beer and rested on the passenger door just 24 hours ago. The hand was undeniably Bill’s:  sporting small scars from long days doing construction and fixing and fiddling with a thousand car parts, yet still soft from youth and running through dozens of girls’ hair. I held the hand, caressed and kissed it, then cursed it for being cold, for being there instead of with my mother.

I moved my focus up to the covered face I saw clearly in my mind. Death did a little dance and I could watch if I was willing to pull the curtain. I froze. The funeral director said the wrong thing to the wrong girl. He didn’t know just telling me not to do something lit a fire in me to do it. And the temptation to lift the sheet started in my stomach and moved into my chest. A crowd of instigators chanted in my head, “Do it! Do it! Do it!”

I let go of my brother’s hand. I needed to see his face. This is my brother. My one chance. I’ll look if I want to look. Nothing can change the fact. This situation cannot be different. Looking under that sheet is looking at the truth, of which I am not afraid. My hand pinched the corner of the sheet. I heard my mother whisper from the hallway, something I couldn’t understand.

I turned and ran, pushing past my mother, falling onto the bathroom floor, sobbing like a teenager taken over by hormones. “Why’d they have to smash his fucking face?! Why his face?!” My mother and sister comforted me with strokes on the arm while my father, stepmother and stepfather gawked from the doorway. Now, I was the accident.

I flashed back to a ski accident on a run called “Big Mama.” I’d gone over a five-foot jump because Bill had called me a wimp. He stood at the bottom of the hill, daring me down. I leaned too far back and immediately popped out of both skis upon landing. My anger at my stupid brother blocked my tears. And then there was his hand, pulling me up, as he said, “You did it! Are you ok?”

“I’m ok now,” I said to the gathering as I rose from the bathroom floor.

“Are you sure?” my mother asked.

“Yeah, I’m sure. You can go in now.”

I watched my mother walk towards her son, his body and a temptation worse than the alcohol that had once weakened her. Although my brother’s hand would be cold and could no longer hold my mother’s, the images of it would forever hold me and give me the strength to hold my mother’s hand.

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.

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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