i have a little new year's eve ritual that i began in high school, lo these many years ago.
today as the sun sets, i'll take my 2007 calendar and read through it - remember the good days and the bad. i'll set it on my shelf with my other calendars from past years. a calendar becomes rather like a companion, i've found, and i am loathe to give them up. i look at them from time to time, retrieve old wisdom, relive old memories of days i thought forgotten, remember old friends.
why the wallow? well, why not? a good wallow is good for the soul, i think... this year i may even drop a few old friends a line they're not expecting - just maybe, for auld lang syne.
may the upcoming solar year be one of peace, hope and abundance for all... may our Work this year be dedicated to the alleviation of suffering, and the Good of All that Is.
and furthermore, the war Must end. blessed be.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Sunday, December 30, 2007
the bigger they are...
...the harder they fall.
for weeks now, i've been feeling the fatigue building in my bones, the kind of bone-weary soreness that only long days spent in bed freed from every obligation can cure. it's a fatigue i've been fending off with baths and naps and teas. since august, i've been running a marathon of family obligations, writing, readings and general tending. i could feel it building, cresting, peaking over christmas. it was only a matter of time, i knew, before some nasty little bug leaped aboard and my body saw the opportunity to collapse.
it's ironic that i should get a chest cold.
do you think maybe Someone is Suggesting i need to stop and catch my breath? ;)
and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.
for weeks now, i've been feeling the fatigue building in my bones, the kind of bone-weary soreness that only long days spent in bed freed from every obligation can cure. it's a fatigue i've been fending off with baths and naps and teas. since august, i've been running a marathon of family obligations, writing, readings and general tending. i could feel it building, cresting, peaking over christmas. it was only a matter of time, i knew, before some nasty little bug leaped aboard and my body saw the opportunity to collapse.
it's ironic that i should get a chest cold.
do you think maybe Someone is Suggesting i need to stop and catch my breath? ;)
and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.
Friday, December 28, 2007
my best present
the idea of "a best present" is not something i really like. best and worst, good and better, bad and worse, are such relative terms and there's always a giver behind a gift, a giver with feelings. there's really only one right answer to the question "what gift do you like the best" especially if its being asked by someone whose given you a gift. "yours" is usually what i say.
we had a bit of a bad moment on christmas, and typically, it was precipitated by something involving me. meg and libby - my two youngest daughters, ages 20 and 14 - took it upon themselves to give me a port-a-crib. i was at first perplexed why they'd give me such a thing, and then insulted that they did. (i'm as happy a grandmother as anyone, but i don't need it under my tree.) i thought i was remarkably restrained in the expression of my displeasure - it WAS christmas, after all. they thought i was mean.
have no fear, dear reader - the dust is settled, the tears are kissed away. mother's feelings and children's intentions have been recognized, validated, and appreciated. amends, in the form of a new present, have been offered.
but the ironic thing about all this, is that the two who gave me the worst present also gave me the best. no further is gift is necessary. this christmas, my two youngest daughters gave me the greatest gift of all.
under the most intense pressure, at some of the most pointed provocation, they responded with grace and dignity, kindness and hospitality in a way i could only have hoped they would. my mother in law loves her son, but in her aging, she exhibits the very worst of my mother - a tendency to over-dramaticise, and an in-your-face bluntness that has no regard for anyone else- with the very worst of my grandmother - manipulative, infantile, and deceitful.
and my daughters were right here in the trenches with me. they were unfailingly cooperative, kind, and helpful. libby gave up her bed. meg gave up her privacy. this was as much their holiday as anyone else's, and yet, they were able to set their own feelings, their own wishes and wants and desires aside, not for Beloved's mother - but for me.
yesterday i overheard Beloved ask meg what she thought about christmas, given all the chaos and tumult and comings-and-goings. i braced myself. my children aren't rude, but if you ask them an honest question, they tend to respond honestly.
"are you kidding?" said meg. "it was great."
"best christmas ever?" asked Beloved.
"best christmas of them all," answered meg. "it was great!"
in that moment, i knew that among whatever mistakes i've made and will continue to make, i've done Something Right that will continue to echo down the years and across the generations. there is no better present. ever.
and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.
we had a bit of a bad moment on christmas, and typically, it was precipitated by something involving me. meg and libby - my two youngest daughters, ages 20 and 14 - took it upon themselves to give me a port-a-crib. i was at first perplexed why they'd give me such a thing, and then insulted that they did. (i'm as happy a grandmother as anyone, but i don't need it under my tree.) i thought i was remarkably restrained in the expression of my displeasure - it WAS christmas, after all. they thought i was mean.
have no fear, dear reader - the dust is settled, the tears are kissed away. mother's feelings and children's intentions have been recognized, validated, and appreciated. amends, in the form of a new present, have been offered.
but the ironic thing about all this, is that the two who gave me the worst present also gave me the best. no further is gift is necessary. this christmas, my two youngest daughters gave me the greatest gift of all.
under the most intense pressure, at some of the most pointed provocation, they responded with grace and dignity, kindness and hospitality in a way i could only have hoped they would. my mother in law loves her son, but in her aging, she exhibits the very worst of my mother - a tendency to over-dramaticise, and an in-your-face bluntness that has no regard for anyone else- with the very worst of my grandmother - manipulative, infantile, and deceitful.
and my daughters were right here in the trenches with me. they were unfailingly cooperative, kind, and helpful. libby gave up her bed. meg gave up her privacy. this was as much their holiday as anyone else's, and yet, they were able to set their own feelings, their own wishes and wants and desires aside, not for Beloved's mother - but for me.
yesterday i overheard Beloved ask meg what she thought about christmas, given all the chaos and tumult and comings-and-goings. i braced myself. my children aren't rude, but if you ask them an honest question, they tend to respond honestly.
"are you kidding?" said meg. "it was great."
"best christmas ever?" asked Beloved.
"best christmas of them all," answered meg. "it was great!"
in that moment, i knew that among whatever mistakes i've made and will continue to make, i've done Something Right that will continue to echo down the years and across the generations. there is no better present. ever.
and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.
the most christmas-y of christmases
the stockings are drooping in front of the fireplace, the christmas tree is looking just a tad tattered. the mountain range of presents that extended from one end of the room to the other has melted away like spring snow. the cookie jars are filled with broken bits, the cakes and pies are crumbs. even the leftovers are gone.
as Beloved said, it was the most christmas-y of christmases.
all that remains is to dismantle the decorations, wash the dishes, steam the carpets. a mini-house cleaning, some smudging and saging, and it will be time to settle in for a long winter's nap.
the snow's piled like white fleece at the bases of the trees, drifts over Beloved's jetty like a blanket. come sleep, it seems to say.
and i will.
and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.
as Beloved said, it was the most christmas-y of christmases.
all that remains is to dismantle the decorations, wash the dishes, steam the carpets. a mini-house cleaning, some smudging and saging, and it will be time to settle in for a long winter's nap.
the snow's piled like white fleece at the bases of the trees, drifts over Beloved's jetty like a blanket. come sleep, it seems to say.
and i will.
and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
how i lost my best friend
my best friend in all the world died a year ago yesterday, after battling colon cancer most of the year. she was diagnosed in february, went through chemotherapy in the spring, and had a remission in the summer. when the cancer returned around her birthday, she decided not to endure a second course of chemo.
although we were supposed to see each other for her birthday, she wasn't feeling well enough. ultimately i had to say goodbye to her in a letter. sent the letter in october. i spoke to lorraine for the last time on november 1, 2006. it wasn't lost on me that it was the Feast of All Saints. i knew as i hung up it was the last time i'd speak to her. just come and say goodbye, i remember i thought as i hung up. just come and say goodbye.
but "i'll call you," she said.
when teh bedroom phone rang on my coffee table Christmas night, it should have been my first clue, but in the mixed up way of dreams, it made sense. i answered the phone and it was Lorraine. we were chatting away when i realized there was soemthing wrong about the whole thing. Lorraine was sounding much too good. "Lorraine," i said, blunt as always, "are you dead?"
i will never forget her words. "you know, annie, the hardest part of dying is staying connected to the people you love."
something distracted me and i had to put the phone down. when i picked it up again, the line was dead. i woke up immediately and saw that it was 4:44 AM.
around ten o'clock that morning, the phone rang for real. i picked it up and it was lorraine's daughter to tell me her mother had died around 5:15 AM.
it was only after her death that i was finally brave enough to admit that i know it is possible to stay connected to the people who you love, even after they are dead. i had had paranormal experiences all my life, had been doing readings for people for some time, but was always afraid to admit, to all of it. some people think im crazy or evil, some people are afraid. my family mostly shakes their heads and dismiss me as just one more eccentric writer. through my friend's final journey, i learned that dying is a process of unconnecting, of relinquishing, of surrendering, but that there is indeed a vital piece of everyone that remains, that burns, that shines, and that it is absolutely possible to stay connected to the people who have crossed.
about six months after her death, right around the summer solstice, i had another dream about lorraine. in this one, we were sitting on a white marble bench outside a grecian looking building. a pack of dogs was frolicking on the hill side. lorraine looked great. she was wearing a grecian sort of toga and gold sandals. she was always a large woman and she was still very large, but she looked happy and healthy and rosy. her dog celtie, who'd died about a year before she did, came bounding over to say hello. i don't remember what we talked about, but i remember what she said right before i woke up.
"i'm here," she said. "you know i'm always right Here."
and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.
although we were supposed to see each other for her birthday, she wasn't feeling well enough. ultimately i had to say goodbye to her in a letter. sent the letter in october. i spoke to lorraine for the last time on november 1, 2006. it wasn't lost on me that it was the Feast of All Saints. i knew as i hung up it was the last time i'd speak to her. just come and say goodbye, i remember i thought as i hung up. just come and say goodbye.
but "i'll call you," she said.
when teh bedroom phone rang on my coffee table Christmas night, it should have been my first clue, but in the mixed up way of dreams, it made sense. i answered the phone and it was Lorraine. we were chatting away when i realized there was soemthing wrong about the whole thing. Lorraine was sounding much too good. "Lorraine," i said, blunt as always, "are you dead?"
i will never forget her words. "you know, annie, the hardest part of dying is staying connected to the people you love."
something distracted me and i had to put the phone down. when i picked it up again, the line was dead. i woke up immediately and saw that it was 4:44 AM.
around ten o'clock that morning, the phone rang for real. i picked it up and it was lorraine's daughter to tell me her mother had died around 5:15 AM.
it was only after her death that i was finally brave enough to admit that i know it is possible to stay connected to the people who you love, even after they are dead. i had had paranormal experiences all my life, had been doing readings for people for some time, but was always afraid to admit, to all of it. some people think im crazy or evil, some people are afraid. my family mostly shakes their heads and dismiss me as just one more eccentric writer. through my friend's final journey, i learned that dying is a process of unconnecting, of relinquishing, of surrendering, but that there is indeed a vital piece of everyone that remains, that burns, that shines, and that it is absolutely possible to stay connected to the people who have crossed.
about six months after her death, right around the summer solstice, i had another dream about lorraine. in this one, we were sitting on a white marble bench outside a grecian looking building. a pack of dogs was frolicking on the hill side. lorraine looked great. she was wearing a grecian sort of toga and gold sandals. she was always a large woman and she was still very large, but she looked happy and healthy and rosy. her dog celtie, who'd died about a year before she did, came bounding over to say hello. i don't remember what we talked about, but i remember what she said right before i woke up.
"i'm here," she said. "you know i'm always right Here."
and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
fiat lux
“Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light;
I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.”
- The Old Astronomer to His Pupil...Sarah Williams
in loving memory...
Lorraine Coyle Stanton
september 20, 1947 – december 26, 2006.
fondly remembered. sorely missed.
and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.
I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.”
- The Old Astronomer to His Pupil...Sarah Williams
in loving memory...
Lorraine Coyle Stanton
september 20, 1947 – december 26, 2006.
fondly remembered. sorely missed.
and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
love and joy come to you...
...and to you, your waissail, too, and gods send you a happy new year....
and so we turn the corner of the year. from here on out, the days lengthen, the light grows stronger. a fat moon beamed from the treetops, the morning stars were bright. the sky is calm and clear and silent. the newborn Sun rises just a little higher in the sky and daylight lasts just a minute more. only six, seven more weeks at most 'til pitchers and catchers report.
last night, we toasted the Season with mead, the gift of a dear friend, rich with the tang of roses, thick as the heat of summer nights, the liquid compression of light and bud and leaf.
this morning, Beloved goes to serve the poor, and i prepare the last of this Season's feasts. i have no idea how many are coming to dinner. we may be as few as ten, as many as fifteen. it really doesn't matter. the eastern sky above the treeline is very bright and very blue but the light outside my window is still dark gray.
i pour the dregs of last night's mead into my coffee cup. the word "waissail" comes from the anglo-saxon "was hel," which means "be well." in this calm before the storm, i sip and savor.
waissail – be well - my dear friends, my Faithful Readers, my fellow pixels in cyberspace. be well and blessed and loved. may you have warmth on cold nights, full moons on dark nights, and may the road be ever downhill all the way to your door.
and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be!
and so we turn the corner of the year. from here on out, the days lengthen, the light grows stronger. a fat moon beamed from the treetops, the morning stars were bright. the sky is calm and clear and silent. the newborn Sun rises just a little higher in the sky and daylight lasts just a minute more. only six, seven more weeks at most 'til pitchers and catchers report.
last night, we toasted the Season with mead, the gift of a dear friend, rich with the tang of roses, thick as the heat of summer nights, the liquid compression of light and bud and leaf.
this morning, Beloved goes to serve the poor, and i prepare the last of this Season's feasts. i have no idea how many are coming to dinner. we may be as few as ten, as many as fifteen. it really doesn't matter. the eastern sky above the treeline is very bright and very blue but the light outside my window is still dark gray.
i pour the dregs of last night's mead into my coffee cup. the word "waissail" comes from the anglo-saxon "was hel," which means "be well." in this calm before the storm, i sip and savor.
waissail – be well - my dear friends, my Faithful Readers, my fellow pixels in cyberspace. be well and blessed and loved. may you have warmth on cold nights, full moons on dark nights, and may the road be ever downhill all the way to your door.
and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be!
Monday, December 24, 2007
blow winds blow
...and crack your cheeks...
those lines of lear's reverberated through my head last night as i listened to the winds howl, the rain slash, and stood back while Beloved dealt with his mother, his daughter and his ex-wife. beleagured was the word that came to mind.
it's always easier to watch someone else's psychodramas than to participate in one's own.
this time of year brings out the child in everyone. unfortunately, what frequently emerges first is the needy child, the hungry child, the child who is far more concerned about what he or she is going to get, than anything he or she might be asked to give. this is why my friend Mr. BIQ thinks that this time of year "us all" are involved in petition magic. this is why it is critical that that Child be met by an Adult.
because whether the Child is an inner child or an outer child, that Child must be recognized and validated, accepted and heard, in all its nasty, shameful, disgusting, messy glory. it is critical to do that, not simply for the sake of internal and external harmoney, but because once you get to that place, you have reached the place of healing, where the Magic happens, where Source begins and you end.
that is what i believe the gods/goddessess/powers-that-be want for us. they don't particularly care whether or not we are "happy." all they really want us to be are our Selves.
when the winds blow and crack their cheeks and the Child inside me starts to cry, the Mother of my Self comes forward, and wraps My arms around me, and holds me close. the first Person i take care of is always my Self. and that's why i can stand in the middle of the maelstrom.
and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.
those lines of lear's reverberated through my head last night as i listened to the winds howl, the rain slash, and stood back while Beloved dealt with his mother, his daughter and his ex-wife. beleagured was the word that came to mind.
it's always easier to watch someone else's psychodramas than to participate in one's own.
this time of year brings out the child in everyone. unfortunately, what frequently emerges first is the needy child, the hungry child, the child who is far more concerned about what he or she is going to get, than anything he or she might be asked to give. this is why my friend Mr. BIQ thinks that this time of year "us all" are involved in petition magic. this is why it is critical that that Child be met by an Adult.
because whether the Child is an inner child or an outer child, that Child must be recognized and validated, accepted and heard, in all its nasty, shameful, disgusting, messy glory. it is critical to do that, not simply for the sake of internal and external harmoney, but because once you get to that place, you have reached the place of healing, where the Magic happens, where Source begins and you end.
that is what i believe the gods/goddessess/powers-that-be want for us. they don't particularly care whether or not we are "happy." all they really want us to be are our Selves.
when the winds blow and crack their cheeks and the Child inside me starts to cry, the Mother of my Self comes forward, and wraps My arms around me, and holds me close. the first Person i take care of is always my Self. and that's why i can stand in the middle of the maelstrom.
and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.
Sunday, December 23, 2007
let the Game begin
...and we're off.
i like the timing of the holidays this year. with christmas coming on a tuesday, and the solstice on friday, i got to indulge my Self first, with plenty of time in between for last-minute prep, not to mention the able assistance of two very competent and well-trained Elves. an early thanksgiving and my brother's visit gave me a jump on holiday cleaning and decorating. cooking a turkey dinner for fourteen gave me an opportunity to run through menus, try new dishes, and create three days worth of menus for my mother-in-law's visit.
sometimes i forget how good i am at things like this.
my sister called a few minutes ago. she'll be stopping in tomorrow morning on her way to my mother's with her husband and my nephew and niece. the turkey is roasting, the fruit cake, pineapple upside down cake and pear tea bread are baked. tonight's menu is a mini-reprise of thanksgiving that includes turkey, stuffing, gravy, smashed potatos, baby peas, cranberry sauce and rolls. tomorrow i make apple pie, pumpkin cheesecake (a hit from thanksgiving) and birthday cake. i'll use the leftover turkey to make pot pie for dinner.
the Elves are foraging for the last presents as i write this. my mother in law is snoozing on the couch. even Beloved has gone to take a nap. on this winter afternoon, with the dogs sacked out on the sofa, and the house filled with warmth and sweet and savory smells.... i think i'll join him. ;)
and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.
i like the timing of the holidays this year. with christmas coming on a tuesday, and the solstice on friday, i got to indulge my Self first, with plenty of time in between for last-minute prep, not to mention the able assistance of two very competent and well-trained Elves. an early thanksgiving and my brother's visit gave me a jump on holiday cleaning and decorating. cooking a turkey dinner for fourteen gave me an opportunity to run through menus, try new dishes, and create three days worth of menus for my mother-in-law's visit.
sometimes i forget how good i am at things like this.
my sister called a few minutes ago. she'll be stopping in tomorrow morning on her way to my mother's with her husband and my nephew and niece. the turkey is roasting, the fruit cake, pineapple upside down cake and pear tea bread are baked. tonight's menu is a mini-reprise of thanksgiving that includes turkey, stuffing, gravy, smashed potatos, baby peas, cranberry sauce and rolls. tomorrow i make apple pie, pumpkin cheesecake (a hit from thanksgiving) and birthday cake. i'll use the leftover turkey to make pot pie for dinner.
the Elves are foraging for the last presents as i write this. my mother in law is snoozing on the couch. even Beloved has gone to take a nap. on this winter afternoon, with the dogs sacked out on the sofa, and the house filled with warmth and sweet and savory smells.... i think i'll join him. ;)
and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.
Saturday, December 22, 2007
blessed solstice
oh, the holly and the ivy - when they are both full grown - of all the trees within the wood, the holly wears the crown...
my favorite carol has a poignant ring to it this year for me... the hollies that were planted on the day of my birth stand inside a garden abandoned and alone. the house that's stood so many years is silent, stripped and swept. no wreaths brighten the doorways, no lights shine. if ever it was time to allow the old to pass away, to die, to be reborn, it's now.
but the cords of memory, of connection, of ancestors cut deep. here, in the deep dark hour before dawn, i weep. never again to pound those back steps, never again to charge through the door. the frame is splintered, the stairs are rotting out. the place is dangerous - it all needs to be replaced.
in blog and email and journal post, i read of emptiness, and yearning. where's christmas? i read over and over...it's not the way it used to be... where's the magic, where's the joy? where's that Thing i used to know?
last year i lost my best friend. this year i lost my Home. what's next, i think, and i shake.
but then the candle sputters and sparks. it flares and momentarily, the tears in my eyes burst into a kaleidescope of color and pattern. i blink and the glimpse is gone. i see that the Magic is right here.
all that i remember and treasure best about the holidays i have carried forward and all that i didn't, i have discarded along the way. there are stockings and presents and food for everyone, and a place for everyone at the table. the sour and the vinegar are tolerated, right along with the bland and the sweet. what i have learned is that there is an Art and a gift in creating the celebration that's called by so many names. but whatever you call it, the Magic is mine to make.
for me, this is part of the magic of this Season, that every year i have an opportunity to create an experience for my children and my family and my friends that will burn like a warm cinder through long dark nights. and when i have passed away, like the memory of last year's lucy-tree, part of my Gift to them will be that Art, and that Magic.
and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.
my favorite carol has a poignant ring to it this year for me... the hollies that were planted on the day of my birth stand inside a garden abandoned and alone. the house that's stood so many years is silent, stripped and swept. no wreaths brighten the doorways, no lights shine. if ever it was time to allow the old to pass away, to die, to be reborn, it's now.
but the cords of memory, of connection, of ancestors cut deep. here, in the deep dark hour before dawn, i weep. never again to pound those back steps, never again to charge through the door. the frame is splintered, the stairs are rotting out. the place is dangerous - it all needs to be replaced.
in blog and email and journal post, i read of emptiness, and yearning. where's christmas? i read over and over...it's not the way it used to be... where's the magic, where's the joy? where's that Thing i used to know?
last year i lost my best friend. this year i lost my Home. what's next, i think, and i shake.
but then the candle sputters and sparks. it flares and momentarily, the tears in my eyes burst into a kaleidescope of color and pattern. i blink and the glimpse is gone. i see that the Magic is right here.
all that i remember and treasure best about the holidays i have carried forward and all that i didn't, i have discarded along the way. there are stockings and presents and food for everyone, and a place for everyone at the table. the sour and the vinegar are tolerated, right along with the bland and the sweet. what i have learned is that there is an Art and a gift in creating the celebration that's called by so many names. but whatever you call it, the Magic is mine to make.
for me, this is part of the magic of this Season, that every year i have an opportunity to create an experience for my children and my family and my friends that will burn like a warm cinder through long dark nights. and when i have passed away, like the memory of last year's lucy-tree, part of my Gift to them will be that Art, and that Magic.
and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.
Friday, December 21, 2007
pixels in cyber-space
one of the many themes contained within the stories you hear batted around this time of year frequently concern the Stranger at the Door. for those of us raised in the judeo-christian mythos, of course, the Story has a particularly poignant cast - any child old enough to recite the nativity knows that the reason the baby jesus had to be born in the stable was because there was No Room at the inn.
but other cultures, other mythologies share similiar pieces of the Story - the Stranger turns out to be an angel or a goddess, or an Otherworldly visitor, usually in disguise. the two that resonate for me the most are that of Mama Pele, who frequently appears to those who would seek her favor as a querulous old woman, and those of the ancient celts, whose customary welcome demanded that a stranger be fed and refreshed before even being asked to state his or her business.
so why am i thinking about these stories?
twice in the last ten days or so, i've been told by one "anonymous" and a certain Blogger-in-Question, that i am "just a pixel on (his) screen, with no reality outside of (his) computer screen."
i was tempted to allow these statements to simply pass. Blogger-in-Question, at least, is wrong, because i was invited to peruse his blog at the invitation of a mutual friend - a friend both of us know not as pixels on a screen, but as a living breathing flesh n' blood human being. the reaches of cyberspace are bigger than BIQ's imagination, but i don't have to prove i'm right all the time.
the reason i decided to write about this was because after i left a comment for BIQ that he didn't like, he not only didn't publish my comment, but made it the very subject of a later post in such a mangled form that only the writer of the original comment would've understood to what it referred.
and i thought only slimey politicians and republicans did that.
surely not a fellow pagan, a would-be writer. surely someone who professed to walk a similiar path as me wouldn't leap to conclusions about a stranger who appeared out of the cyber-night. surely he couldn't have miscontrued my comment to mean "giving is the reason for the season, that (he) was wrong to make personal wishes, and that (he) was obviously an evil hedonist."
because that's not what i said at all. and even if that's what BIQ thought i said, he should've had the balls to publish the comment as it was written, so that others may read it as well, before mangling it beyond recognition in order to tear it apart.
i find it interesting that BIQ would waste such time and effort as a five paragraph response to me personally, and then another six paragraph blog on a mere set of pixels in cyberspace, especially considering my comment was all of five sentences long. obviously he thought my post was meant to sting.
obviously it did. the fact he rushed to such a swift and harsh judgement tells me how swiftly and harshly he has himself been judged. i don't mind he disagreed with me - one of the things he asked for in his orginal post was for "pettiness to be met with maturity."
what's sad is that my comment wasn't meant to sting - it was meant to tweak. a writer - a Real Writer, which is what BIQ aspires to be - needs a tougher skin, or at least the ability to allow what he perceives to be criticism to stand without feeling the need to respond. how's he going to survive reading his reviews on amazon, otherwise?
and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.
but other cultures, other mythologies share similiar pieces of the Story - the Stranger turns out to be an angel or a goddess, or an Otherworldly visitor, usually in disguise. the two that resonate for me the most are that of Mama Pele, who frequently appears to those who would seek her favor as a querulous old woman, and those of the ancient celts, whose customary welcome demanded that a stranger be fed and refreshed before even being asked to state his or her business.
so why am i thinking about these stories?
twice in the last ten days or so, i've been told by one "anonymous" and a certain Blogger-in-Question, that i am "just a pixel on (his) screen, with no reality outside of (his) computer screen."
i was tempted to allow these statements to simply pass. Blogger-in-Question, at least, is wrong, because i was invited to peruse his blog at the invitation of a mutual friend - a friend both of us know not as pixels on a screen, but as a living breathing flesh n' blood human being. the reaches of cyberspace are bigger than BIQ's imagination, but i don't have to prove i'm right all the time.
the reason i decided to write about this was because after i left a comment for BIQ that he didn't like, he not only didn't publish my comment, but made it the very subject of a later post in such a mangled form that only the writer of the original comment would've understood to what it referred.
and i thought only slimey politicians and republicans did that.
surely not a fellow pagan, a would-be writer. surely someone who professed to walk a similiar path as me wouldn't leap to conclusions about a stranger who appeared out of the cyber-night. surely he couldn't have miscontrued my comment to mean "giving is the reason for the season, that (he) was wrong to make personal wishes, and that (he) was obviously an evil hedonist."
because that's not what i said at all. and even if that's what BIQ thought i said, he should've had the balls to publish the comment as it was written, so that others may read it as well, before mangling it beyond recognition in order to tear it apart.
i find it interesting that BIQ would waste such time and effort as a five paragraph response to me personally, and then another six paragraph blog on a mere set of pixels in cyberspace, especially considering my comment was all of five sentences long. obviously he thought my post was meant to sting.
obviously it did. the fact he rushed to such a swift and harsh judgement tells me how swiftly and harshly he has himself been judged. i don't mind he disagreed with me - one of the things he asked for in his orginal post was for "pettiness to be met with maturity."
what's sad is that my comment wasn't meant to sting - it was meant to tweak. a writer - a Real Writer, which is what BIQ aspires to be - needs a tougher skin, or at least the ability to allow what he perceives to be criticism to stand without feeling the need to respond. how's he going to survive reading his reviews on amazon, otherwise?
and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
silent night
i watched the snow fall late last night. the trees were black, the light was blue. the house was quiet, all was still. i listened to my breathing.
there are Mysteries for which there are no words, that can't be explained and therefore, can't be shared, at least not easily. words are such clumsy things and even though i know a lot of them, they feel like crayons in my fingers, the fat thick ones that toddlers use. this is why i refuse to take so much of so-called Sacred Scripture seriously, let alone literaly - the Inspired Word of God it well may be, but filtered through such limited human brains as to be rendered nearly incomprehensible lo these many years later.
i can no more communicate what i experienced last night than i can explain to you how my car runs or how this computer works. there is no language, there are no words, not even in my ferociously exorbitant lexicon. all i can tell you is that i knew myself Nourished and Sustained and Loved and Known, anchored and fused into the Real, to the infinite and eternal.
and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.
there are Mysteries for which there are no words, that can't be explained and therefore, can't be shared, at least not easily. words are such clumsy things and even though i know a lot of them, they feel like crayons in my fingers, the fat thick ones that toddlers use. this is why i refuse to take so much of so-called Sacred Scripture seriously, let alone literaly - the Inspired Word of God it well may be, but filtered through such limited human brains as to be rendered nearly incomprehensible lo these many years later.
i can no more communicate what i experienced last night than i can explain to you how my car runs or how this computer works. there is no language, there are no words, not even in my ferociously exorbitant lexicon. all i can tell you is that i knew myself Nourished and Sustained and Loved and Known, anchored and fused into the Real, to the infinite and eternal.
and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
hitting bottom
and so we come to the bottom of the year.
the word "solistice" derives from the latin word for standing still, and for a period of three days or so, at the solistices, the sun appears to rise and set in the same place. it is the time when the whole world holds it breath and waits, to see what happens next. it's the break between the chapters, the pause between the paragraphs. it is the space between the beats.
for me, the winter solistice period always begins on december 19. december 19 is the day my great- grandfather died. he was already dead by the time the sun rose, having slipped away into an opiated rest sometime after midnight. no one told me until i came home from school that day. he was 87. i was 15.
it struck me even then as interesting that the death of the One Who Started It All, should dovetail so perfectly with the time of year. he was old, riddled with cancer, ready, as he told my stepfather, to die. it'd been five years since he had a woman. he couldn't eat or piss or shit or breathe without pain. it was time to go.
for me, this is the an integral part of the meaning of the Season, one that we would so rather much not face. the Old MUST pass away, before the New can be born. even the good stuff of the Old...even the things you think you'd rather not let go.
this cold, dark, brittle season, barren, white as bone is as inevitable in these new england woods as death. this is what we seek to cover up with our frantic holidaying jolly-daying, i think, this harsh and unforgiving granite reality that dares us to be brave enough to confront it, the knowing, that in the end, we close our eyes and fade away like the memory of last year's christmas tree.
and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.
the word "solistice" derives from the latin word for standing still, and for a period of three days or so, at the solistices, the sun appears to rise and set in the same place. it is the time when the whole world holds it breath and waits, to see what happens next. it's the break between the chapters, the pause between the paragraphs. it is the space between the beats.
for me, the winter solistice period always begins on december 19. december 19 is the day my great- grandfather died. he was already dead by the time the sun rose, having slipped away into an opiated rest sometime after midnight. no one told me until i came home from school that day. he was 87. i was 15.
it struck me even then as interesting that the death of the One Who Started It All, should dovetail so perfectly with the time of year. he was old, riddled with cancer, ready, as he told my stepfather, to die. it'd been five years since he had a woman. he couldn't eat or piss or shit or breathe without pain. it was time to go.
for me, this is the an integral part of the meaning of the Season, one that we would so rather much not face. the Old MUST pass away, before the New can be born. even the good stuff of the Old...even the things you think you'd rather not let go.
this cold, dark, brittle season, barren, white as bone is as inevitable in these new england woods as death. this is what we seek to cover up with our frantic holidaying jolly-daying, i think, this harsh and unforgiving granite reality that dares us to be brave enough to confront it, the knowing, that in the end, we close our eyes and fade away like the memory of last year's christmas tree.
and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
miles to go
the frozen tundra outside the front door makes the thought of running errands today absolutely distasteful. i feel the full force of the call of the ancient african sun under which this DNA took shape. stay inside, it pleads... for the love of all that's human, stay inside. wrap yourself in afghans, cuddle with the dogs. bake cookies if you must. just dont step outside into that arctic waste.
if only. my day begins with a quick stop at the gas station, a visit to my grandmother, then a working lunch with laura to discuss classes and workshops for the upcoming year. i need to pick up libby by 1:45, stop at the drugstore for our prescriptions and pick up a few stocking stuffers. then on to her doctor's appt at three, and michaels the craft store after that. im pretty sure pizza is on the menu for dinner, because i'm off to the cosi girls book group at 700.
the car's already warm, i'm showered and dressed for the weather. zones 3 & 4 are fluffed and swished and swiped, the laundry's together and a list for meg is lying on the table. if i'm lucky i'll steal a kiss or two from baby jake between 130 and 145.
and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.
if only. my day begins with a quick stop at the gas station, a visit to my grandmother, then a working lunch with laura to discuss classes and workshops for the upcoming year. i need to pick up libby by 1:45, stop at the drugstore for our prescriptions and pick up a few stocking stuffers. then on to her doctor's appt at three, and michaels the craft store after that. im pretty sure pizza is on the menu for dinner, because i'm off to the cosi girls book group at 700.
the car's already warm, i'm showered and dressed for the weather. zones 3 & 4 are fluffed and swished and swiped, the laundry's together and a list for meg is lying on the table. if i'm lucky i'll steal a kiss or two from baby jake between 130 and 145.
and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.
Monday, December 17, 2007
who's sarah?
judy was kind enough to ask, so i thought i'd try to answer her here. the simple answer is that sarah is a character in my newest novel. my agent liked her so much she wanted me to add some chapters in her point of view, among a few other tweaks. but while i breezed through all the others, i've slammed hard into a wall around these new chapters of sarah.
maybe if i write about her here, i'll be able to write her chapters. i'm not sure if the difficulty i've experienced is simply all the distractions since thanksgiving, or if its partially the result of having to go backwards (ala silver's lure) yet again, and that's just too painful to do.
i suspect its some of both.
i also suspect its the character herself, sarah... who flits like a breeze around in my skull, tempting as a tease, promising so much and delivering on nothing.
My name is Sarah Woodwright. It's not the name I really use - not the name my mother called me, but it's the one you know me by in the story. My father left my mother when I was 3, and I didn't meet him again until I was nearly 26. For the first 23 years of my life, I thought he was dead. It wasn't until my mother died that I learned I still had a living parent. I didn't look for him until a book fell off a shelf and hit me on the head in the library where I work. It happened to be written by him, and it happened to be dedicated to my mother. That's when things started to get weirder than they already were.
All my life I've been different. I realized at a very young age I was a trial to my mother, though I didn't understand why until one snowy afternoon when I was five or six. We were driving home through an early winter snowstorm, my mother, white-knuckled over the steering wheel, me uncomfortable in my snow suit. As we slid to an uneasy stop at the corner where the playground was, I asked my mother who all the children were who were playing outside without coats. At first too distracted by the weather, my mother became quite angry when I insisted I saw children, my age running with gleeful abandon all over the equipment.
Then her face got white, her lips turned gray. Her eyes got very big, and she looked at me wiht something like horror. I thought she was going to say something, to berate me, but she snapped her mouth shut. We skidded through the intersection and when I looked back, I could still see the children, racing merrily in the snow.
It wasn't until I was eight or nine someone told me the story of how a bus full of school kids had crashed into a playground full of children one sunny afternoon in 1959.
and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be!
maybe if i write about her here, i'll be able to write her chapters. i'm not sure if the difficulty i've experienced is simply all the distractions since thanksgiving, or if its partially the result of having to go backwards (ala silver's lure) yet again, and that's just too painful to do.
i suspect its some of both.
i also suspect its the character herself, sarah... who flits like a breeze around in my skull, tempting as a tease, promising so much and delivering on nothing.
My name is Sarah Woodwright. It's not the name I really use - not the name my mother called me, but it's the one you know me by in the story. My father left my mother when I was 3, and I didn't meet him again until I was nearly 26. For the first 23 years of my life, I thought he was dead. It wasn't until my mother died that I learned I still had a living parent. I didn't look for him until a book fell off a shelf and hit me on the head in the library where I work. It happened to be written by him, and it happened to be dedicated to my mother. That's when things started to get weirder than they already were.
All my life I've been different. I realized at a very young age I was a trial to my mother, though I didn't understand why until one snowy afternoon when I was five or six. We were driving home through an early winter snowstorm, my mother, white-knuckled over the steering wheel, me uncomfortable in my snow suit. As we slid to an uneasy stop at the corner where the playground was, I asked my mother who all the children were who were playing outside without coats. At first too distracted by the weather, my mother became quite angry when I insisted I saw children, my age running with gleeful abandon all over the equipment.
Then her face got white, her lips turned gray. Her eyes got very big, and she looked at me wiht something like horror. I thought she was going to say something, to berate me, but she snapped her mouth shut. We skidded through the intersection and when I looked back, I could still see the children, racing merrily in the snow.
It wasn't until I was eight or nine someone told me the story of how a bus full of school kids had crashed into a playground full of children one sunny afternoon in 1959.
and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be!
Sunday, December 16, 2007
sleety sunday
i woke before dawn to the sound of tinkling leaves. the icy mess on the driveway sent the puppies scurrying to do their business without so much as one errant sniff. im glad i cant go anywhere.
the lamp on my desk makes a glowing crescent on the blue snow outside the window, the sleet scatters across the glass like sand. if ever a day was made to spend lying curled up on a couch beneath an afgan, curled around Beloved and a cup of hot chocolate, today would be the day.
i feel the press of obligation, the call of cookies waiting to be baked, presents to be sorted, wrapped and ordered. there's laundry to be done, dishes to be washed, soup to be started. there's boxes to be sorted, rooms to be cleaned. sarah dances maddeningly around in my head, a siren-slyph who refuses to still herself down long enough for me to write more than five coherent sentences in a row.
or maybe its only me that can't be still.
and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.
the lamp on my desk makes a glowing crescent on the blue snow outside the window, the sleet scatters across the glass like sand. if ever a day was made to spend lying curled up on a couch beneath an afgan, curled around Beloved and a cup of hot chocolate, today would be the day.
i feel the press of obligation, the call of cookies waiting to be baked, presents to be sorted, wrapped and ordered. there's laundry to be done, dishes to be washed, soup to be started. there's boxes to be sorted, rooms to be cleaned. sarah dances maddeningly around in my head, a siren-slyph who refuses to still herself down long enough for me to write more than five coherent sentences in a row.
or maybe its only me that can't be still.
and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.
Friday, December 14, 2007
happy birthday, libby jo
a two hour delay and a brilliant sunrise heralds the morning of my youngest daughter's birth. born under jupiter's sunny star, libby's conception corresponds with the sale of my first novel. there's a lot of my mother in libby - enough so that i see in her some of my mother's wounded places. it helped me to understand both of them, because in libby i have a child profoundly different from myself, and from my other daughters.
what libby shares with me is a capricorn moon. a capricorn moon suggests a troubled maternal relationship, that something necessary to the child was lacking in the mother. it is a wounding i have tried to alleviate.
like her brother, libby is one of my extroverts. unlike my first daughter who viewed the world from my arms with cool appraisal, and meg, who viewed it with outright fear, libby reached out to the world in the most endearing way from the time she was old enough to look around and coo. imperturbable in her car seat, she rode around in the back of my mommy-mobile, fascinated by her ever-revolving parade of seat-mates.
she had a few quirks though. she wouldn't sleep anywhere but in her own crib - which meant i had to make sure i was home when libby needed to nap. and she didn't like switching breasts in the middle of a nursing. if she'd been my first i would've been bewildered and probably upset by her behavior but since she was my fourth, i just resigned myself to walking around looking a bit lopsided.
the one trait that she shares with my mother in fullest measure, and that manifesed extremely early, is that libby is Organized. she once showed me her daily schedule, broken down by hour and minute. it included things like 6:15 WAKE UP; 6:20 SHOWER, 6:35 EAT BREAKFAST. most were the normal things you'd expect from the ten year old she was at the time. but sandwiched in between 9:00 BRUSH TEETH and 9:30 BED TIME she had a fifteen minute block devoted to THINK.
i tried not to laugh. there's always been a lot of the little old lady in libby. it is the piece of myself in her that i recognize the most clearly. libby, i said, what is this fifteen minutes for thinking about?
libby looked at me very seriously. mommy, she answered, don't you think this world would be a better place if everyone took fifteen minutes and just thought?
speechless, i bowed to Greater Wisdom.
happy birthday, little libby jo, from the mommy who continues to be dazzled by your light.
and furthermore the war must end. blessed be.
what libby shares with me is a capricorn moon. a capricorn moon suggests a troubled maternal relationship, that something necessary to the child was lacking in the mother. it is a wounding i have tried to alleviate.
like her brother, libby is one of my extroverts. unlike my first daughter who viewed the world from my arms with cool appraisal, and meg, who viewed it with outright fear, libby reached out to the world in the most endearing way from the time she was old enough to look around and coo. imperturbable in her car seat, she rode around in the back of my mommy-mobile, fascinated by her ever-revolving parade of seat-mates.
she had a few quirks though. she wouldn't sleep anywhere but in her own crib - which meant i had to make sure i was home when libby needed to nap. and she didn't like switching breasts in the middle of a nursing. if she'd been my first i would've been bewildered and probably upset by her behavior but since she was my fourth, i just resigned myself to walking around looking a bit lopsided.
the one trait that she shares with my mother in fullest measure, and that manifesed extremely early, is that libby is Organized. she once showed me her daily schedule, broken down by hour and minute. it included things like 6:15 WAKE UP; 6:20 SHOWER, 6:35 EAT BREAKFAST. most were the normal things you'd expect from the ten year old she was at the time. but sandwiched in between 9:00 BRUSH TEETH and 9:30 BED TIME she had a fifteen minute block devoted to THINK.
i tried not to laugh. there's always been a lot of the little old lady in libby. it is the piece of myself in her that i recognize the most clearly. libby, i said, what is this fifteen minutes for thinking about?
libby looked at me very seriously. mommy, she answered, don't you think this world would be a better place if everyone took fifteen minutes and just thought?
speechless, i bowed to Greater Wisdom.
happy birthday, little libby jo, from the mommy who continues to be dazzled by your light.
and furthermore the war must end. blessed be.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
feast of st lucy
st lucy's day dawns pearly gray, but the sky never brightens beyond lead. the smell of snow is in the air, a brooding silence blankets the woods. school is already cancelled.
i may not get to see my grandmother. i didn't bake the cake, but i do have bananas and hard candy, fruit juice and apple sauce. i have her christmas tree, and her boots. i even have some mail.
but whether i get there or not, my recognition of the feast of st lucy doesn't really have much to do with my grandmother. the reason the catholics have so many saints in the first place is because most of them are old pagan gods and goddesses, remnants of ancient beliefs and practices absorbed by the conquering church.
tonight we will decorate our christmas tree. we will lace it with lights, we will drape it garland and cherished ornaments. we will bless it and take pictures of it, will pile up presents beneath it. this year i'll think of it not just as a christmas tree, but as a lucy tree - a reminder of the nascent spark that burns, even at the nadir of light.
and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.
i may not get to see my grandmother. i didn't bake the cake, but i do have bananas and hard candy, fruit juice and apple sauce. i have her christmas tree, and her boots. i even have some mail.
but whether i get there or not, my recognition of the feast of st lucy doesn't really have much to do with my grandmother. the reason the catholics have so many saints in the first place is because most of them are old pagan gods and goddesses, remnants of ancient beliefs and practices absorbed by the conquering church.
tonight we will decorate our christmas tree. we will lace it with lights, we will drape it garland and cherished ornaments. we will bless it and take pictures of it, will pile up presents beneath it. this year i'll think of it not just as a christmas tree, but as a lucy tree - a reminder of the nascent spark that burns, even at the nadir of light.
and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
reaching toward the light
this morning was the first one in quite a few mornings that i woke up feeling at all like myself. that weird re-entry feeling, half-sickness, half-soreness, half-energy detoxification, was gone at last. i felt refreshed enough that given the early hour, i have a shot of getting half of what i'd like to accomplish on my List today done.
i have learned not to squander that feeling, that energy, that charge. the first thing i did was write enough words to flesh out the draft of the first chapter, enough words to make me realize i have a time line problem and that probably accounts for why ive felt the following chapters flowing like frozen molasses. i see that what i am looking at is potentially a prologue - a prologue that could change the tenor of the story, a prologue im not sure needs to be written.
it occurs to me i've been down this road before - the task of teasing out the backstory and fleshing it into Story was what drove me nearly insane writing Silver's Lure. but this is just three chapters and sarah is a sweet kid, not a hideous non-being changeling like timeas revealed himself to be.
i draw nine cards to see what advice Spirit offers, and read this message ...
if i am judicious in my use of time, the day holds much potential. i see the day divided, in solid chunks of time, different facets all demanding some kind of attention. this evening we plan to get our tree. tomorrow is st lucy's day - i'd like to bake my grandmother a cake in honor of her feast day. i'd like to clean up some of the boxes we dragged home. i'd like to check my christmas list and see what's left to be bought, ordered, wrapped and sent.
but i think i'll give til eleven o'clock to sarah.
and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be!
i have learned not to squander that feeling, that energy, that charge. the first thing i did was write enough words to flesh out the draft of the first chapter, enough words to make me realize i have a time line problem and that probably accounts for why ive felt the following chapters flowing like frozen molasses. i see that what i am looking at is potentially a prologue - a prologue that could change the tenor of the story, a prologue im not sure needs to be written.
it occurs to me i've been down this road before - the task of teasing out the backstory and fleshing it into Story was what drove me nearly insane writing Silver's Lure. but this is just three chapters and sarah is a sweet kid, not a hideous non-being changeling like timeas revealed himself to be.
i draw nine cards to see what advice Spirit offers, and read this message ...
if i am judicious in my use of time, the day holds much potential. i see the day divided, in solid chunks of time, different facets all demanding some kind of attention. this evening we plan to get our tree. tomorrow is st lucy's day - i'd like to bake my grandmother a cake in honor of her feast day. i'd like to clean up some of the boxes we dragged home. i'd like to check my christmas list and see what's left to be bought, ordered, wrapped and sent.
but i think i'll give til eleven o'clock to sarah.
and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be!
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
the following is a real letter...
and a real description of real events that occured on the morning of December 7. i wrote and sent this yesterday at the request of Nice Guy Banker.
all names have been changed and expunged to protect the innocent, the guilty and the uninvolved.
December 9, 2007
Dear Nice Guy Banker:
Thank you so much for taking the time to speak to me this morning. I very much appreciate all the wonderful things you and Great Girl Banker have done over the years to help me take care of my grandmother. Because you two have been so kind and considerate, I have to say I never imagined in a million years I could be treated by an employee of the bank as I was last Saturday, December 7.
To give you some background, due to my grandmother's failing health and the five-hour distance between my home in Connecticut and Home Town, we decided last August to move her to an assisted living facility twenty minutes from us. All things considered, she's doing remarkably well, but we've had to put her house on the market, and last weekend, my husband and I spent cleaning out the place. To understand the enormity of the task with which we were faced, the place has nine bedrooms, two kitchens, two baths, one living room, one dining room, one pantry, two foyers, and an attic - every inch stuffed with a hundred years of memories, keepsakes and trash.
To say this was emotionally trying for me is an understatement, but in the course of it, we found her missing safe deposit box key. As part of taking a break, we decided to visit the bank and just for a lark see what might be hiding in teh safe deposit box. The young lady who helped us was very nice and professional. She made a point of checking my Power of Atty form to make sure I was supposed to have access to teh box. When all checked out okay, she had me and my husband sign the form, opened the locks, and handed us the box. She pointed out a room, told us we could open teh box in there, and left us alone. What she did not say, OR what I in my emotionally and physically overwrought state did not hear her say was dont leave without signing a form. It is not my intention to get this young woman in any kind of trouble, Nice Guy. It is perfectly possible she did explain the procedure, and we ddin't hear her. I don't mean to fault her in any way.
We opened the box and in it we found not gold coins or hidden treasure but naturalization papers, birth and death certificates, divorce papers and other family documents. We decided to take them all with us. We left the box open on the table. We asked for some plastic bags. Initially we considered waiting to close out the box, and were told we would have to speak with Nazi Employee, but then, seeing how busy the bank was, we decided to leave. We waved to the nice young lady. At all times, Nazi Employee was busy at her desk. No one attempted to stop us. No one waved us down. No one shouted STOP THIEF. It was never our intention to do anything inappropriate or wrong. We were in a very emotional place and really needed to focus on what we needed to get done.
We left and went back to packing. About half an hour later my husband's cell phone rang. It was our daughter calling from Connecticut. A lady from the bank had called and she was quite upset. I immediately returned the call. When I spoke with Nazi Employee, I said, " Hello, I understand there is some trouble regarding my grandmother's safe deposit box that I just came in and emptied. What's wrong?"
At this point, to say Nazi Employee launched into a tirade is putting it mildly. In the course of the conversation she threatened me with bank security, the police and the IRS. Or maybe it was the SEC. She was talking really fast and she wouldn't stop and I very quickly realized that she was very scared and really needed me to come back and since I was only across the street, which she should have realized, if she'd taken the time to read the account address, that I would do all I could in my power at that moment to do whatever necessary to rectify the situation. I tried to ask her repeatedly what time the bank closed. She wouldn't stop long enough to let me ask her the simple question that I was asking not to be oppositional but to try and be cooperative given all that I was already dealing with in terms of schedules and coordination and moving men, not to mention deep, gut-wrenching emotions.
So after I tried half a dozen times to assure her i DID understand the necessity of coming back and that I was perfectly willing to do so IF ONLY she'd stop long enough to tell me what time the bank closed... I told her to SHUT UP.
In plainest, purest, English.
Then I snapped the cell phone shut, vaulted down the back steps, and charged across the street. I sat down and waited for her to notice me. Which she did, very quickly.
I asked her who she reported to, and assured her that person would be hearing from me first thing Monday morning. At this point, Nazi Employee turned belligerent. She charged me with disagreeing her on the phone, which I most emphatically was not, she accused me of making her shake, to which I said, "Good." She threatened me in front of a lobby full of customers and bank employees with the IRS, the SEC, bank security and the police. She threatened me that she had a tape in which I told her to shut up. I said, "I'm gonna tell you to shut up again if you don't stop." At that point, after I signed the form, she started shouting and shaking her head, in full hearing of other employees, including the first young lady, "Big mistake! Big mistake!"
My husband and I very quickly the left the building and he was genuinely concerned that she was going to call the police. I could not imagine what I could be charged with except for failure to understand a bank procedure that I did not understand even existed.
Nice Guy, as you and Great Girl know, my family has done business with the Home Town Bank for over eighty years. Just because we are selling our property in Home Town does not mean we wish to sever our ties with the community. Despite the stress of the weekend, my husband and I enjoyed our stay at the Fanciest Hotel In Town so much we are considering purchasing a condo or vacation home somewhere on the island and if we did that, Home Town Bank is the first place we'd come for a mortgage.
Whatever I did that was not appropriate was only done out of ignorance and because we were both so emotionally and physcally overwrought. We never in any way intended to cause such upset. My husband is normally extremely sensitive to these kinds of things and the fact he wasn't shows just how affected we both were. Neither of us deserved to be spoken to and made to feel like criminals.
I truly believe that Nazi Employee needs to be placed in a position where her acute appreciation for detail and procedure can be utilized to its fullest degree, and where her interaction with the general public is none to extremely limited. As far as I am concerned, the young lady who initially handled the matter should be completely exonerated of any failure to describe any required procedure, because I know I was very upset at the time, and was not likely to hear or understand.
You have already been gracious enough to apologize on behalf of the bank so no other communication on this matter is required. If there is a tape of the conversation, I am quite certain that my side of the story will bear itself out. Thank you again so much for listening to me... I wish you continued success and a very happy holiday....
Sincerely,
Meadow Soprano
and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.
all names have been changed and expunged to protect the innocent, the guilty and the uninvolved.
December 9, 2007
Dear Nice Guy Banker:
Thank you so much for taking the time to speak to me this morning. I very much appreciate all the wonderful things you and Great Girl Banker have done over the years to help me take care of my grandmother. Because you two have been so kind and considerate, I have to say I never imagined in a million years I could be treated by an employee of the bank as I was last Saturday, December 7.
To give you some background, due to my grandmother's failing health and the five-hour distance between my home in Connecticut and Home Town, we decided last August to move her to an assisted living facility twenty minutes from us. All things considered, she's doing remarkably well, but we've had to put her house on the market, and last weekend, my husband and I spent cleaning out the place. To understand the enormity of the task with which we were faced, the place has nine bedrooms, two kitchens, two baths, one living room, one dining room, one pantry, two foyers, and an attic - every inch stuffed with a hundred years of memories, keepsakes and trash.
To say this was emotionally trying for me is an understatement, but in the course of it, we found her missing safe deposit box key. As part of taking a break, we decided to visit the bank and just for a lark see what might be hiding in teh safe deposit box. The young lady who helped us was very nice and professional. She made a point of checking my Power of Atty form to make sure I was supposed to have access to teh box. When all checked out okay, she had me and my husband sign the form, opened the locks, and handed us the box. She pointed out a room, told us we could open teh box in there, and left us alone. What she did not say, OR what I in my emotionally and physically overwrought state did not hear her say was dont leave without signing a form. It is not my intention to get this young woman in any kind of trouble, Nice Guy. It is perfectly possible she did explain the procedure, and we ddin't hear her. I don't mean to fault her in any way.
We opened the box and in it we found not gold coins or hidden treasure but naturalization papers, birth and death certificates, divorce papers and other family documents. We decided to take them all with us. We left the box open on the table. We asked for some plastic bags. Initially we considered waiting to close out the box, and were told we would have to speak with Nazi Employee, but then, seeing how busy the bank was, we decided to leave. We waved to the nice young lady. At all times, Nazi Employee was busy at her desk. No one attempted to stop us. No one waved us down. No one shouted STOP THIEF. It was never our intention to do anything inappropriate or wrong. We were in a very emotional place and really needed to focus on what we needed to get done.
We left and went back to packing. About half an hour later my husband's cell phone rang. It was our daughter calling from Connecticut. A lady from the bank had called and she was quite upset. I immediately returned the call. When I spoke with Nazi Employee, I said, " Hello, I understand there is some trouble regarding my grandmother's safe deposit box that I just came in and emptied. What's wrong?"
At this point, to say Nazi Employee launched into a tirade is putting it mildly. In the course of the conversation she threatened me with bank security, the police and the IRS. Or maybe it was the SEC. She was talking really fast and she wouldn't stop and I very quickly realized that she was very scared and really needed me to come back and since I was only across the street, which she should have realized, if she'd taken the time to read the account address, that I would do all I could in my power at that moment to do whatever necessary to rectify the situation. I tried to ask her repeatedly what time the bank closed. She wouldn't stop long enough to let me ask her the simple question that I was asking not to be oppositional but to try and be cooperative given all that I was already dealing with in terms of schedules and coordination and moving men, not to mention deep, gut-wrenching emotions.
So after I tried half a dozen times to assure her i DID understand the necessity of coming back and that I was perfectly willing to do so IF ONLY she'd stop long enough to tell me what time the bank closed... I told her to SHUT UP.
In plainest, purest, English.
Then I snapped the cell phone shut, vaulted down the back steps, and charged across the street. I sat down and waited for her to notice me. Which she did, very quickly.
I asked her who she reported to, and assured her that person would be hearing from me first thing Monday morning. At this point, Nazi Employee turned belligerent. She charged me with disagreeing her on the phone, which I most emphatically was not, she accused me of making her shake, to which I said, "Good." She threatened me in front of a lobby full of customers and bank employees with the IRS, the SEC, bank security and the police. She threatened me that she had a tape in which I told her to shut up. I said, "I'm gonna tell you to shut up again if you don't stop." At that point, after I signed the form, she started shouting and shaking her head, in full hearing of other employees, including the first young lady, "Big mistake! Big mistake!"
My husband and I very quickly the left the building and he was genuinely concerned that she was going to call the police. I could not imagine what I could be charged with except for failure to understand a bank procedure that I did not understand even existed.
Nice Guy, as you and Great Girl know, my family has done business with the Home Town Bank for over eighty years. Just because we are selling our property in Home Town does not mean we wish to sever our ties with the community. Despite the stress of the weekend, my husband and I enjoyed our stay at the Fanciest Hotel In Town so much we are considering purchasing a condo or vacation home somewhere on the island and if we did that, Home Town Bank is the first place we'd come for a mortgage.
Whatever I did that was not appropriate was only done out of ignorance and because we were both so emotionally and physcally overwrought. We never in any way intended to cause such upset. My husband is normally extremely sensitive to these kinds of things and the fact he wasn't shows just how affected we both were. Neither of us deserved to be spoken to and made to feel like criminals.
I truly believe that Nazi Employee needs to be placed in a position where her acute appreciation for detail and procedure can be utilized to its fullest degree, and where her interaction with the general public is none to extremely limited. As far as I am concerned, the young lady who initially handled the matter should be completely exonerated of any failure to describe any required procedure, because I know I was very upset at the time, and was not likely to hear or understand.
You have already been gracious enough to apologize on behalf of the bank so no other communication on this matter is required. If there is a tape of the conversation, I am quite certain that my side of the story will bear itself out. Thank you again so much for listening to me... I wish you continued success and a very happy holiday....
Sincerely,
Meadow Soprano
and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.
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