I have wings. I am learning to fly.

I decided to be brave and tell my story. It has set me free. Maybe it will set you free, too.

[theaquarianphoenix]

Hi! I am wondering what book the Cotton Candy Country poem is in. My mom has been talking about the poem for decades and until seeing your post, we could never find it!

Hello! I am so sorry for my tardy response. I haven't been on my blog recently. The poem is in a school textbook. My mother still has it. I will ask her to take a photo and then I'll send to you.

[theaquarianphoenix]

THE DRIVING LESSON

It’s Saturday afternoon and we’re driving back home from Show Low in our powder blue Ford, Taurus. We went to Show Low to get groceries and things my dad needed for projects around the house. We stopped at a hardware shop so my dad could look at chainsaws. He talked to someone for 45 minutes while we stood around outside. My younger brother and I made dirt configurations with our scuffed tennis shoes and kicked some pebbles back and forth. It was mostly boring, and my dad didn’t buy a new chainsaw. I guess he’s going to try to fix the one has, even though it’s hard to start and he gets mad at it almost every time he uses it.

On the 50-minute drive home, my brother, 13, is in the front passenger seat. My dad is driving. My mom is sitting in the back with my sister and me. I’m not sure why she’s not in front with my dad. There is conversation between my dad and brother, but I am not paying attention. I stare out the window and watch the landscape turn from piney evergreens to high desert laden with shaggy bark cedars, sage bushes, and pinyon trees. I watch the clouds make formations across the sky above the scenery. I am enthralled by their unending ability to shape shift, one minute a fiery dragon, the next a wild horse tossing her mane.

Ricky Van Shelton is playing in the tape player. He’s singing “From a Jack to a King.” My dad likes Ricky Van Shelton, so that’s who we are listening to.

I feel the car slow down and am shaken from the daze of my window-gazing world. I watch my dad pull over to the side of the road. We’re just outside the small town of Concho.  I ask my mom why we are stopping but she’s not looking at me or answering my question. My dad and brother get out of the car and swap seats. My mind makes a hurried, dreadful click. A realization. My dad has told my brother to drive. NO! I plead to myself inside of my head, “Please, No!”

The second my little brother slides in the driver’s seat my whole body tightens and clenches and bears down. My heart ricochets in my chest like a rogue bullet, painfully piercing the sides. I put my hand there to quiet its noise.

I already know what is going to happen.

Because it’s what always happens whenever you do anything alongside my dad. There is never teaching. There is no space for patience or learning. You must know. You must possess the knowledge of the exact contents of how things should be done according to my father’s rules and expectations. You are not allowed to make mistakes. You must be an expert, even if you’ve never done the thing you’re being asked to do before. You must do is RIGHT.

And failing to do things right means consequences. Ugly, ugly consequences.

I watch my brother put the shifter in drive. He looks so small in the big seat behind the steering wheel. His white, blonde hair barely levels over the top of the dashboard. Aside from a few streets in our quiet, small town, I’m sure he’s never driven a car. Instinctively, I feel the need to get low. To make myself unseen and sink into the Earth. I wish I could dig a hole and crawl down inside. Like a snake, I slide away from the window and press my head in my mother’s lap. I feel her body as stiff and tense as mine. She knows. And she’s bracing herself, too.

We aren’t more than a mile under way and my dad is already raising his voice, yelling at my brother not to drive too close to the center line. Angrily, he grabs the steering wheel and jerks the car toward the side of the road. I feel the jerk like a stab to my neck. A kind of invisible blood flows out. It starts pooling on the floor. My skin becomes pricked with stress and fear. Each hair raised at attention. A thousand tiny antennae. They absorb the vibration from my brother. The antennae on his own body reaching out along the current, communicating his terror, his pain, and the whirlwind of emotion he must navigate to survive what is happening.

I lift my head slightly from my mother’s lap and look out the window. I see a cloud shaped like an elephant. I imagine a circus.

“Ladies and Gentlemen! Do you see that boy up there?? Look up! Way up! He will now perform a high-wire, tightrope act! To keep from falling to his death on the paved highway racing by below, he must do the impossible! He must balance his inexperience and the unimaginable pressure of trying to do things perfectly right, with a thousand tons of the unrelenting and brute dominion of his father!”

It continues this way the entire 15 miles to our house. My father yelling and jerking the wheel. I want it to stop. My mind falls in on itself over and over, pleading for it to end. But I can’t stop it. No one can. Not even my mother. Because we understand that, to protest, to intervene, to plead for mercy, is to poke the teeming, angry nest of a thousand swarming bees.

So, I try to stay still. Because stillness is the only way through. To keep the bees from stinging en masse. I peek up at my mother, her face so tight. I know this look. A mix of agony and helplessness. So filled with torture.

The invisible blood is still flowing.

In my stillness, I tune in to everything around me. My antennae at high vigilance and hyper aware. Each car that goes by whirs past like a buzz. I feel them almost cartoonish in their passing. Like the pages in a comic book. BUZZZZZZ!!! ZOOM!!! MEEEEEEEP! Our car almost spinning.

Then a flash!

I’m instantly brought back to reality by my father’s voice. The pounding hammer of his yelling. “Stay in the goddamned lines!” “Get the hell away from the center line!” “I thought you were more advanced than this!” “You’re not goddamned listening!” Jerks to the steering wheel. Again, and again. At one point, the jerk is so hard the car wheels screech. Each mile makes his shouting more intense. More sinister. More filled with rage.

And then I hear it.

SLAP.

A hard smack to the back of my brother’s head.

Have you ever seen my father? He’s big and strong and built like an ox. Sometimes I think he’s so strong he could lift our car over his head.

His slap rattles your bones.

For my brother, that slap meant, “Do it right, goddamn it! Do it right or I’ll hit you harder next time!”

When we pull up to our front yard, I feel a release from the anguish of being in the car. From the inescapable enclosure of that horror.  But the brutality and the trauma remain. It covers us. A baptism. In invisible blood. My dad has already stormed off somewhere, outwardly vindicated by his actions. We stagger, wounded in the upheaval of his wake, trying to swim to shore, to find our breath. To pick through the mountain of his wreckage.

I watch my brother slink out of the car. Hunched over. Like a tortured, terrified alley cat. When he looks up, we lock eyes and hold each other that way for a few seconds. We don’t speak. We don’t have to. I understand what his eyes are saying so completely I have to steady myself to keep from falling forward on my knees.

It’s always the same. That horrible mix of feelings. The blame. The shame. The guilt. The self-loathing. The self-doubt. The hatred. The anger. The demoralization.

The dismemberment.

The murder.

The death.

Of your spirit. Of your soul. Your heart.

Of You.

And the invisible blood keeps flowing.

[theaquarianphoenix]

Cattails on the bus

This morning, as in most mornings, the four of us stand at the end of the driveway in some puzzle-like formation and wait for the school bus. When we file on, the bus is mostly empty, so we get to choose whatever seat we want. Because we live so far out in the country, we are some of the first kids to embark. The bus scoops up more kids and fills as it gets closer to town. If you’re one of the last kids on, you don’t get much choice in where you sit.

I like to sit by the window, on the side where the bus door opens. Once I got to stand next to the bus driver and work the lever that opens and closes the door. It was absolutely thrilling, and I thought about how fun it would be to work that lever every day. But I can’t do that anymore because all the kids wanted a turn and Fred, our bus driver at that time, said it’s not safe to stand up there like that.

Anyway, the reason I like to sit in the window is to get a good view of everyone when the bus pulls up. Then I can watch them get on. Some days I talk to the other kids and make string patterns, like Jacob’s ladder and cat’s cradle, with my Chinese jump rope. But most days, I prefer to observe and watch everyone. There is an older boy who gets on near the end of the route. Whenever he gets on, he practically jumps up the steps. Then he grabs the pole at the front of the bus and swings himself into the aisle and plops himself in an open seat. It’s all one fluid motion that reminds me of letting a rope slide through your hands. Once he swung into the seat next to me and sat down. The girls behind me snickered and I turned my head toward the window so he wouldn’t see me and made a yucky face.

My friend Kristi also lives on a farm. It’s about two miles from ours. She has three older brothers and whenever the bus pulls up her brothers are combing their hair. They each have a little comb that they slide into their back pocket. I think it’s funny the boys are always combing their hair and not Kristi who is a girl. I suppose it’s to impress the older girls that ride the bus. If they asked for my opinion, which they don’t, I’d tell them that Shelli and Cleo are the prettiest.

Anyhow, back to my story.

This morning when we get on, as usual, the only other passengers are three older boys that live on the farms down the road from us. They also happen to be my cousins. My cousin Jerry is the oldest and he is quiet and gentle. Sometimes he talks to me, even though I’m just a little kid. Once he let me look at his high school yearbook. I read some of the things his classmates wrote inside. There were a few swear words and I thought that was rather delicious.

My two other cousins are Tim and Andy. I think it’s both accurate and fair to say that they are mischievous. But they are fun and friendly and they both laugh a lot. They treat me a bit like a kid sister. It makes me feel important when I get to sit next to them. They usually sit in the back of the bus and I assume this is so their shenanigans are easier to hide from the bus driver. But I am only 9 and don’t really know why. Anyway, they always have cool things in their pockets to show me, like interesting bottle caps and knives that have little forks and spoons that flip out so you could use them as utensils if you went camping in the woods.

This morning, my little sister, who is 5 years old, has brought a bundle of cattails with her for show-and-tell in her kindergarten class. There is a pond on our farm near the edge of the woods and in the springtime, hundreds of cattails grow there. All spring and summer the pond is noisy with croaking frogs and trilling red-winged black birds that perch on the cattails. The crows like to gather there too and cackle and caw. I imagine them at night, turning into witches that churn steaming caldrons of potions filled with scary objects like eyeballs and snakes. My little sister is going to tell her classmates all about the cattails and the pond and why they grow there.

I don’t know exactly how it happens. I think it’s because my older brother takes a cattail to poke at the older boys in the back of the bus. It’s nearing the end of the route and the bus is full of kids. Tim and Andy have gotten hold of a cattail and they are whacking it at each other and against the seat. If you’ve ever broken a cattail then you understand what is happening right now. With each whack, the bus is filling, rapidly, with billowy, white clouds of fluff! The white puffs are raining down everywhere, falling in our hair and eyelashes and sticking on our clothes. Kids are standing up now and jumping around in the feathery, fluff-filled air. Some are yelling and some are laughing. The entire bus is chaos!

At this time in the history of our bus riding we had a substitute bus driver. He was a substitute in that, Fred, didn’t drive the bus anymore and the substitute was filling in until a permanent driver was hired. How I knew this I have no recollection.  The substitute was a tall, thin, white-haired, quiet-spoken, elderly man. I don’t remember his name, but I recall someone telling me he was a preacher (or used to be) at the Evangelical Free Church in town. He managed, with great difficulty, to shift the gears on the bus, and had no ability to control anything unruly that occurred. He made feeble attempts to tell us to sit down or be quiet which were usually ignored or obeyed only flippantly, when we felt like doing as he asked. But, when those cattails broke open and began swirling around, I guess it broke him open too. He brought that bus to a screeching halt right in the middle of the road and raised his voice like he was calling down the thunder. He hollered out threats of punishment and told us to sit down. Which we did. The fluffs of cattail circled in the air like the last days of the dandelions on a windy summer day. And it got quiet.

I suppose this is all rather humorous. And perhaps it is. But it’s all just backdrop. It’s not the point. I don’t remember anything more about the cattails. But what I do remember, what has stayed with me most, that is what I want to share.

In the quiet that fell, my little sister started to cry. Not a slight sniff and a tear, but loud, uncontrollable sobs. I sat next to her and tried to comfort her. But I couldn’t. Because she was inconsolable. Everyone looked at us and asked me what was wrong, why was she crying like that. Someone asked, why is she such a “cry baby?”

I told them I didn’t know. But that was a lie. I knew why. I knew exactly why. I knew well the tone and timbre of that cry. So full of pain. And fear. A cry I’d heard many times before. It wasn’t about the cattails that still swirled about in the air. It was because the bus driver yelled. Because he raised his voice in anger.

And when a wolf snarls, the deer always runs.

I think sometimes we forget that we are just animals. Complicated, human animals. But animals still. And this was human animal survival. Instinct. Experience taught my sister that when someone yells in anger, something terrible inevitably follows; a fist or a slap or a kick or a punch or a look that cuts you in half. You don’t forget that. Because forgetting is dangerous. And though the preacher/substitute driver was no wolf, that was no matter to my sister. The body - and the brain - don’t distinguish. They just react. They call up all those dark experiences that are inside of you and lined in your veins like a thick, black resin. Your tail flies up, and…

You run (me).

Or cry (my sister).

Or cower (all of us).

Or stand frozen in fear (all of us).

Or piss yourself (all of us).

Or rear up and fight back, even if you know the wolf will rip you to pieces (my mom).

Ok.

I am taking a breath now. And releasing.

When I look back on many of these memories, despite the darkness, I see the divine in many ways. Did you know that cattails symbolize friendship and peace? What is more, they also symbolize cleansing. In mind, body, and spirit. They reflect an inner purging and ask you to acknowledge how far you have traveled, how much you have learned. They tell you that it is safe to move on. And in knowing that, I understand this: I guess the cattails got broken back then because we were broken. And we have traveled a long distance since then. We have grown. We have learned. And we will always be learning. Until we’re dust.

But we are safe now.

#theaquarianphoenix #domesticviolence #childabuse #tellingmystory #iamnotafraidanymore

[theaquarianphoenix]

                 WHY DID YOUR MOTHER STAY?

I stare out at the landscape. It’s an open field. With green grass. Flowers are growing. Here and there. Pink. And yellow. And white. Looking out, it appears innocuous. Even…beautiful?

But I know better. 

I crunch my fists into hard, tight little balls. I close my eyes. I take a breath. And hold it in. I brace myself. To move forward. I take a step, and…

Nothing happens. 

I slowly open one eye. And then the other. I look around. And, it seems safe enough. So I take another step. Inching myself forward. With caution. Sloooooowly. With each step, my trepidation becoming more distant.

I am distracted now. By a flower. It’s waving at me. In the wind. I cease walking a slow, straight line. And stray over to smell it. My caution has fallen away. Like a wilted petal. Melting back into the earth. I smile. And I lift my head. I squint my eyes. Up to the sky. I see a bird flying. In the turquoise-colored heavens. A black silhouette. Across the sun. I feel joy now. And I start to run. I am laughing. And for a second. Just for a second. I’ve forgotten where I am. That any minute. With just the slightest misstep. My joy. Or my quiet. Or my daydreaming. My utter existence. Can be ripped to shreds. Blown apart. Into thousands of little pieces. 

Because I live in a landmine. 

BOOM!

I don’t know how the “argument” started. Because that’s impossible. When you live in a landmine. Because you don’t know where the bombs are buried. And you don’t know when they will explode.

I am 16 years old. I’m standing in our ugly kitchen. In our tiny house that is too small for our family. To my right is the refrigerator. And the stove. To the left sit the Formica countertops. And the old, chipped, cast iron sink. Above the sink is a window. With white curtains. Beyond the curtains lies the back yard. I can see the apricot trees in the distance.

But in front of me. In the door of the hallway. My dad is slamming my mother against the wall. With a gun. 

It’s a shotgun. He’s holding it horizontally. In his two big hands. I can see the muscles in his arms and back bulging. Inside his gray t-shirt. He uses the gun on my mother. Like a battering ram. Pushing her against the wall. There is a closet behind her. At her back. With each thrust, the latch on the closet door makes an angry clicking sound.

My mom has her hands up by her chest. When he forces the gun forward, she tries to push it away. To protect her body. But my dad is strong. Superhuman, I think. Her efforts are pitiful. And pointless against his machine. He keeps slamming her. Against the wall. Again and again.

Slam. Slam. Slam. Slam. Slam. Slam.

He is screaming. She is a “son of a bitch.” My mom is crying. “Stop. Please stop.“ 

There is more struggling. But it’s all blurry. I am standing there. Watching. I hear myself yell “STOP!” But I am invisible. Is my brother here? Or my sister? It’s all fuzzy. Focus. I’m trying to focus.

The “argument” moves now. Into their bedroom. My dad pushes her in there. With the gun. He’s still holding it. Horizontally. Out of sight now.  They disappear. “Behind closed doors." 

Poof.

Racing. In that moment. My mind is racing. What will happen to my mother?! What is he doing to her in there? "God, please, make it stop! Please God, let it be ok!”

That is all. Because what happened next, I didn’t see. And if I did, I don’t remember. The entire event is like some quick flash in my mind. A mega, blinding light. 

BOOM!

“WHY DIDN’T YOUR MOTHER LEAVE?”

I don’t know how many times it happened. That my father threatened and abused my mother with a gun. I don’t know everything that happened between them. Because I wasn’t there all the time. And my mind only remembers so much. I do know for certain that he threatened her with a handgun on another occasion. Because my younger brother remembers it vividly. Chances are, these weren’t the only two times. 

I also know that on at least one occasion, my father beat my mother so severely she was hospitalized. Although I have no memory of this, as I was either too little, or not yet born.

I share these stories, not for gratuitous purposes. But so we can better understand the complicated world of domestic violence. 

If you’re willing to listen, there’s something I’d like to explain.

“Why did your mother stay?” “Why didn’t your mother just leave?” “Your mother should have taken you kids and gotten out of there!" 

These are just a few of the questions/statements I have received since beginning my blog. And, those words, when posed - not just to myself but to anyone who has experienced domestic violence - are a punch to my guts (even though I know this is not the intention of the person speaking). Because in those words, an assumption has been made that my mother (or any person experiencing domestic violence) had a choice - or felt she had a choice - and simply chose not to. And that, to have taken us and left, should have been easy. In essence, it places fault on the victim.

It has taken me a long time to come to terms with the story I just told. To accept that it happened. And to understand what it meant. And I’ve shared it so you understand that, for my mother, leaving was a threat to her life. A threat that was made clear to her. To "just leave” meant putting her life in peril, and probably ours, too. 

And, she did try to leave. On multiple occasions. I have already shared one such story I called “The Numb” in my prior blog posts. Each time she tried to leave, my dad would track her down and do one of two things: threaten her, or make false promises that it would never happen again.

So, please, I beg you, stop asking women why they stay. And instead, ask why the abuser chose to abuse.

I am going to close this post by asking you to read the following information provided by the National Coalition Against Domestic Violence. Please know this is real, and that these facts ring so very true.

As always, thank you for reading. 

https://ncadv.org/why-do-victims-stay

[theaquarianphoenix]

The lilac tree and the riding lawnmower

It is spring. And the smell in the air is the color of lavender. And plum. And white lace. The smell in the air is lilacs.

My grandma and grandpa’s yard in town is surrounded by lilac trees. They grow in tangles and twists and the tops of the branches fold over like giant caterpillars when the flowers are in bloom. When you sit at the kitchen table with the window open, their scent flows right through the screen on the window. Their perfume is so heavy and fragrant you can almost see it billowing in through the tiny holes of the screen.

My Gramps keeps his bird feeders right outside the kitchen window by the lilacs. I watch the birds get drunk on the flower-filled air. Their hopping and bobbing and fluttering and singing is more wild, more joyful, and more playful now than any other time of the year. It’s my favorite thing to sit at the kitchen table with Gramps and watch the birds. He teaches me about pine siskins and chickadees and grosbeaks and finches. Sometimes he gets a really special visitor, like a scarlet tanager or an indigo bunting.

The birds and my Gramps are a different story. One that requires its own, separate tale. One that I will tell another day. So, for now, let’s get back to the lilacs.

On our farm, we have a big, wide, open front yard. To the west are two lines of spruce trees. That my mom and dad planted several years ago. But the trees aren’t that tall yet. They will need many years before they grow big and their branches start to touch the sky.

My Gramps gave us a lilac tree a few weeks ago. I watched he and my dad plant it. Smack dab in the middle of our open front yard. I just know it’s going to grow big and bushy one day. And it will be filled with little songbirds that will make their nests in it. In the spring time, the lilacs will bloom and bend their purple arms toward the earth. When the wind makes them sway, they will look like a ballet dancer. All graceful and sinewy.

The spring rain has made the grass green and long in our yard. I am just learning to use the riding lawnmower. I have only used the riding mower once before and I am still not comfortable with all the controls. I am scared to use equipment and machines because I am afraid of doing something wrong. And, it seems, no matter how hard I try, I always do something wrong. Which means big, yucky, scary trouble. But, today the sun is shining brightly. And the air is warm. And my heart is open and a little less afraid.

I drive the mower up and down the yard in long, straight rows. Making sure I cut the grass evenly. My mom is using the push mower to mow in between the grove of spruce trees on the west edge of the yard.

I slow the mower to a crawl when I come to the recently planted lilac tree. I make a wide circle around it. Wow! That wasn’t so hard. I am feeling proud. And confident. I turn the mower around and ride it to the far back of the lawn, all the way to the ditch at the edge of the road. I turn around and head back to the front of part of the yard. Again, making sure to mow straight, even lines. With my growing confidence, I decide that I can circle the mower closer to the lilac tree this time.

I don’t really know what happens. But the wheel doesn’t turn when I want it to, and… in a second. Zoom! The lilac tree is gone! Destroyed. Butchered. Ground into a million little pieces. Beneath the blades of the lawnmower. In the mower’s wake, nothing but a pile of mulch.

Panic seizes me. Instantly. Although, somehow, in some knee jerk reaction, I’ve turned the mower around and I’m heading back toward the ditch. I’m blinded. By the irreversibility of what I’ve done. By the overwhelming fear of what will happen. When my dad sees the rubble.

So, I run. I jump off the mower. And I fly. Fast! I sprint for the spruce trees. And I press myself against their branches. Hiding. I crouch down to the ground and I grab my knees and pull them to my chest. I rock back and forth. Cradling myself. And cry.

As this is happening, the mower is still going. Unattended. Riding forward. On its own. With no rider. Heading straight for the ditch. The ditch filled with water. The ditch waiting to swallow it. And render it dead.

But my panic. My fear. Has me pinned. Nailed to the ground. I can do nothing. But hide in the trees. And watch it go.

Somewhere in all of this, the neighbor boy is at our house. He is five years older than me. And here with my older brother. I don’t know where they were. Or what they were doing. But seemingly, from nowhere, he is running for the lawnmower. I watch him. From my hiding place in the trees. Jump on the seat. And just before it hits the ditch, he shuts it down. He looks around wildly. Shocked. Bewildered. Even, bemused?

I run. From my cradle in the spruce boughs. To my mother. The tears streaming down my face. All fat and heavy against my cheeks. She sees me coming at her and stops her mowing. I tell her what happened. That I murdered the lilac tree with the riding mower. That I am so scared I am going to be in trouble. Big trouble. With my dad. That I’m sorry. So sorry. That it was an accident. That I didn’t mean to. That I was trying to do good. To get in close. I sob and sob. My body shaking. I can’t stop. She hugs me against her chest. She tells me she knows. That I am a good girl. That she will talk to my father. That I have punished myself enough.

She goes off. To find my father. To do her best. To placate this mess. To be my buffer. To try and protect me.

I don’t stick around. To wait for her to find my dad. My gut tells me, go! Make yourself scarce. So, I slink away. I disappear. I render myself invisible.

I don’t remember where I went. Or how long I stayed there.

Does it matter?

Later that evening, at the dinner table, my dad tells me, that I am lucky I didn’t harm myself. That he is disappointed and angry that I ran over the lilac tree. That I am not to drive the riding lawnmower again. I listen. With my head down. “Yes, Dad.” Understood.

And that is the end of it.

I have never driven a riding lawnmower since.

[theaquarianphoenix]

It occurred to me recently that perhaps I have fenced myself in. That I don’t have to wait for the stories from my childhood to surface and take form.  That maybe what I need, is to let you in. On the now. The right now. In the most raw, honest way I know how.

So here goes…

That’s me there.  Doing that dance. Flailing around. Between the ecstasy and the agony. The joy and the pain. Every day. Every single day. Trying to feel my life. To grab on to something. Walking that tightrope. And teetering. Trying to steady myself. To catch my balance. To keep my chin up. To look ahead. Sometimes gliding along. Sometimes falling. Dark and far. Arms wide. Gravity pulling. Down and down and down. Hitting the ground. Dizzy and disoriented. Getting back on the tightrope. Walking across the sky. Into the clouds. Toward the sun.

Since starting my blog, numerous people (some known to me, some strangers) have reached out. And told me their own stories. I have been amazed at the anguish others have experienced. At the thorns on the roses that have cut the flesh and left scars. We never really know what is going on in someone else’s life, do we? Or what heaviness they carry in their heart. And in their soul. I am so grateful for the vulnerability others have shown me in sharing their secrets. Letting me peek at their ghosts. That you would trust me with your pain is something I cherish. I am equally grateful for all the kindness. And for all the caring words that have been extended. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

That being said, I think I may have given the false impression that I’ve figured something out. Or that I understand something about this crazy thing we call life.

Here’s the truth. I don’t know what I’m doing. With my life. Or with anything. I don’t have any answers. Or special wisdom. I don’t have it together. At all. I’m just muddling my way through.

But, you know what? Aren’t we all?

The truth is, none of us really knows what we are doing. And (in the words of a very good friend of mine), those that say they do are probably lying to themselves.

No matter where you come from. No matter what you’ve experienced, we’re all doing a dance. Every day. With our feelings.  Of pain and loss. Of inadequacy and failure. Of disappointment and missed opportunity. Of loneliness and emptiness. And when the music is right, riding those waves of happiness. So high. So bright. Shining like a star across the universe.  

That’s how it goes. That is life.

And, whether we’re 13 or 83, it’s all a struggle. A big, beautiful, messy, fucking struggle. That dance where we stumble and tumble. Where we laugh and we cry. Where we sink into the black one moment, and soar out across the air in the next. With our wings exquisite and beating. And sometimes, with wings broken and hearts all purple and bruised.

So, this is me. Today. Just trying to live by my heart. All my heart. To let it be my guide. To open myself wide to the people and places around me. With curiosity. And compassion. And love. And, to be ok with where I am. To come home to myself. As muddled and scruffy as it is.

Whatever dance you are doing. Whatever your angels. Or your demons. Whatever your past. Or your present. Just keep trying. Because all the trying. The struggle? That is the journey. It is LIFE.  And it really is beautiful!

#domesticviolence #childabuse #tellingmystory #iamnotafraidanymore #theaquarianphoenix

[theaquarianphoenix]

My dear readers,

I know it has been several months since you have heard from me. Please know that I think of you daily and am always sending you love. Sometimes the stories come. And sometimes they don't. For awhile now, they just don't. I think maybe it's because I still have some of the hardest, most painful stories to tell. And they are not quite ready to meet the world. But, I promise, they will be. Hopefully soon. And I'll meet you right here. So much peace to you.

Colleen

[theaquarianphoenix]

Dear Colleen, I am utterly amazed at your strength, your clarity and your seeming to have survived as a healthy individual. I am so very, very sorry for the losses you have suffered, the abuse that you suffered, and thank you for sharing your story. Although my life was not quite as brutal growing up, many of your stories resonated with me. I am still (at 60 years old) picking through the rubble, and trying to discover what a healthy, peaceful life looks like. I wish you only the best.

Thank you for your kind words. And thank you for reading my story. I am sending you so much love. The reality is that all of us know pain and hurt. We are all connected in that way. My hope is that we can remember that and be kinder to one another. Blessings to you!

[theaquarianphoenix]

In the pic: Our barn. Behind it is the back 40.

              SATURDAY MORNINGS

It is Saturday morning. And Gargamel is chasing a Smurf. We are sprawled out on the green, living room carpet. In front of the television. All four of us. My two brothers and my sister and me. Transfixed. Mesmerized. Saturday morning cartoons are special. We don’t get to watch a lot of television. So, for us, cartoons are a fantastical world to get lost in. A place to escape. A place we can fly away to. And be happy.

Our favorites are Scooby-Doo, He-Man and the Masters of the Universe, The Smurfs, and Jonny Quest. We rise early to watch cartoons, even though they are on until noon. You see, we are not allowed to sit around all morning watching them. Those are my dad’s rules. There is work to be done. And we should be outside. And not lying around the house “on our asses.”

This morning, my brothers need to plant flax. Along the back 40. Behind our barn. A task that is laborious and uncomfortable and hard. To do it, they must take turns driving the three-wheeler over the tilled-up earth. As one drives, the other sits on the back holding an old-fashioned gunny sack contraption around his neck. As the bag hangs around his neck, he must turn a small crank on the side. The crank spreads the seed across the ground. Even though they can rest the bag on their lap, the strap still cuts into their neck. And they hate it.

Right now, as always, I am on edge. Like a guard dog. With my ears perked up. Listening. Observing. Waiting. For the signs. And the sounds. Of my father. Ready to jump. Or dive. Or run. Or lie flat and still like a stone. Ready to do whatever it takes should he erupt and get angry.

On this morning, I can feel it. In my bones. In my blood. We shouldn’t be lying around. Like barn cats on bales of hay. My sister and I should be outside. Anywhere. In the trees. In the tall grass. It doesn’t matter. Just outside. And not in here.

And my brothers. They should be in the field. Working. They should be planting flax.

My father’s movements are like rumbles. Ominous, fear inducing rumbles. Or like hail hammering the roof. Sometimes, I think he is the giant from Jack and the beanstalk in the fairy tale books I read. “Fe Fi Fo Fum. I smell the blood of an Englishman. Be he alive or be he dead, I’ll grind his bones to make my bread!”

I hear him now. Stirring. Down the hallway. Back in his bedroom. My senses. My skin. At attention. Pricked. He will be in the living room soon. And he will be angry.

I go. Fast! Out of the living room. And out the door. Down the beanstalk. But they are still there. My brothers. And my little sister. Lying on the floor. I see them in my mind’s eye. Only moments ago. My sister hugging her little pink blanket. All of them, hypnotized by the tiny blue creatures on the television screen that take them away from this place.

I am barely to the front part of our yard when I hear it. The screaming. The giant has found them. And, just like the fairy tale, he’s grinding their bones.

Our yard is big and wide and open. There is no shrub to scuttle into. No tree to hide behind. I am out there. Exposed. So, I stand there. Quaking. Like some newborn lamb. Listening. From inside the house, more screams. The lambs in the slaughter. I don’t need to see it. I know what is happening. My father’s voice. The malevolent giant. Full of rage and dominion. The grinding. So much terrible, terrible grinding.

I hear the door open now. Both of my brothers come flying out. Screaming and stumbling. My father at the top of the porch. His voice a cruel mix of blackness and the profane. His body. The giant. The mean, awful giant. He slams the door. I can hear my little sister in the house. Wailing and sobbing. Witness to the violence that just occurred. I don’t have to see her. Because I can hear her. I am inside her. I can feel her. Her five-year-old body is a flood of terror and tears and trauma and pain.

I’m still standing there. Hanging on the fringes of what just happened. Like some frozen icicle. A crystallization of molecules. Water and oxygen and carbon and tears. But I am melting.

I watch my brothers, wiping their own tears. Hot and burning in contrast. They hustle to the garage. To get the seed bag. They get on the three-wheeler. And head out to the back 40. I’m hidden in plain sight. Some unseen wisp. I watch them as they go. I follow behind. Out of sight. Like a cat. I keep to the edge of the woods. I know all the trees here. I know all the rocks. And each hollowed-out stump. And the folds of the earth. I watch the three-wheeler bounce along the tilled-up soil. A bobber. On a sea of dirt. Up and down. Up and down. I watch my older brother seated behind my younger brother. His legs hanging off the back. His neck bent and heavy with the seed bag.

I stay there. Standing. Veiled. Concealed. For a long time. Watching. The sentinel. The voyeur. My tummy churns. With pain. And hurt. And guilt. Because, I ran away. And, I left them behind. I feel shame. So much shame. I am weak. And I am afraid.

I cover my ears. And I shake my head.

I don’t want to feel this.

I don’t want to feel this.

I don’t want to feel this.

So…

I slip my skin.

And now, amongst these trees, I am a ghost. I am a ghoul. I am a phantom. I am a spirit. I am a wraith. I am a flash. I am a flicker. I am a dot. I am a spec. I am the darkness. And then…I am nothing.

[theaquarianphoenix]

GOODBYE

It's 6 years today since you've been gone, Dad. I hope whenever you are, you are at peace. I'm sending you this song to let you know I'm thinking about you. And because it says how I feel right now better than I ever could.

This song was written by Patty Griffin.

Here are the lyrics:

Occurred to me the other day

You've been gone now a couple years

Well, I guess it takes while

For someone to really disappear

And I remember where I was

When the word came about you

It was a day much like today

The sky was bright, and wide, and blue

And I wonder where you are

And if the pain ends when you die

And I wonder if there was

Some better way to say goodbye

Today my heart is big and sore

It's tryin' to push right through my skin

I won't see you anymore

I guess that's finally sinkin' in

'Cause you can't make somebody see

With the simple words you say

All their beauty from within

Sometimes they just look away

But I wonder where you are

And if the pain ends when you die

And I wonder if there was

Some better way to say goodbye

[theaquarianphoenix]

In the top pic: my brother's bike, when it was new. Bottom pic: the "old house"

              And the wheel rolled by...

We are pedaling our bikes down the road by our farm. My older brother and me. It’s one of those warm, summer evenings.

I am on my banana bike. It’s white and pink and blue and there is pink and blue fringe jutting out the ends of the handle bars. My bike is new. I got it this spring and learned how to ride. My dad put blocks on the pedals. So my feet could reach them. It took a while. And a lot of falls and scuffed elbows. But I am good at riding it now.

My brother’s bike is old. It’s purple and silver. And there is a lot of chrome around the tires.

A few years ago, they paved the road in front of our farm. Before that it was gravel. The pavement makes our bike riding smooth. And so much fun!

The field along the road is planted with hay. In the middle of the field is the “old house.” It’s a rickety old shack. It looks like it’s falling apart (because it is). I don’t know why it sits in the middle of our field. It’s always just been there. Inside it, there are lots of spider webs. And the floors are all broken up and uneven. The windows are cracked and broken. There are torn curtains in the window upstairs. When the wind blows, they shimmy in the air like a ghost.

There is a painting in the junky living room. It is hidden behind a broken-down sofa. It leans against the wall on the floor. It’s turned so the back faces out. But, if you turn it around and look at it, the painting is a naked woman! She is sitting on the ground on a picnic blanket. With her legs tucked beneath her. She has large breasts and a homely face. I don’t know why the painting is there. Or where it came from. Sometimes we sneak in the house and look at it. And snicker. My brothers and I. We laugh and laugh because the painting is ugly. And because it is oh so deliciously fun to take a peek and know we are being naughty!

My brother and I are joking and laughing as we pedal down the road along our field. We decide to race. To the driveway that leads to the old house. We stop our bikes in the road. And line up side by side. Ready. Set. Go! The wheels on the bikes go round and round. Round and round. Round and round.

Fast! And fast! Go faster!

About halfway to the driveway, it happens. Like some strange dream. I see it. My brother’s bicycle tire. It goes wheeling across the road in front of me and bounces down into the ditch. It takes a second. For me to process what has happened. That his front tire has literally unhinged from his bike. In that same moment, I watch my brother’s body. Skidding along the pavement. Like a beach pebble. Skipping across the water. How many skips can you make? One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. When he stops skipping, he is skinned. From head to heel.

He is screaming. And crying. Sprawled out on the pavement. Blood. And tiny pebbles. And raised red and purple wounds. Cover his hands. And face. And arms. And knees. And legs.

My first response. Paralysis. Frozen. In disbelief. All the sound and movement and life around me has stopped. Paused. But it only lasts a second. Or two. My brother’s screams suck me back. To reality. To the moment. I jump off my bike and run to his side. I crouch down. I try to stay calm. But I can’t. I start to cry. When I look at his body. All mangled there on the road. Through his tears he tells me he is ok. That I need to go get our mom and dad. They are down the road. Visiting a neighbor. I help him get up. And hobble to the side of the road. To the edge of the ditch. He lies down there. And continues wailing. I pick up his bicycle. It’s as scuffed and broken as he is. It looks so strange there. In the middle of the road. With no front tire. Just some piece of junk. Not the bicycle of a boy who was riding it just moments ago.

I climb back on my bike and take off. I pedal. Hard. Tears streaming. And drying on my cheeks in the wind. When my bike hits the gravel of the neighbor’s driveway, I slam on my brakes. My bike skids sideways. I see my mom and dad. Standing outside of the barn. Next to the neighbor. I drop my bike and run. I don’t even care about the mean geese in the neighbor’s yard that always chase and try to attack me whenever I come over. I just run.

When I reach my mom and dad I have a full-blown meltdown. Of tears and panic and emotion. They tell me clam down. I try to explain what happened. That they need to come quickly! I sputter out an explanation. About the bicycle. And the tire rolling down into the ditch. And the wounds. And the horrible disaster of it all.

My mom and dad get in the car and go. I hop on my bike behind them. And pedal myself home. I cry the whole way. When I get there, my mom has my brother in the bathroom. She used to work as a nurse’s aide in the hospital. She is assessing his injuries. No broken bones. No wounds that need stiches. Just a lot of bad scrapes and bruises.

A short time later, I am sitting in the living room. I can hear my brother’s screams from the bathroom. “It burns! It burns!” My mom is trying to clean his wounds. And get the rocks out. I am still so upset. I hurt for my brother. Like so many other times, in so many other instances, I wish I could take his pain away. I think to myself, why does bad stuff happen? Why does life have to hurt so very much? I look up at the sky and I ask God these questions. But, there is only silence. He doesn’t answer.

A few weeks later, my brother’s wounds are almost fully healed. His front tire, and his banged-up bicycle, are at the dump. Lying in their grave. Where they will rust. And turn to dust. The naked lady in the painting is still leaning against the wall. Behind the broken-down sofa. In the old house. Everything is as if nothing happened.

But I’m still asking the same question. Why does bad stuff happen? Can someone please tell me why??

I will never get my answer in childhood. Or young adulthood. And maybe I don’t have the answer now. But here is my truth. This is what I know…

There is bad. And there is good. And they are two halves. Two halves that need each other. Two halves that, when put together, form a perfect, exquisite circle. You see, we need the bad. To show us how beautiful, and special, and precious the good is. If we never have the bad to wound us. And break us down. And take us low. And hurt us. On some level. How can we ever know how glorious the good is? The bad is a great, grand wizard. A teacher. And, in time, it is a gift. If you let it.

And the good? When you have it. You can let it hold you. And you can lift your face. And you can smile in its warm sunshine. And you can let it fill your heart with gratitude. And appreciation. And love. You can let it fill you until you think you will burst. But you must never forget. That the bad has also held you in its arms. And you will remember how it felt. And when you look at others. Even when they hurt you (and maybe especially when they do). You can recognize that we are all just humans. That we are all coming from something. From someplace. No matter how different we appear. We’re all just circular formations of our bad and our good. And, knowing that, you can offer others kindness. And empathy. And understanding. And love. You can share your special gifts. You can heal.

So, when the wheel rolled off my brother’s bike? It was there. Spinning across the road in front of me. The circle. The lesson. The universe. To teach me.

The good and the bad. They dance together. In a beautiful circle.

[theaquarianphoenix]

Pic: Me, age 2 or 3

                               STEALING

We are sitting around the supper table. In Northern Minnesota, the evening meal is called supper. And not dinner. We say it’s dinner time when we are eating lunch. I don’t know why. And, I guess this information is unimportant.

We are eating boiled macaroni noodles with hamburger and mushy, stewed tomatoes. It’s all mixed in together. I don’t like tomatoes, so I push them around and wedge them against the edge of my plate. I hunt for the macaroni first. And the hamburger after that. This is rather an ill thought out plan because, in this house, we must always clean our plate. So, despite my dislike of tomatoes, I will still have to eat them. And now without the macaroni or hamburger to help cover their yuck. I decide I am going to swallow large gulps of milk after I spoon in the tomatoes. Maybe that will help.

My cousin is here. He lives on a farm just up the road. He is standing in the kitchen. Over by the countertops. Next to the microwave. He is waiting there while we finish. My dad asked him if he would like to sit down and join us, but he said no because he already ate. I am not sure why he is here. Maybe to help my dad. Or to do something with my older brother.

There is a basket next to the microwave on the counter. It’s filled with “junk.” The junk is mostly stuff that comes from people’s pockets, like pennies and match books and Chapstick tubes and pieces of string. My cousin is mindlessly digging in the basket as he is standing there. I can hear the coins clinking against one another as he thumbs through them. In that moment, I don’t know why I say it. But I do. I think it’s because I am six years old and trying to be funny. I don’t mean any harm. But I say it. “Whatcha doin’ over there? Stealin’?”

Are you ready? Here it comes.

A hot flash of light. At the corner of my eye. My dad yells. “COLLEEN!!” Loudly. In his terrible, scary voice. In that same flash of light. It strikes. The lightning. He clobbers me. With his big hand. Across my head. Dizzy. The mean voice. “Don’t you ever say that again!” At the table. Stillness. Silence. Everyone looks down. Staring. At their plates. Paralyzed. Afraid. Me. Shaking. With terror. I stammer out the words. “I’m sorry.” He is looking at me. With those cold, hard eyes. In that crossed over place. That land of monsters and darkness and terrible screams and falling through the black sky forever and ever. A burning hot lump. Swelling. Inside my throat. Choking me. Hot tears. Clouding my eyes. The fear. The strongest. Always the strongest! Knocking my heart around. In my chest. Throwing it. With brute force. Against my ribs. Against my sternum.

My mind. Reeling. Is it over? Is it over? Please, let it be over. Is another blow coming? To knock me out of my chair? To let loose my bladder? To take away my breath? To steal all the light from the room?

Is it over?

BLACK.

I don’t remember what happens after that. It’s all fuzzy. In my mind. Like it is for many of these instances.

But I ask myself…

How did we move on in this moment? And the many moments like it? Did we choke down our food in silence and clear our plates? Did we resume conversation and pretend like nothing happened? Did we quietly disappear when our dad turned his head? How did we steal away from the fear? And the pain? Did we hide in the corner and cover our heads? Did we leave our bodies? And float into space? Did we grow wings and take flight? Did we dig a hole and burrow into the ground? Did we sneak off in the night and get lost in the darkness? Did we scream at the sky until our lungs burned red with fire? Did we walk off toward the horizon? Did we run? And run? And run? And run and run?

Yes.

We did.

[theaquarianphoenix]

                   The Edge of the World

Sometimes I don’t know why things happen. There is no beginning. And no end. No before. Or after. I am just wandering by. Floating. Along with the current. Of life. Of existence. And then. I am at the edge of the world. And… it just ends. Abruptly. Without warning. It drops off. And I am falling. Infinity. Through the black, cold sky…

Come with me, please. For just a moment. Take my hand. Hold it tight.

Ok. Here we go.

I am walking across the front yard. On a spring evening. Dusk. I see my dad. His back is toward me. I see my older brother. Standing in front of him. About 10 feet away. My dad is saying something to him. I can’t see his face. I can’t make out the words. It’s all just happening there. In my periphery. I am just me. Walking along. Happily. In my eight-year-old body. Carefree. Light. And simple. Drifting by, as the sun is going down behind the trees.

Are you there with me? Do you remember? That feeling? Of youth? Of innocence? Of abandon? Of utter purity and goodness? Close your eyes now. And drift. Are you smiling? Can you think back to the incredible, precious beauty of that time? Hold it there, for just a moment.

Now stop.

Quickly, open your eyes. Fly away. Fast!

Because the world just dropped off.

I see it. As I’m walking by. My dad has a hammer in his hand. And suddenly. He raises it. Ragefully. Yelling. He’s going to throw it at my brother. God, please?!?! My dads face. A terrible, twisted contortion. Red. A demon. Horror. My older brother. Shaking. Cowering. Instinctively, his hands up. Over his face. Screaming. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

Falling.

Falling.

Falling.

Falling.

Falling.

My dad doesn’t throw the hammer. It never leaves his hand. But it doesn’t matter. It may as well have. Because that hammer hit my older brother a thousand times. Just like it hit my mom. And my little brother. And my sister. And me. 

The edge of the world is ugly. And scary. And there is nothing. But the endless blackness…

And. A hammer.

At the edge of the world, there is a hammer.

[theaquarianphoenix]

Pic: My little brother and I. On the farm. In front of the chicken coop.

                         SWIRLING

We live in Michigan now. We moved here in June. Right after school let out for the summer. We sold our farm. And basically everything. Even the chickens.

We are renting a house. Right in town. In our new town. It’s big and ugly and shaped like a barn. The kitchen has dreadful, green countertops and cheap looking, rusty orange colored Berber carpeting. The basement is even worse. The carpet down there is gold. And shaggy. And it absolutely reeks of cat piss. I don’t like the house. I don’t like the way it feels. Something is wrong. It is dark. And sinister. I think that is why my dad is angry all the time. More than before. Ever since we got here, he is never happy. About anything. And he scares me more than ever. I try to stay out of his way.

I spend a lot of time upstairs. In my room. By myself. I think about the farm. A lot. I miss the trees. And the pond. And riding my bike down the road to the creek. I miss my friends, too.

But… I am trying to be happy. I have made two new friends. They are the girls who live next door. They are younger than me, but they are nice. We like to play Barbie dolls.

They are in the basement with me now. Playing. They don’t seem to mind the smell. At least, if they do, they don’t say it.

I head up the stairs. Toward the kitchen. To get us something to drink. I am going to make Kool-Aid. The purple kind. I open the cupboard, pull out the Kool-Aid packet, and take down the sugar. I find the pitcher and mix the packet with water. I’m going to add lots of sugar. So, it’s extra sweet. Just the way I like it!

My little brother comes through the door. He is 11. He is wearing shorts and a blue, mesh t-shirt. His dirty, white socks are pulled up to his knees. Their grayish color matches his grubby tennis shoes.

My dad is here. In the kitchen now. Even if I couldn’t see him, I would know he is here because the air got heavy. When I breathe in, my lungs fill with clouds. Mean, black clouds. Clouds that shoot lightening down my throat and stop my heart. And, like it always does when something bad is about to happen, everything starts swirling. Terrible, terrible swirling.

My little brother was late for his paper route today. That is not acceptable. And my dad is very, very mad.

He yells. In his yucky, scary voice. The voice that makes me feel sick inside. The voice that punctures my bladder and turns my bones to dust. Swirling. His scary voice has fists now. And they punch my little brother. Hard, mean swings that make a horrible sound when they hit his flesh. I watch them land. On his shoulders. On his arms. On his back. My brother is on the floor. In the fetal position. His hands over his head. He is screaming. And crying. But my dad is still pounding. My mom is here now. Where did she come from? Was she there all along? Swirling. It’s all still swirling. She tries to push my dad off my brother. She is screaming, too. “Stop! Please, stop! Leave him alone! Stop hitting him!” She is fighting now. Hitting my dad with her hands. He grabs her. By the shoulders. And slams her against the wall. The picture on the wall falls. Smash. He wraps his big, beefy fingers around her throat. Choking. He is choking her. He slams her head against the wall. My mom tries to push his hands away. Blood. On her lip. Swirling. My little brother is still on the floor. Curled up. He looks so small. And broken. A little caterpillar. Smoosh.

I am there. In the kitchen. Watching. Frozen. The fear. When it’s inside. It won’t let go. It holds me. So tight. So hard. So strong. I look at the counter. The Kool-Aid is there. Unfinished.  Like a jolt. I remember. The neighbor girls in the basement. PANIC! Can they hear this?!?! Please, God! Please! Swirling. So much swirling.

I run. Out of the kitchen. Frantically. Down the basement stairs. They are both there. Standing in the middle of the carpet. Confused. Unsure. Quickly, I tell them, “You need to go home. Now.” I grab them both by the arm. And pull them forward. Toward the stairs. I walk in front. Ahead. As fast as I can. At the top of the stairs, I open the back door. Then I move my body. Off to the side. Strategically. I block the entry to the kitchen. I say, “Go home.” I shut the door behind them. I don’t look back.

I don’t know what is happening in the kitchen now. There is only the swirling. Inside my body. In my head. In my heart. All around.

I tiptoe down the stairs. Back into the basement. Dizzy. And scared. Still, so scared. I don’t know what to do. So, I hide. Behind the sofa. I lie on the floor. Down low. As best as I can. I wedge myself. Up against it. And let it hold me. Until the swirling stops.

When the swirling goes away, I start to cry. I try to be quiet. Like a caterpillar. Like my little brother. I wrap myself up. In my arms. I sob and sob. I muffle the sounds. I push my face, and my tears, into the gold, piss-smelling, shag carpet.

I don’t like this house. It’s dark. And sinister.

And there is too much swirling.

[theaquarianphoenix]

                     FEAR

(a poem about self-discovery and truth)

Deep beneath the ground

With the rats in a cold, black cave

The truth was always hiding

I couldn’t look her in the face

But, slowly I parted my lips

To let a breath come in

And the air down in my throat

Took a note out to the wind

Now I sing into the sky

Though my voice quivers and it’s weak

I sing into the emptiness

I sing into the bleak

The cat out on the prowl

She knows exactly what to do

No question in her mind

She will always follow through

Though the bird might be her prey

The bird she has her wings

The bird does not fear death

That bird will keep on singing

But that lion in the bush

That tiger in the trees

That monster in my closet

They're all after me

Yet, the truth lies in the mirror

In that wave across my sea

In the water that is my soul

I must let that wave run free

I can stomp my feet

I can use my voice

I can clap my hands

I can make a choice

I am the lion

I am the cat

I am the bird

I am the rat

I am the tiger

And I am the trees

I am the monster

They are all me

[theaquarianphoenix]

Me (far left) and my siblings. In front of our fish (I should point out that those particular fish are not suckers. They are walleye. If you are from Minnesota, you will appreciate that there is a huge difference!).

                        Wild. And free.

There is a place. Where the creek and the river meet. We call it “the mouth.” And, in the springtime, it really does talk. The heavy, gushing waters have a lot to say. Its rust-colored flow thunders. Like a stampede. A wild beast. It cries. “Freedom!” You can feel its power. And the release. From its icy, quiet, winter lull.

Like the sky and the trees and the ground, the river. Is alive. With life. And, the mouth? In the springtime? Well, it’s the most magical place on earth. Because it’s where the suckers come. To do what they were created to do. To spawn. To “run.” To create life.

We are all loaded up. In the pickup truck. With our fishing poles. Me and my brothers and my sister and my mom and dad. And we are ready to go.

Two evenings ago, me and my brothers gathered worms. In preparation. For today. It was raining. And worms love the rain. Especially spring rain. That’s when they come up. From their little holes in the ground. To feel the cool drops of water. On their skin. The ditch across the road is full of moss. Thick, lush, bright green moss. And beneath it. Is black dirt. And that is where the worms live. In huge colonies. I reached my hand in the earth and pulled up a handful of wet moss. The worms were everywhere. They wiggled. And dove around. Right in that pile in my hand. Big, fat, juicy, nightcrawlers! The kind the robins like to gobble down. I watch them sometimes. Tip their heads back. And swallow greedily. I brought a plastic bucket. That my mom gave me. A special bucket. For collecting worms. I put some dirt and moss in the bottom. And started plucking. Right from the piles in my hands. So many worms! And today? We have plenty of bait for fishing.

To get to “the mouth,” we drive down a bumpy, muddy, dirt road. At the roads end, is a small field. We park the pickup there. Because we must walk the rest of the way. Through the woods. For half a mile. Me and my brothers jump out. With our fishing poles and our worm buckets. And we run. Down the path. As fast as we can!! I can hear it. The water rushing. In my view now.  The river at the mouth is wide. The brown water is strong. And powerful. It roils and boils. A big, hearty stew. A pot full of suckers.

I wrap a fat, squirmy nightcrawler on my hook. And drop in my line. Suckers don’t have teeth. They feed off the bottom. So, you need to use a sinker. To make sure the worm goes down. All the way to the bottom.

I ease my line in. When I feel it hit the bottom, I gently jiggle my pole. Like my dad taught me. Up and down. To make the worm move. To draw attention. To my hook.

And just like that. Wham! I have a bite. A hard jerk. And he’s on!

I reel him in. It is such fun! I am beaming. And full of joy. I yell. “Look mom! I already caught one!” My older brother helps me. He gets the net. As it comes to the surface, we get a good view. What a beauty! My brother helps me take it off the hook. I hold it up. To show him off. Look at me everybody! I caught the first one! We put it on a stringer. And let him float there. In the water. On the edge of the current.

Everyone is catching them now. And it’s a glorious, splendid, unforgettable spring day!

We hop from rock to rock. Me and my brothers. Trying new spots to fish. My brother gets hung up. Snagged. On a log. Or maybe a rock. I watch him. He tugs and tugs. And suddenly. His line releases. He stumbles. Backward. And the line flies back. We all look. Mouths gaping. Astonished. It wasn’t a snag. On the end of his line is a fish! And not a sucker either. But a MOONEYE! I have never seen a mooneye before. And I think it’s the most beautiful fish I’ve ever seen. We lay it on the ground. And stare at its shimmery, silver scales. It is thin. Like a wafer. And almost translucent. It has big, round silver eyes. And they really do look like the moon.

A few hours later, we eat our lunch. Sandwiches. And Old Dutch potato chips. The kind that come in a big box. We have cans of soda pop, too. The cheap stuff. From the Holiday gas station. But I don’t care. The grape one is my favorite.

After lunch, we fish a bit longer. Until we catch our limit. And then, it’s time to go home. Together, we all carry the fish and the fishing gear and the cooler back to the pickup.

We are home now. And the process begins. My dad takes a fish out of the water-filled cooler, and sets it up. On the table. The table is an old electrical spool that is tipped on its side. It makes the perfect, round table. I watch my dad take his knife and cut the fish. Into filets. There is a rusty, old refrigerator in the yard. By the garage. It’s the old-fashioned kind. That looks puffy, and has a lever that you pull down to open. My dad has turned it into a smoker. That’s how he’s going to cook the suckers. He’s going to put them in the old fridge and smoke them.

My dad picks up a sucker and notices something. On its side. It looks like a sore. Or a wound. He thinks we shouldn’t eat it. He says it’s “No good.” There is a rusty barrel nearby. He tosses it in. Trash.

I stand there. In silence. And listen. I can hear the fish in the barrel. Flopping around. Just slightly. He is still alive. And I feel it. Inside of me. Like a cattle prod. Compelling me. And nothing matters now. Except this feeling. This overwhelming feeling that tells me I have to help. That I must save him.

I back away from the table. Because I don’t want my dad to see. To disapprove and try and stop me. He is busy. Cleaning the fish. And talking to my mom and my brothers. So, I seize the moment. When he turns his back. I reach into the barrel, grab the fish, and run. As fast as I can! To the ditch.

There is lots of water there. In the ditch. Fresh, cold, spring rain water. Quickly, I submerge him. And move him back and forth. By his tail. I watch his gills. Flow open as I pull him toward me under the water. All pink and fleshy inside. He is weak. And barely alive.

I stay with him in the ditch. Moving him back and forth in the water. For a while. Until his gills open and close. Slowly. But on their own. I try to think of what to do. If I leave him in the ditch he won’t survive. But where?? And, then it comes. The answer. The creek. I must get him to the creek!

I have to leave him in the ditch. To get my bicycle. On the way, I grab an old canvas bag. I’m going to carry him in it. When I return to the ditch a few minutes later, I’m relieved. He is still there. In the same position. His gills moving slowly. In and out. Breath. Life.

I look up to the sky. And say a little prayer. It’s one mile to the creek. “God? Please help me keep him alive. Let him live.”

I lift him out of the water, and put him in my bag. And…I’m off.

I run. Fast! Like a deer! To my bicycle. And I pedal. Hard. With all my might. With my heart and my guts and my bones. With a sucker, fighting for his life, in the canvas bag slung over my shoulder.

The creek is at the bottom of a hill on a gravel road. At the top, I give my pedals one last, hard push. And let gravity take me down. Flying. I am flying! Hurry, little bird. You must hurry!  

I reach the bottom and slam on my brakes. My bike skids sideways. I jump off and let it fall to the ground. Right where I stopped. It’s 20 feet to the creek. I sprint down. Frantically, I open the bag, and grab the sucker. I crouch down. Next to the water. And ease him in. I hold him by his tail. Moving him back and forth. Like before. Letting the water fill his lungs.

Like the river, the creek is high and moving fast. From the spring thaw. It's icy cold. And my hands are numb. And aching. But it doesn’t matter. I won’t let him die.

I nurse him there. At the waters edge. Until I think the cold water will crack my limbs and carry them away. I pull him toward me. For the last time. And let the water give him one more breath. Then I open my fingers. And…I let go.

A pause. A moment. Suspended. I fill my lungs. With air. And hold it there. Hoping. Then… swoosh. A gentle flick of his tail. I watch him disappear. Gracefully. Beneath the iron-brown water.

I stay crouched there. By the creek. With my arms around my knees. And smile. I watch the water rush by. And let it fill my heart. I think about how beautiful it was. To watch him swim away. Wild. And free.

It’s funny how that experience - that moment - is still so vivid in my mind. Oh, how precious and poignant it was. Don’t we all have a wound? A sore. A struggle along the way. It’s true, isn’t it? We are all just trying to survive. To find our way. And along the path, we need each other. To carry us sometimes. To the river. Down to the creek. To hold us in the water. And help us breathe. And when we find our gills, to let go. Because, from there, it’s up to us. And, that’s the gift that matters most. And, the hardest of all. To find that place in our hearts. That place of love and light and goodness and unrestraint. That wide-open space. That wide-rushing river. Where we are at the most genuine truth of who we are. Without all the shackles. Where we can swim away. Even in the murkiest water. Swoosh! Wild and free.

[theaquarianphoenix]

                   A bucket of jellybeans

This is my year. I just know it. FINALLY! It’s going to happen!

It’s Easter Sunday. And we are all here. At my Grammie’s farm house. Me and my family. And all my aunts and uncles and cousins. There are a lot of us.

We are lined up. Us kids. Next to my Grammie’s porch. There is a purple egg. In plain sight. Sitting on the pole. On top of the clothesline. Who will reach it first?!

My uncle says the words… Ready. Set. GO!!! And we are off!

My older cousin is already climbing the pole. He’s going to get the purple egg. Because he is bigger and stronger than me. But it’s ok. Because there are lots more eggs to find. They are hidden. Everywhere. All around my Grammie’s farm. And there are so many hiding places! The yard, the garage, the smokehouse, the barn, the pond, the fields, and on and on.

So, I make off. On my own. To hunt.

But, it’s not the eggs I am thinking about. Nope! There is something bigger. Something better. Something I have always wanted. Forever and ever. For as long as I can remember. And this year. I have a real chance. Because, for the first time. The Easter bunny came to Grammie’s. And I can feel it. I’m going to get one. A REAL Easter basket!

In case you didn’t already know, a real Easter basket is big. And woven. With colors of pink and yellow and blue and green and white. Inside it, are lots of different Easter chocolates. The chocolates are wrapped in pastel-colored foil. In the shape of eggs and bunnies. There is green and pink Easter grass. Tucked inside. All around. And some of the grass pokes out on top. And the candy is pressed in. Entangled. All around. Mounds and mounds of it! The basket is full of interesting gifts. Like colored pencils. Or new shoelaces. Or a stuffed animal. Or a cassette tape of my favorite music. But most importantly. There are NO jellybeans! Absolutely none.

You see, I hate jellybeans. I mean, I really, really hate them. I hate their grainy, sugar sensation in my mouth. I hate the way their chewy, jelly center sticks to my teeth. I hate their yucky, weird, neon, artificial colors. And, I hate the way they taste. Cheap. And dirty. Like they were already sucked on. And spit out in the sand. And left there to crystallize. In the hot, hot sun.

And that is why, I truly don’t understand the Easter bunny. At all. Despite my very strong feelings about jellybeans. He keeps bringing them to me. Every. Single. Year. Like liver and onions for dinner. Or the way my dad puts raw, shredded potatoes in my pancakes. YUUUUUCK!!!!

I mean, isn’t the Easter bunny supposed to be all knowing? Like Santa Claus? Doesn’t he hear my prayers? Doesn’t he know how much I despise jellybeans?

I just don’t understand.

And, it gets worse. He always delivers the jellybeans in the same, old “basket.” And, it’s not a basket. It’s an empty ice cream pail. And once, an old, Tupperware bowl from our kitchen. There’s no colorful, plastic Easter straw. To make it pretty. Or special. It’s just. Empty.

Why does he bring other kids a real Easter basket? A special Easter basket? Why do I get a bucket? A castoff. A piece of trash. That rattles with the very things I dislike the most?

Do you see it now? My dilemma. My confusion. My pain. My why?!

But, not this year. This year. Is my year.

I am determined.

I have searched the entire yard. The barn. And the garage. To no avail. I am anxious. But still resolved.

So, I continue on. And walk past the smokehouse. To its side, is a large propane tank. Grass is sprouting up. In shaggy tufts. All around it. As I get closer. I catch a glimpse. Of something shiny. And plastic. Glinting. In the sun. I rub my eyes. And squint them tighter. Into focus now. Can it be real?? Can this truly be happening?? I hold my breath. And there it is.

My heart is pounding. The ecstasy! In my view. The woven basket handle. Brilliant with pastel colors!!! The Easter goodies. Delightful and abundant. And bursting over the sides! The Easter straw. Radiant and pink. And fluffed up all around! Like a collar of peacock feathers! And on the very top? A stuffed, yellow bunny!!

Out of the sky. A beam of light. Shining down. On the basket. Like a gift from the heavens. My heart is exploding! And shooting off rainbows!

I run. Toward the light. Toward the basket! MY BASKET!!!!! My legs and arms sprout wings. I am a beautiful, orange butterfly. A fire in the sky!! Music now. Playing loudly. From nowhere. And yet, from everywhere. “Chariots of Fire.” A symphony. An opus. From the universe. To memorialize this one, long-awaited moment!!!

I am almost there now. My basket. Is… so close. Almost in my grasp. I can taste the sweet chocolates. I can smell the artificial, pink grass. I can feel its scratchy woven sides in my arms! I will lift it high and dance. Like a wildflower in the wind!

And then…

Out of nowhere. One of my uncles. From inside the smokehouse. He yells. With his arm out.

“Stop! That. Is. NOT. Yours!”

Vertigo. Dizziness. No sound. Just blackness. Blind. I am blind! Dirt. On top of me. In my mouth. Buried. In a hole. There is no air. Please, God! There is no air!

A short time later. I find it. My Easter basket. The one the Easter bunny intended for me. It's a ratty, old, Tupperware bowl. And they are there. Like some graveyard of brittle, yellowed bones. Jellybeans. Lots and lots of jellybeans.

Did I ever tell you that I hate the Easter bunny?

And, more than that, I hate jellybeans.