Every act rewards itself, or in other words, integrates itself,
in a twofold manner; first in the thing, or in real nature;
and secondly in the circumstance, or in apparent nature.
Men call the circumstance the retribution.
Compensation | Ralph Waldo Emerson
The world ‘out there’ is a foreign place. I’m confined to the bungalow. I’m far removed from what’s happening in the news. I hear bits and pieces of reports coming from the bedroom clock-radio in the young widow’s bedroom. All I know is that the weather is warming, Easter is coming, and I yearn to be in the sun. Outside in the backyard with the two-year-old, I carry a laundry basket to the clothesline. Like back home, one small fenced yard connects to the next. looking left or right makes no difference. I see a tall tree leafing out red, a short gravel drive leading to a small garage, a single car, a picnic table, and a clothesline. Pinning small pairs of pajamas with wooden clips is an easy action I can take. I notice the movement two doors down. I stop pinning and stare through the cover of the cotton prints. Wait. Who is that? Oh no. Now what?
I recognize M from the dress shop and quickly realize that I am within her line of vision. She knows me. I adore M! She is a member of the management team at the dress shop. She is older and I look up to her. I hear her light-hearted laughter drift across the open space above the woven wire fences. She helped me learn the ropes when I started at the shop. I could trust her to be kind and to direct me so that I learned well how to assist customers. Seeing her now is a shock. Seeing her means I must stay indoors. I’m in hiding. Mom needs me to continue pretending. I’ve obeyed and written every two weeks. At dinner, she can mention that a letter came today from Chicago.
I watch ripples push across my belly. A foot. A fist. I write my first journal entries on the lined loose-leaf paper that mom gave me. I write to the baby. I want the baby to know that I am not abandoning, not walking away. I want this new baby, boy or girl, to know that ‘when I give birth to you, I will be reborn. I will begin again. I will work hard to be the best artist.’
I say aloud, “If we ever meet, I want to make you proud.”
I’ve had a dream to be an artist since second grade at Orchard Elementary School. The teacher describes the school play. It will be the story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears.
She asks for a volunteer. She needs someone to help paint the bears; Father Bear, Mother Bear, and Baby Bear. She also needs someone who will paint the furniture and the three bowls of porridge.
My hand jumps up into the air! I’m frightened and excited. She chooses me. I’m shown the coffee cans filled with bright creamy colors and each color has its own gigantic brush. She places the large cut-outs on the floor of the auditorium stage. I paint tall trees and the front of the cardboard house where Goldilocks lives. The smile on my teacher’s face says it all. I’m doing a great job! I love school! I love painting! I’m good at something!
From then on, I see myself as an artist. Dad doesn’t like it when I’m happy. Sometimes he gets mad, mocks me, taunts me, tells me that I’m stupid. He says, “Who do you think you’re kidding? You’re so stupid you have to go to school! Look at me. I never went to school and I turned out great.” I don’t know sarcasm. I think he knows things about me that I don’t know. He must. Coming in the back door from work he tells me that he saw a friend of mine. He says that my friend said that I wasn’t fit to live with the pigs. He laughs in my face, “I told them that you were.” It makes no sense. I’m stupid. Meant to live with the pigs.
I don’t know what or how to think.
Hollow. Empty. Numb.
Weeks go by, inching toward my due date.
It happens.
Late. I’m startled awake, my nightgown and sheets sopping wet. I stand beside the rainbow arching over the twin bed. What to do? Toothbrush. Underwear. Robe. I clutch the small bag and make my way downstairs.
I stand in the corner of the living room.
I’m in front of the young widow’s bedroom door. I’ve never stood here before. I like her a lot. She’s tired. I love how much fun she makes with her girls. She’s very pretty. She dances when she comes home. She’s tired but she plays Motown records and twirls with her happy girls. I don’t want to be a bother.
I’m afraid. Nervous. I need to get to the hospital. I knock. I hear her turning over in her sleep. I knock. She says, “What is it?” I say, “Please. M, can you take me to the hospital, I think my water broke. I think the baby’s coming.” She sounds asleep-irritated, says, “It’s late! I’m tired! Call a cab! Leave me alone!”
I stand outside her door, alone in the dark living room. I’ve never called a cab. I can’t call mom.
I lift the kitchen wall phone receiver in a panic. I dial my best friend/apartment roommate’s parents’ house. Her mom whispers into the phone. “What on earth, Donna, it’s the middle of the night! Why are you calling?” She really doesn’t want me to have anything to do with her daughter, home now for summer break after her first year away at college. A beautiful college preparing for a beautiful life as a beautiful human rights lawyer. I’m a bad influence. I’m trouble. I got myself pregnant. I have no reason to speak to her daughter. Never again.
“I need help. I need to get to the hospital. Right away. Could J drive me?”
She is quiet. I’m shaking and my legs are wet. She says, “ J and dad will come to get you, where are you? What’s the address?
I stand on the front porch of the bungalow watching the moths dart under the streetlights, the lightning bugs float up out of the grass, everyone sound asleep inside.
Hi Donna, I tried to leave a comment when you first posted this but I was on my mobile phone and, as sometimes happens, my comment didn’t get through. So here goes again on a more stable surface 😉
I love how you (consciously or unconsciously) wrote this post to dovetail with what so many of us are experiencing right now. Easter is here and we long to be out in the sun but are confined. We only see our neighbours by glancing left and right from our windows, balconies or gardens if we’re lucky. We’re forbidden from having direct contact.
And then, sadly, for some of us it will be the fate to wake in the night, needing to get to hospital and not having anyone to take us there.
Powerful, moving, brave writing! This is a book in the making without doubt.
Dear Cherry ~ Thank you so much for your reflection on the current time-line within the nineteen-year-olds story.
Indeed, the parallels are quite synchronistic.
As far as the isolation that this young one was in at that time mirroring the isolation that is being imposed upon all of us at this time … THAT is a lot to wrap my heart around. The current saving grace is the desire to help one another. We are moving through a very difficult, challenging and potentially frightening time.
We can help one another focus by placing our attention on our individual and collective compassionate strengths. We can make it a point to SEE one another.
Thank you so much for the beauty that you consistently bring to the world.
“This is how we heal one another. . .by being seen”. What an exquisite truth Donna. I love that in your classes and life you help is “ be seen”, and see ourselves.
I learned that it is a form of abuse to be made invisible. This happens more than we realize and it does tremendous damage. When it happens to children it can last a lifetime. It is vitally important to be acknowledged. Truly made visible. That doesn’t mean famous. That isn’t about ‘look at me, look at me.’ it’s about eye to eye, heart to heart ‘I see you.’
I am awestruck with the honesty, clarity, and beauty when writing painful and scaredy happenings yet showing fortitude. I am always left with wanting more.
Thank you so much, Norris.
I appreciate beyond words that you are standing with this young one. She is finding her way after being frozen in place for such a long time. Thank you.
After weeks of losing track of your story (March 12 was the last time I visited your blog), I am once again on board and have followed your narrative forward through to this point. Are people still so generally cruel in their irritation and impatience with those in need? Does your younger self see the world as it is, or is she seeing a part of the world that helped her grow and reach towards kinder skies? The details are vivid. The story is somehow soothing even as it provokes outrage. Your voice is strong. Thank you for continuing to write during these weeks. I’m here now and eager to read more. Aloha and e malama pono o ko’u kino (take good care of your body).
Thank you for returning to pick up the thread of her unfolding story Donna.
You make powerful inquiries:
1) Are people still so generally cruel in their irritation and impatience with those in need?
I suppose some are cruel and some aren’t. I guess that many of us get irritated and impatient with those in need and sometimes we don’t …there’s always a mix, right? And we (everyone involved) evidently receive the lessons we need in the way that is best for us at the time.
Thanks for being here as a witness. The story unfolds … the nineteen-year-old has a voice after all these years.
2) Does your younger self see the world as it is, or is she seeing a part of the world that helped her grow and reach towards kinder skies?
I’m not sure. At this point, I believe she is numb and shut down. I don’t feel that she has the confidence to believe that she deserves to be helped. She is incredibly stupid, like what’s the point, like I don’t deserve anything except what I’m going through. It’s all my fault. That’s her education. That’s where she is. That’s her internal reality. She’s a throw-away. Dad is repelled by her. Mom needs to hide her away, hide the shame. I can’t imagine how she could have any other point of view…though I see that her love for the Transcendentalists, Emerson & Thoreau are filtering through somewhere deep down inside. …thank you Sophmore English Class.
You are so kind to reply with such thoughtfulness. My mind feels fried half the time these days so I hope I wasn’t being offensive in wondering aloud–ultimately I was trying to guess what the point of view would be by the time you are done writing. We’ll have to wait and see if her point of view shifts! Of course at this point in her story it is dictated by the lack of love and kindness she received. I see that. How does she even make it through? (I know, I know, that’s the point of what you are writing. I’m just eager for more.) She is naive, but not stupid from what you share. It’s almost as if she is an alien in her own life, studying the inhabitants but not entirely connected to them. And what a powerful self advocate she is when pushed. Wow. There is a line beyond which she won’t tolerate injustice. She is a fighter and is deeply immersed by her senses in the world she inhabits, just like her older self! Whitman comes to mind as I read the level of detail and her pleasure in the ordinary. She must have been humming her own “song of self” even in her numbness. Looking forward to the next installation.
Ahhhhh. Thanks, Donna. No problem. I invite all comments and questions from readers on her behalf. Each time I’m called to open the next post I have to put aside my desire to ‘guess what the point of view will be.’ I wonder with each installment what parts will she share. I have no clue what words and images are needing to be shown and told by her week to week.
‘How does she even make it through?’
Perhaps that is the very reason why her voice has begun to thaw. She made it through.
I am so moved (on her behalf) that you would take the time to reflect here on her experience. You are gifting her by seeing her in the way that you do. NO ONE ever saw her. NO ONE acknowledged her during this entire time. I also appreciate your bringing Walt Whitman into the circle. He, along with Emerson, Thoreau, and the early years wandering in the nature of John Muir Woods gave the nineteen-year-old a tremendous ‘pleasure in the ordinary.’
“Grateful for now” in so many ways Kristy.
I trust your ability to feel deeply on behalf of so many injured young ones
This is how we heal one another…by being seen.
We never outgrow the need to be seen … this story unfolds to the 3 gifts that she received.
In that space between heart ache and gratitude there is so much of the journey! The reality of pain for her and an underlying grace that carries her. Whew…
Whew indeed Kristy. I cannot describe the heeby-jeebies that washes over me each time she begins the next installment. The secret is coming out, and up into the light. Whew!
Hi Donna, I tried to leave a comment when you first posted this but I was on my mobile phone and, as sometimes happens, my comment didn’t get through. So here goes again on a more stable surface 😉
I love how you (consciously or unconsciously) wrote this post to dovetail with what so many of us are experiencing right now. Easter is here and we long to be out in the sun but are confined. We only see our neighbours by glancing left and right from our windows, balconies or gardens if we’re lucky. We’re forbidden from having direct contact.
And then, sadly, for some of us it will be the fate to wake in the night, needing to get to hospital and not having anyone to take us there.
Powerful, moving, brave writing! This is a book in the making without doubt.
Dear Cherry ~ Thank you so much for your reflection on the current time-line within the nineteen-year-olds story.
Indeed, the parallels are quite synchronistic.
As far as the isolation that this young one was in at that time mirroring the isolation that is being imposed upon all of us at this time … THAT is a lot to wrap my heart around. The current saving grace is the desire to help one another. We are moving through a very difficult, challenging and potentially frightening time.
We can help one another focus by placing our attention on our individual and collective compassionate strengths. We can make it a point to SEE one another.
Thank you so much for the beauty that you consistently bring to the world.
“This is how we heal one another. . .by being seen”. What an exquisite truth Donna. I love that in your classes and life you help is “ be seen”, and see ourselves.
I learned that it is a form of abuse to be made invisible. This happens more than we realize and it does tremendous damage. When it happens to children it can last a lifetime. It is vitally important to be acknowledged. Truly made visible. That doesn’t mean famous. That isn’t about ‘look at me, look at me.’ it’s about eye to eye, heart to heart ‘I see you.’
Thank you so much for your voice here, Norris.
I am awestruck with the honesty, clarity, and beauty when writing painful and scaredy happenings yet showing fortitude. I am always left with wanting more.
Thank you so much, Norris.
I appreciate beyond words that you are standing with this young one. She is finding her way after being frozen in place for such a long time. Thank you.
After weeks of losing track of your story (March 12 was the last time I visited your blog), I am once again on board and have followed your narrative forward through to this point. Are people still so generally cruel in their irritation and impatience with those in need? Does your younger self see the world as it is, or is she seeing a part of the world that helped her grow and reach towards kinder skies? The details are vivid. The story is somehow soothing even as it provokes outrage. Your voice is strong. Thank you for continuing to write during these weeks. I’m here now and eager to read more. Aloha and e malama pono o ko’u kino (take good care of your body).
Thank you for returning to pick up the thread of her unfolding story Donna.
You make powerful inquiries:
1) Are people still so generally cruel in their irritation and impatience with those in need?
I suppose some are cruel and some aren’t. I guess that many of us get irritated and impatient with those in need and sometimes we don’t …there’s always a mix, right? And we (everyone involved) evidently receive the lessons we need in the way that is best for us at the time.
Thanks for being here as a witness. The story unfolds … the nineteen-year-old has a voice after all these years.
2) Does your younger self see the world as it is, or is she seeing a part of the world that helped her grow and reach towards kinder skies?
I’m not sure. At this point, I believe she is numb and shut down. I don’t feel that she has the confidence to believe that she deserves to be helped. She is incredibly stupid, like what’s the point, like I don’t deserve anything except what I’m going through. It’s all my fault. That’s her education. That’s where she is. That’s her internal reality. She’s a throw-away. Dad is repelled by her. Mom needs to hide her away, hide the shame. I can’t imagine how she could have any other point of view…though I see that her love for the Transcendentalists, Emerson & Thoreau are filtering through somewhere deep down inside. …thank you Sophmore English Class.
You are so kind to reply with such thoughtfulness. My mind feels fried half the time these days so I hope I wasn’t being offensive in wondering aloud–ultimately I was trying to guess what the point of view would be by the time you are done writing. We’ll have to wait and see if her point of view shifts! Of course at this point in her story it is dictated by the lack of love and kindness she received. I see that. How does she even make it through? (I know, I know, that’s the point of what you are writing. I’m just eager for more.) She is naive, but not stupid from what you share. It’s almost as if she is an alien in her own life, studying the inhabitants but not entirely connected to them. And what a powerful self advocate she is when pushed. Wow. There is a line beyond which she won’t tolerate injustice. She is a fighter and is deeply immersed by her senses in the world she inhabits, just like her older self! Whitman comes to mind as I read the level of detail and her pleasure in the ordinary. She must have been humming her own “song of self” even in her numbness. Looking forward to the next installation.
Ahhhhh. Thanks, Donna. No problem. I invite all comments and questions from readers on her behalf. Each time I’m called to open the next post I have to put aside my desire to ‘guess what the point of view will be.’ I wonder with each installment what parts will she share. I have no clue what words and images are needing to be shown and told by her week to week.
‘How does she even make it through?’
Perhaps that is the very reason why her voice has begun to thaw. She made it through.
I am so moved (on her behalf) that you would take the time to reflect here on her experience. You are gifting her by seeing her in the way that you do. NO ONE ever saw her. NO ONE acknowledged her during this entire time. I also appreciate your bringing Walt Whitman into the circle. He, along with Emerson, Thoreau, and the early years wandering in the nature of John Muir Woods gave the nineteen-year-old a tremendous ‘pleasure in the ordinary.’
I feel every moment of this in every cell… heart aching… grateful for now.
“Grateful for now” in so many ways Kristy.
I trust your ability to feel deeply on behalf of so many injured young ones
This is how we heal one another…by being seen.
We never outgrow the need to be seen … this story unfolds to the 3 gifts that she received.
In that space between heart ache and gratitude there is so much of the journey! The reality of pain for her and an underlying grace that carries her. Whew…
Whew indeed Kristy. I cannot describe the heeby-jeebies that washes over me each time she begins the next installment. The secret is coming out, and up into the light. Whew!