BROKEN BEADS BLUE SKY

Her mother’s beads broke and scattered across the floor backstage. Four strands of rose-colored iridescent beads, a tiny crystal between each and with a gold filigree clasp. She remembers gazing at them, touching them, rolling them in her small fingers as she sat on her mother’s lap. That was so many years ago.

When Christina was 21, her mother had warned, “Don’t marry that man,” but she did.

On her wedding day, only a few months after her mother had died from an aggressive cancer, she had begged her father, “Don’t let that woman sit next to you where Mom was supposed to be,” but he did.

On her honeymoon, under a clear blue sky on an island beach, she lay on her tie-dyed scarf, the sun beating down, a cool breeze off the surf, high tide rolling in. She had called to her husband who walked along the waves, “Don’t be long,” but he was. She waited—alone until the sun was going down, wind chilling her to the bone. The once cloudless sky now resembled the transparent scarf  wrapped around her shoulders: fading blue, streaked with grey and yellow, which made her cry.

Since then, he has been “disappearing,” leaving her to wonder and worry.

Where does he go? How long will it be until he returns? Does he ever realize he is missed, or even that he is expected back at all? Doesn’t he remember he was going to finish fixing that door, that he was supposed to meet me for lunch, that he will miss dinner with the family—again?

Whenever she tried to sort out the how and why of it, her thoughts raced to a vanishing point. She told herself it didn’t matter after all.

What worried her most was her husband's patients arriving when he might not be there to receive them. One day, she cancelled the few remaining appointments. After several doctors’ visits, she and her husband learned there was good reason for his behavior which prompted his early retirement. Still, discovery of the reason for the years of disappearances and seemingly random, inconsiderate antics didn’t change things much. Even with medication and therapy, there would be no quick fix, no perfect ending. It was she who had to adjust. It was she who struggled to transform denial into acceptance, impatience into tolerance, and resentment into understanding—hateful contraries.

These are the thoughts arising in Christina as she collects the scattered beads. She had brought them in with the other pieces of her mother’s jewelry for the high school girls to wear in their roles as aristocratic Victorian ladies. After the play, one careless girl in a hurry tugged at those strands of memories, sending them into the shadows behind the curtains.

I’ll take the for repair, to be strung back together, all four strands—like new. What is wrong with that girl anyway?

Christina liked finding purpose for the things she had salvaged from her childhood home in a forlorn, upstate New York town. Besides the jewelry, she has a yellow Bakelite clock in the shape of a teapot in her kitchen above the stove. Six ruby red wine glasses, a set of dishes trimmed with dogwood flowers, and hand-painted Italian bowls, all arranged in a glass-front cabinet, as her mother had kept them. Most cherished are old letters and cards found in her mother’s desk after the funeral—touchable memories to take into her hands and hold to her heart, a comfort when she can’t mange to be accepting, tolerant or understanding.

Driving home this night, she comes back again and again to brokenness: Things are coming apart. That very morning, as she dressed for the long day ahead, she brushed against and dislodged the small plate hanging on the wall—the one her mother had given her before entering the hospital for the last time. On the sky-blue and white memento, in silvery script was: Baby Christina Marie ~ Born November 10, 1974 ~ 7 pounds 3 ounces. She left it shattered on the floor.

Almost home now, she loosens her fingers on the wheel as she drives down the tree-lined street. She recalls the sense of freedom she once had felt driving east on the Massachusetts turnpike to her uncharted life—to all that  lay ahead of her, singing out, “Boston, you’re my home.” Later, she found she had to get away from her new home when, once too often, her husband did not show up for dinner; or she again had to make excuses to angry patients; or he had forgotten to call for heating oil, and she came home to a frigid house. Then there were those maddening, one-sided conversations, constant distractions and interruptions, unrelated questions and non-sequiturs until she had to laugh—or go insane.

Who am I living with anyway, Salvador Dali?

She usually laughed, but when she could not, it was time to flee. She would pack up the car and head west with her two small children to visit her father, which also meant seeing the woman he married—now her step mother, who without a shred of consideration for the motherless bride’s request, saw fit to take her “rightful place” next to Christina’s father in the church pew.

During one of those spontaneous trips, that woman called Christina selfish and disrespectful when Christina had said, “I’d like the kids to eat before Dad gets home. They are usually in bed by eight, and it’s been a long day, with the drive and all.”

“Well, your father won’t be here till eight-thirty, so they’ll have to wait. It won’t kill them to not get their way—for once.”

Christina bit her bottom lip, ignored the comment and continued setting the table, as her mother had always done. She spread a crisp white cloth. She found the familiar white dishes with an ivy border pushed to the back of the kitchen cabinet. She took pleasure in placing them around the table, as if she were still a girl at home on a school evening.

“I don’t think Dad would mind if the children ate early, Charlotte,” she tried to reason, and called the children to come to the table. Before the words were out, she felt the sharp sting of Charlotte’s hand across her cheek.

“You never did have an ounce of respect. Well, you  are not the crowned princess around here anymore.”

Christina dropped the plate she was holding, put her hand up to her face and blinked back the hot tears welling up, so the children wouldn’t see. But they had heard Charlotte’s harsh words. They saw the broken plate and their mother leaning over to pick up the pieces.

Charlotte grabbed the plates already on the table and the shards from Christina’s trembling hands and tossed them into the trash. “There, I’ve been meaning to throw those old things away,” she said, as she removed drab brown dishes from the cabinet, held them out to Christina, and pointed to mismatched glasses on the shelf, two with Peter Pan and the Darling children flying away, and three others with watermelon slices.

“Now, finish the job, and we’ll wait for your father to come home.”

Christina mechanically went around the table with the dishes and glasses, taking solace in thinking of her mother’s thin-stemmed, ruby red glasses in her own cabinet at home.

Can people just be replaced like broken china?
In the quiet of night, she returned to the kitchen, took the plates out of the trash, and put them into her suitcase, intending to mend the broken ones when she got home.

She loved her father deeply, despite his betrayal and “o’er hasty marriage” where, “the funeral baked meats did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables,” lines from Hamlet she had quoted to her husband on the day of what they have since referred to as, “the unholy union.”

Scenes of that incident, her wedding day and sitting on the beach at sunset linger now. She shudders at the memory of them. Then she remembers how, when her father arrived home that evening, he smiled, hugged her and said he was glad she had “come home,” though it never felt like home again without her mother.

Home. Is it a place or a feeling?

She is glad the day is at an end, and that there is a parking place to be had. Gathering up the bags in the back seat, she hears the rustle of leaves from the chestnut tree at the curb’s edge—a welcome in the balmy night air. She stops with a sigh to look up at the few steps to the porch, feeling worn out and on edge.  At least a small weight  had lifted with her director duties completed for the school year.

She manages the steps, opens the front door and climbs the staircase to the second floor. Facing her at the landing are two doors. The open one is to the shadowy office where streetlights cast dark reflections. Black branches dance on the ceiling and walls, like a crazy light show in the abandoned room. She pushes open the other door to the living room and drops the plastic bags containing a red paisley smoking jacket, a blue chiffon dress, black suede heels, a silver cigarette case, a blonde wig, a straw handbag, a bunch of yellow paper roses, a wooden jewelry box and a pink satin bag with the broken beads.

She intended to go straight to bed, but the sofa looks inviting. Too tired to walk the few extra feet to the bedroom, she flops down, picks up the remote and clicks to the classic movie channel. Staring at the TV screen, her mind drifts to a recent visit with a friend. As they walked along a windy beach, the tide rolling in over the deserted, narrow shore, Christina told her friend about the dreaded oncologist’s appointment that day, and the diagnosis.

There was a long silence.

“They say, if we could see things from the highest perspective, it would all be good,” her friend said.

It was thoughtless and rude of her to say that. Hadn’t she just heard the bad news?

The friends had long confided in each other, exchanged ideas and experiences, pondering whether life has any meaning at all, and, if so, what it could be. They would look at each other and say, “It is what it is; it will be what it will be.”
Now, it was different; Christina knew what was to be, and so did her friend.

To the background bantering of Hepburn and Tracey, she is remembering how she and her friend had read about and discussed reincarnation and karma, and considered it a more rational alternative to heaven or hell—or nothingness. They neither entirely believed, nor disbelieved, but were attracted to the idea that souls choose the circumstances of their existence before birth—ones that provide the context to live out their karma. They agreed everyone’s life seems to have a theme and pattern, with recurring questions and challenges to guide them, maybe even to a certain destiny, but also there are choices to be made in life, informed by increasing consciousness and self-knowledge.

Still, for her friend to have suggested that anything could be good about her diagnosis was wrong. Thoughts crowd in, as she scans the cluttered room.

Is this my destiny? Did I choose it? Can I change it, fix it, get well? Is the highest perspective heaven? And why do I have to sink so low to get there? Do I know or believe anything? Her husband shuffles in and stands in front of her. She is surprised to see he is still awake. Usually, he is on the sofa asleep or already in bed. After twenty years of marriage, there is still no predicting what she can count on him for, yet he loves her; she loves him. That much is never in question.
He is not unfaithful. He is not unkind, and he always wanders back home to her. It has just taken those years of adjusting and lowering expectations to realize that she can depend on him only for the things he is able to do, and not always for those she wishes for or needs.

Is that my karma, or his?

Her mind fogs over with the mystery of it all, grateful for those things he can manage.

“How’d it go?”

“Oh, the kids did a great job. We packed the house, and everyone loved it, but…I’m glad it’s over.” The broken beads still have her upset, but she doesn’t have the energy to tell him about it.

“Want something to drink? There’s some leftover pizza.”

“No, I’m fine. Hey, are you coming with me tomorrow?”

“ Ehh…what time?”

“My appointment is at two. I’ll be home around one.“

“I’ll go with you,” he says, padding back to the kitchen, then comes back with a glass of cranberry juice and a cold piece of pizza.

“I…I don’t think I can eat…”

“I’m going to bed,” he interrupts leaving the room.

“Okay, I’ll be there in a few minutes,” she calls back, wondering whether he will be around the next day when it is time to go to her first chemo treatment or if he will be AWOL again.

She leans back against the soft cushions, trying to focus on the last scenes of the film, unable to keep her eyes open for more than a few seconds at a time. When she opens them again, she sees, “THE END” in white letters on a grainy black background. She manages to rouse herself, but begins to dread another sleepless night. She sits staring at the bags on the floor, thinking again about high perspectives, low places, broken beads and dishes, karma and cancer treatments.

She wonders if she has the strength to undress, as she picks up the crumpled nightgown at the foot of the bed next to the shattered blue and white pieces on the floor. She turns away, eases into bed and edges back, against her husband until her legs touch his.

Tomorrow is another day, but not an ordinary one.
Images of her children’s faces appear. It was the hardest thing telling her family—their sadness and apprehension of grief—another long silence. Her daughter was in tears, and her son said, “I want you to get well.” Her husband got up and walked away with his head down.The oncologist told her she would not get well, and would be in some kind of treatment for the remainder of time she had left. Since then, family talk has been only of practical matters: treatments, appointments, and the details of “getting things in order.” She has shielded her son and daughter from most of it, taking on the burden of their pain, as well as her own.
Still, she has hope; she has the will to live, if not the strength to think about whatever she will have to endure with the treatments. She isn’t sure how miracles fit into her life’s theme, free will or destiny, but she believes in prayer and in miracles.

“Of everyone I’ve ever known,” her friend had also said that day, “you are the bravest, strongest, most positive person.”

Funny, I don’t feel strong, positive or even like a person. She thought of herself, rather, as a shadow of the self she tried to build and sustain in this lifetime, with parts of herself missing, wavering, like the quivering branches on the ceiling of the abandoned room at the top of the stairs—a shadow of something real, but not real, caught between hope and despair—another uncharted place.

“You love life and live life,” her friend had said that day, as if Christina needed a reminder, especially now. She also was left to ponder the other thing her friend had said, “It’s not over till it’s over.”

She closes her eyes, whispers a prayer, listens to her husband’s quiet breathing, as thoughts, feelings and images swirl together, fading into the dark future, into sleep.

In the hospital waiting room, she gazes out the window at the vast, clear blue and cloudless sky, holding the pink satin bag full of beads.

“Christina,” a nurse calls and comes over to stand in front of her—blocking out the blue. “We’re ready for you; come on back.”

She looks at her husband—lost child—not even pretending to be strong for her. She wonders if he will come back when he is called to sit with her for the treatment, or if he will have wandered off. He lifts his hand and manages a smile, which she carries with her down the long hall and into the sterile room.

The nurse gets her settled on a bed turned up to a sitting position and prepares a bright red IV drip. Christina is grateful to be opposite a window with a view of blue sky.

In the closed palm of her hand, she holds a single rose-colored bead. She loves the feel of its round smoothness. It has nothing to do with the rest of the beads now. It is beautiful and perfect all on its own.

She closes her eyes, imagines herself bathed in the glow of its color, looking down from a very high place—a place where she sees everything exactly as it is.

A MATTER OF TIME

He had given away every last penny of an enormous inheritance. He was homeless now, but it didn’t matter, only he missed being able to help others. I found this out when a stranger called me and told me Kenny had given him fifteen-hundred dollars to see me for as many therapy sessions as that amount would cover. Inheriting a fortune is everyone’s ultimate fantasy, but Kenny just handed his out like cupcakes at a birthday party.

So, Kenny must have gotten a windfall from his Aunt Molly who, as I remember, had no other family. I met her when we stayed at her place on Martha’s Vineyard. And what a place it was. I guess he gave that away too.

“Wait, now let me get this straight,” I said to the caller. “Kenny is broke and homeless, and you are using his last fifteen hundred dollars to get help from me?”

“Oh, well, yeah … I guess … I mean, he said you’d be able ta help me. I wasn’t sleepin' nights since my dad died and all, and a lota other things happened too—lost my job, that kinda thing. Kenny said you’d help me, and I believe ‘im. He gave me the money before he was homeless though.”

“Well, that makes all the difference,” I said, trying not to laugh, or cry. I felt bad, being sarcastic like that, but I don’t think he noticed. “Let’s see what I’ve got here," looking at my calendar. “Next Tuesday at 2:00 p.m., is that good for you?”

“Sure thing, Doc, see ya then.”

I jotted down his contact info. “Okay, see you next week then.”

Kenny, homeless? That was hard to take. I was sorry I hadn’t asked some of the questions I was formulating in those few minutes on the phone—some I had since I’d last seen Kenny. I knew it would be wrong, asking my questions of a new client in a first session. He was the one looking for answers, but I figured I would get at least some answers over time—that is, if he even showed up.

Not that I didn’t want to help the caller; Sam was his name. It’s what I do. I‘m a therapist, and a pretty good one at that, but I already resented him in a way for taking Kenny’s last dime. I was looking forward to finding out what had happened to my lost lover—lost in every way it seemed. We hadn’t seen each other in a few years, and didn’t part on good terms. It all got too bizarre—too complicated—even for me.

I told him he needed therapy, but I wasn’t going to be the one to help him sort out his life. That’s when he said, in a tone of voice I’d never heard before, “There’s nothing to sort out, so fuck off!”

I never saw Kenny again. I left in a huff never wanting to see him again. When things had simmered down though, I tried to get in touch with him over the next few months—texting, calling, emailing, and even writing a good old-fashioned letter. No response. I finally got up the nerve to go see him; I really wanted to see him, but I found he had moved and couldn’t be found. The city is a big place, but it is incredible that a person can’t be found—even if he doesn’t want to be found. He obviously did not want to be found.

So, Sam did show up; we shook hands, and I invited him into my inner sanctum—a quiet room with big cozy chairs, muted colors, diffused light from the windows in the day, and warm, soft lighting at night. I had created a place where my clients would feel comfortable and safe (I despise those words, “comfortable” and “safe.”), so they would tell me their life stories, or at least the part of the story before the turning point, or after it—as the case might be.

“Hey, Sam, before you tell me about yourself, I’d like to ask something about Kenny. Do you mind?”

“No, Doc, no, I don’t mind at all. Whadaya wanna know?”

“Well, you said Kenny gave you money before he was homeless, but how do you know he is homeless?”

“Well, I saw ‘im a few days after that night I was at his place … the night he gave me the money. Boy, was I surprised when he did that, but I wasn’t surprised ta see ‘im on the streets.”

“Oh, why was that?”

“Well, 'cause I didn’t even know he had any money.”

“No, I wanted to know why you weren’t surprised to see Kenny homeless. I mean … you were friends, right?”

“No, we weren’t what I’d call good friends or anythin’ like that. He hung out with us at the shelter downtown, so we all knew ‘im; he was always so nice ta us. But when I saw his place that night, it was a mess, and I kinda felt I was in better shape than him, and he didn’t look too good either."

“So, you are homeless too, Sam?”

“Oh, no, no, but … kinda down on my luck these days. I have a place, but went ta the shelter for meals sometimes… after I lost my job, ya know. That’s where I met Kenny. He talked ta us … never seemed like he belonged there. I didn’t mean ta, but I kinda whined about my sob story one night, and that’s when he brought me back ta ‘is place … probably on the worst night a my life, and gave me the money, and your number … said you’d help me. I went back ta thank ‘im again a couple a days later. I knocked. No answer, so I was ready ta leave, when this guy across the hall comes out and tells me Kenny don’t live there no more. I saw ‘im on the street later, and that’s when he told me he was homeless.”

“Oh, I see … but … ”

“I lied to ya, Doc,” Sam interrupted,“ ‘cause Kenny… he really gave me two thousand cash, but I used five hundred for my rent. When I saw ‘im on the street, I told ‘im, I says ta ‘im, I says, ‘You take the resta the money back, cause looks like ya need it more than me,’ but he wouldn’t. That’s when he told me he inherited some money and was givin it all away. He said he only wished he had more ta give … said he didn’t need it. Jeez, can ya believe that?”

“Why didn’t you just keep the money and not come here?” I asked, sort of wondering out loud.

With child-like innocence, Sam said, “Well, Kenny told me ta come see ya; that’s why he gave me the money, ya know,  in the first place. He said you’d help me.”

“I will certainly do my best," and we began our first session.

It felt strange taking Kenny’s money for my services. I offered to charge only half the amount for the sessions, so Sam could go beyond the fifteen weeks it would cover at my regular rate, but he wouldn't hear of it. As the weeks went by, I didn’t learn much more about Kenny, but I learned a whole lot about Sam. He was a simple soul and honorable. I would keep him on when his money ran out. I hoped he would agree if he felt he needed more time. He was making progress though. He had found a job to keep him afloat, so he didn’t have to go to the shelter for meals, but he said he stops by once in a while to see the old gang. No sign of Kenny; apparently, no one else had seen him either.

“He just disappeared,” Sam said.

“And how do you feel about that?” I asked, but was  thinking, Yeah, I get it. That’s what he did with me too—just disappeared.

Kenny and I met when we were at Columbia, finishing up our degrees—his in philosophy and mine in clinical psychology. It was love at first sight you could say. I was amazed to realize there really was such a thing—that unexplainable kind of attraction. He was intriguing, quirky, quiet mostly—not the small-talk type, but I liked that. I thought later, if I had wanted “normal,” I would have looked for normal. No such thing anyway, I know that for a fact.

His hair was dark and wild, and his eyes were kind--a soft, misty brown. His skin was clear and smooth, like a boy's, and his hands were perfection. I had the impression they were the kind a monk might have had—made for writing on parchment with a feather pen dipped into a pale blue glass inkwell. Later, I saw that his handwriting did have a grace and elegance about it, reminiscent of those Medieval illuminated manuscripts, and he did most of his writing by hand.

He wrote on various, obscure, abstract subjects—scholarly critiques on philosophy, theology and the lives of saints. He was intrigued with hagiography. He would tell me about the insights and revelations he had through his research and study. I loved how he looked when he spoke of his work, and how he expressed ideas in such beautiful images, precise analogies, lofty metaphors and clear logic.

Who cared if our attraction was hormones or pheromones, and not destiny? I don’t know how he would have described me, or what part of my body he may have thought was perfection, if any, but the feeling was mutual, passionate, intense—and ultimately doomed. There must have been a genetic code for disaster in the nature of our relationship. We were too different, and he gradually ascended, or descended, depending on how you look at it, into an unreachable place, intent it seemed, on becoming a saint himself.

It wasn’t going to work. His mind was like a black hole—sucking everything into it. Nothing escaped—ideas. facts, implications, probabilities and possibilities. Mine was more like a sieve, holding only what I needed to get through each day—the rest sifted through. Anyway, it’s how I came to think of “us” as opposites.

Despite the chemistry, or maybe because of it, it had to come crashing down.

“You know what your trouble is, Kenny?” I said during one of our increasingly heated “conversations.” “Despite your knowledge of philosophy and religion and all, you don’t really believe in anything, do you?”

We were sitting on his bed in the little room he was  renting in the city, piled high with books, strewn with empty wine bottles, half-written papers on his desk, and ashtrays crammed with cigarette butts. He got up, bare-legged in his white boxer shorts. I was already sorry I said anything, and wished we were still in the bed together, so I could put my fingers through his matted hair and wrap my legs around his. He put his hands on his hips, made a half turn away, then back again, glaring at me with those eyes, always shining with an unearthly—maybe even heavenly gaze.

Almost in a whisper, as if to himself, and with a look on his face like he was having another revelation he said, “It’s not that I don’t believe in anything. I believe in everything!”

It was hard to have a saint for a lover, and it must have been even harder for him with me, a materialist and born therapist, analyzing him in a way no therapist would if she wanted to keep her client. But I wasn’t his therapist; I was his lover and his anchor—I believed that. I had this weird thought. I was him trying to get in, and he was me trying to get out. I needed his ability to soar above it all—to what he might have called the “world of ideas,” which transcended creation—the only reality to speak of, according to Saint Kenny.

If he needed me at all, maybe it was for my ability to focus on one thing at a time, to plan and to follow through. Kenny said we complimented each other. He said I thought inductively—from the specific to the general, and he thought deductively—from the general to the specific. Boy, was he deep, which I figured made me shallow—in my ambition to own my own practice; to make a good living; shallow in my wish to own a piece of real estate in some remarkable location, and in my need to take long weekends and vacations when I could get away. My desire for and my pleasure in material things, and all the rest of it, was in direct opposition to what Kenny stood for.

Like I said, we were doomed.

That started to become clear after a few days we spent at his Aunt Molly’s. To me it was paradise: the island in the sea, the blue sky above, brilliant sun pouring through a dream house. I made a big fuss about it, and told Kenny I could see us living our lives there. I was like a mystic in ecstasy, but not the kind Kenny read about in his Medieval texts. I knew he could have been just as happy in one of those remote, monastic beehive huts on Skellig Michael, off the coast of Ireland—happiest most likely.

I snuggled up to him on our first night there. The ocean breeze was cool, the full moon over the ocean—visible from our bed. The fragrance of beach roses and hedge, our bodies warm together, I put my head on his chest—which was also pretty perfect.

“What do you say, Ken? Let’s live here. I’ll set up a practice. You could work on your studies, maybe finish a book in the quiet of this place—that book you’ve been working on.”

“It isn’t a book; it’s my theories and my musings.”

“You’ve just been musing all this time, really? Didn’t you ever think of sharing what you’ve learned, what you know?” I’d been wondering about where he was going with his writing for a while, along with a lot of other things I never dared mention.

“No, I haven’t thought of it. I’m happy doing what I’m doing, and I don’t want to leave the city. I like the noise and the grit of it and the people—the movement of them coming and going, even the ones who have nowhere to go or nobody to be. I’ve been thinking about doing something else too, instead of living for myself. There is so much need out there.”

“You mean like I do—live for myself?” I thought I knew where this was going—and me ruining the moment—again.

“No, I didn't mean that; you do help people, and that’s a good thing. I want to do that too.”

“I didn’t know you thought of me as helping anyone. I mean … I certainly try.” I was touched by his comment, suggesting out loud that my work was worthy after all. “I don’t think I’m the greatest example of good tough, that’s for sure.” I reminded him, “You’ve read, and know so well, the best of the best for inspiration on that score: Plato, St. Augustine, Aquinas, the saints … I mean … ”

“Well, … I’ve read about their ideas and experience, yes, but I need to do something with them.”

I silently agreed.

When we got back to the city, at first he continued to live in his dark room, thinking and writing. He still did some part time work in a library, barely earning enough to subsist—subsidized by me, which I didn’t mind. I still admired his ideals, and I loved him—meaning I made sure we could both live the life I wanted—dinners, plays, trips, none of which seemed to matter much to Kenny.

Soon after, he began walking the streets at night encountering those who could use something good in their lives. When he started bringing back lost souls, disheveled and sometimes incoherent ones with wild eyes, I began to question his judgement, and wondered if there was room for me in his future. I know how that sounds, but I was shaken by it all, and not only for my own well being. I also questioned Kenny on a finer point.

"You may be giving these souls something to eat or a coat to wear, but are you effecting any real change in their lives?" I had to ask.

“It doesn't matter if their lives change,” he almost shouted. “That’s your goal, not mine. I’m happy to help in small ways … in immediate need. You manipulate people and want them to live as you do.”

“Now … wait a minute,” I shouted back, feeling blindsided. “You said before that I did good, and I thought you meant it. Why are you being so hostile now?“ There were other words spoken … or shouted back and forth, and that’s when I screamed that he needed a therapist.

It was the last thing I ever said to him.

We parted ways, and that, as they say, was that. I came to accept it was for the best. Kenny was right; I had wanted him to live as I did. I didn't want to, and couldn’t  live as he did.

On the fifteenth week with Sam, he reminded me that it was our intended last session, “Well, this is it, Doc, the grand finoulie.” It sort of took me by surprise, though I had to agree he was in a good place.

“Well, you let me know, Sam, if you need to come in again, and remember what I said—no charge, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure thing, and thanks, Doc,” he said in his usual matter-of-fact way.

I had looked forward to our sessions. I liked Sam. He has a natural kind of wisdom, and it didn’t take much to get him to think about things in another way, so he was able to make some positive changes because of it. He was in a rut, but was easily budged out of it. I would miss him; having him around made me feel close to Kenny—strange as that sounds.

“Okay, Sam, you take care, now."

Sam hesitated, then he pulled an envelope out of his pocket and handed it to me. 

“What’s this?”

“I dunno, but Kenny said ta give it ta ya after we had our last meetin, so here it is, Doc.”

Looking back, I don’t remember Sam’s even leaving the office. I just stared down at the envelope in my trembling hand. I don’t know how long it was before I fell into one of those cozy chairs to open it. So much time had passed, but no love lost on my side. Was it a suicide note? I found myself thinking crazy things the moment before I opened it, desperately hoping it was the impossible—an invitation to meet him somewhere, anywhere. I wanted to look into those eyes once more. Those old feelings, memories and desire had been rushing in over the past  weeks—flooding in and swirling around in my head and in my heart.

That was two years ago. I am still grieving. The letter Sam brought from the law firm was a shocker. Kenny willed Aunt Molly’s house to me! When I went to see the attorney, she told me she had met with Kenny only once, and didn’t know that much about him, except that he had been ill, even before the inheritance from his aunt. That explains his giving a fortune away, but why will the house to me, after all this time?

I’m settled into my new practice on Martha’s Vineyard, but I may never know, and I have been hoping to find clues among his things left in this room overlooking the sea, the one we stayed in that night. The desk piled with his writings, shelves of books,  overflowing boxes if papers for me to live with—alone.

Today, I found that letter I wrote to Kenny years ago. When I unfolded it, a piece of parchment fell out. On it, in his beautiful script, were these lines:

I cannot live with you—

It would be life—

And life is over there—

Behind the shelf—

So We must meet apart—

  You there—I—here—

  With just the Door ajar

  Oceans are—and Prayer—

  And that White Sustenance—

  Despair—

Isn’t that the truth? Not exactly a clue, though—more of a confirmation of what I already knew. But now I can’t get them out of my head.

*I cannot live with you/…” from “In Vain” by Emily Dickinson in Poems by Emily Dickinson, First & Second Series, edited by Mabel Loomis Todd and T. W. Higginson.

MOSS ON STONE - An Excerpt

from a historical novella based on the diary of 

Susannah Norwood Torrey (1826 ~ 1908)

Prologue

To have a dream is to remain hopeful—a vision of some future time when all will be well and worry ceases. I have found that when dreams fade, there are other ways, if not to cherish thoughts of the future, or to reflect upon regrets of the past, then to sustain us day to day with a small measure of light—mine were things of beauty—moss on stone.

Now, from this distance of space and time, indeed, the absence of those illusions that do not exist here, I linger, preparing to return to life anew. What did I leave behind? A portrait for others to look upon, a scrapbook of moss designs, a diary, and a stone cottage by the sea. I review my life as one would a colorful tableau, and find that mine was a life worth living. I will tell you something of that life—of dreams,, and dreams fading; of time passing; of dear family and friends, loved and lost; and of people and places changed. 

    Through it all, there were the immutable gifts of nature to renew my soul with unequaled joy, asking nothing in return.

Between the thicket and the wood, lay the sought for valley covered with rocks piled one about another….and these rocks were covered with the most beautiful mosses that I ever saw. 

(Oct. 17, 1849)

www.mossonstoneauthor.blogspot.com

VULNERABILITY

Vulnerability is not a weakness, a passing indisposition, or something we can arrange to do without, vulnerability is not a choice. Vulnerability is the underlying, ever present and abiding undercurrent of our natural state…. To run from vulnerability is to run from the essence of our nature; the attempt to be invulnerable is the vain attempt to become something we are not. (David Whyte, Poet/Philosopher)

I agree with these thoughts by poet, David Whyte, but must must remind myself often that vulnerability is part of being fully human. Like other bits of widsom, it is not easy to live, as we are vulnerable in so many ways. While it may be a natural part of being human, so is our tendency to protect ourselves from physically, as well as emotionally. And while we can reasonably do so--attending to our health and well being in many ways, we also may try to remain invulnerable in other ways that prevent us from taking risks or engaging in life that would connect us to others by opening ourselves up to possibilities despite the perceived risks. 

We are vulnerable in relationships of love, friendship and community and to ourselves when we hold ourselves accountable for our highest ideals. We may avoid, sharing our thoughts and feelings, as well as our abilities and creations for fear of pain, rejection and loss. In doing so we also close ourselves off from the possibility of deepening our capacity for compassion,empathy and joy, as well as being accepted and acknolwedged by others who would value us and deem of worthy,

David Whyte suggests that vulnerability is our natural state, because no one of us is in control. We all must face the “slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.” So, it would seem we must change our tendency to remain invulnerable and choose to fulfill our potential to become fully human and live in full scope of our being, as we are the only part of creation able to choose to BECOME.

Does the biblical reference to being in the image of God imply that ww are also creators with capacity to contribute to and participate consciously in Creation--even by working on ourselves to become what we envison. I believe so.

The rest of creation becomes what it is meant to be without choice or consciousness: a seed becomes a flower; a larvae becomes a butterfly. All other entities on earth fulfill their nature by necessity. Humans have the capacity and opportunities to choose in small and large ways throughout a lifetime: to be different, to be better, to be more than we are, to be more balanced toward wholeness, to be more true to what we imagine is our higher self.

We are capable, first through our uniqueness and individuality to bring the new into life: thoughts, deeds and physical manifestations of our creations. We also have the capacity to shape our "selves" through reflecting on and evolving with life's challenges, sorrows, joys which awaken our consciousness and conscience to transcend and transform. 

All of the above involves willingness to be vulnerable and rebound when we are blindsided to face situations with courage and hope when we are faced with life on its own terms.  

Can you, will you, must you begin to trust that everything is as it is and will be and allow yourself to, "go to the limits of your longing?"  

God speaks to each of us as he makes us,

then walks with us silently out of the night.

These are the words we dimly hear:

You, sent out beyond your recall,

go to the limits of your longing.

Embody me.

Flare up like a flame

and make big shadows I can move in.

Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.

Just keep going. No feeling is final.

Don’t let yourself lose me.

Nearby is the country they call life.

You will know it by its seriousness.

Give me your hand. ~ Rilke, Book of Hours, I 59