Upon returning from Janet’s funeral, Jennie and Jack sit, side by side, on the burgundy, damask, living room couch, one piece of Grandma’s French provincial furniture, which she’d moved into my parents’ apartment, along with herself, immediately after her only daughter's wedding. While gripping each other’s hands for support, my parents concentrate on their spiritual advisor’s every word. The rabbi has stopped by to console my grieving family, and while the living room and dining room fill with downcast faces of family and friends, my parents work to maintain emotional control while asking thier revered, spiritual advisor, “Why was Janet given to us to love so deeply for such a short a time? Why did God take her back, so soon?”
While listening to the Rabbi’s comfortless reply, my distraught parents find nothing of spiritual reassurance in his words: “Your daughter was born to live for the short expanse of time owed to another person whose death had come earlier than that which had been ‘preordained'.”
Rather than easing their pain, the rabbi’s response ignites frustration, which roils beneath the depressed state of Jennie and Jack’s composure. In addition to recoiling from the rabbi's limp reasoning, the horrors of World War II and The Holocaust are excrutiatingly fresh. How many family members have disappeared, over the past several years, into ovens, where dark clouds of smoke had recently, grievously arisen above the rooftops of concentration camps throughout Europe—most especially camps in Poland—where my father had lived with extended family during the first seven years of his life?
Having heard nothing that reaffirms their faith in a just and merciful God, my parents’ religious attachment diminishes spontaneously, significantly. As for Grandma, her fear of a wrathful God is reconfirmed.
—Now, let's imagine a movie camera swinging toward the reactions of the surviving child, who has no clue where she fits into this picture as stressful conversations heat up, over the next several days.
—Imagine me wondering: What the heck is going on?
—Imagine me wondering: What the heck is going on?
—Imagine how anxiously I work to recapture my parents’ and grandma’s delighted attentions.
—Imagine me seeking sunny reactions, which had previously been taken for granted.
—Imagine tremendous shock waves stretching over days, weeks, and months while scenes of anguished turmoil bury merriment and joy.
—Imagine laying Janet to rest at the foot of Jack's father's grave.
—Imagine the fact that my grandfather's grave is almost as fresh as the spot where a tiny coffin has just been lowered.
—Imagine laying Janet to rest at the foot of Jack's father's grave.
—Imagine the fact that my grandfather's grave is almost as fresh as the spot where a tiny coffin has just been lowered.
—*Imagine the fact that most people have no clue how far we may need to retrace our steps before the 'main root' of a life-changing experience, which causes self-defining character traits to swerve off center, is unearthed. What if consequences of having acquired these fearful traits remain unidentified until subconscious pain runs so deep that my spirit hits bottom? And what fear would loom so large inside my mind to cause my spirit to hit bottom as Will's cancer surgery nears?
*When reality proves too hard to bear and fear places clarity in a time out chair, where might the defense system take an undeveloped mind that's in need of relief? At the age of three, alcohol is not a choice. 'Happy pills' are not yet widely accepted. This brings us to door number three— and when the curtain goes up, what might we see?
Behind door number three, we see Mother Nature, casting her magic spell, which sends me on the trip of a lifetime, and packing my baggage, off I go …
—Imagine these words: Let a smile be your umbrella
—Imagine these lyrics: When you walk through a storm ... hold your head up high and don't be afraid of the dark ...
Needless to say, this is not sound advise for a three year old child, who has no clue that she's in need of nurturing guidance—I mean, really!
Twinkle, twinkle little star
Up above the world so high
If what goes up must come down
Then what may we expect of a child's upbeat spirit
Once inexplicable fear sinks in so deep
As to be bottled up for quite a 'spell'?
As to be bottled up for quite a 'spell'?
—Imagine a three year old spirit in a slump
—Imagine a child's smile turning upside down
—Imagine another inexplicable change resuscitating smiles all around.
—Imagine this 'change', feeding my hunger for sunshine and joy
—Imagine anxiety hiding behind my smile
—Imagine my smile serving as my umbrella, whenever I walk, alone.
—Imagine my smile serving as my umbrella, whenever I walk, alone.
—Imagine me behaving in such a way as to court the smiles of others until I grow up and embark upon a quest for clues that enable me to understanding how inherited traits, survival instincts and acquired traits merge to make up the sum of a person's whole. Thank goodness, everything has two sides, because in addition to leading toward my undoing, many of my acquired traits will serve me well.
Let's compare fearfully acquired traits to tattoos, which needle the deepest layers of the mind. Imagine working to 'lighten up' dark stains, which may never be entirely ‘erased’. Imagine a need for professional help at a time when very few seek out therapy. Imagine anxiety flooding a young mind with sensations of feeling inadequate, not 'good' enough, not smart enough, even invisible—when nothing is farther from the truth. When I feel 'bad', I'll work harder to feel better. When I feel invisible, I'll reach for a book and get lost in someone else's life. In this way, I'll unknowingly disassociate from conscious thoughts of sadness, whenever possible. I'll even 'lose' track of memories, too painful to track. *Imagine anxiety creating static, causing confusion, all because of misperception. Imagine misperception invading peace of mind.
Imagine Mother Nature providing human beings with a defense mechanism, called disassociation with which we unknowingly protect ourselves when repressed needs cannot be freed. Imagine two people relating the same story from each one's perspective. Imagine two sides to every story.
I've said this, quite often: If I was in one room, telling you the story of my marriage and then you went into the next room, and asked my husband the very same questions … afterwards, while reviewing your notes, here is what you'd likely surmise: Two very nice people. Too bad they'd never met. Oh, and you'd also have noticed this: My answers would fill a book. A saga. Maybe a trilogy. Will's answers would fill a paragraph or two. On the other hand, if you'd asked us questions, concerning sports, those findings would certainly flip.
If you're chuckling, here's why we laugh at the truth: There's at least a kernel of truth in every joke. And often times while clowning around, we may have no clue how much our spirits are crying inside. In short, we can't be true to ourselves when we disassociate from our unmet needs.
If you're chuckling, here's why we laugh at the truth: There's at least a kernel of truth in every joke. And often times while clowning around, we may have no clue how much our spirits are crying inside. In short, we can't be true to ourselves when we disassociate from our unmet needs.
*In retrospect, my life-long quest for clarity has never been unfounded. *In fact, instinct depends upon common sense when questing to rebalance beliefs, which limit our horizons.
In the aftermath of Janet’s death and for decades to follow, a two headed beast will mystify my intelligence. And not until insight names both fears will I ‘grow’ so self aware as to stave off this beast’s stealthy approach. Needless to say, inexplicable death is one of countless experiences, which cause childhood fears to magnify into mind-consuming beasts. One day, I’ll develop the clarity to call each snarling head by its name and command both beasts to heel—for now, let’s muzzle, leash and name at least one of these scratchy, little devils:
SUBCONSCIOUS INSECURITY
"It takes a village to raise a child."
Every few weeks I ask followers for help in this way:
If you think my stories may offer insight to anyone you know
I'd appreciate your help, spreading healing trains of thought, such as these
From heart to heart in home after home
It's my hope that you may choose to take an active role in fueling this grass roots movement
Which, being in its infancy, compels me to write, every day
And if you ask: Annie, what do you hope to achieve?
I'd say:
I hope to send out healing trains of thought, which may circle the globe
I entertain the hope that you may choose to mention my blog
Whenever conversations raise questions concerning
Inner conflict, family strife, clarity and peace of mind
And now, with appreciation for the interconnectedness of my spirit and yours
Here comes the end of my train of thought for today:
It takes more than a village to empower the spirit of a grass root movement
From nation to nation …
It takes a circle of love ...
Based in positive focus, self-trust and clarity
And as more of us join hands while absorbing insights into self discovery
Our world may grow less self-destructive
Day by day
Oh yes—one more thing ...
Having consciously acquired the trait of patience
I do not need to realize this goal within my lifetime ...
On the other hand ...
When it's my turn to my way through the Pearly Gates
I'd love to tell Socrates
That the power of his sage words
'Know Thyself'
Empowers many more, today
Then
When he was laid to rest
I mean wouldn't it be great to let him know
That the messenger did not die in vain
PS
Being a guy, my friend, the sage, managed to say it all—in two words!
As of today … 43 nations and counting ...
This post was originally published January 25, 2012
As of June 16, 2014—seventy six nations and counting … 
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