How many times have you stood at the finish line only to focus on the exhaustion of the moment and stop for a drink of water, losing precious time? How many times have you nearly finished a journey only to quite just before you’ve finished? More directly, how many times have you given up just before breakthrough?
As for me, I can tell you I have given up before breakthrough countless times. Continue reading
Tag Archives: women
Journey to 13.1 Miles
…and this is why I keep going!
Carnations!
It was a simple college assignment; observe a live performance of a full symphony. How easy is that? I’d never seen a live symphony; I’d barely been to the movie theater before college.
I booked it; two tickets, one for myself and one for the person I wanted to share it with, my mother. She had struggled so hard and for so long raising four children on a shoestring budget, I thought it was a nice change of pace. My mother, the ultimate church pianist, loved music, and taking her to a full orchestra seemed like a great thank you.
When we arrived in the theater, I knew instantly we were out-of-place. Don’t get me wrong, we looked great in our new spring attire. Fortunately we had dressed for the occasion despite never having been there before, but everyone else was in black. My brightly colored dress and mom’s cheerful pink silk blouse stood out like a couple of mules in a horse corral.
Nonetheless, we made our way through the crowd that looked more like mourners than music aficionados. We took our seats in the large auditorium, delighted by the sound of the stringed section warming up. A very large man squeezed next to me and I tried to make myself smaller to accommodate his …well, his girth. My mom looked at me and I could see that twinkle in her eyes as her face reddened from holding in the laughter as the portly man cleared his throat over and over.
Oh God, I’m in for it, I thought.
Still very young, and barely striking out on my own, I still had the awkwardness adolescence that caused me to turn inward rather than just surrender to the moment. So I tried to get smaller in my space, clenching my program in my white knuckled fists praying my mom wouldn’t burst into the full-blown belly laughter she’s known for.
After endless minutes squeezing myself into the tiny allotted space with the big man’s arm sloppily hanging over my side of the armrest into my space, the lights dimmed and the orchestra began to play.
Finally, I would get to take mental notes on my favorite instrument, the Timpani, and listen as the full string section performed. It was like nothing I’ve heard before as the sounds completely enveloped my senses. I relaxed against my seat, thankful my mother was as captivated as I was.
I was pleasantly surprised by the enormous choir that began to belt out powerfully in unison with the musicians. I glanced down at my program and read, Mormon Tabernacle Choir.
I looked up and wondered about the people standing on stage. One woman in particular got my attention. She was standing with the tightest bustier I’d ever seen. I thought she would choke as her bosom perched high atop her chest. Even stranger was how the cleavage highlighted the velvet-black choker necklace with the black carnation, nearly as big as a large hand, against her throat.
My eyes fixed on the giant flower and it began to move! The flower jutted up and down in quick sharp movements as the woman began to belt out the loudest opera song I’d ever heard. I tore my gaze away in shock to my mother only to be greeted with an equally shocked and red-faced grin.
Suddenly, the hundreds of operatic battles mom and I had in our tiny apartment-sized kitchen came to mind. We’d dueled a time after time in our fake opera voices, belting out in silly songs trying to out-duel the other. The first to laugh was always the looser. I felt like that now as the theater became silent except for the solo opera singer’s deep, ear-splitting vibrato.
I looked away quickly and stared at the flower moving furiously as the slow methodical melody came bursting forth. It sounded like a funeral dirge, not the happy or passionate opera of Pretty Woman the ten times I’d seen it.
I bit my lower lip hard and tried to keep the corners of my mouth from turning upward. I read the cover of my crinkled program, Verdi’s Requiem . I had no idea what that meant. Darn Italian.
I shouldn’t have. I wish I hadn’t. I looked over at my mother. Her almost white-blond hair bounced up and down in unison with her shoulders and her face was red as she began snickering, wheezing, and attempting desperately to keep in the sounds of her awkward laughter.
Again we exchanged a glance and it came flooding out…hisses, snorts, shoulder’s shaking, all in a futile attempt to contain the laughter now leaking out. The big man’s arm disappeared and I suddenly had more space now.
As the slow dirge continued, the loud opera singer’s over-sized Carnation moved slower and slower with each note and her cleavage heaved up and down repeatedly with each greedy breath. It was clear now why everyone had been dressed in black; this was a funeral dirge. Verdi’s Requiem the famous Opera that is set at a Roman Catholic funeral mass.
Needless to say, we took our brightly colored clothing and offensive laughter outside to the car at the first intermission laughing inconsolably all the way there.
I haven’t been to an Opera or bought Carnations since!
Really? What Are You, Blind? Get Out!
Did you ever wonder why people stay in abusive relationships? Did you ever wonder how they could have been so blind in the first place as to get into one? For someone with perspective on the outside of the destruction, it’s easy to want to scream at the victim, Really? What are you-blind? Get out! Yet abuse victims often fail to recognize they are entrenched in a caustic cycle until they are either ready to see it, or until the abuse is so blatant that they can no longer ignore it.
Think it only happens to welfare recipients or impoverished families? As a survivor of domestic violence, one who spent the better part of her childhood praying my mother wouldn’t be murdered by my father, I can tell you the violence crosses many boundaries: including economic lines. I know first-hand, the most dangerous time for a spouse being victimized is during the breakup. Kim Conover, a forty three year old mother of four, including two 21-month-old twins, worked as an elementary school teacher and was murdered by her husband outside the divorce attorney’s office. Susan Cox was likely a victim of her husband’s selfish abuse and twisted mind. You might recognize the name, Josh Powell, the young father who is believed to have killed his young wife and then, in a planned murder-suicide, killed his two young sons. These families were as middle-class as it gets.
If you were to have passed either of these young, wholesome-looking families as they posed for smiling pictures for Facebook or stood by them in the grocery store, would you have never imagined the horrific futures they would have faced. I can imagine that my path may have crossed victim’s unknowingly; perhaps I talked to them as they masked the pain of their daily life with polite banter.
I’m certain that the the once smiling brides and grooms, in love and having children together, could have never imagined such a fate as a violent death or the harsh reality of the struggle for power that comes with abusive relationships. Those looking from the outside may ask,Didn’t you see it in them? The truth is, some people are good at masking certain behaviors and some people are not good at recognizing dangerous behaviors until those behaviors become impossible to ignore. Society puts a lot of pressure on the victim to see the truth and do something about it. In truth, they should but why does it take a murder to realize just how dangerous the situation was? What if these victims had support before tragedy? What if they’d had good advice and real help getting out safely?
Yes, it’s easy to blame. Keep this in mind when your tempted to do so. Kim Conover was denied a restraining order just before her murder and Susan Cox had a prophetic notion outlined in a note, later found in a safety deposit box, accusing her husband of her murder should it ever happen.
Since most abuse is about control, leaving is the most dangerous time for an abused partner.
Get this straight, I would NEVER say don’t leave to a victim-never! Leaving is dangerous, but so is living with an abuser. However, I would never give foolish, vengeful advice to someone who is afraid for their life like, just get up the guts and tell him where to stick it. Take everything and get the hell out.In domestic abuse cases, this can be deadly council
I heard an emergency room doctor once say, “When people come in and say they don’t want to die, it’s because they are dying.” Abuse victims feel fear, because they have reason to be afraid.
In education, I see this time and time again; fearful spouses and kids. I remember feeling fear as a child myself; however after many years healing and taking charge of my own life, I began to build up a hard shell. I’ve felt the frustration of looking into a woman’s tear-filled eyes as she described her impossible plight and thinking…Get smart; get out! How easy it is to forget that people may need much help to do that.
For my mother and I, our escape came in the form of several women trained in domestic violence counseling. They risked their own safety to meet us close to our home. We walked, suitcases in hand, to meet them and drive away to freedom. Without those women, we may have not made it. While it took much longer for mindsets to change, we were physically safe at a location that housed us, clothed us, and fed us in secret-away from the danger. Because of those women, my mother was able to keep leaving a secret, gather a small stash of money, and even take a few sentimental items; though not much else. Had those people not intervened, it may have turned out as many new headlines do. This is the memory I hold on to when the hard shell threatens to make me forget how volatile these households often are.
If you know someone who is fearful of a partner or suspect abuse, reserve the judgement, the dangerous advice, and the temptation to quit on them. Instead, give them a phone number; it could save their life.
National Domestic Violence Hotline
1-800-799-SAFE (7233)
Sources:
Trust: a Fragile Force
It’s never more heartbreaking than to see an old and dear friend, a friend who had once a pivotal part of your life, one who meant as much to you as any family member could have, and feel the distance-of-heart which has become even greater than that of a stranger.
The purposeful cloaking of the authentic-self takes place and distance grows. Authenticity is lost.
“How are you?”
“I’m fine.”
“It’s good to see you.”
“You too. Take care.”
Obviously these well-wishes are not all bad. In fact, I rather enjoy the banter with co-workers and friends. However, one nagging thought keeps haunting. When did that surface talk become the most and best communication among friends? How is it that those walls go up?
I can recall a time in life, a much earlier time, when this was a topic opener and what followed was conversation that revolved around the truth of a circumstance, a hope for the future, and a shared concern among friends.
I’m certain this is why I enjoy teenagers so much. They have it all; meaningless chatter but an authenticity that allows you to see beyond the veil.
“Who am I? I am exactly this!” says the teenage soul. It is the cry of generations of kids and the longing wish of their parents.
It isn’t the chatter itself that is to blame for the cold distance. It is the unsaid sentiments that lead to the cloaking of true identity. It is the lack of trust, confidence, and faith in another person. Sadly, this can happen even when unprovoked. Trust is a fragile force.
As recent news has surfaced about senators recovering from gunshot wounds and how this senator’s eyes opened in a hospital room filled with friends and a spouse perched at her bedside, I’ve wondered, along with many others, the role family and friends play in our own lives. This is in no way meant to discount the total and absolute miracle this is, but God did place people in our lives for a reason didn’t he?
Relationships with true friends, imperfect but authentic friends, are worth cultivating.
I was reminded of this as I visited the home of a woman in her sixties, diagnosed with a terminal brain tumor. Her days had been numbered by doctors, her physical body suffering the effects of cancer and its treatment. Yet, this frail and barely 100 pound woman, dressed in bright colors and sporting a baseball cap to cover a balding head caused by multiple hours of chemotherapy, lurched from her seated position to welcome each visitor as her life-long friends arrived one by one.
I marveled at the truth in their glances.
Their conversations were much like the surface chatter you might hear in any workplace or grocery store, with one exception, the warmth in their voices and exchange in glances told me everything I needed to know about them. They were friends that appreciated every moment together.
Sure, there were some unsaid sentiments like…
“I love you. What will I do without you when you leave this world? Please spend just a few more hours with me because you and I have been the witnesses of each others lives. Who will I talk with when you go? Don’t leave me, my wonderful friend. You make me smile.”
Anyone in the room would have understood.
Tired only a few moments earlier, this woman was out walking up and down the rows of condos where they lived and making dinner plans with great enthusiasm. You would have never imagined the seriousness of her diagnosis or her frail state in those moments.
Today, I’m taking a second look at my friendships, the friends who have been witness to my life, and the friends who will continue to speak truth into my life and allow me to speak truth into theirs. I am so grateful for the meaningful and authentic friendships that have helped to shape who I am.
Thank you, friends.
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