Okay.  Those of you that know me or have read enough of my works, know I’m one odd bird. But guess what?  I have accepted I’m perfect just the way I am.  And I like myself just fine.  In fact, I’d even go as far as to say the l word.

Self-love is a great feeling for a girl who struggled with issues of inadequacy and insecurities for forty years straight.  Now, I’m not preaching or claiming I’ve been miraculously cured with a wave of a new year, but I am saying these last few years have most definitely led me up a high steep of inner-work to a wide plateau of inner-love.  And the best part is being able to look down and see where I’ve been and realize ,with every molecule of my body and every speck of light of my soul, that I’ve made it.

Sure there are other peaks and valleys ahead, but this one, this forty years of my trekking, swimming, climbing, clinging, hiding, hollering and weeping, is done!  Am I yodeling?  Am I skipping like a grade-school girl on her way to an Easter egg hunt? You betcha!

So much has happened since I felt called to write my life story.  To date, I have a triad of spiritual healers supporting me, including a chiropractor, acupuncturist, and masseur.  Most of whom I only discovered a few months ago, and all of whom I was able to afford because a ninety-seven-year-old lady smacked into my van when she ran a red light.  Amazing, how one event changes a life.

I was thinking back to  two years prior.  It was the fall of 2007.  I was dependent on pain medication and weaning myself from anti-depressants, twenty-five pounds heavier, addicted to eating (especially wheat and sugar products), haunted by a toilsome childhood, angry at my parents, angry at life in general, terrified of dying, fearful of life, dependent on what others thought of me, in constant pain and fatigue, concerned about a suggested kidney biopsy and full-hysterectomy, and generally in a constant state of distress and worry.

Everything turned in the early winter of 2008, when I was led to self-healing.  It began with a holistic doctor, and went on from there through my own independent research and connecting with other healers.  I changed my diet, eliminated the drugs, bought a far-infared sauna, cleaned my house of toxins, including dangerous cosmetics and other beauty products (see environmental working group), incorporated herbs and vitamins into my days, began juicing, eating organic, drinking filtered water, and reading about energy-works including chanting, Feng Shui, chakras, and the likes.  Change didn’t come easily, but it sure came fast; I went through some awful and ugly bouts of detoxing, including all-over body hives.

One of the first things I gained back, after I changed my way of living, was the energy needed to give back to others.  Still feeling weary and in pain after physical exertion, such as bending and standing upright for extended periods of time (fibromyalgia/chronic fatigue), I wanted to give to others without increasing my physical pain.  I knew I couldn’t do any type of volunteering or I’d face the physical consequences of having to rest in bed for several hours to regain my strength.   In the spring of 2009, again after a series of events, I was inspired to complete a hundred-page homeschool website.  My way of giving a little back.  The whole project, including training myself how to build a website, was completed in a short five week period—it happened so quickly, I felt like some force had overtaken me and written the entire thing herself.  Where that energy and drive came from, still baffles me.

After that, I found WordPress and Twitter, and with the help of several new found friends (You know who you are), I was motivated to rewrite my manuscript from start to finish for the third time.   I also applied for college and am now completing my master’s degree in the field of education.  Now I’m thinking I’d like to do something with my ability to have precognitive dreams and pick up on  auras and energies.  A whole new world has opened right in front of my eyes.

My little miracle boy, my middle-guy with Asperger’s Syndrome, has so remarkably changed, sprouting a depth of empathy and strikingly acute communication skills, I once again find myself dumbfounded and humbled in thankfulness.  You wouldn’t know today he was the same wide-eyed little boy who couldn’t be in a room without screaming in panic or throwing a heated tantrum in rage.  You wouldn’t know he didn’t know how to approach other children and make conversation, or how he couldn’t function in most social situations without a string of mishaps.  So many of his strengths and positive attributes have blossomed—so much of the negativity has withered away into nothing.  He is my little gem—a true blessing.

Also, recently I have, with great efforts, corralled my three ninja-boys into a state of semi-calm; this, after years of seeking help through therapists in attempts to control the constant state of chaos in our home.  In addition, this past summer, I have stood tall and smiling through a car accident, flooded house, demolition of half of our house, a broken washer, failing computer printers [3 of them], dead car battery, broken dryer, etc.

In honor of the same old me and our same old house, both of which have been repackaged and reenergized, I’ve decided to make everyday about honoring and loving myself and others  Now that I’ve got this toolbox, from years of therapy, self-improvement books, and, as of late, four years of writing and redrafting my life story, it’s mighty easy to reach inside me and pull out a tool to enhance, improve, or lighten the day.

My favorite tool so far is chanting; I’m just starting out with the process.  But I love to close my eyes and OMMMM!  The vibration is intense and wild.  Another favorite has to be the breathing, letting out the air and the tension.  I’ve been teaching my boys about the power of sound and breathing—explaining to them, in mommy-language.  And they’re getting it.  “Those words hurt me, hurt me at a cellular-level,” I announce with a serious glare and raise of the brow.  And the boys gaze out with curiosity and struggle to lower their frantic shouting and insults at each other.  Their slaps are lighter, their stomping softer.  And I recognize it’s a start; it’s another start towards peace.

Gone are the days I hoped to be like everyone else around me—to emulate the accepted masses in hopes of achieving some semblance of normalcy, and ultimately fostering my self-esteem.  Everyday this year, since the completion and final editing of the last draft of my novel, I’ve awaken each dawn to a greater acceptance and sense of accomplishment.

I guess that is why this whole literary agent search and publishing hopes hasn’t fatigued me or stifled my dreams.  I guess that is why I am still smiling despite the generic rejection letters of my initial queries.  I’m smiling because God fulfilled his promise to me, from that long ago night when I saw a cross on the road.  The night a voice called out to me and instructed me to write.  I’m smiling because I know in God’s time this part of my journey—the four years of writing my life story—will come to a close.  And once again this little odd, disheveled-feathered bird will be high on her peak singing and praising, remembering in our oddities there exists a greater truth, remembering how God promised me if I wrote, there would be great healing.

O.K.  So my baby is out there circulating the literary world. 

But he’s changed a bit.  I again reworked the start.  After four years you would think I would have it down.  But no.  The first chapter just didn’t pull the reader in enough–there was too much narrative not enough dialogue.  So, I did some soul-searching today and typed away. 

I was motivated to take one more look at the first chapter, after a literary agent requested I send her part of my manuscript.  I was planning on spending a few minutes and ended up rewriting for several hours.  Can you say thumb spasms?

 I almost deleted the agent’s request before I even read it.  For some reason (???) I woke up this morning thinking I should check my spam mail.  I hadn’t in over a month.  And wouldn’t you know it, intermixed with ways to make the big ‘O’ last longer, there it was.  Short and simple, and a refreshing change from all of the generic rejection letters I’ve received.  (Well, it’s really only been four, but it feels like a zillion and two)

I think my favorite part about the two sentence agent response, (that I read over two dozen times, and even out loud to my three sons), was the last part.  After requesting my pages, she wrote the word Onward! 

Onward! resonated with me, because last night about eleven o’clock I was ready to put the whole manuscript in a closet for a year.  In fact, I spent two hours working on my second book, a charming women’s fictional piece, that I convinced myself will be so much easier to publish than my last.  Ha! 

I just wasn’t made for rejection, I tell you; even if it is just some person on the other end of a computer reading my one page query and pressing a automated reply of No Thanks! 

God knows I faced enough rejection in my life.  He really knows.  Heck, those of you who had a chance to read my sample chapters posted here this summer know too.  Would it be nice to have a tough skin and not care.?  Hello! Yes.!  But then I wouldn’t have written the book.  And then I wouldn’t send queries… and then there would be no rejection….Hey, wait a minute; this isn’t going where I intended.

I realize letting the world know I sent out a few pages of my manuscript to one agent is like letting the world know I’m pregnant before I even saw the double-lines on the test strip.  But I promised.  And a promise is a promise.

Just don’t be suprised when you see my next post in four days telling you the agent sent my SASE (that’s book-talk for self-addressed stamped envelope) back with a generic rejection letter.  Oh, by the way, I already read her standard rejection letter–would you believe it’s alreay posted on their website?  At least I’m prepared.

Of course I rushed to the post office to mail my manuscript pages today.  And wouldn’t you know it, the postal worker is writing a book too.  She’s on the first chapter.   I said, “Good luck,” and asked all of the nice inquiry questions, and then added, “It took me four years.” 

Her eyes popped open then, and she smiled, saying, “Oh.  It shouldn’t take me that long at all.”  I could here the next part in her head.  “I’ll be done with this in a year, poor thing, must not know how to write.” 

I think I’d like to go back and talk to her in a year.  See what progress she has made.  Her story sounds good anyhow.

What I did absolutely love about this postal worker was her faith in a higher power.  She asked, “Who do you ask for guidance when writing?”

I wasn’t sure what she meant by this question at first, thought maybe she meant a saint, and of course drew a blank on every living saint, except Patrick, and then felt like a fool.  All of this in a second.  But then we chatted a bit (even though there were a good eight people in line behind me giving me the evil-glare, and I never did list a saint). Then she did the coolest thing–this after I realized I forgot to stamp the self-addressed envelope, got back in line in a panic, and had her cut open the envelope.  What did she do?  She chose stamps.  Not just any old stamps; she was careful in her selection.  She put on Bob HOPE stamps.  And as she was sticking them on she said “hope, hope, hope.”  Then she said winking, “I’m adding your two cents now,” and stuck on a couple two cents stamps. 

I joked and said, “Maybe we should go have the whole thing blessed by a priest.”  We actually both nodded at this point, and I was thinking at the next opportunity, I probably would search out a Reverend, a Buddhist, and any other praying soul I could get my hands on.

Yes.  All this, and almost seven bucks, for a few pages that will most likely be headed back my way in a few days with a rejection letter I already read.  Hmmm???

The best news ever is I read the first ten pages to my ten-year-old son and he actually said he liked it.  Now this is HUGE.  Even if he said his favorite part was when one of the characters said shit.  Hey, I’m a struggling writer, I’ll take a compliment anyway I can.

I guess for now I’ll keep visualizing a phone.  That’s what I plan to post on my blog when I get the call, a big phone.  So take a moment to visualize with me, would you?  Send love to that envelope with the Bob Hope and two-cent stickers and visualize a gigantic phone–the biggest one you can.

After that how about a colossal bar of chocolate, a million bucks, and a date with Jesus—What the heck, I’m shooting for the stars, aint’ I?

 Until my next ramblings ~ Love to You ~ The Spectrum Mother.

What if there was something horribly frightening stuck in your thoughts every morning you woke up that never left?  What if as much as you tried to shake it away, it clung on?

What if your only respite from fear was a few times a year, and the remainder of your time you found yourself trapped in a dark dungeon of impending doom?

My name is Marcie, and I’m a hypochondriac.  Crap.  I hate writing that.  The truth is as of late I’ve become quite debilitated in mind and spirit about my obsession with dying over various illnesses and diseases.  I just took an on-line test to see if I was a hypochondriac and got the highest score possible–off the charts! No surprise there.

My obsession with dying of some horrible disease started at a very young age.  When I was four-years-old I fell from my sitter’s shoulders headfirst and cracked my head open.  I was rushed to the hospital.  I can remember the blood everywhere and that nobody could locate my mother.   This fall coupled with the divorce of my parents, might have been one of the first events to trigger my fear of death.

When I was in the first grade my kindergarten teacher from the year before died of cancer.  All I understood at the time is that a lump had appeared on her shoulder and shortly afterward she had died. From then on, I had nightmares and constant thoughts about dying.   My major fear was rabies–at any moment a dog could leap out at me and bite.

The first time I felt true death panic was after my mother’s second divorce (from my stepfather).   My hamster bit me and I spent a week examining myself in the mirror to make sure I was not foaming at the mouth.  From there my fears ranged in intensity and description.  There was the killer bee scare, the blow dryer causing cancer, mother dying from smoking, etc.  And all this before I was the age of nine.

High school years were gruesome.  An undiagnosed IBS (irritable bowel syndrome) had some doctor on the east coast thinking I might have intestinal cancer.  In my college years I was convinced I had AIDS.  Later on in life, when I was bit by a homeless child (while working at a shelter) and the doctor told me there was a slight chance, less than 1% I might have been infected, I was convinced I was in that 1%.

After giving birth to my first son, with my hormones and sleep all out of whack, I really freaked.  I would get up for the early morning feedings and pray to God to not let me die of the infection in my toe.

The feelings that come when I am worrying, which is typically 90% of any given year is liken to millions of filaments engulfing me and then embedding into me, each with a message of why and how this time I am really going to die.

I find it ridiculous of course.  The logically part of me steps back and watches the entire process play out wondering what the heck is going on.  The spiritual part of me is dumbfounded, confused why a woman with a strong faith in God can be so worried about dying.

I use the years of self-talk I acquired in cognitive therapy.  “You are fine.”  “Everyone dies.” “You can’t worry about everything because anything can happen to anyone at anytime.” “Stop.”  “Think about something else.” But then another voice comes back, countering twice as loudly, and often smothering the resistance: “This time it’s real.”  “This time you’re right.” — In my experience resistance is truly futile.

Being very intelligent and an adult with access to the Internet, makes this hypochondriac stuff more difficult.  I don’t choose impossibilities when it comes to my diseases and ailments. I pick things that are very, very probable.  Don’t ask me why.  And having been diagnosed with fibromyalgia there are always multiple of symptoms I can pull from to confirm my days are numbered.

When blood tests or other real symptoms pop up, I’m in deep trouble.  Two years ago when I was anemic I jumped to the conclusion I was dying, this after researching on the Internet the worst possible reasons for low blood count.  Turns out it was low  iron because I’m a vegetarian.  The same month that I had anemia, my eyesight was going and a Dr. thought she’d found a growth in my uterus.  Now that was a month I was downright paralyzed with fear.  First off my eyesight was going from some terrible eye disease that would lead to immediate blindness and ultimately…..death.   And the growth was no doubt the big ‘C’ word.

I didn’t rest assured until all the tests came back normal.  Then I had a respite of about three days before the next major symptom of impending doom appeared. I think at that point I was dying of a brain tumor or something like that. I’d  lost a dear friend to cancer of the brain.

Last year before a minor operation, one I had actually prepared myself enough for as to not majorly wig out, one attending doctor said, “You have the worst urine I have ever seen.”  This resulted in a number of tests.  In the beginning there was talk of  a kidney biopsy.  Everything (Thank you Jesus) turned out alright in the end, but I went through four months of constant soul-draining worry.

When I was diagnosed with endometriosis (another ailment like fibromyalgia that causes numerous aches and pains) I again was on the computer for days researching all the ways endometriosis might lead to something far more life threatening.  For awhile I thought I had endometriosis of the lungs.

That leads me to today.  So, I’ve had this very, very, very small bump on my leg for four weeks that won’t heal and looks like a  pimple. I’ve done all the Internet research feasibly possible to man to rule out which type of skin cancer it is not and which it may be.  My father has had his round of skin cancer treatments and I suntanned too much in my youth…. so this makes me believe that I  have an early stage growth.  I know, even if it is the ‘C’ word that it is highly curable and not the worst type.  But still there is that 5% chance (usually elderly with large growths that go undetected or rare forms of highly invasive types).  But I’ve convinced myself  I have the worst possible type which will no doubt lead to the amputation of my leg or legs… this, if I live.  It sounds ridiculous, but my husband can tell you how much these thoughts have haunted me.  He thinks it’s a wort.

My dermatologist appointment is in a couple weeks.  More than likely it’s nothing, and even if it is something, it can be cut out and taken care of.  Still I am a wreck, suffering minor panic attacks and times I cannot move out of bed from fret. My worst fear is leaving my children, which I know is all about loss of control and letting go.  Still it’s there.  Can’t stop it.

Even after I see the doctor and he assures me all is going to be alright, I won’t be in the clear.  Because, undoubtedly a new obsession of death will monopolize my thoughts within the following days.  This season alone I saw myself die of breast cancer, colon cancer, stomach cancer, and a host of other diseases.

This obsession has wiggled its way into my life long enough.   I really am ready to evict this way of thinking once and for all.  I don’t want to go the medication way and I’ve already tried therapies of all sorts… except hypnotherapy.   I’ve asked Jesus to take this away numerous times.  So now I’m putting it all out on the table–It’s not so scary when it’s out there.

Lately, I’m guessing some of this is probably genetic;  my middle son with Asperger’s syndrome has the same heightened fears.  I have to reassure him time and time again each day he will be O.K. My hope is in helping myself I will be able to help him also.

I don’t know where this journey is taking me, but I’m ready for the conclusion, to wave the chronic anxiety and worry goodbye.

I’ve recovered  from trauma  in my childhood.  I’ve learned how to enjoy my days despite chronic pain.  I’ve survived numerous trials.  I will beat this.  I don’t know how or when, but I will.

I’ll keep moving forward, day-by-day, knowing my life has meaning and purpose, and that I can turn this experience, like the rest in my life, into something positive and good.  Blessings ~  Marcie

I sent out a dozen query letters to literargy agents this week.  I’m going to try to limit myself to about that number for now and will send more out next week.  I have gone through the process of trying to have a book published before, so I know the drill. 

The final draft of the manuscript came out to about 73,000 words.  In the process of rewriting I added a good 15,000 more.  I am continually amazed at where the ideas come from.  I tell you I have some fine writing fairies and some darn good guardian angels.

Last week a very kind college professor who teaches English and a publishing course called to compliment me on my writings and encouraged me to find an agent as soon as possible.  That was an uplifting phone call. 

Big hugs to my husband.  Not only has he been my rock and supporter; he also listened to countless rewrites of the same chapters over and over again.  “But  Honey,” he would ask.  “Isn’t this the same story I already heard ten times?”

   “No.  Just listen. The fifth sentence has been changed and I added a different ending.  This is SO much better.”

Poor hubby.  He would just smile and remain the constant praiser.

At this point I ask that you please pray for my manuscript “Painted Candled” to be placed in the hands of a supportive, honest, experienced and creative literary agent.

The ending of my story actually suprised me.  The novel didn’t take me where I thought it would.  For those of you that are new readers, the story is fiction but based on real life. 

I got the ending approval from my husband–after he made me delete a personal part or two he wasn’t so keen on me sharing.  LOL.  If you read some of the sample pages, you know it’s all about personal experiences.

On a sad note, today, I deleted a lot of my short stories in preparation to mailing out sample chapters to agents.  The hardest part wasn’t deleting the stories; I still have those.  The difficult part was erasing all of the wonderful messages and comments people  left over the summer.  I really couldn’t have finished the manuscript without my readers’ continued support.

To all my Twitter friends especially, what bright stars you have been to me. 

I hope you’ll stay posted.  And WHEN the book is published, I’ll try my best to give you the biggest discount possible without going bankrupt myself (smile). 

Please let me know if you have ever submitted work to an agent, if you have ever self-published or if one day you would like to write a book.  I’d enjoy hearing your experience. 

I have college courses all weekend.  So I’ll be super busy. 

Look forward to chatting with you again soon.

~ Marcie

So I did it! I rewrote the final draft of my manuscript that I’ve been working on for about four years. 

Next step.  Printing out the chapters one by one for one final read through.

I’ll be using this blog to share my publishing process….the trials and tribulations of finding an agent.  And I’ll keep you all posted. 

 

I can’t wait to share the book with you.   

Hopefully this will be a quick process; if not, I’m glad you will be at my side.

 Also, I’ve started a women’s fiction story.  I’m about a hundred pages into the story – started it last year.  And I’ll share some of those writings with you too.

There’s only a few days left to take a peek at some of the stories on the blog – then I’ll be deleting in preparation for the book to come.  Even the stories on here have gone through some further redrafting… but the core message is still there.

Love to you all… I’ll keep you posted.

Oh, and God promised me a title when I finished my manuscript… He gave it to me today.. Painted Candles.

      This is a sample chapter from my manuscript ‘Painted Candles.’

 

A week before I met Catherine and was greeted by her four little ones—their faces a blush and small mouths encircled with remnants of the faded pink of popsicles, I’d dreamt of a dark-haired lady guiding me from one room to the next of a colonial-style home.  There we had walked together, with the glee-filled echoes of children’s giggles fluting down the staircase.

    In real life, I would meet Catherine a week after my dream, and find her house to be much the same, with the elements of joy and laughter spread out evenly throughout her dwelling like mortar across brick. 

    I lived my time under Catherine’s roof as a summer-time nanny, arriving in the morning and returning home to my father’s after suppertime. It was strong, where Catherine lived, unbreakable in most ways. But nonetheless a house embellished with slight hints of life’s imperfections; just enough of the ordinary everyday hassles, such as minor quibbles and forgotten appointments, for the common visitor to feel at home.  The house was always a buzz, with children and parents busying themselves with hobbies and responsibilities.  As it was, there didn’t appear to be a single space in Catherine’s house that wasn’t occupied with life.  Even a colony of honeybees had once attempted to live out their days between the master’s bedroom walls.  I’d been there, with Catherine, to hear the echoing of a thousand buzzes through the aged plaster.       

     That was one of the many days we’d laugh in astonishment together over the oddities of life.  We shared a certain connection, the two of us, as our meeting wasn’t by chance  but preordained—while I’d had my dream, Catherine had been told, in an answer to prayer, that a kind and good young woman was coming to take care of her children. 

    Because of our shared faith in God, and various other commonalities, through the years Catherine and I became fond friends, a relationship liken to a favorite aunt and beloved niece.  It was our unshakable close bond and ongoing shared confidences which made her death all the more painful.

 

When I initially heard of Catherine’s illness, I was a public school teacher of my own right, and had bid goodbye to the nanny position some three years prior.  On a mid-morning summer day I had unexpectedly discovered Catherine was ill, during the last minutes of church.  After hearing the news, I immediately drove over to Catherine’s to find an answer, expecting, for the most part Catherine had been laid up with the flu or a head cold.  What I would discover instead, would be the biggest shock of my life, not so much in the news, but in the way the finding played out.  There had been no warning or pre-empt; but then, with the coming of the news of death, no amount of preparatory time would seem enough. Still, the way I first heard of Catherine’s fate had been a reincarnation of the days with my mother’s proverbial boyfriend Ben, in the way I was to be knocked of my feet with the wallop of words.

    On my arrival, I found Catherine’s husband Adam seated outside the house atop a flight of stairs.  There, alone, he was leaning forward with one hand on his forehead and his tousled white hair shadowing his face.   

      I approached innocently enough, stepping up the stairs, while calling out and waving a cheerful “Hello.”     

     After my words reached Adam and he lifted his head, I stood still waiting for his response.  But nothing came from his end but a cavernous scowl.

    In return, I stammered for words, not managing to say a single thing. 

    Adam remained silent and moved his head from side-to-side, leaving me to feel as if I’d spoken when I hadn’t. 

    Needing to speak, I continued cautiously, superseding the growing lump in my throat. “I heard Catherine was sick,” I offered a part of me thinking words would erase the silence and bring the man I knew well to speak.

     But my words did little, except to cause Adam to sit up tersely and change his grey eyes from vacant to disturbed.

     My body then took over letting the shuffling of nervous feet and trembling of hands preside.   

     Seconds later, Adam barked, and where he had once seemed frail and distraught, he now seemed born-again into an enraged warrior. “Yea, she’s sick alright!” he shouted, setting his eyes past me down to the barren street below.  “She has an inoperable brain tumor and will be dead in a month!”

     I stood there trying to maintain my balance with legs I could no longer feel.  My only thought was this had to be a nightmare. Adam continued cursing God and His wrongdoings.  I watched in astonishment, listening to a man of confessed faith in God, curse his maker, unable to formulate my own words and barley able to think.

    Adam finished with a huff and hung his head low to the ground.  Placing the palms of his hands on his face, he said in a muffled plea, “And she won’t take the treatment, won’t do anything to buy a little more time with us.”

    Swallowing hard and focusing on Adam’s knees, I asked in a meek voice, “What treatment?”

    “They can prolong her life by a year, if she took the medicines, but she won’t.  She said she doesn’t want her last days to be like that.  I don’t understand her.  Why does she want to leave us?” Adam glared up at the sky and shook his head again.  Pushing himself up off the step, he slowly stood up without purpose or want.  With heavy steps, he ambled down, turning once to wave me away.

   My eyes reached out ahead to the high front porch, then back to Adam’s hunched backside and lastly up to the clear blue sky.

    A minute later, when my feet had found there way to the doorstep, Catherine answered appearing as lovely as ever, perhaps paler and a bit tinier, but still beautiful.  I couldn’t yet catch my breath enough to fashion words. 

     Catherine, only five-feet tall, and dressed in a slim, plain black sleeveless dress, seemed more my little sister than elder.  Finding her warm brown eyes, I smiled weakly, searching for what to say. 

    In greeting, Catherine’s mouth folded into a light smile.  I pushed myself forward, passed the threshold, lost in my own thoughts so, I’d thought to be entering a different realm.  Inside, Catherine wrapped the weight of her arms around me and drew me in close. Behind us, her youngest, eight-year-old David, closed the door.

     The words came then, soft and waving, as we both told of our sadness—Catherine’s utterance shaved with tears and mine in trembles.

      “I am so afraid of dying,” she said, whispering in my ear, as three of her children watched us from behind a shadowed corner.  “I don’t want to die.  I don’t want to die.”

       I could barely hold back my own sputtering of tears, and was only made brave by the sight of little Ruth’s wide blue eyes.  I’d never felt so entrenched in grief.

     “Sit with me,” Catherine voiced softly, leading me into the living room with the familiar touch of her smooth palm.  “Stay,” she whispered. 

   

    She would live a year, even without the medicines, but the disease would take its toll on her, invading her faculties, and leaving her a hollowed being, with much of her golden spirit long departed before her physical vessel.  I’d see her twice more, and in doing so, wish I hadn’t, for she preached irrationally about God’s grace and the angels waiting for her everywhere from a platform of a much withered and depleted mind. 

     An older, less-vulnerable me, would have visited dear Catherine frequently and held her hand through the immuring days; instead, the damaged girl I was, chose to escape her emotions by forging a new relationship with a man she didn’t even like.  By becoming emotionally entangled in a newfound person, I was able to cloak the encroaching loss.     

    A week after Catherine’s passing, I found her fully healed and at peace, standing outside a yellow school bus in my dream.  She stood in line with many people, of variant ages and heights, facing forward and stepping closer and closer to the open glass door of the bus.

     I was in the dream also.  Dressed in my night clothes and appearing much the same as in walking life, only lighter and happier. After examining the scene, I also wanted to get in line, and without hesitation squeezed my body in between Catherine and another bystander. 

     Catherine slightly turned and smiled.  I responded by saying, “I think I’m dreaming.”

     Catherine said, “Yes,” and turning around halfway touched my shoulders.

     “Child,” she said, “this is not your time.  Not yet.   Not now.” 

     I shook my head.  I did not want to hear what she had to say.

     Catherine leaned forward and gave one final embrace.  Afterwards, she pulled away holding my eyes with hers.  Moments later she turned around and disappeared onto the bus.       

    With her absence, the scene before me vanished, and suddenly I was thrust into the outskirts of Catherine’s house, standing alone and peering into a cold window in the dark of the night.  My eyes searched inward for a sign of my friend, but she was nowhere.  Inside I would find her husband and children, still breathing, still continuing on in life; and in the dream I would understand in Catherine’s passing, she had found a new place and her family, though heartbroken, would continue on.

    On waking, I struggled to catch my breath, feeling as if I’d almost died.  And there I would pray to God for the soul of my lost friend, thinking on the bus and the line, and wondering when I too would board.

(This is a sample page from my manuscript)

On a dank day, about a week after Easter, a holiday which had proven both basketless and without a single egg—save scrambled, I found a frayed note on the bottom of our staircase.  Thinking Ben or Mother had dropped something, I unfolded the paper with unsuspecting casualness.  Atop the note, written in Ben’s familiar scribbles, were Mother’s and my name, crooked and capitalized.  The first line contained the word please and the last line Ben’s block-lettered signature all in caps.  I focused on the please, focused there a while.  And then, with every new word my eyes leapt back to please.  There was something about the word please which brought me temporary comfort—a millisecond of refuge.

There are times life seemingly takes a giant highlighter and smears a moment in its bright mark.  This was one of those times. I can still see myself stooped on the bottom step, coarse-faced and gulping in disbelief, gnawing at the words, biting my way through the few sentences, halting at the exclamation marks to regroup and breathe.  I’d thought to look heavenward, wanted to pray as the warmth rose up my throat; only my eyes remained glued.

My stare wasn’t curious anymore, and far past casual; rather my expression and the whole of my body was more or less set in a statuette of stupefaction.  No doubt my mind did wheelies, flipping over ramps of reasons.  But the rest of me remained unmoved.

I replayed the last months living in the house.  It was true, I disputed with Ben over his ridiculous curfew, when he expected me to walk straight home after school every day.  I’d also laughed mockingly at his idea of not dating until college.  And a few times I had criticized his lack of effort around the house; but in all honesty, I hadn’t done anything worthy of his unabashed wrath.  Even if I had, he was supposed to be the adult.

And then the cruel injustice of the situation hit me like a jolt to the heart. It was just in the last month, I had started making a few friends, nice girls, genuine girls with good morals, friends who accepted me for who I was.  Friends who complimented me on my poetry and drawings, who invited me to slumber parties, and who happily sat by my side at lunch.  The climate at school was less hostile and most of the name calling had disappeared.  I was no longer the new kid from California; I was finally just another girl at school.  I’d even considered trying out for the next year’s cheer squad.  And above all, there was Jeff, the boy I was in love with, the boy whom I planned on marrying some day.

I thought with certainty this had to be some cruel test—I’d been ridiculed and shamed, beaten in spirit, and then given a glimpse of hope, a splinter of success, only to be prematurely yanked back.  It was some horrible, horrible test.

Refolding the note, I did the only thing I could do, and marched up the stairs to find Mother.

Once inside her bedroom, I tossed the note beside her where she sat in bed reading.     “Here,” I said flatly.

Never one to handle confrontation well, Mother eyed me cautiously as she snatched up the note.  Still as a stone, I waited. Mother’s eyes tracked the full of Ben’s words once and then she reread the note again—the  first time with rueful eyes and the latter with a wry wince.  Then, she pulled herself into a high stance, sitting upright at the edge of her bed with a stoic expression.  She gracefully folded the note closed and collecting me with her eyes said, “It’s no surprise.  I knew this was coming.” Her tone was hypnotic and even-tempered, as if she’d been assimilated by a higher-species of aliens. There was no sign of remorse.

Taken aback, I pressed my eyes sharply into Mother, burying my pain and replacing it with bitter disgust, “You’ve got to be kidding me!” I shouted. “You can’t do this to me! Not after everything.”

Mother, enthroned on her bed, looked as if she intended to speak.

“I hate you!” I hollered.

Mother stiffened on my remark and her one time blank expression hardened.  She then stood up from the bed and pattered her blue slippers across the carpet.  “I can’t deal with you when you’re like this,” she said in an exasperated tone. “Don’t you think I already have enough on my plate?”

I took in her words like pebbles ground into an open wound.  “It’s not always about you,” I said.  I stopped then, with my hand on my hips and shooting out my best sardonic glare.

“Well of course not, I understand it must be hard on you. I just hope I can get through the next two weeks,” Mother replied and then walked across the bedroom to the door.  “You are the one who always wanted this.  Think of how happy everyone will be.  It’s not as bad as it seems.”

Standing at the outskirts of Mother’s bed, I felt the familiar tightening of my intestines.

“But Mother, it hasn’t even been a year,” I pleaded and smudged a hot tear off of my cheek.

Only now did I realize, with a dull ache and churning of my stomach, that my path was already preordained and each tear I shed from here on out would be for naught. Deflated and absorbed in thoughts of despair, I shut my ears and eyes becoming a mute audience for Mother.

She rambled on, speaking on what would unfold in the next few days, on airplanes and relatives, and on boxes, grocery store boxes—we’d have to collect them again.  And then there was phoning everyone, especially her mother and my father.  She continued, until several sentences later, her voice changed and thinking she would nap, she kindly asked me to leave.

I drifted across the room, my eyes set on the carpeted floor, and while fighting off the stench of what I though must be Ben, swiped the note off of the bed.  Slipping silently out of the room, I tottered like a young child under the guttering hallway light rereading the words, thinking if I read the note long enough and hard enough the message might change.  “Please leave this house as soon as you can,” Ben wrote. “I cannot stand to have either one of you under this damn roof any longer!  Just pack up your belongings and get the hell out! ~ BEN”

I repeated the last sentence, Get the hell out, Get the hell out, until I found myself in my small closet staring into the darkness.

(Next chapter to come: ‘Never Existed’)

Why does the sword of religion have to be so forceful and striking?  What happened to living by example?  What happened to gentleness, honor and unconditional love? Must I love another only if we see eye-to-eye first?  Must I always put the goal of salvation in front of the goal of love? And if another does not embrace my exact same God must I spend my life convincing that person otherwise?  This does not feel to me to be God’s intention.

The older I get the more I read of the murders and acts done in the name of imminent domain and the will of God – and the more I think these people didn’t get God at all.  And day after day as I look around me, I think these people today don’t get it either.

How many people have turned away from God because of the falsehoods and bitter acts done in His name? Why does it have to be like this?  By embracing my own faith must I also be forced to embrace those people who are filled with such burning self-righteousness, whose lives are pieced together with one dogmatic closed-minded act after the other?  Why does it have to be thus so?  Why is it this way, I ask?  Is it some force keeping us all apart?

It is so ironic and deeply sad how the word God, a word that can bridge an individual from a place of darkness to light, has been twisted and tainted by humanity and used as a weapon of destruction. Why do so many people use the word God to lift their own selves up to a higher ground and in turn view the rest of the world as somehow lesser?  Why are we not humbled with the love of God, bowing down to everyone we meet and asking them to share their story?  Why are we not trying to connect and lift up others?  If one is truly touched by God, shouldn’t the light of love and compassion be what shines the brightest?  Cannot the people see that the course they have taken is driving more and more people away faster than any will come knocking on God’s door?

I really don’t get it.  I haven’t since I was a small child.  I speak to God throughout the day in prayer and thought; most of my actions are done with a deep connection to the whole of the world.  Why aren’t others?

How so many believers claim to know the way, preach the way, show the way, and then take multitudes from the millions, stuffing their pockets with the same material possessions they preach to be of such little importance astounds me.  Why are so many grand churches built when God can be found in the humblest of shacks and in the humblest of souls?

So much hypocrisy occurs that it becomes a great challenge for the average man of faith to stand proudly along the side of other believers.  And so much fear.  If someone loves God out of fear, out of fear of hell, out of fear of lack of salvation, out of fear of being ostracized or any other number of fears, is that truly faith?  I don’t want to be a part of a religion that breeds fear, that uses fear to recruit and increase numbers.  What is an army of men all filled with fear compared to one individual filled with a loving faith?

This afternoon, as I was writing these words, my thoughts were heavy and sad when I recalled the self-righteous hateful acts performed in the name of God’s will; and just now, before this article was complete, after three hours of lingering thoughts, I read the news that a doctor who performs abortions was murdered while in church. Sadly, the immediate friends and family of the doctor are suffering gravely and all who witnessed the act are traumatized.  And once again, because this wrong-doer hid behind a cloak of Godliness still others will disconnect from God.

The word God doesn’t scare me or raise my defenses; I don’t mind if someone chooses to believe his God is a tree or nature or that someone finds her God within her own self.  And I guess that is where I am torn, like so many, for I find myself in a loving relationship with God and find so much closed-mindedness and animosity amongst those around me claiming to be true believers.

No world is a better place when all the children are divided.  God did not place us each in separate rooms and give us each a separate doctrine and then set us free amongst one another to fight.  Humanity divided us.  Isn’t it time we just built one large room and all gathered together?

Etched in Silence

His name is bold, piled high with blithe, but in the word is naught,

The mystery from whence he came, or where weep the woes he caught,

The bitter lies sit victims, harbored in a den,

A vast horrific place, where all who breathe have been,

Where twisted caverns suck in light, as vacuum to a pea,

And in replace a nothingness of what one hoped to be,

If you listen long and still, his footsteps they shall creep,

Along the path you’ve paved thus so, with all the joys you keep,

He’ll sit right down upon your hope, and squash it good and true,

And cast you blind with wisps of whispered arrow beaten through,

He slips inside so easily, unlike the friend or foe,

A tiny seed of reckoning that he has made to grow,

A germ of fallen gratitude will bed upon thy fruit,

Which once was pure and ripe to eat, soon turns to ashy soot,

Of dreams and cheers and silent praise, of all the causes right,

The seed will feed and grow thus so, and blossoms will ignite,

A burning pain of destitute, which makes all seen as night,

For there is silence very loud, which raps upon the mind,

Inside the edges thick and calloused, carved out words you’ll find,

With careful eye and careful ear, the echoes course and rough,

Etched and chiseled in your soul the words:  ‘Not Good Enough.’

© Copyright, 2009 Marcie Ciampi. All rights reserved.

My dream spoke to me as I slept.

There I was, young and sprightly, pedaling on an older-model bike, like the one my mother used to ride in the early 1970’s with oversized wheels and expansive steel handle bars.  I was speeding along, taking the turns and hills with ease and feeling a sense of expectant excitement.  Completely unaware of where I was headed or even where I was, I didn’t care, and only kept pedaling as fast as my feet could pump.  I had no pain, no fear, no misery or regret.

I continued on my carefree journey for some time, until I became acutely aware of the scenery around me, almost as if before I had been riding beside a backdrop painted in white–a vast space of light and air but absent of color.

Now the background was bold and brilliant; the rolling hills flickered in hues of green, passing before my eyes swiftly like an old fashioned picture show where each photo flashes on the screen.  Just as I was more aware of my surroundings, I was equally more aware of my body and could feel the aches and pains of my muscles.  I slowed down my pace and approached a small hill.  Though I was fatigued, I pushed my feet down hard on the pedals and continued on my journey.

Soon I noticed the bike was not carrying me as readily as before and I had to push myself twice as hard only to reap half the benefits in distance.  I felt discouraged and disheartened.  After traveling further on the road, much to my dismay, I discovered my front tire was flat.  I surveyed the roadside, but there was no one to be found.  Not wanting to give up my journey, I dismounted my bike and pushed it along the path.

By this time my legs and arms pained terribly and I recollected I would soon have to let go of the bike and abandon my ride on the side of the road.  I ached with the thought of letting go of the handlebars and allowing the bike to collapse down.  But, after a few more steps, having no choice but to let go or collapse myself, I released the bike.

For the next part of my journey I walked, alternating between brief moments of sprinting and times when I could barely take one heavy step.  However, I continued moving forward, no matter the obstacles presented.

At last I came across what appeared to be a deserted community and set my eyes on a steep paved hill.  Knowing I was to climb the hill, I carried myself up, one painful step after the next. At the top of the hill was an shaded partially indoor-space that resembled a newly constructed shopping center set inside a long, brightly-lit, spacious tunnel.   Realizing I was almost to my destination, my eyes searched out until they found a small emblem, one made of  red and black horizontal stripes.  The emblem was hanging on a tiny wooden board hung by chains outside of the last shop in a long row of buildings.

Determined and filled with a new hope, I reached into my pocket and found a plastic card with the same red and black symbol as the one hanging on the sign outside the storefront. I did not rejoice at the sight of the sign or feel the slightest sense of accomplishment but experienced a sense of understanding and recognition.  On seeing the emblem, my slow heavy steps changed to fast easy glides.

In no time I was a few yards away from the building ready to present my card.  But as I approached the building, only a shop’s-length away from my destination, I instinctively looked down and noticed the ground had shifted.  Where I had once been on a plateau of a steep hill on the same level as the nearby store, now I was standing on a high flat ledge some thirty-feet off the ground-level.  My eyes surveyed the premises.

At first I reasoned I could jump down from the ledge, though I quickly surmised I would break my bones or die if I leaped.   Then I noticed a middle-aged man standing calmly to my left.  He was on the same high ledge as me, only one tier up, and to his left was another man, another tier up from him.  We were all within an arms’-lengths distance.

The man to my left smiled warmly at me and without words he said, “Just wait here and let them help you.”  The other man, appearing much older and absent of any fear, eyed me solemnly.

From far down below I saw a middle-aged woman waving people onward and calling out to others to come and help me; her large eyes lifted up to me as she said, “I am bringing a ladder for you to climb down.  Just wait.”

I remained there, up on the ledge, entirely absorbed in the moment, as a feeling of peace and serenity  engulfed me.

(This is the dream I had last night on May 22, 2009)

© Copyright, 2009 Marcie Ciampi. All rights reserved.