A POEM

Edging into mood, mind, my Self--unawares

creates color, chaos, confusion

indigo apprehension of a fall

split-screen identity

What do I desire, remember, know, believe--
through distractions

like a thousand tiny pearls
strung earth to sky?

THE HOLES THEY LEAVE

That night the stars kept me awake. I couldn’t sleep, so I went to the window overlooking the ocean. A green light flashed at the horizon beyond the cloaked meadow. Looking up, I saw more stars than I ever remember, brilliant and shimmering. Elated, I felt my whole being inhaling the ebony sky teeming with star life. I stood in awe for moments, minutes, or hours—how long, I can’t say.

    When I returned to my bed, I still couldn’t sleep—but not because of the mad convergence of memories, desires and fears that had been crowding in on me before. My mind was free and pure with the light of those gems in the dark velvet sky. I wasn’t drawn back to look again, however compelling; rather, I just let them live and expand in me—as they always were and always will be, as I lay in quiet wakefulness.

    But not long enough. As the first light dawned, edging in on me was an awareness of my own smallness against the expanse of the grandeur I had witnessed. I wished to remain in that blessed state, like one holding on to a fading dream, but those habitual, chaotic thoughts began pressing in once more: the absurdity of being human, the perpetual dirge sounding beneath the surface of mundane reality. I felt an impending void. I wanted to fill it with the beauty and mystery of the starry heavens. Out there, in here, “as above, so below,” these words were like pearls on the strand of my desire to remain as I had been, but it was not to be.

    That was the night the stars kept me awake.

    Since then, I haven’t been the same. Why? I don’t know, but I am determined to return to that state of grace. During the day, I go about my routine and practical matters, but with anticipation of the other half of my life—the night. It’s all obsession. I sleep for an hour or two then awaken and wander to the window to see if the stars are as they had been that night. They never are.

    I know it’s crazy, but there has to be a way back. I began trying anything that might diminish my agitated condition. I’ve attempted to clear my mind through meditation, but to no avail. I bought a bunch of self-help books, joined a Yoga class, devour natural remedies for sleeplessness, anxiety and depression. I also started seeing a therapist, which I had meant to do when I came back from my travels a couple of years ago.

    I am also reading poetry about the stars hoping to affirm my experience of that night. I’ve found many star-inspired expressions, but the lines in this poem come closest to my obsession to recreate it:

    And now, each night I count the stars,

    And each night I get the same number.

    And when they will not come to be counted,

    I count the holes they leave.

    Desperate to find peace, and as a last-ditch effort, I asked my therapist to prescribe something to help me sleep. About a week into taking the meds, this happened: While asleep, I got up, went outside, walked into my next door neighbor’s house, opened the refrigerator, took out a bowl of pasta and ate it. I also took her dog out for a walk, then wandered back to my place.

    My neighbor, Dana, witnessed the whole scene, and came over the next morning to tell me about my strange adventure. I didn’t believe her—that is not until she showed me the evidence. She started taking a video when she heard me come in, watched me in amazement and followed me around, ready to call 911 in case things got even crazier. I was embarrassed, and it was frightening to hear. I felt like an idiot. So much for sleeping pills!

    Dana and I went for a walk on the beach that afternoon. It was sunny and warm for late October, the sea all lapis lazuli and silver wrinkles under a clear sky. We talked as we walked into our elongated shadows. Until then, I hadn’t thought I knew her very well, but I realized then that I probably felt closer to her than to anyone. Even though, ashamed of the incident the night before, I felt safe with her, maybe because she had said more than once that I remind her of her daughter Linney, who had recently come home after years away.

   I told her about the night the stars kept me awake, and my unshakable obsession. I even told her about the poetry I’d found that could sometimes calm me. I started to feel like Dana could see through to the real me. (I am not sure there is a real me.) I didn’t resent it though; at least that would mean someone knew me. The thing is, I’d never confided in anyone before in that way (not even my therapist, not really). And Dana didn’t think I was insane.

    How can I say what it’s like—my quest? Waiting for the new moon and cloudless sky, going down to the ocean’s edge to stargaze in the “mystical moist night air” (another line from a poem). Even though the heavens are always majestic, there’s never anything to catch me off guard—like on that night.

    That’s it!

    Why am I always on guard? I ask myself. I have no answer. Poetry is the only thing that can catch me off guard—with ideas and feelings I’ve never had before, but I somehow recognize them as mine when I “hear” them—the beauty and truth of them. I find myself more at ease at those times, and a little less desperate.

    My therapist tells me I do have the answer, and she will help me find it. Part of me thinks it’s all bullshit: my quest, my question, her reassurance, my obsession, my strategies and remedies. What would it mean to come to terms with an answer (if there is one)? Still, I continue the therapy and all the rest of it (except the sleeping pills). Why? Because I want to get back to perfection—the ultimate distraction from myself—that feeling of the stars living in me.

    A couple of weeks after Dana and I walked together, she called to say we should meet for dinner. Her invitation made me feel good—comforting to think of being with her again. She said she had a gift for me, and I got the impression she also wanted to tell me something. I figure she has worried about me ever since the sleep-walking incident. I look forward to our meeting when I will confide in her even more—tell her things and ask her things.

    She’s a wise person, an “old soul,” as they say. I respect and trust her. I will even let my guard down, intentionally this time and really spill my guts (poor Dana). Maybe I will hear myself say something that will surprise me, like poetry can, something that comes from the part of me that isn’t on guard.

    Driving back from a therapy session I decide I should just quit going. The therapist is bringing up stuff I don’t want to think about, which I guess would be good, if I really want to get to the bottom of things? But it doesn’t feel good, and besides, I already am at the bottom of … something, but also feel at a threshold.

    As I pass Dana’s house, I see a woman on the sidewalk with Dana's dog. It’s a damp, raw November evening. Something is wrong. She’s in a nightgown, pacing back and forth, looking like she’s in a daze. It’s got to be Dana’s daughter. I pull up next to her and roll down the window.

    "Are you okay? You're Dana's daughter, Linney, right?” She’s crying, so I can barely make out what she’s saying. She doesn’t answer my question.

    She just keeps repeating, "Mom, why? What am I gonna to do? Why, why did you do this to me?"

    She doesn’t even seem to notice me, so. I get out of the car and practically pick her up to get her into the back seat. The dog jumps in too. I tell her I’m her next door neighbor, and a friend of her mother’s, which makes her cry even more. I bring her back to my place, clear a spot on the sofa and pour us both a shot of whisky. Between her sobs, I hear what’s happened.

    “My mother’s dead,” her voiced strained.”I didn’t know …. She … she … ”

    “What? No …” I interrupt, “No, that can’t be true; we were supposed to … ”

    “Yes, yes it is true. She was sick, but she didn't even tell me. Do you believe that? I called to her last night, and when … when she didn’t answer, I went into her room. I kept shaking her, but she didn’t wake up. She looked funny, so I called an ambulance. I stayed with her until … until the end. It was horrible, and I … I … ”

    She begins crying again. I don’t want to pressure her, so I just let her go on and get everything out. When the sobs subside, she tells me that Dana regained consciousness for a bit at the hospital, but the doctors told Linney that her mother was in the end stage of Leukemia. She would not be coming home. There was just time enough to say goodbyes. That’s when Dana told Linney about the things she had left for her. You’d think it would’ve been something for Linney to hold on to. Maybe that's harder—holding on when she is never coming back.

    “I’m not gonna to do it. I don't wanna see anything—whatever she left. I … I can’t … I won’t. Anyway, she …she hated me and … ”

    I stop her right there, trying to set her straight, “Now, that is not true. Your mother did not hate you; she talked about you a lot. She wanted the best for you; she loved you.” I didn’t really know about their relationship, but I did know Dana worried about her.

    “No, no she didn’t,” Linney practically screams at me, with a blank look, then puts her hands over her face, her body shaking in silent gasps. While I wait for her to calm, I notice that she is not much younger than me, and is quite a beauty. So Dana’s saying I reminded her of Linney had nothing to do with our looking alike. She is a lot smaller and thinner than me (I try to ignore the sharp twinge of that fact). She has the kind of looks, no doubt, that turn a lot of heads, open a lot of doors, and maybe keep her from seeing herself as she really is.

    I remember Dana told me that when Linney once said, “I’m starving,” she knew it was literally true. So, she somehow persuaded her to go to lunch. Linney ordered crudités (which sounds much better than “raw vegetables”). Dana said they would have tasted better, too, with the crab and cheddar dip. Apparently, Linney was frantic to move the vegetables away from the dip, “as if they were going to jump into it by themselves. The dip should have come with a ten-foot pole,” was what Dana had said. She could be funny like that, but it was sad too, partly because I can relate to that fear big time.

    I knew Linney was like me, too, in that she had been away for a few years “traveling” (a kinder way of saying, “wandering”). She came home to stay, Dana said, “until she sorted things out and got her life back on track.” I’m also waiting for that to happen for me.

    After a few minutes of silence, I hear myself say, “You can stay here tonight, so you are not alone,” but hope she doesn’t take me up on it (until she doesn’t). That’s when I feel a dark and heavy weight looming, about to crash down. For some reason, she wants to sleep in her mother’s bed, so I walk back with her and get her settled in with the dog.

    The next morning I check in on her. She cries off and on, but doesn’t say anything else about Dana's sudden "disappearance," avoids eye-contact, and keeps repeating, "I don't want to live in this house. I've gotta get away from here. I can't stay. I’m not going through those things she left. I'm just not! I’ll go away. I don’t want to see anything or look at anything.”

    Okay, okay already, what a big baby, I am thinking. I only say, “Your mother must have had her reasons—leaving certain things for you, don’t you think? Aren’t you even curious? She seemed like a wise person,” I innocently offered, but Linney looked stunned.

    "My mother, wise? No, she was a crazy person. You didn't know her—not like I did. She did hurtful things, like not telling me she was dying.”

    "That's what I mean, she had her reasons,” trying in vain to convince her. “Yes, I guess I didn't know her…not the way you did, but it seemed like she looked out for you.” I was realizing Dana knew a lot more than she let on about a lot of things. Linney didn’t know Dana the way I did either, or that she had looked out for me too.

    I feel sad when I remember that we were supposed to meet in a couple of days. I had planned to learn more about her then, but was most looking forward to learning more about myself (everything really).

    “What are you talking about?” Linney whines. “She was not looking out for me. We never got along, and especially since I came back home!”

    “She never mentioned anything about that to me. I heard only good things, maybe a little concern, but …. ” No, I decide I am finished. I don’t want to hear it—Linney’s distorted take on things, or think any more about it. I’m not going to convince her. I resent her for being closed off, and for making me feel so protective of Dana and her memory.

    I’m blindsided when she begs me to go with her to make funeral arrangements. I want to say, “Oh, no, now you are the crazy one, not your mother. I couldn’t possibly.“ Instead I hear myself say, “Okay, if you want me to.” I mean, she has no one else.

    Somehow, Linney and I manage to get through the funeral arrangements. I am surprised by my own feelings of loss, a sense of the finality of death, and the certainty of my own demise one day, which is not something I had thought too much about before. By the time I get home, I’m exhausted and hungry. I can’t eat or sleep though, and stay up until midnight.

    I flop on the bed and try to relax, using my techniques: visualizations, exercises, and all the other things that never work. I end up staring at the ceiling until 3:00 am. Finally, I pick up one of the poetry books scattered at the bottom of my bed. When I feel myself begin to unwind a bit, I “hear” these lines from the last poem I read, like a mantra chanting itself in the dark:

    That’s how you came here, like a star

    without a name. Move across the night sky

    with those anonymous lights.

    I close my eyes, imagining I am one of those lights—a star moving through the heavens. Instead of the stars living in me, I will live in them. It’s the closest I’ve come to that feeling on the night the stars kept me awake— unguarded—outside the fortress walls.

    The memorial service and burial are held on the day Dana and I were supposed to meet, the day I was going to find out everything I always wanted to know, but was afraid to ask. The strange thing is, I slept that night for eight solid hours—the first time in months. I never believed in magic or miracles; now I’m not so sure. Maybe Dana is able to hear all that I was going to ask her, and all that I was going tell her. Maybe my desperation somehow can reach her (wherever she is), and she has pity on me—once again.

    For a while I see Linney once or twice a week walking the dog. We wave to each other without a word, but I haven’t seen her for a month now. I’ve called her at least once a week, offering to help with anything she may need.

    "Thanks," she always says, "I'm fine. I don't need anything.”

    “Okay, then. Well, you let me know if you do?” but no word from her—until tonight.

    Out of the blue, she calls, as I came in the door. She sounds frantic. “You have to come over … right now!”

    “Okay, be right over,” and I break out into a cold sweat at the prospect of what I will find, what I will see or hear. The sun is going down. It’s dark and icy cold. The ocean is roaring, maybe churning up for a Nor’easter. I walk over to Dana’s house and go in through the kitchen door—the one I wandered into the night of the sleeping pill fiasco.

    Dana’s house always looked staged for a photo shoot. On her tables and shelves, here and there, she would place bluebells in the spring, seashells and feathers in the summer, autumn leaves in the fall, moss and crystals in winter. I liked the displays of seasonal warmth, light and color, but now it looks more like my place, not at all inviting—no frills, dark, and kind of messy. I notice flower arrangements left from the funeral on the countertop and kitchen table, wilted and dried.

    “In here,” Linney calls from the small office off of the kitchen, lamplight spilling over the doorway. The room is as if Dana has just walked out of it, and will be "back in a sec,” as she would say. It is now, I guess, the single welcoming, orderly, and bright spot in the house.

    Looking up, Linney says, “I made myself come in here early this morning." I assume she has been in here all day.

    “Oh, how? I mean … you said you never wanted to … ” She cuts me off, running her hand through her long hair in a nervous gesture. “I know … I know. I never wanted to come in here, but … I … had this dream last night. My mom was calling me, but I couldn’t find her. I wandered through the rooms, but it was kinda like I was outside too, trying to get in. You know how dreams are weird like that? The wind kept pushing me back. I could see inside the house. Waves were crashing against the windows from the inside, and I heard the wind howling … sounded like a train coming. It woke me up. It was still dark, but I could see the light coming from the lamp in the office. It hasn’t been on since my mom died, so I felt like she made it come on … like her way of calling me in here. I feel like I’m still in a dream now, or,” Linney hesitates, “or awake for the first time—not sure which.”

    Me too. I brace myself when she says that, but I can’t say a word. I notice she looks different tonight, still sad, but softer, more composed, and somehow, yes, more “awake." The glow in the room illuminates her long hair, and the gold trim at the collar and cuffs of her nightshirt. I keep my gaze on her and try to focus as she begins to show me some of the things Dana left for her. She opens a picture album.

    ”These are pictures of us, of me, when I was a little, when Dad was still alive." She points to a photo of her in a pine tree, taken from the ground up. The branches look like a feathery green staircase with Linney looking down, waving. There is another of Dana holding a little Linney up with one hand under a white beach umbrella dotted with blue fish.

    "I didn't know …. I didn't know so many things,” she whispers, as if I am not even here. She picks up a worn, white journal, and holds it close to her. “I didn’t know Mom wrote in this when I was growing up.”

    "Maybe you didn't need to know … until now.”

    Pictures and papers are strewn over the desk, and in its open drawers. She picks up a page, “I’ve been reading this letter over and over." She doesn’t read it out loud to me, but I sense it must have broken a silence, opened a door or shattered some walls. Maybe filled a void?

    Linney opens another small book with a black leather cover embossed with tiny white stars. She turns the pages, pausing to read some of Dana’s entries, her fingers tracing along the lines. On the first page is the date of Dana’s diagnosis, a description of her treatment plan, and her intention to keep her illness from Linney, apparently also her thoughts and feelings through it all. Linney reads lines from poems on virtues that meant something to Dana:

    On hope as, “a thing with feathers/that perches on the soul,” and on faith, like the moon, “faithful, even as it fades from fullness/slowly becoming that last curving and impossible/sliver of light before the final darkness.” There is mention of Dana’s “year of miracles,” of gratitude and joy through her last days spent with her daughter at home, but also of her companion, “constant sorrow.”

    I am feeling like Dana left these treasures for me too when Linney asks me to read the last entries. I am lightheaded and disoriented as I read what Dana wrote in her graceful handwriting, my voice barely audible, far away sounding, like it is not me speaking:

    Pain — has an Element of Blank—

    It cannot recollect

    When it begun—or if there were

    A time when it was not—

    

And

The Heart asks Pleasure–first–

And then–Excuse from Pain–

And then–those little Anodynes

That deaden suffering–

And then–to go to sleep–

And then–if it should be

The will of its Inquisitor

The liberty to die–

    I look up at Linney holding out to me a small package wrapped in dark blue tissue, bound with silver ribbon.

    "She left this for you. Open it, I want to see.”    

    “Really?” I take it into my trembling hands and unwrap it. It is a book of poetry by Emily Dickinson with a note:

    For Stella

    With Hope and Faith

    From Dana

    Outside the night is still and silent, no stars, and sea fog drifting in.

Acknowledgements

Title “The Holes They Leave” and “Each night I count the stars/…” from “Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide” in S O S: POEMS 1961-2013, copyright ©2014 by The Estate of Amiri Baraka. Used by permission of Grove/Atlantic, Inc. Any third party use of this material, outside of this publication, is prohibited.

“as above, so below” from the Hermetic texts of the Emerald Tablet of Hermes Trismegistus.

“mystical moist night air” from“When I Heard the Learned Astronomer” by Walt Whitman.

“That’s how you came here/like a star…” from “A Star Without a Name”by Jalāl ad-Dīn Muhammad Rūmī (Mathnawi III, 1284-1288) Translation by Coleman Barks in Say I Am You, (copyright ©Maypop, 1994), printed with express permission of Coleman Barks.

“a thing with feathers…” from “Hope” by Emily Dickinson in Poems by Emily Dickinson, First & Second Series, edited by Mabel Loomis Todd and T. W. Higginson.

___“faithful, even as it fades from fullness/…” from “Faith” by David Whyte in River Flow: New & Selected Poems, printed with permission from Many Rivers Press www.davidwhyte.com, ©Many Rivers Press, Langley, WA 98260 60 USA.

___“constant sorrow” from“Man of “Constant Sorrow” by Dick Burnett (1913) originally published as “Farewell Song.”

___“Pain has an element of blank…” and “The heart asks pleasure first…” from “The Mystery of Pain”and “The heart asks pleasure first” by Emily Dickinson in Poems by Emily Dickinson, First & Second Series, edited by Mabel Loomis Todd and T. W. Higginson

THE VEIL

Doris James Rotondo

I have a sense that images in memory, known and unknown live within us, and may arise spontaneously, welcomed or not. This phenomenon first reveal itself to me in literature and art, which can awaken associations through symbolism in words or images. Then, I became more aware through writing of my own "stored" images, some deep, some at the surface. Also, I began to "see" what others disclose when the soul speaks, either shared consciously, or, unbeknownst to them, seemingly in casual converstaion or an off hand remark.

    To an astute listener, observer and delver into such things, as I consider myself to be, these images or experiences, once spoken, seem to ray out like a holograph, fill the space in a room or in my mind. One such image appeared yesterday and here I will set down what I heard and saw.
    If one word only could have described my godmother Aunt Doris, it would be “eccentric.” Every time she saw me, she would say in her high, lilting voice, "Oh, there's my fairy goddaughter!" Funny, kind and open, she was a enigma to the rest of the family. For one thing, she always carried an enormous, usually rather gaudy bag, out of which she pulled various items and gadgets: a metal tea ball, a large thermos of tea (probably spiked), caramels and licorice for lovers of sweets, artificial sweeteners (before anyone heard of them), and other novelties deemed (by her) absolutely essential for all outings. These items, like her countless phobias and fears, seemed to be extensions of her self. No one in the family understood the need for the ever-present bag, much less the reason for her fears—the origins of which were unknown (maybe even to herself), although the nature of them were often displayed and shared off-handedly, as freely as were the contents of her satchel.
    I have a vivid memory of her wearing a beautiful blue coat with a wide "ermine" collar when she arrived for holiday and family gatherings at my grandmother's house. Her fragrance quickly wafted through the room on the coolness of a snowy evening. The cousins ran to greet her with hugs and kisses which left lipstick smeared on our cheeks. She was a sight to see: frizzled hair, thin painted-on eyebrows, shiny pancake makeup face and lips of ruby red. My sister and I could not wait to try on the coat left on the bed in the upstairs room. We asked for her make up bag, which she freely let us look through and experiement with. Then we painted and powered and looked in a mirror imagining we were our more grown-up selves. 

    She didn't mind, and we were in heaven.

    There was always laughter in her company, usually at the table after dinners where it seemed we sat for hours. Aunt Doris was often at the center of conversation and source of laughter. She was well aware of her aura, as we laughed about the bag, about the fears, about the idiosyncrasies and occurrences in her life. 

    She told us of once having excitedly run up on to a stage to receive a prize at an event after hearing the winning number called out which matched the ticket in her bag. Then in front of the hundreds of people was told by the MC that the ticket she was holding, though with the correct numbers was from another event entirely! Then there was story about an outdoor luncheon she and Uncle Frank attended. They had filled their plates with food, sat down at an empty picnic table—on the same side, whereupon it toppled over onto them, food and all, which evoked another hardy round of laughter. It was also well-known that she wherever she visited, she took a souvenir: a piece of silverware from a restaurant, a glass or towel from a hotel room.

    These, as well as many other stories told and retold at family gatherings, inspired such good humor and warmth. It was all part of the "Aunt Doris experience," and, in a way, a kind of odd family bonding, which no one more than Aunt Doris enjoyed and looked forward to.

    She was a mystery, not only related to the stories of odd occurences, and the huge bag with its jumble of curiosities within, but also for the even heavier burden of the fears she also carried with her wherever she went. Some of the fears I recall hearing about included elevators, tall buildings, crowds, and any mode of transportation. Uncle Frank had to hire a series of live-in lady companions to stay with Doris so she not be alone. Once, when a relative appeared as a guest on a local television program, she was afraid to watch--another mystery to us all. Despite her fears she had to sometimes muddle through, especially being in a car, as how else would she get to the family gatherings to reveal the medley of miscellany and tell her stories? Both of which were accompanyed glancing at each other, rolling of eyes and, of course, lots of laughter.  

    I suppose some of the adults may have known something more about her anxieties than we children did. We mostly felt only the lighter mood and the laughter surrounding the lovable oddity that was Aunt Doris, who, by the way, could play a mean honky tonk "Limelight Blues" on the piano.
    Yesterday, I saw Aunt Doris for the first time in many years. The family doesn't get together often anymore, as we did when we were young, lived in closer proximity to each other, and our grandparents were still alive. Now, some thirty years later, the cousins are all married with families of our own. But there she was Doris, a little older, a little heavier (so was I), still jovial and had the fabled "bag" with her. This one matched her pink sweatshirt decorated with lace and cowgirl fringes. We were all ready to be entertained, and she did not disappoint.
    Once again, she performed and we laughed together; only this time without Uncle Frank who had since passed away. I know everyone must have imagined that expression on his face, and his unique laughter when she began her act in that high pitched voice and tinkle of laughter. This time she pulled from her bag a battery-run ash tray designed to whisk away the smoke from her cigarettes. Out came an extra set of batteries (in case), the saccharin packets, a cigarette bag—containing several packs of off-brands and a fake plastic cigarette complete with lit ash on and a rising smoke feature meant to help her stop smoking. She had purchased it some years ago, never used it, but continued to carry it with her, as she still meant to write to the manufacturer regarding her dissatisfaction with the “contraption.” We all laughed heartily, just like old times.
    In the past, we had occasionally her her refer to her mother as "Mrs. James" in a sarcastic tone. This time, however, she looked a little different as she spoke, and my delver's sense became finely tuned, as an image she lived with all of her life became visible to me. And this I felt one as a source responsible for her eccentricities and anxieties. It was only a moment, a glimmer—created with a few words, and, even though we all laughed again later, in that moment I empathized deeply, with more of an understanding and compassion for her suffering.
    I knew her mother had left the family at some point, but Doris told us that Mrs. James would take her aside whenever she visited to speak smoldering, hateful words about the father, words which Doris said she did not understand. I rememberer her father, Mr. James who had a printing shop below the family apartment, as a kind and quiet man with whom Doris lived when she and Frank were first married. It was obvious that she adored her father. What stood behind the harsh words, and the look on her mother's face described when she uttered those harsh words to Doris about her father must have seared into her young girl’s soul and remained there as a tender wound that must have, in part, formed the fearful woman she became. And of course this was most likely only part of the story.
    As Doris conveyed this memory to us at that last family gathering, an image of the scene she described appeared to me, as Doris seemed for that moment transformed into her mother—taking on the same tone and contorted facial expression her mother must have used to denigrate and discredit the father. 
    I am certain Doris was compelled to occasionally conjure up that image and re-encact it so that she herself could view it, like some grotesque Veronica’s veil of the vulverable little girl who had borne her own cross, which she carried, not in her bag, but impressed upon her heart. This, however, was the first time I had seen it--explaining in part the mystery of Aunt Doris.

It was a revelation in the midst of frivolity, a gift of insight and understanding to me, and I honored the fleeting moment in my own way then, and share with you now, my own images and memory of my generous, funny, kind and wounded Aunt Doris--a recollection of the the joy she brought to the family along with the sorrow she endured.

January - 1990

Aunt Doris passed away in 1996, alone in her little cluttered house in Gloucester, New Jersey. Her only son, Frank, Jr. (Frankie), committed suicide a few years later.

JUST THE WEIGHT OF GOD

(An attempt to clarify my own beliefs, tracing the winding thought and spirit path to them)

Revelation or Wishful Thinking?

I have not had one clear, powerful spiritual revelation in which all things became clear to me. There have been moments of intuition and insight shaping my present state of spirituality and belief, such as it is. There are people who have had such experiences, affirming for them another reality: voices heard; visions, out of body occurrences; feelings of being directed; guided, saved or found. I do not doubt that some people have life-changing experiences that are true revelations, and we have the historic examples of true mystics, still influential spiritual teachers from centuries ago: Meister Eckhardt, Hildegard von Bingen and others of all faiths. 

I do wonder, however, if some such experiences may emerge out of other less super-sensible, factors such as subconscious influences; wishful thinking; a desire for comfort, peace and certainty or desperate lives that yearn for change? Could they arise out of a natural inclination of personality or perspective; long-held or even newly found spiritual beliefs and/or practices? Those who do have such experiences then must come down from the proverbial "mountain top" to live by what they now "know," or believe has been revealed. Certainly, reflection would be required and some interpretation (or misinterpretation) of the meaning and message going forward. Some may believe they were given absolute truth, which compels them to evangelize to anyone who will listen.

I have always felt that no one religion is the only "true" one, though many claim to have the absolute truth. Neither do I believe that religion is necessary to be a good, moral human being; however, I cannot imagine being so without having embraced certain values to live by, often contained in religion, but also to be found elsewhere. I believe in freedom of thought, which means not blindly following without question the dictates of any authority. Coming to values and principles on our own often involves a healthy balance of skepticism and openness, curiosity and acceptance, observation, and holding questions instead expecting answers. 

By considering and thinking through what we are taught and what is available to explore in our own life experience, in sacred texts, literature, philosophy, psychology, history, science, and other fields, we orient and re-orient ourselves again and again, as we both discover and create a spiritual path, subject to change, as a map changes with exploration and discoveries.

Perhaps some devout religious people may say my heart is hard, that I am not able to submit to authority, that I cherry-pick only what I can relate to. I have been called a "free thinker," meaning that my hard-won, subject-to-change worls view is all wrong. I took that as a compliment, having been given the gifts of free will, and the capacity to learn "how' to think instead of "what" to think. We are all born into certain circumstances and conditions and may not or may not be exposed to organized religion. But all of us are exposed to a family's or community's social, cultural conditioning and conformity. There we may remain, or we may seek independence to find our own way, as I have done from my own experience, intelligence, insights, intuition, inspiration, and the often unexpected and always welcomed "amazing grace." 

What Kind of God Don't You Believe In?

A friend with a clear understanding and practice of her faith once asked me, "What kind of God don't you believe in?" It made me think of the "version" of God I had grown up with, which, even as a child, I could not embrace. I do not believe in a patriarchal, anthropomorphic God, micro-managing everything, seemingly responding arbitrarily to the prayers of His faithful, and having ignored those of His chosen people who implored Him from concentration camps. I do not believe in a God who created human beings to worship and adore Him, with a pre-ordained "elect" group to be saved, while others were created only to be damned. I realize too, that it may be that this IS the God that exists, but I can not believe believe in that God.

I am drawn more toward the idea of God as Father. If, as experience tells me, an ideal father guides, encourages, supports and comforts his children, is fair, compassionate and unconditionally loves through thick and thin. Fathers guide children to a certain point, then must trust that all that has been given and taught will bear fruit. They also realistically expect that children will make missteps, experiment, may make unwise choices, act impulsively or disobey, as Adam and Eve are said to have done tempted by a serpent (Satan), whom God also had created. I've always questioned too, if God is omnicent/all knowing, certainly he could not have been surprised that his creations disobeyed him. A wise father/parent realizes that, unfortunately at times, their children must learn from adversity, which often increases consciousness and conscience. This is why I believe that this and other biblical stories are imaginative pictures/metaphorical lessons to be contemplated, not taken literally.

Problems and problem-solving develop from encountering unexpected situations, whether we make what seem like good or unwise choices. Learning to cope is part of becoming an adult and more fully human. At times, we find that what we thought was a wise choice turns out poorly, and that an unwise one has led us in a more positive direction. Trying to do the "right thing" or what we have been told to do does not always lead to the desired results, thus the expression learning from "the school of hard knocks." 

In the Judeao/Christian traditions we are told that we were "created in God's image," which may embody many interpretaions and metaphorical implications, e.g., we have the capacity for god-like qualities. I like to think it means we are co-creators who are given whose words "bring things into being," and that we all have gifts we are born with or can develop to create the good, the beautiful and true, as artists, musicians, writers, poets, and others have ever done with the gifts they were born with or developed over time. And throughout time, expressing the infinite, reminding us that our essence and our mission on earth is greater than minds can ever comprehend or even imagine. 

Fundamentalism - Never

Obviously, then I do not believe in literal interpretations of the Bible or any other sacred texts. Although such works contain valuable wisdom to live by, and historic and factual information, there are also origin, canonical inclusion/exclusion, scholarship and linguistic controversies, as well as inevitable elements of prejudices and superstitions of the day that limit our thinking or challenge our rational minds to stretch into fantasy.  

Fundamentalism of any kind narrows and limits knowledge of self and the world. As mentioned above, many people may live admirable moral lives without organized religion or reference to sacred texts, having developed values in other ways, such as that of the school of hard knocks, and other sources revealing sociological, ethic, philosophic and psychological principles. Whether secular, researched, theoretical, data-driven sources, or more imaginative sources, such as literature and mythology with their “significant, if unverifiable truths," both can inform, instruct enlighten, inspire and impart wisdom and/or practical insights to live by. 

Belief and Reason 

My spiritual life has developed from my collective life experiences and influences: the religion I was brought up in, and exploration of the other religions; my formal and informal education; my realtionships and interactions with others, my study and research  based on my interests, my observations, my questions and my doubts, and my own "revelations." Very influential for me have been the psychological, sociological and anthropological perspectives of Joseph Campbell, Carl Jung and Erich Fromm, to name of few. Campbell, in his twelve-year research in three volumes, The Masks of God, posed a question I identified as a key reason I have rejected fundamentalism: "Are modern civilizations to remain spiritually locked from each other in their local notions….and traditions of...myths, stories, and religions, which essentially drive us 'diametrically apart?'" It seems that, yes, they are, as we largely remain focused on our differences, rather our similarities, causing all manner of conflict, often with attempts to limit or take away freedoms by wishing to force others to live by one or another of these traditions--either in families, communities or governments. 

Currently, in America, there are open calls for "Christian Nationalism," including from elected officials, ignoring the First Amendment to the Constitution: "Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion or prohibiting the free exercise thereof." Campbell's point exactly! We must remain free to pursue, within the limits of law, the freedoms of "life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness" as we see fit. We all know how it turns out in countries with theocracies: elimination of choice, censorship, loss of civil rights, especially for women and children. Ironically, the frightening idea of Christian Nationalism is exclusive, not includisive as the Christ: Love your neighbor; Judge not, least you be judged; What is done to the least of our brothers, this you do to me; Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. 

The Brain is Wider than the Sky
"Our task now is to learn that, if we can voyage to the ends of the earth and there find ourselves in the aborigine, who most differs from ourselves, we will have made a fruitful pilgrimage. . . .We [will] have come to the end of a long journey and see that the stranger we meet there is no other than ourselves," which is the same as saying that we find Christ in him [and in ourselves]" (Thomas Merton). This is also what the greatest spiritual leaders and advocates for humanity have brought us and taught us through the ages.

I believe the people in our lives, are the ones we came here with and for, and we teach and learn reciprocally from and with them,and beyond to our "neighbors, brothers and sisters (which is everyone else). Though I do not believe in the stereotypical descriptions of heaven and hell, I can imagine that in an "afterlife" we may be made aware of all that we did or did not bring into being in our time on earth, maybe experience our transgressions, large and small as they have affected others and ourselves. My truth tells me we are not here or were created solely to be obedient, to worship a creator, especially out of fear of sin or punishment--hopefully more as results of choice and experience, consicously striving to live virtuosly to pursue and develop our higher selves, respect and embrace the humanity of others and become fully human--through whatever experiences, resources and sources support that effort. 

I believe it is part of spiritual life to be aware of and grateful for all that we have been given, and to treat everyone with abundant compassion and fairness, supporting the freedom to chose how to live, work and love, all of which contribute to the health of ourselves, our communities, our country and our world. 

My spiritual life has been a blending of beliefs--a synthesis--somewhere between reason and imagination, inspiration and intuition, embracing everything that supports the common good. Our spirit, mind, body, heart and soul can not ultimately be understood, defined or contained in any one way to live, any one book or any one philosophy. For me, Martin Buber has said all that one can say with certainty related to belief:

        Real faith means holding ourselves open to the unconditional  mystery which we encounter in every sphere of our life, and which cannot be comprised in any formula. Real faith means the ability to endure life in the face of this mystery. . . . I do not accept any absolute formulas for living. No preconceived code can see ahead to everything that can happen in a man's life. As we live, we grow and our beliefs change. They must change. So I think we should live with this constant discovery. We should be open to this adventure in heightened awareness of living. We should stake our whole existence on our willingness to explore and experience. 

Every day I experience ambiguity, paradox, and moral dilemmas. I behold the beauty of nature and the cosmos. I am grateful for the goodness, kindness and love of my family, friends and sometimes of "strangers." I am painfully aware of the tragedies and suffering occurring at every moment, near and far. And I contemplate with sorrow what I has been lost to me, as well as the joy of what may still lie ahead to receive.  

It is through my writing that I am able to sort out and clarify what I have experienced, what I think, feel and wish to do and be. There are such complex, diverse, subtle, nuanced and mysterious elements in life that inform our moral/spiritual lives. We must affirm, as philosophers and theologians have throughout the ages, that the source is One; the emanations are many, which is to say, infinite--"just the weight of God."

The Brain—is wider than the Sky—
For—put them side by side—
The one the other will contain
With ease—and You—beside—

The Brain is deeper than the sea—
For—hold them—Blue to Blue—
The one the other will absorb—
As Sponges—Buckets—do—

The Brain is just the weight of God—
For—Heft them—Pound for Pound—
And they will differ—if they do—
As Syllable from Sound 

                                                                ~  Emily Dickinson

ANCIENT INJURY

In the evenings, he would read to her, or they would tell stories about when they were children living in towns not far from the one another. They were usually funny stories, but some involved moments wherein a soul impression or something extraordinary was revealed.

    As a boy, he had made and played with a bow and arrow. Once, he saw a small owl and was able to steal up on it and snap an arrow off the bow at close range. He wasn’t prepared for what happened next. The arrow went into the bird, and a drop of blood appeared on the white breast feathers. The bird’s bright eyes fixed on him, blinked once then fell to the ground.
    His boy’s heart pounded, as a feeling came over him he had never experienced. He and the beautiful living creature had been so close they breathed the same air, and then it was gone, but never gone were the image of those eyes fixed upon him and the memory of that awakening of conscience, sharply felt and deadly as an arrow.
    There was another story he told once, and only once—of an experience leaving an even deeper imprint. As a marine in Vietnam, where one was always in danger, vigilant for snipers and hiding places from which the "enemy" could spring at any moment (for such is the nature of war), he noticed a odd area on the ground ahead and a heard a movement. A part of the terrain had been disturbed, and a dug out spot covered over. Not taking any chances, he fired his rifle into the opening. As the other members of the detail gathered round, they looked in and saw bodies and found hand granades.They helped him pull two woman out by their ankles two women, the weight of which he feels still. His fellow marines thanked him for saving their lives, and later he received a letter from a general and a medal for his deed--one he wishes he never had to take on.  He does not display the medal and showed it only to her once, then put it somewhere out of sight, like he had the faces of the dead women, whose images became a blood red stain on the remaining white of his still young heart.
    Nothing could ever change what happened that day he had set out and returned that night as someone else he could never again quite recognize in the same way, so he didn’t look. But some images never fade; we all have our precious store of sorrow to stare into, and ways we  learn to blot them out, avoid them, tuck their sharp edges safely away, but nevertheless, carry them inwardly. 

    If we are lucky, we have someone to listen or hold us in silence, an arm round our shoulder, an empathtic, knowing look.  That is what true lovers have ever done when a trauma or secret exchange is shared. We silently carry the pain of each others’ innermost being--all through the night.

Willy is my child; he is my father

I would be his lady all my life

He says he'd love to live with me

But for an ancient injury 

That has not healed 

                                                        ~ Joni Mitchell

        

SHIVA'S TABLE

She turns her head as the sound of gentle rain becomes a pelting sleet against the window behind her. Weary and chilled, she pulls a wooly throw over her, only her two hands uncovered to hold a bag of chips and a Coke bottle. She settles on the sofa to watch a new show everyone at work had been talking about, Living and Loving in Brooklyn. She wonders what is meant by “living.”

The TV screen flashes psychedelic colors and patterns. The five-minutes of pre-show commercials blare out for Viagra, Volkswagen and Kraft macaroni and cheese.

“Good combination,” she blurts out.

The first scene opens on a lovely courtyard: a beautiful, slim young woman sitting at a table with her  morning coffee. Picture perfect. Something drops from above, past the branch of a tree, as her eyes follow it to the ground.

“A condom!” she shrieks.

Another perfect female opens a French door, peeks out, glancing with a slight grimace at its landing place, as if it were an everyday occurrence. The women begin jabbering about work: waiting on tables and hedge funds. The subject turns to men, their upcoming dates that night and newly-bought lingerie, with allusions to Fifty Shades of Grey.

“This is crap.”

Reaching for the remote, she surfs through the channels: pawn shop dealers, rattlesnake hunters, political analysis, and cooking competitions. She throws it across the room, disgusted at the taste of “some people,” but more so at her having finished off all the chips and half a liter of Coke. Licking the salt around her lips, she drops the chip bag to the floor and places the Coke bottle next to it. She passes her hand over the little roll of flesh above the waist of her pajama bottoms, “Oh, God!”

She stretches her hand to the side table, grabs her reading glasses and places them on the tip of her nose. She picks up Love on the Subway beside her, which she has been trying to get through since last spring. After reading the same page twice, she slams it shut and throws it to the floor.

“This is crap, too.” Leaping up from the sofa, she tips over the vase of holly she had placed there yesterday for a little “holiday spirit,” knocking over the Coke bottle. Picking up the book, the chip bag, the vase and bottle, she stomps to the kitchen and tosses them in the trash. Returning to clean up the spill, she pricks her finger on a holly leaf.

“What the hell?”

Though she had held it in all day, now it bursts through, her breath coming in short gasps. As if in a fog, through misty eyes, she picks up the phone.

“Hey, it’s me, Jessica,” her strained voice near hysteria, her mind wavering between thoughts of what she had hoped and wished for, and the grim reality she now has to bear. Between sobs and stammers, she speaks of dark revelations of the morning and her confession of self-loathing, guilt and shame.

“I'll be right over…hold on,” comes the familiar  voice with Italian accent.

Two winters ago, Jessica had escaped from a dreary town in Ohio to bustling Brooklyn. Her life is not as she had imagined when she first arrived.

“I’m here,” she had reassured her mother. “I’m good, Ma. It’s gonna be alright, so don't worry." She wanted to believe it herself, and it was—at first. "I met everyone at The Studio today. I've gotta do this,” not wanting to return a failure to that wretched town.

Acting was her dream, her reason for being, or so she believed. Accepted to study at The Studio, a well-known and respected theatre company, and having found work as a hostess at a popular corner bistro a few blocks away, her new life had almost begun.

The few things she had brought with her to New York she had carefully positioned around the small ground-floor apartment: a French nightstand under the window facing the alley; a white cushioned chair in the corner near an exposed brick wall; an ornate, black metal floor lamp with a bright yellow shade next to the faux fireplace. Near the sliding door to a small patio, she placed a wicker stand holding a dark-leafed plant dotted with tiny pink flowers, which bloomed through the winter, how she didn’t know. The small, red side-table awaited an affordable sofa to be placed against the wall facing the fireplace. She felt ecstatic whenever she could afford to add something new and needed.

Her favorite find was spotted among props being discarded at The Studio to make room for recent, more desirable donations. She rescued the round, glass-top table with bronze legs in the shape of tree branches. Months later, after searching everywhere, she still hadn’t sat at it, not having found the "just right" chairs to compliment it.

Then, walking from the bus stop one breezy spring evening, the fragrance of lilac in the air, she noticed two chairs placed one on top of the other under a blossoming cherry tree. As she picked them up, she noticed across the street, a striking, dark-haired man leaning against a porch post watching her intently. In the raking light cast by late afternoon sun, his white shirt was bright against his face and hair. When she saw him, she waved, feeling a little embarrassed to be seen awkwardly hauling the sidewalk finds. He did not wave back, but kept his gaze on her. His image remained with her as she made her way home—those piercing eyes seemingly looking through her. As she cleaned the chairs that evening, she wondered about the stranger, and had already decided to walk that way again soon.
Oh, how lovely, she marveled at her good fortune when she noticed the metal work on the backs of the chairs was in a vine and leaf design, like the table’s legs. One was brushed in places with silver leaf and the other with gold leaf. ”There, now,” she sighed, with an extraordinary sense of satisfaction. The chairs had found a home across from each other at the little table that had stood alone for so long. She felt that it meant something, maybe that she was settled at last, and that more good things were in store for her.

She had planned to make a cup of tea, sit at the table for the first time, and finish reading The Merchant of Venice, as she was determined to read all of Shakespeare’s plays in her new life, but a drowsiness came on suddenly. Feeling drained, she went straight to bed.

That night she dreamed she was sitting at the table. The windows above it open, the wind howling, and the driving rain coming in. The front door blew open, and the dark-haired man entered and came to sit across from her at the table. They looked into each others’ eyes in silence. His were deep, dark and penetrating, expressing a longing, like her own yearning for love and intimacy.

When she awoke, she did not remember having gone to bed the night before. She felt a little unsteady as she walked over to open the  bedroom door and peeked out, half expecting to find the dark man at the table waiting for her. Her sleepiness faded, but all through the day, the vivid dream did not.

Was there some hidden message or portent in the dream?

    On her way home from The Studio that evening, she felt compelled to walk past the house where she had seen the mystery man. She knew dreams could feel so real, their images lingering, but usually fade and are forgotten in time. The dream did not fade, but remained with her—day and night. She began walking home that way at least once a week, certain that the dream did mean something.

A whole scenario formed, as she fantasized that she would see him again, be with him, make love, marry him, have his child. Sometimes she had to stop herself, No, no, no, no…this is not why I came here. What is wrong with me? She had no answer, but could not shake off the day dreaming and her unbidden desires.

When the weather began to turn cold, she walked the shorter way home, avoiding that street, that house, and the mysterious man who wasn't there. Yet, wasn’t everything in her life now on the upswing? At the bistro, the manager, who had a nickname for everyone, called her aside.

“Hey, J Lo, you gotta way aboutcha, and customahs love ya.” He gave her a raise and a few more hours a week.

With the extra money, she was able to further adorn her living space with a sofa, a bright Tibetan carpet and framed photos of Cobble Hill, the Brooklyn Bridge and Coney Island. She also bought several figures of Hindu gods and goddesses and placed them where they would “watch over her,” or so she liked to believe. Shiva, dancing in a ring of fire, held pride of place on the half shelf above the front door.

She now had a circle of fellow actors who met weekly at a tavern in the Village. Her life was falling into place, but still with a sense that there was much more to come. She attributed every good fortune and coincidence to the dream, the dark-haired man and his “presence” in her life.
Less than a month after she had randomly decided to read The Merchant of Venice, there was an open audition call posted for it at The Studio—an upcoming off, off Broadway production. With the encouragement of one of her instructors and several friends, she prepared and went to the audition. Weeks later, after having given up on hearing, she got a call back and was offered the leading role of Portia. She felt it had nothing to do with her talent. It was destiny.

The good news spread, and a friend put her in touch with Gena, a more experienced actor, who also had landed a part in the play. They arranged to meet for coffee and immediately clicked, though they were nothing alike. Gena was laid back and laughed at everything.

”Isn’t it funny. I got the part of Jessica, and you're Jessica in real life?”

Jessica, more serious and cynical, thought, whatever real life is. “Yeah, ironic…hey, did you get the invitation to the director's pre-rehearsal party?”

Gena laughed the answer to Jessica’s question,”Yes, I did. I am so excited about it. Why don't we go together? Can’t wait to meet the director. Don’t know him; hope he’s not a tyrant.”

“Sure, let’s go together, why not? I don’t think he’ll be a tyrant…not sure why, but… ”

“Great, let’s do it. What are you going to wear?” Gena wanted to know, while Jessica fell into a dream.

From the moment Jessica got the part, she imagined  the play’s director, Leon Lorenzo was the dark-haired man who had arranged everything exactly as it was happening and would happen—world without end, amen. She asked around, and searched everywhere for an image of him, his address or any personal information, but found nothing to connect him with her imagined paramour.

She took to reaching up to touch the little golden figure of Shiva above the doorway whenever she left or entered her apartment, like a ritual blessing with holy water at a church door. She would remain on the threshold for a few seconds to remind herself she was on the brink of … something.

All of her free time was devoted to memorizing Portia's lines, reciting them in the shower; during lulls at the bistro; in elevators; on the subway and late into the night. Anticipating, yet apprehensive about going to the director’s party, she began to methodically plan what she would wear, how she would smile, what she would say—when at last she would meet him face to face—her mentor, her lover, her all. She lost five pounds, splurged on a short black dress with tiny silver sparkles in a small swirl around one shoulder, and black boots with grey patent leather dots around the top—perfect.

When the night of the director’s rehearsal party arrived, she spent hours at the mirror, applying make-up which she usually did not wear. She straightened and arranged her hair, which she usually left frizzled. All the while, the practical part of her knew she was out of control. The director was not, could not be, the dark-haired man. But the deepest part of her did not believe the other part.

Ready or not, here I go, wrapping herself in a magenta, mohair shawl, Jessica touches Shiva above the door, stands still for a moment with her eyes closed, then is out to meet Gena at the subway station. There she was, waving crazily as Jessica approached waving back and picking up her pace. Gena was a vision in white leggings, pale blue silk Indian tunic; blue and white veil over her head, embroidered with darker blue, silver and white filigree designs. The street light shone behind her like a halo, as snow flurries began falling around her.

Gena looks like the Virgin Mary.

“Mother of God, it’s cold!” Jessica shouted, as she hurried toward Gena. “You look heavenly.”

“Thanks, Jess. You too, bee-oo-tee-ful.”

“Neither one of us is dressed for this weather though,” Jessica said through chattering teeth. Joining arms, they stepped onto the escalator and down into the depths of the city.

After manic small talk, alternate expressions of anxiety and humor, they arrived at the Upper East Side apartment building. Dreading to be the earliest, overly eager guests, the women went around the block in the frigid air, laughing in giddy anticipation, then came back to squeeze into the small foyer and pressed the nose of a brass gargoyle bell.

In the elevator, Jessica felt a gurgling in her lower abdomen. When she caught sight of herself in the mirrored walls, she didn’t recognize her reflection. Whatever confidence she had earlier dwindled into self-consciousness.

I’m overdressed. I look ridiculous. Even Gena looks better; at least her appearance has conversational value. What am I doing here, anyway? How did I get this part? I want to go home. 

And she didn’t mean to Brooklyn.

When the elevator doors opened, the women turned left, but hearing voices and music spilling out into the hall in the other direction, they backtracked to the door opened to a candle-lit room. They stepped in, unnoticed at first, making their way amidst small groups of the guests, some looking as put together as Jessica had hoped to be. Others were in jeans and tee shirts, and plenty others outfitted for at least as much conversational mileage as Gena’s “get up” had.

Everyone stood mingling, smiling with drinks in hand. When she was spotted by a few of her Studio friends, who pointed and brought attention to her as Portia, others gathered around to introduce themselves, offer congratulations and ask questions.

A glass of wine was put into her hand by a short man with penetrating green eyes, flowing white hair and charming Italian accent. He called her Portia, identifying himself as Shylock. He put his arm through hers and led her across the room to meet the other cast members, but she was distracted, looking past shoulders and heads, scanning the room for that one face and those eyes.

All the while, he talked non-stop of the theory of Shakespeare not being the author of the plays, interpretations of The Merchant of Venice, and the upcoming rehearsals. She began to sense “Shylock” was scrutinizing her—reading her thoughts, intuiting her wild expectations—all crunching against one another into the fantasy of what she wished for, not what she knew to be true, yet she could not bring herself back from her habitual, frenzied imaginings.

“I will fetch you another glass of the excellent Pouilly Fuisse, no?”

“The what? Oh, yes, thank you,” though she was already feeling a bit tipsy.
She continued to search the room, anxious and disheartened. When Shylock returned, she blurted out, “Where’s Leon, the director? You'd think he’d have the courtesy to appear and introduce himself by now, don’t you?”

“My dear, Portia, the merciless, I am Leon; I thought you knew.”

Handing her the wine glass, he clinked his to hers, ”Chin-chin.” Then he took a small silver spoon out of the breast pocket of his black velvet vest and tapped it on his glass to call the room to whatever order was possible. He welcomed everyone, made announcements about the rehearsal schedules and handed out play books and folders, none of which Jessica paid any attention to.

For her, the rest of the evening blurred, her foolish hopes crushed. On the way home, she said nothing in response to Gena’s constant chatter, seething with resentment that Shylock, the director, unbeknownst to him  and unintended, had already exacted his pound of flesh.

That was six months ago. Now, on this evening, she tries to calm herself waiting for Leon to arrive to confess  her obsession with the dark man, her illusions about how she thought her life would be, and the dreadful revelations of that morning.
       Since her starring role in The Merchant of Venice, she had no callbacks, even though the play had a successful run, and she had received rave reviews. She had gone to very few auditions, despite encouragement and references from Leon. Her group of friends had fallen away one by one. 

Have I isolated myself from them…from everything?

“Hey, business ain’t what it useta be, J Lo,” her boss had called to tell her that her hours had to be cut back.

Maybe my turning up late and calling in sick too often is the real reason? Maybe acting was not the reason I came here. Now this!

She had long wanted to tell Leon, to whom she had grown close during the run of the play, of her secret and crazy imaginings, but never had. Now, she waits at the door to hear his footsteps. The sleet has turned to snow, dropping lightly to the earth below and falling against the window pane. She stares at the blank TV screen, waiting, waiting, always waiting.
There, oh, there he is. 

She pulls open the door before Leon can knock and reaches for him, inhaling the cold of the icy flakes on his jacket.

“Shhh, now…shhh,” he whispers to her as she rests her head on his shoulder. Leon strokes her hair, “Now, come, sit with me.” Jessica holds on to him as they walk to the forsaken table, where she sits for the first time across from him, he on the silver chair, she on the gold. She tells him of her obsession with the dark mystery man, her imaginary savior, and of the morning’s grim discovery.

She recounts how the night before she had walked on the street where she had first seen him—having become almost a sacred ritual. From across the way, she looked to the house where the dark-haired man had stood watching her that spring evening.

“There was yellow tape stretched around the sidewalk and porch. When I saw that, I thought someone must have hurt him…or killed him. I rushed home to see if there was any news on the TV or radio, but there was nothing. I left the radio on all night…almost a sleepless one, waiting to hear about…of a tragedy…anything about the house or person in it. Then, this morning I tried to make sense of what I was hearing on the breaking news. There was a victim—a boy, and a suspect—a man.”

She told Leon, now completely shaken and in tears,  how she rushed to see on the news her dream of the dark-haired man turn to nightmare. She watched as he was taken out of that house in handcuffs. He was not the victim as she had feared, but a perpetrator, not an inscrutable lover, but a predator who had kidnapped a young boy, kept him in a cage and abused him for over a year.

Leon takes Jessica’s hands in his, having heard of the tragedies of the shattered fantasy, and fate of an innocent child.

“Oh, Leon, I’m so ashamed, what a crazy, selfish…that boy…that poor child. Maybe I could have done something…anything. And I…I…”

“My dear, Jessica,” Leon sighs, “it is you who must now have mercy on yourself. You could not have known…or done anything. How…how?”

“But, I…”

“When illusions end, Cara mia, life can begin.”

He takes her hand. They sit in silence looking into each other’s eyes, at the once lonely table, she contemplating the destruction of a foolish dream, and imagining the creation of a new reality.

From time to time, she casts her gaze to Shiva  dancing in a ring of fire