VERONICA LEE

Despite the mess of us we had a wonderful life.
Almost perfect.
Okay, it was hammered with hardships.
Not the kind either of us intended.
Not consciously, anyway.
It seems life had other plans.
Or perhaps it was our souls?

Did we know?
Did we know our love would be deep and abiding and sacred and palpable?
Did we know we took on the wounds of our parents...
the hidden demons of abandonment, addiction and unworthiness?

And despite our hearts, willingness and integrity we danced
a painful, profound, yet oh-so ordinary dance of becoming.

Who were we becoming?
A better me? A refined you?
Our familial dysfunction transformed?

Was it the end?

Despite the mess of us, our love didn't die, though I tried to kill it.
Loving you, so deeply, as you entered the forest of uncertainty.
Unarmed. Slightly crouching.
Why did you go?
And why so long?

Those six lost years could have been blissful.
At least that's what regret tells me.

But you stayed, learned to armor yourself,
forged new tools to help you battle your demons.
So long. So bloody.

And the kids and I stood at the
edge of the woods, waiting.
Longing. Hoping.

Six long years of their momentary childhood.
I can't regret on their behalf.
It's too big... and it's not mine to wield.

But, despite the mess of us,
we stayed together.
The cord of our love held fast.
I trust it was your life line
in some way.
Your undying love for the kids
and me.

Despite the mess of us, we always
felt your love.
Its power.
Your power.
To transform.
Despite the mess of us, your return
was welcome... and frightening.
Would things be okay now?
Has the dragon been tamed?
Did unworthiness heal...
just enough perhaps?

Despite the mess of us, we gained
nine more precious years.
Sober. Conscious. Together.

Thankfully our kids - our family -
experienced healing. Forgiveness.
And, I'm sure in some way,
some immeasurable lessons.

Despite the mess of us, and our attempts
to clean whatever remnants we could,
you still had to die.

And in this moment,
through tears of grief and gladness
and surrender,
I remember our sacred love
despite the mess of us.

Inspired from a line in a poem by Ada Limon: "despite the mess of us."

The last time I told a lie, I think, was just a moment ago. You see, my mind lies. It has created a structure called reality and I adhere to its confines.

"I'm not powerful," I think... oh-so subtly. And then I act - or do I not act? - to affirm this lie.

My heart, my soul aim to speak truth. It pushes through my dreams, my visions and even has a placeholder on my knowing.

But the lie persists, convincingly.

"Look!" it exclaims, "there is evidence all around you! Just look at your life! Does that exemplify power?"

Shame wells, as do invisible tears. "I hear you," I whisper, my gut wrenched in dreams undigested.

A breath. My soul reminds me to breathe. "Breathe deep," it beckons soothingly. "Remember who you are."

I soften, just for a moment, drawing in the air - my innermost element - until it grounds me. My mind hushes for the smallest of instants. "Remember," I hear.

Another breath, my heart searching for counter-evidence to atone any semblance of unworthiness.

Stories flash across my mind. "Oh, look! There's your mother. She was strong. She was powerful. She birthed you into her powerful shadow, nurtured you to cultivate your own."

"I remember," I offer softly.

The mind is ruthless. Hard evidence. It presses me with a stare that burns and frightens.

"Breathe in that fear," I hear from my soul. "Take it in, allow it to show itself to you." So I draw in another breath, fire still burning deep. "Use the fire!" she whispers.

With air and fire, I have gathered two elements. Two sacred aspects of my being.

"Do I fight?" I wonder.

"No, simply soften... draw in what you resist."

Laughter booms from the lie! "Are you really going to believe all that shit? Fire and air?"

"And water," offers my soul. "Let your tears flow, my dear. Let them go."

A warmth fills my eyes, my chest tightens in resistance.

"Let go," she beckons.

Against my pride, the tears flow. My face is wet and warm and salty.

"Yes," she says. "Can you taste the salt?"

I nod gently.

"Ground your body, taste the salt and know your power."

My mind, confused, has no idea what to do with all these elements, with these emotions.

The lie dissipates.
For now.

In this moment I have surrendered to the truth. The truth of my soul, my humanity, the exquisiteness of being perfectly human. And, yes, even powerful.

Is this a message?
I need a message! I hunt for messages.
Everything is a message, I simply need to decipher them.
THINK. THINK. THINK.
Decode.

There is safety in knowing.
The plan will direct me, I trust.
I long for trust and safety and certainty
in an unsafe world.

Why dd Eric die? Why my mom?
Why everything?

I listened, I watched for messages.
I was a good student, a good girl in this game of life.
Ah... I sense righteousness.
Maybe that's the mortal flaw?

Where can I find peace in a world of messages?
How can I enter the fulcrum point of
heart, mind and soul?
Oh, I mustn't forget the body.
But it's the body that seems to trap me.
Trap me into this illusion of pain
and suffering and feelings and loss.

It is clear I still grieve.
I will probably always grieve.

Is this a message? Is grief the message?
According to some I must somehow
transcend grief.
Some? Who?
Fuck! I don't understand "the way."

I stop. Rest here in this welling pain of
anxiety strangling my body.
My body temple, holding my dreams
and giving me feet to live into them.
But where shall I go?

I'm not sure of where to go and
I open to the Divine for those messages.

Thank you. I feel you enter me. I feel the
softening of "okay-ness" and comfort
and no messages to decipher.
I allow a welcoming breath
to nourish my insides.
Though I still sense a slight
burn in my heart.

I know and feel what this is.
The clutches of grief reminding me of
my humanness.
Reminding me of my capacity to love.

Maybe I don't need messages.
Maybe breath is all I need. And a space
to empty words onto a page from
that well of uncertainty and loss.

The well wants to give sustenance.
The well is love in all its unique and
fractured aspects.
A part of me allows this trust.
The love.

So maybe the message is love?
Maybe I'm making it all too complicated
by searching for messages other than
love.

And although my anger retorts, "but love hurts,:
the wisdom integrates the love that is.

I am the message, perhaps. I am love,
I know. I am body and soul and
mind and heart and so utterly
human.

As time passes, I don't want to circle
back around to grief. I don't want to
re-experience the warm tears and
emptiness and fears of the future or
sadness of the past which suffocate me.
But I know I can soften around
all of it. I know I can allow
and not judge, and feel and
breathe and let love in.

I can remember the message -
the only true message - is love.
And simply be.

Inspired by a line in a poem by Eleanor Lerman: "is this a message."