The Right Timing to Write

There is something about waking up when the world is still sleeping which brings solace and comfort to my soul.  It provides a soothing to my aching thoughts and outermost desires as well as a sense of mysteriousness in my writing.  Because I start work at noon, I’ve made it a habit to be in bed by 10pm so I can succumb to my morning ritual of waking up between five and five-thirty a.m.  I sit and lavish in the light of my candles and stillness in the evening darkness which paves a path for the morning light. 

 

As my fingers tap away at the keyboard, there is an immense opening which stands beautifully crafted in front of me, giving me a window of opportunities since my mind is as fresh as the start of a kind new day.  Every so often, as I gaze up from my laptop, I notice the black slowly becoming lighter shades of dark blue with gaps of scattered white clumps.  Eventually, this all metamorphoses into a kaleidoscope of colors as the sun shares her stories and travels in shades of pink, blue, orange, and gray.  Colors leftover from her visits to the other side of the world; brought here for the freedom of our ventures in writing.   Because these moments seem to pass quickly as the sun continues to rise, I try to capture and hold onto the brevity of such a peaceful and promising portrait. 

My thoughts glide much easier from my inner-darkest secrets and imagination to the words revealed and staring back at me.  The realness and serenity of the sky provides tiny seedlings of the day which offer me a new hope in my writing.  I embellish in the insignia of God’s work which unfolds right before my eyes.  All of this beauty is a simple joy experienced through my very own porthole at the wee hours of an opportunistic morning. 

As the minutes pass and the blazing orange and pink colors battle the white light above the horizon and try to make their way through the scattered clouds, I almost feel lifted.  Echoes of planes shouting across the skyline take my mind to far off destinations and a world where I am the creator.  Yes, I am the one in control of the fate of my pen and the people and places my mind will meet.  I observe how this picture resembles so many things in my life.  For instance, the simplicity and peace in nature can sometimes be overlooked and never appreciated because acts of addiction or selfishness once destroyed all things gifted, beautiful and strong. 

I’m also an avid coffee junkie in the morning.  My first and number one priority once that 5 a.m. alarm buzzer goes off is to groggily make my way over to the coffee pot and push the brew button.  Depending on the season and my mood, there are several of favorites which I enjoy waking up to.   Around this time of year, I love Dunkin Doughnuts ground pumpkin spice coffee.  During the winter time, there is a fantastic brand called Winter Blend from Manhattan Bagel.  This is probably my favorite because it has a smooth flavor and kick to it.  I tend to splurge on a few bags so I am well equipped to conquer my tendency to stay curled up like sponge during the winter; soaking up all of the warmth as I bury myself under the blankets. 

 

During the summer months, I find it much easier to wake up, even at times, with no alarm.  I will still light candles and surround myself in an atmosphere where my mind can travel to those places it so desperately longs for.  But as far as my coffee goes, it is a much lighter brew since the bitterness of the cold can no longer seek rapture upon me. 

I don’t know about you, but once I get home from work, my brain is literally close to shut-down mode.  Because I tend to get home around 7:30 and 8:00pm, I usually scramble to get dinner ready, sit down to collect my thoughts after being on my feet all day, and squeeze in some time to catch up with friends and family.  As much as I fight it, I might be able to answer a few emails here and there, make some comments on the numerous blogs I follow, and even post some tweets.  However, as far as my writing goes, it is a sacred treasure which only has an opportunity to be discovered by my irreplaceable morning delight. 

 

Do you have any writing rituals?  Is there a time (morning, afternoon, or night) when you are more focused on your writing?  Are there times when you find yourself in complete shut-down mode and are unable to even glance at the computer screen? 

Be Not Fearful Because I am With You

One my favorite psalms states, “Be not fearful because I am with you.  Be not afraid.”  I think about both God and my mother when I meditate on this.  They are the only two entities who I ever truly felt protected me.  Even when my mother was in her darkest days, she was always my protector.  

 

 

 

A radio host on one of the Christian channels that I listen to in my car read this at the very same moment that I hung up the phone with my mom this morning.  I pulled over and pleaded, "God, please, let me feel some other way than I do at this very moment.  Anything, please God."

My prayer was answered when I put the radio back on and continued driving down the road.  At that very moment, the radio host read those words from the psalm stated above. 

I was searching for something to get me through the unbearable news that my mother had no choice but to bestow upon me.  I couldn’t see her, but I felt her, right through the phone.  I experienced her sadness, sorrow and frustration; all boiling down to one big moment of disappointment and despair.  I thought we had conquered these trials and tribulations when my mom received her new liver this past Christmas. 

My heart continued to sink further down into my stomach, somewhere within the driver’s seat.  I was so angry, dismal, worried, and desperate to find the strength that my heart stumbled upon when my mom had first been diagnosed with cirrhosis.  I was stronger back then because I knew that God’s grace would carry us all to a better place and understanding.  I felt it just like I felt my mother’s feelings; constantly.  I knew deep down that God was going to allow me to spend more time with her because he wanted us to carry out our mission to save His lost children.  His children who are just like what my mother used to be; zombies, incapable of thinking and making good decisions on their own, in need of someone who has been down that dark road.  God had a plan for us to show people they are not alone by giving my mother to them.  He stripped away all of the guilt and shame by giving her a purpose to save lives.

So you can imagine how I felt when my mother shared the dreadful news that her name must be placed back onto the liver-transplant list.  The doctors had warned us because an abscess had already formed on her new liver, there might be more to come.  These abscesses cause infections in the blood and clog arteries, eventually affecting all of the major organs in her body.  What is even more devastating is that this liver is going to fail on her.  I can’t even think of the right words to say as I sit here and type and try to share this with you, my friends and fellow authors.  The only thing that keeps me going is the incredible skyline outside of my window and a painting of the mountains and sea that we purchased from a small gallery in Camden, Maine. 

Nature and unconditional beauty like this remind me God has a plan.  Although I don’t have a clue what that plan might be, I must tread forward and not forget about the things that my mother and I have learned so far.  Even if my mom’s path seems a bit foggy for her now, there must be a clearing in the road less traveled ahead.  I will submit to the grace of my heart and take her hand as I try to lead her to a better and brighter light through the dark mist. 

As hard as this may be, I have to remind people about the grave message we set out to deliver.  Our life is not ours to take for granted.  God has a purpose for each and every single one of us.  My mother abused one of the greatest gifts that a human could possibly get; to live here on Earth and experience gifts like love, family, and spiritual and knowledgeable growth.  Some people believe that they can abuse their bodies until something bad happens and then they can change.  I know this because like my mother, I used to be that kind of person; on a continuously downward spiral until a wakeup call would be summoned. 

But we have to remember that sometimes, even though we have an opportunity to answer to that call, it’s not always in our ability or God’s will to have that second chance.  If we are blessed enough to have second chances like receiving a new organ or getting a slap on the wrist for committing a crime that we should have never committed in the first place, then we should consider ourselves damn lucky. 

But in cases like my mother, who at the present time, isn’t so lucky, we must remind ourselves about how precious life is.  And to NEVER take it for granted.  We must also remember what was stated in the previous psalm.  God is always with us and to not be fearful.  Maybe this is a testament to furthering our faith in Him by trusting his faith in us.  When there is a mutual agreement of faith being exchanged, there is room for hope in the regret of our past decisions.  We must leave our fate in the palms of His hands.

 

Was there ever a time that you had no choice but to just surrender to certain times in your life that you had no control over or couldn’t change?  How did this affect you?  Have you or a loved one suffered so tremendously that you decided to leave those sufferings in the hands of God or a higher power you believe in?

Scents and Spirits of the Past

As the sun turns north and autumn breeds new iridescent shades of orange, red and yellow, I can’t help but to submit myself to the strange power that this season has over me.  Maybe it is because my birthday is just six days before Halloween or that I admire the feelings I get from all things being ghostly. 

 

 

There is also a sentiment of warmth and coiled remembrances that succumb from the light of my candles; reflections from the smells as they flutter off into the pristine, crisp air.  Sundry colors of fall dancing from the trees into my window and then blending into the embraces of tiny flickering lights.  Colors are all around me, giving me a new hope as I embellish in my recollections and what seems to be a rollercoaster of tides that always comes with such thoughts.

Speaking of all things ghostly, I’ve experienced two beautifully strange moments this week which have embarked on my most treasured memories.  The first apparition was five days ago.  As my head tried to sink deep within the goose feathers of my pillow, a rush of our late father’s scent came colliding into my nose like a wave of a thousand white deer rushing up against the most welcoming shores.  As I continued to embrace Daddy C’s smell, I opened my eyes but there was no one there.  Instead, shadows moved against the walls, dancing around me while mocking my search for that one lost moment I could have with him.

Everyone referred to my father as Daddy C, even my most beloved friends and family members.  He owned that name, just as any prince or king would testify to their royal titles.  Not only did it stand for the CARING of our family and the unforgettable CHARISMA and CHARACTER he possessed, but it also stood for the COURAGE it took him to become sober and CLEAN during final years of his short-lived life. 

 

The smell only lingered around my pillow for ten seconds and then vanished.  I even sat up and got out of my bed to nosey around the room but he was gone.  There were two things that Daddy C had always manifested through:  a distinct and captivating smell as well as a loud and unforgettable voice.  I searched my whole room and even went to the kitchen for a glass of milk but he was nowhere to be found.

I took this as a sign that he might be hovering around, watching me as I stumble upon the right words to bring about his story and what his presence meant to my sister, mother and me.  My sibling was, undoubtedly, his biological daughter.  I, on the other hand, found out that I had a different dad at the age of 14.  You can only imagine how devastated we were when we discovered this tragic news only because I had grown to love and respect the one father who ever truly loved my sisters and me; unconditionally.  Daddy C was always showing us off to his friends and family and bugging us to spend as much time as we possibly could with him.  I even believe to this day that if he were still alive, he'd have a separate shelf build into his fruit stand so my books would be on display for purchase.  Because that was the type of man he was; proud and adoring of his little girls. 

Unfortunately, he was murdered before I had the valor to tell him the truth.  For some time, I was so angry with myself for not ever telling him.  After my biological father left when I was 17, I was even more hurt during my years at college but I didn't even know how to confront the pain I felt.  Nor did I even recognize the delicate feelings I had erupting inside of my heart.  Instead, I got lost and masked them away with drugs and alcohol.  Everyone always told me I handled grief and abandonment well.  There was one person who knew this part of me but my demons destroyed our chances of ever having a happy and well-balanced life together.  He was with me from college up until alcohol finally won the battle against our chances of survival three years ago. 

Could my dad be trying to tell me something now that I’ve been writing about our family?  Was he sitting here, next to me, each day as my fingers tapped away at the keyboard?  Did he want me to know that I was going to be okay now and he was always watching me?  There were a few instances that I truly believed I was saved by an angel; once when I overdosed on a trip in California and the other when I crashed my car after a night of partying my senior year of high school.  Both instances within two years after Daddy C's death.

To confirm whether or not these haunted accusations were true, what seemed to be a ghostly visit earlier in the week happened again two nights ago.  As my dad’s smell crept through the crevices and cracks of the floors up to my nostrils, I opened my eyes and lifted my head as quickly as I could.  This time, when I rose up from my bed, I saw a large shadow leaning against our television stand (about eight feet away from us). 

 

As I stumbled out of the bed, the shadow slowly disintegrated back into the cold, brisk air.  Daddy C’s irreplaceable scent and presence came rushing over my head like an unforgettable eclipse of emotions, only to happen for a mere moment, then ultimately lost and landing in some other time.  A time when Daddy C was still here; his life no longer stricken away by the hands of some ungodly entity who still has yet to surface.

My best friend of twenty eight years called me last night.  Her mother passed away in August from cancer.  The loss of her mom has been quite tragic as they were almost inseparable.  My friend was her mother’s caretaker towards the end stages of her illness.  Since her death is still dwelling heavy in her mind and circling around her heart, my friend has been going through an extremely rough time.  Especially since they both shared a special bond and appeal for the autumn months. 

My best friend’s phone call validated my two experiences this week.  She confided in me that she, too, had a scent rush over her the other night.  It was the smell of her mother and it only consumed her for ten seconds.  Was this a coincidence or a validation that our late family members are lingering around, trying to tell us something?

I couldn’t believe it when my friend delivered this incredible news.  Like her, I believe testimonials such as these help to lift the things which weigh heavy within our hearts and most sacred memories.  I had never experienced Daddy C’s spirit until this past week and he died 15 years ago.  Was it because I’ve been writing about his untimely death and how it has affected our family and still does to this day?  Is my father trying to tell me something?

I told my mother about everything this morning and she too said she felt a presence as she was getting out of bed.  I couldn’t believe it!  She said that she felt someone tugging or pulling at her foot.  I asked her if she was sure and she sternly said, “Yes!”  As if I didn’t believe her; of course I did!

 

What does this all mean?  Are these apparitions happening because we like to lavish away in the freedoms and freshness that come with open windows, long lasting candles, and ghostly shadows against the days of September and October?

Do you believe in ghosts?  If so, I'd love to hear about some of your experiences.

Embracing the Momentum to Write

Before I started this blog, I had been searching for a way to explore my mother’s story: her struggles, triumphs, rock-bottom hits, and what seemed to be a new hope; her liver transplant.  Our jobs and family time can be extremely time-consuming as they play important roles in our everyday lives.  I have been busy with my own fulltime job and commitment to my family and children’s work. I had found it hard for my mind and heart to travel down to the depths of my soul so that I could embrace the dedication and inspiration I would need to take on this project. 

A fellow author and good friend of mine suggested that I write down my feelings each and every single day.  Even if it were just a few simple sentences; simply journalize them and save them for when the time was right.  As easy as that sounded, I still struggled to reach to the core of my soul for the emotions and senses I would need to even touch upon something so delicate, moving, and most of all, worth all of the time and effort.

And then it just happened.  One day, I’m going about my business, always making sure to say “Thank you, God, for giving my mother a new liver.”  The next, my mom is hospitalized again, out of the blue, because she is running a fever and her white blood cell count is extremely low. 

My mom has been in the hospital for over a week now.  It is beginning to take a toll on all of her aspirations because her recovery went so well after the transplant.  She had the surgery on December 26^th, 2012, and I truly believed that this was the second chance we had all been praying for.  However, I now realize that God has something else intended for me to do, which is to journalize my mother’s struggles, strides, and experiences.  He has reminded me that he is not finished with my family just yet, and now I have no choice but to continue to tell our story.

I’m on the beach today as I write this blog entry and it’s almost 7am.  I usually plop my chair on the sand, right between the ocean and the dunes, around this time or at sunset, when there are seldom others around.  You might think it is because I enjoy the shelter as most writers often do when they are embarking on their gift to explore and create.  Although there is some truth and formality to this, there is also a sadness that I feel when I see children playing with their parents, so I choose to sit in solitude.  When I observe a mother and father taking their child by the hand and walking him or her down to the water, ensuring them that once they are in the ocean, they will never let their tiny hands go, sorrow fills my heart.   When I gaze at a father helping his child build sand castles as the mother reaches for their lunches from the cooler, a motley color of melancholy teases my iridescent pool of memories.   

These small gestures of love and nourishment remind me of my own childhood, and the many years we spent along the Jersey shore.  Every time I stare out across this boundless sea of beauty and bliss, I think of her; my mother.  When I see and hear the waves of a thousand white deer rushing and crashing up against the sand, I remember my childhood with her.  I don’t recall my biological father because he was never there, and the father who I thought was my real dad was sent to jail when I was three years old; my sister was barely two. 

Although I would like to have a better connection with my biological father, most times, I am at a loss because he just doesn't seem to value the importance of the bond a father and daughter should have together.  I know he tries but actions speak louder than words.  I also know he raised two extraordinary boys who I'm sure he is quite proud of, however, because he was not around to watch me grow up, our relationship will always suffer and I will never receive the type of unconditional love I once was gifted from Daddy C.  This person ultimately would have died for us and strangely enough, asked us to not come visit him on the night of his murder.   

 

My step-father came into our lives when I was five, raised us, provided a third biological sister, and he is still in our lives today.  For the most part, the five of us grew together as any seemingly normal family should.  But buried beneath the facade were alcohol induced fights, verbal abuse, police officers, family scandals, the uncovering of other siblings, and a mother who wanted to have it all together but undoubtedly, did not.  These incidents may seem like they would put a damper on every single relationship they came into contact with, however, they never harmed the bond that I had with my mom as a child.  Those conditions would soon falter and wither away as time struggled to bring them to the unrecognizable life my mother would later succumb to.

The ocean that once opened up countless moments of warmth, acceptance, inspiration and irreplaceable remembrances as a child was now just a memory.  A swift wish lost within the soft breezes of the wind only to be carried off to some distant place in the back of my mind.  When I look at the sea, my heart plummets to the bottom of my stomach.  It’s simply a desolation I cannot explain nor would want anyone else in this world to have to experience. 

Was there ever a time in your life when you needed to search for the momentum to write and found it?  If so, has it helped you cope with or overcome any struggles?  If you are still trying to discover this driving force, in what ways have you tried but haven't succeeded?