The Healing

"I am the dragon who imprisons the maiden and also the victim trapped on an island in the sea of morose. I must rescue myself now." She recited these words to herself while sliding under the crumpled covers of her bed.

She woke the next morning at the crack of dawn. Actually, the clock read nine AM, early by her measure. “Arg,” she grumbled regretting her resolve to reform. Last night it had been so strong. Why, she actually turned off the TV and went to bed. Her usual habit had been to fall asleep on the couch and stumble to bed at daybreak.

"No," she said admonishing her lazy self, "today is the day. Step one is to get up early, make a healthy breakfast and do something useful."

Although she had promised herself a major change, she hadn’t quite gotten to the part about what to do after eating. "One step at a time," she whispered to herself.

So one slightly overweight middle aged woman unwrapped herself from the bed covers and went to the sink to slap water on her face. She looked into the mirror and saw droopy eyes still heavy with sleep peering tentatively back at her.

"Hmm," she thought, "not terrifying, even for this time of day. With a little bit of makeup and the right clothes, why I bet I could pull off a job interview. Of course, then I’d have to work." Looking at her mirror image, she addressed her phantom self.

“Do you want a job? Would that resolve the emptiness?” Through the looking glass the other image appeared just as puzzled. No answer there. She decided to shower and get dressed before breakfast. Perhaps my head will clear up in the shower.

She gathered some clothing from her messy closet carefully selecting the few items that weren’t too wrinkled. She never ironed and often left the clothes in the dryer for days. A pair of black slacks and a white blouse looked fairly presentable; not too wrinkled, coordinated well, and might even give her a slimming effect. Smiling at her choice, she grabbed some underwear from the dusty chest of drawers and went to the small bathroom. As she stepped into the shower, she noticed the hard water mineral deposits that crusted the tiles of the little shower cave. “I don’t think Suzie Housekeeper would approve,” she mumbled out loud. “Oh well, she doesn’t live here!” Twisting the knobs one way and then the other, she achieved a decent water temperature and immersed her body in the warm liquid stream.

She stood soaking herself turning this way and that to wet all of her body. She began to sing. The song came from a place in her memory folds from a time long ago when she lived with her family, Mom, Pop, and her little brother, Tommy. She remembered the feeling of being loved and cared for. Within the walls of their modest tract home, she wanted nothing. Her family completed her. As she sang, she found the resolve to turn her life around. Today really was day one of the search for her better self.

She rubbed some soap on the wash cloth that hung in her shower for three months. Its stiffness melted into pliancy as the thirsty fibers drank the water. She cleaned herself and twisted the knobs to off. An arm extended out of the water-heated shelter. She felt for a towel, found it, and dragged it into the shower stall. She dried off still humming her song. She remembered the CD of children’s music that she played over and over on her Fisher-Price CD player. Tommy and she often sat together and sang loudly while Raffi crooned his tunes for them. Sometimes she and Tommy danced together, not controlled simple dances, but wild heathen dances suggesting some tribal ritual or simply, the joyful abandon of two young children.

Suddenly, she popped to attention as if someone had called to her. “I know what I need to do first,” she sang to the tune of the song in her head. “I must call Tommy; arrange to visit him and his partner, Cooper. Yes, that would be a great beginning for my new adventure.”

She dressed and went into the kitchen. The little white cordless telephone stood in its dock like a soldier at attention. She reached for it. As she held the phone in her hand, she realized that Tommy and she hadn’t spoken for a couple of years. “I wonder why our lives became so distant” she mused. “ Oh well, never mind. It’ll be great to catch up with him.”

She searched through the old phone book pregnant with slips of paper and filled with notes scribbled over all the pages. Pushing pages with a moistened finger, she reached the one with Tommy’s numbers. He had moved often in his youth when they still spoke on a regular basis. Several numbers had been written and eventually crossed out. She located the most recent one. “I hope he still has this number,” she thought. “I’ll have to ask if he has a cell phone when we speak.” While thinking these thoughts, she pushed the buttons that would hopefully reconnect her to her sibling. One ring, two, then, “Hello?”

“Tommy, it’s me, Miriam.”

“Miri? I can’t believe it! How the Hell are you? And why are you calling? Is something wrong?”

“No, no, it’s not like that.” She hesitated. Why was she calling? Then she remembered. “It’s hard to explain, but this morning while I was taking a shower, I just remembered when we used to dance together to Raffi. Remember? I don’t know what made me think of that, but I knew I just had to connect with you.”

“Well, I’m glad you did, sis. There’s so much to talk about, but the best news of all; Coop and I have adopted a baby. You are going to be an auntie!”

“What” Wow! That’s big! Are you going to call Mom and Pop?”

“No!” While he spoke of his parents, his voice changed timber. “They said their piece when I came out to them. If they want to apologize, they need to come to me. I can’t do it.”

“I was going to call you, though. We just wanted to make sure that everything was settled first before announcing to anyone. We don’t have him yet, but little Eduardo is practically ours. We can’t wait to bring him home. We’ve decorated a whole nursery and stocked the house with bottles, baby wipes-you name it and we’ve got it ready and waiting for our new son.”

She could feel his smile through the phone. Its beam, so potent, infected her with his joy until she too smiled with unbridled happiness. “Well, Tommy, the first thing I’m going to do is find a copy of that old Raffi recording. I’m going to have some serious dancing to do with my nephew.”

“Let him walk first sis. So, are you going to come visit us?”

"You bet I am!" As she said this, another thought came into her head. She needed to speak with her parents. She didn’t know how yet, but she knew. Her next step in her personal revolution would be healing her family.

After hanging up the phone, Miriam cleaned the kitchen still singing the words to the song as she stacked plates into the dishwasher slots.

Redemption-When the Empty Page Needs Just a Little More

Six months later, the note gnawed an uncomfortable hole in my psyche. “Dear Nancy, I haven’t heard from you in a while. I am reminding you that your deadline for the completed novel is December 31”. My editor had pressed upon me the urgency. She needed a manuscript in her hands by the end of the year. She had a quota to fill. "Oh yes!" said I. "Of course I can have it ready for you, no problem. Why it’s practically finished already." Lies, lies, lies! I tell such convincing lies. I even believe them myself!

The truth of the matter; my almost complete opus only needed an ending. For three months now that small thing eluded me. A writer has many tricks to avoid facing deadlines and other realities. One of mine is to stop changing the desk calendar. The date before my eyes consistently read November 1, for nearly two months. It’s a delusion, but much less threatening than the real date.

With my writing career in dire jeopardy, I needed to face facts or find a new job. I began by ripping off the pages of wasted time. “Goodbye Thanksgiving and farewell Christmas. It’s so nice to send you back where you belong.” I sang to the tune of “Hello Dolly” as I threw the past into a small waste basket. Papers overflowed the basket of trashed time. “Perhaps I should say a eulogy for those lost days. “November was such a lovely month spent in foggy day dreams. Too soon, December pushed her into oblivion and then met his own demise after cramming the third piece of mince pie down his gullet. Farewell to days gone by.”

Well, calendar, at least now you tell the truth; December 28. Oh the panic! Only two days left until my career comes crashing down. Oh no! Oh no!”

On the computer monitor those darn fish danced about the screen. I watched for a few minutes and then rubbing the mouse across its pad, I revived the desktop and clicked the game icon. I had already played four games of Solitaire before conscious thought returned.

“What am I doing?” I shouted at myself. With two days to meet this deadline, I’m sitting here playing Solitaire. I don’t even like Solitaire!”

Outside the window, melting icicles from the eaves of my roof dripped in a rhythmical beat as they pelted the ground below. “ Ah, a jazz piece; the melting ice rag; not an end to my novel, but a great jazz piece! How long does it take to become a composer?”

“Okay, reality check! It’s time look at this *&%* story. Maybe, inspiration will hit me. I didn’t really believe it but opened the story anyway. “Hmm, I guess I should reread this. Maybe I can figure it out.” So, once again, this would-be author sat hunched over the computer engrossed in text last worked on three months earlier.

Arriving at the final words, I thought, “Wow! Who wrote that that? It’s not half bad! Maybe I can finish this in time if I just focus. What would Maria do next, I wonder?”

“Why don’t you just ask me, loquita?”

"What? Who spoke? Is this the beginning of insanity? Now I’m talking to myself and answering too?"

“No, fool, it’s I, Maria, your protagonist. I’m ready to move on in my life. You’re holding me back. Please release me! I must continue!”

“Okay, I can play this game. Tell me then, what do you really want? You know that Alfredo is no good for you, yet you keep going back to him. What’s the matter with you? Why don’t you leave him for good this time?”

“My dear creator, give me a reason to leave him. Right now, I am nothing without him. What can you add to my life that will allow me an escape?”

“Well let’s review your life. You supported yourself and your daughter without help from that scumbag. That shows strength of character, no?”

“I washed other people’s clothing! I took in sewing. Can you even imagine how humiliating it was for me? An unwed mother outcast by her community, I left my village and found survival in Madrid. Yes, I did what I could to keep my daughter fed and warm. Alfredo makes beautiful babies, but he doesn’t give a damn about their welfare. I wonder how many more fatherless children wear his genetic stamp. But you, you created all this. It’s your fault the way my life worked out. This is our last chance. How do we resolve it? I will tell you this. Make me respectable or kill me. Even my daughter regards me with shame and wants nothing to do with me. This is what I ask you to fix. I need respect!”

“Wow, calm down. I didn’t realize how much bitterness you harbor. My dear creation, let me fix things for you. You’ve finished raising your daughter. Now you can focus on yourself. Together we will redeem your life. Tell me, what did you dream before Alfredo planted his seed within you? What did you hope for your life?”

“My dreams then were the dreams of a girl. I am a middle aged woman now. My foolish younger self wished to be an actress. People used to remark on my beauty; told me I should be on the stage where all could admire me. I don’t even know if I had the talent to pursue that nonsense, and what does it matter? Before my seventeenth birthday I held my daughter to my breast. From that time on, all dreams faded. What hope lies ahead for me now? Please tell me.”

After much consideration, an idea popped into my head. “I know what you need to do. The countess of Aragon needs a companion for her invalid daughter. You will present yourself to her. She will see the strength of a woman who has endured pain and survived. You will live in her palace and prosper. Your daughter will feel remorse, but I will let you decide whether or not to forgive her the pain she caused you. In time you will become a respected lady. Alfredo will never again cross your path. If you like, he could die an unpleasant death at the hands of a scorned lover. Perhaps, another man will capture your heart, but not in my book. If that interests you, look for him when my tale ends.”

As I spoke with Maria, my fingers flew across the computer keys. Occasionally, she voiced her opinions at my choice of words and situations. I didn’t stop to eat or sleep, only to pee. By the afternoon of December 30, I typed the final period in my novel, did a quick edit, and sent the completed work to my editor via email. Click, click, end of story! Wow! I did it. Time to celebrate!

From somewhere inside my head came an admonishing voice, “Hey Senora, thank you for my happy ending. Now, Lady Smug Face, please give me some credit for the help I gave you!”

I thought about her words while I trudged through the snow to "Mr. Espresso"; the relationship between a writer and her characters; hmmmm.

I arrived at the coffee shop where that dancing coffee cup beckoned me to enter while the sign on the door still reminded me to keep it closed. I left it open on purpose.

Before reaching the counter, I saw Lilly sitting in my favorite dark corner and went to her. She looked terrible. Her normally impeccable clothing appeared disheveled and her makeup looked caked. I greeted her.

She looked up without a smile. “The Ulka Gallery rejected my latest work. “Too derivative”, they said. I am a fraud. My work is worthless.” She stared into space avoiding my eyes.

I left her to order my latte. “Yes!” I thought to myself. “Life can be sweet!”

The Empty Page

So many distractions! Each time I sit down to type my novel, I find something to divert my attention. What is the matter with me? I promised myself that this time nothing would distract me from the goal. Sixteen hundred words a day until at last I had a draft. I wrote a synopsis, so I already know what’s going to happen. Now, I only need to sit down and focus. Why is that so hard? Here I am at the computer. I’ve looked at email, checked out my social network, filed my nails, and made two cups of tea. I’ve run out of distractions and still nothing.

A beautiful butterfly flutters by the window. Its wings, a transparent blue and white, open and shut seductively as it sits on a flower sipping nectar. Look at him, after gorging himself into a coma and spending weeks inside a crowded shell, he breaks free to fly through the air in festive dress looking for his mate. Then, poof, it’s all over. In some secluded spot on earth, he folds his wings for a last time and expires. I envy him. His life, so short, ends exquisitely. I am still waiting for my wings to form so I, too, can experience that moment of glory when life’s most profound purpose becomes clear to me.

Every day I perform this ritual. I come into my special room. I designed this space so that it reflects who I am. Pictures of my favorite writers hang on the wall looking down at me. They were supposed to be my cheerleaders. I don’t hear them cheering me on. Instead, they scowl in a most pretentious way. “You dare to include yourself in our illustrious company?” they sneer. "Why, you can’t hold a candle to us. We devoted our lives to our craft. We kept company with fellow writers, drank to our writing, immersed ourselves in the words of our craft. Yes, we proudly bear the name, writer. You, fraud, stop trying to don the sacred mantle of authorship by decorating a room with our likenesses. Where are your words? Words make you a writer. 
 You have none. We refuse to look at you. Imagine our eyes closed."

I won’t listen to those pompous fools. They can’t fool me with their bravado. I read their biographies. I know all about the drunken nights, the depressions and yes, even the suicides. No my friends, I am in very good company. We are cut from the same cloth, we writers who sit in seclusion trying to bridge a window into the world with our printed words. I know of your secret fears and the days on end when no words issued forth from your hands to paper. No, don’t try to fool me with your pomposity, you humbugs!

I shall go for a walk, and when I get back, I shall write non-stop for two hours. This caterpillar needs to emerge from the cocoon. It’s a lovely spring day. Sunlight will revive my spirits and inspire me to write. Look at all the tulips. What artist came to my town to paint? His box of colors must have slipped and covered all the gardens in town. Purple, pink, orange, white, red, yellow, and some multicolored ones; surround me and infuse my senses with their vibrancy. I want to paint my computer screen with words as lovely as these flowers which like butterflies, live each spring for only a few weeks. They leave behind the promise of return; au revoir, not goodbye.

It’s time to go back, but wait. The coffee shop where they make the best lattes is around the corner. A latte is just the ticket. The espresso will clear my head and infuse me with pep. Then I can go back to write. I quicken my pace so as not to waste time and arrive at the door to the shop. “Mr. Espresso” reads the sign which is printed on a smiling coffee cup that has arms and legs. I pull open the door that has a sign on it reminding me to keep the door closed. “I always do”, I thought. “There’s no need to remind me again and again”, but of course, the sign ignored me and continued to make its request.

The girl at the counter flirts outrageously with a thin young man who smiles back at her. I see that she flutters her eyes at him just as that butterfly fluttered his wings. Well, it is spring after all. Everything is doing the flutter dance; all except me!

I have to clear my throat three times before she interrupts her fluttering to take my order. I need to repeat my request for an extra shot because the young man is distracting her with his grin. When she hands me the latte, I decide to drink it here in the shop. I had debated whether or not to carry the drink back to my writing den but decided that I might as well stay here and drink it while it’s still hot. I eye an empty plush chair in a secluded corner. The owners of Mr. Espresso decorated their store with an odd array of mismatched upholstered chairs and sofas arranged to face each other in conversation groups. I manage to find the one lone chair and grab it. From here I sit and sip my coffee drink as I observe my fellow coffee sippers. In one set of seats a group of four women are chatting and giggling. They are all dressed in exercise clothing and look to be thirty something. I hear snippets of their conversations, “…husband…kids…she said…” Obviously these women are married house wives whose children are in school and whose hubbies are working at some job or other where they don’t quite make enough money to satisfy the ambitions of their wives.

Just then, I spot my friend Lilly at the counter. I know she is asking for a chocolate cappuccino with whipped cream. “Lilly,” I call out. She sees me and signals with a nod of her head that she will join me in a moment. Lilly is a beautiful woman. I am jealous of her tall slim body, the elegant way she pairs clothing pieces so that she resembles the models of a fashion magazine. Her voice is wispy and musical. People always have to lean in to listen to her, and they always want to hear what she has to say. Lilly has a way of making anyone in her presence feel important by the way she looks into their eyes while they speak as if no one else in the world exists in that moment. Everyone loves Lilly. I wish I were more like her.

Lilly drags over a chair and sits next to me. We chat. She is an artist, a painter. She tells me that she is preparing for an opening in a gallery. Her whole face sparkles as she excitedly tells me about it. And of course, she would love me to come to the opening. She’s expecting a large crowd. Humph! I guess she doesn’t suffer from painter’s block. Did I mention that I am insanely jealous of her?

Finally, she has to go and so do I. We hug and promise to call each other soon; I won’t; will she? I wait until she leaves Mr. Espresso before I too, leave. I amble slowly on the two block walk back to my house. Around me are traffic sounds, the whoosh of cars passing, horns honking, the rumble of trucks. As I turn away from Main Street, my eyes are treated once again to the tulips smiling up at the sun in a courtship ritual that will soon end.

I reach my house, climb the stairs, and return to the writing den. I left the computer on, and I see dancing fish, my screen saver, parading about the monitor. I watch them for a few minutes before dismissing them all with a click of the mouse. Well, here we are again!

Seasons

It occurs to me that our planet really only has two seasons, winter and summer. The other two serve as intermediaries. But what glorious transitions they provide!

This year, an Indian summer allowed us to hold on a bit longer to our yearly tryst with the sun. Soon, though, the warmth gave out to the first frost and the trees decked themselves in their red-golden finery before shutting down to hibernate.

During this period, the leaves rain down with every gust of wind until the ground wears more color than the trees. Out come the rakes and trash bags. On every residential street, townspeople gather up leaves while children bounce in the piles and send them scattering.

Finally, when bare maple branches resemble dark lace pressed against gray skies, winter whispers, “I am coming soon.” Now and then, a light snowfall reminds and prepares us for the next event. Plant life goes dormant in various ways. The trees, of course have lost their leaves. They will sleep while storing energy for spring renewal. Other plants shift from rich green to pale, and some simply die.

We humans undergo our own transitions during this seasonal shift. We pack away our light summer clothes and bring out the heavy duty cold stoppers. Hearty soups and stews simmer on our stoves. Appetites begin craving rich comfort foods to warm up the insides. Meanwhile, brisk weather quickens the blood, and our adaptable bodies prepare to withstand frigid winter temperatures.

Autumn snows also remind us to change our walking patterns to avoid slipping, something that I often forget. This morning, I took my daily walk while rhapsodizing about nature’s wonders. Lost in thoughts, I paid no attention to the frosty sidewalk ahead. Before I could stop myself, I hit the ground and felt sharp pain. After properly cursing and shaking my fist at "Mother Nature”, I began crossing off the days until next summer. Only 180 days and counting!