Tag Archives: loss

The Price of Dreams


As the crowds cleared the smokey, dim-lit arena, Joe sat on the edge of the stage softly crooning the first song he ever wrote; her song.

It had launched him into the spotlight; a whirlwind of gigs, the fame, awards and accolades and fawning groupies that he had dreamed of when he plucked that first lick on a second-hand guitar.

But dreams die hard when the road is your mistress, home is an empty shell and all that is left of her is a song.

~kat

For Sonya’s Three Line Tale Challenge based on this photo by Paulette Wooten via Unsplash.


Gone – NaPoWriMo 2017 #9


you
left the
door open
the day you left
I can’t bring myself to close it, not yet
hoping that you might decide to come back
but I’m a fool
you’re never
coming
home

-kat – 9 April 2017
(NaPoWriMo 2017 #9 -a Double Tetractys – 1/2/3/4/10/10/4/3/2/1)


And now the words come…

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It has been two days since US Elections on November 8th. Many of us are in shock. We are in mourning. We are afraid. It is real fear. There are definitely things to be concerned about if the new administration is able to follow through on its promises.

I found myself inconsolable in the wee hours of November 9th when the news came. I couldn’t sleep. I plunged into depression. I felt helpless and hopeless. I felt angry and betrayed by family and friends who boasted about voting for a monster (as I perceived him to be). It is personal for me. I stand to lose a lot as one of the targeted minorities on President Trump’s and Vice President Pence’s hit list.

Step One

November 9th was a day unlike any other. I went through the motions at work. Facebook continued to stream nasty meme’s as well as calls for kindness and civility from the very people who accepted the opposite from the most divisive, misogynistic, prejudiced candidate in recent memory. As the gloating persisted on my Facebook page, I did some housecleaning. I unfriended people I didn’t actually know personally and a few others who I realized were not really friends. Some may think it is mean to do such a thing, to unfriend someone. The truth is they probably won’t miss me. And the important thing is that it is a new beginning for me. It is Step One in regaining my power. It is Step One in remembering who I am and who I am not. I am not a victim nor am I a loser.

Step Two

Step Two requires that I face my greatest fears. It is true that the progressive, inclusive and compassionate values many of us have fought for and gained in recent years could be dashed to oblivion by the single stroke of a pen just a few months from now. New, more restrictive mandates too, could be wielded upon us. Some of us could be sent back to countries we have never lived in, but are associated with by virtue of our ethnicity. Some of us may lose access to healthcare and basic services. Some of us, those who dream and wait, longing to come here, might never be allowed to set foot on this soil because the name of their god is not the same as those in power. Some of us may lose the right to marry who we love as well as face limited access to the goods and services availed to everyone, justified by religious freedom, our natural resources risk being depleted for corporate gain. The list goes on. But the truth is, nothing has happened yet. And we are all still here, over 59,938,290 by last count. We are not powerless. We still have a stake in this country. Fear is what drove many who voted for Trump to make their unwise choice.  I must face each fear as it comes and separate reality from the boogeymonster I imagine it to be. Fear will not, cannot win.

Step Three

Step Three will be the hardest thing for me to do. It’s an ongoing step. It is one that draws upon my spirituality and faith. Step Three requires that I forgive the people who are left in my circle who voted either knowingly or in ignorance regarding the consequences of their choice and the affect it might have on me personally. From a spiritual standpoint this is where the rubber hits the road. The truth is, this is the most powerful thing I can do, because I will never know peace and healing if I don’t. These are the words that have been swirling around in my head. “Forgive them, they know not what they do.”

Now you might say, “Well, some of them did know. How can you forgive someone like that?” Well, it’s hard. And I’m not going to say I’m good at this, or that I’ll get it right every time, but I need to remember that forgiveness is not about them, or what they do. It’s about me. Forgiving doesn’t let injustice, malice and ill intent off the hook, but forgiveness empowers me to remove myself from the position of victim, to gain control of the situation and to do something about it for the sake of justice without being sucked into the emotional drama that happens when we take things personally. It seems paradoxical. It’s not personal, but it is very personal, in that I have the power to choose whether I allow it to rule my life and my response to the world around me. I can be more effective when I am free from the bonds of unforgiveness.

So this is my list, my way of coping. You may not agree. Or if you do, you may not be here yet, and that’s okay. Take time to grieve. Take time to sort this all out in your own way. If you need a shoulder or just a friendly ear, I am here with others who know that we must never cease believing in all that is good and just and true. It’s been a shocking week. Maybe we all, even those of us who have been paying attention, needed to wake up and take things up a notch.

Peace Love and Hope to you all.

kat ~ 10 November 2016


Seasoning – Part 4

Henry puttered around noisily in the kitchen. “Tea…where is the tea?” he muttered while rummaging through each cabinet and drawer. “Damn Helen! Why couldn’t you leave well enough alone. Always prying where you’re not welcome!”

In the parlor, Helen scanned the perimeter of the room. The plant stand near the window caught her eye. Whatever once lived in this dry pot of soil was now a sad, brittle bunch of leafless stalks. It reminded her of the wheat fields of her youth, golden and ready for harvest. But this poor plant was clearly dead. “Well, this is fitting.” She huffed.

Henry nearly dropped the tea tray when he entered the room and saw Helen standing near the window. She was in that spot. Gathering his wits he asked, “What were you saying Helen?”

“Oh, there you are Henry. I was saying… that it is fitting that you have dead plants in the parlor. It goes with the rest of the decor.”

“I’ve been meaning to do something with that. I hope you like your tea black. I’m fresh out of cream.”

“It’ll do.” Helen swept dust off the sofa before taking a seat. “Sit Henry.”

Reluctantly, Henry plopped into an armchair across from Helen, releasing a cloud of dust that caused him to cough. “I wish you had called before coming.”

Helen burst into a boisterous cackle, “Oh Henry! That is rich! I have tried to call you, and I’ve written. I am here, Henry, because you have ignored every attempt I’ve made to contact you! Quite frankly, we’re all worried about you.”

“Who’s we? Well it doesn’t matter. You can tell everyone I’m fine.”

“Enough Henry!” Helen’s voice shifted. “You are not fine! And I am not leaving until I am sure you are fine.”

Henry slouched in his chair, “Suit yourself.” Secretly a part of him was relieved. Though he was loath to admit it, seeing her there, in the light of day covered in dust, proved she was right.

—————————-

This entry is fourth in a series prompted by Jane Dougherty’s Microfiction Challenge. Read previous chapters HERE.

A note about the painting by Vincent Van Gogh:
The Van Gogh Museum’s Wheat Field with Crows was made in July 1890, in the last weeks of Van Gogh’s life, many have claimed it was his last work. Others have claimed Tree Roots was his last painting. Wheat Field with Crows, made on an elongated canvas, depicts a dramatic cloudy sky filled with crows over a wheat field.[90] The wind-swept wheat field fills two thirds of the canvas. An empty path pulls the audience into the painting. Of making the painting Van Gogh wrote that he had made a point of expressing sadness, later adding “extreme loneliness” (de la solitude extrême), but also says he believes the canvases show what he considers healthy and fortifying, the storm and crows powerfully offset by the restorative nature of the countryside.



the memory of you

i only saw you for a moment…
pink perfection, but you had
already gone. how can you
miss someone you’ve never
met? sometimes i wonder
who you might have become,
who i might be today had
my body not failed you.

there was no funeral,
no heartfelt epitaphs…
no records or witnesses
that you ever were, except
for me, who once carried
you deep inside, the child
i never held but can’t
forget, especially when
the memory of you
interrupts my busyness
and touches my heart.

kat ~ 12 October 2015

It’s a loss no one talks about. Grieving is considered an indulgence. Well-meaning souls will try to console you by reminding you how blessed you are to have other children, or if you don’t, they’ll assuredly mention that it was all part of some divine plan, or for the best…nature’s way of protecting you from a less than perfect child…of course none of these things are of any comfort when a mother miscarries.

I lost my child some 33 years ago in October. It wasn’t until this most recent nudge that I remembered that it was in October. We try to get on with life…to count our blessings, but we never forget. The void of tonight’s new moon simply reminds me that I’m not meant to forget. And that it’s okay to remember and to grieve.

(This poem was featured on Women’s Spiritual Poetry Blogspot on October 16th, 2015)