Interior Cartography #3
Interior Cartography #3– Second Descanso
My second descanso is dedicated to my friend Ellen. On my first day of high school, I, the nerd, cowering in the corner of the girls gymnasium, was approached by Ellen. I don’t know what possessed her to approach me, but I am guessing that we both knew that Gym class was not going to be a class either of us would excel so we banded together for mutual support and complaint.
Ellen was sansei, third-generation Japanese-American. I mention this fact only because of all the nisei and sansei kids I hung out with, she was the only kid who was not quiet, self-effacing, and demure. In fact, she had the saltiest tongue I’d ever heard from a kid. She had an “in-your-face, take-no-prisoners” approach to life. On top of that, she was the first kid in my circle of friends to have her own car.
Ellen introduced me to the cultured things of the world. We went to museums, libraries, theatre– her parents were professional people with a bit more sophistication than mine and supported such activities. Ellen introduced me to The Lord of the Rings, she had pet boa-constrictor, and she read Stephen King before he was popular. And she convinced me to go to college– at least for a couple of years.
Ellen was also diabetic– the Type 1 kind. I think she realized, before the rest of us, that she was not going to maintain the quality of life the rest of us took for granted. So instead of going off to a big university like her parents and sister to become a professional what-ever, she went to a local junior college to get some immediate job skills (and took me with her). After two years we both graduated and got jobs– me, at a university, and her for a VP of a big oil company. Her job there quickly grew into a career in management and she was on a very fast track.
However, over the next three or four years, she got sicker and sicker, lost her eyesight completely, began dialysis, and was facing amputation. I, and another mutual friend, tried our best to keep her spirits up, pretending that she was going to get better some day.
One day, I got a call from her mother. Ellen had committed suicide.
There was no funeral. (Ellen hadn’t wanted one). So traumatized from this event, I did not speak her name to my parents or our mutual friends for over a year. So angry was I at Ellen for leaving, that to this day I can’t remember the date or even the exact year she died (I was 24 or 25 but I simply can’t remember).
Over the years I’ve come to terms with her life and death, and right now, this minute, is the first time that I’ve ever committed to writing my thoughts and feeling about her death.
Ellen opened my life to the wonders of the world. Her life was short. My life is richer. God bless you, Ellen.
Lori Gloyd (c) May 19, 2006 (Postscript: I eventally went on to finish college– thanks in part to her.)
Map Of My Heart
A map of my heart? Wow, this is hard. I sat on a porch one summer evening as my mother said, “I’ve always hated you.” “I know, ” was all that I could say. My mother never hid her hatred in my growing years. There were nights when I slept under a picnic table in the park to get away from the fighting, anger, and violence of the place I called home. It gave me a resolve to make things different for my children. When my husband’s violence towards me became something I would no longer live with the same resolve and love for my children helped me leave when what I really wanted to do was kill him. Love for my children is the only thing that has kept my heart alive. Their love for me shows me time and again that my life has been worthwhile. My son, John (23), is in the Air Force, stationed in Korea. He sent me the following words for Mother’s Day. They’re not only a map of my heart but a picture of it beating.
Happy Mother’s Day,
Mom,
Everything I’ve ever needed.
Loving, caring doing everything for our sake.
Only doing what was best for us, even when you
Had your own goals
Daring, brave, strong, the role model of my life
Yearning, for us to be best.
Always there, always.
Dear, great, wonderful
Adventurous, beautiful
My source of greatest strength
Saying always “I love you”
Love you Mom
Ornery beast move it! My patience is wearing thin. You won’t share your name, you won’t look at me, and your scent is far from pleasing…You’re the epitomy of the stereotype of your breed! Frustrated, I threw myself down beneath the shade of a near-by plantain, weary of mind and heart.
“Mademoiselle?”, a plaintive, whining, nasal, voice, whispered in my ear. “Mon Dieu!”, I exclaimed, startled from my rest. The beast drew back, a flicker of fear in his eyes. More fully awake, I realized we were communicating telepathically; a faculty long-bred into his species. He peered into my eyes to see if I was buying it. I stifled a snort, genetic traits are all I am about.
Then something remarkable occurred, He gently removed a small object cradled protectively within his jaws and placed it on the ground between us. It was deeply swathed in leaves through which shallow but rapid movement could be seen. Slowly he nuzzled back the covering to reveal a golden-throated dove — rarest of its kind. My gasp caused his gaze to fly to my face … questioning, fearful, pleading. It all became evident to me as his story tumbled into my mind.
He had been awaiting my arrival for hours, when storm clouds blew in, and the sky erupted with lightning. A fearsome blast struck a near-by tree and he cowered in fear. By the time he mustered his courage it was too late. The delicate nest had toppled, destroyed beneath a splintered branch with the broken form of the mother bird lying crushed within. Off to one side this lovely fledgling flopped injured and quivering in pain.
I gently drew one lacquered fingertip across the creatures beak, along the tiny feathers between its eyes, then carefully circled the skull and down the long silken neck. I felt the tension ease somewhat under my touch and I detected no fractures nor tenderness until I circled down the back and under the right wing. There I knew was the problem for the dislocation could quite easily be palpated,it was so far dislodged. I rose and placed my hand against the beast’s cheek and felt the cool wetness of his steady tears. I bid him stay as I grabbed the red shoes from my bag and flew back to my wagon for the analgesia necessary to complete the healing task.
So here we are at last upon the road to Blind Springs, with one ensconced in a tiny leaf-lined stretcher, secured upon his namelessness’ back. There will be time enough to rectify the details, right now tho’, I puzzle my feelings of contrition…is it regret for my attitude when we met, or for the consequences that may follow?
Signed,
FlashBug
daily routines
Must clean, must tidy, must clean, must tidy
My consience ticks away in the background.
Fortunately, I have learnt to ignore it.
Must read, must write, must think, must walk the dog, must eat nice food, must experience the sea, must do something in my altered art book or journal, create an ATC……
I must nourish my creative spirit. You know – the housework won;t do itself and when I am ready …I’ll get round to it.
Revelations
knew, was a dead giveaway. I realised I had fallen asleep, making the map…
trouble ahead. “You weren’t supposed to sleep for THAT long,” he said, moving
away, satisfied that I was awake. “I think you might have taken a bite of the
wrong apple…”
Puzzled, I looked at him, and was surprised to find that it was dusk and he was
moving about the walled garden, making a fire for dinner. I smiled, and sat up
on the grass to watch. “I don’t recall having an apple at all.” Beside me was the
half drawn map, with a couple of doorways, which reminded me of the movie
theme of “Sliding Doors” and parallel universes. “Belenus, I don’t recall having
an apple, period. Stop trying to make out as if I ate the apples, when you know
it was you.” He just laughed, using his old tricks to make fire.
“Now it is an accepted truth that all humans are in part the same. So it can be
safe to assume everyone has taken a bite of a poison apple…” he said, as he
watched the flame grow.
“Hang on a minute…what are we talking about here? A riddle? Or rather, more
riddles, like when we went to that house. Where was it again? To find the
treasure. Where is it exactly?”
On looking around I could see no sign of the chest, as had been clearly visible
before. I started to doubt Belenus’ sanity, wondering if he was the full picnic.
“Faith. You must have faith, even when things cannot be seen,” he said.
Then I nodded, and remembered he was smart, he had to be, from reading
all those books. People only said donkeys were ignorant, and as people said many
things that weren’t true, I chose to believe he was smart.
The fire flamed and we had some roasted chestnuts, baked figs and herbed
bread that Belenus somehow gathered the ingredients for, while I was asleep.
He had even ground some grain into flour with rocks. Amazing, I thought.
“Anyway, what about the poisoned apple? How do you know about that?” I
said.
“The poison apple that makes folks forget what they know?” he said. “It’s legendary.
It set you into a deep sleep.”
“Well, then, no wonder I don’t remember eating it.”
The moon made a growing crescent in the indigo sky, and the walled garden
was in shadow, the flames from the fire dancing in the leaves of the trees, and
across the bluestone walls. We ate, and then afterward, Belenus made a
gunpowder tea for us, from the store in his saddlebags.
“This should make you remember,” he said, “What they make you forget.”
“Sounds a bit scary. Gunpowder and all.”
“You have to remember. Some things are good to forget, and others must
be remembered, especially if it’s for the very first time. New things. If you
known those things, you might never have had such a heart path, with closed
doors and so called errors, as society sees them. Uncommon sense is far
kinder to humans, even though they forgot that with their poisoned apple
devouring.”
My mind was in a muddle, though I knew roughly what he was talking about,
it was like trying to reinvent the universe to me.
“I might need to think about this,” I said.
“Fine, go and meditate by that rock over there, the one that has a sliver of
moonlight reflected on it. Go see. Go and think, while I wash up…”
I did as I was told.
I fear….
I fear I may have skimmed the surface of my past 3 years. I fear the gate to the house of serpents may not open unless I confess…
Tender, the love of a mother
Raw and innocent the love of a mother.
A life snuffed too early
too early at too young an age.
A mother loves unconditionally
she sees no flaws,
no wrongs
only rights.
The breast which fed me
the breast which gave me life,
nurtured me for months
failed her in only eleven.
Undetectable, by feel.
by sight, only by one aware
of one’s body and its many guises.
Take note you women on this journey
Be not scared to watch in the mirror.
Orange peel, red rash and shrinkage
I beg of you, Take heed.
I’m so sorry to bring down the feel of this most joyous travelling, but I really felt that I hadn’t expressed my feelings for the last three years of my life. In October 2002, my mum was diagnosed with inflammatory breast cancer. There is no cure for this cancer. Mum died 11 months after diagnosis. Don’t just look for a lump, check for ANY changes to your breast. During my half sleep in the morning, I mostly think of mum, still. When I wake at night, she is in my thoughts. When I’m feeling down, she pops into my head. I have a few chardy’s and she’s there. I’m not down all of the time, in fact most times I’m fine…. There are great things to reflect upon during this journey and it’s lucky that the Gorgons are not ready for us yet…. I have much time to reflect.
smb
Ravens – Ancient And Modern
Hi Travellers, there seemed to be a lot of raven talk and activity going on so I thought I’d repost this from last year. The more you know, the more amazing these birds of L’Enchanteur are, almost royal, really:-) Enjoy!(Reposted from August, 2005.)
Lately there has been a proliferation of local ravens, with the coming of Spring and the nesting season. Many of these beautiful birds have come gathering lately, allowing themselves to be seen at close range. This is a real treat; they are gentle and very alert, contrary to common superstition. They mate for life and the large raven, found in the southern hemisphere, can live up to fifty years of age. The oldest known raven was sixty-nine. Part of the Corvid species, they are the largest, and their constellation lies directly above in the heavens at the moment, and is called “Corvus”. Before their ecological link was properly known, they were persecuted in England and Europe, almost to the point of non-existence. Once the public were educated, the culling stopped, and the corvids were welcomed back again, to breed again. They are considered nature’s tidier, sorter, and order keeper, and this is their ecological purpose.When Corvids fly, they do so at a measured single-minded pace, in a steady line. This is where the saying “As the Crow Flies” comes from; it means to go in a straight line. When nesting, both birds build a solid twiggy home, and the male feeds the female while she nests. Both sexes feed the young, flying out searching for food, and often any excess is buried for later. They are intelligent and have a connection with Wisdom lore and tales of all cultures. Gregarious by nature, these birds can be trained to count and to interpret and mimic human speech. A caged Raven was once helped to escape by two wild Ravens who dug a hole into its cage from the outside while the caged bird dug out from the inside. Ravens have been much maligned by man in the past, though modern research has shown that they, like crows, do far more good than harm. Mostly this was due to projected superstition and lack of knowledge, and now there is more education on this species in general, there is also far more respect.They were included with other animals in the ancient cave paintings at Lascaux near the French Pyrenees, and have had a long association with man. Historically they occupy space at the top of the Tower of London, and it is said that if fewer than six are present, the consequences are dire, so are welcome in the city streets and squares for the important work they do.
http://www.earthlife.net/birds/crows.html – source credit and link
copyright Monika Roleff 2006.
daily routines and a map
daily? of course. routine? hardly! Or maybe daily? sometimes but always different. Routine? hmmm
Take today for example.
Upon waking, I lie in that wonderful half sleep state, the state that allows me to choose whether to wake now or not. In this state, I dream, plan, remember, design and write. This is just the beginning. Sometimes, this stage is enough for an entire day and I am lulled back to sleep, to rest before beginning again. This morning, I woke. Within that half sleep time, I had “planned” my day.
By this time, Hubby is awake. While he completes his daily ablutions, I wash dishes, make our morning liver cleanser and daily heart starter, cups of hot water with lemon juice and lovely fresh juices, which are usually different everyday. It’s a ritual you see and quite soothing. Hubby goes to his place of work then, all rested, cleansed and with his heart well and truly started.
My plan today involved begging the local tax office to do my very late tax return, depositing cheques at the bank, paying rent and numerous other bills, grocery shopping, showing a potential buyer some of my new pieces of art, coming home, writing then making more art…
My actual day went something along these lines…. local tax office shut till July 3, one cheque okay, the other with an inconsistent name on the cheque so it has to be rewritten, rent paid, bills paid, shopping done, until the card was declined at the shop….. hmmmm, back to the bank, no money. Something had been withdrawn. No groceries till monday. Lentils and a tin of tomatoes for a hungry Husband (you get the picture)…. This is about where my routine went totally haywire. Home, seek solace in The Serpentine Road. Nice soothing cup of dandelion tea and honey.
Maybe my art time will be better!
And now to the map….
My heart, much like my daily routine, is a little up and down. On a daily basis and over my lifetime. I remember with much fondness, my childhood years. Warmth and freedom, family and friends, and always a dog. I reflect on autumn and winter months, surely my favourite. Dressed in that wonderful 70’s style, brown cords, skivvy and swede desert boots! These images warm my heart and if you were to see the map at this point, there would be a lovely glow of red to mark the spot.
Teenage years mark the time where we moved to the country from Melbourne. A glow of yellow to show my excitement. Years of lovely memories flood my map, I smile as I write. What more could I want?
What does this black mark mean? As I am jerked rudely from my dreams, I remember returning from the country, to the city. This time melds not so nicely with the time mum and dad went their separate ways. Father leaves mother for a younger woman, leaves her with no support financial or otherwise – an all to familiar story.
Grey dots lighten and slowly brighten with time, accentuating particular events which fight to be remembered. An assignment worth crowing about, a new found friend, a new job…
A sparkle still remains on my map, the date I met my husband.
And now? I think there is a mark which can be clearly distinguished, you can see it can’t you? It’s that warm, cosy glow of contentment. The glow which hints at great things to come, a glow which marks the edge of an amazingly exciting precipice, one off which I am aching to fly.
Mapping the Heart
Who can help me find the pieces of my heart?
How will I map them?
My heart is in so many pieces I am struggling to find some of the fragments. It broke in two when I was so young, then again when my late husband died. Two parts of my heart have come to earth so far away in the places my children have chosen to live. Nevertheless, I am instructed to make a map and I will try to do so, but it will not be easy, will cost me many tears, and may take some time.
Interior Cartography #2
Interior Cartography #2—- Descanso #1
The first memorial on this labyrithine road is that of a young child who was abandoned.
The child was the younger, nearly seven years younger than her sister. She was also the youngest of the grandchildren. One might think a child like this would be over-indulged. She certainly was not. Her strict Swedish grandmother, and her even more strict parents, were of the old school: children should be seen and not heard. There was very little corporal punishment. It was simply understood: “you will behave.”
However, the child was a handful. Her mother wrote in a baby-journal “she certainly is her own person.” To this day, it is a mystery what the mother meant by this statement but it has been concluded that the child had her own mind and way of doing things, and needed to be reined in on occasion.
The child loved school– at first– and could not get enough of all the interesting things taught there. She went to the library three times a week. Her father, after an 11 hour day at work, indulged this activity by taking her there. And books– there were books everywhere– more books than toys. (This was odd since the parents did not have the time or inclination to read themselves. ) The child had a new interest each week: dolls one week, playing with toads and building mud castles the next.
But then it changed. One day Grandma had a stroke that left her as a vegetable for the next eight years. The child’s mother became the caretaker and from that moment on, the child was left to her own devices. This had some advantages. For example, the child would hole up for hours without being bothered to read or draw or paint. Creativity flourished. However, the disadvantages: the child had no guidance in the things that young girls needed to know. There was no guidance on things like college or career choices. Even guidance on how to navigate herself through social situations was absent. School, so loved at one time, became a daily nightmare. The child grew up to be a nerd. Fortunately, she had a small handful of nerdy friends and each kept the others from going totally astray.
The child has grown into a woman. The woman does not blame the parents for their benign neglect. It was what it was with everyone doing the best they could given the circumstances. Her father has even acknowledged in his old age that the child was left too much alone.
But to put the past to rest, I leave this memorial to that child and her abandonment. May they rest in peace.
Gloyd (c) May 18, 2006
Serpentine Road 