A Memorial Day Reunion

Dad led me there. I know that now. I had gone back to Illinois for a couple days, back to my roots, to the remnants of family still there.

On a wet, early Memorial Day morning, Dad requested that we visit my mother’s grave. I complied, feeling  a sense of obligation to them both.

Dad seemed determined to reunite us at the grave site. I never really knew my father except through my mother’s perceptions and judgments.

There was a family tradition of an annual pilgrimage every Memorial Day to our relatives’ graves. We always packed a spade, bucket, and scrub brush and stopped by the open market for flowers for the gravesite.

I watched the annual ritual of my parents filling the bucket from the nearest pump and scrubbing the flat headstones until the inscriptions could be seen.

As the years passed, the graves seemed harder to find, overgrown under unkempt grass with weeds sunken below the mowing level.

Dead people I had never known were conjured from memories. I was linked to these family ghosts by my mother’s stories and recollections. Over the years, I felt as if I came to know them, and they were no longer strangers.

Today my father and I stopped at a small flower stand near the cemetery. The plant selection was limited to a few shelves of drooping flowers.

Drizzle spattered mud on the leaves. I pruned off the dying petals and soggy leaves to make them more presentable. As always for these occasions, Dad brought a bucket, brush and spade along.

It was eight years since my mother’s funeral, the last time we were all together. At that time I was unable to cry. She had died when my life was coming apart; and I was experiencing another death, my divorce.

But today was different. I couldn’t seem to stop my tears. I couldn’t even speak as I watched my father clear away the debris and clean the gravesite the way I remembered it from so long ago.

As I planted, he spoke of coming to my mother’s grave often to talk to her. He told me that no one would ever stand up for him like my mother did.

He never said he loved her. In fact, he said he was happier with his new wife.

I couldn’t reply. Once again I was in the middle between them.

And then he told me something I never knew… he was always lonely with my mother.

In the quiet rain, I heard his pain and regrets as he apologized, saying there were things he shouldn’t have done and was sorry for.

Could my mother hear him? Did it take this long for there to be peace? He told my mother and me as we completed the gravesite ritual together for the last time.

It was a moment of truth at my mother’s grave and the beginning of forgiveness. It was the day I got to know my father a little better.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2010-2011 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Crying Rose photo by Joanna Kopik

Planting photo by Rodrigo Roveri

Hearts & Teardrops: A Geography Lesson

Years ago, sitting in my English professor's office, I found a curious wall map of the U.S.

It was a canvas divided only with states' borders; instead of cities, the painting was dotted with partial and broken hearts and teardrops like pushpins marking an emotional geography.

I asked my professor what the hearts and teardrops represented on the non-topographical map. He told me they were placemarks for locations where hearts still lingered and tears still stained the people and relationships of the artist's life.

It got me thinking as to where I would place my hearts and tears around the country. I have lived in the Midwest, East Coast, and now the West and Southwest.

How many hearts and tears would there be for my sixty some years of living as my relationships changed: marriage, divorce, separation, and friendships that touched me, a mix of love and hurt, joy and sadness?

Some relationships, no matter where they happened, stay with me; others are gone and not stood the test of time.

My personal geography, like the painting, has its share of both symbols marking my emotional terrain throughout the years.

They represent some of the happiest and some of the most painful experiences of my life.

Nevertheless, my emotional geography is not a map I would change. My map is filled with geography lessons that are part of the journey I have known and have shaped me into who I am.

Did I take the roads less travelled? Did I end up in places I never thought I would? Looking back, does it really matter? The detours were often the best parts of the trip.

I'm still traveling and expect I will add more hearts and tears along the way. What's important are the experiences they represent of a life fully lived.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Broken Heart by Billy Alexander

Follow the Signs

In an old Steve Martin film, LA Story, his character is asking for a “sign.”

He finds it on the side of a freeway, a blinking directional sign, a kind of modern oracle to guide him.

I can relate.

In times when life seemingly presents no answers, I grope for them anyway and somehow they appear when I least expect them and in the unlikeliest of places.

Coming from the doctor’s office, something prompts me to glance at the rear window of the car beside mine, with a sticker that asks, “Have you thanked God today?”

There it is—the message at a time when I’m at a loss for solutions to my child’s serious health problem.

And the signs and their messages keep coming. After an eye-check up, I glance at a parked car’s bumper which shouts,

“Got Faith?” More questions to remind me that I have the answers within me.

Driving on the way to teach my multi-cultural, adult college class of Muslims, Hispanics, African-Americans, and Caucasians: a composite of soldiers back from multiple Middle East tours of duty; single parents, some never been married; some from inner-city projects and gangs; some who have served time—all wanting better lives through education and a coveted degree.

It’s a daunting challenge and responsibility to teach to this diverse population and their mismatched skill levels.

I’m waiting at a stoplight thinking about this night’s class, and to my right I see a church’s corner sign that reads, “Do More Good.”

No specifics, no details or steps to take…just do more good. Seems so simple, yet profound, reminding me of what I can do.

I have learned that when I need them, the signs appear. I just have to follow them.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2009-2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Photo by Asif Akbar

"Look at Me" by guest blogger Karen Cross

Look at me.


I am.


No! Look at me!


Which one are you?


I don’t know, I can’t see me anymore…all I see is pain.


I see you. You are a survivor!


Survivor, ha! I am done surviving.


You are so strong.


Am I?


Look at all you have come through.


You mean all I have survived.


Well yes…


Yes, I know I am a childhood SURVIVOR of sexual abuse. My marriage SURIVIVED an affair and now…


Now you have SURVIVED breast cancer.


But I don’t want to SURVIVE anymore, I want to LIVE!


You are so blessed!


Yes, I know.


You were lucky not to have chemo or radiation…


STOP!! I am blessed, BUT I AM NOT LUCKY! ARE YOU LOOKING AT ME?


Yes, and I still see a strong young woman. A survivor!


Please stop saying that. I am standing here with no breasts. With medical tubes hanging where my round, supple femininity should be… How is that lucky?


Well…


Well what? You have nothing to say? You shouldn’t, because you do not know what this is like. Let me tell you, it is a horror amusement ride at one of those traveling carnivals.


Go on, tell me more…


Well I want to scream, “Let me off this ride!” Cancer, mastectomy, expanders…oh my! And yet there is more to come.


I hear your pain.


I don’t think you do. You can’t hear PAIN!


Tell me more about this ride.


December 31st was when the call came and the doors opened to the house of horrors. The doctor was on the line, and we all know doctor’s only call when it’s bad. He said, “The biopsy revealed cancer. The good news is we caught it early.”


Happy New Year!


After that call, everything is a whirlwind of shock, information overload and tough decisions. Dr. Cox, the breast cancer surgeon, was amazing and thorough in her presentation of options.


With the odds of recurrence lowest after full mastectomy, I made the choice to remove my breast and undergo reconstruction. My life, in one doctor’s visit, had changed forever.


I left the office with my husband and sister; all of us silent. It was a lot to take in, for everyone. Walking to the car felt surreal, nothing would ever be the same.


Fear of the unknown had left me numb. I had now become an attraction on the horror ride, a zombie driven aimlessly through the motions of the events that followed.


Day by day, minute by minute, I ceased to feel. After all, I had to put on a show to protect the ones I loved from the gruesomeness cancer displays.


Along the ride I appeared strong and fearless as I subjected my womanhood to the butcher’s knife. Then the ride appears to end as it comes to rest in front of these mirrors; mirrors reflecting before and after…


And now I ask you, who am I?


You are me…


No, I have changed. Where is the beautiful, confident woman I used to see?


I am still here and yours to claim.


I can’t see you in me anymore. I stand here, after the knife, angry, scarred and altered.


I still see beauty and confidence in you, look harder.


I look and I see beauty shattered with the absence of me and confidence lost in what has been left behind.


Maybe you should look at me.


I am looking and I am lost in my reflections.


I see you, you are the strong one.


Am I?


Yes, nothing’s changed there.


Then you must not be looking, because everything has changed.


On the outside, yes, but you have always been a survivor and…


There it is again, SURVIVOR, why must this be my title? When can I say enough is enough?


The Lord has a purpose for your life and your strength in adversity is how He uses you.


I accept that, but when is it okay for me to just be? When can I just live? When can I stop SURVIVING?


Maybe the answer is in your voice.


My voice? I am sure He has heard my voice. When have you known me not to speak my mind?


No, not that voice. The voice that sang praises as a child with the belief of innocence. The voice that reached others in song through the pain of a struggling marriage, where is that voice?


Oh, that voice.


Why have you silenced it?


I am afraid to sing again. My voice is my soul and I feel I must hide my deepest, painful emotions from this cavalcade freak show.


You can try and hide them, but they are the key to living.


I know...but I feel that once I begin to sing, I just might fall apart.


Then fall apart and let Him pick up the pieces. He feels your pain, He sees your tears and He longs to hear your voice.


Ah, my voice…funny, but I long to hear it too. Can it be that simple? Can it be that this is how this frightful passage ends?


I believe it does.


So, you do see me.


Yes, right here in my reflection…just look at me.


Copyright by Karen Cross 2010

Illustration reference:

http://www.1212galleryrva.com/.a/6a00d834526ca869e20120a55c20e2970c-320wi


Karen Cross is a 40 year old mother and wife. She has three intelligent, sensitive and funny boys and a wonderfully amazing husband. Currently, Karen helps adult learners find their way down the educational path to graduation at University of Phoenix and is one year away from graduating herself with a bachelors in psychology.

As a student recovering from breast cancer, she was provided an outlet for her emotional struggles as she returned to school after her mastectomy to a cathartic course in creative writing.

In that class this piece was born, and Karen hopes it will inspire, touch and maybe evoke the healing sought by all who travel the breast cancer journey back to emotional health.


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