Posts Tagged ‘love’
Twenty-Four Years Ago Today…
It’s Christmas Eve in the United States. And about twenty-four years ago, it was around this time that my late husband Michael and I had the most amazing thirty-six-hour conversation in my entire life. Long distance, much via AOL Instant Messenger (still a thing in 2001), complete with raw honesty, what I’d call true bravery on both of our parts as we weren’t afraid to be vulnerable (and neither of us was drunk, or had taken any mind-altering substances as far as I know).
See, at the time, I was waiting for my second ex-husband (yes, I’ve been married three times, if I haven’t said that before or in a while) to come back to his home state and sign the divorce papers.
Mind you, I don’t want to discuss my ex here because there are reasons he’s my ex. What I want to discuss instead is the most amazing person I have ever known, my late husband Michael.
I had contemplated annulling my second marriage, but it cost too much time and too much money. That’s why I was going for a straight divorce instead, in the hopes that I’d be able to get out of the marriage faster. But it still took well over a year before my ex decided to sign the papers, mostly because by that time his then-girlfriend and soon-to-be-wife was heavily pregnant.
I truly hope he’s been a better husband to her than he ever was to me. But I digress.
Michael understood two things from the moment he met me (via a mutual friend). One, he knew right off that he was going to marry me. Two, he also knew that if he tried too hard, I’d run like Hell the other way. I’d had bad luck with men, to say the least, and I was divorcing for the second time at the age of thirty-five. I felt like a complete failure, really…I wasn’t one, but I still felt that way.
So, how did we end up having this thirty-six-hour conversation considering he knew I was gun-shy (for good reasons)? Mostly, the first couple of hours were stuff we usually talked about. Books, movies, current events, ethics, morality, you name it. We could talk for hours. He was possibly the one man I’ve ever known who types as fast as I do (as I type around 100 words per minute when I’m all warmed up). He also read as fast as I do, and so we could have these long conversations, intercut with a point from three minutes ago, intercut with another point from a half-hour ago, etc. And it didn’t bore him!
Nope. Instead, I think it enthralled him.
He was lonely, I was lonely, and there’s no doubt that was part of why we started talking that night. But what took us from a developing close friendship to a romance was how vulnerable and open we were that evening. Neither of us wanted to let the other one go. When I went to the bathroom, I’d tell him, and wait for him when he had to go. Neither of us had webcams, which might’ve been just as well (I’m sure he probably had one somewhere, but he wasn’t about to use it), as I was terrified.
Why? I mean, he already knew what I looked like. He knew I was a big, beautiful woman, what they now call a “curvy” woman. He was attracted to me. Partly for my body, I guess, but mostly for the mind and heart and spirit inside that body.
I liked his looks, too, but he could’ve looked like the Hunchback of Notre Dame and I’d have still wanted to be with him. (He didn’t. He was quite handsome, actually, but didn’t think so at all.) He had the most beautiful spirit, was kind-hearted, wanted to help people, would do whatever he could to make someone’s life a little better, and yet he also was witty, made me laugh on a continual basis, and him being willing to talk openly about what he wanted in a woman, and what he hadn’t found yet (as he was also divorced; he and his ex stayed friends, and I am still in contact with her, but they weren’t right for each other romantically).
Then, somewhere in those thirty-six hours, he said he thought he’d found it in me. And could we please consider ourselves courting now?
He used that old-fashioned term because it tickled him (he loved British and BBC period dramas), and partly because that’s exactly what he was doing.
Me on the verge of a second divorce did not scare him. It did not make him run away. And he was savvy enough, intelligent enough, and empathetic enough to know how to support me as I got to know him better.
There’s a reason I called him the most wonderful person ever. There actually are many.
So, twenty-four years ago today, my life changed for the better. I took a chance; he took a chance. It was the right thing to do. We were right for one another. Our marriage was a huge success by every metric he and I used: did we care about each other? Could we support one another? Did we have things we loved to do on our own as well as each other? Would we ever run out of stuff to talk about with each other? (Um, no. We never did.) Did we match in every possible way, mentally, emotionally, physically, and spiritually?
Yes, we did.
We had no money, of course. Neither of us was in good health, and he was in worse health than he knew considering his four sudden heart attacks in one day, culminating in death, in September of 2004. But we wrote together, and it was glorious. (I have to get the two Elfy books out again. I’m sorry it’s taking extra time. Too much going on here, I guess. And my novel Changing Faces was partly the reason he felt he could talk to me in the first place, as he figured anyone who could write that was worthy of the best things in life. He didn’t think he was that, but he wasn’t going to pass on me, either. And he thought my exes were the most foolish, ignorant men on the face of this Earth, too. If I didn’t put that in, he’d not be pleased if he could come back and read this now.) The Elfy duology would not exist without Michael. My other stories, including some set in his own far-future SF Atlantean Union universe, would not exist without Michael. Changing Faces in any form would not exist without Michael either.
Bluntly, I am the person I am today in large part because Michael loved me and he wanted what was best for me. He loved that I played music, he could read music (in all clefs, too, which is hard; yes, I can do it, but I had years of practice and he picked it up seemingly overnight), he loved it that I composed music, he insisted on doing as many household chores as he could to spare me the back and knee pain, he cooked more often than I did even though we were both good cooks, and he made my life so much easier despite all of the obstacles that were in our way.
Once upon a time, I knew that the Deity must love me, or I never would’ve found Michael at all.
If I ever find someone kind enough, good enough, willing to try enough, to be in my life again, it’s because of Michael. His love made it possible for me to see that men can be good, kind, decent, honorable, steady as a rock, encouraging, creative in his own right, quick-witted, and worthy of love in all particulars, in all spheres (mental, emotional, spiritual, and physical), and his love ultimately helped me go on as best I could, even though it did take me at least eleven years to process and even now, still, it often feels like I’m walking on broken glass, trying to pretend my feet aren’t bleeding from the pain of his loss.
So, I don’t know the answers. As I have often said here, I don’t even know the questions sometimes. But I do know that love matters. Creativity matters. Honesty and ethics and fair dealing all matter, too. Honoring the love I had with my husband, that I will have until the day I die and assuredly after as well when we are finally reunited in joy on the other side (hopefully with all the dogs and cats we loved in this life at our sides along with my father and grandmother and all the people Michael had wished I could’ve known better, including his father, who died before I ever knew Michael’s name, much less how wonderful he was).
That’s what matters to me. That’s what’s always going to matter.
May your Christmas and New Years be filled with love, happiness, peace, joy, and whatever else you need to help you have a glorious 2026 despite everything else in your life that gets in the way.
Not having money, not having health, not having a constant place to live, have all gotten in the way of my life for sure. But so long as I have one breath left in my body, I have hope. So long as I remember that a truly good, kind, loving, funny, intelligent, creative person with so many multitudinous talents as Michael loved me, I know I am worthy of that love. And that helps me, at least in part, to get in touch with the Deity in some way, even though I still do not understand why I am here and he is not.
At any rate, it was twenty-four years ago today that my life changed for the better. I think that’s worthy of celebration, even though it’s really hard to celebrate considering Michael’s been dead for twenty-one years, three months, and three days.
A Quick Update
Hey, everyone. Sorry it’s taken me a while to get up a new blog, but I’ve been quite vexed with the housing search. When I was younger — at my first undergraduate school — it took about a month to find a place when nearly everything else was rented. But this search has gone way beyond that, especially as I started it in August…it’s well over three months, and I have yet to find a place to live that I can afford.
That said, I’ve also been battling my usual fall maladies of chronic sinus infections, general malaise, fibromyalgia flares/back problems, and of course the chronic depression I deal with daily. Being able to create helps me fight against all of that. But being in this situation works against being creative, as most of my energy is going toward either survival or finding a new place.
That said, for the moment I am still safe and staying with a family member. Later this month, if I still do not have a place, though, I’m not sure what will happen as the apartment complex here isn’t happy that I’ve been here so long without paying any rent to them. So this is the last month I can do that, though it may be possible for me to “reset the clock” by going to a hotel for a day or two. (Any longer than that, I can’t afford.)
As far as writing goes, I’ve been mostly stalled for all the reasons I gave above. As far as editing goes, I’m finally almost done with a lengthy edit — quite intense, lots of comments to make, and because it’s the last in a series, I have to make sure everything stays in good order. (This means I look stuff up. Nothing wrong with that. But any writer or editor worth anything will tell you what I’m saying right now: the work goes far more slowly if you’re having to do lots of cross-checks with previous books.) I believe I’ve done that, and it’s now just down to the final few things before it goes off to my client.
I am doing my best, in other words. Sometimes I get quite frustrated. (Actually, most of the time.) This is not what I’d hoped for, and not what my father wanted for me, and definitely not what anyone who knows me now and is still alive (including my family) wants either. Yet it’s where I am, and all I can do is my best with the circumstances I’ve got and go from there.
Tomorrow is Veteran’s Day in the US, as probably most of you know. My father was a Navy veteran, as was my late husband, Michael. I have cousins who’ve served, and many friends, along with an ex-husband (he was in the Army, back in the day). I respect people greatly who have served their country, and I appreciate what they’ve done to make this country a better place.
There’s still lots of upheaval going on around me because of governmental issues and strains, too. Everything seems to be in flux, not just me and my living situation.
I wonder sometimes if I am in the wrong place, doing the wrong things, and that I am so far off the track meant for my life (which was to be a college music teacher and performer before my poor health and finances got in the way), there’s no way for me to find my way back.
That said, I’ve done what I thought was best. I’ve helped people as I’m able and will continue to do that as long as I live. I’ve taught myself editing, and am good at it. I write, and always will write, whatever suits me: nonfiction, poetry, fiction, you name it, I can write it and probably have. I’ve used my musical talents in ways I hadn’t expected, but they have been used…and if my health gets any better, perhaps I’ll be able to use them again. (I’d still like to visit France and/or Spain someday, as that’s where classical alto saxophonists are most appreciated.)
So, while I’m battling depression, as I said before, I am still alive. So long as I’m alive, there’s at least some hope for better. I am looking for that hope, while also doing what I can to find my own, independent place to live. (It’s easier to help others when you have a place that’s truly yours where you can retreat to, as needed. A sanctum santorum, in other words. I haven’t had that now in any way, shape, or form for over three months.)
I battle the thought that I’ve failed (all of my novels right now need to be republished, as the rights have reverted back to me and are no longer for sale; unfortunately that’s on the back burner unless/until I can find a place of my own). I battle the thought that Michael might be unhappy with me (though really, I can’t see why he would be; he always thought I was too hard on myself, and this is probably just another of those times). I battle the thought that my maturity and experience may not matter in a world filled with so much automation and the flirtations with AI. I also battle my health, as anyone who’s spent any time here knows…but all I can do is my best.
This is my mantra right now: All I can do is my best.
Maybe that’s how it is always for everyone. But this sense of it being crisis city all the time is hard to live with, and I hope it’ll be alleviated soon. (No disrespect to my family member who took me in, either. That was not easy and I appreciate it greatly. It’s just that I am frustrated with this…and really do need a sanctum santorum of my own for creative reasons.)
So, that’s the update, such as it is.
How are you all doing? (Hopefully better than I am, but at least if you’re alive and kicking, that counts.) Do let me know, if you’re able…I would appreciate it greatly.
Moved Out of Dad’s House…But No Apartment Yet
The last week was very hectic, and not in a good way. I said goodbye to my father’s home, the place I was raised along with my sibs; that was not fun, not pleasant, and was quite frustrating, besides.
I did have some help to get out of Dad’s house, mind. My good friend Lika and her husband and son helped me greatly. (Note that all four of us have significant physical limitations, but we did our best to work around them.) My sister and niece helped the day before the move-out, doing their best to consolidate and remove clutter (along with getting all of my clothes into one place; that’s a handy thing, and I appreciated it). Lika was able to find several things in my bedroom that had eluded me for months, for which I thanked her profusely.
But leaving was still tough.
See, the first thing I had to do the day of the move (which was last Sunday, BTW) was to rent a U-haul truck. I had no trouble renting it, but a great deal of trouble actually getting up into the truck (as it was not a low-rise type of truck, anyone who attempts to get in there has to have better knees than I do). At first, I didn’t know what I was going to do. Then my friend Lika came to the rescue, and she drove the truck (which was fine with the U-haul people) while I drove her car back to Dad’s house.
So, one obstacle down. A whole bunch to go…
At any rate, we loaded the U-haul with as much stuff as we could find. Some stuff still got left, including many of my books and some of my sheet music (probably most of it, but as it had mildewed in the basement over the years, it would’ve had to be thrown out anyway). But as far as I know, I got out all of the music I’ve written over the past twenty-plus years, all of my clothes, and at least some household things like chairs and my bed.
We took it to the storage place I’d picked out, and unloaded it. (Actually, I mostly watched Lika and her family do this. They knew I was struggling mightily by that time.) Then we went out to eat at George Webb’s (as they’re open 24 hours), and they went home as it had been a very, very long day.
I couldn’t get everything, though. Food was left behind (mostly canned food and yogurt). There was just no room for it in my car. In addition, all the pots and pans were left, as were silverware, plates, cups…I did manage to get out the microwave, the mini-fridge, the slow-cooker, and the blender.
Because I was quite tired, too, it took me seven hours to find nooks and crannies in my car in order to take as much stuff as I could. (Lika had already taken my musical instruments with my permission, as I felt they were safer with her than with me under the circumstances.) I had a few panic attacks, and at least one of them was so bad, I thought at first I was having a true, honest-to-Goddess heart attack.
Eventually, I left Dad’s house, after saying my final goodbyes, and wishing it well during the renovation phase. It was a good house for my family, and I will miss it.
Then I had to deal with the next obstacle, which was driving a fully-loaded car on a very sunny day. I’m not normally driving at that hour, much less with so much stuff in the car. It was a struggle to keep going, as I was so tired, I had to repeat like a mantra, “Stay in your lane. Hold your lane. Hold your speed,” over and over.
I’ve never done that before and hope to never have to do it again. But concentrating on that worked, and I drove safely without issues. (Score one for the good guys. Or the good girl. Or whatever.)
But as the title says, I have yet to find a new place to live. I am on quite a few waiting lists, and I have hopes one of them will have room soon.
For now, though, I’m staying with family. This is not a long-term solution, but it gives me time to rest and recuperate. I need that time, as moving took a great deal out of me.
This reminds me of something Michael, my late husband, said. After we’d moved into our new apartment in Iowa, which was hard on both of us as both of us walked with canes (we had no help), he said that he could not face another move. He just did not feel like he was up to it. He was right, though in this case, I think he’d have rather been wrong as him “not moving again” happened because his body gave out.
This might’ve been why I had the bad panic attacks. It also might’ve been why I wondered, again, how I’ve made it almost twenty-one years without the love of my life, and thought such self-defeating things as, “Your music won’t matter. Goodness alone knows, your books certainly haven’t sold much. Maybe you’re fated to live in obscurity the rest of your life.”
All of that may be true, though I hope it isn’t. Still, I have to do what I believe is right. I’m doing that.
And if my works never matter to the world as a whole, I just have to remind myself that out of all the creative sorts who’ve ever lived, we only know a fraction of their names, much less what they did. That does not make what they did bad, wrong, or insignificant.
Anyway, the move was stressful, difficult, painful (you don’t want to know how much I hurt after all that), and frustrating. But I’d like to think something good can come from it, somehow…even if I don’t yet know what that “something good” will be.
Housing Search Continues
Folks, I know I’ve been a bad correspondent lately. But there’s a reason for that.
As I said a few months ago, I knew that my father’s house would be sold soon. As I’d stayed at this house for several years before he passed and continued after, it’s a big change to be looking for a new apartment. Mostly, it’s a welcome thing, because if I’ve proven one thing in the last two years since Dad died, I am not capable of taking care of lawn maintenance or snow shoveling or weeding or any of that.
Mind you, if I didn’t need a cane to walk with, and if I were more flexible, I possibly could’ve done some weeding or something with flowerbeds or whatnot. But shoveling snow, using a snow blower…just out. And using a lawn mower, or shears to cut back hedges…that’s a non-starter, too.
I have had great neighbors, here at Dad’s house. They have consistently bailed me out by shoveling the walks and the driveway, mowing the grass, cutting back the weeds…really, these are kind people, and I will miss them when I’m out of Dad’s house (as I will be in a few weeks).
Now, as I hadn’t blogged about it yet, you may be wondering why I said “housing search continues.” That’s because I’ve been discussing it at Facebook on my personal page, trying to give updates every day or two as to what I’m doing to find a new place.
Mostly, I’ve had some help in finding apartment waitlists that I hadn’t known about, and I found out today from the housing counselor (that’s what I’m calling him as he’s been enormously helpful) that because Michael was a Navy veteran with an honorable discharge, there may be a few more places available to me as his widow.
Still, there are two songs that keep rolling through my head. The first is Three Days Grace’s “Mayday,” which has lyrics like “the more you know you know you know nothing” (yes, they repeat “you know” three times in a row) and “it’s hard to keep fighting, when you’re barely surviving.” (The reason it’s called Mayday is because the group is talking about people who are in extremis that feel like everything they’re doing makes no sense. Yet they keep doing it, even if they “walk like dead people who haven’t died yet,” and even if they’re “going down, but not today. We’ll never say Mayday!”) The second is from the Architects and is called “Everything Ends.” (I think that is enough explanation for one day.)
The thing is, while everything does end, we often have to end something in order to begin something else. Many times, we have to get through a whole lot of stuff that makes us want to yell “Mayday!” and get help before we can get to anything good. And sometimes, it’s hard to remember there are good things out there still waiting, or good people also, because so much has happened that you can barely take it in.
I miss my Dad a lot, more than I’d expected (and I had expected to miss him greatly, so that says something). But to honor Dad’s memory, I have to try to get through this move — one of the seven great stressors even for a healthy, fully ambulatory person (sans cane) — and hope I do find the right place for me to settle in for a while.
Then, I can get back to writing more, editing more, and hopefully enjoying life a little more, too.
Anyway, I will try to write a blog next week or whenever I have some good news to share on the housing front. Either way, I will keep watching the Brewers (go Brewers!), doing what I can to help my Mom so long as my body will allow it, and continue to pack stuff up as best I can.
Wish me luck with this, hey?
Father’s Day Has Come and Gone (and I Have Thoughts)
Folks, yesterday was the second Father’s Day I’ve observed since my Dad died. It wasn’t an easy day in a lot of senses, mostly because the weather has been crappy in addition to observing this day…the air quality here has been downright awful, not just for asthmatics like me, but for everyone due to the Canadian wildfire smoke.
Anyway, Dad and I had a complicated history and relationship. He helped me many times, which I appreciated, but did not want any appreciation for this. (“You’re my daughter,” he’d say firmly. “What am I supposed to do?”) We talked about a lot of sports, we also talked about current events, and while we didn’t always agree on everything, Dad was a good conversationalist and enjoyed verbal sparring to a degree.
I miss him.
He was cantankerous. He delighted in being that way. He felt men should be strong, capable, and caring…but he also really didn’t like a lot of what he was seeing in contemporary society.
For example, to him, Giannis Antetokounmpo should’ve married his wife a lot sooner. They had several children before they married. I think the reason for them not getting married before having the kids is because life as an international superstar is not easy. Scheduling something as big as a wedding must be a difficult endeavor for someone like Giannis.
I do think Dad would be happy that Giannis married at long last (as this happened after Dad’s passing). Giannis always was true to his wife, and he’s been true to his kids, and I think Giannis’s own father would’ve been proud of him whether Giannis ever legally married his wife or not.
The difference, though, is in how Dad, being of an older generation, viewed marriage. He truly believed you should not have kids before marriage. (He knew people had sex before marriage and had for thousands of years, regardless of what that partnership ritual was called.) He thought it a difficult and problematic thing for the children because of things he saw in childhood, no doubt.
See, my father lost his mother when he was just eleven years old. His father was at the time a long-distance trucker, I think…and while other relatives would’ve taken in Dad and his three siblings, they wouldn’t take all four of them. So, my grandfather Edward made the difficult decision to put all four of them in the local orphanage as that was the only way they’d see each other every day. (Dad said it wasn’t easy, either. His two sisters were in the girls’ wing, while he and his brother Richard were in the boys’ wing.)
I don’t know all the people Dad met in the orphanage, much less the lessons he learned there. I do know he was there, as were his sibs, and it marked him for the rest of his life.
Mind you, he was not bitter over it. He understood his father’s reasoning and was glad to be able to see his sibs every day (even if it wasn’t easy to see his sisters).
But his life was upended very early, which is one reason he was a huge supporter of places like the Boys Home and such. He’d been there. He knew that everyone should have as many opportunities as possible.
Dad did his best to make things as stable as they could be despite my parents’ marriage always being difficult. (Loving, but difficult, is the best I’ve got to describe it.) Even after my parents divorced, it was clear that we’d always have a home with him (and also with Mom). This was a good thing, because several times in my life, I needed to stay with Dad in order to sort out things as best I could.
While I’m glad I was with him the last several years until his body just gave out, I wish I could’ve had the big music career everyone had expected of me rather than the series of difficulties and distresses I endured otherwise.
Mind, I will never regret studying music. I continue to compose music when it comes to me, and it remains a big part of my life even though I haven’t been able to play my saxophone, clarinet, or oboe in almost two years.
I still believe that if my health ever improves, because of the talents I possess musically, I might do well overseas in France or Spain. They love classical saxophonists there, and the culture there has a richness that I would love to experience for myself.
Anyway, Dad served in the Navy, and he was stationed in Japan for a year or two (he was a radio technician). Because of this, he was sympathetic to my wish to go overseas and learn whatever there was, while experiencing whatever there was…even as he knew my health has never been robust, and that my dreams may stay just that.
Wisps in the ether.
Dad pivoted several times in his life when he needed to do so, even though he never liked it. (I don’t blame him.) He was an excellent postal carrier. (That’s how he always described it. “Mailman” didn’t seem like nearly enough.) He worked as a cashier and grocery stocker at one point (which I found out after I’d gotten a job as a cashier and stocker myself). He played the drums and spent over ten years in the Racine Municipal Band (starting before they changed the name to the current Racine Concert Band), mostly playing the bass drum. He delivered flowers and newspapers, too.
Dad also didn’t like most modern conveniences whatsoever. He disdained microwaves (though he didn’t mind me using it myself, as I have one), did his dishes by hand, and until the last few years of his life, used a push mower rather than a gas-powered one. He delighted in his orange tiger lilies, enjoyed watching nature — the squirrels, birds, bunny rabbits, etc., were endlessly fascinating to him.
Most of all, he enjoyed being in his own home, where he could make any food he wanted any time he wanted. The simple pleasures, he often said, were the best.
While many things in this world are deeply upsetting, we have to hold on to the positive things. The positive memories, too. We have to know what we stand for, and what ethical purpose we’re here to serve.
That’s what I learned from my father, among other things.
So, when I see bunny rabbits rooting in the yard and they look like they’re about to run away, I talk to them in a gentle voice. (Most of the time, they don’t run away if you’re kind and obviously mean them no harm.) When I see birds nesting in nearby trees, I wish them well raising their chicks. When I see the squirrels on the nearby fence, I laugh at some of their comical actions.
Life is very difficult. It can be frustrating, upsetting, and a hundred other things. But it also can be wonderful with the right people around you, and with a willingness to believe that kindness still matters.
That, too, I learned from my father, though he probably would be astonished to know that if he were still here.
At any rate, I wish everyone well and hope for a safe, peaceful, and enjoyable week ahead. (Drop me a note in the comments, if you’d like. I always enjoy hearing from my readers.)
P.S. For those who’ve asked — the health issues continue. It’s not just the bad air quality we’ve had off and on. I still have that rash and will be seeing the dermatologist again later this week. (Let’s hope that something can be done. At this point, I’m wondering if there’s an underlying infection.)
Musing on Life’s Purpose
There’s a lot of angst right now, partly due to election season and partly because of other factors. But we all need to realize this: We have a purpose in this life even if we don’t know what it is.
If we can do one good thing for someone else, just one, that can move mountains in time. It doesn’t seem like it. It’s maybe an incremental change, rather than a sweeping one…but doing something good for someone else just because is one of the best virtues I know.
The way I define success is, “Did you make any positive difference for anyone?” And, honestly, I think most of us do. We’re not perfect by any means, but most of us try to be good to others, at least some of the time — or to help someone we don’t know, because it’s needed in that moment.
I’ve run into a lot of different things in my life that have changed the course of it significantly. Some were very good, such as meeting and marrying Michael, my late husband. Some were not good. Some were just plain bad, in fact. But when you look back on your life, you can sometimes find small moments that made a huge difference.
My small moment was this: I had been divorced, I’d just gotten out of a relationship that hadn’t gone the way I’d hoped, and then I met Michael. I had a choice: could I open my heart to him, despite how badly I’d been hurt? Or was I going to just drown in the sorrow of it all?
I chose the risk. I opened my heart.
As difficult as it has been to be without Michael all these years since his passing, it would’ve been far, far worse for me to have stayed closed and to have kept Michael at arm’s length. I’d have missed out on great love, happiness, true understanding…the two of us wanted to be around each other, wanted to make each other’s lives better. We could talk about anything for hours. We could sometimes even sit in silence, holding hands, looking at one another, and be perfectly content.
I was right to choose the risk. But no one would’ve blamed me (except myself, of course) had I said, “I have had enough of men, thank you!” and not done so.
The main reason I fight so hard to make any sort of positive difference I can in this life is that I believe Michael being in my life at all was a miracle. I know that has to sound very odd, maybe even a bit woo-woo/out there. But it’s what I believe.
So, if I had turned my face to the wall (metaphorically speaking) years ago, and not opened my heart, I’d have missed out on that miracle. I am glad I didn’t miss out.
For those of you who are hurting for various reasons, I hope you can take some comfort in the fact that you are not alone. Good human beings care about one another and try to help when they can. (I know I’ve been overloaded lately, as I said in my last blog. But I still try to do something, anything, that’s positive, even if it’s just wishing the cashier at the market a good day and telling them they did a great job.) Good human beings notice when you’re making your best effort, and that does matter.
It may seem like it doesn’t. But don’t believe that.
Believe that you are worthy. Worthy of love, worthy of friendship, worthy of understanding, care, and concern.
Don’t let anyone, ever, grind you down into nothing. You are worth more than that.
Why I’ve Not Blogged Lately…
Folks, the past several months have hit me hard. There have been several “sadiversaries” (AKA sad anniversaries), in a row, and it’s been almost unbearable sometimes to deal with all the grief, mourning, and frustration.
That’s just a fact.
In addition, one of the sadiversaries was the first anniversary of my father’s passing last year. My entire family had trouble with this; it was not just me, not in any way, shape, or form. When the day of observance came, in some ways I didn’t know what to do with myself.
See, going back into June, there was my wedding anniversary, which was possibly the happiest day of my life. Still, when you have had far more years without your husband’s physical presence than you did with, it can be hard to see any of the remaining happiness.
Then there was my husband’s birthday, which he never observed. (As previously stated here at my blog and elsewhere, Michael believed far more in every other day of the year. He’d rather celebrate 364 days than just one.) Yet I observed it…while I never got along with his mother, and never got a chance to meet his father (as Michael’s father died before I met him), the fact is that if they hadn’t met and married, Michael would never have been here at all. I felt that day was worthy of commemoration, and while Michael was alive I would treat it much the same as any other day, you have to understand something: I was so ecstatic to be with Michael, the man I loved, the man I married, the man who understood me…every day was like Christmas, New Year’s, July 4th, or any other holiday that you might wish to observe.
Getting past those two things wasn’t easy. But then there was my birthday, which went surprisingly well this year, followed by the anniversary of Michael’s passing in September. As it’s been a rough couple of years, I couldn’t help but wish I still could feel Michael’s arms around me, and hear his voice tell me it would be all right so long as we had each other. (Anything else could be surmounted, you see. We’d proven that.)
Then came the anniversary of Dad’s passing a few weeks ago. And it’s like something inside me just refused to keep going for a bit.
I think that’s part of the reason why I’ve been sick, physically ill, far more often than I’ve been well in the past few years. While my health was never as robust as it could’ve been, there’s been a marked downturn in some ways of energy, maybe because I’ve had a lot of responsibilities and not too much in the way of fun or entertainment.
See, we don’t live by bread alone. We need other things to season that bread with, or to put on the bread so it tastes better. Salt, pepper, olive oil, butter…you name it, any of those things will make bread taste better, especially if you combine a few. (Such as peppered butter. Yes, that’s a thing.) Yet in my case, I’ve been on subsistence rations for many years now.
I refuse to put on a false face for anyone, because I feel it detracts from my energy, my strength, and my sense of purpose. The way I do my best is to present myself as a hard-working, put-together woman who is trying her damnedest to overcome a difficult series of obstacles. I do that because that is my truth.
I worry, though, because we have AI now, and they aren’t paying writers what they should — or even anything at all — for scooping up their work and training the AIs in the vagaries of human behavior. (At least, this is what it seems from the outside.)
Another problem I’ve been dealing with over the past several months is the physical pain brought on by osteoarthritis throughout my body, along with fibromyalgia flare ups. This saps my strength further, because pain does that. (Then again, as one of Lois McMaster Bujold’s characters says, what golden moments can you wring from life despite the pain? Still working on that one.)
I also worry because I had a very weird experience with someone recently. I thought we were getting to know each other, as friends, and I enjoyed having someone to talk with at the odd hours I have to discuss anything…someone new helped for a while, because I worry that I put too much on my long-term friends as it is. (Sometimes it’s harder to stand and watch as your friend flails than it is to actually do the flailing. Or at least I’m willing to postulate that as possible, maybe even probable.) I looked forward to discussing things with this person, until the day came where I was asked for money — and not just, “Can I borrow $20?”
See, this individual may or may not have been telling me the truth. But one thing I did know was that what was being proposed — me paying bills for them that I’d supposedly get reimbursed for later, all because the account he had was frozen — was a well-known scam. Maybe there’s someone out there who has this real problem, but if he or she does, they need to realize only their long-term friends with a very, very long baseline of knowledge about said person and their life experiences is going to be able to do any good.
What I ended up doing was, I said if the finances were so terrible, it was time to go to the state and ask for help. (Supposedly this person’s son was very ill. The details I’d heard were correct, too. Some con games are far more successful when there’s something true about them, though.) Or go to the hospital and/or clinics the son was being treated at and ask to have bills reduced through community/charity care. (This is a real thing, so if you ever get in a financial bind in the US, ask for help.) Further, I pointed out St. Jude’s Hospital for Children in Indiana, as this person said he was from downstate Illinois — not very far away from Indiana! — and said they were a possibility to bring their sick child to in order to get care. St. Jude’s takes no money from parents; they raise money via donation, in the belief that sick children need care regardless of how much, or even if, their parents can pay at all — and they’re right.
Then I blocked the individual.
I tell you all this for one reason: it’s been a huge stressor on top of other huge stressors. Something that started out as fun chit-chat ended up as that (someone who wanted something from me that I could not provide), and it made me feel like I was just a piece of meat or something. (Shades of Lady Gaga’s “meat dress” from years ago.)
So, that’s why I haven’t blogged in a while. I’ve been trying to get through what seems like a minefield that, while not necessarily filled with active mines, definitely was filled with quicksand (to pull me under), molasses (to keep me stuck), and a whole lot of trepidation.
I don’t know how I’m going to get through this stretch of time. But I figured I’d at least come here and let you know — whoever is still reading, or will read this whenever they see it and are bored (or whatnot) — that I am alive.
Frustrated, but alive.
Angry, but alive.
Tired out of my mind, wishing for a good thing to happen somewhere, somehow…but alive.
My only thought now is this: I hope you all are being good to yourself and your loved ones, and are treating each other the way you, yourselves, want to be treated.
Despite everything, I still believe that is the best strategy to go through life. Treat each other with respect, dignity, and try to find the good in people…or at least try not to spread vitriol, as I’ve said so many times before.
I hope I’m not just shouting into the void, now, with this blog. But if I am, at least I tried…picture me ruefully chuckling at that, because I’d rather try and fail than just refuse to do anything at all.
Let me know how you all are doing, OK? And if you have had something good happen that made you smile, tell me about it in the comments. (Please?)
Why You Need to Read Kayelle Allen’s SURRENDER LOVE (Especially if You Love Romances)
My friend Kayelle Allen just released a new book called SURRENDER LOVE. And this book is so much fun, I just had to write a blog about it.
So, what is SURRENDER LOVE about? (Yes, I can hear you asking that question.) It’s about the healing power of love, and about how universal love can be, regardless of who the lovers are or what species they come from. The book is set in the far future, where humanity has spread out to twenty-two planets and other groups, including the Kin (Felinoids who can breed with humans/humanoids), have been discovered.
In this case, SURRENDER LOVE is a male/male romance (between two men) featuring Luc Saint-Cyr, a nearly immortal man who’s lived many lifetimes but has never found true love, and Izzorah Ceeow, a young man from the Kin race. Izzorah, also known as Izzy, is a drummer for a successful rock band. But he’s not in the best of health despite his young age (he’s a legal adult, but only by a year or two), and has had to grow up fast due to his homelife. (More on that in a bit.)
First, here’s a banner for you…I love the purple color, and the stars in the background.
Anyway, Luc is a very complex man.** He’s had many relationships with men, women, and other sentients of various types (as Luc is pansexual), but Luc has never found true happiness. He’s mostly blamed himself for this, though the fact that humans live so much shorter of lives than he does as a quasi-immortal Sempervian (his planet of origin, roughly) has made it extremely difficult for Luc as he usually can’t tell his lovers who and what he is. (Why? Well, there’s a society of immortals that are hiding in plain sight. But that’s not important to know at the start; just know that’s part of the background.)
Izzy, on the other hand, is an open book. He is a kind, empathetic, and smarter than he thinks. And yet because he’s “sahnamay,” (which means gay in the Kin language), he had to run from his home planet because it’s matrilineal and gay men there can be put to death by the women in power.
I mentioned Izzy’s homelife before. He has great parents who understand him, but they either don’t realize he’s gay or don’t know what to do about it. They have brokered a marriage to a woman who leads a powerful clan, and Izzy’s heard horrible things about that woman. (She’s a sociopath, to put it bluntly.) He decides to run for it, despite the fact that he’s all but blind due to a childhood illness. And he manages to make it to the spaceport, and makes his way to Tarth (where Luc resides). Once there, he auditions for and is accepted by the rock band, and becomes wildly popular. But he hasn’t told anyone he’s gay for obvious reasons…
…then he meets Luc. (Play some happy music behind this. Preferably rock, in Izzy’s honor. But I digress…)
In the excerpt that follows, Luc’s coming off a bad breakup with a human man. He and Izzy are talking privately, and Izzy’s talent for understanding smells at a deep level comes in handy (as you’ll see):
“You didn’t know what to do when he left, did you?” Izzorah played with one of Luc’s buttons. “Should you forget him? Try to win him back?”
“I tried making him jealous by having an affair with a Kin male named Jawk.” A tinge of lavender and bitter nutmeg sparked, showing Luc’s regret. “What a pointless attempt that was. I doubt anything I did would have kept Wulf from leaving. He was already in love and we were finished.” Luc faced Izzorah. “Pardon me for rambling. I shouldn’t have burdened you with that.”
“No, you needed to tell it. You’re glad it’s over, but it still hurt.”
“It did. I tried telling myself it wasn’t happening. That I didn’t love him anyway, but–” Luc stopped. “I did. Wulf and I lived in the same house but led separate lives. It was pitiful, the way things ended. No final conflict. No big blowup. More like air leaking from a balloon. I let him go. Gave him my blessing. Then moped because I was alone. I was pathetic.”
“No. You’d never be that. Breakups are a kind of death. The loss aches. Slowness doesn’t make it less painful.”
“True.” Luc’s focus made Izzorah’s mouth go dry. But then the man smiled, and it warmed Izzorah’s soul. Luc leaned his head against the wall. “You have incredible insight. And you’re right about the pain. With you, I’m at peace. Last thing I need is to fall in love with another heartbreaker. I’m hoping you don’t turn out to be that, because it’s too late.”
The truth was in Luc’s scent, a faint smell of sweet grass, along with fresh linen, showing respect. The mixture meant what Luc felt surprised him.
“I don’t understand.” Izzorah understood all right, but Luc needed to admit it to himself. That was in his scent too. And Izzorah wanted to hear the words. “Too late for what?”
“Too late for me to turn back. I’ve already fallen for you.”
Izzorah scooted closer to Luc. “I promise.”
Luc shifted a bit, allowing Izzorah to fit against him. “Tell me what you mean by that.” He looked down.
Holding Luc’s dark gaze, Izzorah smiled. “That I’ll be what you need.”
“Will you, now?” Patience and amusement eddied through Luc’s scent in an appealing mixture. With one hand, Luc stroked Izzorah’s hair and then he coiled a strand around one finger. “Suppose you tell me what you think that is.”
Izzorah curled up against Luc’s chest and wrapped one arm over Luc’s waist. “A shelter for your heart.”
——— End Excerpt ——–
SURRENDER LOVE is a wonderful book about the healing power of love. I urge you to read it ASAP, especially if you love your romance with a healthy dose of SF&F.
Note: If you haven’t read A STOLEN HEART yet, about Luc’s adventures with Senthys “Senth” Antonello at age three, you need to read that book…yes, you will understand SURRENDER LOVE without it, but you’ll have so much better of a reading experience if you’ve read A STOLEN HEART first.
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