Tag Archives: inspiration

The Breakthrough

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whump-whump-whump-whump

The helicopter overhead was distant–the propeller’s thumps a low murmur seeping into my mind, stirring up dread, thick and suffocating.

I stood inside my grandmother’s old house and gazed at the peeling yellowed paint on the walls and the layers upon layers of dusty photographs covering every inch. In one black and white photo, a young pig-tailed girl’s face beamed, sitting on her father’s knee, her face forever frozen in mid-laugh. In another– a girl in her teens, blowing out the candles on the cake, her father resting his hand on her shoulder.

A splintered mirror on the wall reflected an older woman. A woman now startled by the creases circling her hollowed eyes and the raw bleeding wounds dotting her scalp.  The wounds my mother gave me.

Hot red anger flashed as my fingers frantically tried to cover them with tufts of matted hair– but there were too many, they just grew and grew, and bled and bled.

whump-whump-whump-whump

A soft breeze blew the front door open, rustling the photos about like leaves.  I shuddered as the leak of fear dripping in my mind ran cold. A rush of wind swelled and the hardwood floor beneath me groaned, each floorboard lifting one by one, rippling like waves. I turned to look out the window.

It was coming.

Lazers of red light pierced through the tiny holes and cracks in the floor, casting blood-orange spots around the room; the thundering pulse of the propeller almost on top of me now.

I opened my mouth to scream, but only a raspy gasp escaped my lips.  The photographs began to flutter and fall to the floor, forming tiny swirling tornados that danced and circled around the room; the blackened edges of each photo curling unto itself until each one disintegrated into a thin gray dust.  Vibrations rippled through me, my body nothing more than an empty shell as the helicopter’s relentless chant filled my ears.

whump-whump-whump-whump

Bracing for impact, I shut my eyes and turned away, the taste of choking dust filling my mouth. It was outside the window now–a spinning black steel spider hanging from an unseen web growing bigger and bigger until it was inches from breaking through the glass.

Suddenly, it stopped to hover, frozen in mid-flight; as if the web’s sinewy thread was pulled taut. I felt a hand on my shoulder. My breath stopped.

It was my father.

Dad. Dad!

Dad?

I searched his face, unbelieving. He was young again; his face smooth, his smile warm and knowing. A sparkling white light radiated from his eyes.

Don’t be afraid, he said without moving his lips.

I will help you.

Watch me. I’ll show you.

Churning back to life, the helicopter continued its path toward the window. I closed my eyes, imagining it tearing through the house, shards of exploding glass, wood and metal showering down, consuming me in flames.

Look, my dad said. Here, look.

I opened my eyes.

He stepped in front of me and raised one arm, his hand shielding me from the spider. In response, it reversed, the broken shards of wood and glass flying backwards with it.  The thundering pulse of the propeller a soft murmur again as the helicopter vanished into a small black dot swallowed whole by bright blue sky.

I sucked in the air and a sweet coolness spread across my face, into my lungs and down my spine.

Silence.

I was standing on the precipice of the tallest mountain. Below me, an endless sea of jewels, sparkling blue and green.  I drank in the beauty as it flowed through my veins.

I floated. I was free.

My dad grabbed my hand and smiled. We were back in my grandmother’s house again.

Do you see?

I looked down, wisps of my hair were swirling to the floor like feathers. I tenderly touched my head. My wounds were gone, replaced with pink skin–warm, soft and new.

I do, Dad.  I see.

Thank you.

I looked out the window and into the bright light.

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A Girl and Her Dog

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Princess, me and my brother (who recovered nicely from his first impression of her)

I have had the Marley and Me movie for awhile now, sitting in my DVD collection, collecting dust. I kept telling myself to watch it, but I knew I wasn’t emotionally ready. I had already read the book, (like everyone else on the planet) so I knew about the heart-wrenchingly sad ending. I could barely get through the book without weeping, so a movie would surely push me over the edge. And crying is something that once I start, there’s no stopping the floodgates. I honestly didn’t think Kleenex made a big enough box.

I knew deep down that the real reason was I never truly had a chance to grieve for my own dog.  My dad brought her home from the pound when I was seven and she was “my dog” from the start. Princess was young and energetic, with soft brown fur and gentle eyes. One of her ears stood straight up at attention, the other flopped down to the side. She was a mutt, a mix of Collie and, my brothers and I liked to think, wolf.

At our first meeting, my younger brother was petrified of her and ran into his room to push his dresser up against the door. I was in love. She was my best friend from the start. I recently found the very first picture of Princess in an old photo album. There I was, standing in our kitchen in my pink pajamas and Dorothy Hamill haircut, wrapping my arms around her and grinning like crazy. I was beyond thrilled that my dad had brought her home to us, rescuing her from the cold and lonely streets.

I spent every waking moment giving her hugs and kisses. She slept with me at night in my white canopy bed, peacefully curled up on my legs. I would drift off to sleep feeling her warm, soft heaviness at my feet. She was my constant companion, my security blanket, my guardian angel.

When I was feeling blue, I’d take her for a walk. Sometimes her sheer enthusiasm for walks would be enough to snap me out of my funk. We’d go to the nearby playground at dusk. I’d unhitch her leash and off she’d run, dog tags jingling in the shadows. We’d sit together in the field and look at the stars. Those moments were some of the most content and magical of my life, Princess  by my side, doing nothing but simply enjoying the peacefulness together. She understood me like no one else. With her, there was nothing but acceptance and love.

As sweet as she was, Princess was also tough. In her early years, she had managed to break every single cable leash that clerk at L.L. Bean’s swore were unbreakable. She’d be out in the driveway, sitting in her doghouse. My brothers and I would jump on our bikes and zoom off, only to turn to see her galloping after us with a grin on her face and a broken leash dragging down the road behind her.

When I finally went off to college, my parents told me she would sit by the door where my bags were, her head down, waiting for me to come back home on the weekends. It broke my heart to leave her even for a week.

By the spring of 1991, she had become old and frail. She had arthritis in her legs and soon she didn’t have the strength to stand up. I rubbed her hot swollen legs for hours trying to comfort her. Maybe if I did that enough, she’d be okay. My dad told me with tears in his eyes that it was time we called the vet. I had never seen my father cry until that day.

After she was gone, the house was heavy and silent, almost suffocating. Later that summer, my dad told me about a dream he had. He was in a huge gorgeous green field and Princess was there, bounding over to greet him. He said it was the most vivid dream and seemed real. Not too many months later he would die as well. The grief for my dad was all-consuming and looking back, I don’t believe I ever had the chance to grieve for my sweet girl, Princess.

Now, almost twenty years later, it was time.

As I slid the movie into the DVD player I thought, “Can I handle remembering her again?” I felt a sudden chill.  “And, if I do remember her, will I then have to finally let her go?”

I sat curled up on my couch alone and watched Marley and Me. At the end it happened. The tears came. My body went limp as I sobbed. I could feel the pain of loss bubbling up and releasing in waves almost too big for my soul to handle. I heard Owen Wilson utter the final lines of the movie:

“A dog has no use for fancy cars, big homes, or designer clothes. A water log stick will do just fine. A dog doesn’t care if you’re rich or poor, clever or dull, smart or dumb. Give him your heart and he’ll give you his. How many people can you say that about? How many people can make you feel rare and pure and special? How many people can make you feel extraordinary?”

Princess did just that.  And finally, I can say that no, I don’t ever have to let her go.

My Zen

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The tiny bright ball of energy was whirling in front of me. It swirled and spun while even smaller dots of yellow light zipped around the ball like moons orbiting Jupiter. I was mesmerized. All I could do was observe it in my mind’s eye. The light was growing bigger and bigger, suspended in space in front of me. There was no thought. There was no time. There was no “I”. Nothing existed except for that ball of light. Continue reading →

The Big Transition

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A pearl scale goldfish from The 6th "Pram...

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Our goldfish, Scooby, was swimming upside down. At first, we thought it was cool. Maybe he was trying to impress us with some new trick? “Ooh! Look Mommy, he’s the coolest fish, ever!” my son gushed with his face pressed up against the glass. A few days later Scooby was just upside down, not really swimming anymore, but floating. Yep, he was dead and gone to the big aquarium in the sky. For a moment, I didn’t know what to say to my seven year old. We’ve never had a pet die before, so I was expecting tears, hugs and lots of comforting. My son watched me take Scooby out of the tank and looked sad. “He’s gone, buddy, sorry,” I whispered, “He lived a good little life though.” I hugged him. He sniffed. Then he raised his eyebrows and said, “Can we get another one now? Please?” and that was the extent of our Big Talk about Death.

Death is such a taboo subject. My parents never really spoke of death when I was growing up. Sure, my mother would point at old photos of relatives and say “she died of tuberculosis” or “he died in a car crash.” Death was some mysterious thing that happened to Other People. As a kid, I had a vague feeling that death meant people simply disappeared, sometimes when they’re old and sometimes tragically, when they are young. But I didn’t start to question what happens after we die until two things happened when I was 21.

First, in the spring of 1991, my beloved dog of 15 years had to be put to sleep. My own father cried that day she died and I had never seen him cry before. Then, a few months later, he would also die suddenly of a heart attack at the age of 53. To say these two events were earth-shattering for me would be an understatement. I was lost in a deep, dark place. I found myself at the college library, pouring over books on death and dying. I read anything and everything I could get my hands on, so I could wrap my head around why my dad wasn’t here anymore. And the more important question: where is he now?

I grieve for my dad even though it’s been almost 19 years. I look back now at my twenties and I realize I spent years obsessing over death. I was extremely sad, depressed, distressed, anxious and alone. I’m sure I had to go through all of those dark emotions to get to that place, someplace in life where I feel secure and accept life and death. I’m almost there.

Every day I feel more and more alive and content. I am simply happy to have the family and friends around me. I take in every moment I have with them and truly cherish the time we have together. As I near middle age, I am slowly beginning to be okay with the uncertainty of life and the certainty of death.

My son asks me about the grandfather he never met and I tell him stories. He listens to me, but he isn’t sad. He doesn’t ask me what happens after death or why people die. He just matter-of-factly says to me “I’ll meet him someday in heaven, right?” Death to him isn’t scary or mysterious but just a fact. He doesn’t spend time brooding about it. He is full of happiness and life, as a seven year old should be. I cringe when I think about the day my son will be faced with the death of someone he loves dearly. But, for now, as I watch my son race around the yard, grinning and laughing hysterically, I want to be like him. Not full of fear and uncertainty, but peace and contentment. I know I can do it. I am almost there.

Spinning my wheels

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My grandmother was one of the most amazing women I’ve ever known. She was active most of her long life of 100 years. The type of woman who would think nothing of jumping on her grandson’s dirt bike and taking it for a spin when she was in her 80s.  Going on a long walk with her would often leave me winded just trying to keep up.  Growing up, I admired her zest for life,  her “seize the day” attitude that so many of us envy but never actually put into practice.  She seemed to truly enjoy every moment and didn’t really care what others thought.  She simply did what made her happy and in turn gave her happiness to everyone around her, family, friends and strangers. Being around her was like being around a buzzing brilliant light. She also had an extensive knowledge of nature. Books about birds, flowers and Maine lined her bookcase. She showed me the beauty and relaxation that can be found in the outdoors.  When I think of  Gram, I immediately picture us out in her backyard, playing with her dogs and tending her garden.  Now that she’s been gone eight years, I think of her more and more and realize just how much she influenced my personality today.

Yesterday my kids and I were in our backyard, basking in the sun, picking a few daisies and watching a grasshopper jump across the driveway.   We slowly strolled around and picked out some rocks to throw into the stream that runs across our property.  I felt completely at peace. Something not very common in my rush-rush daily life.  Breathing in the air and gazing at the puffy white clouds relaxed me and I thought of my Gram again. My kids wanted to “race” which meant they’d get on their bikes and I’d get on my son’s scooter.  “Let’s go!” I yelled and soon the three of us were zooming in big circles around our driveway. ”Watch, I’m going to go REAL FAST!” I whooped as I gave myself a big push on the scooter. Soon I was flying down the hill and felt the incredible rush of just moving and being in that moment. The kids were laughing, I was yelling “woohoooo!” I could see myself from above, an almost-40 year old mother, wrinkles and gray hair and all, riding on the breeze.  Moving and living and being happy.  Spinning those wheels and loving every second of it. Thank you, Gram.