Bleeding Hearts (A Valentine's Day Memorial)

I think the tricky thing about Valentine's Day from here on out will be the lonely suffering. Well, I guess most of my trying times are endured alone, but on a day when everyone is happy and celebrating, one certainly doesn't wish to be the wet blanket on the Love Parade.

Why does this day have to be so hard anyway? 364 other days in the year that he is also gone, and never coming back. What does it matter that it was this day he left forever? I don't understand that. It's like the echo of grief, of the death howls from that day two years ago that resound through time and space and catch up with me, making me feel what, on most days, I am able to acknowledge but flee from rather quickly. No such luck today. No such luck last year either, even though I had intentionally tried to escape by vacationing in Mexico with a throng of friends. But it hit me there, too. There is no escape. Valentine's Day is, and will always be, the day my Dad died.

It was such a fucking horrible day, and the weeks and months that followed... ugh. I think that hurts more than plain old missing him. I don't like to remember the whole sequence of events. I loathe thinking of what transpired almost immediately after he passed. Such ugliness, still unresolved, and may also forever remain that way. He left, and with him went life as we knew it. Forever changed by his absence, as well as by the crimes committed against each other. We will never be the same.

Not that "being the same" is all it's cracked up to be anyway. I am far from the same person I was when he was alive. You imagine these things when someone dies: "What will it be like a year from now? Two years? Five?" I never would have imagined, or dreamed it even possible, that two years later I would be able to say "I'm happier than I've ever been." And yet, I am. Most truly. My mind spins thinking of all the sadness and loss and pain and struggle of these last two years... so then, to have been even more blessed, that I am able to feel such joy and gratitude... how else could that have happened without such a grand angel watching over me?

Angel, that makes me laugh. I picture him with some faerie wings strapped to him, like a costume I would have begged him to try on, with that look of pained disgust mixed with a hidden smile at my delight and laughter. I remember that look. I keep all his looks close at hand, or in mind, as it were. The crinkles in his neck. The twinkle in his eye. And his smell is still sealed up in that bag I haven't emptied yet in these two years. His bag from the trip. What he had packed for that weekend, all of it still there. I open it from time to time, thumbing through, bending my head low to inhale deeeep.... yep. I'd know that smell anywhere.

It does, indeed, feel like the echo of that day and time two years ago. I can't listen to any music today. The silence is thick. I am not hungry, but finally forced myself to eat. I want to curl up into bed, and shut the world out for the whole day and night, and possibly into next week... but there is business to tend to, and so I'm paying bills and jotting down my to-do's for the week, just as I did then. I don't feel that I avoid my grief so much. I allow it into my days when it comes requesting my audience. I cry. I talk about him. I talk to him. Shake my fist at the sky and tell him, "You're in big trouble when I see you again," half-joking, half-sincere.

He knows better. He knows me. He knows my bark is bigger than my bite. He knows that my skin is much thinner than I let on. He knows my popcorn goes in the special bowl. He knows I am never running from the problems, but running towards the solution. He knows that under my sharp words lies a very good heart. He knows sometimes I just need someone else to bear my weight.

There were things he knew about me that I didn't know myself. Though I can't ask him to tell me, he finds a way. I have come to learn and understand many things about myself since he's been gone. Things he had even told me once, but I didn't see it then. Resented him thinking he knew me better than I knew myself. But he did. He saw in me a better person than I ever saw. He had faith in my abilities and talents. Courageous, strong, fearless... I heard him describe me in these terms many times, and I thought he must have been drunk. But he wasn't (lol... I think). He was my Dad. He made me. He inspired me. He modeled good life to me. He believed in me.

Now, when Valentine's hits, and in my solitude I am awash in the Sea of Memory, I search for land to grab onto again. As I pull myself onto shore, I am met by the blooming Bleeding Hearts he always planted in my honor.

St. Valentine's Day. The day of hearts. He died from his. And mine bleeds for him forever.

The Houses on Memory Lane

34 years old. Been living between Minneapolis and St. Paul now for fifteen years. I keep moving back and forth over the river. Every move, I end up in a new neighborhood, and there have been so many homes at this point that driving around this town has become somewhat of a constant turn down Memory Lane.

My very first apartment wasn't actually mine: straight after graduation from the Arts High School, I shacked up with my guitarist-friend-turned-boyfriend in the Stevens Square neighborhood, in the old building on the corner of 3rd and Franklin. When I drive by, I can see the windows to our first-floor studio. I remember long, hot days, listening to the Cocteau Twins "Four Calendar Cafe," and drinking Jack Daniels Tennessee Teas on ice. I can hear a faint echo of his beautiful strumming and unique tunings on that beat-up guitar. I muse how, back then, at 18 years old, I had such a pure, high, clear voice and all I wanted was some grit and depth. Now, after twenty years of living and smoking and drinking and occassionally screaming, I wish I could hit those notes as clearly as they came to me back then. I drive by, and miss my old friend,who chose to walk a hard road in this life. I kept my eyes on him, kept tabs on him, for so many years, until all the tears shed for him blinded me at last. I miss his tunes. I mourn his talent. I'm angry at his choices. But, I miss those easy days back then... days when my imaginings of the future were far from what was on its way, and destined to be.

Years later (after my nearly 4-year stint living abroad in Mexico), I came back home and got my very own first apartment, on Ridgeway -that hilly street that winds up behind Rudolph's on Lyndale. It was a small one-bedroom, very long and oddly laid out. It was there I brought home my kitten, Lilly, who celebrates ten years with me next month. It was also there and in that time when I met the love of my life, the one who got away, the one I'll always wonder most about. He was a waiter at the Loring (the REAL Loring, that those in the know are forever bound to by nostalgia and grief), and the day came when I gave him my number. He called at 3am, awakening me, and asked if I'd like to come over for some vegetable juice. Pleased that he called, and charmed by the unique request (points for creativity), I declined. We made a more appropriate date later that week, and when I went to pick him up, we never made it out of the house. Unknowing, we had begun a relationship that would span nearly four years as lovers, and last a lifetime as family.

I moved next to a 2nd floor unit on the corner of 26th and Harriet. A beautiful apartment that I really made into my first HOME. Still dating the love of my life, he lived a convenient three blocks away. I loved that apartment, and when I drive by now, I always say "Hello," and smile. I was in my mid-20s living there, right in the center of Uptown and all kinds of movement and entertainment. I learned to really cook in that home. I held down my first teaching jobs in that home. I started to sing for bands and dance companies, entering into the Minneapolis scene in that home. It was good to me. It was a happy place, for the most part... except for one night, in particular.

It was the night when I was awakened by a night hawk, and found the power had gone out. It was the night I had walked over to my love's house, and found him in bed, pleasuring another. It was the first time I had been so betrayed (but wouldn't be the last). It was the first time my heart had truly been broken. I recall the tears, the sickness, the wild bewilderment that occurred in that home. I sing in my head the many songs born from that pain. I gave birth to an album of hurt in that home. I guess you could say, it was in that place I finally found my deeper voice, and some real, true grit.

After some time and distance apart, my love and I reunited, and chose to establish a more committed relationship together. At that time, his mother offered us a house to rent in Frogtown, in St. Paul. I knew nothing about St. Paul, and could see by driving through that Frogtown was a far cry from Uptown. Yet, to have a whole house for a screaming $520/mo, well, we took her up on the offer. We spent close to three years living in that house together, I think. I'd painted all the walls in varied, intense colors. We gardened. We cooked beautiful food together. Osho came into our lives, little fluffball of a Chow pup that he was. I embraced a new side of my being, the Martha Stewart within, and fell in love with our domestication. Yet, after all those years, as my passion for a life of love and marriage and children intensified, my love's dwindled.

At one point in that home we had an entirely civilized conversation, and decided it best we no longer be in a committed relationship. It was a mutual decision, as plain as, "So, we're not together anymore?" "No, I guess not." "Okay... I'm off to work. Dinner later?" We continued to live in that house, and even sleep in the same bed for many months or years later, I can't keep it straight. Our partnership had remained as a familial friendship. People thought we were crazy, and maybe it was odd, after all. Yet, to this day, our love and commitment to each other remains in tact. We will forever be in each other's lives, loving and caring for one another... being there in times of need. He shares that home now with his new love, and has for several years. When I've driven by, I am mindful that it is their home now, and not ours. But I relish each Spring when he calls to tell me that the Bleeding Hearts I'd planted are in bloom. Symbolic, I guess, of those years, and our enduring love.

Back to Uptown it was, to a house on 34th Street, I then rented with my new husband. He had immigrated from Israel in the dead of winter, and while we were house hunting, I knew the Uptown area would be the best - urban, busy, easy to get around. Piled in snow, his undeveloped imagination refused to believe that this neighborhood was any better than Frogtown. He resisted as I insisted. We were 5 blocks from Lake Calhoun, on a peaceful street with kind neighbors, and got a great deal on an entire 2-bedroom house for $800/mo.

This would be the house of my marriage. The house of so much sacrifice and struggle. The house of hard work, hard times, hard love. We had so many hopes, such wonderful intentions, such amazing natural gifts bestowed upon us as individuals, that it seemed (early on) we would be a dream team. Nothing was farther from the truth. Our differences, which we originally thought would serve to balance our lives, kept us ever at an ocean's length of sympathy or understanding for the other. We tried. We tried SO hard. We loved each other, of course, but in our case, love just wasn't enough.

This was also the house I lived in when my father died. This house heard the death cries, the banshee screams. This house battled my own wishes for death, contained my grief and rage, swallowed my desperation. This house was fed on tears, shouting, abuse, lonliness, and abandonment. It was a pretty little house, a nice house, and yet when I see it now, I am ever reminded of the pain that lived there, the failures. My failures and grief. I feel sad when I drive by that one... regretting so much... wishing it had been so different.

Back to St. Paul, on my own again. To the "other side" this time: the beautiful and quiet Mac/Groveland college and single-family home dwelling area, which provided me with a sense of safety and security for the first time in years. I was making a new beginning... entering my mid-30s, freshly divorced, my life in my own hands again. It felt good to make this house my home, just as I wanted it, with no one to argue about the colors I chose or the art on the walls. I was able to infuse this home with my own energy - ALL my own - and know there would be no repercussions, no disturbances. It took time to get used to that, to accept it. Of course, I battled lonliness and fear, sadness and longing for what felt comfortable (even if it was unhealthy for me).

Here, in this home, I met myself again, for the first time since that apartment on 26th and Harriet, years and years before. This house allowed me to be me, reflected my spirit back to me in its shape and comfort. This place uncovered my inner confidence and strength, where I proved to myself that I didn't need anyone to help make my life work - that I was doing it, and enjoying life more than ever! I was inspired, and began to dream again - dream of the life that I tuly wanted for myself, and took steps I had never been brave enough to take in the past towards seeing those dreams come true. In this house, I returned to my true path and began to step into my full potential. I can honestly say... this is the house where I met my grown woman self.

Two weeks ago, I moved into my new house, my current house: an upper-level duplex in the Linden Hills areas of Minneapolis (yes, back over the river AGAIN). I moved in, sight unseen, as I was bedridden, and pre-spinal surgery before the move. My friends facilitated everything: from packing to moving to post-surgery care and unpacking. I've been here all of three weeks now, and thus far, it has been the house of healing. Healing my back, healing my heart, healing hurt relationships of the past, healing the child within. The neighborhood is an upgrade: even more beautiful and more peaceful than the last. I also am trying on a non-boyfriend/husband roommate for the first time ever, which is a change that so far has been great. I am enjoying exploring this new 'hood, just 2 blocks from Lake Harriet. I muse, wondering how long I'll be here, what stories of life will unfold, and what will the memories be this time? The wondering fills me with excitement, hope and just a little fear.

These twin cities get smaller and smaller to me with each passing year. I see so many ghosts running around, it can be plaguing at times: seeing the hidden path I would walk my dog after Dad died; passing by restaurants that have changed names countless times, yet still harbor old meetings wth friends, some who are no longer with us today; new construction wiping out old buildings where I have kissed, danced, fought, and run into faces unseen for years. Clubs where I sang my heart out. Lakes, around which my feet have pounded pavement. Streets I would take to get to this job or that. Old routines I remember as if they'd never changed or been broken.

After all these years, I am finally willing to say that I love Minnesota. There's simply just no more denying that it is, and has been, home. And as I keep moving from place to place, hard to keep up with as usual, you will always most surely find me strolling down Memory Lane. The home of all my homes.

The Little Note That Could

I ran across a few of my journals, digging through boxes in the garage tonight. They were all there - over twenty or thirty books, I would imagine. But the ones that popped out tonight went back to the years between 2005-2007. I would have been 29 years old in 2005. I vaguely remember each book and the times recorded within until I leaf through the pages a bit. This book opens with a fortune from a fortune cookie on the very first page, which reads: "Someone who deserves special attention awaits your magic voice." Hmm... seems like a good enough start.

The very next page, my first official entry, is dated November 1, 2005. All Saints' Day. An auspicious time. I wrote a poem to set the mood...

"It's going to be a long,

cold winter...

and so I have re-lit the fire

of my own spirit ~

indeed, of my life ~

and must depend on her

alone

to keep me safe and warm.

I have not wanted to do this.

I have searched for another

searched many others

to provide for me this sanctity, and nurturing.

Alas,

none can do this but me.

And so I pick up the thread again ~

the thread which is the fabric of my life ~

alone, in darkness. My self.

I've spent too long in the Underworld already,

but the box of beauty must be close now,

closer than it's ever been.

I am on the right road ~

my path, at last.

Now, where is that Persephone hiding?..."

It struck me to read this and register this particular moment in my life. I know exactly from this one entry what lies in my own writing on the pages to come. This was a particularly bad year. This was after a most traumatic ending of a relationship I refused to part ways with. This was me after having a nervous breakdown and being hospitalized. This was me at 95 pounds.

As I turn the page, I see the next entry is a two-page letter to one of my favorite goddesses, Psyche. A petition for her benevolent guidance and aid, knowing that of all my favorite deities, She would surely empathize with my situation. For She, too, was the youngest of three daughters, abandoned by Her parents, left alone, waiting to be saved by another. I don't read the entry... I know the story, both stories - Hers and mine - all too well. I keep flipping pages.

Words pass by quickly: "Empty, so empty;" "high anxiety in my belly;" "eyes wide open, yet heart as dumb as a fool; "And yet, I settle. Again." Oof! It's funny how even five years later, just the little quips can make me shudder, remembering a pain unparalleled to anything I've ever experienced before or since. Even the pain of death of my beloved father was so different from this - this was sickness. Mental, emotional, spiritual rot. I shake my head in mixed shame and sympathy.

As I keep flipping, I suddenly come to a page with no writing, but two more fortunes, and a curious note. The first fortune reads: "Be what you wish others to become." The second: "A thrilling time is in your immediate future." The note, which is scrawled in a man's writing on a small, torn piece of paper, says: "Know in your heart that you are loved more than you can imagine."

Very curious, for I can't seem to place where it came from. I start to dig back a few pages, and see that I was visiting my best friend in New York at that time. Actually, I had been sent there by the man I loved - he wanted me at a safe distance, she wanted to fatten me up. For two weeks, I stayed in her home, only venturing to go outside a mere few times. I laid near her fireplace while she worked during the day, coloring mandalas, and grieving. At night, she kept putting food in front of my face, trying to make me eat, to smile, to sing, to write, to just be in her loving energy. Yes, I remember that trip. And, now, I think I remember the note too...

It was one of my last nights there, and she persuaded me to go to a nearby bar with some of her friends. I reluctantly agreed. It did feel good to get out of the house, and her friends (who all knew that I was in a bad way) were all so kind, and warm and comfortable. While we had some drinks, we took notice of some local college boys nearby - cute boys, for the most part - who, for some, as of yet, unknown reason, were wearing the most hideous, gaudy Christmas sweaters you could imagine. I mean full on. I can't remember if they were Jingle Bells or Rudolphs or what, but as soon as we noticed, we couldn't take our eyes off of them! For the first time in weeks or months, I was laughing my ass off.

I sent them a note, grade-school style, that read something like, "Dear young men, You are both very handsome and pleasant to look at, but I must INSIST you remove those hideous sweaters at once! Thank you." The boys in return got a huge kick out of the note, and we all had such a good laugh over the incident. It was turning out to be a pretty good night at the end of a pretty tough year.

Before we left, one of my new friends gave me this small piece of paper, and said that someone unknown wanted me to have it. It was the note. "Know in your heart that you are loved more than you can imagine." Just like that, out of nowhere. I'm struggling to remember if my friends maybe knew the guy who wrote it... I can't recall. But in receiving it, and at that moment when the black cloud of my thinking had surprisingly lifted in playful reverie, I really RECEIVED it.

I remember looking at that note, thinking about it before I went to sleep and when I would awaken for many days after. I taped it into my journal. It resounded a deeper truth, a deeper voice from within me that I had all but blocked out in my recent grief and despair. It was the voice of my spirit. It was the voice of my best friend. It was the voice of the Goddess... It was the voice of a stranger who in a span of a few hours was able to see something in me that I had spent months never hoping to again believe.

I love my journals, just as I love my life. The good and the bad. The painful and the blissful. I love that I tuck these keepsakes into them that are completely forgotten and need effort to remember again. I think about the last five years, and all the other losses and grief I've endured, to find myself here - really happy, and optimistic, and full of life and love for myself and those around me. I'm in a completely different place, thank God, than I was back then.

I think, too, about the people I see who are in that dark hole. People who are struggling. People who are addicted. People who are asking or not asking for help. I think about that one little anonymous note, and what it meant to me then, and in remembering it now.

I think I need to start writing my own little notes.