Monday, June 2, 2014

Journey's End

~**~

My faults and flaws leave cracks on the stained-glass image of God that is on my soul.  Yet... His beauty... and His truth...  remain.

**

Sister Celine...

**

"Veronica, you cannot think about it in those terms... equating two lives against one life ...and  why does the one life have more 'value', to use your word, than the two?  That only feeds a guilt that you have carried for far too long... a guilt that is not yours.  The ordeal you suffered through was not of your doing.

You were not meant to die that day, Veronica.  And you were not put on this Earth to do 'ordinary'.  But… I think that I do not have to tell you this, do I?  And with all which that ordeal took away from you, from it you have gained a strength... you have gained a courage and a determination to fulfill the purpose God has for you."

Sister Celine pauses for a moment and then continues in her French-accented English.

"The guilt that you still feel is not meant to make you suffer, but to keep you humble.  Can you understand that?

God has forgiven you... you must believe that, Veronica.  You must!"

"I know He has... I mean... I try to believe...", my voice grows tremulous.  “ I want to... I just.."  Pressing my lips tight to hold back the sob rising in my throat, I turn my head away from Sister Celine, not wanting her to see the tears threatening to spill over.  After a few moments, she reaches out... the weight of her hand on my shoulder, light as a feather, is reassuring.  Turning back to face her...

"I fear my faith is not as strong as yours, Sister Celine."

With the echo of my confession hanging in the crisp mid-morning air, I watch her face, waiting for her measure of what I have just said.

In all the weeks that I have been here at the abbey, this is the first occasion Sister Celine and I have had to talk to one another.  But despite the fact that we've really only just met, I feel that the sister knows so much about me.  It's as if she has known me for a long, long time.  I feel a connection with her, some common bond I am as yet unaware of.  And, she understands me.  It is very comforting talking to her here now.

"I would disagree.  Your faith is strong, Veronica, I sense that... I see it.  And please... I wish you no offense... but I think that you tend at times to over-intellectualize it... your faith.  I think that as adults, we all do that.  It is not wrong... it is just..."  A small frown flits across Sister Celine's face as she searches for the right word.  "... non nécessaire?

Listen to your heart, Veronica.  Listen to it with the faith of a child.  And know that our Father loves you as He loves all of His children.  Beyond measure."

*

I stare down at my hands resting in my lap, the silver infinity ring a reminder of the life I have left behind.  I think about what Sister Celine has said.  I can feel the weight of her gaze on me, watching... waiting.  But, uncharacteristically for me, no words will come.

Gradually, I become aware of a sensation... a feeling, but not... something that I haven't experienced for a long time.  And there is something else... just at the edge of that awareness.  I think I have...

"Sister, do you thi...?"  My voice falters as I look up.  The space on the bench beside me is empty, save for the small bunch of winter flowers Sister Celine had been holding.  I stand up and look around the abbey courtyard.  She is gone.

"Sister?  Sister Celine!"  I call out, forgetting in the moment a cardinal rule at the abbey... 'quiet voices'.  A familiar shiver courses down my spine.

A chill has settled over the courtyard again, seeping through the heavy fabric of the novice's habit I have worn since arriving at the abbey.  More rain is on the way; one can smell it in the air.  I hurry back inside.  I have kitchen duty this week and the lunch hour will soon be upon us.

**

Revelation

**

That evening at dinner I do not see Sister Celine in the dining hall.  When I ask Sister Catherine, seated next to me, about Sister Celine, recounting our earlier conversation in the courtyard, the room goes completely still, the soft murmur of many voices fades to silence, and everyone's eyes rest on me.  It is several long moments before I can speak.

"I'm sorry.  Did I do something wrong?"  I cast a worried look at the abbess, who is seated at the head of the long table.  She turns to Sister Abigail and says something I can't quite make out.  The sister stands and leaves the room.  Abbess turns back to me.  Her voice is gentle, but firm.

"Come here, child... sit with me."

Silence hangs over the room as we wait.  Sister Abigail returns shortly and places a large hand-stitched binder on the table in front of the abbess.

After what seems an eternity, the silence in the room punctuated only by the soft swish of turning pages and the rustle of old paper, Abbess stops and removes a small square of paper from one of the pages.  She places the piece of paper on the table's smooth, worn surface and slides it in front of me.  It is a black and white photograph... a very, very old one... of a young woman in a nun's habit.  The woman in the photograph is Sister Celine.  I turn to the abbess, my eyes holding the question that my lips cannot seem to form.

"This is the woman you saw today... the woman you spoke with... in the courtyard?"  Abbess says the words very carefully.

"Yes, Abbess, it is.  But... this picture is very old.  I do not understand."

"Turn the photograph over, child."

Turning the small square over, I see that there is writing on the back... very faded, barely legible, the ink brown with age.  I look up.  Abbess' head moves in a slight nod.  I have to squint to read the notation.

"Sister Marie Celine D'Cambrille... born 23 August, eighteen...."

My voice trails off and I feel my heart catch in my chest.  I look up at the abbess.  There is a shadow of sadness in her grey-blue eyes when she speaks.

"... eighteen eighty-three."  A pause... a sigh as she recites from memory.

"Died 17 May, in the year of our Lord one thousand nine hundred and seven."

Tears well up in my eyes as the full import of the day's events settles in my brain.  A dervish of thoughts and emotions swirl around inside my head... it's too much to process.  I am only dimly aware of Abbess helping me up from the table and leading me out of the dining hall.

~*~

The soft glow of candlelight and the warm, comforting scents of the chapel bring back the earlier peace I had felt... a peace that had gradually, over the weeks that I have been here at the abbey, settled over me.  Abbess is seated next to me in the front pew, her gnarled, yet surprisingly gentle fingers finding comfort in the string of rosary beads as she prays with me.  My own slender fingers have warmed the amber beads of Mama's rosary as I offer my own prayer to God, seeking His wisdom and His comfort to calm the turmoil in my mind.

Time is of little consequence, its passage marked only by the shortening length of the chapel candles and the small ache in my backside from sitting on the hard wood of the ancient chestnut pews.

"I first saw Sister Celine when I was just a few years younger than you are now." 

The soft contralto of Abbess' voice breaks the silence of the chapel.  I look up at her as she turns her gaze from the altar to face me.  She continues.

I'm not going to recount Abbess' story here; it would not be right.  Abbess shared something deeply personal with me.  Something for which I am grateful, in Sister Celine's words... "beyond measure."

At one point in her narrative, Abbess stopped.  She looked up at the statue of the Virgin Mary.  After a few moments, a peacefulness settled back over her face.

"Heart and head could not seem to reconcile.  You know that of which I speak, do you not, child?"

I nod slowly.  Abbess reaches out and takes my hands in hers.

"When Sister Celine came to me that day..." 

By the time Abbess is finished, the candles have lost more of their length.  The echo of her words fades away and silence falls over the chapel once more, broken only by the occasional sputter of a candle.  She takes my hands for a moment more and then she stands.

"I will leave you now, child, to your meditations.  I hope that you have..." she stops.  A gentle smile crosses her face.

"Good night, Veronica.  Bless you, child."

"Good night, Abbess.  Thank you.  For everything."

~*~

The next morning...

*

The woman in the mirror has a new look in her eyes.  The woman looking out from the depths of the ancient looking-glass is not the same woman who first gazed out of that silvered surface all that time ago.  The woman looking out now has lost something... something she carried for a long time.  She has let it go... left it behind.  The woman whose gaze now holds mine through the centuries-old glass has found something that she lost a long time ago.  The woman looking back at me this morning has reached the end of one journey.  The woman in the mirror has...

It's time.

*

Sitting across from Abbess, I am struck once again at the gentleness that radiates from her.  To look in the depths of her soft grey-blue eyes, one would not guess at the turmoil and strife that once had hold of her life, as it did mine.  There is a serenity reflected back that speaks more eloquently than any words possibly could, of the peace and purpose she has found here at the abbey, this gentle servant of God.

"So...?"  She leaves the question unfinished, the corner of her mouth turning up into a tiny smile.  Abbess knows, without having to ask, the reason for my early morning visit to her office.

I hesitate, not because I am uncertain of the words I am about to speak, but because I have waited for... and searched for... so long... the answers that I have found here, and I am still a bit disbelieving that I have finally reached journey's end.  My hesitation now is not one of uncertainty, but a moment of reflection.

The moment passes.

"I'm ready to go home now, Abbess."

**

Reunited

**

It is with no small amount of sadness that I close the abbey gate, the sisters' final 'good-byes' still ringing in my ears.

It's time. 
Time to go home. 
Time to return to my life... and my wife. 
Time to return to the purpose God has given me.

"Keep them safe, Father." 

I look heavenward once more and then begin walking down the long graveled path to the main road where the car service will be waiting for me.

My journey back to America has begun.

~*~

Leaving the arrivals lounge, my only baggage the large carry-on slung over my shoulder, I make my way across the concourse toward the taxi stands outside the terminal entrance.  Even though I've already been through three international airports and a train station, I still find myself a little disoriented at everything around me.  Life was so simple back at the abbey.  Unhurried... uncrowded... uncomplicated... peaceful. 

But... for better or for worse, this is my world.

*

I see her... across the concourse, scanning the crowd, and for a moment I am frozen in place.

A myriad of thoughts swirl in my head... "She's here!  She came for me... my soul mate and my forever!"  And on top of that thought... "I'm not ready... I thought I had another 3,000 miles... I don't know what to say... it's been so long... what if she is mad at me for being gone so long... what if...how do I...what... I... ?"  And for one mad moment, I consider bolting.

And then, as if an invisible force were suddenly at work, the space between the two of us clears of other travelers and it is only she and I standing across the broad expanse of the concourse from each other. 

Our eyes meet.

And time stands still.

*

I feel the measured beat of my heart... each exhalation of air from my lungs... as I begin to slowly walk toward her, the tempo rising as each step brings me nearer to my inamorata.  After perhaps half a dozen steps, my brain gives up any pretext at proper comportment - surrendering to the heart - and I break into a run, the carry-on sliding off my shoulder and falling to the floor.  The yards separating the two of us disappear in a blur.

And then... I am in her arms and like the ocean surf, the wave of emotions that has been building crashes over me and all the words that I wanted to say are washed away.

"Me segurar... me segurar... me segurar.... eu te amo... eu te amo... eu te amo... eu te amo..."

*

I don't know how long the two of us stood there - again, time is of no consequence; it simply exists.  We stand, arms around one another, locked in embrace, two hearts beating against each other... two hearts beating as one heart... with a rhythm, that like the snowflakes of winter, is unmatched anywhere else in the entire universe. 

I finally notice the large overnight bag Tina has slung over her shoulder.  I step back.

"You're going somewhere?"  I try to keep the disappointment out of my voice, but don't quite succeed.  Only a very cruel God would reunite me with my 'forever' and then take her away so soon.  In the next moment however, my fears are banished.

"We are, baby girl!" Tina emphasizes the "we" and that smile I know so well lights up my honey's face.

"We are?"  My heartbeat does a little sprint.  I am thrilled, but more than a little curious, having expected only to return home and not leave our condo for several days.  Except perhaps for more food or wine.

"I wanted to give you something, Roni.  I thought and thought and thought... we have been apart for so long... eternities, it seems... I thought... what can I do to show you how very much I love you?  Something, perhaps, that you have not had since you were a little girl? "  Tina reaches in her purse and rummages around for a moment, then pulls out a small object and holds it out to me.

For several moments I can only stare at it, seeing but not comprehending.  The object is familiar. 

I look up at her.

"Are those the keys to the beach house my parents had when I was a little girl?"   Mama and I had been back only a couple of times after Papa left us.  The memories then had been too painful... too bright.

Tina nods.

"I don't understand... I thought... how did you...?"

Tina smiles and reaches out, pressing two perfectly-manicured fingers gently against my lips.

"Time enough  for questions later, baby girl... we've got a sunrise to catch!"

~*~

Less than thirty minutes later, the charter pilot receives final clearance from the tower and the Cessna 400 begins to roll, the runway lights flashing by faster and faster as the nimble aircraft reaches for take-off speed.

Moments after that, I feel that familiar little flutter in my tummy and we are 'wings up'!

~*~

An almost imperceptible lightening of the sky on the far horizon signals the breaking dawn of a new day, the thin line of scattering clouds a promise of the glorious sunrise to follow.

We walk hand-in-hand - oh, how I have missed this; the simple act of holding hands - across the expanse of deserted beach, the cool, dry sand shifting beneath our bare feet as we make our way toward the ever-moving edge of the incoming tide.

A lone gull flies overhead, its single 'caw' a protest over the invasion of humans at this early hour.


I rest into Tina's comforting warmth, wrapping my arms around her slender waist and tilting my head against her shoulder.  She leans down and I feel her lips brush across the top of my head.  Drawing in a deep breath, I let it out slowly, enveloped by the calming scents of my inamorata and the ocean.

We cast our gaze to the east... and wait.

*

The sun - that golden orb of life to this big blue spinning marble in space called Earth - is not yet half above the horizon when a flock of seagulls swoops down low over the waves in front of us, catching their wings in the first rays of the sun's warmth.  The scene before my eyes is so breathtaking I half expect a Max Richter or Hans Zimmer orchestral to rise up in the background.

*

Overwhelmed, I can only look up at the woman I love with all my heart and soul.  A hundred thoughts, a thousand thoughts... ten thousand... swirl around my brain.  All the things I want to say to her... everything she means to me.  I want to say those three words that have never... not for one single second... left my heart.  I want to say "I love you!", but the lump in my throat will let no sound escape and I cannot seem to swallow it away.

Tina looks back at me with her beautiful hazel eyes... with the little flecks of gold... those eyes I drown in over and over and over... and her perfect coral pink lips curve into a smile that melts my heart every time.

She says two words.

Two words only.

Two words that say everything.

Two words that mean every thing to me.

"I know."


~finis~ 

Veronica Marie Lewis-Shaw
29 May 2014
(Writing under a large mushroom, somewhere in the Pacific Northwest)


Monday, February 17, 2014

LILY CHILDS' FEBRUARY FEMMES FATALES - AN ANTHOLOGY

I am both pleased and thrilled to bring you some very exciting news.  Magenta Shaman author Lily Childs, the brainchild and driving force behind Lily Childs' Feardom and co-editor of Thrillers, Killers 'n Chillers has compiled some of the best dark fiction from the ladies of her February Femmes Fatales and released what is sure to be the 'talk' of 2014 when it comes to horror and urban fantasy -
FFF Facebook Cover Photo
- an anthology in e-book and trade paperback.
Do you like your horror so dark, dripping and visceral that you almost dread to turn the next page, and your telltale heart beats ever faster as your eyes devour the words in front of you?  I'll bet no pansy-assed crime is going to do it for you, right?  It's got to be so treacherous, gritty and suspenseful that you bite your nails to the quick, leaving little red smears on the pages.  Noir, you say?  Noir so steamy and sultry, a cold shower's the only thing to cool you down and save a 'not-in-the-mood' spouse/partner from a 'ravishing'?  Or, is it ravaging?
You're in luck!  My dear friend and mentor, as well as the 'grande dame' of horror and urban fantasy, Lily Childs, has released a new anthology, featuring dark fiction and poetry by twenty-plus of the premier female writers of the genre today.
FFF Front Cover
Dark dames?  Here's twenty-three to thrill and chill you...
FFF Back Cover
Where can I buy this nightmare-inducing, burn-candles-long-into-the-night book, you ask?
Psssst!  *whispers*  Come 'ere... *steps in to alley*
Trenchcoat BW 50
You look a decent sort... I suppose I can tell you.... as long as you spread it around, right then?
Lily's February Femmes Fatales is on all Amazon platforms.  Here are the main ones are:
Now... you'll keep your word, right?  Tell all your friends.  And... it wouldn't go unnoticed if you wanted to leave a few words on Amazon about the book.  Doesn't have to be a huge review, but it goes without saying... "I liked it."  isn't likely to get you a plate of cookies.
Just sayin....
What's that you say?  Do I have a story?  I am both thrilled and honoured to have been asked to contribute a story for Lily's anthology.  Thank you for asking.  Would you like a little peek at Soul Taker?  *opens trenchcoat*
FFF Soul Taker
I've already burnt through several candles - for some reason, I can't read this stuff in the light of day; it's got to be in that dark, silvery time between the witching hour and the pre-dawn - and more than once awoken my inamorata, having given myself a fright over reading these femmes fatales dark offerings.
Well, I'm off to the apothecary for some herbed candles... it's going to be a long night.
~*~
Veronica Marie Lewis-Shaw
16 February 2014

Tuesday, December 24, 2013

Ghosts of Christmases Past

***

A friend recently posted on Facebook, as part of her Christmas message, to “not look back on Christmases past”.  I can, to a degree, appreciate such a sentiment. After all, not everyone’s “ghosts of Christmases past” are pleasant or welcome memories.

We all have ghosts.  Anyone who says they don’t is in a state of denial deeper than an ocean.  If one has a past, then at some point, their future will be inhabited by those ghosts.  And, like a recalcitrant child, putting off dealing with them is not going to bring about a positive change in their behaviour.  Ghosts cannot change… it is not their nature.

My friend’s post brought to mind some of my own ghosts of Christmases past, some of which cannot be dismissed as nothing more than the product of a bout of gastric upset brought on by a bit of undercooked mutton or half digested potato, if you’ll pardon my rather clumsy attempt to paraphrase Mr. Dickens.

***

“Past is prologue.”

I was four years old when I first heard that phrase.  It is from a Russian proverb and part of a lesson taught me by my grandmother on my mother’s side, Nana Marie, whose namesake I am proud to be.  I can still remember sitting in Mama’s parlour on a damp, chilly winter’s afternoon, surrounded by the smells of lavender, lemon, Nana Marie’s liniment and the warm scent of her carefully prepared tea.  There were many afternoons such as this.

The lesson that particular day was, once again, on the past and the future; how one shapes the other but is not a final determination of the outcome of the latter.  Nana Marie, in her strong, slightly rough voice – as Mama would say, Nana Marie was a bit too fond of her Russian cigarets (forbidden inside Mama’s home, I might add) – expounded on the past and the future with some regularity, as if it were more important than almost anything else, to understand.  And, as I would come to learn, it was.

From a very young age, I learned many important things… from Mama and Papa, and especially, from Nana Marie.  I learned that as resolute as the past was, so it was that the future was equally fragile. 

The past is a portent of one possible future.  How well we understand our actions, and their consequences, in the present… which will be tomorrow’s past… can give us the opportunity to play a far greater role in our future than one who simply accepts that the past has set their future… “le destin est le destin, et ne peut être modifié”.

But, I digress.  This post is supposed to be about Christmases past.

***

I have many happy memories of Christmases from my childhood, although not all were as such.  My sixth Christmas was one such happy one, when my wish for all things Hello Kitty was granted, after some considerable expenditure of time and effort by Papa.

My tenth Christmas, while tempered with the absence of my father, was not as somber as one might have thought, given the circumstances.  Papa, you see, had left us on the eve of my tenth birthday, leaving behind two broken hearts with only the meager comfort of a small note left, expressing his sorrow at leaving… abandoning… his family.  I think that particular Christmas was made tolerable, in no small measure by my mother’s resolute strength and determination, of course, but also by the fact that we were both still in a stage of denial, believing that any day, despite any evidence to support such a belief, that Papa would walk through the door and our world would once again be whole.

It would be fifteen years before Papa would walk through the door of a room I occupied and two and a half years after the passing of my mother.

In the intervening years, denial finally gave way to acceptance and we both moved on, hearts still bruised but determined that there was a life out there for us that past defeats should not… and would not… diminish.

My eighteenth Christmas, and sophomore year in college, would find me with my second lover, Annabeth Harrington, my Psych professor from freshman year.  Fueled by an almost insatiable lust for one another, we were both still basking in the glow and the memories of a dinner we had attended some months earlier at the White House.  Yes, college life was everything… and more… that I had hoped and dreamed it would be.  .

That year, however, would be the last “joyous” holiday season for a while.

*

Not long after the beginning of my senior year and only days before my twentieth birthday, my past caught up with me.  To be more precise, a rather hastily ‘dispatched’ boyfriend – “beard” really, but that is a story for another day - from my senior year of high school… whom the years since had turned into a raging psychopath… kidnapped me, and together with his equally psychotic “girlfriend” spent the next six months raping, brutalizing and torturing me to such an extent, it would have made the Marquis de Sade vomit on his bedclothes.

Needless to say, Christmas that year was not celebrated.  Not in the customary manner, at least.  By December of that year, I was having great difficulty keeping track of time and days passing and really could not have told you with any degree of certainty, the month, let alone date or day of the week.  By December of that year, I scarcely knew night from day.  I suspect, though I try not to dwell on the thought; that Brad and Natasha “celebrated” Christmas in a manner befitting two sick, depraved minds.

My twenty-first Christmas, and my first one with my now wife, Christina Anne, was not the festive occasion it might otherwise have been if the preceding fifteen months had been different.  Tina tried… she tried so hard that first year… to bring back some degree of normalcy to my life.  But when one has nightmares even in broad daylight and wakes up in the middle of the night… every night… screaming in such agony as only a soul tortured beyond it limits can…

It was not a good time for either of us and more than once I, and I’m sure Tina must have as well – even her compassion had to have its limits, questioned God’s wisdom in putting Tina in my path on that fateful day in September of 2006.  That was the day I boarded a plane with a bellyful of booze, a pocketful of pills and a one-way ticket to St Louis.  A few weeks prior, in the women’s shelter I had been staying in, I had sat and watched as a young girl let go of that last thread that she had been hanging on to and let the pills take her into oblivion.  Lost in my own pain, I was powerless to stop her.  And, if I am completely honest with myself, I didn’t want to stop her… not really.  I wanted one of us at least, to finally find some peace.  In my despair, I thought I was helping her.

Weeks later, boarding a plane in Boston, I prepared to let go of my last thread as well.  I had helped no one.

***

They say that time heals all wounds, but that isn’t true… not completely.

It is love that heals. 

Time is a construct of man… an arbitrary measurement of the progression and passing of one’s life from this existence to the next.  But, love…

Love is the ‘life’ that our Creator breathes into our souls.

Love heals. 

Love healed me, for the most part anyway, and brought two souls closer and closer with each passing day and the good memories began to outweigh and out measure the bad.  Christmas would once again become a time to not only celebrate our Savior, but to also celebrate family and friends and the future.

The past could not be forgotten, but it also could not set in stone, the future.  Not if we didn’t want it to.

***

Christmas 2008 – Candy Canes and Bittersweet Memories

My mother, from whom I had been estranged since shortly before my seventeenth birthday, when she discovered I was a lesbian and disowned me, passed away in March of 2008 after a long battle with breast cancer.  Christmas that year was the first year that I did not hold out, as I had for the last six years, a tiny flicker of hope that she and I would reconcile and put the past behind us and that Mama would at last accept me… accept who and what I was.

Christmas that year was bittersweet. 

Tina’s mother – her parents had come out from back East to join us for the holidays that year – finally and fully accepted me and asked if I wouldn’t call her “Mother Shaw” instead of the formerly and formally imposed appellation of “Mrs. Shaw”

I cried… I cried tears of joy.

And… I cried tears of sorrow.  My future mother-in-law had finally accepted me, but...

My own mother had passed away several months before, having never accepted who I was and now she never would.

Christmas that year was bittersweet.

***

2010 – A Year of Reconciliations

We all have milestones in our lives… some might say millstones, the weight of some of those events a burden on our shoulders, growing heavier as the years bring us ever closer to the day that we shed these all too fragile mortal coils and transcend to wherever it is our own personal belief system portends.  We all have events in our lives that shape and celebrate our life; events that are not always of our own choosing, but nevertheless an important and integral part of our journey.

March of 2010 brought me back once more to the tall, white Vermont marble marker; the symbol of the final resting place of my mother’s physical form – her soul and spirit, I knew, were now in Heaven and she was free of pain and all of the other burdens our corporeal forms are afflicted with. 

Unlike the previous two years, however; I was not dreading this visit.  While “happy” or “excited” might not be the customary emotions one feels when paying their respects to a loved one lost, I was both.  I had finally – with the help and guidance of a truly amazing friend - reconciled with my mother.  I had at last opened my heart and found something lost a long time ago. 

I had rediscovered an eternal truth about mothers and daughters.  The love of a mother is eternal and neither time nor circumstance can ever change that or take it away.  I had forgotten this a long time ago.  I had grown selfish and buried that truth away.  I had become a martyr to my own fears and uncertainties.  I had come to enjoy too much the role of “poor little Veronica.”

But Regan changed that.  She taught me how to bring myself back.  I reconciled with my mother and to this day, I talk to her up in Heaven… every day, without fail.

I’m sorry… I’m digressing again.  Next thing you know, I will be talking about cupcake recipes… chocolate cupcake recipes.

Where were we… ?

***

March 25, 2010. 

Tina and Ali have already gone back to the hotel and Julie, the family attorney, and I are preparing to leave as well.  The weather is growing worse, the rain coming down harder.  I am chilled to the bone, but do not want to leave.  Mama and I say our tearful good-byes and I make my way back to the car, where Julie is waiting… when it happens.

A man approaches the car.  He calls my name.  Something shifts in my brain… and time stands still.  The thunder in my ears is not from the weather, but the sound of a million thoughts and images crashing and swirling in my brain… a dervish of emotions that, mercifully, overload my brain and I crash.

The last time I saw or spoke to my father was the evening before the eve of my tenth birthday… 14 years, six months, and 8 days ago.  And, in those 5,303 days, I never… not once… hated my father for what he had to done to my mother and me.  Not once!  I felt a lot of things, a lot of emotions, but hate was never one.

Until now… until that day in the cemetery, on the second anniversary of my mother’s passing, when my father walked back into my life.  On that day…

On that day… I hated my father.  I hated him with a passion!  The heat of my hatred could have turned forests to ash.  The heat of my hatred for the man whom I had once loved more than anything else in this world, besides my mother, could have burnt the sun to a cinder!

That day, I told my father that I hated him and that I would never forgive him for what he had done to Mama and me.  I told him that I never wanted to see or hear from him again… ever!  I told him to get in his car and drive away.  I told him to drive so fucking far away that I never crossed his mind again!

*

But… hate cannot survive where there is love.  And I did still love my father.  And suddenly the realization hit me… I was going to lose my father again!  I had already lost my mother and now I was going to lose Papa as well!  Again!

I could not let that happen.  I would not let that happen!

And so began the long, painful process toward reconciliation.  A tentative letter sent.  The anger was still there and I wanted… I needed… answers, but more than that, I needed my father.

*

Fast forward a few months...

***

Christmas 2010

Tina had been hiding something from me for months.  I told her, more than once, that her little ‘subterfuge’ was futile, because I would find it eventually.   Each time, Tina just smiled and walked away.  I spent weeks… months… searching every square inch… every nook and cranny… of our condo for the Christmas gift she had hidden away.  I even went to her office in the downtown Justice Building and searched.  My efforts were to no avail and by Christmas Eve, I had resigned myself to being completely and totally surprised.

By mid-morning Christmas Day, the stack of brightly-wrapped gifts… save for one each for my inamorata and myself, which would be unwrapped that evening… that had been artistically ensconced under the eight-foot Noble the night before was now transformed into a sea of clothes, books and jewelry on the sofa and the thick, white Barbara Barry area rug was covered with bows, ribbons and wads of wrapping paper.  A cup of freshly-brewed Ethiopian Sidamo sat before me on the coffee table, ignored as I buried my nose in a first edition (UK) of Thoreau’s Walden.

So engrossed in the book was I that the telephone, on the end table beside me, had rung several times before the sound registered.  I reached for the handset, only to have it jerked from my outstretched fingers by Tina.  I looked up.

“It’s probably just work,” Tina stammered, a flush rising on her slender neck.

“You’re not going in?  Today?”  I could hear the disappointment in my voice, mirrored, no doubt, in my eyes as I stared up at her.

“No, no, no… of course not, baby girl.  I promise!”

The sincerity in her voice was unmistakable and mollified, I returned to Thoreau.  So wrapped up in the book was I that I was only dimly aware of the sound of the doorbell several minutes later.  Moments after that…

“Feliz Natal, minha princesinha!”

I looked up… the book fell from my lap… I shrieked!

“PAPA!!!”

To this day, Tina swears that my feet never touched the floor.  She says that I literally flew over the coffee table, across the living room and into the arms of my father, without once letting my bare feet touch the floor.  All I remember is that one moment I was sitting on the sofa and the next moment my 5’ 3” body was firmly attached to my father’s chest, my arms tightly wrapped around his neck, the scent of Old Spice and cherry pipe tobacco caressing my nostrils, laughing and crying at the same time and trying to talk through the tears of joy…

“Papa ... Eu te amo ... Eu te amo ... Eu te amo ... Papa ... Papa ... oh, eu te amo tanto!”

It was several minutes before I calmed down enough to detach myself.  When I finally did loosen my grip and Papa lowered me to the floor – Papa stands at 6’ 6” – I looked up and saw that his dark eyes, like mine, were bright with tears.  In that moment I felt such a rush of love for my father that it left me light-headed and I felt faint.

Over the next three days, the only time I let Papa leave my side was when he slept – there was no question of him staying in a hotel - and when he was in the bathroom.  Well, I take that back.  I did watch him shave… just as I did when I was a little girl, except I didn’t stand on the toilet this time.

And twice during Papa’s stay, Tina had to drag me out of the guest bedroom at three in morning, where she found me sitting in the big, wooden rocking chair… watching Papa sleep and offering a silent prayer to God, thanking Him for bringing my father back to me. 

*

This is one Christmas past that I will always look back upon.  A father and daughter were reunited.  How could I not look back?

***

And so it is…

I live with these ghosts of Christmases past.  Some are good.  Some are not as welcome as others, but I have found something else out.

They are all necessary.

Past is prologue.

*

To truly and deeply love, one must remember and accept this…

Just as the Earth accepts that the rain will always follow the sun; so it is that sorrow will always follow joy. 

And when sorrow, like the rain, has had its season… joy, like the sun, will return.

I think it was C.S. Lewis who once said…

“The pain now is part of the happiness then.”

I believe… no, I know this…

The pain then is part of the happiness now.  But…

Love will always conquer pain.

Because it isn’t time alone that heals.  Time without love is only the ticking of a clock on the mantle.  A reminder that something needs done… that something awaits.

Love heals. 
Love grows. 
Love endures.
Love is eternal.

***

Merry Christmas to all.
 
I wish you peace and good health. 
I wish you success in all you endeavour.
I wish for your ghosts to not be too restless.

I wish you love.



Veronica Marie Lewis-Shaw
25 December 2013

Saturday, September 14, 2013

Vicki Abelson’s 30 Day Writing Challenge #7 – Secrets – Day 8

Photo Credit © 2012 – Veronica Marie Lewis-Shaw. All Rights Reserved



Day 8 of Vicki's WC7 - Secrets...
Morning pages... letter to Nana ("email" is a four-letter word to Nana)... work on my noir escuro... and about an hour working on some notes for this year's NaNoWriMo.
I was going to reveal another secret today, but as I mentioned earlier... I don't have that many secrets... I have to pace them out.  So today... a few words about secrets and power.
Humans need power... in some form... to some degree - some crave it to the point of bringing harm to others - we all need a little power.  Women especially, because it was denied us for so long.  But now... we know how to get power and we know how to keep it... unlike men, who only seem to piss it away.  But that is a story for another day.  We were talking about secrets and their need for power, weren't we....
Secrets hold power... secrets are power.  A secret will use its power to keep its owner from revealing it... because it knows that once the person reveals the secret... once the secret is brought out into the light of day... and seen for what it really is... the power of that secret is gone.  The secret can no longer hurt the person or hold them down... hold them back... hold them under... hold them to another whose time has come and gone.
Secrets, like their human hosts, need power.  Without power, a secret cannot survive.  Not all secrets are meant to survive... some play their role and then exit stage left.
But some secrets... some secrets will do whatever they must to survive... to keep their power.  They will, if necessary, turn their host into an addict... or worse...
And then, there are other secrets that were never meant to be revealed.
Fight the power.
~*~
Veronica Marie Lewis-Shaw
14 September 2013

(Writing under a large mushroom, somewhere in the Pacific Northwest)

Vicki Abelson's 30 Day Writing Challenge #7 - Secrets - Day 6

Photo Credit © 2012 – Veronica Marie Lewis-Shaw. All Rights Reserved

Day 6 of Vicki's WC7 - Secrets...
I've got a secret... see? Right here... *holding out cupped hands and lifting one thumb*
Technically, it's not "fucking for grades" if the professor isn't one of your current instructors, right?  I mean, at the time we were "wrinkling the Wamsuttas", the good (Good? Who are we kidding... she was fucking fantastic!) professor was no longer in a position to influence my grades.
Freshman year... spring term... my psych professor from first term had barely passed me... so it only made sense that, once I was no longer in her class, I should go after her like a greyhound after the rabbit, right?  Hey, this college thing was still new to me... how was I to know something like that was frowned upon?
Okay, okay... I knew... we both knew... exactly what we were doing and the morality of it. I can sit here and try to rationalize it, but I have a feeling you wouldn't let me get away with that.
So, no excuses... I make my confession... and another secret is out.
~*~
Veronica Marie Lewis-Shaw
12 September 2013

(Writing under a large mushroom, somewhere in the Pacific Northwest)

Vicki Abelson's 30 Day Writing Challenge #7 - Secrets - Day 2

Photo Credit © 2012 – Veronica Marie Lewis-Shaw. All Rights Reserved
Day 2 of Vicki’s WC7 – Secrets…

There are three kinds of secrets… the ones that we tell only our closest friends… the ones that we tell no one… and the ones that we don’t even know we have.  The first two kinds of secrets are as tangible as an orange in one’s hand.  They have a shape and a weight to them… almost a physicality.  But the third kind of secret is the secret that we possess, but whose shape and weight is invisible to us… this is the secret that has not yet been revealed to us.

Pssst… come here… closer… closer… you want to know a secret?

I’m a lesbian.

I am a lesbian and I always have been one.  From the day I was born… no, not from the day I was born… from the very moment I first had consciousness.  Oh, I didn’t know that I was a lesbian… not for a long time.  That was a secret that I kept even from myself.  Not because I didn’t want to know it, but because I was not aware of it.  This was the third kind of secret… the one we don’t know ourselves that we possess. 

And it isn’t denial… it goes much deeper than that.  Denial must be preceded by awareness. 

Growing up I had secrets and I learned the secrets of others, but the secret that was my own, that no one else knew… I did not either.  I possessed it, but I did not know that I did so… not for a very long time.

What reveals a secret?  Usually it is the need to share.  Sometimes it is a need or a desire for revenge that makes us reveal a secret.  But what about the secret that we don’t know we have?  How is that revealed?

What triggers the revelation of the third kind of secret?  

For me, it wasn’t a ‘what’, but a ‘who’.

It was the summer of 2002… a few weeks before my seventeenth birthday and the beginning of college life.  I and several of my high school friends had gathered for one last get-together before we went our separate ways… to west coast, east coast, southern and northern universities.  Only this day, there was an invited ‘stranger’ among us… Kim’s cousin, Amanda.

And when Amanda offered her hand in greeting… and our fingers touched and our eyes met…

Time stood still… and the secret that I didn't know I had was revealed.

I am a lesbian.

~*~
Veronica Marie Lewis-Shaw
8 September 2013
(Writing under a large mushroom, somewhere in the Pacific Northwest)

Sunday, September 8, 2013

Vicki Abelson's 30 Day Writing Challenge #7 - Secrets - Day 1

Photo Credit © 2012 – Veronica Marie Lewis-Shaw. All Rights Reserved


Day 1 of Vicki's WC7 - Secrets...
*
I've got a secret... well, more than one actually… but don’t we all?
This secret though… this secret is one of the very last things I told Tina about my past and the only reason that I told her is because I had given my solemn promise that there would never be secrets between the two of us.  I didn’t want to tell her...  I didn’t want to reveal that side of me to her.  I didn’t want that secret to be the last straw… the straw that was one straw too many.  The one that would make Tina decide that it was all too much, that I was too damaged.  But a secret can also be a lie and I could not live with that lie between us.  It would have eaten away like a cancer, destroying every good thing that Tina had tried to do for me… for us.  So I told her.
I let someone die.  I held her in my arms and I did nothing.  I stroked her hair and waited for the pills she had taken to do their job.  I let someone die because she was in so much pain and so much torment and she begged me not to stop her.  I let someone die because her pain and her torment were even greater than mine and I knew that…
I don’t remember how many times I looked at my phone… at those three glowing digits on the screen waiting for me to hit Send… then back at her… as her breathing slowed and her face became only a blur through my own tears… until the grip of her hand on mine gradually relaxed and her chest rose one last time… then fell… and she was gone.
I tried to tell myself that if I stopped her… if I hit Send and she didn’t die this time… she would only try again… and again if necessary.  I tried to rationalize that it was better this way because she was at least with a friend… someone who understood her pain… someone who would not judge her.  I told myself that she was now at peace.
Three weeks later I boarded a plane with a belly full of booze and a bottle full of pills… ready to let go of that last thread that I had been hanging on to... giving up the fight… as she had… realizing that I too… had finally found ‘too much’.
~*~
Veronica Marie Lewis-Shaw
7 September 2013
(Writing under a large mushroom, somewhere in the Pacific Northwest)