Madam Genevieve

It was little more than a tent, set off to the side of the carnival, away from the throngs of people.  It bore only a small wooden sign, hung from a rusty pole, that squeaked eerily in the evening breeze. “Madam Genevieve’s Tarot Readings and Spiritual Guidance”.

Kayla pushed aside the heavy brocade curtain and peered in.  The room was dim.  It reeked of incense with the faint undertone of mildew.  The walls were covered in the same heavy curtains that concealed the door and the floor was bare to the grass below.  A small wooden table and two chairs were centered in the room, under an elaborate chandelier dripping with crystals and candles.

Kayla chuckled to herself and prepared to enjoy the show.

Madam Genevieve waited a full minute before swirling into the room.  She was a riot of colors and textures, sensual and sleek.  Her flowing skirt pooled and shimmered, and the bells aroundoptical communications her ankles chimed with each sinuous step she took.

“Come, my dear.  Be seated” Madam Genevieve intoned.  Her voice was deep and rich, full of mystery. “You seek answers, and I shall help you find that which you need to know.  But remember this… you will not receive that which you do not require.  Some things in our lives must remain a mystery for there to be any happiness and desire to continue pursuit.”

Kayla did her best not to roll her eyes. She moved to the table, stifling a cough as a wisp of incense assaulted her nose.  The chair was no more comfortable than it looked, and Kayla shifted from side to side awkwardly.

Madam Genevieve sat down with a flourish and produced a pack of tarot cards.  She pointed to a small fishbowl sitting empty on the side of the table.  “The spirits require a small token of your willingness to believe before they will agree to help you in your quest.”

Kayla dug a few bills from her pocket and dropped them into the empty bowl.

“Good.  Let us begin.”  Madam Genevieve quickly cut the deck of cards and shuffled them together.  She fanned them out across the table top, touching each card briefly and smiling to herself.

“You must clear your mind of everything but your one true question.  If you do not have a question, then simply clear your mind and my spirits will reveal their will to you.”

Kayla nodded once to indicate that she was ready.

“Good.  Good, my darling.  Now, you must choose five cards.  Run your hands over them and stop only when you feel the kiss of the spirit.  You will know then that they have chosen the cards of your destiny.”

Kayla quickly pulled five cards from the deck and thrust them toward Madam Genevieve.

“Really?  So quickly you felt the hand of my guides?  You must have a strong future ahead of you.  Let us see.”

With the swipe of a hand, Genevieve cleared the table of the remaining cards.  She flipped each of Kayla’s cards face up and placed them in a straight line in the center of the table.

“I must now meditate on the meaning of these cards.  I ask you for absolute silence while I begin to reveal the nature of your destiny.”

Kayla resisted the urge to drum her fingers on the table top as she waited for Madam Genevieve to open her eyes.  Instead, she concentrated on peering into the dark corners of the tent.

Madam Genevieve did not open her eyes, but simply began to speak in a quiet, flat voice.  “You have seen the heartache, my dear.  That man just isn’t ready.  You need to stop your pushing, he won’t change for you and he won’t make you happy until he finds his way.  Too long you have already stayed, hoping for a new start.  You are a fool.  You must stand and walk away.  Give him the chance to follow.  If you are always pursuing him, then he must continue to retreat.  Only when you stop and pursue yourself, will you find what you seek in him.”

Kayla blinked in surprise.  The hairs on the back of her neck prickled and stood on end.  She didn’t understand everything Madam Genevieve had just said, but she certainly recognized Martin in those words.

“How could you possibly know that?  And why didn’t you read my cards.  Look, I pulled the five of Pentacles and the Hanged Man and the three of Swords, and whatever those other two cards are.  What do they mean?”

Madam Genevieve simply shrugged.  “I don’t know, my lovely one.  Sometimes the spirits give me messages that are far more important than the cards you have pulled.  You must go and reflect on what the spirit world has given you.  They have been generous, and have blessed you with advice.  I suggest you take it.  Now, I must rest.  Communicating with the great beyond is terribly taxing.”  She stood abruptly and strode from the room.

Kayla sat quietly, staring at the cards still sitting in the center of the table.  “I have indeed been a fool.  I should never have come in here.”  Kayla rose and started for the door, before remembering the money sitting in the fish bowl on the table.  She quickly dug it back out and stalked from the room.  She’d lost her desire for the circus.  She was going home; back to Martin to give it all one more try.

Death March

There are exactly 514 steps between me and the end of my life.  I know this because I’ve made the journey before.  I’ve walked this path eleven times, once each month since my lover died.  It is always the same.  Only 514 steps until I must choose.  This twelfth time, my choice will be different.

The moon is shining tonight.  It is so bright that I can hardly bear to lift my eyes from the ground, yet even there its reflection twinkles back at me from the wet leaves on the path.  It mocks me.  I know this deep in my soul.  The moon laughs merrily at the folly of the broken-hearted.  It taunts with a keen-edged beam.

I watch my feet instead, counting each step.  My bare toes sink into the mud, and the Earth holds me fast, begging me to travel no further.  The force of grief is greater than the pull of the Mother and I break from the sucking ground.

I shed my jacket, determined to feel the moment.  The bite of icy wind assaults my skin.  It pushes me back, always back, toward the pain and endless solitude.  I lean into it, fighting to gain ground against my bitter foe.  This is my death march, and I will not be deterred tonight.  With head lowered, I advance toward the enemy.

The air is changing.  It is moist and clingy and filled with the stench of briny water.  The ground falls away to a craggy bank.  I hover on the edge of darkness while the chaos of the pounding waves taunts me.  My journey has ended and my choice has begun.

Below, I see the torturous slide into his death.  I feel the sharpness of the rocks as they tear into his skin.  I hear the snap of breaking bones and I taste the agony of my lover’s last breath.  One slip, one step, and my choice would be made.

I now know that tonight will not be different.  My pilgrimage has been in vain.  The pain below is somehow worse than that which haunts my days.  Eleven times I have come to the same conclusion.  Eleven times I have retreated, retraced 514 steps to the hell of daylight.  I turn once more; ready to begin another journey home.

The icy wind must be tired of my constant indecision, for it gives one final thrust against my weary body.  I slide quietly into the darkness; into my lover’s waiting arms.  The choice has been made.

Pageant Chatter

Look at that little tart up there, strutting her stuff like some street-walking tramp. I’m telling you, Cassie, she’s the one to beat. That dress alone could win the competition, all sequins and rhinestones. It’s fluffy in all the right places. Certainly hides that bubble-butt of hers. If the judges only knew what kind of junk she was carrying in that trunk, they disqualify her in a heartbeat. Alright, there she goes on her final walk, cross your fingers for a trip. Come on, just a little stumble, a wobble even. Damn, no such luck. Well, she still has to get through her speech and the talent section.

Did you talk to her before she went out? Psych her out a bit? I chatted her up over lunch. Playfully reminded her about that slip-up she had in the Georgia competition last month. You know, when she got tongue-tied and couldn’t remember that all she wanted was world-peace and a home for every puppy? A repeat performance of that little faux pas would put us in the running for the crown for sure.

Ah, don’t look at me like that. I don’t care if she is your best friend. This is war, child. You hope like hell she fails and trips up on that stage. You can console her later over hot cocoa and teddy bears. Right now, she is the enemy and you better hope she falls on her face if you want that pretty little crown.

Now, go fluff your hair, it needs to be bigger. No, bigger still. Damn it child; don’t brush out all the curls. You’ve spent the last forty minutes in curlers. Don’t undo all our hard work! Give me the brush. I swear you’d never win a single pageant if I wasn’t here to make you pretty. There, perfect pageant hair.

Here’s the tape. Try to give yourself some cleavage, then pad the hell out of your bra. We need to make you look like you have some kind of curves. I still can’t believe you are nearly flat-chested at twelve. I swear, when I was your age I already had curves in all the right places and I knew how to shake it like a champ. I won every pageant I entered. I was a champion. Damn your father, and those stick-straight genes he gave you. Well, at least you’ve got great legs. Look at those things, long and lean. The judges will be drooling by the time you get to the end of the runway, especially when you strap on the heels.

Don’t forget to put Vaseline on your teeth. I want those pearly whites to blind them when you shoot your mega-watt smile. Remember, not too big. I don’t want you looking like a horse out there.

OK, one last look. Yes, just perfect. Put on your heels and walk for me. We don’t have much time now. She’s just finishing her speech. Ha! Did you hear that? She just mispronounced one of the judge’s names. They’ll take points off for that. And she forgot to answer the second half of the question. Rookie mistake. I don’t know how she pulled off the crown in Florida last June. Pure luck, I tell you. Pure luck.

She’s grabbing her guitar now. If I have to hear that simpering warble of hers one more time I swear I’ll be sick. I mean, her voice is nice enough, but all of her songs are so sugary sweet. No need to worry this time, though. Mama came through on Operation Guitar String. I gave those strings a good tweaking. She’ll be singing the blues in a few moments. Oh! Goodness! I must have tightened them down more than I thought. Three strings just snapped. Wow! I’m better than I thought. Well, that concludes the talent portion of her show and puts a pretty little bow on our chances of winning.

Wait, here she comes. Oh, poor little baby is barely holding it together. Here come the tears. Let’s see if she can keep it together till she hits the curtain. No! I’ve got a better idea. Quick Cassie, run out to the side of the stage and give her a hug. Put on a big show of support for the poor little dear. Make sure the judges see you; they give extra points for compassion.

Perfectly played, my dear, perfectly played. Now, you’re next. Get out there and wow those judges. Bring home that crown for Mama.

My youngest daughter was born with no sight in her left eye.  She has a condition called “microphthalmia”.   It literally means “little eye”.  There is no known cause of it and it isn’t genetic.  It just happens.  At 3 weeks old, she went in for surgery.  There was no hope of restoring vision as the back structures of the eye did not form properly, but they were able to fix some of the issues that were stopping her eye from growing.

I knew that her left eye would always be smaller than her right, but I didn’t know by how much (still don’t, as both eyes are continuing to grow).  Children can be cruel, and I knew that she was probably going to be teased in school.  I became determined to bring her up with as much self-esteem as possible.  I had a bit of help in that department, because God blessed her with the most amazing personality I have ever witnessed.  She literally lights up a room.  You can’t help but smile when she engages you.

My daughter, at about 5 months old

We are now five years later.  My baby with the “little eye” has grown into this amazing child with a will of steel.  Through it all, there is one fear that has stayed with me - that one day she will look in the mirror and hate what she sees.  Just typing that .. right now.. still makes my breath catch.

Just recently, I’ve had a glimpse of the future.  Because she doesn’t wear her glasses to gymnastics, her little eye is quite visible.   The other girls on the team told her that her little eye “twitches”… and now my sweet girl is feeling self-conscious.  She stares into the mirror and tries to catch her little eye twitching.  She asks me over and over, “is my little eye twitching right now?”.

How do you handle this?  What can you say to a five year old?  How can you build a wall of self-esteem that her peers won’t be able to break down?  How can you make her see that she is so much more than just her “little eye”.

I did the only thing I could, for now.  I reminded her that even though God gave her a little eye, He also gave her so many other amazing attributes.  He blessed her with the ability to bring joy to every person she meets.  He honored her with wit and charm and a quick-thinking brain to help her succeed.  And, even with her little eye, He blessed her with beauty.  Sure, her little eye is different from other people’s eyes, but it doesn’t lessen how beautiful she is.

My daughter at 5 years old

That poem spoke to me.  I rewound the tape to listen again and again.  It touched my heart and awoke a love of poetry that has never died.  I recited the poem to everyone I knew and was so excited to find out that it was written by Robert Frost.  Imagine my surprise when my English class studied “Stopping By The Woods on a Snowy Evening”.   I found out that my favorite poet had so much more to offer.

I quickly became consumed with all things Frost, and my parents surprised me with a compilation book of his poetry.  I still have that book, and now I share my favorites with my children.

Nothing Gold Can Stay is still tops on my list, but Robert Frost has created so much beautiful and thoughtful poetry.  A few others to read and consider are:  Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening, Design (another of my favs!), Mending Wall, and The Pasture.  These are only a few… there are so so so many others.

Who are the poets or writers who touched your life?  Can you remember that first moment when a beautifully written word took your breath away?  Please share. 
For those who aren’t familiar with the poem, or for those who just want to relive its beauty, here it is:

мебели софияNothing Gold Can Stay
by: Robert Frost

Nature’s first green is gold
Her hardest hue to hold
Her early leaf’s a flower
But only so an hour

Then leaf subsides to leaf
So Eden sank to grief
So dawn goes down to day
Nothing gold can stay

A sharp rap sounded on the door, followed by the gruff voice of Frank Mulrooney.
“Get up.  Leaving in 5 minutes, whether you’re dressed or not.”

Liza groaned and buried her head under the pillow.  Frank pushed the weathered door inward and entered the room.

After 65 years of living on the ocean, Frank’s face was a mess of wrinkles and leathery skin.  What little hair he had left was slicked straight back away from his face, and his clothes hung loosely on his lanky frame.  Liza rolled to the edge of the bed and stared mutinously into his hard eyes.

In one smooth motion, Frank reached out, grasped her hand, and pulled her from the bed.

“You been sulking since you got here.  Ain’t no good gonna come from that.  I’m taking you out in the Seadog.  Get ready.”

He strode from the room and within minutes Liza heard the roar of Seadog’s engine.

“Crazy old coot,” she muttered, as she slipped into a ratty shirt.

The mid-day sun beat down on the deck of the boat as Frank maneuvered out of the slip.  Once free of the marina, he revved the engine and brought the small boat up on plane.

Liza stood, bending her knees slightly to absorb the jarring rhythm of the waves.  The ocean spray coated her face, leaving a gritty residue of salt.

“Damn it, Frank, why can’t you leave me alone.  A stupid boat trip isn’t going to solve my problems.  Where the hell are we going, anyway?”

If he heard, Frank gave no indication.  He merely turned the wheel and continued on his course.

Liza stared toward the horizon, lost in the way the sun glinted off the choppy water.  Forty minutes later, she was jolted awake by the sudden silence of the motor.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“Here” Frank grunted.

Liza rolled her eyes. “Thanks Einstein.  Where is here?”

“Middle of nowhere, by the looks of it.  I call it the Deep Blue.  Ain’t nothing below us but about 1500 feet of ocean. Now, jump in.”

“What?!  I don’t think so.  I can’t even see land from here.  And I’m not wearing a swimsuit.  And there are probably sharks in there.”

Frank gave a wicked grin.  “Damn right there’s sharks down there.  But don’t you worry.  You ain’t nearly important enough for them to mess with.  Besides, your prissy ass’d probally give ‘em a bellyache.”

He barked a quick laugh as he moved toward her.  Without breaking momentum, he swung her up into his arms and released her over the side of the boat.

A shock of cool water closed over Liza’s head and her legs instinctively began to kick.  When she broke the surface again, she screamed obscenities between coughing fits.

Frank looked down at her, holding the ladder and laughing.

“You ain’t coming back up here till you figure some stuff out.  You go float around a bit an’ think …that is what ya said ya needed.”  He plopped himself onto the captain’s chair and closed his eyes, intent on ignoring Liza’s protests.

Resigned, Liza floated further away from the boat.  She stretched out on her back, gently sculling the water with her hands.  The sky was painfully blue and monotonous.  There were no puffy clouds and no airplanes.  Even the birds refused to venture this far from land.  There was only endless sky and blinding sun.

Liza flipped to her stomach and took a deep breath.  She submerged her face.  When she opened her eyes, she saw nothing.  The deep water was empty, void of all life.  There were no fishes, and certainly no sharks.  There was no hint that an entire world lived beneath her.

She popped her head up and took another breath.  This time, Liza dove down as deeply as she could.  The water got darker and cooler, but there was still no life.  She flipped around, ready to kick for the surface, but stopped short.  Her eyes rounded in surprise.

The sun, which had been blindingly brilliant above water, was now muted and softened.  It twinkled, sending beams of light down to play in the swell of the ocean waves.  Caught in the bands of light, Liza could see tiny particles swirling and spinning, like a smooth ballet set to nature’s choreography.

Liza kicked her legs and broke the surface.  “I’m coming in, Frank”.

He stood at the top of the ladder, hand extended to help her up.

Liza smiled.  “I had no idea the ocean was so big, or that I was so small.”

Frank nodded, but remained silent.

“And you know what else?  I’m looking at my problems the wrong way round.  If I’m such a small part of this big world, then my problems are too.  I don’t have the power to change the depth of the ocean or the blueness of the sky.  I can only change me.”

Frank nodded again, then leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.  “Deep Blue will do that to ya.  Come on.  Let’s head back to port.  I’m starved.”

I have to give a quick “shout out” to So This for introducing me to Sister Salad.

Enjoy!

In this chain, Ralph Pines started us off with his take on love vs romance and how he hates  romantic tension in sitcoms.  Ralph passed the torch to SouthAsiaBlog, who related it back to characters from two books and a movie.  Now, it is my turn.

Each person views love and romance differently.  To me, romance is a moment in time - a candle-light dinner,  that first magical kiss, those head-swimming moments when time stands still.  A couple can not survive on strictly romance.  It is a thin layer of gloss, used only to make things shiny and pretty.  There is no substance to romance, only glitz.

Romance isn’t about the person within, the living breathing human with feelings and ideals.  It is our mating call or courtship ritual.  We use rosy colors and infectious laughs to call our mates, then blind them with romance.  We ensnare them in a web of pretties, biding enough time for love to take root.

Love, on the other hand, is lasting and deep.  Love allows for disagreements and arguments, for the age-old better and worse.  Love is what sustains a relationship through to the twilight years, when body parts sag and wrinkles come home to roost.  Love is the truth and the realness of life during all of its ups and downs.  Love is solid, and often messy.

Romance and love can coexist, but they don’t have to.  When the bloom of romance fades, a relationship can only continue if there is love.

I think of love and romance as an orange.   The shiny peel (romance) is only a covering for the tasty flesh it holds (love).  For lasting nourishment, you must peal away the romance and feast on sweetness of love inside.

And now I realize that is a double entendre.    I could go back and delete it.. but I think I’ll leave it and see what Ben Solah has to say.

Please visit all of the participants in the blog chain.  Don’t forget to start at the beginning. 

Ralph Pines

Razibahmed
Kat Frass
bsolah
AmyDoodle
FreshHell
escritora
ChaosTitan
Cathy C
harri3tspy
truelyana
tatkinson

A dear friend has been teasing me lately over the fact that I still have the first (I think) piece of poetry I ever wrote.  She has been begging me to post it (probably so she can have a good laugh).  So.. here I go…

I was in 7th or 8th grade - about 12 years old.  My English teacher gave out an assignment and offered extra credit if we wrote a poem.. so of course I had to get in on that!!  It is so odd how memories work.  Even now, mumble-mumble years later, I can still see my 12-year old self, sitting on the bed staring out the window waiting for inspiration.  I can still *feel* the moment I wrote this poem.

I continued to write poetry throughout my youth, some of it pretty decent (for my age).  I once wrote a free form verse on commiting suicide, even though I never EVER thought about it.  I was big into metaphors… hmm.. I think I still might be… LOL.  Today.. I choose not to write poetry, unless it is a silly little ditty for kids.

OK.. I think I’m stalling.  I’d better just put this up then run for cover…  Here we go… my first poem from 7th grade…..

Rusty shells of long gone cars
Spider-webbed windows, smashed up sides
Sitting throughout the seasons
Watching nature grow and die

Sitting, watching, waiting
For someone, something

Then the rain comes
Ever so softly, as if…
As if not to damage these rusty treasures of time

Here they sit
As they shall for years to come
Waiting
For a destiny unknown

Almost three years ago,  a man I knew socially murdered his wife and 12 year old daughter, then committed suicide.  He was a financial planner and had just come under the scrutiny of his home office for steering customers into high-risk investments.  Lawsuits had been filed, and his reputation and income were about to become non-existent.  This is a small town and he liked to live a bit large, but instead of choosing to start again he decided to end his life.  He had that right, it was his life after all.  But he also chose to end the lives of his wife and daughter.  Would his wife have chosen the same way out had he given her the option?  Perhaps, though I think not.  She was an intensely devoted mother and very active in both her church and the community.  And how about the girl?  His daughter had her whole life ahead of her.  She had a future full of boys and fun and laughter.  She had her own mistakes to make, and her own way in the world to find.

Did it really matter that life as they knew it was about to change?  Do you think a child of twelve cares if they rent a two-bedroom house and go to public school or live in a high-rise condo and attend private school?  As a mom, I can tell you, that the only thing kids really care about is fun.  As long as there is food on the table and a roof over their heads, most children don’t give it a second thought.  They are caught up in their own world of friends and fun.

What this man needed, and what we all need, is a bit of perspective.  There are few things in the world that can not be overcome.  Sure, it may require us to let go of our egos and lower our standard of living, but it is never too late to start again.  Don’t become so obsessed with houses or jobs or money thet you forget what really matters - life.  If I lose my house, I will still have two beautiful children who bring light and laughter into my heart.  If I lose my job, I will still have breath in my body and the opportunity to find a new one.  If I lose my money, I may not have steaks on the grill every night, but I will still have every night to enjoy my family and friends.

When bad things happen in our lives, we need to have perspective.  We need to be able to step back from the situation and determine if it is really life-threatening.  In the short-term it may be life-changing, but rarely will it be life-ending.  Remember to look at the whole picture of your life. As you go through trouble and heartache, ask yourself if you will remember or care about it in 10 years.  Chances are, after a bit of time has passed, your problems and troubles will simply become a speed-bump in a very long and happy life.