Origins of the Forest

I awake after some crazy sleep. I did get my eight hours in, 6 in the evening to 2 in the morning. Not the schedule I am the most fond of, but hey, you can't have everything. Today is a therapy day, and I haven't done my homework, so I'll be working on that this morning/rest of the night...

Ratty is in a tear to get outside, but it rained last night, and could be raining now, for all I know. The majority of my apartment is underground, and I can't hear rain fall unless it's a hurricane beating on the door's window. Which is a real shame; I love the sound of the rain. And it is supposed to rain all week here, in this small corner of the world.

Compassion for the alcoholic I am cutting out of my life holds me, recently. I am always deeply sympathetic for a fellow sufferer of this disease. Actually, I am cutting out two, but one is only over the phone, if that makes sense. That is the challenge I couldn't talk about, several posts ago. They aren't struggling to stay sober, mind you, that would be different. Neither alcoholic has any plans to quit anytime before death. So, it is a fruitless effort to continue to associate with, or help them in any way. It's just enabling.

Both have mental illnesses. One is schizophrenic, and one has PTSD (post traumatic stress disorder.) Neither takes medication for their illnesses, instead choosing to self medicate. The lure of self medicating is too strong for me to resist close contact with either one. After my recent bout with the demon, alcohol, I simply do not have the strength to spare...

The schizophrenic had 16 years of sobriety before succumbing again to this disease, which is frightening enough, don't you think? I have know someone who had 30 years, and 'went back out' which is what AA calls a relapse (drinking). After a year of going to meetings, he simply gave up any hope of sobriety again, and blew his brains out. This is a fatal disease, Ladies and Gentlemen.

Dawn is nowhere even near the horizon, and I hope I can go back to sleep soon. Yes, Alice, you say, go back to sleep and wake up more cheerful!

Minkins, of the unicorn meat eating cat fame, is huddled in the warm blast of air coming out from under the laptop. He is toasting his toes. He is the cat I raised as an orphan, I got him at a day old. I hand fed him and his sister for ages, every four hours, and our relationship is quite complex. His sister, Echo, died of a stroke several years ago, although still young, at 12. When their eyes opened, so long ago, they imprinted on me and Eddie Spirit dog, my service animal.

Someone asked me about my Father yesterday...said I didn't talk about him as much as my Mother. Which is understandable, he died in 1995. He was a tall, elegant man with black hair, what little he had, and very blue eyes. He was a philosophy major in college, and wound up a Presbyterian minister. His entire family, cousins, aunts, uncles, parents, are or were alcoholic in the extreme. He was a quiet man, of few words, with a wonderful, dry sense of humor and a quick wit. When he drank, he sat in his chair in his room, and listened to classical music, and chain smoked. He was simply absent from our lives...

Of course, he struggled with the disease most of his adult life, and ended up dying sober, for which I am profoundly grateful. Between my brother and I, I am the most like him in temperament and tastes. My brother inherited his love of the outdoors, and of adventure, and I got the love of reading, books, writing, and solitude. My Father was so quiet, I do not now know if he had any mental diagnoses or not, as much as we loved him, and he loved us. But the legend in our family says that he did not, that it was only my Mother with mental health issues...there is no way to tell at this distance.

He was big into Civil Rights for all of his life, and we are particularly proud that he went to Dr. King's March on Washington in 1963, for one. I marched on Washington against Poverty in 2003, I think it was, and thought of him the whole time.

He was not an outwardly passionate man. Compared to his two children (we're both Aries) and my quixotic and sensual Mother, he always stood out as the rock of the family's spirit. For my brother and I, he was he only experience of being regular in one's habits that we had. His personal schedule was always the same...compared to Mom's. He had elegant habits, as well. Even at his worst, he was always dressed and ready to meet the President by 8 AM. He did take off his tie to mow the grass, of course. But he was not a figure to jump into mind when the word 'casual' was used...

I know it makes me sound old, but nowadays, when I see a father, or any man dressed in shorts, I cannot help but think how ridiculous they look, and what a poor example they are. My father wore slacks and a dress shirt everyday of his life, except when camping or hiking. I don't think I ever saw my Father's bare chest, and he always carried a handkerchief.

He was raised in El Paso, TX, and couldn't wait to go East. He said he fell in love with the color green, and never went back, except for 3 times in my lifetime: twice for the deaths of his older brother and his Mother. He did not care for dogs at all, but loved the elegance of a good cat.

Such was his nature, that I feel satisfied that he is happy wherever he is. Mother couldn't bear to leave this world, but Dad looked on death as the ultimate adventure, sure to be exciting and new...His favorite spot was on the deck of the Old House, looking up at the stars. He often wandered about at night time watching them, and I feel sure that he does so now.

He was never of this material world, except for Nature, and I suppose that is why my higher Power rests in a forest on the edge of a field, because of his love of mountains and woods and water. To him, death was part of Nature, and so it pleased him...

There are many unhappy memories associated with drinking in my nuclear family's memories, but that too, we were taught, was part of Nature. While he was too dispassionate about his family, Mom was too passionate. While he gave my brother and I too much freedom to roam, my Mother clipped our wings. Mixed messages, anyone? But the marriage worked for them, and they were lovers enough that it was what really mattered, and so they were married for 33 years when he died, at the tender age of 59, from lung cancer.

Neither of them had the deep love that my brother, Marc and I, have for animals. Both of them were raised on farms, and animals weren't 'pets.' They were careless with our pets when we were children, and so I see it as a consequence: Marc's and mine preoccupation with the tender care we give our cats and dogs. Indeed, Marc and I trust our animals much more than any human companion that we have. Their love does not fail.

My borderline personality disorder dates from my Mother's suicide attempts, and from being abandoned at a family friend's house, when times got rough for Mom and Dad. To be fair, Mom was going through shock therapy at the time, and my Dad was drinking again, after a hiatus, and we were moving from my childhood home to a new city. They were as human as any other, and I like to see them that way; neither the perfect parent to cause inconsolable loss, nor the monsters that some parents are. Simply rapped up in each other and themselves too much to deal with children, at a time in their lives...

I have no children. It was such a simple decision to make.

But my love of story telling, and nature comes from these two, so different, but with the same goals. I do not denigrate the way we were raised. My parents did the best I think they could have, with what they had at the time.

And dawn still is nowhere near on the horizon, and the stars are hidden tonight, what with the clouds and rain. I am not lonely for my children: Minkins and the dog, Maxwell, sleep with me, and one rarely misses what one has never had. So there is only my brother's daughter, to carry on this string of the family tree.

So, hear the echo of my parent's lives when I tell you: the impatiens love the rain, and are bright spots of various shades of pink beside the hydrangea...the forest is darkened with no moon and wet. This morning, I revel in the memory of the moonlight reflected off of bark, on a cold winter's night. But it is summer, and about to get very hot. My footsteps don't ring against the iron of the earth when I enter the forest now, but are absorbed by the moss. I don't know why that it is that I love the field more when it rains. Unless it is that that shade of green is a racial memory.

The roses peak, and will bloom again in a few weeks...but now the grass grows wildly, as if it were on fire. At the edge of the forest, the blackberries come out, ready to be eaten, the taste of the woods. The ferns grow less as I walk toward the heart of the woods. And there, at the center, the blasted trees of the women who are my friends, with new growth on them. And the ball of blue, pulsing with energy, which is just my visual concept of my higher Power...along with the forest that is it's home. Somewhere lavender grows, but here is Lady's Slipper, and other rare flowers of the forest. Sometimes the trees themselves bloom: wild tulip trees have a green and yellow flower that fall like rain in the summer.

Small rivulets run underfoot, and the ground has a scent that rises with the mist from the forest floor. Pine needles are everywhere, reminding us of winter. There is a crown of birches on a hill in these woods, and I can only see the distant mountains from the field. At one time in my life, I rode a horse through these woods, but it is only an agonizing memory now. I lost that friendship to my disorder and disease a while ago, now.

But the rocks still glow with the bluish moss that clings to their sides, and the mountain laurels still tower, dark and bright with flowers. In my mind, I hurry the summer onto fall, when the trees are their most beautiful. I want to see the colors of the leaves ripple over the mountains, and reflected underfoot. Against the heat of the summer I long to smell the freshness of Fall, when the smell of leaves is at it's peak. I want to see the field turn gold from the windows of the Old House, and I cannot ever again, that I can foresee.

I want to see the trees stand like iron bars against the crisp darkness of the grass. But, it is summer here, now, and I might as well enjoy it while it is here, although I rarely enjoy the heat. The blast of it as I open the window for the cats to move in and out of the apartment, like tall grasses move in the wind.

My Father died in November, short of the holiday of Christmas, which was his favorite. He loved snow and green, all the things El Paso did not provide. He loved a good fire in his fireplace and the quiet it instilled in the Old House. He planted the sour cherry trees, and the pears that circled the House, and the fig bush. He planted his favorites, crepe myrtle trees and azaleas around the House, as well. He loved the bark of the crepe myrtle, and the color of the azalea. The new owner cut them all down, a sacrilege.

In October of the year of his death, when we knew he would not make it to Christmas, my husband cut a Christmas tree from his land, and brought it to the Old House, and we had Christmas in October. We gave him foolish gifts we knew he would never use, now. And when true Christmas came around, it was the most dreadful day imaginable. We all just sat and cried, and gave each other much of nothing, now that the soul of the family was dead. There was no fire in the fireplace that morning, and no special treats that I had baked that were his special delight on that day. We had had all that, ahead of time.

And where the hell am I going with this longish blog post? I don't know, only I don't want to let you go. If I could, all my posts would be short and zippy and funny. I would make you laugh to start or finish your day, and move on. But I am held to the page by the past, and the present, moonless night, and by the future.

I am happy my Father did not wear jewelry, or cologne: it's these small memories that must suffice. And to this day, I do not like a man that perfumes himself, or wears gold or silver necklaces.

But I suppose I must wrap this up at some point, and I would like to come back from the forest. Ratty has just run Minkins off of the bed, and the dog woke up for a moment to see that event. I suppose it is time for some more sleep, although I don't want to face the darkness now, at this moment. I would like to keep on writing...