Anger



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What Now? You’ve survived the unthinkable, an act so devastating, so devious, and so far-reaching that you’d never entertained the thought or possibility that such a thing could happen to you. You’ve tried your best to shield yourself from the truth, to run from what is inescapable. You’ve closed the door on reality, and any path that may have taken you there. Yet, the truth is the truth and the truth is the light, as you’ve heard people say as long as you can remember. “The truth is the light, Baby,” your grandmother used to pronounce. You didn’t understand it then; you don’t understand it now, nor do you care. It happened, that you can’t deny. It happened. Now, what? Now you suffer! You can’t even refer to yourself in the first person, singular pronoun “I.” “ I” now identifies herself as “you,” whoever she is. That hurts too bad and you fear that level of pain is unsustainable. There’s no solace in the lyrics, “it hurts so bad.” Mostly, you’re mute. As days go by, with ...
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Walking Through the Valley

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Utter helplessness.  Utter hopelessness. D oes the former more accurately reflect the state of my mind than the latter? Are both accurate? Neither? No question about the "utter" part, unless "Utterly" fits more aptly.  No, I'm not playing word games, nor am I minimizing my quest.  The angst from which this word-chase  derives may be traced to my wrestling with something so senseless.   It's not aimless rambling. either. Its genesis began with the death of Courtney, the younger of my two daughters.  How I responded to it, or didn't. The quagmire of emotions that either hunted or haunts   me.   Yes, I felt helpless, without hope, bereft.  Death devours sensibility, sensitivity,  and stability, among a trillion other losses. In fact, I had learned life, or learned to emulate a pretty average life.  Which was alright with me.   Let me live out my threescore-and-ten years, I resolved, "or even by reason of streng...
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Listening

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"Hush, hush, somebody's callin' my  name Hush, hush, somebody's callin' my name Hush, hush, somebody's callin' my name Oh my Lord, oh my Lord, what shall I do."   Whenever trouble reared its perpetually predictable head, Mother would counsel, "Call on the Man you serve!" Of course, family members understood that Name was Jesus.  Mother, however, spoke of the "Prince of the air," the infamous insurrectionist, who challenged God and lost.  For the most part,  Mother's world was one of contrasts: either good or bad; right or wrong; up or down; honest or dishonest, and the like.   I don't believe Mother had ever been introduced to "forced choice," the technique a teacher, supervisor, or manager frequently used.   She intuitively recognized that if left questioning, the choices novices grappled with became increasingly difficult. This kind of paralysis by analysis could take chunks out of one's day, month, or year. ...
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