Tag: Feelings

::Breaks My Heart::

I was so young when I had my babies. I knew only enough to keep them diapered and fed and loved. I sensed there was something deeper still in the act of loving them, but I didn’t know how to get there. I thought about that often, and it broke my heart.

As my babies were growing up, I took them to Sunday school, and to church. They learned to ride bikes, they played dominoes and Uno. They jumped off the pier in Perdido Bay. I was there as mother, but also as observer. I tried to give them all of me. But I often thought that just fell short. And it broke my heart.

They grew into teenagers. Music blared, the house filled with their friends, and sometimes we laughed till our sides ached. Good, rowdy kids who pulled on the reins. It felt like I was always scrambling to keep up but I fell behind so often, and it broke my heart.

Now as I look back on those years. I swear, it feels like a different lifetime. My babies are grown, married, and my grandbabies are almost grown. My goal, my intention, is to always be there for them. But even now, it feels like I fall short, and it breaks my heart.

She had no idea how good a job she was doing. She always felt she never measured up to what she should be. I guess love is like that … you have so much to give, you give all you have, and yet there’s a longing to give more, to be more.

Now, when I tell them how sorry I am for any wrongs I might have done them during their childhood they laugh, feign outrage, and tell me to stop.

If I could, I would live long enough to spill love on all my kids till they day they die. 

But I can’t and it breaks my heart.

So I’ll just keep doing my brokenhearted best, as long as I’m here, and hope it’s enough.

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::Every Little Piece::

People often ask me when I started to write.  Especially songwriting.

I can think of points along my childhood and teen years when I wrote to process feelings or moments; heartbreak. Confusion. Boys. But the truth is I’ve always, as long as I can remember, written it down.

I say that, and it strikes me quite odd that a tiny girl, not exposed to literary pursuits, would even think of writing.

I was a post war baby; my mother and daddy were young, beautiful, hard working. My daddy was a Navy man, and knew how to do just about everything. They were musical, and funny, but they were not the type to bury themselves in Tolstoy or Hemingway. They had better things to do: roll up the rug in the dining room on Saturday afternoon and dance to Benny Goodman and Kay Starr records. Or sit on the front stoop at sunset, leaning into each other, beer in hand, and watch the kids ride their trikes in the driveway.

So how did I end up here, at this keyboard? Or way back there, at that Big Chief tablet with my Dixon Laddie #304?

I remember a moment when I was five. I was sitting on the swing in the back yard at 1563 North Marion. The sky was so blue, and I was so happy, I wanted to write a song about how I felt. I threw my head back, and instead of words coming out, I cried. My happy went heartbroken in that moment; I wept, because I knew I was too little to write a song that sounded like the ones on the radio.

And it’s interesting, isn’t it? How I remember that moment so clearly. How even as I think about it, I am “back there,” under that blue sky. In that back yard on that swing. My stomach even grabs for a second as the feelings I had then are here with me now.

So I guess you could say the writing thing has always been part of what I am. I remember in first grade, Sister Dianna was teaching us a song, and I was saying the words with her. She stopped, looked at me, and said,

“Mary Cecelia, do you know this song already?” No, I didn’t. I’d never heard it before. But somehow, I knew what would come next in the lyrics. Didn’t everybody? No, it turns out. They didn’t.

In third grade, Sister Mary Damien announced that the Highschool newspaper class was asking for poems from the grade school. They were going to publish one poem in the next edition of their paper. We were to turn our poems in the next day. My heart jumped, and my head started spinning with the tomes I would write.

That night at home, I took out my Big Chief tablet and my Laddie pencil, and I wrote. I wrote at least a half dozen one-stanza poems. I gave each stanza a name, and its own sheet of lined paper. I made the pages as neat as my third grade southpaw printing could get.

The next morning, I shuffled into the classroom with my classmates, laid my stack of poems on the corner of Sister’s desk, and took my seat. I watched her eagerly, hoping she would be proud of me.

Finally, Sister Damien walked over to her desk and picked up my pages. She leafed through them, then ripped them in half and threw them in the waste basket. As she did so she looked up at me briefly and stated,

“You were not to copy out of a book.”

My stomach lurched. My face turned hot. My eyes welled up. I was horrified, for several reasons:

First, it would never have occurred to me to turn in someone else’s work; the fact that she thought I would do such a thing made me want to cry.

Second, even at seven years of age, I was in a panic: those were the only copies I had. I learned an important lesson that day: always make duplicates.

Third, though my classmates were laughing at me, I was more concerned with people thinking I had such a flawed moral compass. They clearly didn’t know me at all.

On another level, buried deep beneath my chaotic feelings, was a little voice that whispered,
“Hmmm. They must have been good. REALLY good. She thought you copied them out of a book.”

A backhanded compliment from a nun, saying my work was so good I could not have done it. I’ve lived a lifetime of twisted victories like that.

In fourth grade, we had music class two mornings a week. One morning the music teacher announced that there would be a music program, and 

that we would be in it. She then said to the class,
“We will need someone to sing the solo. Are there any solo singers in here?”

The entire class turned, without a sound, and pointed at me. All I’d ever done was sing with everyone else.  I was completely unaware of my own voice. With all those fingers and eyes directed at me, I buried my face in my arms and cried.

Eventually I did sing the solo in the program that year. And I kept writing. There were times, big stretches in fact, when I was writing for my life. And music is the silver thread that held onto me, that’s always kept me tethered here.

Truth is, writing and music have always laced the pieces of my life together, helped me make sense of myself, this world, and the path I’m on. They still do.

I used to think maybe these things were pieces of generations past, pulling me back. But I’m starting to believe maybe they’re pieces of the future, pulling me forward.
Either way, I’ll take it. And I’ll write and sing every little piece of my life together, for as long as I’m here.

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::The Courage It Takes::

Today I look around, and see the results of every choice I’ve made. I praise God for His mercy, grace, forbearance. I experience recompense in situations great and small, all day every day. My circle of acquaintances is wide;  the number of close friends is few. That is deliberate, and something I’ve grown to cherish. I weed the garden of my heart on a regular basis. I trust, but not as easily as I used to. I have developed an awareness of red flags and danger signs. When I was young and naive, I assumed everyone in the world was like me. Now, in my middle age, I realize that those like me are few and far between.

I’m a funny one; I enjoy the pleasure of my own company more than I like being around large groups of people, or a few of the wrong people. And what’s ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ for me might not be ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ for you. We all have preferences. I have settled into the realization of my own, and have given myself permission to let that be okay.

Sometimes I feel like a teenager. Well, that’s an exaggeration, I probably feel late twenties. Twenty seven. Then, some days, I look in the mirror and see someone who looks vaguely like my grandmother. There are the days when I look away quickly; other times I stare into her eyes for a few minutes, searching for clues.

I think back to all the mirrors I’ve looked in through the years, and wish I could see that girl, that young woman, again. Would I recognize her now? I don’t know. But if I could tell her anything, it’s that she’s a good girl; that she’s lovable. I would tell her that, though the road will be rocky, though there’s pain up ahead, it’s all gonna be okay. I would tell her that she will emerge a compassionate warrior.

Maybe I’d talk to her about courage. I wouldn’t tell her to be more courageous. I would tell her to look at the hard choices she’ll make, and to recognize how courageous she is.

There will be days when courage is what it takes to lift your head up off the pillow, throw your legs over the side, stand up and face another day.

Courage, I would counsel her, is what it takes to say ‘no’ to someone when your guilt tells you to say ‘yes.’

Sometimes courage is a matter of speaking truth to power even when your heart pounds, your voice shakes. One time it’s confronting a teacher about how your young son is being treated in class; another time it’s telling the store manager that you’ve worked for two years without a raise. 

And there will come a day when courage is telling your husband you don’t know how to fix it this time. Courage is what it will be when you tell your youngest sister, decades later at your father’s funeral, that everything’s okay and it’s time to move on.

I think that walking around inside your own skin takes a certain type of courage. What do we know for sure about anything, really? Two things: death, and taxes. And, I’d add, broken hearts. If a person gets out of this world without heartbreak, they’ve never really been here at all. 

As C.S. Lewis states in The Four Loves:

“To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it us safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.”

So, yes, dear girl, I’d say, you’ll have the courage to be soft. To be unguarded, open. It’s a huge risk, there’s no doubt about that. But which risk is greater? And what, if not the risk to love, are we here for?

I will never regret the love I had for my husband. There’s a part of my heart that still belongs to him. I think that’s how love works. I am where I am now because of the choices I’ve made. 

My choices in the last years of our marriage were fundamentally based on his choices during that same period. His choices were, in plain english, utterly destructive to our union together. They were anathema to our commitment to God, and each other.

Listen, I know there are those who will scoff and say, ‘Oh please, this is the twenty first century, surely the love-honor-obey and till-death-do-we-part bits are no longer applicable.’ I would counter that: when it comes to affairs of, and promises from, the heart those words are not only applicable but sacrosanct. Applied wholly, they define everything; every choice, every decision, every inclination is governed through the lens of those words.

Applied intermittently by one and wholly by another, a mockery is made of that pledge, and of the true heart that is still bound by and devoted to it.

And it takes courage, once the truth is known, to say, ‘enough.’

The beautiful thing about courage is that it makes way for redemption. A brave choice, humbly made, is driven by faith and filled with honesty. Redemption is its reward. There is no room in this space for pretense. 

Courage, I’d tell her, makes all good things possible.

As C.S. Lewis says,

“Courage is not simply one of the virtues, but the form of every virtue at the testing point.“

On the opposite side of courage is arrogance. An arrogant heart is filled with cynicism, excuses, grievances, and a belief that there is a score to settle; that they’ve been wronged. Somehow, life has become a fearful contest and they believe they’ve been cheated. Ironically, a person harboring arrogance cheats herself. The state of arrogance is the continuing manifestation of loss.

In our human condition, no healthy person is all courage or all arrogance all the time. We tend to make our way through the rocky maze of life, and experience numerous courageous or arrogant pitstops along our journey. The inevitable result of each offers us the wisdom needed to make better choices as we go. Some people pay attention. Some people don’t.

As for me, I pray every day that my utterly human effort at good choices will make up for the bad choices I’ve made. Sometimes I lie awake at night, and scenarios from when my precious children were little lodge in my brain. I shudder, because I was so young and stupid. I ask for forgiveness for my ignorance, and I give thanks that God took hold of them when I was failing and didn’t know it. They are incredible adults, a blessing to this world, and that was not my doing. I look at them amazed and know, without question, that it’s a God thing. 

So, I would tell that girl, that young woman, there will come a time when you will be surrounded by your beautiful children, their wonderful spouses, and your adorable grandchildren. Whatever part you played in their being them, that is your best gift to the world. They are your Magnum Opus. 

I write songs, I write prose, I paint pictures, I create beautiful spaces. But those children carried under my heart, born into this world through me, and the children who came after … they are why I am here. 

And I thank God for it all. 

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::So The Kids Will Know::

I want my kids to know.

I’ve been writing since I could hold a pencil. In my mind, even then, it’s “what you do,” isn’t it? Write. Draw. Express yourself on the page.

And I’ve done a lot of it through the years – decades, really – that I’ve been alive.

But recently I’ve been thinking about something. And that is, what will my writing tell my children about me?

I never really knew my mother. She was a cold and distant woman, and no matter how hard I tried, I could never bridge the gap. I could not reach her.

She died on October 31. Halloween. In some weird, standup comedy way, that seemed fitting. But the humor dies out and gives way to the heartbreaking fact that whoever she was will remain a mystery.

Now back to my thought about my kids. I want them to know their mother. I want them to have all the pieces, so they can more clearly understand themselves. I want them to have no questions about who I am, who I was, or why I was and am this way. They need to know.

So now we’re at the memoir. I’ve dragged my feet through a couple of decades, because a lot of the truth isn’t pretty. And on some level I kept thinking the people who treated me poorly would die, and then the book would be safe to write.

But it’s not that simple. It never is. My goal has never been to disparage anybody. My intention is to tell my story, and to share how I survived all that happened. 

I want my children to know what sturdy stock they’re made of. They need to know how, on more than one occasion, their mother “sucked it up” and carried on.

They need to know that the three-legged stool I’ve referenced all their lives – the one with the legs of faith, music, and humor – has, in very real terms, always held me up and held my life together. 

I pray for the courage to write it all. I hope that readers will see that the pattern of broken pieces of their lives is, from a distance, a stunning mosaic.

I hope people understand that the sturdy, fragile, holy, horrible, inspiring, hysterical, happy, messy lives they live are beautiful.

I hope my kids fully embrace it all; that knowing who their mama is will help them see that if I could do it, they can too.

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::Ask Me How I Know::

Have you ever been lied about? And have you tried to “out truth” the lies told about you?

I have. It’s a grueling and ultimately a hopeless exercise.

The effort can leave you breathless … the kind where, with every rapid gasp of air, your aching lungs cry out for mercy.

Lies told about you can be so dark, so extreme they can make your hair and eyelashes fall out. They can cause you to get therapy five days a week for months on end, keep your therapist on speed dial. Move you to write all night, and into the morning, just trying to claw your way out of the black hole you’ve been thrown into. It’s the PTSD of the violently besmirched. And it’s real.

Ask me how I know.

You’ll learn, sometimes the hard way, that silence is the best defense. In this case, the UK’s Royal Family has the best attitude: “never complain, never explain.”

Yup, it’s difficult, walking that path. Counterintuitive. But it’s where you’ll ultimately land when the gossiping “whale of Jonah” finally upchucks you onto the shore. There you’ll lay, waterlogged and exhausted. And, really, relieved to finally give it up.

Ask me how I know.

Do not think less of yourself for how someone’s lies about you have hurt you. It’s hard, it’s confusing, and it’s heartbreaking … especially because there’s never any good reason for it, no purpose other than to hurt and/or destroy you.

But here’s the thing: peace will abide. There’s a saying, “What other people think of you is none of your business.” Butbutbut … what do we do when “What other people say” about us is … so very, very wrong?

The answer, as hard as it is to grab onto, is: be more you. Lean in to who you are. Your authenticity is who God put here in you; it is your key to everything that is good, and true.

It’s tricky at first, and it takes some practice. But keep at it long enough, dedicate yourself to it deeply enough, and you will be present as “fully, wholly you.”

Once the ‘real’ version of you is strong, the chatter of untruths will no longer matter. Lord, yes, it takes time. But start. Start now, if you can. Because ninety days from now you’ll be ninety days older, whether you’ve been more you or not.

Give it a chance to move you toward the good stuff. Because it will, I promise.

Then you’ll discover that this is the good stuff that is born of the bad. And it is so good that, in a funny way, you’ll give thanks for all of it.

Ask me how I know.

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::The Party::

I was not allowed to go. Anywhere.

Well, that’s a broad statement, too broad. I could attend school, Confession on Saturdays, Mass on Sundays. The time in between these events, when I wasn’t doing chores, I spent in my room … a small converted sunporch at the back of the house.

My bed was a chair that unfolded into a flat metal frame with three hard cushions. It was not a comfortable sleep, but at least it didn’t take up much room.

I was a budding artist, the one thing I did that mother seemed to approve of. My art supplies included a small box of pastels, and I treasured those short stubby chalks. I got lost in the process of creating with them, while Bobby Vee played on my little record player.

One night, in the middle of summer, after being told I could not attend a party my friends were throwing, I went to my room. I was sixteen, and not allowed to wear makeup.I looked at my chalks, and something “other” happened. I took the pastel rose colored stick, and with tweezers, shaved a bit to create a pile of dust. I took the sable brown color, and did the same. Then, a water color brush. I touched the shaved blushy color and brushed it over my cheeks, spreading and blending with my fingertips. The brown color I swiped gently into the socket crease of my eyelid. I softened it with my fingers.

Then, I put some of the pink dust into a spot of Vaseline and touched it to my lips.I brushed my hair, and looked in the mirror. The difference was remarkable. Who was I? Who is she? I leaned my forehead against the reflection and thought, “I am ready for a party that may never come.”

That was almost sixty years ago. I was so young and so naive then, so full of dreams and wonder. The road from there to here has been extremely rough at times, but passable.The bed I sleep in now, and the beds my grandchildren sleep in when they visit, are beautiful and stationary. They are piled with down pillows and spread with the kind of cozy bedding that would make Goldilocks swoon; they are clouds of heaven. To tell you the truth, there are times when I check the clock to see if it’s too early to end the day, climb the stairs, and climb into my bed.

I can go anywhere I want, any time I want. There is no one to tell me I can’t. I am, at long last, the boss of me.

Do I still get ready for parties? Sometimes. When I want to. Not when I don’t.

And really, I’m beginning to think that the party I thought I was ready for so many years ago was, in fact, this life I’m living now.

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::Mother::

You could say I had three mothers. She was a doting mother to the babies. She was a controlling mother to the children. She was a cruel mother to the teenagers. 

When I was a baby, then a toddler, she could be silly, loving, and fun. But the older I got, the more unhappy she became.

I was born happy. 

And she seemed to hate me for it.

I sometimes wonder if my mother thought she could give birth to her rescuer. At least I, as the oldest, felt somehow responsible for doing that. But there were five others. Did they ever feel what I did? Did they have the same mother(s) I did? 

Thinking about it now, it seems she wanted me, or us, to unring the cruel bells of her past. But she had shrouded them behind a curtain, and she refused to pull it back, to let us see. To know. To understand. Consequently, we had no clue what we were responsible for. But I, for one, wanted desperately to fix it for her. For us. Because the life we were living hovered above the deep end. At any moment it could drop and drown us all. 

But what were my mother’s dreams? What had she wanted to be, if anything, before marriage and children entered her life? I often wondered, and from a very young age, whether or not I was conscious I was doing it, I watched for clues. Who, really, was this person who carried me for nine months in her belly? 

She often sang softly to the radio, and her voice was beautiful. 

In the early years she and Daddy would turn on the radio, scoot back the furniture in the dining room and dance to the music. They were amazing. 

My mother was a singer.

My mother was a dancer.

She often would say that my first word was “pencil.” I remember her drawing for me when I was very small, and just learning to master putting lines on paper. Her drawings were charming.

My mother was an artist.

I can remember being very young, a toddler, and watching her put on her red lipstick and fix her hair every work day before Daddy came home . I was in awe. In my mind she was a movie star. A queen. She slayed me with her black hair and hazel eyes, her flirty grin when she looked at my Daddy. 

As a teenager, I wondered if any of her talents pulled at her, if that was what kept her in such a dark place. But my mother was someone I could not talk to about deep things. I tried once, and her only response, between drags on her cigarette, was,
“If you keep thinking about things like that you’ll drive yourself crazy.”

Had she driven herself crazy? I remember a time, back when we lived on North Marion Street, that things were very rocky. I was about four.

Mother had a controlling friend who must have been incredibly overbearing. One day, this friend came into our house and rearranged my mother’s kitchen, without asking her. I think my mother was gobsmacked, had no clue how to handle the invasion, and had no idea how to stop it. 

She resented this woman, knew she needed to break free, but felt trapped. Mother seemed to take it as if she was not smart enough, capable enough, to do anything. She fell apart. In the end, it seems it was a nervous breakdown.

The priest came to the house several times, and counseled my mother. Things got quiet for weeks, as if someone was sick, or had died. I was so young that the memories are sketchy, but Mother was either put to bed, or had gone away. 

When she was ‘back,’ she brought a new normal with her. And things were never the same.
Even now I wonder what happened, exactly, during those months, that caused the shift. Whatever it was, it marks the time when the singing stopped. The dancing stopped. The laughter stopped.

The drinking started.

Mother is gone now. Daddy too. I can’t ask them anything. All I can do, or try to do, is write myself to a place where I find peace. 

By writing it down, I sort through the wreckage of the past.  I do what I can to organize the broken pieces. I hope to find some pattern, or even beauty, that illuminates like a stained glass window. Beauty from ashes. Magic from shards. 

It happens. It happens all the time. And if it exists here in this life, I will find it. 

If mother is watching, I pray she’ll help guide me to it. She no longer has anything to lose, if she ever did, by revealing her story. And it is so intrinsically tied to mine, that my story can barely be told, without knowing hers. 

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::PERFECT::

The Perfect

When I was very young, maybe three or four, I remember waking up each day a little breathless. I was so excited to be here. Thinking back, I wonder how I knew. What was that excitement about?
Going a little deeper, it’s almost like I’d been here before. I’m not sure about any of that, but I remember I had a “knowing” that life here could be terrific, and who wouldn’t want to be in it?

As I grew older, I started discovering that there was a thing called perfection. It was defined as something different than what I saw.

Perfection, I was told, could be found in the hospital corners on a freshly made bed. Everything on square. Pristine. Unsullied. Untouched.

I spent a lot of years trying to live up – or down – to whatever that was. But then, in the later years of adult life, I had an epiphany. Really, it was a sort of ‘going back’ to what I knew at three or four. I began to see perfection everywhere. In the torn edges of an old photograph; the way the table cloth was just slightly askew; The lipstick on Mrs. Flanagan’s teeth when she smiled.

Isn’t there a bit of heartbreaking perfection in all of it? It just seems like we all try so hard to be the perfect thing. And yet, when we step back and look, the perfection is always right there, at the center of our authenticity.

There’s a sweetness in the toddler’s bed head. There’s nostalgia in the old man’s dropping suspender. And a beautiful humanness in the failed loaf of bread.

It’s all good. The good stuff of us. We’ve only to live it, and not judge it. Our loving Father is looking down, and — in human terms — he likely gets a bit misty as He watches us try so hard to correct that which needs no correction at all.

The perfect is already here.

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