Down the Rabbit Hole....

     I find myself sinking further and further into the darkness of depression as I watch world events unfold. I've posted so much on Facebook, but decided to spare my friends and return to my neglected blog to vent.
     The big concern is the buffoon currently in charge of our government's Executive Branch. Days ago, he seemed nonchalant regarding Syria's leader remaining in charge there. Then, a couple days ago, deadly sarin gas was used on citizens, killing many dozens. The photo of one young Syrian man, holding his dead 9-month-old twins was heartbreaking. He also lost his mother and father, a brother, and other close relatives. I think it was 16 in all. Life cannot continue for him after burying so many. He will be a living ghost of a person, if he chooses to try to continue on.
     I don't even want to say our president's name. Even typing the numbers 45, as many have taken to doing, makes me nauseated. This person, who reviled Obama for not retaliating a couple years ago after Al-Assad crossed the 'red line in the sand', had also warned that action would result in World War III, and cautioned taking any action against the Syrians. Which is it? So, now, it's big bully time, is it? You launch nearly 60 Cruise missiles to retaliate for the gassing of Syrian citizens in their own country? Did you consult Congress? You chastised Obama for not doing so. Did you even speak to your intelligence experts? Oh, but you "know more than the generals", don't you. Okay. So let's have the USA bomb another country without official approval, AND because of humanitarian reasons? I hope the UN gets behind us soon or we will be twisting in the breeze alone.
     I'm just sick....
     The blowback could escalate, if not from Syria, then from Russia, or from the other worry we have on our hands: North Korea. The Chinese can pretty much keep the North Koreans at bay, but the Chinese president Xi Jingping was just here at the Mar-a-Lago golf resort, even though he hates golf. (I wonder which protocol advisor recommended that tactic.) If China turns against us because of disagreement with, or disrespect from, 45, they won't want to try so hard to keep North Korea under their thumb. We are probably looking at another war with somebody, and probably sooner than we realize.
     If he's not impeached before his four years are up, then this thoughtless, egotistical narcissist might even have to reinstate the draft which could mean my 15-year-old grandson might have to register. That thought just pushes me farther into the abyss.
     Yes, I'm heartsick and feeling broken, lost, depressed. I've voted in thirteen presidential elections and certainly have been disappointed more than once; but never, ever have I felt the weight of the darkness that has enveloped us since this past election.
     I'm hoping this is all worry for naught. I keep looking for something good about this administration; but it gets only murkier and murkier in that swamp....
     End of venting. For now. Thanks.

Italy 2016

I'm in the process of figuring out my return to Italy, my 5th visit. It's difficult to lay out an exact schedule at the start. Certain events have to be calendared in first before start and finish travel dates can be decided and the plane ticket purchased. And now I have a friend joining me after I'm there two weeks. I've traveled solo the past 3 times, so having a travel companion should be a delight! She is not as 'zoom zoom' as I am, so I look forward to actually taking time to relax a bit! 

     I'm studying Italian, and have some Spanish background to help me make sense of it. I am such the beginner, but have managed to survive every visit so far. Luckily, English is the international language! This helps, except in some rural areas. I've had a couple little nonnas (grandmothers), five feet tall and older than dirt, turn and walk away from me when I asked, "Parlese inglese?" But they were still cute when they did that. They just didn't want to waste their time with this americana. 

     With all of my planning going on, I don't want to lose track of the present. I often make myself stop in the moment and feel gratitude for my life. I sometimes sit on my balcony in the evening, look out at the night sky, and get lost in that vastness, feeling grateful for my eyes that see a mere fraction of what is infinite, grateful even that I have a home and a small balcony where I can sit like this. My family is not far off—a great blessing in itself. Each one of them so special. And each encouraging me to pursue my dreams now that I'm retired and have more time. And that I will do, as long as I'm upright and whole enough to travel a bit more, sing in clubs, and write my poems and songs. I have said it before: 

     "I live for the adventures that find me when I travel." 

     Onward! 

My Brother Raymond

I find myself keening for my brother Raymond who died when he was 25. Suicide. Three decades ago. 
     I was on my balcony tonight, making a wish upon a star for another friend far away. On New Year's Eve, I had promised him that I would send wishes on stars to help him get through some personal troubles. I sipped his favorite rum while smoking the last bit of an Italian cigar, one that he would enjoy. 
     I was holding the last inch of that cigar with my brother's roach clip, a memento that I'd kept all these years. I laughed when I imagined what he would think of me using his clip and smoking, since I've never been a smoker. 
     Then I just broke down—feeling the depths of sadness of missing him all of these years. Keening. Yes, keening. The deepest sorrow.
     Raymond. Raymond. I miss you so much. I wonder what you would look like now if you were sitting here next to me and we were chatting and sharing some laughs. Would you still have your tall build still be lanky, or would you have filled out some as we all tend to do? Would your hair be thinned out? Would you still sport a pony tail and that favorite plaid shirt? And what would you think of your weird older sister who sings in bands, rides 'bitch' on a motorcycle through Italy, and writes poetry? 
     I am devastated that this life that I am enjoying so much was so painful for you that you opted out...and left those of us who love you so much! 
     Tonight, all I planned to do was sit on my balcony and make wishes for a friend. But when I wished Raymond well from so far away, the keening erupted from me. The same as it did a few months ago after saying goodbye to my dear friend so far away when I feared I might never see him again. 
     Would I rather not have had a brother who died? Or a friend far away whom I might never see again? Oh, no! Please leave my life as it is! I will bear any heartache rather than lose the gifts they left with me. 
     How does one love and let go? It seems impossible. At least for me. 
     And I doubt I want to learn. 

New Year's Eve 2015-2016

Why is is so hard for me on New Year's Eve? I see a great year passing away, with so many good things that have happened. I can't let it go! I'm not good at letting things go!
     I am now a bit blitzed from a bottle of Prosecco and wanting to get the music played. Whose music? A Italian friend's. I want to get his music played! I will keep pressing on until I get it played! It's a fugue. Only two minutes long. But he's never heard it played live, only on his computer. I want so much to get it played live for his 50th birthday in March. I will keep persisting. Get the music played! Get the music played! Get the music played!
     And I will work on my own duet with a local friend. Get the music played! Get the music played! Get the music played!
     And please, Muses, don't give me a headache in the morning!          Happy New Year!

Frayroy, the Sensitive Artist....(a dream)

Frayroy was a frog that could paint landscapes.

      He was asked to paint this lovely field surrounded by trees, but to leave out an object in the center of the field. So he did just that.

      He sat at his easel at the left corner of the field, his beret atop his head, his painter smock covering his clothes, and painted a lovely scene.

      When he was finished, he was greatly praised for his work and greatly thanked for eliminating the book that sat in the middle of the field.

      This comment about eliminating the book absolutely horrified the sensitive Frayroy.

      He thought he was eliminating a single piece of nondescript paper trash.

      But the idea of eliminating an entire book,

            filled with so many people,

                  made him feel as if he had committed

                        an act of genocide.....

After the Fall....

On Facebook recently, I shared a graphic that had these words: 

"Strength of character isn't always about 

how much you can handle before you break; 

it's also about how much you can handle 

after you've broken." 

When I was younger, I tried my damnedest not to break. The idea of being broken—being a vessel that could no longer 'hold water'—meant, to me, only that I'd be useless. There was no other way I could see it. And I felt I had to be useful to be loved. Being raised Catholic only closed me up more emotionally with all of it's eternal seriousness about Heaven, Hell, guilt, and sin. I was barely holding myself together from the start. Notes on my first grade report card described me as 'a nervous child.' 

    Like a lot of us Boomers, I grew up handling way too much with no emotional support. I was the eldest of seven children and became the 'second mom' before I became a teenager. I've accepted that my folks were loving at heart and did the best they knew how, so no blame there; but I had to grow up quick, to handle responsibility that was really beyond me at that time.  

      I did that by always acting stronger than I felt. In the early '80s however, when I was in my mid-thirties, I started to crack. 
     First, I felt trapped in my marriage, wondered what was wrong with me for wanting to cut and run. Perhaps it was an anxiety attack? I don't know. I refused to see a counselor. 
     Then, on my 34th birthday in August of 1981, my mom was diagnosed with glioblastoma, a fatal brain cancer. My anxiety, or whatever it was, went up another notch. Too much pressure. I was going crazy, I thought. 
     I walked away from my family in 1982. 
     A few months later, my middle brother, ten years younger than me, committed suicide. 
     Before that year ended, my mom died. 
     Two years later, my mother-in-law died. 
     I tried to be extra brave and extra 'tough' for my son and daughter who were in their early teens, but then I really crumbled after my dad died in 1990. 
     In a decade, my life had fallen apart in so many ways. I was functioning, but I was numb and had stopped living.

     That's when things started to turn around. I was told to let it go, to cry, to feel the pain and release it, that crying releases good hormones to heal me but holding things in could harm me and cause me to get ill so I might not be around for my children! My children? The two who I loved more than anything and I tried to protect by being 'tough'? Yes. I was told that crying would help me protect my children.

     Who told me this? My boss at that time, author Warren Farrell. I worked with him for eighteen years, sometimes wondering why I stayed so long. It was not a career job with advancement, and I was an independent contractor for most of that time...not a beneficial spot for me to be in. When I go back to those times, I realize how big a part he played in helping me to grow up emotionally, and that I subconsciously knew that I needed to be there. "When the student is ready, the teacher appears." He told me it was okay to show that I was 'broken' rather than hide it. That I'd be healthier for it. That it's a sign of strength, not of weakness. That it would be a good example for my kids to see me break down, then get up again and continue on.

     Another amazing man in my life then was José Alejandro Peña. We were together during the last few years of my dad's life. After dad died, I soldiered on, holding back emotionally, and José felt it. One night, he got upset with me: he didn't like the way I was treating him, and so on. He pushed my button! I launched back at him—My dad just died. I arranged his funeral. I was the executor of his estate. I had to plan everything and deal with my siblings and the court, etc., etc. I finally just broke down and cried. 
     All according to his plan....

     He knew I had to break, to release what I was feeling. When I did, he held me in his arms and rocked me while I keened, wailed, and cried for what seemed like two hours. Cried like I never had before. Cried hard until I couldn't even make a sound when I sobbed. Cried with such long exhalations that I thought I'd never inhale again! Cried with the pain of too much loss—my marriage, my brother, my mom, my mother-in-law, my dad, and loss of the self I'd buried so deep within me....

     During tough times since then, I've learned to accept, and appreciate, help and support from others. More than once from my own kids. Even from my ex, who somehow remains to this day always near, always ready to help out, even though I'm the one who broke us up. He tells me to stand up more for myself, not to be afraid to show upset with our kids and him! We're family, he says, and that will never, ever change. He's one amazing soul....
     And so are friends who have watched over me for decades. Even if we don't stay in touch regularly, they still check on me periodically just to see how I'm doing, if I'm still 'above the sod'. 
     You are my angels, every one! Bless you! 

     I'm better now at bending before I break. Better at showing emotions. Better at allowing myself to show upset without fear of losing someone dear. Better at getting back to my life afterwards. Better at getting back up after I fall, not only emotionally, but physically as well, since I'm now recovering from a broken leg, and I suffered a broken hip three years ago! Haha! 

     I've been told that I can't have a serious discussion, because I always have to crack a joke. Do I want to stay serious? No, I don't! I've decided this month to start working on my 'silly'! I have no talent for 'silly', so I'll need a lot of practice. It's coming along. Good-bye to being hyper-tough, not breaking down, trying to do it all, and trying to do it all alone. 

     Then and now, as always, others guide me along this path I walk. This notion caught up with me not to very long ago, mostly since my dad died, and I'm so grateful it finally did. 

     How much can I handle after I'm broken? Quite a lot, actually. But I don't try to handle it alone anymore. And I'll be adding a bit more 'silly' to the mix as I walk along.
     Is this broken vessel leaky? You betcha! But I've got lovely flowers along the path where I spill!

September 11, 2001

     I was in my grandmother's Italian hill town (Ariano-Irpino) that day. I had just had lunch with my friend Milana and we were walking back to her classroom for her afternoon sessions. She ran the English Lab School where she taught English, as well as Italian, French, and Spanish. 
     As we reached her class at the top of the stairs, an awaiting student starting talking to her excitedly. Milena translated what was being said. 
     Her first words were, "A plane hit the tower in New York." My immediate thought was ooo, bad airport accident. 
     Then Milena turned and said, "Two planes hit the tower!" As she turned back to the student, I thought, wow, a really bad airport accident!
     Then came the words that put me in shock: "And a plane hit the Pentagon!" 
     She had to stay and teach her class, so I walked alone down the hill to my hotel. After somehow contacting my kids in San Diego to be sure they were safe, I watched the TV for hours. Milena should have pluralized the word tower, or said Twin Towers, but maybe her student's information, or Milena's English, didn't translate it that way for me. 
     The broadcasts seemed surreal, not only for what was being reported, but for the way in which I saw them. All the English language broadcasts were overdubbed in Italian, and I understand almost no spoken Italian. All the crawlers at the bottom were overwritten in Italian, so I could read no updates in English. I had limited channels to choose from in this rural area, but the videos and photos told me more than I ever wanted to know. 
    The next morning, I went down to the lobby for breakfast. The dozens of guests already there were quiet, and I felt like all eyes were on me—the American. I imagined, maybe hoped, that they were quiet out of kindness and respect for the tragedy that had just happened.
     That was eleven years ago, but it's still so real for me. 
     And still so surreal.