The truth, of course, is that I love every one of her gorgeous songs, regardless of the meanings behind them. It just so happens that this particular selection speaks volumes to me.
And tonight, for me.
+++
What I deserve is comfort for my shaken soul;
The water on my hands are tears from long ago.
My skin lets it in; it's always been too thin,
Since I can't remember when.
And, oh: what I deserve, what I deserve, what I deserve...
Oh, darling: what I deserve, what I deserve, what I deserve.
There's solace in this dusty earth and rocky hills,
But even starry skies can't mend my broken will.
My blood doesn't pour; there's nothing to bleed for,
I don't believe, anymore.
And, oh: what I deserve, what I deserve, what I deserve...
Now, I have done the best I can.
Oh, but what I've done, it's not who I am:
And, oh: what I deserve...
Time has left me feeling old and losing hope;
Hell, I've walked a long way just to find the end of my rope.
You say that I should pray: well, I would, but my faith has strayed.
I don't believe I'll be saved.
And, oh: what I deserve, what I deserve, what I deserve...
Oh, darling: what I deserve, what I deserve, what I deserve.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Transparency
So, what happened was this.
Three weeks ago, I had a free minute, maybe two, so I called my mother. Just to say hello.
And what she said, in reasonably short order, was that she'd been to the opthalmologist for her annual check-up. He'd promptly referred her to a specialist.
She'd gone to the specialist the very next day, and learned that there was an inexplicable, heretofore unseen mass at the back of her retina.
No one could be sure what it meant, but the fear was that it meant something called ocular melanoma. Which didn't sound good. Sounded bad, actually.
It's a tricky diagnosis, apparently; no real avenue for biopsies and such. So the specialist told her: come back in three weeks, and we'll see if it's grown. How much, how fast.
Well, don't cry 'till you're hurt, my father-in-law said, when I explained the situation in a shaky voice. He meant well, I suppose, but it was utterly meaningless advice.
Because I cried. A lot. Fretted, worried, railed and wailed. Wrung my hands in therapy at the injustice of it all. Implored my friends to rally 'round, and fell clumsily into my husband's strong shoulders.
And then, set the timer for three weeks.
Three weeks later, we were at the beach, still playing chicken with a hurricane and grieving long-distance for a dear friend and her own unspeakable loss.
My father and his wife arrived; I was happy they'd come, but too anxious to emote anything cheerful. Couldn't stop checking the timer. Kept staring at my phone, trying to will it to ring.
Finally, finally, after an unbearably long wait: there was some news. Not much, though; in fact, it was really nothing at all. No change.
Thank God.
The nothing was something, in that it was the first glimmer of hope and optimism we'd stumbled across for three weeks.
But still, there were questions; still, there weren't answers. So: further tests, a trip north, sometime this week.
For now, though, we all remember how to breathe. And relax just a little. It feels good.
And that's what happened.
Three weeks ago, I had a free minute, maybe two, so I called my mother. Just to say hello.
And what she said, in reasonably short order, was that she'd been to the opthalmologist for her annual check-up. He'd promptly referred her to a specialist.
She'd gone to the specialist the very next day, and learned that there was an inexplicable, heretofore unseen mass at the back of her retina.
No one could be sure what it meant, but the fear was that it meant something called ocular melanoma. Which didn't sound good. Sounded bad, actually.
It's a tricky diagnosis, apparently; no real avenue for biopsies and such. So the specialist told her: come back in three weeks, and we'll see if it's grown. How much, how fast.
Well, don't cry 'till you're hurt, my father-in-law said, when I explained the situation in a shaky voice. He meant well, I suppose, but it was utterly meaningless advice.
Because I cried. A lot. Fretted, worried, railed and wailed. Wrung my hands in therapy at the injustice of it all. Implored my friends to rally 'round, and fell clumsily into my husband's strong shoulders.
And then, set the timer for three weeks.
Three weeks later, we were at the beach, still playing chicken with a hurricane and grieving long-distance for a dear friend and her own unspeakable loss.
My father and his wife arrived; I was happy they'd come, but too anxious to emote anything cheerful. Couldn't stop checking the timer. Kept staring at my phone, trying to will it to ring.
Finally, finally, after an unbearably long wait: there was some news. Not much, though; in fact, it was really nothing at all. No change.
Thank God.
The nothing was something, in that it was the first glimmer of hope and optimism we'd stumbled across for three weeks.
But still, there were questions; still, there weren't answers. So: further tests, a trip north, sometime this week.
For now, though, we all remember how to breathe. And relax just a little. It feels good.
And that's what happened.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Black cat
You know, if I were the superstitious type, I might be fighting a bad case of nerves right about now.
To begin with, I just crossed that bridge a few hours ago, for the first time since the initial bolt of lightning that struck here exactly three months ago.
We're staying the night with my sister, the newlywed, before we press on to the same beach where I stared, stunned and depressed, at big blue waves that kept rolling in and swirling out, wholly undisturbed by the turn of events in my small world.
We'll spend a few days by the water, assuming that no actual lightning bolts from an encroaching hurricane attempt to knock us off-course.
If all goes well, my father will join us for a visit. He's unaware that, as we ignore his elephant in the room, I'll be anxiously awaiting word on my mother's health.
It's a small space that we'll be sharing. Not enough room, really, for two elephants.
So even though I'm not the superstitious type, as far as you know, surely you'll forgive me if I avoid walking under ladders, broken mirrors and the number thirteen.
At least for the next few days. And then, I hope, I'll be able to breathe again. Knock on wood.
To begin with, I just crossed that bridge a few hours ago, for the first time since the initial bolt of lightning that struck here exactly three months ago.
We're staying the night with my sister, the newlywed, before we press on to the same beach where I stared, stunned and depressed, at big blue waves that kept rolling in and swirling out, wholly undisturbed by the turn of events in my small world.
We'll spend a few days by the water, assuming that no actual lightning bolts from an encroaching hurricane attempt to knock us off-course.
If all goes well, my father will join us for a visit. He's unaware that, as we ignore his elephant in the room, I'll be anxiously awaiting word on my mother's health.
It's a small space that we'll be sharing. Not enough room, really, for two elephants.
So even though I'm not the superstitious type, as far as you know, surely you'll forgive me if I avoid walking under ladders, broken mirrors and the number thirteen.
At least for the next few days. And then, I hope, I'll be able to breathe again. Knock on wood.
Friday, August 15, 2008
The ties that bind
Forty years ago this fall, they married, having met cute on an air force base in the Philippines some time before.
Even as a child, poring over the pictures of them in a small ivory album, I thought they made an unlikely pair.
She was tall, graceful, with a blond shoulder-length flip and a dreamy look in her eyes. He was shorter, darker, with a military-issue haircut and heavy glasses.
After a year or two, they welcomed a daughter. Three years later, they welcomed another, which made me a big sister.
Were we a happy family? I don't remember. And ultimately, it didn't matter. Before five more years had passed, he'd moved on, and nothing was ever the same again.
They remarried: first him, then her. They divorced, again: first her, then him. In between, other children were born: two here, one there.
He married again, this time for good. She swore she was done with marriage, with love.
Now, they see each other for milestones: when daughters are married; when grandchildren are born. Only when it matters, and no more.
But still, they are bound by that ceremony forty years ago. What do they think about that? I can't help but wonder.
Even as a child, poring over the pictures of them in a small ivory album, I thought they made an unlikely pair.
She was tall, graceful, with a blond shoulder-length flip and a dreamy look in her eyes. He was shorter, darker, with a military-issue haircut and heavy glasses.
After a year or two, they welcomed a daughter. Three years later, they welcomed another, which made me a big sister.
Were we a happy family? I don't remember. And ultimately, it didn't matter. Before five more years had passed, he'd moved on, and nothing was ever the same again.
They remarried: first him, then her. They divorced, again: first her, then him. In between, other children were born: two here, one there.
He married again, this time for good. She swore she was done with marriage, with love.
Now, they see each other for milestones: when daughters are married; when grandchildren are born. Only when it matters, and no more.
But still, they are bound by that ceremony forty years ago. What do they think about that? I can't help but wonder.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Invisible ink
With two exceptions, I've told no one about this side blog project of mine.
I'm not sure why, exactly. Maybe it's because I'm embarrassed by the emotions I'm spilling so clumsily here.
In trying to process what's happening in my life, I've somehow managed to generate this pulpy mess that's awkward, cryptic and nonsensical.
The temptation to delete it all is intermittent, but strong, born mostly of pride, or a lack thereof.
Of course, I could make it private, but there's something strangely liberating about releasing these thoughts into the blogosphere, like messages tucked into bottles, then set adrift.
And so, for now at least, I keep typing, curious to see what happens next.
I'm not sure why, exactly. Maybe it's because I'm embarrassed by the emotions I'm spilling so clumsily here.
In trying to process what's happening in my life, I've somehow managed to generate this pulpy mess that's awkward, cryptic and nonsensical.
The temptation to delete it all is intermittent, but strong, born mostly of pride, or a lack thereof.
Of course, I could make it private, but there's something strangely liberating about releasing these thoughts into the blogosphere, like messages tucked into bottles, then set adrift.
And so, for now at least, I keep typing, curious to see what happens next.
Monday, August 11, 2008
H2O
Not much to update this week, which is both good and bad.
The good, I suppose, is that we all seem to be sailing along in a generally calm and happy lake of denial. A gentle breeze puffs along every now and then, but it's mostly smooth waters. Pretty scenery. I could stay here a while.
The bad, of course, is that I occasionally remember what it is that we're in denial about, whereupon I gasp and sputter and feel as if I'm sinking. Not so fun.
The regularly scheduled paid discussions continue to go reasonably well. Last week's chat introduced the topic of a family member who excels in the language of passive-aggressive vitriol. The ripple effects of her last visit: still rocking the boat.
However. Life jackets have been donned, and I think we'll navigate the rough seas all right. We just need to keep paddling, yes? Yes.
The good, I suppose, is that we all seem to be sailing along in a generally calm and happy lake of denial. A gentle breeze puffs along every now and then, but it's mostly smooth waters. Pretty scenery. I could stay here a while.
The bad, of course, is that I occasionally remember what it is that we're in denial about, whereupon I gasp and sputter and feel as if I'm sinking. Not so fun.
The regularly scheduled paid discussions continue to go reasonably well. Last week's chat introduced the topic of a family member who excels in the language of passive-aggressive vitriol. The ripple effects of her last visit: still rocking the boat.
However. Life jackets have been donned, and I think we'll navigate the rough seas all right. We just need to keep paddling, yes? Yes.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Hands to heaven
On top of everything else, and now, I suppose, because of it, is this recent struggle with faith. What are my thoughts on the Big Guy Upstairs?
My standard explanation, when asked, was always that I was perfectly comfortable walking through life with my second-grade Sunday-school beliefs untested and intact.
I'm not sure when that changed, but it has, and now I don't know what to do with the shards. Do I attempt to piece them back together, or just dust them off into the garbage bin?
More than anything, it's the prayer thing that gets me.
Come on, now: am I really just talking to myself? Is it some form of self-therapy that may, on occasion, meet with blind serendipity or dumb luck? When prayers are answered, allegedly, is it the power of suggestion, positive thinking, self-fulfilling prophecy?
When my father's father died, we weren't aware that, in his retirement, he'd actually had a full-time job: protecting his wife's fragility from the world, and vice versa. In his absence, we realized the enormity of the task. What's worse, so did she.
I was fourteen, and I remember every detail of the room and the moment when she stood at the top of the stairs and stammered, in this impossibly small and helpless voice, "But... but I don't even know how to pray."
At the time, and for the longest time thereafter, I thought it was the saddest thing I'd ever heard. Just the saddest statement anyone could make. Not knowing how to pray? How could anyone feel that lost and alone?
I think I get it now, and I don't like it.
How do I pray? And for what? I need to know. I really, really need to know.
My standard explanation, when asked, was always that I was perfectly comfortable walking through life with my second-grade Sunday-school beliefs untested and intact.
I'm not sure when that changed, but it has, and now I don't know what to do with the shards. Do I attempt to piece them back together, or just dust them off into the garbage bin?
More than anything, it's the prayer thing that gets me.
Come on, now: am I really just talking to myself? Is it some form of self-therapy that may, on occasion, meet with blind serendipity or dumb luck? When prayers are answered, allegedly, is it the power of suggestion, positive thinking, self-fulfilling prophecy?
When my father's father died, we weren't aware that, in his retirement, he'd actually had a full-time job: protecting his wife's fragility from the world, and vice versa. In his absence, we realized the enormity of the task. What's worse, so did she.
I was fourteen, and I remember every detail of the room and the moment when she stood at the top of the stairs and stammered, in this impossibly small and helpless voice, "But... but I don't even know how to pray."
At the time, and for the longest time thereafter, I thought it was the saddest thing I'd ever heard. Just the saddest statement anyone could make. Not knowing how to pray? How could anyone feel that lost and alone?
I think I get it now, and I don't like it.
How do I pray? And for what? I need to know. I really, really need to know.
Duh.
It turns out that the therapy? Crucial. And the timing? Serendipitous.
I'll be honest and say that I still have my doubts about the personality fit, but just having a safe place to unleash and unload this emotional baggage was worth every single penny, plus some, of the check that I wrote yesterday.
So, next week: same day, same time? You think? Uh-huh. Oh, yeah. Please.
I'll be honest and say that I still have my doubts about the personality fit, but just having a safe place to unleash and unload this emotional baggage was worth every single penny, plus some, of the check that I wrote yesterday.
So, next week: same day, same time? You think? Uh-huh. Oh, yeah. Please.
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Pep
She's fine. I know it, I feel it: she's fine, fine, fine. This is nothing to worry about, not one iota. She's fine because she has to be, and that's all there is to it. So we'll play this little waiting game, but in three weeks we'll have all the evidence we need that she's absolutely, positively, unequivocally FINE.
And he? Well, he's obviously doing great. Looks healthy. Feels good. Seems happy. Traveled to South Africa a few weeks ago. Renovating his house this summer. Planning to buy a motorcycle! Clearly, this guy's not going anywhere anytime soon. Nothing to worry about here, either. He's just fine.
I'm so glad we had this little chat.
And he? Well, he's obviously doing great. Looks healthy. Feels good. Seems happy. Traveled to South Africa a few weeks ago. Renovating his house this summer. Planning to buy a motorcycle! Clearly, this guy's not going anywhere anytime soon. Nothing to worry about here, either. He's just fine.
I'm so glad we had this little chat.
Friday, August 1, 2008
Delivery
When he delivered the news, it was measured, calm, confident. We didn't really have a chance to ask questions, because he answered them for us as he patiently explained the past, present and predicted future.
It wasn't meant to protect us, I don't think, although it surely must have. A blow is a blow, but this one was cushioned as much as possible. I don't chalk it up to paternal instinct; it's just the way he's always operated. Deliberately. Cautiously. Rationally.
You're just like your mother, he said when I was a girl. I could read the subtext; I knew he meant that this made me his polar opposite. She and I were (and, obviously, still are) irrationally emotional women, prone to unpredictable fits of hysteria. Dangerous creatures.
This morning, however, she was calm, although she didn't have any answers or explanations. But honestly, I couldn't think of any questions. I feel like I'm teetering on the edge of hysteria, trying not to fall. Scared out of my mind, literally.
I don't have any idea what to do, say, think. How will I fumble through three weeks without knowing anything? And what will happen after I do?
It wasn't meant to protect us, I don't think, although it surely must have. A blow is a blow, but this one was cushioned as much as possible. I don't chalk it up to paternal instinct; it's just the way he's always operated. Deliberately. Cautiously. Rationally.
You're just like your mother, he said when I was a girl. I could read the subtext; I knew he meant that this made me his polar opposite. She and I were (and, obviously, still are) irrationally emotional women, prone to unpredictable fits of hysteria. Dangerous creatures.
This morning, however, she was calm, although she didn't have any answers or explanations. But honestly, I couldn't think of any questions. I feel like I'm teetering on the edge of hysteria, trying not to fall. Scared out of my mind, literally.
I don't have any idea what to do, say, think. How will I fumble through three weeks without knowing anything? And what will happen after I do?
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