womanofthelight

Chica Chica Boom Chic - Carmen Miranda

Pensive. One of my late brother's x-girlfriends has a child who is probably my brother's. He left half of his estate in trust to both of her children for their education--what he left for one he would surely not have deprived the other, though the younger child is not his. It became obvious to me that even though Andy denied the question flat-out when asked by my younger brother if her elder child (17 years old) was Paul's. And yet, she emailed him a photograph of a space she has created in her home--an altar, so to speak--with a beautiful urn of some of Paul's ashes and a photo of him holding her younger child as a baby. She no doubt swore to Paul that she would not share this knowledge with my family, and yet, I have no doubt that though she verbally denied it, she wanted us to know. She and Paul broke up years ago, and all Paul told me at the time was that she wanted to get married and have a family and he did not. So, she moved on. Her second child is 12. There is a history of this in my family. Paul located a half sibling of my father's through one of those DNA programs. He said she sounded very much, in inflection and manner like our grandfather--of whom Paul had very fond memories--and said how glad and grateful he was that she spoke to him. (W T F PAUL????????? Sometimes geniuses are the DUMBEST PEOPLE IN THE WORLD.) But he never shared this information with my father because, after all, he hadn't spoken to my parents in decades. My mother's mother died calling for her "baby" just before she passed away, though both my mother and my aunt were with her. I interviewed and recorded the remaining 3 grandparents I had at the time (my father's father died when I was 7) when I was in my twenties, and my grandmother spoke of a man with whom she had been deeply in love--who was white--but whom she could not have, but left out any reference to a child. When I asked her if she had been in love with my grandfather when they married, she said "no. He was a nice guy, and I wanted to have children." My father's mother had a cousin, Audrey, who came to stay with them a while, back in the days when an "illegitimate" child was something shameful. It wasn't until years later, when Audrey was on her deathbed calling for her baby, that my grandmother put it together. No wonder Audrey was isolated from her family for months! No wonder she had to stay in the attic for her entire visit! No wonder she couldn't go outside and play with the other kids in the neighborhood! The irony in all of this is that Paul and his first wife had 2 abortions; one of my sisters had a miscarriage, my other sister and I both had 2 abortions each. There was a time when my younger brother thought he'd like to father a child and raise it with a partner (he's gay), but left the idea behind when he found out his partner was a drug addict. I always assumed that the father of any prospective child I might have would come into my life at the right time, but it never happened. So of the five siblings in my generation, four of us remain with no one to follow us, so to speak. Hopefully, we use our talents while we are living and perhaps leave good works behind. The time is now.

Had friends from my First Tribe over for dinner--by "Tribe" I mean we played together as children and they've always been kind of a mirror for our family. They had 2 girls and 3 boys; our family was 2 boys and 3 girls. The elder girl died of cancer in 2011. My brother, of cancer in 2018. They were born the same year, only days apart. It makes me wonder if there is more than meets the eye in close connections like these.

Guilt and shame are killers. Of relationships, self-worth, future possibilities, hope, you name it--everything that can be good in life. We were ALL raised to feel one or the other in our childhoods, though guilt is useless in that it changes nothing, and shame can be more damaging than anything! When you feel able, or calm enough to tell your wife what happened, do it merely recounting the facts. After the facts, explain as best you can the "why" of the situation--that is, if you fully understand the "why" is and can see it objectively. It would be foolish of me to tell you not to feel ashamed, because we shame ourselves into paralysis if there are consequences that endanger what we hold dear. We've all done things of which we are ashamed, and your shame feels even worse because it lost you your livelihood (though, unless there was a strict "no masturbating policy" sign posted on the wall, I would consider explaining my behavior to the person who fired me, at least for purposes of his/her possibly looking objectively at my circumstances and not making a point of giving me a bad reference if contacted [NOT THAT DEPRESSION IS AN EXCUSE, BUT IT CAN LEAD US INTO SELF-DESTRUCTIVE BEHAVIORS.]. If you have a counselor or therapist who prescribes your medication, schedule an appointment with that person and talk about what happened. Hopefully, he/she will be able to guide your next steps to modifying your behavior to productive outlets in the work environment when it comes to dealing with side effects. Just a suggestion.

Depression, as well as this discussion, is reminiscent of Sartre's play, "No Exit."

Although Ansel Adams admired Anna's ankles, Anna absolutely abhorred Ansel's admiration.

I've done a lot of study on Astrology and the occult arts. Astrologically speaking, it is said we are at our worst (emotionally, mentally, psychologically) at the end of our birth year, and once our birthdays come, we gradually regain personal power. January and February must be very hard for you. I'm sorry.

Can't stop crying. End this pain. End this pain. End this pain. Are You listening? Are You even there? No. God isn't in Ohio this time of year.

Alesund - Sun Kil Moon

Death Letter - Cassandra Wilson

No End - Sandy Denny

I read a book recently about a man who was able to see spirits. It's taken from his journal entries--from a boy in his early teens to about the time he reaches his thirties. It's called "The Boy Who Saw True." And it's all true. I've also heard it expressed--I think from one of the actors who was on the show The Sopranos, at their reunion--that this actor from the show said, "James [Gandolfini] isn't gone. He's just around the corner, in another room."

I TRULY BELLIEVE in all those stories we hear. My brother, David, sister Karen and I have all had "visitations" or some kind of non-physical experience of my brother Paul since his death. Thanks for trusting us enough to share it.

I've always wanted a framed photo of Gustav Mahler. I'd check the online poster stores now and then and see many of the ones I'd seen before over the years and not be able to choose which one I wanted. My late brother, Paul, introduced me to Mahler. Paul's internal emotional turbulence, which he always tried to deny, I believe connected him to Mahler in a way no one in the family understood but me. It was as if he was opening himself up and letting me/us see who he really was. The last time I saw him (years ago, though we had talked on the phone almost every night for years until The Big Rift), he told me he didn't listen to Mahler much any more. It made him sad, he said, and he didn't want to feel sad. So he moved to the Passions of St. John and St. Mark by J.S. Bach for relief (??????????????????????????????????) Anyway, I've decided I do, in fact, want some of his ashes. At first, I thought sharing his cremains among us, the nuclear family, was just as grisly and weird as looking at a corpse in a box. But time has changed my mind. So I purchased a glass urn on Etsy which I hated and returned, and just went for the one on Amazon. I looked through the folder of some of Paul's last writings -- both versions of the obituary he wrote for himself--the one he wanted published in the orchestra bulletin, and the one someone on the staff at the Orchestra had the sensitivity to delete the last paragraph of in which he just . . . trashed us. Saying his siblings each had their virtues but that he had reached greater heights of humanitarianism by extracting them from his life. I forgive you, Paul, for your contempt. You died a hard death because you just wouldn't connect with the difficulty, the joy, the courage and the work of loving relationships. My remaining brother and my sisters and I have reached out to two of his former girlfriends--one of whom was with him when he died in hospice care--(OHHHHHHHHHH. PAUL, MY BROTHER IN HOSPICE CARE WITHOUT ME THERE TO HOLD HIM! I WOULD HAVE LAIN BESIDE YOU AND HELD YOU AS IF YOU WERE MY CHILD!!!!--YOU, YOU. . .I can't even call you names because I still love you and I always will!) and another with whom he'd had a good, healthy-sounding relationship but whom he did not want to marry and with whom he wanted no children. Those things were important to her, so she had to move on. They worked together in the Orchestra for years; he looked across the room at her every day and never told her he was dying. When she found out, she had to be hospitalized, even though they hadn't been romantic partners in years. Paul was hard on the people who loved him, but each of us would have died in his place--I know I would--to spare him that pain. But I've digressed . . . excuse me. The last picture of Paul we have is one given to us by one of his friends. It is of him perhaps teaching a Master Class (no white tie and tails as he wore for concerts, but a jacket, shirt and tie), and he's holding his bass and bow in his beautiful hands, looking up to something . . . greater, maybe. So, this picture I found of Mahler--the one I'd never seen--has him seated, turned and looking upward also. When I hang them together, they will be across from one another looking up to that Greater Thing or Greater Place. I want to see what they see.

Yes. That's what depression is. I had a freelance job a few years ago, before my second round of antidepressants (I'd go on for a few years until one stopped working, and then go off, then find the "off" periods unbearable and go back on.) and I hated this job so much I listened to this minister on the radio on the way to work (Alistair Begg), and then cry all the way home. I actually thought this was normal. It was normal for me, so it was for everyone, wasn't it? I couldn't be wrong, could I? Didn't everyone cry on their way home from work? Was I really the only person on the highway with blinding tears in their eyes? Nah. Couldn't be. The world felt like I did. So there I was in my little econo-box car, weaving through traffic in order to get home, change clothes and get to the park in order to walk 4 or 5 miles. Walking saved my life. Being outdoors, in the sun, seeing the shade of the trees and mountains up ahead always renewed me; made me grateful that I had legs (great legs, I might add) to carry me, eyes to see, lungs to breathe. And then I was in a car accident (on that very freeway) that changed my life. Who knew? WHAT. THE. F.U.C.K.? I didn't deserve it; the accident wasn't my fault, but my back was injured; walking became so painful . . . then came the awareness that I was so lonely I thought I might dry up and blow away. And so I settled for someone completely inappropriate for me (VERY NEEDY GUY WHO COULD NOT STAND TO BE ALONE WITH HIS OWN THOUGHTS. DO YOU KNOW WHAT A DRAIN THAT IS????? TO NEVER HAVE A MOMENT'S PEACE? Ugh! Awful!) a bad relationship, leaving the bad relationship, going home to Ohio to spend about a year and a half (or so I thought), five surgeries that left me in more pain than I was before, a breast cancer diagnosis (I don't consider it as such. Stage "0." W. T. F....? "Zero" means "nothing" ["abnormal cells" in a duct in the right breast] and so it has remained because I refused to be sliced open, scarred and burned 5 days a week for 7 weeks) in 2013 AND I'M STILL HERE IN OHIO. Living on SSDI--WITH MY PARENTS. Anyway, back to your point. I, too, have those moments when I ask the Creator to take me in my sleep. Take me to where my brother is. Take me out of this physical experience to one of complete spirit, where my soul can mingle with others without being encumbered by a body. And then I remember those wonderful times walking in the sun (I'm a sun junkie), driving through the southwest in the ecstatic freedom of union with my Creator . . . writing a book about the healing power of nature . . . and so, I think again. What do I have to give? Who wants to hear what I have to say? That last question used to stop me dead in my tracks. But I've spent many years trying to appreciate myself for what and who I am, and I have found no greater help than what I've found here, in DF. All the wonderful voices of people whose faces I will probably never see, but whose wisdom and pain and joy give me a place I can go to just be . . . me. Without judgment. Without fear. Without feeling I will never be understood. You too are, or will be, understood here, my friend. That you have chosen to be here says so much about your willingness to give and receive all or parts of yourself for your ow good and the good of others. I am so grateful to everyone here; all of you whom I've come to love without the masks we use to protect ourselves. Anonymity has created the greatest intimacy in my life thus far. I'm thinking of you, Camelia, and wishing you comfort and peace. WOTL