I've moved my blog over to Wordpress. Come on over and take a look at the new digs, the new posts (don't worry all your old faves are still available there too) and check out the excerpt from my new novel Wholly Jane!
www.christinepelfrey.wordpress.com
Friday, May 28, 2010
Monday, April 12, 2010
Little Altars
Sunset on Russian Beach, Straford Ct - April 11, 2010
How do I let go?
How do I forgive?
How do I ever find the way forward again?
How do I ever know I won’t just screw it up worse than I already have?
I finally just dug in my heels and declared, “I am not moving from this spot!” That applies to making any major decisions in my life and to my relationship with God. I walked into Deacon Ron’s office at the beginning of Lent and told him, “This is where I am and I’m not moving. I’ve gone as far as I can go and I need something from God before I can go any further.”
I expected a gentle but firm rebuke of some kind but it didn’t come. Instead Ron simply said, “That’s because you’re still pissed at God.” It’s scary to have someone who sees through me so easily. But he was right and I said so.
Over the next forty days, Ron met with me weekly. He had me reading The Hound of Heaven every night. I had much journaling to do with that poem. I had so many dreams – vivid and almost prophetic dreams. Dreams that pointed my feet in the right direction. Dreams that led Ron to guide me on what to read and pray with next. There were dreams of searching through catacombs full of dead books, searching for the one book that wasn’t dead. There was a dream where I fled through the same catacombs carrying my book while angry people were searching for me, desiring the power that book carried within it. I fled up a mountain where I hid just below the nest of an eagle, who was watching out for me. That eagle was a symbol of John the Evangelist. Ron had me read the Gospel of John at random, wherever the page fell open or whatever caught my heart.
One Wednesday night, when I was too tired to pray with the Gospel of John, I fell into bed saying, “God, John, I’m sorry I’m just too tired tonight. We’ll talk tomorrow.” The next day, I had an email from a fellow ministry team member I had never even talked to before. To my shock it was the random verses from John that I had been reading on Tuesday and had been too tired to read the night before. God had just emailed me!
I was being given a tremendous amount of grace and I knew it. With each passing week, I became more and more aware that God was giving me what I needed to move forward again. It also wasn’t time to move yet.
In the midst of all this, I gave the formal testimony to the judge for my annulment. I joined a group for divorced Catholics and in researching support groups, discovered a retreat for divorced, separated, and widowed Catholics. I seriously wondered whether or not I was ready for that retreat but finally decided to take the risk. No one made me go. No one recommended it to me or was going to go with me. I was on my own and that was okay. So I sent in my deposit and tried to forget about it until it was time to go.
Meanwhile, Lent continued and so did the strange dreams. I had one in which I met two women in white dresses, with gauzy black hats that concealed their faces. Their names were Wisdom and Death. I will go into more details about them in another post but when I described my dream to Ron he asked me if I’d ever read a book called “Hinds’ Feet on High Places” by Hannah Hurnard. I’d never even heard of it but he said my dream reminded him so much of it and he recommended that I read that next. I bought it but something told me to wait until Easter to start reading it.
In the book, just like in my dream, there are two veiled figures to guide the main character on a treacherous journey. Along the way, the main character builds little altars and lays down the things that are hindering her. That stuck with me and I wasn’t really sure why.
Finally, the week after Easter, it was time to make my retreat. I ran into some financial issues that week and the deposit check for the retreat bounced, caused some other debits to overdraft my account, which added up to a bunch of bank fees and the embarrassment of having to tell the retreat coordinator that the check had bounced. Add to that, I could pay cash for the deposit, but I would need to postdate the check for the balance. The easier thing to do would’ve been to not go. But I knew that now was the time. It was time to get moving forward again, at least in my relationship with God. So I went.
I won’t go into all the details of the weekend. Those are too sacred even for here. But I will say I built a little altar out of sea glass on the windowsill in my room that first day. I laid down my need for control, my frustration at being the youngest one there (why am I always the baby?), my impatience, my lack of trust, and my anger that I even needed to be there (my marriage should have worked out!). I made a conscious decision that I would not, not matter happened on that weekend, pick up those things again. There were two instances on that weekend that I stood in my room looking out the window, sobbing and pleading with God, “Please Lord – Don’t ask this of me. This I can’t do!” Then I would look at my little altar again and know I couldn’t pick up those things again. I found I had the strength to do things I never dreamed I’d be able to do. When the weekend was over, I left my little altar there in the room that had been mine. I left behind my need for control, my frustration, my impatience, my lack of trust and my anger.
When I drove home Sunday afternoon, I stopped home only long enough to pick up my boots and then drove to the beach. I hiked out to my favorite spot and along the way I picked up a shell, lots of sea glass, a piece of pink marble, three blood-red rocks, and finally a two-by-four with rusted nails pounded into it. It was nearly sunset when I reached my favorite spot. I laid the board across two rocks to form the base for my next altar. On it I laid the shell – which is me, empty and waiting to be filled with whatever God gives me next in life. Then I laid down the two smaller red rocks – which are the hearts of my two boys in need of God’s healing. Next were the nails already in the board – which are the wounds I still carry. The larger red rock came next – my own broken heart. The piece of pink marble, a symbol for my dreams, went next. Finally, I arranged the sea glass in the shape of a small mosaic cross. These pieces were all the bits of truth that I had found during my retreat. There were many colors there, including pink and lavender, rare colors for sea glass.
When I was finished, the sun was just starting to descend below the clouds and threw brilliant sunbeams upward and outward. The sky was painted with soft pinks, baby blues, calming lavenders and beside me the water was nearly flat with only the tiniest waves lapping at the shore. I made my offering and sat quietly as the sun slowly sank away behind the edge of the world. Finally, filled with peace, it was time for me to go home and back into the real world. I took two pieces of the sea glass with me to remember those two things I had done on the weekend that I know I could never have done without the grace and strength of God.
As for moving forward, God and I are moving forward together again. I’m still not ready to make any major life decisions yet and that’s okay too. When the time is right, I’ll know what to do.
For so long, as you my readers know, I have struggled with trust and surrender. I suppose I always will. It’s just the way we humans are built. But I have learned how to lay down the things that hinder me in my journey. I will not ask for the grace to be able to do that for the rest of my life, but just for the rest of today.
I have added the link for Beginning Experience on my list of links. This is the retreat I attended and if you or someone you love has been divorced, separated, or widowed, I highly recommend this weekend as a source of healing.
Monday, November 2, 2009
A Note To My Readers
Hello - Remember me?
Yes I know it's been awhile since I've written here. I have to admit that writing the My Ride parable took a great deal out of me. See I write from the very deepest parts of my soul and that particular story explored some darker areas I would have preferred to leave in forgotten shadows. But spiritual direction and spiritual growth are all about facing that which is difficult to face.
So what have I been up to? Well, I've been working very hard on writing my annulment. Facing yet another area I would prefer to leave in shadows. So many people think this is just a backdoor Catholic version of a divorce. I had read a great deal about annulments and the process before finally starting the process for myself. Even with all my reading, I was ill-prepared for the emotional aspect of it.
See in a divorce, one or both parties decide that things just are not what they should be and they part ways. The civil divorce divides up the property and the custody (sickening that children aren’t treated with any more care than the family china). Both parties bring in lawyers who argue over who should get what while both parties stand in the hallway and argue over whose fault it was. But in the end, all the judge needs to do is divide everything as fairly as possible, sign here please, initial there please, and all is done in a matter of a few months.
An annulment is nowhere as simple. The marriage itself is it’s own entity and enjoys the benefit of Church law. Both parties are still considered married in the Church’s eyes unless the marriage is declared null by both a Tribunal and a Court of Appeals. If they don’t agree with each other, the decision goes to Rome. Only one party approaches the Tribunal, although both are given the opportunity to respond to questions.
I was the one who decided to seek the annulment. It was a difficult decision to make and not one that I took lightly. I’m not off looking to re-marry or to stick it to my ex one last time. But I know in my heart that this marriage, while pleasant at times, was never truly a sacramental one. I never brought the face of God to my ex. That is a difficult and painful thing to face. I could easily go on for pages, listing every little slight that I deem was his fault, but that’s not what petitioning for an annulment is all about.
It’s not about fault or blame. It’s about a deep soul-searching look backwards. It’s not looking for where did we go wrong and where did we go right. It’s about understanding the emotional and spiritual state I was in when I walked down the aisle. It’s about accepting responsibility for entering into a marriage with eyes wide shut, blinded by things I didn’t want to see and deafened to thing I chose not to hear.
As I talked to my friend John about the process, he compared it to one of the steps in AA – a fourth step, which is a searching and fearless moral inventory. An annulment is limited in its scope, but done right, it is searching and fearless. It is also deeply painful, exhausting, and draining.
But when I was done, I sat down with the same priest who had performed the wedding and had counseled us for nearly ten months. He helped me to draw out some of things I was still having trouble seeing, then sent me home to read and reflect on all that I’d written. I was able to write up a final summary and will submit it later this week to the Tribunal – all 35 pages of it.
I was challenged by an old friend who told me that she doesn’t believe in annulments. She asked me flat out why I was seeking one. Was it because I felt that I was young, naïve and was tricked into a marriage when I wasn’t ready? Was it to be prepared for when I met my soul mate and deserved a sacramental marriage blessed by God? I had a long talk with Deacon Ron about those questions. Neither of those was quite right. Finally, it came down to I needed to have the weight and burden lifted from me. It is like going to Confession to have a mortal sin lifted. I don’t mean to say that my marriage was a mortal sin, but that the weight of those unfulfilled vows is more than I can carry.
In writing the annulment, I explored the deepest places in my soul. I found many things hidden in shadows that I would otherwise have left in their hiding places. I discovered that the annulment process is not about getting the right decision from the Tribunal. It is entirely about the process itself. It is a purging and healing process. It’s about inviting God’s grace into the pain of a marriage gone very wrong. No matter what the decision by the Tribunal, the healing remains.
There is no healing in a divorce. Divorce is about winning and losing. In an annulment, there are no winners and no losers. If entered into with a clear intent and an honest desire for understanding, an annulment can bring peace.
Now you know why I have been silent for so long. While my writing is very much my ministry, I needed to take a little time to minister to my own wounds. I hope to begin posting more frequently as I have missed it very much.
I thank all of you for reading. May God’s blessings be on you this day.
Christine
Yes I know it's been awhile since I've written here. I have to admit that writing the My Ride parable took a great deal out of me. See I write from the very deepest parts of my soul and that particular story explored some darker areas I would have preferred to leave in forgotten shadows. But spiritual direction and spiritual growth are all about facing that which is difficult to face.
So what have I been up to? Well, I've been working very hard on writing my annulment. Facing yet another area I would prefer to leave in shadows. So many people think this is just a backdoor Catholic version of a divorce. I had read a great deal about annulments and the process before finally starting the process for myself. Even with all my reading, I was ill-prepared for the emotional aspect of it.
See in a divorce, one or both parties decide that things just are not what they should be and they part ways. The civil divorce divides up the property and the custody (sickening that children aren’t treated with any more care than the family china). Both parties bring in lawyers who argue over who should get what while both parties stand in the hallway and argue over whose fault it was. But in the end, all the judge needs to do is divide everything as fairly as possible, sign here please, initial there please, and all is done in a matter of a few months.
An annulment is nowhere as simple. The marriage itself is it’s own entity and enjoys the benefit of Church law. Both parties are still considered married in the Church’s eyes unless the marriage is declared null by both a Tribunal and a Court of Appeals. If they don’t agree with each other, the decision goes to Rome. Only one party approaches the Tribunal, although both are given the opportunity to respond to questions.
I was the one who decided to seek the annulment. It was a difficult decision to make and not one that I took lightly. I’m not off looking to re-marry or to stick it to my ex one last time. But I know in my heart that this marriage, while pleasant at times, was never truly a sacramental one. I never brought the face of God to my ex. That is a difficult and painful thing to face. I could easily go on for pages, listing every little slight that I deem was his fault, but that’s not what petitioning for an annulment is all about.
It’s not about fault or blame. It’s about a deep soul-searching look backwards. It’s not looking for where did we go wrong and where did we go right. It’s about understanding the emotional and spiritual state I was in when I walked down the aisle. It’s about accepting responsibility for entering into a marriage with eyes wide shut, blinded by things I didn’t want to see and deafened to thing I chose not to hear.
As I talked to my friend John about the process, he compared it to one of the steps in AA – a fourth step, which is a searching and fearless moral inventory. An annulment is limited in its scope, but done right, it is searching and fearless. It is also deeply painful, exhausting, and draining.
But when I was done, I sat down with the same priest who had performed the wedding and had counseled us for nearly ten months. He helped me to draw out some of things I was still having trouble seeing, then sent me home to read and reflect on all that I’d written. I was able to write up a final summary and will submit it later this week to the Tribunal – all 35 pages of it.
I was challenged by an old friend who told me that she doesn’t believe in annulments. She asked me flat out why I was seeking one. Was it because I felt that I was young, naïve and was tricked into a marriage when I wasn’t ready? Was it to be prepared for when I met my soul mate and deserved a sacramental marriage blessed by God? I had a long talk with Deacon Ron about those questions. Neither of those was quite right. Finally, it came down to I needed to have the weight and burden lifted from me. It is like going to Confession to have a mortal sin lifted. I don’t mean to say that my marriage was a mortal sin, but that the weight of those unfulfilled vows is more than I can carry.
In writing the annulment, I explored the deepest places in my soul. I found many things hidden in shadows that I would otherwise have left in their hiding places. I discovered that the annulment process is not about getting the right decision from the Tribunal. It is entirely about the process itself. It is a purging and healing process. It’s about inviting God’s grace into the pain of a marriage gone very wrong. No matter what the decision by the Tribunal, the healing remains.
There is no healing in a divorce. Divorce is about winning and losing. In an annulment, there are no winners and no losers. If entered into with a clear intent and an honest desire for understanding, an annulment can bring peace.
Now you know why I have been silent for so long. While my writing is very much my ministry, I needed to take a little time to minister to my own wounds. I hope to begin posting more frequently as I have missed it very much.
I thank all of you for reading. May God’s blessings be on you this day.
Christine
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
REMEMBER
My road to spiritual freedom. That’s what the My Ride parable is all about. I didn’t understand that when I wrote it. Not even close. But I knew I needed to write it, and by far it is the most difficult piece I’ve written to date. I promised to delve into the symbolism behind it but I’m still trying to sort it all out myself and over the next few months Deacon Ron and I plan to spend quite a bit of time discussing it.
I’ve taken a bit of time away from writing after finishing My Ride. I needed to be quiet but didn’t really understand why. Two weeks ago, I entered into my annual Week of Guided Prayer. It was over the course of that week that I learned how very important this piece was to my spiritual journey. I have struggled for years to find the spiritual freedom to be in a more open relationship with God. I had told Fr Tom in December that I felt like the door to the cage was open but I was too frightened to step through it. On some level, I knew the Gremlin would be standing between me and my freedom. I needed to write that story as a concrete way of facing down the Gremlin, nailing him to the written page, defining his power over me, and thereby breaking that grip of fear. Except I didn’t know that. I only knew I needed to write. God knew what and God knew why. I had to surrender my will and just be the instrument in His hands. Okay, I admit it – I had to TRUST. Not my strong suit by any means but I did it. After I was done, I began to notice a quiet deep in my soul. Just a little at first, but it was growing.
Deacon Ron’s homework last month asked me to find and spend some time with a scripture passage of my choosing. I went through the Gospels, Psalms, my favorite books of Isaiah and Sirach but nothing was striking me. That was until I woke up in the middle of one night knowing I needed to read Genesis. The feeling was so strong that in the morning, I took my bible with me to the seawall where I might find the quiet place I needed to read it. It was the story of the creation of the world that I was being called to read. The words nearly jumped off the page at me. ‘God saw that it was good.’ As He created the world, He did it over a series of days and at the end of each day, He saw that it was good, not better, just good. Creation was good on Day 1 and it was good on Day 7. This is my spiritual journey! No, deeper than that, this is ME! I’m good now. Tomorrow, I won’t be better. I’ll be good.
Better implies a benchmark or a goal to be reached and I realized that the past two years I had entered into the Week of Guided Prayer with an end goal in mind. “Lord I need some direction by 9 am on Friday pretty please and thank you” or “Lord I know I need some direction but I’m seriously hoping You don’t give me any because I’m afraid of what You may ask me to do”. Now here I was, days before the Week of Guided Prayer and I had confronted my Gremlin, encountered Jesus, and been given an incredibly freeing glimpse of how God sees me as good, not something needed to be fixed or improved.
As I moved through the into the Week’s scripture passages, God spoke more clearly than ever before and the quiet in my soul grew deeper. The first two days I was hearing the words from Isaiah:
“I will always love you.”
“I will never forget you.”
I’ve had a deep need for reassurance of God’s love for a very long time but I was too fearful to admit it. Asking for God’s reassurance felt like doubt, doubt led to guilt, guilt led to shame, shame led back to the cage and the Gremlin. But the Gremlin has no power anymore and I was free to experience that love and reassurance as concretely as I experienced my father’s bear hugs as a child. I let go of my fears and ran into the arms of my God with the same abandon I had shown running into the arms of my daddy when I was a little girl.
The third day and for the rest of the week, God invited me to step back into my two darkest hours and experience a deep healing. I had sworn for years that when I was 18, God ditched me. Then when my younger son was so desperately ill and I was so far from God that I could no longer pray, He came to me when I cried out in absolute anguish from the depths of my soul. During my son’s illness, I had found myself reading my bible again. I didn’t get to church too often, but I read my bible, often in the wee hours of the morning. I became focused on Job. I identified so strongly with his suffering.
Job 42: 1-6 – This was my near constant mantra:
Job answered the Lord,
“I know now that you can do all things.
That no purpose of yours can be hindered.
I have dealt with great things, which I do not understand,
Things too wonderful for me to know.
I had heard of you by word of mouth.
Now my eye has seen you.
I disown all that I have said
And repent in dust and ashes.”
Now three years later, God was saying to me – REMEMBER. “Remember when you thought I wasn’t listening? I was there. This is what you said to me.” But this wasn’t a reproach from God. There was such tenderness and compassion in it. I was visited with such vivid images on sitting on Daddy’s lap as a little girl, reading all of our favorite poems. We both knew them by heart and they meant something special just to us. There was a history there. There was history in these words from Job. God was there and He had heard my cries for help. After resting in that for two days, He led me back even farther and showed me again that in my darkest hours, He had been there. He had heard me and stood by my side, even when I was too blinded by the pain to see Him. I, like Job, disown what I have said. God did not ditch me, ever.
So my crazy little work of fiction isn’t so fictitious after all. It is truly a parable and I have much to learn from it. I trusted deeply in the gift of my writing, which I’ve finally accepted as more than just a skill but as a true gift from God. I let go and wrote the images as they came to me even when at times I wanted them to be different. It was an act of surrender led to an act of trust. An act of trust led to an act of faith. An act of faith led to an act of love. I never imagined when I started this little story about taking a ride in the country that I would have ended up with such amazing freedom.
I had asked Fr Tom once, “How do I know when I’m free?” I know the answer now. I know I’m free when I reach out to touch the walls that have kept me prisoner for so very long and find that they are no longer there. I have room to move – no, better - I have room to dance with God like I used to dance with Daddy. I can stand on His toes and let Him lead, just taking in the pure joy of the moment.
Friday, June 5, 2009
My Ride Part 6
For the first time this blog introduces a work of fiction. This short story, my attempt at a modern day parable, grew out of an assignment from my spiritual director. Due to its length, this will run over the next few weeks. Explanations of the symbolism involved will be given at the end of the series.
I look up in time to see the gremlin dissolving into a massive cloud of black smoke, which rushes towards me, enveloping me. I can’t see anything but I hear the gremlin’s unmistakable hiss close to my ear. “See you around kid.” Then it’s gone. There’s just silence and I look up at Jesus, who is no longer a stranger to me. He now appears to me with shoulder length brown hair and a short beard. The white robes are gone, replaced with jeans, a white t-shirt and black leather jacket. The sandals have been replaced with motorcycle boots.
“Will that thing come back?” I ask as He helps me to my feet.
“The gremlin never really goes away. But it doesn’t have as much power as you think it does. It only has what you give it.” He starts walking towards the stream and I follow Him closely, still glancing around, half-expecting the gremlin to reappear at any moment. He gestures for me to sit down on the fallen tree where I’d first seen Him. On the tree is a cup made out of tightly woven grass. So that’s what He was doing with the grass! Dipping it into the stream to fill it, He then hands it to me. The cool water tastes so clean, so good. Taking my bandana from my hair, He dips it in the water.
“I have something I want to give you, but first we need to clean up these wounds of yours.” He slowly and gently wipes the blood and dirt off my face, then my arms and hands. Taking the cup, He pours water over the cuts until they’re flushed clean. I gasp in pain as the cold water hits the open wounds. The bleeding has nearly stopped and the flesh has already begun to knit back together. There’s no doubt these cuts will be leaving some wicked scars behind but I feel whole and clean for the first time in a very, very long time. My mind has finally stopped racing. I give up trying to understand as I realize that acceptance has replaced fear. Acceptance of Him or acceptance of my own complete insanity, I don’t really know, but it beats being so damn scared.
“Come with me.” He begins walking towards the charred spot where the remains of my now obliterated car lay. We climb up to the road and parked on the shoulder is a brand new motorcycle. Not just any motorcycle either, but an Indian Chief Vintage painted in rich Thunder Black with long classic fenders over white walled tires. I’m awestruck. I’ve been eyeing a bike like this for years but never dreamed I would ever get a chance to ride one. The tank was detailed with a Celtic cross with a white rose at its center – a flawless replica of my tattoo! I walk in slow circles around the bike, tracing the cross with my finger and comparing it to my tattoo. It’s exact down to the tiniest details.
I turn to ask Him the hundred questions racing through my mind but He’s gone. Sitting on the road where He had been standing was a black helmet with a white rose on the side resting atop of a folded black leather jacket. On the back of the jacket is a flame-colored orange and yellow rose in the center of a delicate leafy green vine. Above the rose there’s an inscription in white Celtic lettering that reads Beloved, Believe, Be Healed. It’s a replica of my other tattoo, which is hidden on the small of my back. Few people know it exists and only the tattoo artist and I have actually seen it.
Slipping on my helmet and jacket, I climb onto my dream bike. I take off down the winding country road. The sun is hanging low in the sky as I come to a wide place in the road near the river. I pull off watch the sun paint the sky with rosy pinks and deep purples before finally disappearing from view. I’d like to thank Him but he’s gone from my sight.
I thank Him anyway.
Epilogue
I still ride every chance I get. Highways are for pansies. I long to get out on those winding backcountry roads but now I take in the sights as I ride. I return to the scene of my wreck every few months, looking for what I do not know, perhaps to prove to myself that it was all real. If not for the scars and the bike, I’d have written off that whole afternoon off as a mental breakdown. Climbing down to the stream, it gets kind of hard to ignore the broken trees and burnt scar in the ground surrounding the heap of charred scrap metal that had been my Nova.
I don’t smoke anymore – too many bad memories. I do stop for coffee though and to enjoy the beautiful views. My bike and my jacket usually attract a lot of attention. People seem drawn to the designs and I explain how they match my tattoos, which often leads to lengthy discussions about spirituality, faith, and of course, tattoos.
I haven’t seen or heard from the stranger since, but when I ride, I trust that He rides with me, well sort of – trust is still really hard for me, but I’m working on it. As for the gremlin, I still hear that grating hiss all the time but it doesn’t matter as much as it used to. He doesn’t have any real power, I don’t think…
Part 1 published on May 3, 2009
From My Ride Part 5
Am I dying or in Purgatory or just plain crazy? And then the guilt over my lack of faith, over my never-ending doubt, floods my heart and the gremlin begins to snicker.
My Ride - Part 6 - The Finale!
I look up in time to see the gremlin dissolving into a massive cloud of black smoke, which rushes towards me, enveloping me. I can’t see anything but I hear the gremlin’s unmistakable hiss close to my ear. “See you around kid.” Then it’s gone. There’s just silence and I look up at Jesus, who is no longer a stranger to me. He now appears to me with shoulder length brown hair and a short beard. The white robes are gone, replaced with jeans, a white t-shirt and black leather jacket. The sandals have been replaced with motorcycle boots.
“Will that thing come back?” I ask as He helps me to my feet.
“The gremlin never really goes away. But it doesn’t have as much power as you think it does. It only has what you give it.” He starts walking towards the stream and I follow Him closely, still glancing around, half-expecting the gremlin to reappear at any moment. He gestures for me to sit down on the fallen tree where I’d first seen Him. On the tree is a cup made out of tightly woven grass. So that’s what He was doing with the grass! Dipping it into the stream to fill it, He then hands it to me. The cool water tastes so clean, so good. Taking my bandana from my hair, He dips it in the water.
“I have something I want to give you, but first we need to clean up these wounds of yours.” He slowly and gently wipes the blood and dirt off my face, then my arms and hands. Taking the cup, He pours water over the cuts until they’re flushed clean. I gasp in pain as the cold water hits the open wounds. The bleeding has nearly stopped and the flesh has already begun to knit back together. There’s no doubt these cuts will be leaving some wicked scars behind but I feel whole and clean for the first time in a very, very long time. My mind has finally stopped racing. I give up trying to understand as I realize that acceptance has replaced fear. Acceptance of Him or acceptance of my own complete insanity, I don’t really know, but it beats being so damn scared.
“Come with me.” He begins walking towards the charred spot where the remains of my now obliterated car lay. We climb up to the road and parked on the shoulder is a brand new motorcycle. Not just any motorcycle either, but an Indian Chief Vintage painted in rich Thunder Black with long classic fenders over white walled tires. I’m awestruck. I’ve been eyeing a bike like this for years but never dreamed I would ever get a chance to ride one. The tank was detailed with a Celtic cross with a white rose at its center – a flawless replica of my tattoo! I walk in slow circles around the bike, tracing the cross with my finger and comparing it to my tattoo. It’s exact down to the tiniest details.
I turn to ask Him the hundred questions racing through my mind but He’s gone. Sitting on the road where He had been standing was a black helmet with a white rose on the side resting atop of a folded black leather jacket. On the back of the jacket is a flame-colored orange and yellow rose in the center of a delicate leafy green vine. Above the rose there’s an inscription in white Celtic lettering that reads Beloved, Believe, Be Healed. It’s a replica of my other tattoo, which is hidden on the small of my back. Few people know it exists and only the tattoo artist and I have actually seen it.
Slipping on my helmet and jacket, I climb onto my dream bike. I take off down the winding country road. The sun is hanging low in the sky as I come to a wide place in the road near the river. I pull off watch the sun paint the sky with rosy pinks and deep purples before finally disappearing from view. I’d like to thank Him but he’s gone from my sight.
I thank Him anyway.
Epilogue
I still ride every chance I get. Highways are for pansies. I long to get out on those winding backcountry roads but now I take in the sights as I ride. I return to the scene of my wreck every few months, looking for what I do not know, perhaps to prove to myself that it was all real. If not for the scars and the bike, I’d have written off that whole afternoon off as a mental breakdown. Climbing down to the stream, it gets kind of hard to ignore the broken trees and burnt scar in the ground surrounding the heap of charred scrap metal that had been my Nova.
I don’t smoke anymore – too many bad memories. I do stop for coffee though and to enjoy the beautiful views. My bike and my jacket usually attract a lot of attention. People seem drawn to the designs and I explain how they match my tattoos, which often leads to lengthy discussions about spirituality, faith, and of course, tattoos.
I haven’t seen or heard from the stranger since, but when I ride, I trust that He rides with me, well sort of – trust is still really hard for me, but I’m working on it. As for the gremlin, I still hear that grating hiss all the time but it doesn’t matter as much as it used to. He doesn’t have any real power, I don’t think…
Saturday, May 30, 2009
My Ride - Part 5
For the first time this blog introduces a work of fiction. This short story, my attempt at a modern day parable, grew out of an assignment from my spiritual director. Due to its length, this will run over the next few weeks. Explanations of the symbolism involved will be given at the end of the series.
Part 1 published on May 3, 2009
Part 1 published on May 3, 2009
from My Ride - Part 4
I turn around and start walking away from both the weirdo in white and the nightmarish black gremlin, heading upstream and back towards the road. I’ve had my fill of mythical creatures and schizo hallucinations for one day. I make it about six feet and the gremlin lunges directly into my path. I freeze but don’t run. I’m determined to hold my ground and prove that this whole scene is just a bad dream, or more likely hallucinations brought on by severe head trauma.
But then I smell the smoke of another one of my cigarettes…
My Ride - Part 5
“I hate to say I told you so, but,” it pauses to take a long drag on its cigarette, “I told you so. I knew he wouldn’t help you.” The gremlin blows a huge smoke ring and lazily catches it on one of its foot-long claws.
“Oh just go away already,” I mutter. I’m tired. I hurt all over. I’m getting dizzy and I’m quickly losing my capacity to fight back, physically or mentally.
“Ah, but I’m not going anywhere without you. I’m part of you and I always will be. You’re stuck with me, kid. You belong to me.”
Spinning around, I see the stranger standing nearby watching the whole discussion. He’s no longer lost in thought but staring at us intently albeit silently.
“Is it true?” I ask the stranger, “This thing is part of me? No, that can’t be. You took that away on the cross, if that’s who you really are,” silently praying that he was real or at least real enough to get me out of this mess and to a hospital.
Saying nothing, he holds out his hand to me. I slowly walk to his side. Maybe…just maybe…it’s worth taking a chance that if the evil monster was real, than so was this guy. I’d swear I know this guy, but not in the same scary way as the gremlin. I think he’s from a time in my life when there was still quiet and innocence, before life got ugly.
“You’re wasting your time,” growls the gremlin, but I’m not sure if its words are meant for me or for the stranger.
“Are you really Him?” I ask the stranger, staring intently at his face. “I want to believe that you are but…” I bury my face in my bloody hands and sigh, “I don’t even know why… I’m so sorry I’m having such a hard time with all this.” My exhausted mind can’t even begin to come up with the questions I need answered.
“You’re not the first person to doubt that, you know.” His voice is so full of tenderness and compassion that my heart aches. But I know what I’m thinking isn’t possible. He’s just a kind stranger who has one of those seemingly familiar faces. I don’t why he’s even bothered to step into my hallucination. “People have struggled to recognize me for over 2000 years. Your struggle is nothing new. I’m here because I want you to see and to believe.” With that, this stranger in rough off-white woven robes and sandals begins to change. He morphs from one human image of Jesus to another to another like some kind of living flipbook. He flips through every image of Jesus I know and love, from the infant, to the happy, smiling young man, to the shepherd with staff in hand, to the terrifying bloodied crucified Jesus on His cross, and finally ending as the risen Jesus in brilliant ethereal white robes with the wounds plain to see on his hands and feet.
I collapse at His feet but the doubt still lingers. Am I’m truly safe from harm? Does the gremlin no longer have any claim on me? Am I dying or in Purgatory or just plain crazy? And then the guilt over my lack of faith, over my never-ending doubt, floods my heart and the gremlin begins to snicker.
“Oh just go away already,” I mutter. I’m tired. I hurt all over. I’m getting dizzy and I’m quickly losing my capacity to fight back, physically or mentally.
“Ah, but I’m not going anywhere without you. I’m part of you and I always will be. You’re stuck with me, kid. You belong to me.”
Spinning around, I see the stranger standing nearby watching the whole discussion. He’s no longer lost in thought but staring at us intently albeit silently.
“Is it true?” I ask the stranger, “This thing is part of me? No, that can’t be. You took that away on the cross, if that’s who you really are,” silently praying that he was real or at least real enough to get me out of this mess and to a hospital.
Saying nothing, he holds out his hand to me. I slowly walk to his side. Maybe…just maybe…it’s worth taking a chance that if the evil monster was real, than so was this guy. I’d swear I know this guy, but not in the same scary way as the gremlin. I think he’s from a time in my life when there was still quiet and innocence, before life got ugly.
“You’re wasting your time,” growls the gremlin, but I’m not sure if its words are meant for me or for the stranger.
“Are you really Him?” I ask the stranger, staring intently at his face. “I want to believe that you are but…” I bury my face in my bloody hands and sigh, “I don’t even know why… I’m so sorry I’m having such a hard time with all this.” My exhausted mind can’t even begin to come up with the questions I need answered.
“You’re not the first person to doubt that, you know.” His voice is so full of tenderness and compassion that my heart aches. But I know what I’m thinking isn’t possible. He’s just a kind stranger who has one of those seemingly familiar faces. I don’t why he’s even bothered to step into my hallucination. “People have struggled to recognize me for over 2000 years. Your struggle is nothing new. I’m here because I want you to see and to believe.” With that, this stranger in rough off-white woven robes and sandals begins to change. He morphs from one human image of Jesus to another to another like some kind of living flipbook. He flips through every image of Jesus I know and love, from the infant, to the happy, smiling young man, to the shepherd with staff in hand, to the terrifying bloodied crucified Jesus on His cross, and finally ending as the risen Jesus in brilliant ethereal white robes with the wounds plain to see on his hands and feet.
I collapse at His feet but the doubt still lingers. Am I’m truly safe from harm? Does the gremlin no longer have any claim on me? Am I dying or in Purgatory or just plain crazy? And then the guilt over my lack of faith, over my never-ending doubt, floods my heart and the gremlin begins to snicker.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
My Ride Part 4
For the first time this blog introduces a work of fiction. This short story, my attempt at a modern day parable, grew out of an assignment from my spiritual director. Due to its length, this will run over the next few weeks. Explanations of the symbolism involved will be given at the end of the series.
Part 1 published on May 3, 2009
From My Ride --Part 3...
The gremlin is far too strong and it just laughs as I struggle in vain to break its death grip.
“Oh God! Help me!”
My Ride -- Part 4
The white flash is blinding. Instantly, the gremlin’s grip is broken and it screeches in anger, retreating to the smoking remains of my car. Hissing and snarling from its black twisted throne, it makes no move to come any closer.
As it let go, I fell face down in the dirt. Now laying there with my head on the ground just trying to breathe, I slowly open my eyes, hoping this impossible scene is going to vanish like so many other nightmares have in the past. I see sandals and look up into the face of a total stranger. Yet when our eyes meet, he seems so familiar, like I’ve met him somewhere before but can’t remember where. Tears immediately spring up from somewhere deep inside and pour freely down my dirty, bloodied face. This insanity is destroying me. How long will it last? I just want to go home or wake up or die, if I’m not already dead.
“Why didn’t you help me? You were going to let that thing drag me off to God knows where? Why? How could you?” The words catch in my throat. Sobbing, I lay my head on his feet and weep. Pain rips into my heart as the sobs rack my already battered body.
“Ooooh how could you? Save me!” mocks the gremlin from the remnants of my once beautiful car. “Come on Miss Bad Ass – you don’t need him. Save yourself. All you gotta do is get past me and I’m just a – what was it again? – an illusion?” Still cackling, it produces another of my cigarettes, lighting it off the still smoldering hulk that had been my two-year labor of love. It sits there sneering and blowing smoke rings, slashing them with its claws. It’s watching closely but shows no signs of leaving its perch.
The anger begins to well up in me again. As I stare at this somehow familiar stranger, my heart desperately wants to believe this guy with shoulder length brown hair, brown eyes, and Middle Eastern complexion could somehow be Jesus Christ, or at least some kind of angel. Logically, if the evil gremlin is real then some force of good could also be real, I thought. And yet, my mind is not buying this crazy fantasy world. This is some nut dressed up with the whole “white robes and sandals” bit but he’s clean-shaven. Stuff like that doesn’t happen to people like me anyway. Divine apparitions happen to pious saints at holy moments of great conversion, not after a car accident caused by an attack of recurring stupidity. There’s kindness in the stranger’s face but this certainly doesn’t look like any image of Jesus I’d ever seen. This was just some wacko out walking in the woods. But what if…?
“Why didn’t you help me before? What the hell took you so long? What’s wrong with you?”
“You didn’t ask and you seemed to have things under control.” His answer was so calm as though I’d commented on what a lovely day it was to stroll through the woods.
“Under control?! UNDER CONTROL?!” The anger and hysteria were making my voice nearly as screechy as the gremlin’s. “In what dreamland do you dwell? Didn’t you see the car crash? Didn’t you see that, that, that gremlin, demon thing blow up my car? And that thing isn’t supposed to be real. I MADE HIM UP! He’s a figment of my imagination!” I pause to take a deep not-so-cleansing breath before continuing. “I’m sorry. My sanity seems to be wearing just a wee bit thin here.” I begin to pace, trying to breathe and get a grip on the bizarre reality of this whole mess. “Damn you! You’re unreal dude.”
He seems unperturbed by my ranting. “Why unreal? If this creature is real, than why am I not real?”
I stop dead in my tracks, eyeing him suspiciously. Yes, even my baffled mind realized he was making a very logical point. Then again, on some level it’s starting to occur to me that if I’m dead, I probably shouldn’t be mouthing off to the guy who may well be the Savior Of The World while some demonic gremlin is waiting in the wings to drag me off to Hell at the first opportunity. The hysteria is starting to dissipate slowly and in it’s place, questions are starting to pop up. My mind is racing in a 100 different directions at once, all at 1000 miles an hour.
“Who are you?” I demand staying just out his arm’s reach. No sense in getting too close. He could be just as dangerous as the gremlin or worse.
“Beloved, you know who I am,” he says softly.
This just can’t be happening. These things don’t happen in the real world. Jesus doesn’t just show up like this. I tried all that cryptic meditative prayer, scripture reading, and Eucharistic adoration surrounded by little old ladies, with their rosary beads clicking as they prayed their never-ending novenas. I’d waited desperately, hoping for some whisper, some feeling, something, anything, and always I’d ended up with nothing. Nothing but silence, and the soft, mocking snickering of that blasted gremlin.
Resuming my pacing, I’m trying desperately to find logic in the illogical. I’m beginning to understand how Spock must’ve felt when dealing with Earthlings. “So, he’s real? You’re real? This whole crazy thing is real? Where are we? Am I dead? I can’t be dead. I hurt and I’m bleeding. Dead people don’t bleed. How do I get out of here? Or do I? And why am I here with you and that evil beast in the first place? Do you show up at every car wreck or I am just so friggin’ special that you thought you’d drop in for a chat? Wait, wait a minute – if that thing is real now, that means he can really hurt me. Why would you allow that? How could you let that thing anywhere near me? This is so insane! This can’t be real. I’m brain dead in some hospital somewhere on a morphine drip just waiting for someone to locate my living will and just pull the godforsaken plug already. I’m outta here!” Throwing up my hands in frustration, I turn around and start walking away from both the weirdo in white and the nightmarish black gremlin, heading upstream and back towards the road. I’ve had my fill of mythical creatures and schizo hallucinations for one day. I make it about six feet and the gremlin lunges directly into my path. I freeze but don’t run. I’m determined to hold my ground and prove that this whole scene is just a bad dream, or more likely hallucinations brought on by severe head trauma.
As it let go, I fell face down in the dirt. Now laying there with my head on the ground just trying to breathe, I slowly open my eyes, hoping this impossible scene is going to vanish like so many other nightmares have in the past. I see sandals and look up into the face of a total stranger. Yet when our eyes meet, he seems so familiar, like I’ve met him somewhere before but can’t remember where. Tears immediately spring up from somewhere deep inside and pour freely down my dirty, bloodied face. This insanity is destroying me. How long will it last? I just want to go home or wake up or die, if I’m not already dead.
“Why didn’t you help me? You were going to let that thing drag me off to God knows where? Why? How could you?” The words catch in my throat. Sobbing, I lay my head on his feet and weep. Pain rips into my heart as the sobs rack my already battered body.
“Ooooh how could you? Save me!” mocks the gremlin from the remnants of my once beautiful car. “Come on Miss Bad Ass – you don’t need him. Save yourself. All you gotta do is get past me and I’m just a – what was it again? – an illusion?” Still cackling, it produces another of my cigarettes, lighting it off the still smoldering hulk that had been my two-year labor of love. It sits there sneering and blowing smoke rings, slashing them with its claws. It’s watching closely but shows no signs of leaving its perch.
The anger begins to well up in me again. As I stare at this somehow familiar stranger, my heart desperately wants to believe this guy with shoulder length brown hair, brown eyes, and Middle Eastern complexion could somehow be Jesus Christ, or at least some kind of angel. Logically, if the evil gremlin is real then some force of good could also be real, I thought. And yet, my mind is not buying this crazy fantasy world. This is some nut dressed up with the whole “white robes and sandals” bit but he’s clean-shaven. Stuff like that doesn’t happen to people like me anyway. Divine apparitions happen to pious saints at holy moments of great conversion, not after a car accident caused by an attack of recurring stupidity. There’s kindness in the stranger’s face but this certainly doesn’t look like any image of Jesus I’d ever seen. This was just some wacko out walking in the woods. But what if…?
“Why didn’t you help me before? What the hell took you so long? What’s wrong with you?”
“You didn’t ask and you seemed to have things under control.” His answer was so calm as though I’d commented on what a lovely day it was to stroll through the woods.
“Under control?! UNDER CONTROL?!” The anger and hysteria were making my voice nearly as screechy as the gremlin’s. “In what dreamland do you dwell? Didn’t you see the car crash? Didn’t you see that, that, that gremlin, demon thing blow up my car? And that thing isn’t supposed to be real. I MADE HIM UP! He’s a figment of my imagination!” I pause to take a deep not-so-cleansing breath before continuing. “I’m sorry. My sanity seems to be wearing just a wee bit thin here.” I begin to pace, trying to breathe and get a grip on the bizarre reality of this whole mess. “Damn you! You’re unreal dude.”
He seems unperturbed by my ranting. “Why unreal? If this creature is real, than why am I not real?”
I stop dead in my tracks, eyeing him suspiciously. Yes, even my baffled mind realized he was making a very logical point. Then again, on some level it’s starting to occur to me that if I’m dead, I probably shouldn’t be mouthing off to the guy who may well be the Savior Of The World while some demonic gremlin is waiting in the wings to drag me off to Hell at the first opportunity. The hysteria is starting to dissipate slowly and in it’s place, questions are starting to pop up. My mind is racing in a 100 different directions at once, all at 1000 miles an hour.
“Who are you?” I demand staying just out his arm’s reach. No sense in getting too close. He could be just as dangerous as the gremlin or worse.
“Beloved, you know who I am,” he says softly.
This just can’t be happening. These things don’t happen in the real world. Jesus doesn’t just show up like this. I tried all that cryptic meditative prayer, scripture reading, and Eucharistic adoration surrounded by little old ladies, with their rosary beads clicking as they prayed their never-ending novenas. I’d waited desperately, hoping for some whisper, some feeling, something, anything, and always I’d ended up with nothing. Nothing but silence, and the soft, mocking snickering of that blasted gremlin.
Resuming my pacing, I’m trying desperately to find logic in the illogical. I’m beginning to understand how Spock must’ve felt when dealing with Earthlings. “So, he’s real? You’re real? This whole crazy thing is real? Where are we? Am I dead? I can’t be dead. I hurt and I’m bleeding. Dead people don’t bleed. How do I get out of here? Or do I? And why am I here with you and that evil beast in the first place? Do you show up at every car wreck or I am just so friggin’ special that you thought you’d drop in for a chat? Wait, wait a minute – if that thing is real now, that means he can really hurt me. Why would you allow that? How could you let that thing anywhere near me? This is so insane! This can’t be real. I’m brain dead in some hospital somewhere on a morphine drip just waiting for someone to locate my living will and just pull the godforsaken plug already. I’m outta here!” Throwing up my hands in frustration, I turn around and start walking away from both the weirdo in white and the nightmarish black gremlin, heading upstream and back towards the road. I’ve had my fill of mythical creatures and schizo hallucinations for one day. I make it about six feet and the gremlin lunges directly into my path. I freeze but don’t run. I’m determined to hold my ground and prove that this whole scene is just a bad dream, or more likely hallucinations brought on by severe head trauma.
But then I smell the smoke of another one of my cigarettes…
Sunday, May 17, 2009
My Ride Part 3
For the first time this blog introduces a work of fiction. This short story, my attempt at a modern day parable, grew out of an assignment from my spiritual director. Due to its length, this will run over the next few weeks. Explanations of the symbolism involved will be given at the end of the series.
Part 1 published on May 3, 2009
Trapped. Trapped out in the open and my worst nightmare has somehow become real. How the hell did this happen? Think, stupid. Think! No, don’t think. Run! I start crawling away from the burning hulk of my car, pushing myself onto my feet intending to run downstream towards the guy in the weird robes, the only other one out here who doesn’t have claws, big teeth and scales. As I get my feet under me, breaking into a run, the gremlin flies over my head, landing directly in front of me. I stagger backwards and nearly fall. But I’m closer now. The guy in white is only 25 feet away but he’s still just playing with the same clump of grass, completely oblivious to me, the burning car, and the freaky seven-foot black scaly monster.
“Leaving so soon?” Every time the gremlin speaks, it’s lips pull back into a sneer. Its voice is a grating hiss. “I’d thought we’d get to know each other better now that we have some time to kill.”
“You stay away from me!” As I’m backing up, the gremlin is dogging my steps, almost prancing on his huge muscular legs. Its yellow eyes are taking in my every little twitch as I’m trying to draw up as much attitude as I can find. I’m still trying to figure out what’s real, and how and why. Am I dead? Is this Hell? How can this thing be here?
“Did you really think you could outrun me? Didn’t you know? You’re mine now. I own you!”
“You’re nothing! You’re not real! You’re just a bunch of random thoughts, an illusion!” Illusion or not, I was still trying to back away from this horrific nightmare come-to-life.
“Oh really? Illusion am I?” It picked up a stone about the size of a softball and crushed it into dust with one massive clawed hand then blew the dust away, enjoying my ever-rising panic.
“Go back to Hell where you came from you son of a bitch!” I scream in its face as I try to bolt past the nightmarish beast. Self Defense 101, your attacker never expects you to move towards him. Or so I thought.
“Ah, then you’re coming with me!” Quick as lightning its claws are around my arm, foiling my desperate attempt at escape. Over its shoulder I see a gaping hole opening in the ground as it starts to drag me. I dig in my heels. I hit and kick, trying to break free but it’s useless. The gremlin is far too strong and it just laughs as I struggle in vain to break its death grip.
“Oh God! Help me!”
Part 1 published on May 3, 2009
From Part 2...
Sliding off the hood, it takes several steps towards me in strong sure strides. It stops and turns, tossing the still burning butt towards the car.
“Noooooo!” Too late. The blast from the explosion knocks me flat as blackened metal and burning upholstery rain down around me.
Trapped. Trapped out in the open and my worst nightmare has somehow become real. How the hell did this happen? Think, stupid. Think! No, don’t think. Run! I start crawling away from the burning hulk of my car, pushing myself onto my feet intending to run downstream towards the guy in the weird robes, the only other one out here who doesn’t have claws, big teeth and scales. As I get my feet under me, breaking into a run, the gremlin flies over my head, landing directly in front of me. I stagger backwards and nearly fall. But I’m closer now. The guy in white is only 25 feet away but he’s still just playing with the same clump of grass, completely oblivious to me, the burning car, and the freaky seven-foot black scaly monster.
“Leaving so soon?” Every time the gremlin speaks, it’s lips pull back into a sneer. Its voice is a grating hiss. “I’d thought we’d get to know each other better now that we have some time to kill.”
“You stay away from me!” As I’m backing up, the gremlin is dogging my steps, almost prancing on his huge muscular legs. Its yellow eyes are taking in my every little twitch as I’m trying to draw up as much attitude as I can find. I’m still trying to figure out what’s real, and how and why. Am I dead? Is this Hell? How can this thing be here?
“Did you really think you could outrun me? Didn’t you know? You’re mine now. I own you!”
“You’re nothing! You’re not real! You’re just a bunch of random thoughts, an illusion!” Illusion or not, I was still trying to back away from this horrific nightmare come-to-life.
“Oh really? Illusion am I?” It picked up a stone about the size of a softball and crushed it into dust with one massive clawed hand then blew the dust away, enjoying my ever-rising panic.
“Go back to Hell where you came from you son of a bitch!” I scream in its face as I try to bolt past the nightmarish beast. Self Defense 101, your attacker never expects you to move towards him. Or so I thought.
“Ah, then you’re coming with me!” Quick as lightning its claws are around my arm, foiling my desperate attempt at escape. Over its shoulder I see a gaping hole opening in the ground as it starts to drag me. I dig in my heels. I hit and kick, trying to break free but it’s useless. The gremlin is far too strong and it just laughs as I struggle in vain to break its death grip.
“Oh God! Help me!”
Friday, May 8, 2009
My Ride - PART 2
For the first time this blog introduces a work of fiction. This short story, my attempt at a modern day parable, grew out of an assignment from my spiritual director. Due to its length, this will run over the next few weeks. Explanations of the symbolism involved will be given at the end of the series.
Part 1 published on May 3, 2009
Part 1 published on May 3, 2009
From My Ride - Part 1
It’s too late. By the time I see the BRIDGE OUT sign ahead of me I’m suspended in mid-air just long enough to brace for the pain of impact and to hear the cackle from the backseat.Damn! From what corner of darkest Hell did that thing crawl? Oh shit! It can’t be…
MY RIDE - PART 2
I never felt the impact. I’m lying in very tall marshy grass next to a stream about six feet below the road. Everything hurts and blackness is crowding in on me from all sides. Yet somehow I’m alive. How long I’ve been here I can’t tell. It was before noon when I started driving but I lose track of time when I drive. The sun is still out but it’s early spring and the sun will only be out until seven. Fading in and out. Breathing hurts but I don’t think anything’s broken. My car. No way my car survived a wreck at that speed. Forcing my eyes open again I see the thick blacksnake about three feet in front of my nose. Ugh, I hate snakes and instinctive recoil forces me to my knees as he slithers off in the other direction, equally spooked by the intrusion of a human into his domain. I almost faint again from the pain but at least I know I can move. I smell the gasoline and antifreeze. Not good.
I push myself to stand and look around. My beautiful car is nearly unrecognizable. I must’ve caught a few of the small trees as I came off the road at the bend. The car looks like it’s been used for a game of kick-the-can by a bunch of giant street urchins. The windshield is gone and for the first time I’m seeing the cuts on my arms and hands. I can feel the liquid warmth on my face. As for my car, she landed right side up just missing the stream but she’s pretty banged up. The radiator is shot judging by the steam still rising from the mangled hood. The chassis is pretty twisted and I can see that the gas tank is ruptured too. Not that I could get it back up on the road without a winch anyway. I had been thrown clear and landed about 15 feet away in the grass. Anyone passing by wouldn’t be likely to notice me or my car in this little ditch. Hell, with the bridge out, most locals would have enough sense to take another route. The nearest crossroad is probably 10 miles away at least and probably farther.
Time to find a way out of this mess. My cell had been on the front seat. It could be anywhere now. What’s a bigger waste of time – trying to find it in chest high grass or walking down the road and trying to figure out where I am? I always loved that bumper sticker “Not All Who Wander Are Lost” but it’s sinking in now that if you wander long enough, you get lost. Turning around a slow circle, surveying my surroundings, I see him.
About 50 yards further downstream from my wreck, seated on a fallen tree is a rugged looking young man dressed in white robes. No, he’s not in the gleaming angelic robes with dazzling sunlight and all that jazz, but definitely biblical-looking clothes. Roughly woven off-white linen and sandals – this guy is something else. I’ve either crashed into some cult’s backyard or I’m going to have some ‘splainin’ to do very shortly. So far it doesn’t look like he’s even noticed me. Now how do you have a car go careening off the road right past you, take out a bunch of small trees and you don’t even notice? He’s just sitting there, idly playing with a bunch of grass in his hand like he’s been there thinking all day and nothing is out of the ordinary here.
“Oh come on now, you aren’t stupid enough to think he’ll help you, are you?” came the familiar hissing voice from behind me.
Spinning around I see the gremlin sitting on the hood of my car, smoking one of my cigarettes, blowing the smoke through its long razor-like teeth.
“You’re not real,” I whisper even as my chest tightens as I come face-to-face with the nightmare that has lived in my head for years. I’ve lived with the gremlin for a very long time. It’s that nasty little voice that tells me what a total fuck-up I am and questions everything I do or say. Sort of like that whole angel/devil on the shoulder thing but this little shit doesn’t poof away when I make the good choice. No, the gremlin hangs around telling me all the ways I’ll screw it up anyway. I made up this imaginary creature as a way of personifying my own self-doubts and self-recriminations. It seemed like a very clever idea at the time. Somehow it was easier for me to deal with, having a creature behind the voice. Easier until now, when it’s suddenly in front of me – all seven feet of him complete with black scales, big leathery bat ears, yellow eyes, long teeth and longer claws. “I made you up! You can’t be real.”
“Wanna bet?” It laughs at the obvious tremor in my voice. It’s low cackle ripples with derision, delight, and the promise of desecration. Sliding off the hood, it takes several steps towards me in strong sure strides. It stops and turns, tossing the still burning butt towards the car.
“Noooooo!” Too late. The blast from the explosion knocks me flat as blackened metal and burning upholstery rain down around me.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
My Ride - PART 1
For the first time this blog introduces a work of fiction. This short story, my attempt at a modern day parable, grew out of an assignment from my spiritual director. As mentioned in several previous posts, I struggled at first to write this and then was shocked by the direction that it took. Due to its length, this will run over the next few weeks. Explanations of the symbolism involved will be given at the end of the series.
My RideOh hell - any gear head will tell you, it ain’t just the car, it’s the road baby. Highways are for pansies. There’s so much more to see on the back roads. When was the last time you saw a herd of deer grazing or a flock of vultures circling from the interstate? Where are the steep hills and sharp hairpin turns? Where else can you see the early morning fog lifting off the trees? Not on the main drag that’s for sure. You want to go for a ride with me today? Well then we’re going out into the country roads where life gets interesting. There’s no better way to kill a day than to just drive right through it.
My car? That’s my dream. A vintage 1964 Chevy Nova, lovingly repainted in a Mustang Mystichrome paint that would make bring on heart palpitations in any purist. What self-respecting Chevy owner uses a Ford color on such a classic? Some things just aren’t done! But this is MY baby, not theirs. This shade changes from light green to dark green to almost blue to gold depending on the angle on your vantage point. I picked it to match my eyes, which will color-shift depending on my mood. As a sign of my warped writer’s sense of humor, there’s an inscription in black script above the doors that reads, “Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate.” The Italian translates to "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.” The interior has been restored to its original pristine white. I toyed with the idea of a blown 502 big block engine but couldn’t bring myself to destroy the sleek look of the car. Besides, I can get myself into enough trouble with the power this car packs already. She’s got plenty of power in that big V8. She’s way short on safety features, but I love her anyway. There’s a rush in feeling un-tethered by the modern intrusion of shoulder belts so I skip the seatbelt.
I keep it under 80 on the highways but as soon as I can I get out on the curvy backcountry roads and push the speedometer up past 100 through the turns and over the hills. I crank the windows down and the music up. My other great car sin, a wicked iPod-ready sound system cranks out Metallica, Guns ‘N’ Roses, AC DC, Flogging Molly, Etta James, or Norah Jones depending on my day and mood, or perhaps the color of my eyes. Hardly factory original, but like I said, this is my baby and I go nowhere without a soundtrack for my life. My car gives me the freedom that I can’t seem to find anywhere else.
My black t-shirt, dark jeans, black boots, black bandanna to hold the hair out of my eyes, and the obligatory shades are all required driving attire. I know I look every inch the tough, especially with a four-inch tattoo on my forearm. I like it that way. When I do stop to take in the sights and maybe enjoy a cigarette, nobody bothers to talk to me. That suits me just fine. I like riding alone.
Don’t get me wrong. I’ve had my share of passengers. Some were flesh and blood but too many were shadows and ghosts come back from my past to taunt me and haunt me from the back seat. Passengers are distracting. I can’t afford to be distracted traveling at these speeds and I don’t want to slow down.
Slowing down allows the real world to catch up to me. There’s pain in the real world. More pain than I want to face. Pain, anger, rage, disgust, disappointments, all lurking by the roadside waiting for me. But I fly past them all, just a blur of greenish gold, untouchable and unstoppable. There’s a string of heartbreaks and grief spread out down the road behind me like so much roadkill. There’s the guilt that comes from wondering how much of it was my fault. How much grief do I leave in my wake? My urge to run, to flee is instinctive, primal even. Get out before I get hurt. The faster I go, the safer I feel. The safer I feel, the more chances I take. Accelerating into blind turns, crossing the middle line, risking a head-on collision at every bend, flying over the crest of the steepest hill, even going airborne at times without knowing what’s beyond the crest of the hill, risking an unexpected turn, a slow-moving hay truck, or worst of all an innocent cyclist.
The music gets louder and it takes every ounce of energy I have just to stay in control. It’s exhilarating and exhausting. I get crazy and stupid, enjoying the rush and the thrill of it all. I know tonight I’ll go home exhausted enough to sleep without the dreams coming back again to haunt me. I fly around the next bend, topping out just past 107...
It’s too late. By the time I see the BRIDGE OUT sign ahead of me I’m suspended in mid-air just long enough to brace for the pain of impact and to hear the cackle from the backseat.
Damn! From what corner of darkest Hell did that thing crawl? Oh shit! It can’t be…
Part 2 will appear on Friday, May 8, 2009.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)