Conversations about Witches

I co-wrote and performed this piece last year at a show called She Comes Undone, outside  Chicago.  The indented poetry is from a poem called Living With Witches by Al DeGenova.

The conversation came up recently about owning and loving all of our inner demons.  They are part of us, part of who we are, who we are becoming and they should be accepted and loved for what they taught us.  So that we may live together in harmony without ourselves. 

Conversations About  Witches
I’m 18 years old.  Dad’s angry again. A dish whizzes by my head with no warning, no expletives and I duck just in time.  Saving yourself requires more these days.

He says “You have no friends. No one cares about you.  Who do you think you are?”

And quietly, at the sink, washing the dinner dishes, I reply, “ Yes, I DO have friends who care for me.” But the shattered dish on the cabinet next to my head reminds me to never speak my mind, hold that tongue.

I am always wrong, they tell me.  They bore me so they MUST know better than I.  So I retreat to my 10X10 room, with a door that doesn’t lock, the only safe haven, and write songs. 

I’ve stepped into an alcoholic rage once again – to a fist raised on Ma and my pregnant sister.  An angry cry comes forth from a place I have not yet come to know.  I hear myself scream, “Don’t you dare!”  And I feel the whoosh as his fist strikes the air next to me.

I cry when you're crazy

when you scream in my face

when you can't smile

when everywhere is a room without doors

that, by necessity, was built from the inside out

but there is no out.

Unless

"you look in the mirror, see what you saw, take the saw and cut your way out." 

The answer to a childhood riddle, simple,

all a matter of your point of view.

But you

always see the glass half empty.

I see the same glass nearly spilling over

and I cry when you're crazy.

            * * * * *

I can’t wait to go to bed at night.  I try to stay awake as long as I can so I can imagine and dream.  I dream of being saved by John Travolta, Robert Redford or Paul McCartney, who I was supposed to marry.  They have come to my rescue time and time again no matter what obstacles I place in front of them.

But I can’t stay awake and I fall asleep and dream of the man in black, who is always waiting for me in the dark.  I run from him, but I can’t seem to move my legs and my screams are never heard.  He always hurts those I love.  I watch in horror knowing that I am saved for last.  It is not safe in the waking or sleeping hours.

I believe the good witch of Idyllwild

who sold me faerie dust to lighten the heart

happiness to sprinkle on your pillow.

Sweet dreams.

And if the happy dreams don't come

I hold you through your nightmares.

            * * * * *

They missed my high school graduation.  They missed my plays, my basketball games, my broken hearts and dashed dreams.

My little brother chased my dog into oncoming traffic hours before The Miss Illinois contest which they were late to and missed my talent competition.  My lips trembled all night forcing a smile.  “What are you crying about?  It was just a damn mutt.”

My mother and my aunts told me I had to take care of my older sister all the time.  But who will take care of me? 

Dad said, “You don’t need college.  You’re just going to get married.”
“But you paid for the others’ schooling.”  So I worked.  And on the coldest day of the decade, you refused to drive me “all the way downtown!” to work and dropped me at the train because my car froze.

I came home for lunch from work to an empty house one day and decided to try Dad’s Tab and scotch cocktail so I would drive into a tree on the way back.  I vomited instead.

Having no other place to go after a bad fight with my husband, I took our son and went back home.   Ma came home to find me and giggled about our argument.  "See, I told you he didn’t love you." she said…

There is the selfish witch of Morton Grove

who stole your childhood

greedy thief in mother's clothing.

The woman who bore you and forgot the pain

who cannot tell you whether you had measles or chicken pox

and doesn't care.

The woman who had no use for a second daughter.

Useless you, never good enough, insignificant.

The woman who taught you to cry without sobbing

without a sound, without movement

tear tracks line your cheeks like scars

you hide your sadness with uncanny skill.

This is the witch jealous of your successes

who taught you that your glass is always half empty.

            * * * * *

I am 6 years old and it is the first day of school. First grade and I wanted to wear the outfit I chose.  Ma insisted I wear what she wanted and of course, I fought about it.  “Please”, I pleaded.  Then “I won’t wear it.  You can’t make me!”

Yes she could, as she raised her open hand to me.  I continued to fight but I was too small and the welts stopped me in my tracks.  She won, I lost.

I am 10 years old.  One summer morning and I’ve done something wrong.  A battle was waged and I lost again.  “Just wait till your father comes home.”  Dad woke me up to hit me late that night.  I had forgotten the incident already and asked, “What did I do?”  “Your mother told me to punish you for this morning.”  He didn’t even know what I did.  He was just following orders.

“God Damn It!  I love you!” Dad said as the welts on my skin began raising and reddening after his rage had subsided.   And I was thinking, “Please, DON’T love me.” 

Then there is the unseeing witch of the world

who sews a costume you must wear

but doesn't fit you well.

You squeeze your breasts

your hips, stretch your arms

and legs, cover your face.

This woman's suit twists you

forces you to limp and hurts

hurts deep into your muscles

deep into the part of you that will always fight

but you cannot shed the clothes of your role.

You pull and tear, contortionist in a straightjacket

struggling to escape

to strip naked

to be woman that you are for all to see your beauty and imperfection

struggling not to succumb

not to be shrivelled, numb, faceless.

            * * * * *

I asked Ma and Dad to our house.  I needed their help.  My despair had reached its lowest point.  My therapist said don’t do it.  She knew better but I did it anyway.  I was desperate for their help.  “Listen to me!  I need you to hear me!  Suicide IS an option now.  Please, I am dying.”

They stared at me, silent, unable to accept their role in my life.  And denied me.  They left and soon after, disowned me, quickly closing the void left from my removal.  I had no family now.  I was alone.

There is also the relentless, brutal witch of guilt

sadistic sitting on your shoulder

who cuts notches in your ribs

for each mistake, every weakness

pummelling your self-esteem

forcing you to bruise yourself

masochistic

whipping your own heart

blaming yourself

for the sharp cruelty of the predators

preying on your vulnerability.

The witch who teaches the words,

"I am unworthy,"

"I cannot know happy."

And I cry

knowing you are good,

sweet lamb.

            * * * * *

I wrote the notes.  Many notes.  How do you explain to your children that you can no longer hear their voices, see their faces.  I felt nothing.  I was nothing.

The grief was intolerable as war raged from my insides out.  My world was grey.  Living was no longer an option.  What words does a 7 year old understand in a suicide letter?  I was abandoning them.  They will hate me.  I wrote the notes, every day.

And then there is the unforgiving witch within

dressed in depression

who drains your life like a vampire

like a virus

until you are empty.

She is the powerful witch

strength like God

who leads you to Hell

or worse, Limbo

where nothing is all there is

who steals your eyes and ears

so that visions of

summer sun-showers and

sunsets on California beaches

and the sound of your son's laughter

are silent blackness

And I cry for you

when you're crazy.

            * * * * *

But do not fear the love witch

in me in you in our son

in our unborn child.

This witch, barred from your youth,

you watch from the corner of your eye through a smokey cloud of mistrust.

This witch is hope.

This gentle witch who with subtle gestures

can guide your hands, your eyes,

your heart

who can teach you to

live with witches.

The witch who makes me sing encouragement

undying faith in your strength

like a cheerleader at the close of a crucial game

the game you must win.

The witch who keeps me crying

arms around you when you're crazy.                                                  

This Garment is Wearing Well

This Garment is Wearing Well
An automatic writing piece from a meditation

Put back together what has come undone. The seams have opened before, you sewed them again. Then with wear and tear they opened again in a different place. And you sewed it back together again. Each time the seams get stronger.

The garment is not wearing out, it is wearing well. Each stitch uses a stronger yarn. This garment is fitting you better and better over the years. It has also gotten large enough for others to join you as they find their way.

The life you are stitching together is a piecemeal coat of wonderfulness. You world is under construction – again. But you are not alone and the garment, the life garment you are constructing will fit all in need; all those who are behind you. Light the way so they will walk easier, through a well-worn path with trees that reach out to each person at each juncture, each crossroad.

It is your path; it is their path. Their path is created from yours and will all become universal as one journey of many souls.

Foiled by the Thong!

I went to court this morning for the arraignment of the man responsible for the robbery and assault at my store 2 1/2 years ago.


Detective Keats (not his real name) was the police officer who came that fateful day to get evidence from the crime scene. He said to me today, “See, Eden, I told you we’d get the guy. Two and a half years later but we got him.” I responded, “Yes, you said you would,” but deep down I thought it would never happen. And I was okay with that. I was “over” it and had moved on.

Oh, there were about four times since the event that detectives came to the store with photos of suspects for me to look at. And I did my duty of looking at the photos. Prior to them having a fingerprint match, I picked out the guy they thought was the man responsible, out of the photo lineup. But I didn’t have faith that they would find the guy this many years later.

As I sat in court today and looked over to where the detectives sit, I realized I knew most of them. And why? I didn’t meet them at a social or family event. I have met each one due to an incident at the store. And they know me well. I have come to respect and like them all. I don’t think they get the respect they deserve in town.

Dave (not his real name), a patrol/beat cop and part time special forces army reserve specialist, who goes off to duty to very dangerous areas of the world every couple of years and is gone for a year each time, said that most of the cops in town are not very well regarded by some merchants. People assume they are dumb and socially inept.

And I’m thinking, WHY in god’s name would you NOT want these guys on your side? They have come to my aid many times (too many for my liking). I have come to know and love the regular beat cops who patrol the streets and stop in to say hi and chat a bit when on duty. These are the guys you WANT on your side. Dave was on the scene of the last incident right away and told me I scared the hell out of him because he couldn’t see me right away in the window and he thought something bad happened to me. He is the one who tells me the truth about the criminal world and gives me good advice. I respect him and I know he is there to protect me. This burly army dude is a friend now for life. So I know he’s got my back.

The judge on the bench today was identical to a dear friend, and I pictured what Mike would say and do in this situation. I chuckled to myself as I pictured the judge in a Groucho Marx costume, as Mike came dressed in this past Halloween, and doing his judge duties the whole morning in that character.

I didn’t know if “my perp” would be there today as I am not familiar (thank God) with the criminal justice system (although I AM becoming more familiar and that disturbs me). He was being arraigned. As it turns out, his bus was late in getting there but finally arrived with the criminals. When they called his name I didn’t know if it was him. I was never told what his name was. When they called my name along with his, then I finally had a name to put with the face I had identified three times now.

I went up to the bench and the DA pulled me aside to take me to a small room to discuss what would happen. I wanted to look at this man, Edmund Tate. I don’t know why. I kept looking at him. The judge asked him a question and I heard his voice again and I cringed, knowing this was the man who harmed me. I had also asked to hear his voice when I identified him in the physical lineup. I had seen his picture three times and remembered the face but I wanted to make sure it was him. Human senses are amazing for recall. Of all of the senses, smell has the most powerful memory recall system.

"When nothing else subsists from the past, after the people are dead, after the things are broken and scattered• the smell and taste of things remain poised a long time, like souls• bearing resiliently, on tiny and almost impalpable drops of their essence, the immense edifice of memory" -Marcel Proust "The Remembrance of Things Past"

I thought at the physical line up, “If I could only smell him, I would have absolute certainty that he was the man who assaulted me”. Of course I couldn’t, but to this day, I recall the days after the assault, I kept smelling him on me. I was certain that everyone around me could as well, but my husband assured me that there was no smell. That is how profound the sense of smell has on memory.

I think I wanted him to look at me in court, to see the woman who is strong and didn’t fall apart during his assault on me; the one who said no to his demands. I told him he had gotten what he came here for and he needed to leave. I wanted to give him the look that my children and their friends have come to know; the look that Officer Dave said scared the last two guys who attempted to rob me. They told him they didn’t because, one, they saw me press the panic button to call police (I did that right in front of them), and two, they said I gave them a look. My kids said, yep, we know that look. It scares everyone!

So I wanted him to look at me and see that he lost. I remembered everything he did and said and what he touched. He was sloppy that day. He didn’t wear a mask, he didn’t wear gloves. When you get nervous, you start sweating and he left his DNA and fingerprints all over the store. Detective Keats, said he got some juicy fingerprints. The perp was sloppy and cocky enough to think that this is just another robbery that he would get away with. His record is a long one; of robberies, bodily assaults, sexual assaults, and drug deals.

And what does he get caught for? A robbery at a little lingerie boutique in a small town. He left his DNA on a ladies thong that he tore apart to tie me up with. How apropos. He’s going down because his sexual deviate behavior led him to man-handle a thong, to go one step further to intimidate me to show his sexual power over me. For what - a minor haul on his part (he only got a couple of hundred dollars in cash – but he did take my wedding band and my favorite ring from Greece which maybe got him another $100 in pawn money) – all this manliness and power asserted on the wrong person in a tiny boutique in nowhere important.

So I wanted this dickhead to know he messed with the wrong woman. Enough is enough I say. I have had way too many events like this in my lifetime and I am done. Look at my face and know that “look” that scares my children and their friends.

But he didn’t look at me. And they pulled me into the back room before he left the judge’s bench. I looked back like a kid that is being taken away from a really good TV show or baseball game, armed being pulled as I strained to keep my eyes on him.

So that ordeal can now close its door, another chapter over in this life. That door was open a long time. I told a dear friend that I would write a story about it as I had with another horrific event that closed its door many, many years ago. I need to find humor in the tales of my life. I said I couldn’t just yet with this story. She said it needs a little patina on it, a little distance and “curing”. The story I write about it later will indeed find the humor and poignancy that only distance can bring.

However, my son reminded me that this dickhead, prior to leaving, after he tied me up, picked up a little lube on his way out. He said, “the guy probably had his girlfriend in the car who told him, “and don’t forget the lube!” “

He grabbed the box as he ran out. It was an empty display box. The thong “got” him. And no lube.

Seven Year Cycle

"The number Seven was esteemed holy, as is well known, by reason of the six days of creation, and of the seventh, which is the celestial man, in whom is peace, rest, and the sabbath..." - Swedenborg A.R. 657 The last post was about my dying smoke tree. Well, I looked out the window today and every single branch is dying. I resigned myself to letting it go through the winter and then cutting it back in the early spring and feeding it very well to encourage new growth and another year of life. And then it seemed to me that maybe I am being selfish. Maybe I should just let nature take its course and allow the poor thing to die peacefully with no life support of any kind. It blessed me this summer with the most beautiful blooms I have ever seen it its lifetime. And the blooms lasted throughout the rest of the summer and into the fall. It was breathtaking. And it should have reminded me that I certainly know that when a plant blooms this heavy and for so long, it is saying its farewell. Such a sweet thank you I received and didn't pay enough attention to. I planted that tree around 7 years ago. The Seven Cycle Year is the time to rest, to deepen your philosophy, to reflect and build inner reserves. It is the start of the fruition cycle. In the plant stage the plant rests from growth as it puts its accumulated reserves of energy into the blossoms which causes the flowers to unfold. The seven-year cycles are an evolutionary spiral. They belong to every being that has ever been created. There is no one who does not go through them. There is a natural release of energy every seven years which encourages you to move forward and make changes. Every seven years there is, within the system, a total change. If I look back, 7 years ago I had left my position at Garfield Park Conservatory. My swan song had been the county fair of September 2002. It was a glorious finish to my career there, an event coordinated with the City of Chicago's World Music Fest. Over 4 thousand people attended the one day event. It bloomed for a day and then I was gone.

And in the past seven years, I have changed careers, opened a business, lost two parents and other loved ones, lost some friends, and weathered an economic nightmare!

But I have also gained some wonderful new friends, been blessed with a business that allows me to create and expand in so many other ways. I don't know if the last seven years have been restful but they sure have been thought inducing, full of reflection and I have had to build major emotional and energy reserves to keep it all together! All to become the flowering/fruiting process. And that is what my tree did. It spent 6 glorious years building to that last gorgeous bloom and is stepping aside for the next tree, plant, project, etc. As for me, the last seven years have been of change, transition, building reserves, so that the next seven will be fruitful. I do feel that itch. It is an irritation that has no name yet. Just a funny little feeling that started this year, the sixth year. I've felt it before. It is that final push before the next big thing pops up. It used to bother me, that funny little feeling, and it still does. But I get it. I understand. Or at least I know it is temporary. And I look forward to what unfolds next. Because many seeds have been planted in the last seven years. And being a gardener, I know that not all the seeds will germinate. I will have to sit quietly and wait to see what pops up out of the ground. Who knows, maybe it will be a new smoke tree sapling next spring. Oh, I will tend to my dear plant as it fades. If I am diligent, I may be able to steal another year out of it, but I don't think it will bloom as it did this year. And if it quietly goes permanently dormant this winter, I will mourn the loss but celebrate a new season of growth, of change, of awe for the ever changing life around me.

Angels in Our Midsts...again

A friend of mine (I'll call her N) is training to become a life coach and she needed some hours of peer counseling for her certification. She uses the approach of manifesting as the way we bring things into our lives. Since I am so intrigued with all and everything spiritual, I agreed and have talked to her several times. Last night we spoke again. The first session was in May. I had already been diagnosed with an autoimmune disease and was in the throws of the pain and depression that results from that kind of diagnosis. I DON'T DO CHRONIC ILLNESS. I was unhappy with where things were heading. It was a tough year last year through the never ceasing recession and its effects on people and their buying habits. Business was suffering and I just didn't want to do it anymore. I needed to be juiced again. My hubby is so practical and said "If you don't pay attention to your business, it will fall apart." Or, "If you spend all your time thinking and owrking on your "next incarnation", you aren't focusing on the business and it will fall apart." Oh contrare Mon Amie! When you pay attention to your goals and dreams, they will manifest and everything else you are currently "in" will tag along in happy pursuit of your dreams! Pay attention! There are signs. You can miss them if you're sloppy and not paying attention. Last week I dreamt of my father in law who passed on a month earlier. I wrote of it in an earlier post. He told me to believe. He said, "If you believe then I am here." The more global meaning I got from the dream was if you believe that you manifest your life, then there are no surprises, no chance or random occurrences. Oh, they may seem random because most of us ARE sleeping through our lives. I held onto the "why is this happening to me?' scenario for years. I singlehandedly brought my vibrational energy down so low that I attracted all the bottom dwellers and dark personalities right to me. They all seemed to cry, "help me, I can't help myself and really don't want to. It is safer to hide in the dark." Or something like that. But is in the darkness that we find ourselves, what we are made of, what we can really handle. And if we use that darkness to our advantage, such bright light comes from it. They call it the dark night of the soul. I know I have angels that watch over me. And I also know that I am my own angel at times. I know that I DO manifest everything about me, all that happens, good or bad. I was in a waking mode the other morning when I heard footsteps on the first floor. I knew I was home alone but I was comforted because I knew they were the footsteps of my son. I know his pacing by heart. It was comforting to know that he was there if only in dream. He IS one of my angels. At the end of my conversation with N, she asked something like, what will you do to make the necessary changes? And I answered, I must believe that all that is before me is real and true and meant to be because I created it. I thought later, that was the message that my father in law had for me in my dream. I spoke the words that he spoke to me. Listen, they are out there. Your angels. Listen....