Posted by Sally Filed in Friendship, Letting go, forgiveness

Comments » 3 Responses to “A Shameful Act”

almurta said July 7, 2009 at 4:06 pm e Well done for airing your shame. I don’t know if I could be so honest. 22 is an terrible age for affairs of the heart isn’t it. I knew one woman who slashed all four of her ex’s tyres (no not me). My worst effort at that age was getting out of it on all kinds of illegals and bashing on my ex boyfriends door and screaming abuse at around 3 am. I see my son of 22 struggling with his relationships and give thanks I finally grew up. Cheers- Suzanne

Colleen Murphy said July 7, 2009 at 6:08 pm e That’s a brave admission on your part, but you have to realize you are only human after all, and given the situation, your human-ness reacted accordingly.

Tabitha said July 12, 2009 at 8:22 pm e Such excellent healing vent. Bravo.

It was not an easy time on her tender heart. It had not always been so. There was a time when she felt loved and cherished. As a child, she was a watcher…a witness…an observer. But even though she stood apart from the others, everyone sensed a goodness about her. She wore her heart on her sleeve. But no one realized just how vulnerable that little heart was; how much she knew (even the secrets); how susceptible she felt with even the most subtle changes; or how deeply she felt the pain of others. They did not realize the wisdom she carried within her or her intuitive abilities.

Her first memory of heart pain was when her father left. Though she knew it was better this way and there would be no more fighting (or so she thought), it was the beginning of the erosion of her self-esteem.

She was an excellent student (scored a few mere points below genius for her age of 8 years). She sought solace there among the joys of learning…the recognition of her academic abilities. Her father loved to witness her intelligence and he quizzed her often about geology and her other favored subjects. But then it stopped. Perhaps he was afraid she would prove herself smarter than he was.

She grew up in the solitude of her bedroom, her sanctuary. It was here she taught herself to play the guitar at the age of eleven. It was here she penned the most articulate letters to her father who took refuge from his pain out upon the ocean. It was here she created the perfect life for herself…on paper.

Moving to the next wall, she squinted to see where she needed to apply the paint. It always amazed (and amused) her the way the music pushed her to dig deeper. The beauty of setting her MP3 player on shuffle gave the universe a way to help her and to hold her during her musings.

Childhood led to adolescence and she became lonely. How many days and nights were spent in her bedroom dreaming of the day when love came into her life.

Everyone else had boyfriends but her. She witnessed her girlfriends bloom when their boyfriends shined upon them like the sun on a tender blossom. Things were hard enough as they were with mom always gone, the constant fighting with her sister. When her mother got fed up with the fighting and moved her sister to her own room and moved into the bedroom, she felt like she lost the only thing she ever had. Her own space.

Her mother didn’t realize how important it was for there to be a place for her that was protected from the feelings and energies of others. It felt like she had lost all support. She moved a folding table outside near the light of the carport. Looking to the sky she saw the stars twinkling in the vastness of space. She heard the crickets chirping. The cat rubbed against her leg. All was right with her world when she was outside. Here she did her best writing.

High school was, well, high school. Girls could be so cruel, but she seemed to miss most of that until her last year. There were football games to attend, basketball games to watch as she was the scorekeeper. (She was the only female allowed to travel with the team which was both fun and difficult when crammed into a suburban with so much testosterone.) And, of course, there was the learning…of subjects new and challenging…of learning to be in the company of boys she liked who liked her…

Her English teacher would ask the class to write a poem. She would come to class with ten. She liked kissing the boys but didn’t like their octopus arms that seemed to be everywhere on her body at once. Graduation two months after turning seventeen, a job working for a photographer modeling, developing film, and other things. She finally left when she tired of fighting a middle aged man’s advances in the dark room and he exacted revenge by making her develop accident photographs for the California Highway Patrol. That terrible accident where a semi truck filled with gravel smashed into a pickup of some friends sitting both in the cab and in the bed. There lied Mary, decapitated and lifeless.

Finally the independence of college five hours from home. She wasn’t quite ready for liberation and opted many times to skip class in favor of going to the beach to watch the bodybuilders. She transferred trying to be responsible. But she had already given the best of herself to school. Mid year she called the boy was the first man in her life that loved her and cherished her, sating that deep craving. She moved back to her hometown and became his wife.

Up and down.. her hands moving the paintbrush to the can and back…her arms moving to spread new color on an old wall. New musings of an old soul. They had their good times, they had their bad. She found herself pregnant and her heart soared. But his did the opposite. Oh, he loved her more than he would ever love anyone else but he did not want their child and lacked the courage to tell her. She heard it from his best friend. At least he drove her to the appointment to terminate her pregnancy. He shared the lie she told her friends and family that “things just didn’t work out” leading them to believe she had a miscarriage.

It was had to believe she would have had a 32-old child now. She would probably be a grandmother. Her life wouldn’t have been the same. There were no regrets even now.

He was no longer intimate with her as he did not want her to get pregnant again. He feared her intuition, her knowing when he got a speeding ticket or was going to be in an accident and she hid the keys to the Corvette. Divorce, a new career, another  of many broken relationships involving other women. Another blow to her self-esteem, another break in her heart.

How lucky she was now to have married a man who loved and cherished her. A wonderful man who endured humility, had courage, and knew her heart so well. He did so much to support her through her stumbling down the path of infertility. He shared her ecstatic joy at a long awaited pregnancy and birth of their daughter. No one could be a better husband.

Still… the music led her to thoughts of the one she lost. He was the most incredibly handsome guy she had ever met. He was so handsome that it was hard to look  straight at him. It didn’t take long for her to see that he had a good heart, was honest, and forthright. He lived 30 minutes away and worked different shifts so they wrote one another, sent cards. She wrote him poetry from her heart.

But one day something happened. He was sick. He was asleep next to her. They awoke and he wanted to be alone. He called her a few hours later when he was feeling better. She tried to tell him that she had wanted to stay and take care of him but felt rejected. She bungled it. Their last words were “But I thought we were having a good time.” “I don’t want to be just a good time. I’m tired of being somebody’s good time.”

He didn’t call back. She tried to console herself saying it was better this way. He would just break her heart. She didn’t deserve anyone like him. He was so good looking, so strong, and of such good heart…he would find someone better than her anyway so it was best to just cut things off now.

They saw each other at a wedding She smiled thinking they would have a chance to talk at the reception. He didn’t go. She called and asked it she could go to his house…she couldn’t drive all the way back home. He said “OK.”

All her cards and pictures were gone from the headboard of his bed. She tried to reach for him but he turned his back to her and went to sleep. One of the many cracks in her heart grew into a crevice. While he was in the shower the next morning, she dressed quietly and left.

Only one more door and some trim to finish. Her back was aching yet she pushed herself to finish. The music added to her MP3 player that morning was sweet, tender, spoke of love. She remembered seeing him several years later at his mother’s funeral. He told her he couldn’t believe she was there and hugged her tightly. “How could I not be here? I loved her, too.” She could see him sitting a few rows in front of  her with his arm around his wife, their heads bent together in comfort. “I’ll have to get my daughter from school on the way to the reception,” she thought. “And write separate cards for him, his wife, and his daughter.”

He bent down to meet her daughter when they walked into the back yard of his mother’s house. Her precious eight year old said, “I’m so sorry about your mommy.” obviously touching his heart. The little one grew hungry and even though she wanted to stay, she sought him out to say goodbye. “You were so brave to stand before that huge crowd and memorialize your mother. I felt your pain and was trying to give you the energy and strength. You did a fine job despite the difficulty. I know how that feels…I did it for my father.”

He hugged her then pulled her back and gazed into her eyes. It was like their hearts touched and he was trying to convey something to her without words. They stood there for several moments. She had to tear herself away before her heart broke all over again. As she drove towards a fast food restaurant for her daughter, she could hear his mother’s long ago words ”I so wanted you to be my daughter-in-law.”

Why is it that whenever gentle music plays her thoughts automatically return to him? They spoke on the phone a few times and had recently exchanged emails.

Why did the music remind her of all the conversations they never had? all the dances they never danced? all the things they never did together? Why was she feeling a sense of loss when she had such an amazing husband and he had a wonderful wife? Why did he come into her dreams where they had deep conversations and tried to figure out what could have been? Did he ever dream about her, share that sense of loss, or think about what if?

She longed to tell him why she gave up 20 something years earlier. She longed to tell him that she didn’t feel worthy; that she didn’t feel like she deserved him. How did she tell him that they weren’t finished yet?

I was watching this program on the History Channel about how they make bras which lead to a segment on breasts.  It was noted that 36C is the average bra size. Wow! I’m above average. Cool! Then I got to thinking about the other averages for women in the United States. According to the US Dept of Health and Human Services, the average U.S. woman is 5′ 3.7 (162 centimeters) tall. I’m pretty sure that was my height around the age of 10, so I’m way above average there. The average American woman weight 152 pounds (69 kilograms). Um, I’m uh barely (cough) above average there…Average size clothes is 12. I’m in plus sizes, keeping in mind that plus sizes start at 14, the size worn by Marilyn Monroe. Average shoe size? Size 8. Yep, you guessed it. Above average!

I’ll spare you any more statistics. Those of you that are petite, thin, have small feet, ect. should not feel bad about being below average. After all, why would one compare an orchid and a rose? Both are equally beautiful.

Sadly, my shield was put away from prying eyes in the back of the cupboard and eventually forgotten. But it spoke to me as I was reading  Chapter 9 of “Women Who Run With The Wolves” while waiting in the school parking lot today.

I raced up the stairs to the cupboard the moment I returned home. Unexpectedly, I quite anxious to spend time with it. The paint had faded a tad and my inner editor whispered to me “You should have outlined the seal to make it stand out more.” I excused that voice from the room, hung the shield on the back of my bedroom door, and studied it.

Oh my God! I suddenly understood so much more about the symbols that came to me during a meditation done at the beginning of shield construction. I didn’t question the presence of the symbols but one in particular puzzled me.

My father’s blood runs through my soul and so does his love of the ocean. We had a cabin cruiser that Dad had built from the hull and Monterey was where our boat was berthed during the week. Like the full moon, the tides were faithful as was the rocking of the boat and the abundance of the sea life. my well-being requires an ocean fix several times a year. Just walking along the sand at the water’s edge is life changing for me. It’s like the sound of the waves upon the breeze blows the stink off of me.

My ties to Grandmother Moon began when I reached puberty. She lit my path during those dark times of adolescence. Her radiant light also illuminated my journal as I wrote to work through my sorrows. Grandmother Moon was predictable…the only thing that was during that phase of my life. She never failed me, even when I felt I had failed myself.

I was asked what I wanted for my birthday. All I truly wanted was a thunder storm. My mother was worried I would be disappointed with my Easy Bake oven. I wasn’t worried in the least as I knew I would get exactly what I wanted.

The sky was filled with rain laden clouds the morning of my 11th birthday. It seemed like I had to wait FOREVER to open my gifts. While I waited patiently (yes, I was patient even as a child…I had a wealth of patience and it wasn’t because I never used any!) I kept my eyes to the sky. Those clouds were growing darker as the chance of a thunderstorm teased my soul. Just after the last gift was opened (there weren’t many as we were pretty poor then) I noticed my surroundings filled with static. The sky opened up and one hellacious storm broke, timing its arrival perfectly. The thunder shook the ground causing the sheep to stampede. The lightning was so majestic that its flashes lit everything in sight that dark afternoon. And that storm went on and on and on lasting until I had my fill. I was so elated I felt like celebrating and I Easy Baked everything that had come with my oven. That was the day I discovered my ability to influence the weather.

I began my endless writing as soon as I could scribe. (Actually I wrote before then…I knew what my scribbles meant at the age of one, even if no one else did.)I had to share a room with my sister (and later my mother) so I wrote outside, usually at night by the light of the moon. My personal trials, tribulations, and deepest thoughts were shared with Grandmother Moon, the canopy of the Milky Way, and nature. They could be trusted to be respectful, encouraging, and considerate.

In the mid 80′s  I was invited to join “The Hoop,” a women’s spiritual group that was being formed. Our first several years together was spent studying the lessons of the Dakota Sioux. Together we walked “The Red Road” taking us deep into our own native lands of spirituality. We discussed the importance of honest, integrity, and honor while walking the Beauty Path. Over 22 years, many of us still get together.

During a reading of the Native American Animal Totem cards, it was revealed that my animal totems were both the snake and the dolphin. ( Snakes-yuk, dolphins-very cool.) My power animal on the sacred medicine wheel was the snake.  I met Snake one day while walking on Manchester Beach. One of the people I was with was both Native American and park ranger. He told me it was a rare snake and even rarer to find it on the beach. Obviously it had a message for me. I sat upon a rock meditating with one eye half open and focused on the location of that snake. I was at peace…grateful for the communication. I was informed that my horrific dreams of being bitten by a snake was due to giving away my power. Earlier dreams of Snake’s presence were ignored so it was necessary to bite me during Dreamtime to get my attention. My fear of snakes disappeared and by the time the snake slithered away making squiggles in the sand, I was down on my belly just inches from its forked tongue.

[I noticed just after I took this picture that the sea was slanted...just like in my photographs of the Pacific ocean. See?]

 I have always had an affinity with the dolphin, a most amazing and intelligent creature. (Hey, I watched Flipper you know. ..I saw how they interacted with humans!) I saw my first shark out in the ocean when several gathered around our boat far away from land. (Thank goodness “Jaws” wasn’t out yet.) Thinking back on it, I realize the danger and how frightened my parents were. But me, being me and only four years old or so, I thought it was pretty cool. “Look! There’s Flippers,” I said to my parents as I jumped up and down excitedly. “Lots and lots of Flippers!” Dad shook his head saying, “No, Honey, that’s not Flipper” as he got the rifle from the inside of the cabin.

A few years ago my husband, daughter, and I had the unique opportunity to swim with a dolphin at Sea World. His name was Buster and it was instant love between us. Buster was abandoned at birth, so the Sea World staff had to hold him, moving along surface for about 24 hours until he could swim on his own. The trainer said they took turns feeding him around the clock for several month.

Buster’s skin felt like a wet inner tube. I bent down and kissed him. He responded by making a fart noise through his blow hole then laughed in that way that dolphins laugh. The rest of my family played with him then he returned to the trainer standing next to me. When she turned her back, Buster placed his  snout under my boob repeatedly nudging it. “Did you say this guy was breast-fed around the clock?” I joked.

Metamorphosis describes what I was going through around the time I made my power shield and I grew up around the monarch trees in Santa Cruz and Pacific Grove. After my father died, butterfly came into my life and my metamorphosis began again as I found out I was pregnant. I for months until my beautiful daughter emerged, changing my world forever.

Two years ago my friend brought me a gorgeous potted F passion flower vine that spiraled around a four foot wire trellis. The leaves were dotted with caterpillar eggs. We kept if in the house throughout the fall. For a month or so we watched teeny tiny green caterpillars hatch and consume leaf after leaf growing. We watched the spinning of the cocoon (actually chrysalis) and the ‘big sleep.’ As the butterflies emerged, they were put into a shoebox atop sugar soaked paper towels. When the day was warm enough, the lids came off the shoebox and the butterflies warmed in the sun until they flew away.

It was the seal that puzzled me. Why a seal? Was it because  a close encounter with a harbor seal? My mister was free diving for abalone. (It’s illegal to use scuba gear to get abalone in Northern California.) I was his safety diver and floated face down on the surface with my snorkel. When my mister went underwater, I took a huge breath and held it. He was swimming deep and all I was doing was floating. Surely when my breath gave out, he would be pop up out of the water. WRONG! I waited and waited and waited until I did my usual panicked “Oh, f—,  Oh, f—, Oh, f—!” I didn’t know what to do. There was no way I could free dive down 40 feet. What should do? I caught a movement out of the corner of my mask. Sliding right underneath me, belly up, is a harbor seal. I could have reached out and pulled his whiskers. “Oh, how cute. Hi guy. Thank you for being here!” Having been distracted by the seal, I was totally startled when my mister surfaced right next to me…with his limit of abalone!

Today I did not ponder the puzzle of the seal. Today I knew exactly why the seal was on my shield. It was to hold the sacred space until I would know the story “Seal Skin, Soul Skin” and remember to go home.

My seal skin has been stolen; I’ve given it away; I’ve lost it by wearing it half on, half off.  A book reminded me go home. Hestia’s Hearth is all about my journey. 

I think about the reckless abandon that carried me through each day. I had my parents, my siblings. My uncle took Sis and I to all the major celebrations held by the Elks Club where he was a member. We would get all dressed up in our swiss dotted pinafores with our tafeta petticoats that made the ruffled skirt flare out. I can still hear the rustle of my dress as I turned and spun my three year old self before the mirror. I had a sweater that matched my dress and hanky folded in my sleeve. (All big girls needed a hanky in their sleeve in case they had to blow their noses.)

I looked towards town and saw Park Hill where I rode my bike down a super steep hill that had a barbed wire fence at the bottom. I haven’t seen that hill in over 40 years and the true height of our version of the xtreme bike path remains a mystery. And that’s the way I want it.

I stood before the house that was built by my father. I was under one year of age and loved to sit in an apricot crate watching him pound nails. I don’t know how long it took to build, but the memories of that house are so prescious to me…It’s where we lived when we are all still together, still a family.

Driving by it as an adult I realize how diminutive that house actually was. How strange…the difference between perspective as a child versus that of an adult. I heard the people that bought the house when my parents divorced 43 years ago have now passed and it passed to one of their children. They completely gutting the house and remodeling. But the structure, the framing, the roof, and the foundation are still there, much like myself today. And I realize that I carry such incredibly happy memories somewhere deep inside me. And I also realize that though my family fell apart when I was nine years old, and my father died when I was 36 years old, I am that same child I was before Dad left. My foundation is strong, my structure stands tall, my roof is worn with age. I may have remodeled myself through the years but I still carry all I was as a child…I just added to it to become a grown up version of myself.