I don't throw salt over my left shoulder if it's spilled, never give a second thought to a black cat crossing my path and have never been afraid to walk under ladders or keep an open umbrella in the house. But.....ask me to remove the gold cross I've worn for the last fifty or so years, and you'll meet rock hard resistance. Somewhere around thirty years ago I added a chain with The Serenity Prayer inscribed on a small silver dog tag - one keeps me safe, the other keeps me sane - they're the only concessions I make to superstition or faith, despite not always being sure that I can tell the difference.
Coming of age in the 60's, I came to believe that protest could lead to change and change to peace - being naturally stubborn and idealistic, it was a hard illusion to set free and a part of me still hopes it might return if the current president manages to win re-election - but life has a talent for not turning out the way we imagined or hoped and we adapt, making course corrections as we go and trying to steer in the right direction. I once expected to grow comfortably old, wrinkle free and silver haired in the company of a man who shared my dreams and a dozen cats - I didn't anticipate the true cost of independence or the price of freedom - but each morning as I sit and reflect, each evening as I wait for sleep, and all the time in between, I can't help but notice that things generally work out without my forcing them. Not always according to plan, I admit, but most always in a way I can live with. What doesn't kill you, makes you stronger, as the saying goes.
If you believe in a deity or some version of a higher power, you have to make room for the possibility that there's a blueprint in place, a design of some sort, possibly even a map you can choose or choose not to follow. For me, it's the only way I can make any sense of the world and the people in it. Letting go is not giving up and we can all use a little guidance, regardless of its source.
Wavering as I frequently do between being an agnostic and one of the faithful, I usually end up choosing a private blend of spirituality - my silver dog tag - and a more accepted symbol - my gold cross. In their own way, each brings me closer to a place of light where belief and superstition live together in harmony.
Sit a spell, the old man said to my grandmother, handing over a pale, blue envelope, This come today.
We'd driven the sixty miles to the mainland, as we did every two weeks, to visit him. Nana had made an angel food cake and baked fresh apple muffins but these were put aside in favor of the letter. Uncle Whit had never been taught to read or write and with his wife long gone, his only remaining family was a daughter in Calgary - who, Nana liked to remind me, wrote faithfully and at length, usually including snapshots. She never failed to remember Christmas or his birthday and sometimes even enclosed a crisp, new $5 or $10 dollar bill for no reason at all. Everyone has incidentals, she wrote, and it's good to have a little mad money. Last time, Nana had checked, Uncle Whit had well over $300 neatly folded in a money clip he kept under his pillow.
Whitney Ford Titus! she'd exclaimed, Why in heavens name isn't this in the bank?
Don't rightly recollect ever trustin' them fellas in those monkey suits, Uncle Whit had said placidly, I sleep better with it close by.
But Nana could be a formidable opponent and at our next visit she brought along a small metal lockbox with a pair of silver keys. She counted out the bills slowly and carefully then laid them neatly inside along with the house key he was never to use again, his collection of pictures, and his wife's wedding ring. She fastened one key to a long chain and slipped it over his head and inside his shirt - the other, she tucked securely into her change purse.
Now, she said with a satisfied smile, We'll both sleep better.
Knowing he was beaten, Uncle Whit shrugged and motioned to a chair. Sit a spell, he repeated impatiently, and read me my damn letter.
Dear Daddy, my grandmother began and the old man propped himself up on his pillows and closed his eyes to hear and imagine all the news from Calgary. Nurses came and went, other nursing home residents passed by the open door and waved a greeting, medications and meals were delivered, linens changed. Nana read until Uncle Whit fell asleep then we left as quietly as we'd come. It was just a few hours on a Saturday afternoon, not much of a sacrifice if you were young and restless with all the time in the world, but precious hours to give away if you were my grandmother. I never told her - she'd have likely cuffed me rather than accept a compliment - but it made me proud. It still does.
The cold I managed to avoid last week was not pleased at being evicted and sometime in the night, it returned with an attitude - it's moved out of my throat and into my head and chest, making sleep difficult and requiring a Puffs box to be close at hand at all times. I dare not bring my eucalyptus cough drops home for fear that the black dog will hunt them down no matter where I put them - she has a positive genius for finding and devouring them, wrapper and all. Although I have no proof of it, I suspect she enlists the support and help of the cats in this search, promising them God knows what in return for their agility and stealth in opening drawers and cabinets that she can't reach. I don't like to think in terms of conspiracy theories since I'm seriously outnumbered so instead I down aspirin and cough medicine and orange juice and take my time in a hot shower.
In the shower, I hear barking, too muted to be my own dogs but close enough that it must be the new dog next door - he's a twelve week old Blue Heeler whose name I don't yet know - we only met briefly last night and as I was a little fuzzy minded with the cold coming on again, I had only a quick impression of him. My first thought was a fireplace log on short, stubby legs, incredibly compact and solid and moving at an alarmingly high rate of speed - he hit my ankles and knees with enough force to knock me back into the car, then leaped and climbed on top of me and began covering my face with anxious, sloppy kisses. Whoa! I finally managed to yell, laughing too hard to put much volume into it, I give! My neighbor, Kevin, appeared from his garage in the nick of time and disentangled us, saving me from what certainly might have been death by affection. This young puppy is going to be a handful and I wonder how best to warn The Cat Who Lives in the Garage, then immediately realize that no warning will be needed - she hasn't survived this long on luck or good looks and most certainly knows about him already - I doubt she or any of the other wandering minstrel cats are any too pleased and while I don't know Kevin well enough to know if he'll be a good and responsible owner, his back yard is fenced and I do know he has a good heart. For the moment, I'm willing to overlook his not being a cat person - he's young and may not know any better.
There comes a great clatter from my front windows - my own dogs in loud and righteous protest at the sight of me and a new four footed friend have mounted an offensive and are clamoring for attention and their evening meal. The puppy gives me a last wet kiss and I go inside to face the music.
You'd think at my age I'd have better things to do than explain myself to dogs.
You'd be wrong.
Here in the shallow end of the sympathy pool, the water is still and calm and barely comes to my knees. It's almost easy to ignore the commotion at the deep end, where a man I used to know struggles, on the very verge of drowning although he's been thrown a life preserver and it's within reach.
There are, I see, twelve missed calls on my cell phone - eleven from him, all left in the last couple of days. I force myself to listen to five, each more urgent and desperate than the last. They're filled with declarations of love, all too little and too late, sobbing pleas for me to visit, irrational assurances of how much he misses me, how he needs, needs, needs. His isolation and loneliness have disabled his mind as the stroke disabled his body. He's angry, bitter, depressed to the point of suicidal threats, and begging me to help. I delete the last half dozen calls without listening and then despise myself. Reminding myself that I can't swim and that another rescue attempt would only drag me under with him isn't much help - my sleep is still restless and troubled with guilt. These variations on a theme haunt me like bad dreams but I can't and won't help him when all he wants is to go home again, back to an unsafe and abusive place, a place that endangers his health and maybe even his life.
Searching for the truth within myself, I finally realize that I'm angry at him - for refusing to try to make friends in this dismal place, for not seeing that he's worse instead of better after a year and a half, for for the wild mood swings and the terrible telephone calls, for refusing to talk to anyone who might actually be able to help, and lastly, for his schemes to acquit his wife from the charge of domestic abuse. I'm furious that he's chosen to play the helpless victim and that he expects me to play along - even in the state he's in, he's still trying to manipulate me and worse, his need - this pitiful and Grand Canyon sized need - is getting on my last nerve. It's my anger not his that keeps me away, I admit to myself. I hate visiting him, hate listening to him defend her, hate having him beg me to help when there's nothing I can do, so I pull away, delete the telephone calls and try and put him out of my mind. He had so many chances, I remind myself bitterly, and he turned down each and every one. This unbidden thought gives me a sudden and horrifying jolt - surely, payback can not be part of this emotional equation, surely I cannot be that kind of person. I'm angry, I tell myself, not out to get even. If this keeps up, I'll be the one looking for therapy.
I resolve to visit soon, to be as cheerful and optimistic as reality will allow, to bend if needed but not break. The connection between us is fraying - fragile but still holding in its way - old lovers and old dreams fade with morning light but old friends are not so easily dismissed.
Here's something you'd have thought I'd have noticed years ago - none of my cats meow.
Vocalizations are hardly they problem. They yip, yowl, wail, squeak, even now and again scream. They chirp, mew, trill and chatter and sometimes even caterwaul. And of course at the imminent "outgestion" of a hairball, they reach deep down for that bowels of the earth, sepulchral and almost baritone ascending, protracted moan that makes me think of tombs and watery graves and spirits walking through haunted walls. But they do not meow, not for food or attention or general social discourse. It's a matter of attitude not linguistics, I suspect. Meow being what they are known for, they naturally chose a variation of the word to maintain their distance. All know their names and except for the old, tuxedo cat, all will come when called - I talk to them all the time and they regularly talk back. Should one one day answer me in plain English, I won't be the least bit surprised since I've been anticipating it for years. Even without a proper meow, the only trick to communicating with cats is paying attention. Humans, on the other hand .....
You'd think that a common language, a decent education, and a few simple listening skills would be enough but sadly, it's not the case.
So, I email our business manager, How many vacation days do I currently have?
Sick days don't carry over, her email replies.
Mystifying.
You've had this cold for two weeks now, the doctor tells me patiently as he reaches for a syringe and fills it, just prior to adding a needlessly tacky (albeit accurate) remark about my age - and you're not twenty any more. You don't just throw it off in three days like you used to.
There's a quick and painless jab to my hip. It's the second one that stings.
If it moves into your lungs, he continues, paying absolutely no attention to my "Ouch!" of protest, then it's walking pneumonia or you end up in the hospital. So here's the plan. He steps back and crosses his arms, giving me his dead serious look, the one that has no bargaining room.
You're officially grounded. For the whole weekend. Except for coming here for another shot tomorrow and another one on Sunday. In the meantime, it's bed rest and fluids. Cancel your plans, reschedule whatever you need to. You won't be tap dancing by Monday but...... he gives my red, raw nose and watery eyes a critical look..... you might feel and look a little less like death on a stick.
The protest I'm about to make at missing a third night of music dies in a coughing spasm and wins me an I told you so look. I gather my Hall's, my box of Puffs, my purse and my ipod and give him a grudging thank you then head for the door. It irritates the fire out of me when he's right and throws that medical school stuff at me.
Several hours later, 4am rolls around and I wake - headachy and still congested, bleary eyed but breathing a little easier and coughing a little less. I tend the animals, drink a bottle and a half of water, and crawl back under the covers. I haven't been grounded since I was twelve and I'm caught halfway between resenting it and being grateful.
Doctors.
Death on a stick.
Not being twenty anymore.
Ouch.
How much is the $10 dinner box? the woman ahead of me in asked the young man behind the counter. It was her fourth or fifth choice after a careful and oblivious study of the menu and the customers behind her, myself included, were exasperated.
The restless take out line grew suddenly silent, one or two customers sighed, all of us looked up expectantly. For a moment the young man's smile faltered, then he apparently had an insight. Let me check for you, ma'am, he said politely and he turned to look up at the huge, overhead menu on the wall behind him. Well, whaddya know, he told her when he turned back around, The $10 dinner box is $10. She considered this for a moment, then plucked a $10 bill from a worn out purse and laid it on the counter. I'll have one then, she said.
Yes, ma'am, the young man said, With tax, it'll be........
An even $10, an older and deeper voice cut in from behind me, then in a softer, muted tone, more to himself than anyone else, I judged, Or we'll never get home for dinner. The owner of the voice, a harried looking, gray haired man in a suit and tie, excused himself and went around me to lay a handful of change on top of the woman's $10, then resumed his place in line.
The store manager, who had appeared to see what exactly was holding up the ever growing line, had overheard this and nodded to the young man. An even $10, he agreed, Who's next?
I recently read a post by my Cousin Linda about peeling an orange.
Hardly profound, you might say - but here's the thing - not only was it not about just peeling an orange, midway through I had become one with the orange, could smell it, feel it, anticipate its sweetness, damn near taste it.
I finished it with an irresistible urge for fresh citrus fruit and I don't even particularly like citrus fruit, fresh or otherwise. Writing, I'm reminded, can be profound without being about profound - but it took a third reading before I could bypass the nearly sensual imagery of her words and discover the subtext. If you want to know that, you can read it for yourself (www.inthesamevein.blogspot.com) but if I were you, I'd have an orange on hand for when you're done - you're going to want one.
I like to think that I can do with pictures what she can do with words - capture the essence of a moment as well as the spirit or passion behind it. I do very little traditional or posed photography, primarily because it tends to be static and there are always unspoken expectations involved. I have a truly limited gift for setting up a shot, but I hope, the natural instinct to anticipate and wait for the moment on stage will never fail me. The music is my orange - raw, immediate, filled with sweetness and abandon. If I leave the bar with only a single image that speaks to me, be it a wink, a smile, a grimace or a casual guitar move - then I'm pleased with myself. If you or my subject see what I see or are moved by it, then I've accomplished what I set out to do.
It's hard to go far wrong if you do a little of what makes you happy each day.
So pick that six string, write that lyric or essay, press that shutter or peel that fruit. Become one with your passion and you'll find yourself. Even an orange has a story to tell.
There was a time when you could light up anywhere - restaurants, hotels, grocery stores, airplanes, office buildings and of course, beauty parlors. At the time, both my mother and grandmother had separate hair dressers. Nana went to Joseph, an elegantly silver haired gentleman with manicured nails and a slight accent,
tall, slim, always well dressed and courteous to a fault. His salon smelled of flowers and polished wood, a quiet place where people spoke in low voices and listened to the strains of classical music from Boston's public radio station while sipping tea with lemon and nibbling delicate sandwiches with the crusts neatly removed. My mother, loudly claiming that Joseph's was suffocating and gave her a migraine, found Lorraine - a brassy, gum chewing blonde who favored stiletto heels and capri pants and smoked like a chimney. When the lipstick stained butts overflowed the plastic ashtrays, she simply tossed them to the barely swept floor and absentmindedly crushed them under one spike heel. Her salon reeked of stale pizza and ammonia and the high pitched chatter of gossip was always competing with with a Sinatra song - everyone sang along.
The year I turned eleven, my mother decided that I was to have a permanent wave and that only Lorraine should be the one to do it. I protested fiercely - it was the year that the then prominent school photographer Olan Mills Studio was to do our school pictures and I hated the idea of having to dress up and have my picture made - but it was useless to argue and in the end I sullenly consented to being dragged to the salon and deposited into a swivel chair. Lorraine covered me with a ragged plastic cape, jammed a filter tip into one corner of her mouth and began the process, oblivious to the ammonia stinging my eyes and the paper wrapped rollers that seemed to set my scalp to burning. I couldn't remember being more miserable and the hour spent under the dryer almost seemed a mercy - its heat made the burning and itching worse but at least the noise blotted out the music and the chicken yard of gossippy, giggling, empty women. I had no idea that there was far worse to come.
Back in the swivel chair an hour later, Lorraine unwrapped the nasty little rollers and with my mother watching, began brushing out the tight curls with enthusiasm. It took her several minutes to realize that every brush stroke brought with it a clump of frayed and fried hair - it was only when I opened my eyes and burst into wild tears that she stopped - the filter tip, now hanging loosely between her wide open and startled lips, fell to the floor and in seconds the stench of burning hair drifted everywhere. Stunned and speechless, she turned to my horrified mother whose own cigarette had fallen into her lap and ignited a tiny, smoking flame. The entire salon fell suddenly silent except for Frank who began belting out a heartfelt, Rat Pack rendition of "Birth of the Blues".
Don't worry, honey, Lorraine finally said hoarsely, I can fix it.
Fix it? I shrieked, Fix it? With what? I thought I heard an edge of hysteria in my voice and I broke into fresh tears, There's nothing left to fix!
It grew back, of course, although not in time for the school pictures and not before I'd endured months of torment and name calling. Lorraine had sheared and cut as short and as close as she'd dared, creating an overall impression of a marine buzz cut gone terribly wrong and a wealth of opportunity for cruel teasing and taunting. The school year was only half over and I cried every day - my daddy did his best to console me while my mother, who had gotten over her shock in no time and come to put all the blame on Lorraine, snapped at me to grow up and stop making such a fuss. When the Olan Mills proofs were ready, I cut them to shreds and burned them piece by piece in the kitchen sink - with every match strike, I hoped and prayed for my mother to appear and try to stop me - I imagined I might stab her eyes out and then set her on fire. Not long after, an order form and a bill came in the mail and I defiantly admitted what I'd done and said I'd do it again.
We can't get the deposit back! my enraged mother snapped as she began clearing the dinner table with wild abandon, and since money doesn't grow on trees, it'll just come out of your allowance!
No, my daddy said quietly, It won't. And remarkably there was something in his tone or the look he gave her that ended the discussion before it began. She gave him a brief glare then ordered me to my room to think about what I'd done. You're excused, she said coldly.
Well, you're not! I snapped back before I had a chance to think it through, It's your fault and I hate you! It may have been the first time I'd said the words outloud and I knew better than to wait and see if they would harmlessly dissipate like fog under a bright sun or catch fire and burn everything in their path. Regardless, I knew I would never take them back and they'd left with a desperate need to hurt something - I slammed my chair into the table's edge and ran blindly for the stairs - the sharp edged sounds of breaking Corelware and glass followed me, then there was crying. I closed and locked my bedroom door and turned my small radio as loud as I could stand to drown it all out and after not too long a time, fell almost peacefully asleep with no dreams and no regrets.
A flash of memory from childhood - on the road from Yarmouth, we pass by a small wooden building, not much more than a shack, really, but with all the familiar markings of a locally owned and run store - inside will be dim and a little dusty with the smell of leather and tobacco smoke. There's likely to be a glass display case of penny candy, a freezer of ice cream, a rack of cigarettes and a sit and stay bench with a spittoon at each end. And in the back, tucked between the only two windows, will be a long, waist high cooler. I lift the heavy lid and reach elbow deep into the icy water, retrieving a glass bottle of Coke and wedging it into the old fashioned opener on the side. The metal bottle cap snaps off cleanly - I pay my nickel and drink it down in one long, continuous swallow, tasting almost unbearable sweetness and letting the carbonation nearly burn my throat. Nothing could've been more perfect on a warm summer morning.
We leave Weymouth and continue on - Meteghan, Sandy Cove with it's brilliant blue sky'd view of the bay and the village, Little River. The closer we get, the more my heart flutters at the familiar sights and how little has changed - each cottage and breakwater and boatyard seem untouched by time. Finally, the deadly hairpin turn at East Ferry and I see Tiverton, sparkling in the sun across the choppy water. Nana eases the old Lincoln to a stop and I race out, not able to stand one more second of being this close to home without the sun and the salt air. The ferry is halfway across, I can hear it's little motor chugging against the currents - it appears to be traveling sideways, as if it might be carried out to sea, but I know its path, know it will turn soon. There's still time for a quick trip into the tiny East Ferry store, so nearly identical to the one in Weymouth. This time I drink slowly, standing at the edge of road, counting the minutes to the ferry's arrival. When the motor turns to idle, it will dock and the crew will slam wire encased planks off onto the breakwater. Get in the car, child, Nana calls to me roughly, pretending not to understand why I'm crying, It's almost time. But I know that she's counted the cars that will drive off and will not start the Lincoln's engine until the scow is empty. First on, last off, everyone knows, and ever so slowly the Lincoln crawls down toward the ferry. Cap aligns the wheels with the planks and guides us on with hand gestures and a broad smile. Once the car is in place, it's secured with chains and Nana sets the hand brake - no one has ever forgotten the time the whale surfaced beneath the scow and as Cap liked to say, Very nearly upset the whole damn applecart. Passengers are encouraged to stay in the cars for the crossing but we're the only traffic that perfect morning and as soon as we're headed for the opposite shore, I'm out and running for the side where Mac sweeps me up in a bear hug. Welcome home, girl, he tells me, Been expectin' you. Just before we dock in Tiverton, he will collect the fare from my now smiling grandmother and deposit me back in the Lincoln.
The last twelve miles seem to take forever but finally we're at the top of hill that overlooks the village. It's a postcard view with the tide high and the water in the cove shining like diamonds. Not a single thing has changed - I can see the ocean, the post office built on stilts over a the ditch, the roof of McIntyre's and another mile or two of dirt road to The Point. If home is where the heart is, then I'm home. Of all the places that I've lived no matter for how long, this is the only place attached to my soul.
I come back to myself and the present time in line at the checkout aisle of the local grocery store with Crystal, the checker, and Calvina, the bagger, both giving me doubtful looks. My grocery cart is mysteriously jammed end to end and side to side with six packs of Coke in glass bottles.
Drink much? Crystal mutters, Guess ya'll be needin' some help out? Calvina adds with a heavy sigh.
I can manage, I tell them with a smile. Some days it takes way more than a couple of rude checkout girls to dislodge a dream.
Among the stacks of books I discovered in my Aunt Ola's childhood bedroom, were the "Honey Bunch" novels, a series of sticky sweet tales about a perfect girl child with blue eyes and blonde hair. I read each one in between "Anne of Green Gables" and "The Waterbabies", amazed at the sheer sugary perfection of the main character, a child who had never known disappointment or falsehood or anything less than complete love. Surely such a child, an utterly good and angelic little girl, could not - should not - exist, not even in fiction. Surely such fair and even tempered, sunshiney parents could not - should not - exist, not even in children's books. Each summer I vowed I would not read them again - the truth was that I hated Honey Bunch with as much preteen passion as I could summon. She was the pinafore'd and prim little girl that I knew my mother had imagined, dreamed of, counted on - and did not get. She never got dirty, never misbehaved, never spoke out of turn or refused to eat her vegetables. She was always on time and polite to her elders, never excluded anyone from her nightly prayers, chewed with her mouth closed and knew her Bible verse every Sunday. The idea that someone would willingly invent such a creature and then profit from her innocent adventures made my teeth hurt.
Even now, I dislike overly girly girls and an abundance of pink gets on my nerves. There's something inherently superficial to me about an excess of ruffles and frills and hair, something falsely delicate and unreal. I can't shake the thought that underneath all that glitter and pink perfection there's a deep well of..... well, absolutely nothing. It's a silly notion, I know, born of a silly childhood inadequacy, but it stays with me nevertheless. Even in this imperfect world, I can't convince myself that pink and brains are compatible.
At the end of my stay at the farm each summer, I went through the books one last time, saying goodbye and promising them I'd be back. Except for Honey Bunch, they were all dear friends with substance and stories to tell, stories that would be fresh and new the following summer. The Honey Bunch books were relegated to a sunless and musty corner where I always vaguely hoped they might dry up and turn to dust over the winter. I suppose I also hoped that my mother's expectations of her only daughter might meet a similar fate.
If you aren't accepted for who and what you are, you either keep trying to please - a vain and useless pursuit if ever there was one - or you change. If change leads to self acceptance, all the better. Learn to please yourself, be yourself, and write off the rest. The expectations of others are really just pink in disguise.
One of my grandmother's most oft repeated sayings had to do with learning lessons. Ain't no education in the second kick of a mule, she liked to tell me with a wry smile, and that's the gospel truth, child. Even at a young age, I could see there was clearly no argument to be made against this particular bit of wisdom. The first time I heard her say it, she was referring to my mother's most recent pledge of sobriety but it was an all occasion phrase, as applicable to a cat having a second litter of unwanted kittens as the remorse of a hangover or having faith in the Red Sox. You learned from life's lessons or you didn't - it was as simple as that.
For the most part, we managed to pass as an intact and ordinary family - middle class, public schools, two cars, church on Sundays, a white two story house with black shutters and a maple tree in the back yard. Nothing about the way we lived was remarkable or special or noteworthy, nothing we did provoked attention, at least not in the early years. The grass was kept neatly cut, the trash barrels set out every Monday, my daddy came and went to work each day and supper was on the table at six. The brawls were private family business, carefully contained and hidden from the outside world, my mother's regular falling down drunkenness was a secret well kept by us all for years. No one asked to look inside and we instinctively knew to keep people out, fearful that someone would uncover the free floating shame that guided and ruled our lives, although if anyone had asked, I doubt we'd have been able to articulate it. Live with a sense of undefined wrongness long enough, I discovered, and it begins to feel normal and right - secrecy is the very heart of shame, neither can flourish without the other. There was help to be had but it would've required exposure and no one in our family or in many others wanted or was brave enough to break with tradition. Even Nana, who had lived with a drunken husband for more years than I'd been alive, dismissed alcoholism as a matter of weak will, no self control, and a sad lack of moral fiber.
Some years ago I began wondering why we resist the concept of addiction as a disease - for myself, I think it's because we're so damaged and shamed and bruised that we can't help but fight back. Drunks lie, steal, cheat,
manipulate and promise anything as effortlessly and as naturally as the rest of draw breath - it's impossible to separate their behavior from their real selves - and when they lash out it's at the closest and most vulnerable target. We see it as willful abuse and intentional cruelty, a character defect we should've noticed but didn't.
We see a choice where there is none, we see symptoms as attacks on us, we eventually come to think that we share the blame and responsibility. When a drunk husband tells his wife she's the crazy one and she believes him, the world stops making sense.
Fool me once, shame on you.
Fool me twice, shame on me.
In war, in life, in relationships, with every step in every journey, we have to come to terms. There truly is no education in the second kick of a mule.
