Tuesday, July 18, 2023

The Mermaid and the Gardener Scale 3


[ DISCLAIMER—If I seem to be speaking out of turn, I am. I am a woman no longer holding her breath, waiting for something to end. I am ready for something new to begin, and so I write. As suggested by the lovely Emily Dickenson, she said, “Tell the truth but tell it slant.” As a writer, I’ve restructured particulars to suit better my purposes which is to amuse and teach. I feel inclined to protect (some folks) but mostly myself, and therefore the truths I write are indeed facts; however, they are my impressionistic perspective. Feel free to take this as pure amusement, and perhaps, in addition, one might derive some benefit. No heavy lifting here; let us all remain in one’s good graces, smile and carry on. Life is a game, and so I play it.

“You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.”—Anne Lamott

“Preserve your memories, keep them well; what you forget, you can never retell.”—Louisa May Alcott]

In order for me to share my beautiful twin flame love story, I am unfortunately going to have to tell you more of my saga (back story) with M, and there are no spritely turns of phrase to be found. I know I've tried. It behoves me to write this part of the story, for it is not flowery and pleasant yet quite necessary. It's bothersome and uncomfortable. I feel in my heart, though, it is time, and I want to seal my heart and gain closure.
 
It was near our end fate of living in California that I kept insisting on taking a trip to Carmel, California, to see the lovely Flanders mansion. When I first moved to California, I discovered a stunning old abandoned mansion that had been sitting empty and derelict for a little over a decade. I became smitten with the estate. I was so happy to spend my days researching the genealogy of the family that once owned the home, history and gaining a rapport with the local mayor of Carmel, city council and historic preservation. There was a non-profit organisation that retained control over the estate, and I became friends with the kind woman; Carmel is the home town of Clint Eastwood, and he had tried for many years to purchase Flanders for himself and fill the wandering hills with sheep, and to preserve it as well. Oh my! If I couldn't be in England, Carmel seemed the next best alternative. I became well acquainted with the mayor of Carmel and all sorts of folks in city positions. Truly that is where my love of community began to take shape. M decided he would drive us to Carmel. This tactic is spirited trickery as he never had an ounce of intention in my living out my dreams of dwelling in an ole' 1925 mansion in Carmel, so why did he even trouble himself? Hoodwinking is a favourite mode of the operand, and M would draw this type of manoeuvre more than once; in fact, it was a steady rotation. I wanted off of the sea's sickening chaotic tidal waves.

What I would later come to learn is that when egocentrics want to conspire, there are numerous ways they do this, and one is they mirror you. They masquerade, and your interests are their interests. They also utilise their flying monkeys.
 
They feign that they are great supporters and go out of their way to lead you down the yellow brick road; however, they have no intentions at all of following through; it's enticing. It's a levity little match they play to make it seem as though they care for you and your passions, yet in fact, they could care less. It will be tucked nicely into a little file in their reservoir to weaponise at a later juncture for their advantage. Before you know it, you've been taken down a rabbit hole of degradation and a wallowing lack of self-worth.
 
It is a covert cap full of tricks to pull out when they need to leverage themselves. As in, see all I've done for you! I took you to where you wanted to go; I did this and that for you, and you're never satisfied or happy. My favourite (I'm being a wiseass, of course) is that you are always the mad one, and when you oppose, you're then set ablaze (gaslit). It is merriment for them; they especially use this tactic whilst around other people, missionaries who've come for supper, your inlaws, children, friends, and co-workers. 

I wanted desperately to move to Carmel, so I admonished M to take up employment at the local radio station or even somewhere that would bring in a small living. I could work at the Monterey Aquarium too, and we could do it together. And although we would have to sacrifice, I felt it was my time to shine, and now that the children were fairly all grown and soon to fly from the bird's nest, we could, as a couple, focus on my dream.
 
I had spent my life since the age of meeting M, following him and advocating his dream. I invariably sacrificed my childhood loves and dreams to help M. I constantly felt as though if I supported M one day, it would be my turn. Little did I know, until that one night in front of the lit fire when all hell broke loose, did it truly and deeply sink in, "This individual is never going to be my cheerleader. It's never going to be my turn, not ever."
 
I'm not sure you've ever experienced that kind of deep gutted pain, where you hear the most cutting words from someone that you thought loved you, and in that distinct moment, you finally receive, and it ultimately connects in your brain that this person from a deep place doesn't actually love you, nor ever did in the manner you were meant to be loved. Ill suited. Your heart had been trying to show you for over twenty-plus years, but the refusal to listen to your spirit that the person is incapable of what you require does not nor ever existed. There is no more making an effort. The options and the desire has vacated your body. You are two separate individuals cut from different cloths and have been all along, but now what you heard can't be unheard or unsee what you've seen. It was as clear as the nose on my face. It was my moment of reckoning with my soul, down to the depths of who I was and what I thought I was.
 
A dreadful betrothal doesn't have to be volatile in the sense that there is bodily misusage; it can be just as damaging by impassioned control, and over time one becomes worn down to thread-baring consequences where nothing is left. Nonetheless, do not miscalculate that bodily harm isn't a part of the strategy. I will also confess to not being a little saint either. Those several times I squabbled back. To then be informed I was making it all up; it never actually happened. Again, repeatedly I needed to be boxed up and put into a mental institution because I was crazy. That I honestly liked and enjoyed fighting. Now press that sentence on repeat like a record player for decades.
 
In the same way, M had made threats when a terrible incident occurred with our son. I knew what threats could become as I had seen horrifying occurrences between my parents. It's a volatile environment. I did what came naturally, adjusted and retreated into my childhood, and lived more on eggshells. I understood a climate with defacement and unnerving occasions. When you are born into an abusive and volatile atmosphere, you know what to expect. You've acclimated to the dreadful abuse; because the abuse is customary. As unhealthy as it sounds to read, I had let myself down once again, and it was no longer a new sensation. I had long been on the road to ruin. He had spent his life taking me apart like a clock. The all-encompassing biological, expressive, and psychological vitriol I was experiencing is technically termed trauma bonding.

Without tainting this post with any more unpleasantries, allow me to wrap this up and state that, in my opinion, M is a dark horse.
 
I concur with Princess Diana in the aspect you become isolated, more broken and feel for a long time that you have no out. It's such a feeling of despair that you become so sad and defeated that the only out is to take a passport. As Princess Diana needed control, anorexia came to recreate, as so with me.
 
After M had taken me to Carmel, with my hopes up, I kept prattling on, making goals and thinking of all the creative ways we could make it work. I longed to live in a place that reminded me of the English countryside, where I could make my little dreams a reality—dashed were those dreams into a million pieces.

At this stage, I was ineffective. I had overcome the ailment, the pursuant belligerent shouting matches, and then I recollected the words, "You're slothful. I'm the breadwinner, and that's how it will always be, so get used to it. I'm never going backwards, for it is beneath me. I worked to get myself where I am without your help, and you can do the same."

I replied, "So, are you anticipating I continue to follow you until the earth ends, never settling for twenty more years and having nothing of my own and no home environment of stability?"
 
"Indeed! I got to where I am by myself. If you want to live your dream, you can do it yourself because I'm not helping you!"

Somewhere deep, I knew I loved my life enough to change. A feeling you get when you step up on the rise and look over fields of gold. There was something inside of me that erupted. As if there were a brick wall that is quite tall, and each little brick was moments and years of built-up resentment with a few missing bricks near the top. I then felt the completion of the wall. First, beyond comprehension, I was deeply gutted. I felt the descendants of my English, Irish, and Dutch fiery spirits begin to rise, bubbling from the ocean's depth, mentally bemoaning to myself, I will set the whole world ablaze. I had been standing beside someone for so long that I no longer recognised him nor myself.

My vindication; to become wholly more well-known and prosperous than he ever dreamed possible, I needed no more time to know my own heart.
 
For your amusement, I remember reading once in an article that Lady Gaga said (In a conversation with Cosmopolitan once, Lady Gaga opened up on the roadblocks and revealed an interesting anecdote about her ex-boyfriend and said: "I had a boyfriend who told me I'd never succeed, never be nominated for a Grammy, never have a hit song and that he hoped I'd fail."

Lady Gaga continued and added, "I said to him, 'Someday when we're not together, you won't be able to order a cup of coffee at the f*cking deli without hearing or seeing me.")

My story isn't complete.
 
I do not think M imagined in a month of Sundays, I would ever leave nor file for a bill of divorce, yet again, I'm getting ahead of myself. 


Friday, July 14, 2023

Trusting Your Gentle Heart; A Lantern Along The Path


Good afternoon dear mermaid hearts, 

One must learn to trust by letting go of the shiny bits and baubles, silvery shimmery sparkling requests, plans of improvements, those moments of waiting to launch, and the pernickety pressures of go-go-go persevering without caution, and make one's little chipmunk nest larger and vastly grandiose than any others on Instagram, shop til' one drops, subscribe to this, sign up to that site, create a new account on that new-fangled electronic app and that beat will go on.

One might wanderlust at why I've taken to the old-timey ways of living (as much as humanly possible whilst living temporarily with my folks) whilst also turning away from the big black box, exiting screens, wearing modern clothes, closing out old cycles, no longer attempting to save others by being a people pleaser, unhealthy relations by swimming back to what I know intuitively to what I know best, which is myself a truly quieter beauty of life. 

I'm more interested in leaving a bequest (legacy) for future generations, my storybooks, my artwork, and my mindset teachings that will have blessed the planet and proceeded to a continuum. I have a gift of loveliness that my dear sweet mum assured me that I possessed all my long live days since childhood. In my autumn years, I realised that what to believe about myself was not at all true of what other folks invented of me. The truest nature of me as a young lass has always existed as a loving and gentle person. It is a bewitching hour that as we become older and more devoted towards loving ourselves, we begin to see others without rosehip glasses, and once removed, those same souls' dirt and ash have caused tarnishing. They lost their illuminating shine long ago, resembling the pretty ocean fishes, but appear more like the leathery black slick eel or piranha. 
 
Perhaps they do not wish disfavour, but glad tidings they do not wish either. It took me some time to abide that folks can be harsh, cold and unfeeling in this world, and though I know this for I've taken my logic pills, it remains fever-pitch disheartening. I am taking it in stride tho', for the big blue marble is far more generously charitable for being ripe and as full of a bread basket of all-encompassing love than it is not. 

I am becoming more myself as each blue cornflower sky passes me with rainbow clouds above the eternal heavens bridge; I love my dress, the way the morning dew tips my olive green 1850s prairie handmade house dress as it flows whilst I tend the kittens, cottage bunnies and garden. I am a queen and priestess in my little landlocked realm of heaven on earth. Why would I muddle it up with unpleasantries, the world's demands, olde, worn out and tired stories that folks use on rerun when the voyage I am on is surely a mermaid's charming delight? 

This little light of mine, im gonna let it shine, let it shine, let it shine, let it shine. A lantern to light the way. 

This here ole' lil' mermaid has found her voice again. 

All my upbringing of living in love has never forsaken me. Nor will it, ever.

I hope you spend a moment of solitude today listening to your inner voice without blemish and trusting your dear beautiful, gentle heart. Accept the delicateness of your inner child that has so longingly wanted to be assuringly trusted and lovingly adored; trust she will lead you aright, and she will. 

My love to you each, dear friends. Have a beautiful heart-filled day, and we shall chat tomorrow. 

Most affably yours til my next swim, Razz

Thursday, July 13, 2023

The Ebb And Flow

Good morning dear mermaid hearts, 

At the start, when I began contemplating how I should or may shift my online presence, I consulted with my dearly beloved husband. He is my closest confidant, and the second is my most cherished friend, P. It has been weighing upon my heart for some time now as I've been truly trying to find those kindred spirits to share with my online offerings. 

In 2006 when I began my online blog, there wasn't competition in my world. I merely wrote to jot down my feelings and diary my daily online giving. Upon tucking my wee cherubs into bed and saying their little prayers that fairy beasts wouldn't come for them from their balcony windows, I would type away, never knowing where or what I was attempting to accomplish. I enjoyed it greatly and deeply felt the desire to share, whether by words or a DIY project; now, looking back, my soul longed for womanly connections. I was somewhat motivated to write and create, yet a great deal of my motivation would ebb and flow like the ocean's tides. It would rise, and then a crashing wave of thunder would knock it back down. 

In the beginning, I was doing it for no other reason than for the love of it, and I enjoyed it whilst it lasted. Then in 2017, when everything came crashing, and through a series of unfortunate events, I lost eleven years of my online words, a swift desire to write online again deeply awakened within me. I knew I would have to utilise my wheelhouse and a great notion of tenacity by beginning all over again. 

My blog has remained, and I plan for it to sustain itself for as long as I can put words together and create art. When I filed for a divorce from my ex-ill-suited mate, my blog was there for me. It was my happy place. When my son died, my blog was there for me; again, it was my happy place. The slow recovery of healing from a most difficult experience brought me back into the land of the living. All that I care for has improved because I have an allegiance to my online presence; this blog. I believe deep within my heart many women also desire similar notions as myself, and this is why I have such a compassionate nature for this space. Though it is small, it is mighty. If you are curious about why I began asking those who enjoy my work to sign up for Patreon, it is for several reasons; one is that for a very long time, I had difficulty loving myself enough to feel I deserved to be rewarded (paid) for my craft. I often think many women also grapple with this notion; this matter at heart is why I feel a great deal of responsibility to inspire women to rise to the occasion of deeply recognising one's worthiness. To find wisdom and delight in writings and illustrations and so many helpful, moving and beautiful things is what brings us together in love and companionship. The notions and matters I care about, read and adore are at the heart of why I carry on with my little niche online. I want you to know how much your example of showing up to read my blog and sign up for my Patreon means the world to me. It is a sign that I mean something to you and you care about me because we have a tethering cord strung about from soul to soul, linking us as dear, intrinsically bound friends. I believe our only challenge as women is if we aren't willing with gentle, loving hearts to unite. Otherwise, nothing is keeping us from creating the most extraordinary fairytale world; fairytales give us our imaginary wings to believe anything is possible. We, as women, are the mothers; we are the rulers asunder the moon and the shining stars of a most wonderful poetic world. 

I understand the weighing and the negatives of the world, yet I am an eternal optimist, and I find when I share goodness, more goodness reigns upon me and (you), my darling friends here in this special little chipmunk's nest. 

As of late, I have felt called upon to discern how to make my online life and business feel more like sitting upon a rock next to the ledge of the ocean sending out my thoughtful ripples whilst also deeply feeling the connectedness of others. And although there will be constant waves, rushing rivers and brewing storms throughout our lives upon the billowy ocean of anxiousness, our underwater haven will be the place of calm, gentle ripples where life is slow, homey, happy, old-timey and simplistic. This kind of life is much needed.

My dear hearts, our lives take fastidious employment, for it will always require toiling away to shift our minds and focus from the algae smudges on the porthole looking out of windows from an outside world full of distraction. It requires conscious effort to swim furiously against the tides and currents that would lead us off course away from our imaginary world of Taking Joy and Following our Bliss, yet as long as we are in this together, no tide can separate us, for we have life rafts for all. Today this is my deepest and most sincere letter messaged in a bottle. 

I hope your day is beautiful and worthy of bringing a smile upon your face. You deserve it.

{P.S. I very much wish upon a star that you'll sign up for Patreon this month. I am not charging for the month of July, although I will be putting out a brilliant video titled; "How A Landlocked Victorian Mermaid Washes Her Garments." I include links to all of my favourite ancient ingredients, victorian labels you can print off for your very own antique bottles and jars, and ancient recipes for bits that are soiled and stained and demonstrate how I made my own dolly from scratch. All of this and much more.}

Most affably, yours til my next swim, Lady Raquel (Or if you're my friend, you can call me Razz)

Tuesday, July 11, 2023

The Mermaid and the Gardener ~(From Tarnished Scales to Loving Fairytale) Chapter II

[ DISCLAIMER—If I seem to be speaking out of turn, I am. I am a woman no longer holding her breath, waiting for something to end. I am ready for something new to begin, and so I write. As suggested by the lovely Emily Dickenson, she said, “Tell the truth but tell it slant.” As a writer, I’ve restructured particulars to suit better my purposes which is to amuse and teach. I feel inclined to protect (some folks) but mostly myself, and therefore the truths I write are indeed facts; however, they are my impressionistic perspective. Feel free to take this as pure amusement, and perhaps, in addition, one might derive some benefit. No heavy lifting here; let us all remain in one’s good graces, smile and carry on. Life is a game, and so I play it.] 

“Truth, in her dress, finds facts too tight. In fiction, she moves with ease.”—Rabindranath Tagore  

“You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.”—Anne Lamott

“Preserve your memories, keep them well; what you forget, you can never retell.”—Louisa May Alcott

{If you're bright, shiny and new here, I have begun writing my love story. If you'd like to swim along, begin reading the first chapter here.}

One year earlier, I was living in California. M was staying sat on the couch whilst I was busily loading firewood into the fireplace. M advised me that we needed to have a proper family conversation for the days prior they sacked him (of which years later, I uncovered his sacking was due to various nefarious measures and not a simple parting of ways), and we were going to have to come up with a plan to accumulate some money quickly for we would need to move again for the 19th (seriously, no exaggeration) time. We had not been in California for scarcely a year, and I had been growing depleted and thinking of taking a passport (let us leave it there because this post is on the webby, and I would rather it remain entertaining rather than dreadfully depressing.) If it’s escaped your notice, I am trying to paint you an image of how utterly sad and broken I was and had been for many o’ years. I had spent my entire life devoted to my children. It was the children and me, and we vastly existed as the five-fountain of variety as M was rarely ever home, and when he was, he was distracted in his chamber, on social media or rather engaged in his many nefarious, occupying extracurriculars (read between the lines there, if you please).

My blooms had long gone off the rose. 

Several months prior, I had broken into
such an illness that I felt as though I wanted to perish. Allow me to do my level best to tell you all the ailments I had simultaneously, and upon my fortnight of illness, I had relegated myself to the downstairs settee to avoid my husband. I had developed strep throat, a UTI, two kidney stones, the flu, an injured knee and a toothache from the fiery pits of hell. I spent one night crying into my pillow (and before you inquire why I didn’t seek a physician’s assistance, we did not have health insurance, and I was in no hurry to rack up doctor bills; I’m a provident lass) from the toothache and the kidney stones as I struggled to pass them. I was in so much pain, and the only time M came downstairs was to chide me by saying, “Can you keep it down? I’ve got to get up for work in two hours.”

There’s a point when malice ceases to be amusing. 

This stint of illness lasted for about a fortnight; in that fortnight, I lost nearly ten pounds. I was severely dehydrated and could not stand, and I am sorry to say that I did not begin feeling generously better from being nursed back to health by none other than myself. I remember pondering to myself that if God (for at that time, I was still an active Mormon, and so I prayed that I became well again) would assist in my healing, I was changing my life from that juncture. The first thing was to remove myself from my god-forsaken union devoid of love, and the second was to leave religion altogether. They had never served me well. I was entirely unhappy and remained so for decades. I couldn’t for the life of me understand why I was altogether miserable beyond blue comprehension in two profound religions. If anyone should be happy, it most assuredly should’ve been me. I did everything “required” of me, and I still wasn’t pleased. Heaven forefends I constantly had a go of disagreeable measures with the many male authority figures. I question everything in life, and when you question male authority, it’s not taken on the chin. I am not devoid of commonsense. Do you comprehend, my darling? The repercussions “for disobedience” were upon my head; however, I never gave up or surrendered.

I did, however, stop playing with impoverished florals. Something never quite added up, and I constantly felt like an outsider in my own home and church. All the while, I was fulfilling the commandments and still thought I was on the road to ruin, whilst most Mormons I knew were living the lives of hypocritical heathens and seemed much happier than me. It made no sense; I could not quite grasp the conclusions. I was at my wit’s end, and something had to change. I no longer liked the sound of religion. That change was to be me. My illness made me realise no one was going to save me, and I was so ill that the person who was supposed to care for me was devoid of sympathy when it pertained to me (as it always had); he couldn’t be bothered. In a bitter irony, two weeks later, once I was all well and regained my glow (thanks to my self-care and tending with essential oils), M got a kidney stone. He was so feeble he lasted less than two hours before he drove himself to the emergency room and charged over four thousand dollars in medical bills. I can’t help but feel he brought it down upon his own head.

I felt I was becoming grieved, faced with the looks of perpetual mourning and no longer fresh-faced and innocent. 

As one might gather, I was demonstrating signs of being fed up by thee olde sod as he consistently set my teeth on edge. 

“There’s no better way to dismantle a personality than to isolate it.” —Princess Diana

Thursday, July 6, 2023

The Ebb And Flow

Good morning dear mermaid hearts,
 
At the start, when I began contemplating how I should or may shift my online presence, I consulted with my dearly beloved husband. He is my closest confidant and then my most cherished friend P. It has been weighing upon my heart for some time now as I've been truly trying to find those kindred spirits to share with my online offerings.
 
In 2006 when I began my online blog, there wasn't competition in my world. I merely wrote to jot down my feelings and diary my daily online giving. Upon tucking my wee cherubs into bed and saying their little prayers that fairy beasts wouldn't come for them from their balcony windows, I would type away, never knowing where or what I was attempting to accomplish. I enjoyed it greatly and deeply felt the desire to share, whether by words or a
DIY project; now, looking back, my soul longed for womanly connections. I was somewhat motivated to write and create, yet a great deal of my motivation would ebb and flow like the ocean's tides. It would rise, and then a crashing wave of thunder would knock it back down.
 
In the beginning, I was doing it for no other reason than for the love of it, and I enjoyed it whilst it lasted. Then in 2017, when everything came crashing down, and through a series of unfortunate events, I lost eleven years of my online words, a swift desire to write online again deeply awakened within me. I knew I would have to utilise my wheelhouse and a great notion of tenacity by beginning all over again.
 
My blog has remained, and I plan for it to sustain itself for as long as I am capable of putting words together and creating art. When I filed for a divorce from my ex-ill-suited mate, my blog was there for me. It was my happy place. When my son died, my blog was there for me; again, it was my happy place. The slow recovery of healing from a most difficult experience brought me back into the land of the living. All that I care for has improved because I have an allegiance to my online presence; this blog. I believe deep within my heart many women also desire similar notions as myself, and this is why I have such a compassionate nature for this space. Though it is small, it is mighty. If you are curious about why I began asking those who enjoy my work to sign up for Patreon, it is for several reasons; one is that for a very long time, I had difficulty loving myself enough to feel I deserved to be rewarded (paid) for my craft. I often think many women also grapple with this notion; this matter at heart is why I feel a great deal of responsibility to inspire women to rise to the occasion of deeply recognising one's worthiness. To find wisdom and delight in writings and illustrations and so many helpful, moving and beautiful things is what brings us together in love and companionship. The notions and matters I care about, read and adore are at the heart of why I carry on with my little niche online. I want you to know how much your example of showing up to read my blog and sign up for my Patreon means the world to me. It is a sign that I mean something to you and you care about me because we have a tethering cord strung about from soul to soul, linking us as dear, intrinsically bound friends. I believe our only challenge as women is if we aren't willing with gentle, loving hearts to unite. Otherwise, nothing is keeping us from creating the most extraordinary fairytale world; fairytales give us our imaginary wings to believe anything is possible. We, as women, are the mothers; we are the rulers asunder the moon and the shining stars of a most wonderful poetic world.
 
I understand the weighing and the negatives of the world, yet I am an eternal optimist, and I find when I share goodness, more goodness reigns upon me and (you), my darling friends here in this special little chipmunk's nest.
 
As of late, I have felt called upon to discern how to make my online life and business feel more like sitting upon a rock next to the ledge of the ocean sending out my thoughtful ripples whilst also deeply feeling the connectedness of others. And although throughout our lives, there will be constant waves, rushing rivers and brewing storms upon the billowy ocean of anxiousness, our underwater haven will be the place of calm, gentle ripples where life is slow, homey, happy, old-timey and simplistic. This kind of life is much needed.

My dear hearts, our lives take fastidious employment, for it will always require toiling away to shift our minds and focus from the algae smudges on the porthole looking out of windows from an outside world full of distraction. It requires conscious effort to swim furiously against the tides and currents that would lead us off course away from our imaginary world of Taking Joy and Following our Bliss, yet as long as we are in this together, no tide can separate us, for we have life rafts for all. Today this is my letter of deepest and most sincere sentiments messaged in a bottle.
 
I hope your day is beautiful and worthy of bringing a smile upon your face. You deserve it.
 
P.S. I am having a book giveaway for The Tale of Sawyer Lamb. Merely comment on this post or the previous post, and next week, I will randomly choose seven winners. I am also sending a sweet little print of the sheep I painted along with each book.
Take Joy in the little things. 

Most affably yours til my next swim, Razz

Monday, July 3, 2023

The Mermaid And The Gardener~ Introduction And Scale 1

[ DISCLAIMER—If I seem to be speaking out of turn, I am. I am a woman no longer holding her breath, waiting for something to end. I am ready for something new to begin, and so I write. As suggested by the lovely Emily Dickenson, she said, “Tell the truth but tell it slant.” As a writer, I’ve restructured particulars to suit better my purposes which is to amuse and teach. I feel inclined to protect (some folks) but mostly myself, and therefore the truths I write are indeed facts; however, they are my impressionistic perspective. Feel free to take this as pure amusement, and perhaps, in addition, one might derive some benefit. No heavy lifting here; let us all remain in one’s good graces, smile and carry on. Life is a game, and so I play it.] 

INTRODUCTION

A few days after Sawyer had passed, I began jotting down the story of how I met and married my husband and twin flame, Jeffrey Shawn. After the first chapter and the introduction, I stopped writing and moved it to my draft folder. That is where it has remained until now. My heart was in too much pain; I had attempted to push through it to no avail. It was merely too much. I have been on a healing voyage for over four years now, and I am ready to share my love story with you. It could be another way to continue my healing because, honestly, my heart desires to write something quite happy, and my love story always warms my heart. I have to write; my writing has been and remains my therapy; therefore, I will attempt this pursuit by plunging back in and seeing where it takes us.
 
I hope you love the story; it makes you smile and inspires you to believe in love. 


ONCE UPON A TIME, IN A LITTLE TOWN WHERE MERMAIDS LIVE ~SCALE I

I took an Uber from the airport to my folk's house at one o'clock in the morning. I had missed my first flight, and in an attempt to believe all things were working together for my good, the friendly airline agent was able to find me another connection.

Phewww... After plopping down in my seat on the Delta 747, (I thought that all of the laws of attraction I had been studying showed signs of working.)

I had two black suitcases with bright blue bandanas knotted to each handle. All that I possessed were in those two suitcases. I had lied to my parents as I knew this wasn't just a little reprieve; I was never returning home, and no one else knew it except for me. I had planned and executed my escape. Inside the zippered pocket of my black suitcase were my birth certificate, passport and marriage licence, {I knew I'd need it for when I did the inevitable, file for a divorce}.

I walked through the door, and my mother took my two suitcases, placing them in the guest room, where only a writer's desk sat, but no bed. "I've made up the couch for you since your brother has the only other available bed," said my mother. My little brother was living at home at that time, and he had laid claim to the other guest room.

My mother had prepared the couch with white sheets {it was linen, oatmeal in colour and entirely new}; she didn't want it to get dirty. My blanket was an afghan that belonged to my brother, crocheted in Gator {blue and orange} colours.

I was wholly exhausted mentally, physically and emotionally. I was leaving my old life behind, and no one was the wiser for it. My parents thought I had come for a much-needed visit and to carry out my very first women's retreat workshop at Chinsegut Hill. That's what I had told them. I had to mentally prepare myself for the endeavour of a lifetime, especially once everyone 'caught wind' of what I had planned. I was going to create a whole new life for myself.

I was angry, bitter, and possessed thirty-five years of built-up resentment, and I had something to prove. Of course, I love men, but I could honestly see why women married for money and took to having "arrangements." However, I thought to myself, good riddance and piss off! I'd be better off if I never saw another man for the rest of my life. I had been burnt like the blood-red sun and wanted no part of love ever again!

The first week turned into the second week, vacillating from sleeping on the couch to little walks around the neighbourhood. I cried myself to sleep, and for the first portion of my stay, I did my level best to conceal from others the amount of pain I was actually in. I'd cry when no one was around. I listened to Law of Attraction videos at nausea, which made me feel better. I had to gain my strength because I knew all bloody hell on this side of the Atlantic was about to hit the fan.

My little brother was a comfort; and good company, for he kept me from my mired thoughts. I had no idea how I would make a living to provide for myself. I needed money to live, pay for a divorce, get my own cell phone account and find a way to return to Carmel, California. My plan was only a short pitstop at my parents, which would suit me just fine until I was able to get my head on straight and come up with a strategy.

I'd spend evenings watching Gator's football games with my brother, ordering Luigi's pizza and needling him of his undying affections for the television show, "Golden Girls." I never much cared for that show, but he and my mother have an infinite love for it.

My sadness and guilt turned towards my children. My daughter was a sophomore, my oldest son had just returned home from his two-year mission for the Mormon church a week prior, my youngest son was soon to graduate from high school, and my second to eldest son was not as much of a worry; for he had long been out on his own.

There's a fine line between hatred and love, and I was about to discover how true that statement truly was.

Connecting The Dots

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