Ridikkulus ! Or, Why No Lie Is Worth Telling

Posted on November 26, 2024 by pacienciapaciencia

It is not everyday that you have a major life revelation, something that stitches some theories into the facts column of your memories, forever cementing but also altering your life. Last night, my mom sat myself, my brother, and my husband down to “talk about something for an hour” she said. Three hours later, we had learned that:

My father was married a very long time ago to a first wife, sometime around 1965
My father and his wife had twin boys who were born on 7 January 1967
My father’s first wife “couldn’t cope” with raising twins (on her own? with an unhelpful husband who “worked alot”? with perhaps post-partum depression that was undiagnosed?), so she moved back in with her mother and
They never spoke again

My dad’s family, who knew his first wife, who had been to his wedding, and who knew his twin sons, were asked to honor the request of no contact, which they did for 54 years, until a few weeks ago when my aunt told my mom she knew something but she also knew it would be hurtful. My mom asked her to tell her, regardless, and here we are.

For years I have wondered what precipitating event caused my father to lose contact with his family, for after this, he barely spoke to them for 15 years. In fact, my aunt didn’t even know that I was born in England, one hour or less away from where she had her second daughter, born one month before me.

In 2017, I went to England for my cousin Sally’s wedding in the Lake District. It was beautiful and I can’t wait to go there again. Whilst driving through London with Aunt #1, I asked her, “did something happen between my dad and his parents? Like an argument? Did he do something to disappoint them or something? And that’s why you all stopped talking?” She said, “It is not my story to tell. You have to ask your father.” Whilst walking through a town in the Lakes with Aunt #2, I asked her the same question, and she gave me the same answer.

In 2009, when I was getting divorced from my first husband, my parents came to see me. I was confused as we weren’t especially close at the time. Now, looking back on it, I suspect my dad felt that me going through a divorce would be very difficult. I know my mom was worried about me, but she said that they felt I was handling everything very well (later writings will go into how good of an actress I am – Oscar caliber). In my laundry room, my mom let slip that my dad had been married before and that “divorce isn’t that hard, eh Michael?”. This is when I learned he had been married before for about 5-6 years. When I asked him why he had never said this before, he said he didn’t think it was important. I asked him, “what, are you going to tell me that we have half brothers or sisters somewhere?” he said a definite “No.” He lied.

Why did he lie? To me? To my mom? To my brother? What happened and why?

Tragically, his first wife (first and second wives were both named Susan, oddly), died about one year after he did, in 2022. He was born in 1939, she in 1943. He died in 2021, she in 2022. He had his twins when he was 28 years old. I cannot even imagine what my dad was like/looked like/acted like when he was 28. My husband had his son when he was 26 and I remember what he looked like: an adultish person.

Thankfully, all of my dad’s siblings have told us we can ask them anything now that the cat is out of the bag. But sadly, both people involved are dead. Strangely, she kept Blythe as her last name all these years, as have done the boys. Why? If it was such a split, wouldn’t it make sense to change names or……….something.

Did he ever pay her any money to help raise them? Were they ever in contact? Why did the split even happen in the first place? Apparently my grandmother took care of the twins when she could. She always loved babies and was great with children. She also had to live with this condition of giving up her first two grandchildren, and, her daughters say, fought it until my granddad insisted. I cannot imagine how painful that must have been for her, for him, for his first wife. It just seems like so much pain, and I will never know the reason why, probably.

When I asked my dear Uncle Denys why this happened, why we left the UK and our entire family, when we were having tea after Sally’s wedding, he said, “it was a different time”. Maybe it was? What does that mean? Did he know?

This opens up so many questions. Is this the reason that we moved to the States, so that he would never have to deal with it? It seems so. Why did he never tell my mom? Why did she never insist on meeting his family before they were married?

Because, oh yes, my mom never pushed on meeting his family. He said they didn’t want to meet her, and she accepted that, despite that his 5 brothers and sisters would have loved to meet her, and did, about 15 years after his first divorce, when he was married to his third wife and living in Houston, Texas.

I have written about this here before, but sometime around 1970 my dad lost touch with his family and regained contact with them around 1985, after we had emigrated to the United States. My granddad was ill with progressive health problems, and we came to England and met the family for the first time. The aunt who orchestrated this meeting is the same that spilled the beans to my mom two weeks ago, She is truly amazing and a creature of love and acceptance. I love her so much. After the first English meeting, my grandparents came to Texas and saw us there. My granddad died very soon thereafter, in 1989, of cancer and heart problems. He had been a nuclear chemist and the exposure to chemicals damaged his body. My grandmother was diagnosed with cancer in the 1960s, looked around at her 6 children and her scientist husband who didn’t pay bills but knew how to (mostly) build an atom bomb, and said to her doctor, “I can’t die!” and didn’t until 1994.

What is bothering me so much about this story is the lie at the center of it; a lie that, to me, is wholly unnecessary. Why would he leave behind his children? What about his wife? Did he love her? Did she break his heart? Did he break hers? Yes, yes, and yes? We could have had two older brothers. (We think we have found them. One looks just like him, with eyes just like me and my brother’s. The other looks like my granddad, to a T. Round, bald head, round nose, nice smile.)

28. When I was 28, I was getting divorced from my first husband. I owned a house in Austin. Did he own a house in England? He always told me he sold his boat to buy his first house with my mom. Is that true? The trick of this lie is that the two people who were really involved are now dead.

This experience, which right now is only 24 hours old, has taught me that is never worth it to lie. Never. What would have happened if he had just told my mom about all of this, like we would all expect to have happen between two people committing to each other in marriage? Would anything have changed? Only one, to be certain. The lie wouldn’t have been there. My uncle used to stay with them, he says. My grandmother helped with the babies. My aunt was living with my grandparents when they split and she remembers everything.

My dad was always best in a group, at a party. In person, he was very challenging. He was avoidant, afraid of commitment, and angry. When he was confronted, he became so angry that he was scary. I suppose that guaranteed that no one would get close. He drank to excess, creating health problems for himself and his family. He died three years ago, and during the last year of his life, became very emotional. He cried alot. He said to me once, “I used to be a great man” or something similar. I told him, “you ARE a great man, Daddy”. Despite talking to my brother and I a lot over those last two months especially, and we did talk, a lot, he never told us about this. Was this his wound? Was it the reason that everything else happened? It seems so. By avoiding three people, or perhaps four (apparently my dad’s first wife’s mom did not like him and did not want them to get married), he dragged in 5 brothers and sisters and their partners, his second wife, friends(?), my mom, my brother and me. All drawn into a web of sadness that was never soothed or understood, just forgiven, because that is what you do when people die.

This is just the first time I will write about this. I had to get something down, some sort of recording of how it feels to know an answer, perhaps the answer, to the question that I have been asking about my father for years. I knew something had happened. I thought it was something in Vietnam. Right now I don’t even know if he was ever there. I don’t know very much about him at all. Today, I feel like I know more and less, good and bad. My takeaway from 43 years on the planet is that it is both/and yes/no good/bad all the time, together. They are mixed, hand-in-hand, like dough, chocolate, or clay.

In some ways, it feels like a circle has been closed, soldered shut with fire and time and communication, finally. I wish I could hug my dad and tell him I am so sorry that he felt that this was the best decision he could make at that time, and I also feel like shaking my dad by the shoulders and shouting, “WHAT IN THE ACTUAL FUCK?”. It is both. I understand the sadness and shame, but the lie? The behavior? My brother and I hope to reach our brothers and we hope that they want to speak with us. Beyond that, no expectations. Goddammit, Daddy.

p.s. I hope you know the reference in the title today. I think it is the appropriate spell for today. I wish I could shout it at my dad.

Meredith Drew, 10 Years Later

Posted on April 15, 2021 by pacienciapaciencia

My friend Meredith died in 2011. It has been ten years since she graced me with her words, her observations, and her sense of humor. I was cleaning up my inbox today and found this email. I almost wrote her an email back, even though I know that she won’t be able to read it. Or maybe she can? I often think she is around, on the edges of my life, watching, smiling, and occasionally laughing. It is her laugh that I hear on the wind, and in the still darkness of starry nights.

[names have been changed]

My best thoughts are Sunday morning when i first wake
up. Short sentence insights given to me from myself.

This morning:
If it hadn’t been for Patience ….

You were the one who saved him. I brought him to you
and you said, and then, no matter what anyone else
said, I held to what you said.
You were right about the school. When Alan destroyed
that, he showed his willingness to destroy his only
son.
I know you wondered why I stayed. I was waiting. I can
see it now, his pushing me to stand up so that he
could smash me. “Sebastian is not really mine because I
have to share him with you.”
Only one strike then. One chance, and my aim had to be
dead on.
So. Based on what you said, and only on what you said,
I made a move. (literally) Defying the court, the
experts and all of those carefully orchestrated lies.
YOu saved my son that day, you know. You’d meant to
spend the day with your husband and your new house.
I doubt you remember where you stood, where I stood
when I said, “Tell me Patience about Sebastian,” and you
answered. Sam was in the background keeping Sebastian’s
attention on other than us.
It’s like a photograph in my head, all bent up and
worn now from my taking it out and looking at it so
many times, just to check, “No, no. That’s not what
Patience said. Don’t listen to them.”
I was just a mom, and you were just a first year
teacher, emergencied in no less with your funny degree
and a quick summer course. There were no letters after
our names.
Valentina, the Russian seer and healer told me, “You
have great power. It is in your love for your
children. Stay in that place.”
The photograph in my head is of just that. The 4 of us
feeling powerless. Loving powerfully, not knowing the
importance of that moment, what would come of it.
You called yesterday, to check, worried that you are
not doing enough for Sebastian, worried as you are that
you are not doing enough for your own students, I
think.
I have a picture in my head, of your not doing much of
anything, just standing there, saying a few words. It
was all that you could do, of course. To you it must
have seemed like so little, hardly a “kodak moment.”

The picture shows You, however, standing in that place
of love, speaking so powerfully that in that moment
Sebastian’s life was changed.
The power did not come from your doing. It came from
your being.
You said you told your students in the bathroom that
it was because you love them.
Well, yes and no. Yes, because you love them, you have
power beyond human comprehension. No, because that is
not why you were crying. YOu were crying because you’d
momentarily and inadvertently fallen from that place
into fear.
Anyway, I have this crumpled worn picture that I
wanted to show you of you being You in that space of
love and power. Amazing, how the more I look at it,
the more clearly the Grace comes into focus.
Your Grace.
Amazing
Trust that.
Like I said. Do not be afraid. Just believe.
In you.
I have a picture of my doing just that. In the middle
of a breakdown myself, desperate, loading Sebastian and
myself in the car driving to Austin, unable to explain
to myself why it seemed so very important. Amazing,
the Grace of my knowing to turn to you.
Your words and a picture of your saying them burned
into my brain. You were that quietly powerful.

I have been listening to Oprah’s Super Soul Conversations lately. My two recent favorites are: Cicely Tyson and Grace and Gratitude.

Heart Shapes

Posted on July 27, 2016 by pacienciapaciencia

I have been being a snoop today. I like being a snoop, and am one of those people who is guilty of looking in peoples’ medicine cabinets and awkwardly moving around homes at parties gazing intently at curios and especially, photographs.

vulnerability2

“Owning our story can be hard but not nearly as difficult as spending our lives running from it. Embracing our vulnerabilities is risky but not nearly as dangerous as giving up on love and belonging and joy—the experiences that make us the most vulnerable. Only when we are brave enough to explore the darkness will we discover the infinite power of our light.”
― Brené Brown

This is what I did today; in the somewhat vain attempt at unpacking, I found myself snooping in one of Cody’s boxes that is full of old photo albums. Two baby books filled with sweet notes from his mother and photos in that classic 1970s sienna tone. The photos are of a blonde baby who looks remarkably like two of his nephews, Paul and Dominic. There is also a scrapbook of his first three years, filled with more photos and birthday cards. Then there are a few more photo albums. Two are of old family photos that range from baby Cody to teenage Cody, photos of his parents and grandparents. His mom had brown hair then, blonde now, cut in that poofy 70s/80s style that I think all of our moms wore. There are photos of his father cradling him as a newborn, in the exact same way that he later cradled his own son when River was born in 2004. In those photos, you actually couldn’t tell but for the age of the photographs that the man in the frame is his father and not Cody, for when River was born, Cody cut his hair short and clean in the same style as his father’s when he was born. Little Cody peeks out of photos, holding fish on fishing lines, dressed up in terrible Halloween costumes, sitting next to his father and mother and grandmother, posing on the trunk of a very old, silver Honda Civic. His father so young, and Cody so small: the family resemblance between the two is so strong. They share brows and shoulders, height and lankiness. Later, Teenage Cody begins to look as he does now: very tall, thin, with long-lashed eyes. Those long lashes show up in one photo from when he must have been about two.

There are also photo albums from later life, from when he moved to Austin in 1998. Cody out with friends, on the road to Albuquerque and Amarillo, and photos of the highways in between. Photos of him in Amsterdam with an old girlfriend who looks very sweet and very 90s in her baggy pants and oversized t-shirts. There is a photo of Cody from when he was building his first tattoo shop, when he was 25, and he looks almost exactly as he does today: glasses, beard and mustache, t-shirt, jeans, tattoos from tip to tail.

iStock_000027670147_vulnerability

Living with someone versus dating them and spending nights at each other’s houses is so different: all the cards are out on the table. All of each other’s strange little behaviors are on full display for each other to eke out over time; learn to tolerate, appreciate, and love. Cody puts a paper towel under the french press every morning while he makes coffee and it makes me crazy because it makes no sense. He apologizes almost constantly, seemingly just for moving around. I keep telling him he doesn’t have to do that. I wonder what things he notices about me that bug him, but he appreciates because they are mine, all the same.

In a set of the photographs, I saw the houses he lived in a tpwn in rural Louisiana, when he was learning to tattoo. There are photos of his first tattoo on an orange. There are photos of his Uncle and Aunt’s house, surrounded by potted plants and 5 gallon buckets of soil. This photo shows me why he collects so many plants and 5-gallon buckets of soil. This behavior of his ties back to the past, gives him some sense of continuity of time, perhaps. There is a photo of him in front of the school bus he lived in during his time in Louisiana, dressed up in the same leather coat he wears when it is cold, in front of a cook-fire. Cody loves cooking on an open fire. There are photos of his grandparents camp house in Center, Texas: an old, white trailer with a deck in the front. There are photos of the back porch with his mom and dad and grandmother. Little did I know that by looking at those photos on a quiet, rainy day in July (thanks be for the rain!) that I would learn so much about the man who I thought I knew the most about: the man who has become my best friend and my companion in this life.

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A few years ago, during the time when I was at the beginning of my “nervy b”, as I like to call it, I culled through hundreds of photos, scanning some and throwing away the rest. I used to have two photo albums but I don’t know where they are anymore. In some ways, during that time, I chose, albeit with a frame of mind that had a distinct lack of clarity, to literally throw out much of my past evidence. Today, I realized the sadness in that is that not that the things are gone, and neither the memories, but the signposts are no longer. Perhaps we hold on to objects not just because they are precious but because they help us re-establish that continuity of time in our own lives. Perhaps if I still had those photographs, I could remember better the times in my young life when I was friends with a boy named Eric, son of my mom’s best friend Pat. We used to do things all the time, dress up, ride horses, be really silly. Eric now has schizophrenia and lives in Florida: I wonder if he remembers anything from that time, at all?

I got rid of almost everything I owned, sold it to strangers and left it on a street in Philadelphia to be combed over by neighbors from countries near and far. I used to have a bag of my great-grandmother’s hand-made lace. Where is it now? Not that it matters much, really. I suppose I am mulling over my own rejection of my continuity of time. At that moment, in the years between 2012-2014, I was so ashamed of myself and my decisions that I threw all evidence of it away. No wedding photos, and all evidence of Steve is gone except a box from China his father once gave to me. Even my wedding ring is gone, and I stuffed my wedding dress into a trash can on the back porch of that house in Philadelphia.

Love-Sky

Here I am, today, in 2016, going through boxes of my own and of Cody’s, as we piece together a new life in a funky house in Dripping Springs, Texas. I grew really sad during my perusal of photographs today, realizing that whatever I had that was like these objects before me, I had destroyed in mad, sad intention. It’s true that my parents have a treasure trove of photographs, so I need not really worry about that specifically, but it’s like I am looking back at these last few years and wondering about putting together the events in a chain that makes sense and represents my memories. I suppose that is what this writing project is all about: a memoir, the establishment of the story after many years have passed.

I love Cody for many reasons, but one of the main ones is his ability to recognize his own painful life events and hold on the positives. He has a very good sense of perspective and being present. He isn’t perfect, and neither am I. This morning I hung a bamboo shade of his on the window in the living room. It has a giant batik of butterflies on it, and it used to hang in the front window of his first tattoo shop on Burleson Road in south Austin. I remember staring at it during the hours of talking and tattooing that were the beginning of our long-standing friendship. And now it hangs in our house: the home we are building together, doing our best, muddling through, baring it all to each other, every day, and every night.

“What happens when people open their hearts?”
“They get better.”
― Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood

heart-1

Reflections in Memory

Posted on May 2, 2016 by pacienciapaciencia

We took a walk on the beach one day, in the summer. It must have been late summer because I remember the slanting sunshine: the warmth of it. We walked along the beach in Salisbury Cove: the part of the cove that would later be left behind for the quieter end, off Old Bar Harbor Road. My father and I, probably five or six years old, walked the beach.

The beach in that part of the world is gray with shale and rusty with ironstone. The stone forms in thin layers and is cracked into a thousand million pieces with the roots of trees. While they crack the stone, the root hairs also hold its myriad pieces in space, braving winter’s storms and the shrinking-expanding process of freeze and thaw. The beach itself is made of tiny to large pieces of stone, too many to count. There is no sand here; the closet thing is tiny pieces of basalt that have been tumbled and thrashed for eons. Here and there are pieces of kelp, ends of rope, bottles, a jellyfish or two, sea urchin skeletons and so many mussel shells. Mussel shells are demure on top: brown, black and white, but reveal indigo or lavender pearl inside. I have always loved them and they were my brother’s favorites when he was a little boy. I have many memories of Carew carrying mussel shells by the dozen back to our cottage.

On the day of the walk, my father and I sat on the top of what seemed like a very tall rock, out on the edge of the beach. I don’t know how long we sat there, only that it was warm. Over time, the tide came in and separated us from the beach. In reality, the water was probably 2 or 3 feet deep, but I couldn’t cross, and my dad hoisted me onto his shoulders and carried me to the beach, to safety.

My father has many stories. When I was studying for the GRE, which I never used for graduate school, I learned a word, legerdemain. Meaning slight of hand, I always thought it applied very well to my father. He is a gifted storyteller who holds his own cards tight to the chest. He plays no personal hand: very little is divulged. He is like the Wizard of Oz, hidden behind a curtain.

During the process that I related to readers here, I realized that I had held guilt as my definitive characteristic for twenty years. It took hard and heavy realizations to see that I had to let that go in order to be happy and be in my present reality. It took risk and resulted in reward, but the path was frightening and new. I think that guilt such as this is ultimately useless, and a barrier between ourselves and those who would really love us. Nothing anyone has done, save very few barbarous actions, could result in someone not being worthy of love from those who choose to do so.

When I think of my father and his life, I can see a life of a world traveler, an instructor, a bridge jumper, an oil man, a golf player, a Mercedes lover, an eldest son, a highly sensitive person, a Vietnam veteran, an alcoholic, a rage-oholic, and a depressive. But despite all of that, my father is worthy of love. However, it would seem that he believed he was not, and so acted out so intensely as if to prove that fact. My mother, my brother, myself, his friends and his family are here to prove that otherwise, despite his faults.

I gave myself and was given forgiveness by those who love me. Forgiveness, like commitment, is freeing and highly emotional. It is the letting go, of staring off into a space of love and friendship, and stepping out into the mystery. As my father sits in the television room of my parents house, on the quiet side of Salisbury Cove, staring down at a coastline that we once walked, I hope to say to him: “I love you. We all love you. You have done nothing to disappoint anyone. There are no mistakes. This is the time to think about all the stories, all the adventure, all the things you have to be thankful for. Let it go. You are loved.”

A Funny Thing Happened at the Health Food Store

Posted on April 10, 2013 by pacienciapaciencia

The Robert Frost poem that discusses paths in the woods, and taking the one less traveled by, is a tried and true trope of our contemporary culture, and represents both a great romantic idea and an understanding of risk and reward.

How do we know anything that lies in front of us in this life? We can take the trodden path, the one we know, and expect at least some results based on past experience, but even experience does not prepare us for life’s pitfalls and surprises. And when we measure the risk of venturing out and down the path that is dark and laden with heavy woods, the fear of the unknowns can be all too overwhelming.

These thoughts were cavorting through my mind the other day when I stopped into our local health food store in Bar Harbor, and there I found a friend who is dealing with this place in life herself. Both of us stand with two paths in front of us: the path of least resistance and more security, and the path of hope and the heart.

Whilst chatting with her over my paper cup of coffee, she behind the register and me standing to its side, two people began to check out with their groceries and eavesdropped on our musings about life. They said, to us both, that you don’t have to choose, that the right course will become illuminated and just to trust that it will. Trust is something I struggle with, being a lady who likes to plan and problem-solve. How does one trust in the unfolding of one’s path in this great universe of ours? How does one trust in the unfurling of opportunities, knowing the risks of being one of spring’s buds, the new leaf growing outward into the coldness of the spring air? How do you know if summer’s warmth and light is here, or if some new frost will come around and stop your growth in its tracks?

I suppose that you never truly know anything, in this life. You can plan and plan and plan, and still be surprised. Today, in the midst of a spring rain, I noticed tufts of green grass coming out of the ground that, for months, has been beige-brown and lifeless. I heard, again, new birds in the trees, and watched a loon hunt for fish in the harbor. As I worked, piecing together a necklace so many years in the making, I watched two seagulls fly together, playing in the wind. Tonight, I sit here, at my kitchen table-desk, wondering about what lies ahead, and how to remain grateful and surprised at the opportunities opening up before me. Like the receding ice that has covered the rocks for six months, there are surprises hidden underneath: new joys that are uncovered each day.

To work!

I’m Not Young Enough To Know Everything

Posted on February 28, 2013 by pacienciapaciencia

“All the world is made of faith, and trust, and pixie dust.”

J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan

My brother and I at the Peter Pan statue in Kensington Gardens, London…in 1986…

My first tattoo is quite terrible, and in a terribly predictable spot on my body. My “Tramp Stamp” is of one of the faeries from the book “Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens” by J.M. Barrie. This specific faerie was drawn by Arthur Rackham, my favorite children’s book illustrator, and is a depiction of one of the faeries who carry lonely, orphaned and abandoned Peter to safety. The tattoo was made many years ago, when I was all of nineteen, at a tattoo shop on 6th Street in Austin, before I knew anything about getting tattoos. It fades with each passing year, and needs to be retouched very much. But, the sentiment of it remains.

Today, I am reminded, from the advice of my wonderful friend Julie, to be grateful everyday for all the things that are happening. To keep the faith, so to speak. I wrote the following in my journal the other night. I typically don’t combine my journals with the blog, but will today…

“Always remember each lesson, each truth as it is revealed, and be grateful for each, even if in hindsight.

Always remember the power of being true to myself, and that boundaries don’t have to be walls.

Always remember the raw beauty of love, of being in love, even if I fall in love with not the right people…be able to love, and to really understand love as accepting the differences between myself and other people and being able to see the beauty of others through seeing the world through their eyes: to accept others, to really forgive.

To let people teach me, even if their way is confusing or difficult or different from the way I would like.

Remember to be grateful just to have this time to make these realizations. To understand unconditional love and do my best to let go of fear. To be peaceful and loving and happy. To accept people’s faults and my own. To believe people’s compliments.“

For more on the Snow Moon, you can read Angel’s more detailed interpretation of the impact of February on the psyche here…..

Paciencia, Paciencia

Have patience, Patience

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