I gaze out the window of my small room And look at the world as it turns Now brought low by events of the universe A strangely altered world looks back at me This beautiful serpent I stare eye to eye Forced to eat of the apple Picked by another from this unchosen tree My days a puzzle of quiet hysteria Searching for a place to fit in Where are the friends of once shared phone lines? That met for warm sustenance of body and spirit Now long distance words seldom spoken Separate air steals and twists into knotted ropes Mangled and empty without purpose or theme The reversal of fortune and status Is living in continuous winter Now cold and naked with no where to hide The move to a descendant’s dwelling Reversing the order adding a whirlwind of doubt The slow sinking a comedy of errors The new order of living with sense and sensibility confused and unguided Is there time for restoration of this older frail structure? The window’s reflection of furrows unhidden What began in 2008 as considerable slowly dissolved into nothingness A piece-by-piece reckoning that became this pane of pain That once was a choice among many Can the graying disguise the lonely resolve of spirit - restore, restore, restore? Or leave these furrows reflected in this lonely window a space of unrelenting endlessness?
The acrid air stings as I breathe in through the double layered stylish face mask. My breathing becomes forced and my glasses steam as I fumble to pull the mask away from my nose for a quick breath of not so fresh air. I franticly check the store’s signaling cement floors for signs and arrows directing me as to the direction to shop the aisles as well as where I must stand behind the silent masked body in front of me as we wait for the plexiglass enclosed masked, gloved cashier at check-out. There are fires here in California forcing another cautionary health concern added to the ever-present Corona virus, COVID-19. My granddaughter calls it The Rona. Our lives are now occupied with statistical numbers related to sickness, death, unemployment, social distancing, handwashing, and masks. And for me, perhaps worse of all, being denied the smiles offered as secret kisses thrown through space, absorbed by waiting eyes, gently engaging the reactionary impulse of a smile in return. And oh, the hugs; that sharing of touch that is evidence of aliveness indicating the benevolence of humanity. These shared precious gifts are now hidden beneath cloths of different colors and social distancing. And when the elusive smile is not hidden or a stranger invades the closely guarded personal space, the seen lips and the mortal body in its revelation and closeness now compromises spatial privilege causing a creeping anxiety into the psyche of the cloth wearers and distance keepers sometimes leading to physical altercations.
My eighteen-month-old great granddaughter only enjoyed her Baby-Gym visits until her first birthday in January. Her party at the gym was the last past-normal social gathering we experienced as a family. How will future-normal society create itself? Who knows the power of The Rona and its creepy insinuation into our bodies and our lives? As I contemplate the future, if this is the new reality and not a sci-fi dream, and I am blessed with living another healthy twenty years, I will tell her bedtime stories of the hugs and smiles offered from strangers that once was an everyday experience in life here on earth.
The Rona affects every instance of our living. In the months since its naming, there have been deaths unrelated to C-19 with no proper funeral or memorial service. The sicknesses related and unrelated to the virus causing senior care facility visits to be cancelled leaving our elders dependent on the kindness of strangers as family as well as frantic concern regarding hospital visits for those of any age regarding underlying health conditions. A restaurant outing is like visiting another planet with persons greeting you in masks, rubber gloves, eye protected helmets and the ever-present bottle of disinfectant spray. Am I dreaming a sci-fi nightmare or is 2020 the real unlucky number out pacing 13 and 666?
The sun’s golden glow slowly turns an orangey yellow with beams of blue and purple as it begins its magnificently orchestrated dance sinking slowly into the now dimming horizon marking the start of thousands years seasoned ballet conducted by master instruction that serves as a faintly tinkling bell warning and informing the coming of night.
The darkness of night with its change in sounds, smells and sights, can encourage a difference in the way we connect with our inner selves and with one another. With me, there seems to be an intimacy associated with the night that I am not as much in touch with during the daylight hours. When associating with others, whether inside or out-of-doors on a warm summery, starlit night, with a glowing moon smiling broadly as the sounds of clinking glasses, soft music and quiet laughter, a kind of closeness fills the air that is not apparent during daylight hours. When I am alone at night, as I am most of the time, I love the change in atmosphere, sound and smell that the darkness brings.
As darkness approaches, it wraps me in a cocoon of my own making. My thoughts become more introspective and those things that I do in the daylight hours, the daily chores, bill paying, shopping, cleaning, connecting with friends and family, are to be completed before getting into and relaxing in “my best friend”, my bed. I love to wallow in its comfort. I watch television, read, meditate and think from my bed. My bedroom is my place of rest in the broadest sense. It is the place where I spend a great deal of time now – especially in the winter months when darkness covers so many of the twenty-four hours of the day.
In my last yearly medical check-up, my test results showed my doctor that I am what she calls “pre-diabetic”. My first thoughts were sugar diabetes? Surely that could not be me because I am not a great lover of sweets. I am not a big fan of chocolate, or other desserts, I can take them of leave them. I crave ice cream and a milkshake or diet Dr. Pepper ice cream float once in a while, as these are heavenly manna for me at times. However, before I assured my doctor that I’m good when it comes to sweets, it came to me that Sugar Diabetes 2 can come from an over abundance of carbohydrates in ones diet and lack of exercise. Since I do exercise at least twice a week and not much overweight (smile), it hit me… OMg, I’m going to have to relinquish my favorite pass time and accompaniment for getting into my best friend at night – I would have to give up my crackers so lovingly and tastefully eaten – slowly, one at a time – savoring the slightly salted crunchiness washed down with a glass of wine or other non alcoholic beverage. What has been my favorite snack and my night-time companion, must now become my once-in-a-while treat. I gave up eating bread, for the most part, quite a while ago and I had cut back on pasta and other carbohydrates as a weight watching approach to good health.
If at all possible, I am not a pill taker, as I have found that the side effects of many of the pills prescribed are much worse that the problem they are prescribed for. Therefore, if I can make changes in my life-style that can alleviate the problem without taking medication, I choose to go that route. Now as I smilingly climb the stairs moving toward my best friend, I now take with me fruit, celery, carrots, or salsa and a few chips or nothing at all. Gone are the days of my favorite Cheez-Its, Triscuits, or other great tasting crackers in a bowl or plastic bag lovingly eaten as the images on television or even better, the words that come from reading a good book as my wondrous eyes draw into my imagination the sites and letters offered by a good director or writer.
I had friends and family over the other night and while shopping for the affair, I mysteriously found myself walking down the cracker aisle and as I passed the Cheez-Its they called my name. I tried to resist and not buy the ‘family sized” box on sale at a very good price; but I was weak and could not. Some strange cord pulled me back as I courageously walked pass and I did not have the strength to ignore the glowing red and yellow boxes stacked on the grocery shelf. How can one be expected to deal with the double whammy of something you love while on sale too? So, I bought the box of little buggers and for the party filled five bowls with them throughout the spaces where my guests would gather and gave the remaining wondrous tasting cheese colored squares to my son and his family. Sometimes one must play tricks and games with ones weaknesses in order to survive.
The promise of my pre-diabetic condition is that the diet change has resulted in losing inches around my waist and a few pounds of weight. I still love crackers, but I now go into the night and my best friend with a healthier snack and that’s a good thing. I regret not being able to keep my nightly routine with crackers; however, as my body ages, I have to embrace the changes and adjustments required to keep it healthy and that’s a good thing too.
Disappearing into a seated darkness with the expectation of being enveloped into another world, a different world planned, managed and directed by a good storyteller – relaxed, readily accepting the experience projected by flickering lights, moving objects, images, action and sound emanating from a big screen – that’s my good theatrical movie experience. Maybe something to drink, popcorn or a hot dog – a good movie, at times, is the best therapy for me.
Walking into a movie theater alone, unlike, for instance, eating alone, is a well-accepted ‘social’ experience. The patrons at a movie only care that you turn off your electronic gadgets before the trailers start. Unlike eating alone where one has to bring a book, magazine or other electronic device for busying oneself while the others (pairs or more) talk together or not, a movie is the experience of escaping into somewhere else for a couple of hours.
There are those movies that I can watch over and over again still enjoying every frame to the fullest. One of those movies is the finest western ever made (in my humble opinion), and that is George P. Comatos’ magnificent “Tombstone”. From the heartbreaking beginning to the dance in the snow at the end, I always remain hooked!
Again, in my opinion, Hollywood goofed in regard to Val Kilmer not being nominated, therefore, not even considered for an academy award for his outstanding performance as John Henry “Doc” Holliday, the well-educated dentist with tuberculosis (called consumption in those days). My sons and I would offer in jest to one another “I’ll be your huckleberry” or “I’m your huckleberry” for months after viewing the director’s cut DVD at a family night get-together. My eldest looked up the meaning of the huckleberry term spoken by the ‘good’ Doc and he found that it refers to “I’m the right person for the job” or a huckleberry is also described as a pallbearer for the dead. Either way, Doc meant business.
I can look back at my life and the lives of my children and grandchildren and movies play an important role in our living and loving. “King Kong” the movie is a remembrance that I have written about. I took my two sons to see the Jerome Robbins and Robert Wise’s musical “West Side Story” when they still allowed me to hold their hands as we walked together. They still watch it on DVD and sing those wonderful songs with their children.
I use movies as a way to open discussions with my granddaughters regarding issues in life. For instance after watching “The Notebook”, the opportunity arose regarding the impact of first love and the effect that has on the psyche no matter what other opportunities are offered in life. After watching the ever so cute “The Courtship of Eddie’s Father” with the young multi-talented Ron Howard as Eddie and Glenn Ford as the widower father (who could forget him in “Gilda”), we discussed death and its impact on the remaining family members.
I had a life changing experience at the movie theater, one that was embarrassingly bad, but a good thing in disguise. I was an eighth grader and finally not required to take my brothers with me to the Saturday and Sunday special showings that included two full-length features, seven (7) cartoons, trailers for coming attractions and a newsreel. I had plans. I had surreptitiously saved money to buy a pack of Kool Menthol filter-tipped cigarettes that I had forged a note from my parents to purchase (in those days, one could smoke in the theater). As I slipped them into my purse along with the dollar bill for spending money and bus fare home I thought ‘at last, I was going to get Jeffery Weekly’s attention.’ He was the finest, tall, lanky, long drink-of-water that walked the Longfellow Junior High campus. My plan included lighting my cigarette, holding it in that certain way as I sauntered down the aisle, then I would slide into the row of seats behind Jeff and his crowd, lean over his shoulder from behind and offer him a cigarette as I coolly blew smoke into the theater air. I imagined that he would turn, smile at me, gladly take one and light up. He might even ask could he offer one to his friends and I would smile at him and say “of course”. I wanted to let him know that this was an everyday thing with me and we could share this wonderful habit together, just as Bette Davis and Paul Henreid did in “Now Voyager” although I had never smoked in my life.
I arrived early for the 2P showing, sat near the back of the theater in order to see all who entered the double-doored center aisle, while being able to see anyone who entered the side doors as well. At last, I saw his talk lanky frame enter with two of his friends. After they found seats in center row, middle, and sat down talking in low tones with each other, I waited patiently until the trailers played and the cartoons finished. When the lights lowered for the first movie, I slipped out into the concession area and turned left towards the rest rooms. I entered the ladies’ room in a “Now Voyager” frame of mind and confidently pulled out my precious pack of menthol tipped Kools, placing one between my lips and the pack back into my purse. I pictured the scene in the Irving Rapper directed film, when Paul Henreid lit two cigarettes at once and so sensuously placed the other one into Bette’s waiting lips. Ms. Davis held it between her fore and middle fingers and took a long drag as she threw her head back and exhaled an even longer trail of smoke from perfectly pursed lips while looking sexily into his eyes. Even though it was my first time, I could do the same, no problem. Seated behind him, I would not be able to stare into his eyes as Bette did, but what the heck; it was not going to be quite as perfect as in the movie scene.
I had carefully dressed and my hair was perfection as I placed the menthol tip to my waiting lips and lit it. I took a deep drag, pulling as much smoke into my lungs as possible, I wanted it be somewhat smoked as I approached my dreamboat.
As the rancid smoke hit the back of my throat, I coughed a cough so deep that it caused my whole body to tremble. I bent over choking in agony; I could not straighten up. My eyes teared and turned red. My nose let go of the grossest string of mucus ever from each nostril. My cheeks, eyes, and nose changed to a deep reddish-purple color as I tried to get control; however, I couldn’t stop coughing. My carefully coiffed hair flew every which way all over my head. The snot, tears and spit covered the front of my freshly ironed sweater and the cigarette and my purse somehow had landed on the tiled restroom floor. I looked into the wall-to-wall mirror in horror at this thing I had become. Still coughing and holding my throat, I grabbed my purse from the floor and through blurry eyes, ran down the hall and out the theater door. The fresh air helped as I staggered to the bus stop and waited for the long embarrassed ride home.
Jeffery moved away shortly after my experience with cigarettes at the movies. He never knew that I had a crush on him, or that I was willing to place my life in jeopardy for him (at that time Camel’s were the rage and Marlborough guy was still alive and touting the greatness of smoking cigarettes).
Nobody had to tell me not to smoke cigarettes. All the advertisements over the ensuing years warning of the health risks of smoking fell on deaf ears as far as I am concerned. Smoking was not only dangerous for your health; it was dangerous for getting the attention of the finest boy in school.
It was one year ago, December 31, 2013, on New Year’s Eve that One Silken Shoe, this journal about the regrets in my life, spilled out in words written in silence with hope of promise and acceptance.
Words, words, words, I’ve written thousands of them this past year and I have thousands more swirling around in my head that I want to share with you my loyal readers and friends that I only connect with through your words posted as comments on this site. And I truly thank all of you who have taken the time to post your kind responses and critiques to my thoughts put into words as an exploration of my living and aging.
In truth, I have not written in a while due to the avalanche of words called “spam” that have overwhelmed my site of late. Hours and hours of my time have been devoted to a battle that I had not expected in writing my journal regarding the pain and pleasure of life and the regrets that I recognize and pay homage to and the promise that I search for on a daily basis. Hovering over my “Shoe” every 4-5 hours was the counterattack that kept my baby safe, while reading your kind comments and deleting the mounting spam. However, with the family requirements of the holiday season shopping, gift giving and meal preparation and let us not forget the eating, I have not had the time to write about or protect my beloved Shoe. After two days absence, I opened One Silken Shoe to find almost four thousand spams waiting to attack my baby. Your five hundred comments were there as a kind offset and I am truly thankful to you for that balance. As my brother would say, “to make a long story short”, I have attempted to close comments to avoid the overwhelming spam.
However, I did open a Twitter account: One Silken Shoe @regretspromises. Remember, I am an older lady and I am not quite sure how Twitter works. My granddaughter, who is my savior in Internet things, is coming over tomorrow and she will give me a lesson on how to use Twitter and how to maybe place One Silken Shoe on Facebook. So, bear with me as I add and transition my words to other forums and options for us to communicate.
May you all have a Happy 2015 New Year, with blessings of good health, prosperity, happiness and joy. And, I further pray that the New Year brings good fortune to my search for answers to my questions regarding my regrets and how to make transparent the hope and promise of this process called life.
The sound of silence surrounds me, creating a bubble of aloneness that can be intimidating or foster a sense of creativity – that is my choice. I listen for an internal cue, a clue to “what’s next?” The wind, seen more that heard, establishes itself by the swaying trees and the movement of the light rain on my window blown rather than falling onto the chilly pane.The ticking clock inflames and singes the wings of my spirit as I attempt to get past the burning embers and leaping flames toward the center of my being, toward that illusive tree of light that always seems blocked each time I feel convinced that I can reach out and pluck its fruits of peace, harmony and happiness.
They seem forbidden fruit for me as plans, dreams and aspirations melt into watery nothingness, dictated by uncontrollable circumstances dripping, melting away before one’s very eyes. However, as I contemplate my singed wings and weakened spirit, I realize that there is one thing that I love, even as I refuse to recognize depression and the “woe is me” syndrome, I know that I love to write. As nothing else has worked, is writing my “gift?” Is writing my path to the fruit of the light for me? Have I finally awakened to the realization of what has been the calling of my spirit all along?
As I contemplate this past year and the impact One Silken Shoe, the blog, has had on my life, I am amazed that a moment of illogical logic when I tossed a beloved shoe in the trash could become this baby that I now lovingly nourish and care for in the form of the written word.
I write in silence most times as any sound, other than that of silence, including soft music, which used to have a calming effect on me, is distracting when I’m delving into my inner most thoughts regarding my life, what it has been, where it is now and where it may be headed. And, of course, the latter is the most unknowable. However, in asking myself why about the past, and why the paths I chose, who knows what a different choice would have made in my living? My friend, Paul, has a way of dealing with even the most catastrophic of life’s events; he always says, “What is, is.” In Paul’s eyes, we must get over the whining, the tears and the blaming, just acceptance and then move forward toward a better future.
In silence and acceptance after all these years, and in honor of my creation, my baby, One Silken Shoe, and wherever it leads me (or not), I will remember with no regret, “What is, is.”
Today is October 31, 2014, All Hallows Eve or Halloween, the start of the holiday season. The good thing is the parade for the San Francisco Giants, winner of baseball’s World Series, is being celebrated on a rainy day in the city. The bad thing is it’s raining, which is a good thing. No one likes rain on a parade day. However, California really needs the rain.
It’s an exciting rainy day. The streets of San Francisco are crowded with thousands of hats and gloves, umbrellas, plastic poncho wearing fans waiting (some since 4:00AM) along the parade route on Market Street, dressed in orange and black representing the colors of both the San Francisco Giants and Halloween and it all fits. The University of California, (CAL) marching band is playing, leading the parade. The rain is inconsequential – the excitement palpable, I can feel the joy through my television screen. Cable cars on wheels, marching horses, with the human scoopers walking behind with their ever-ready shovels, fire trucks, vintage cars, double-deck buses, white and yellow plastic rain coats, happy, smiling faces of all colors with cameras of all shapes and sizes, great floats, confetti and lights – it’s amazing to watch. I am so proud of the Giants. They were incredible to watch during the nail-biting series and edge of the seat last game win. The Parade of Champions – Go Giants!
I once looked forward to this season as my favorite time of the year. It’s not so much anymore. Regretfully, rather than the celebrations, this time of year reminds me of the losses in my life. What was once fun on Halloween has become a chore. Waiting for the doorbell to ring, with the big bowl of candy, I now worry that I’m part of the problem of childhood obesity and maybe ADHD in children by doing so. I could give fruit or some other healthy choice; however, I’m tired of trying to do what’s right and feeling guilty when I’m not. The few children who ring aren’t so cute anymore with their store-bought costumes so different from the ones we made for ourselves when I was a child.
Thanksgiving is no longer the easy holiday of eating, family enjoyment and thankfulness that I remember when growing up. Now as a family, we must first reach agreement on where we can have dinner with everyone because of family issues and uncomfortableness between family members. I look in the mirror and ask, “Is it me?”
Christmas was my favorite, now, the putting up trees and shopping for others is a chore and I’m always wondering if I am offending my saying, “Merry Christmas” when that’s what I grew up saying as I walked through the happy throng of shoppers at the mall. Now I feel a low-lying anger when I say “Happy Holidays” although I really mean it (I wish everyone would have a happy holiday season), but I really want to say, “Merry Christmas”. How far must I go to be PC?
I’ll watch the ball come down on New Years Eve, if I’m still awake. I now drink a glass of champagne well before midnight knowing that I will probably fall asleep before the ball drops, missing the old Dick Clark for the past few years and wishing him well.
I miss my mom and dad more and more and am reminded of the “good old days” when the holidays with them were so much fun. Am I remembering correctly, or am I painting the past with a forgiving brush and only remembering the good or is this a natural part of aging where memories of the past seem to trump the living of the present?
The unconscious, spiritual effect of dreams is worth recognizing in the reality that we live in as we deal with the day-to-day living of our lives. The unconscious dreams generally occur when we are in the Rapid Eye Movement (REM) stage of sleep. These dreams are often analyzed and interpreted revealing wishes, visions and occurrences in our everyday life.
Then, there are the conscious dreams that we have regarding the expectations and focus of our lives that includes our goals and motivations for our future. Children, young adults, adults and the elderly have dreams regarding the future. The sadness of unfulfilled conscious dreams is the story of many lives, including mine.
I dreamed of a much different life than the one I am living. The struggles with family cohesiveness, mental illness, financial insecurity and lost loves are just a few of the dreams that have imploded. One never dreams of those issues as a goal. My eldest son’s grade school teacher advised me that “he is a dreamer; he does not apply himself.” I took that as a problem as she did. I’m a dreamer now. If I am quiet for more than a few minutes, I drift into another place, a dream world that I feel very comfortable in and enjoy the images and visions that are revealed.
The regret and irony of my conscious dreams never included my writing a blog.
The cranberry red, open toed stilettos with the matching bag sat on the closet shelf side by side as I smilingly thought “what a combination.” The threesome was made for the holiday season – rich and colorful, shiny and eye-catching. I was back east when I first saw the shoes on display in the upper end store where Asia, my 15 years younger, good friend, had taken me shopping. I had brought shoes with me to wear to the affair we would be attending later that evening. Asia had warned me that she wanted us both to look our best, as there would be lots of “people watching” at the occasion.
As I stood there in the store, mentally salivating, eyes aglow, unable to move pass the cranberry red colored, patent leather and snake-skin, open toed beauties, which I logically knew were much too tall for me to walk in comfortably, I was also, in another part of my shoe-warped lustfulness, justifying why I should buy them for wearing to the affair.
When the Cheshire-cat smiling sales person, trained to observe the stupefied look on a captured customer’s face, helpfully came over to me with the matching cranberry red, patent and snake skinned, just the right sized matching purse, I became a basket case. With thumb and forefinger, I measured the, snake-skinned platform sole and mentally subtracted the ¾- inch from four and ¾, patent leather heel and convinced myself that the stiletto heels were not actually as tall as they appeared. After all, my granddaughter wears six inchers with no problem. Perhaps, there was a chance that I could walk comfortably in them. I stuttered “size nine, please” to the Cheshire-cat smile, secretly hoping that my size would not be available, as Asia came over to me, knowing, as a true friend does, that I was hooked and she wanted to be with me as I participated the primordial dance of shoe worship and purchase. I secretly hoped against hope that she would take charge and convince me that the stiletto beauties would not be a comfortable shoe for me to stuff my 70 + years old feet into for that night’s affair. Asia looked at the shoes, fell in love and waited patiently with me for the Cheshire smile to return.
Asia and I intelligently discussed the logic of subtracting the ¾ -inch platform sole from the 4-¾ inch heel and the fact that for the walk from the car into the opera house would be a piece of cake for me in four-inch heels. In fact, Asia reminded me, I was an old pro who could make an entrance in these shoes with a big bang. We both looked up as the Cheshire smile returned with a box in hand. The smile with the box containing the ultimate fix in shoe heaven approached, as I literally, for the first time, heard the music, being piped softly into the atmosphere of the busy Saturday morning shopping scene.
The beauties fit. Then I had to stand and I did. Now, the great test, walk. The carpeted floor made it easier and as I stood before the mirror, Cheshire smile brought the purse to me and as I held the silver handles by my side, I felt almost orgasmic. Maybe I do need to talk with a therapist.
I bought the shoes and the bag and wore, maybe wobbled is a better word, them that night. Fortunately, the affair was a seated one with staged music, singing, dancing, speeches, and short drama scenes. However, I had to walk to and from the parking garage, as well as stand in the crowd until the show started. I didn’t people watch as I usually do at such affairs as I, and others in my condition, laser-beam focused on the limited opportunities to sit down before the show began. During intermission, I remained seated and at show’s end I walked gingerly back to the car as a sympathic Asia walked slowly beside me.
A few months later, for an affair here in the Bay Area, I challenged nature and myself once more and wore the shoes and bag again, this time to an affair that ended with music and dancing. As the chairs were being moved for the dancing to begin, I carefully walked to the exit as couples swung rhythmically out to the floor to partake in a beloved pass time of mine – to dance. As the DJ played Marvin Gaye’s “Got To Give It Up,” I gave it up and went home.
Now, as I write this post, I have brought the shiny beauties here to my desk as they glowingly still perpetrate their spell over me, perhaps sensing that I won’t toss them as I did my other silken shoe loves, because they are a pair. What madness lurks in the hearts of women regarding shoes? I’m debating what to do with them. I’ve aged another three years since I bought them. I don’t regret the purchase, even though the stiletto heels with its platform soles are entirely too tall for me to walk comfortably in.
A friend reminded me that for church wear difficult shoes can be tolerated because the walk is only from the parking lot to the pew. However, does one wear open toed, cranberry red, patent leather and snake-skin stilettos to worship? Or does one?
The reality of living life can be so overwhelming that some choose to escape into an alternate universe of their own making that seems to satisfy a need that no one else can explain or understand. Of course I am not an expert in this field of psychology; however, living and observing for 73 years allows me to reveal what I have observed in this field of endeavor.
Some use alcohol, some use drugs, including medications prescribed by a medical professional, while others use their superior knowledge and ability to manipulate, to cope with the competitive nature of the reality of living. It’s not unusual. It’s a fact of life.
As I write this post while sipping a glass of red wine, I contemplate a recent occurrence regarding a friend whose daughter is in a relationship, in fact, married to a drug addict. My friend’s daughter, in trying to assist her husband’s issues, thereby adhering to the vows she committed to in the wedding ceremony, “for better, for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part” has, in fact, descended, into a quagmire of complicated issues that has reduced her own reality of living and loving, which in turn, reflects on the sorrowful concerns of her close relatives and friends.
Remember the Blake Edwards film, “Days of Wine and Roses’ starring the master actor Jack Lemon and the beautiful Lee Remick? In the film, he originally had the alcohol problem, she, in love, accommodated her husband, drinking with him and in the end, he had to leave her to a life of addiction to save himself. What a depressing scenario. I believe this is what is happening to my friend’s daughter. She, committed to her wedding vows, has thereby descended into a world that she is not qualified to control or conquer, may be the loser in the end.
As her mother cries tears of agony and despair, what does one say to her? How can those who love her and her daughter relate to the feelings of despair and helplessness, when we take her in our arms? How can we tell her to leave her daughter to the vagaries of fate as she looks at us with eyes full of hurt and sorrow? Her daughter is missing. The daughter’s husband can be contacted. Dr. Phil can provide no answer.
One glass of wine, then two, maybe a little something stronger to maintain the buzz may be required. Then to sleep, a pill may be needed to settle my mind from my feelings of despair for my friend and her daughter.
The only thing left is prayer for all concerned, including myself, for where does the click come from that tells me that I have had enough?
I have cried tears of regret over many losses in my lifetime. Loved ones lost to illness, tragedy and death, lost keys that open the doors of remembrance and eternity, or lost loves that leave an empty place in one’s heart that will remain forever. However, I feel the greatest loss is what might have been.
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