It takes an island… #Arran #Scotland #friendship

A most amazing community and a heartfelt tribute. Thank you, Barb for doing this. This is a celebration of life.

Barb Taub

Then catch the moments as they fly,
And use them as ye ought, man:
Believe me, happiness is shy,
And comes not aye when sought, man.
—A Bottle and a Friend, Robert Burns

A thank you letter to Arran.

Some weeks ago, I turned to Arran, the small Scottish island I call home, for help. Two friends and I had hoped to get together on Arran last April. Because of the pandemic, we postponed it to this year. But between continuing covid restrictions that left me marooned in Italy, and life-threatening health issues that came up for each of my friends, we realized that wasn’t likely either. (You can read about their personal, sad, funny, and amazingly life-affirming cancer journeys on Mary Smith’s Cancer Diaries and Sue Vincent’s Daily Echo.)

The solution, for anyone who has ever lived on Arran, was obvious. I posted a message on the island’s…

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I BELIEVE, ANITA, CHRISTINE, DEBORAH and too many more…

“We must send a message across the world that there is no disgrace in being a survivor of sexual violence – the shame is on the aggressor.”  – Angelina Jolie

 

Survivor “I still wake up with your name stuck in my throat, sometimes where it caught between your hands when you squeezed, I still wake up in fear, most nights, your eyes follow me from every shadow, every loud noise crowding the edges of my memory. I still wake up.”  – Amber Koneval

 

 

Florence – by any other name

 

A double-edged irony

Dredged up shards from childhood.

A hurricane bearing grandma’s name

Following it, via internet

Feeling every blow, just as I did then

Even infancy wasn’t spared

Ask those in her path

 

Gone, neighborhoods,

Businesses, homes,

Evidence of life,

Gone like childhood

A survivor clings to shadows

Knowing the perpetrator

Knowing he, now dead

 

Grandmothers are supposed

To love their grandchildren

Not to offer them up to a friend

Send her in a dress, then

Leave as he arrives

All above board, a deacon

Of the church, above reproach

 

Earliest memories, not yet three

Rituals continued until age five

must arrive in dresses

Lay on a white papered altar

Bitter liquid gagging and choking me

Bathed after, sans evidence

Large, rough hands

So many years ago, yet crystal clear

 

 

Me too brings it back

But with resistance to perpetrators

Christine brings it back

But with the chutzpah to

Name the perpetrator, for herself

For all of us, even those still mute

 

Grandma Florence, I shall

Never forget, how you used me

To keep that friend coming back

No drugs, no alcohol, no consent

Nor, mother dearest, how you conspired

No words

Then beat me for being evil

Decades later, I shall never forget

 

You were all violent storms

That plowed through infancy

Leaving scars, deep furrows

 that will never go away

I grew stronger, put miles, then countries

Between disasters, despite this

I was one of the lucky ones

I’ve worked with many

And watched some perish

 

But unlike Anita, Christine, Deborah

And the others that will come

I didn’t have to do it on television

Ladies, you are heroes

I doff my chapeau

 

At first, the storm approached

In fumbling verse

On pages in my script

Armed with keys to the assaults

Words from my lips, another matter

Finding a career path, finding others

Holding the light, leading the way

They find the path, or they don’t

Often tripped by the righteous indignation

Of abusers and their supporters.

Ignorance and misogyny could soon

Be the law of the land

                            –

How long will America fuel this war on Women, are they incapable of justice? The usual M.O. sweeping their crimes under the carpet and hiding behind a woman’s skirt as they do it. Senate Judiciary Committee will hide, hide from their dirty hands, and the repercussions. 

 

 

 With gratitude for those who have made a stand and in solidarity,

 

Me too, Léa

cuddling oblivion

Inspiration comes from all around us. On several ocassions, I have been inspired by one or more of the blogs that I follow. The following poem was inspired by a title on a post by Lotta Wanner. If you are not already following her, stop by and see what she is up to!  http://lottawanner.com

*

“There are perhaps no days of our childhood we lived so fully as those we spent with a favorite book.” – Marcel Proust

*

cuddling oblivion

the image stolen –

poem of a friend

but i’ve cuddled

oblivion more times

than I could count

squirming children

plucked from their bath

dampness of freshly

shampooed hair

leaves its mark

upon chest and soul

–

in jammys we snuggle

sofa rather crowded

to one end

the scent of them

lingers in perpetuity

like the softness of

freshly bathed arms and legs

stories and poems

before slumber

voices I didn’t know

I possessed

telling tales of the ages

–

so many years passed

voices deeper

no longer interested

in childish stories

oblivion safely tucked

in the corners of my mind

–

oblivion –

who knew you

could return?

Bisous,

Léa

Résonance de la vie

“The leaves of memory seemed to make
A mournful rustling in the dark.”
~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Résonance de la vie

They say

Hearing is the last sense

To close down

As we die

I have always had

Sensitive hearing

Will the echo of

The flames

Lapping at me

Carry me off

From this life

To what lies

Ahead

Résonance

Of a child’s cry

The lover’s threat

Crashing of waves

Ricochet

Accompany me now

And evermore

Better the laughter

And tears

Than no sounds

At all

Bisous,

Léa