Hi Everyone –
I had a busy week, but everything got eclipsed this weekend. Ken’s cousin passed away after a very long battle with cancer, and while I didn’t ever get the chance to meet her in person, he’s shared many stories with me about her. She sounded like an amazing lady, and I wish I could have met her.
It’s tough to see the man I care about most in the whole world hurting.
My nature is always to try to find solutions to problems or situations. Years of sales training will teach you that every problem presents an "opportunity" if you look hard enough for it. Just move forward. If I can do something to help, then each step takes me closer to a resolution.
Needless to say, I’m completely helpless when someone I love is hurting and there is nothing I can do to "fix" it. It’s been an emotional weekend. At times I’ve felt guilty that Ken is on the opposite coast from his family. I know that wouldn’t change the grieving process for a loved one, but being closer to his family who also knew and loved his cousin would probably make him feel better. I’ve hugged, held and even cried, but none of that will heal his heart. Only time.
So I’ve been close by. I hope I’ve been supportive and loving and compassionate.
But most of all, I hope that the pain weighing down on his shoulders is lightened, and that sadness in his heart is replaced with fond memories. I truly believe that as long as we keep a person’s life close in our minds and hearts, they’re never really gone. They’re right there with a smile for us when we need them.
I didn’t get anymore words done for Moonlight this weekend, and I didn’t care. I need to be halfway done by Friday and I know I will be. Just over 1,000 words to go.
This week’s topic was to write autobiographically. That’s probably the toughest thing for me to do. I’ve been procrastinating on starting this blog all night. My inner editor is always tsk-ing over my shoulder, "Who wants to hear about you? That’s so boring!" It takes every bit of sheer determination to get her to shut up! LOL
And even then, I’m pretty sure she’s still trying to silence me, but I’m going to try not to listen…
Here’s a short peek into my childhood…
I was an only child growing up in the back-country of San Diego. My elementary school had 102 students and there were only 12 of us in my graduating class of 6th grade. My Mom raised me on her own for the most part, so with her at work and my friends over a mile away, I was often lonely and bored.
Books, my pony, and music were my escape.
I think was 8 years old when I found "Where the Sidewalk Ends" by Shel Silverstein. I opened the cover and found this invitation.
If you are a dreamer, come in,
If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar,
A hope-er, a pray-er, a magic bean buyer…
If you’re a pretender, come sit by my fire
For we have some flax-golden tales to spin.
Come in! Come in!
I read that book countless times over the years, committing many of the poems to memory, but it was that simple invitation that affected me most because I was a master pretender with a head full of dreams and wishes.
And there’s nothing I love more than spinning some flax-golden tales… 
Since I didn’t have the time or emotional energy to weave a new tale for you this week, I thought I’d share an older one I wrote a few years back. This story was inspired by Mozart’s Requiem. I listened to it from beginning to end while I wrote this story of a Ghost who finally found someone who could hear him…
I hope you enjoy the story! And thanks for letting me share a little of myself this week. I hope it wasn’t too boring! (See that self-editor is still right there on my shoulder… 🙂
Lisa
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You do hear me. Christ, after all these years someone can hear me. There’s so much I want to say. Where do I start?
What can I tell you about death?
Well, there are worse things in this world. I know that now. The fear of death, of the unknown, is more terrifying than death itself. Fear is a leech, a vampire, feeding off of our dreams. But fear drinks something more precious than our blood.
It steals our time.
Am I a ghost?
I never believed in ghosts when I was alive. I couldn’t see them, so they couldn’t be real, right? How finite my vision was then. I wasted so much of my life. Now I’m left with only my spirit, hungry to regain what I have lost. Where is this God mankind has been singing praises to for centuries? I haven’t seen him. Maybe he doesn’t exist either.
But I do.
So what if there is nothing beyond the door, on the other side, or whatever poetry you might assign to this purgatory where I hunger for life and yet I’m unable to taste it. I am trapped. There are no great horns of heaven calling me home. No pure white light welcoming me into its warmth. There’s nothing for me now.
Except regret.
Regret over all I lost, all I could have been. Regret that I let fear run my life, instead of following my dreams. Fear abandoned me, leaving me alone with regret as my mistress, and her arms are cold. Her embrace is far too tight, painful, and her touch makes me want to scream, only to find I have no body to give my woes a voice.
Do I feel pain?
I am pain now. I have no physical body to feel it, but I linger here cold and alone. I can envision no greater pain than this existence I endure. I miss my family. I want to see my children. I want to tell them to live, really live every single day, and to look for magic in the world. I want to tell them to listen to the music that life offers and embrace it. I hope they never let doubt creep into their hearts. Doubt is like a cancer eating away the beauty of everyday life. Each day is a gift, not to be earned or won, but cherished and loved. Moonlight, stars, sunsets, sunrises, a bird’s song, a flower’s bloom, a child’s laughter, there’s magic in everything if you can allow yourself to see it. Scientists try to explain the process behind each phenomenon, but don’t let them steal the glorious magic from the moment. Reach out and grab it, experience it. I hope my children take the time to watch a sunset, touch the morning dew on a flower petal, love their children, and life, and all the miracles that come with it.
Where is my family now?
I wish I knew. My wife died not long after I did. Her blood is still on my hands, even though I can’t see them anymore. I made so many mistakes. I wish I could go back and make things right. I tried to beg for her forgiveness, but the agony of this existence is, she never heard me.
I really didn’t deserve her forgiveness. I still don’t. But I need it. I yearn for it.
She refused to believe what the police told her about my death. She couldn’t accept that the father of her children had been shot down by a drug dealer. I still love her for that faith in me. Although many doctors told us over the years that her heart muscle was damaged and weakening, she still had twice as much heart as most people. Maybe more. She deserved so much better than I ever gave her.
She looked beautiful the night she finished boxing up my things in the office. I wished I could still smell her. My wife had a certain scent, clean and beautiful like morning itself. It wasn’t cologne from a bottle, it was just her.
She stared down at the box and finally picked up one of my CDs. I used to be a composer. We never lived like kings, but I made a living. I wrote mostly commercial jingles that I hated. I think that was the beginning of the end for me. My dream was to write a symphony that would live on well after I was gone. But somewhere along the way I gave up my dream. I let fear and doubt steal my soul. The drug habit came later. It numbed the pain.
She put my CD inside the stereo, and the moment she pressed play, we were engulfed in music. My music. It filled the room, surrounding us. If I had eyes I would have cried, but I think she wept enough for both of us.
I had orchestrated the symphony on my computer, painstakingly weaving each instrument into the fabric of my music with a keyboard synthesizer. All of my love, hate, rage, pain and fear were right there in my music for her to see. The music I never shared with her.
Because I was afraid.
I watched the woman I love weep until she clasped her chest.
“No!” I screamed, but I had no voice, not anymore. I tried to hold her, to comfort her, but I had no body, only my music on the stereo.
She gasped for air and whispered out her last words. “I love you.”
Love.
I don’t even remember what my last words were. But I’ll remember hers until the end of time, and I will never feel worthy of them. My music moved her, but I let fear keep me from sharing it with her until it was too late. When I was alive I could have held her and told her I loved her, but instead I was snorting white powder and hoping it would make my dreams real.
Our children moved in with her sister. I wish I could see them. There is so much I want to tell them.
Last words?
Dream, live, love. Oh and one more thing. Don’t fear ghosts.
Fear being one.
~~The End~~
A Ghost’s Requiem – By Lisa Kessler
I can hear you. Can you hear me?
You do hear me. Christ, after all these years someone can hear me. There’s so much I want to say. Where do I start?
What can I tell you about death?
Well, there are worse things in this world. I know that now. The fear of death, of the unknown, is more terrifying than death itself. Fear is a leech, a vampire, feeding off of our dreams. But fear drinks something more precious than our blood.
It steals our time.
Am I a ghost?
I never believed in ghosts when I was alive. I couldn’t see them, so they couldn’t be real, right? How finite my vision was then. I wasted so much of my life. Now I’m left with only my spirit, hungry to regain what I have lost. Where is this God mankind has been singing praises to for centuries? I haven’t seen him. Maybe he doesn’t exist either.
But I do.
So what if there is nothing beyond the door, on the other side, or whatever poetry you might assign to this purgatory where I hunger for life and yet I’m unable to taste it. I am trapped. There are no great horns of heaven calling me home. No pure white light welcoming me into its warmth. There’s nothing for me now.
Except regret.
Regret over all I lost, all I could have been. Regret that I let fear run my life, instead of following my dreams. Fear abandoned me, leaving me alone with regret as my mistress, and her arms are cold. Her embrace is far too tight, painful, and her touch makes me want to scream, only to find I have no body to give my woes a voice.
Do I feel pain?
I am pain now. I have no physical body to feel it, but I linger here cold and alone. I can envision no greater pain than this existence I endure. I miss my family. I want to see my children. I want to tell them to live, really live every single day, and to look for magic in the world. I want to tell them to listen to the music that life offers and embrace it. I hope they never let doubt creep into their hearts. Doubt is like a cancer eating away the beauty of everyday life. Each day is a gift, not to be earned or won, but cherished and loved. Moonlight, stars, sunsets, sunrises, a bird’s song, a flower’s bloom, a child’s laughter, there’s magic in everything if you can allow yourself to see it. Scientists try to explain the process behind each phenomenon, but don’t let them steal the glorious magic from the moment. Reach out and grab it, experience it. I hope my children take the time to watch a sunset, touch the morning dew on a flower petal, love their children, and life, and all the miracles that come with it.
Where is my family now?
I wish I knew. My wife died not long after I did. Her blood is still on my hands, even though I can’t see them anymore. I made so many mistakes. I wish I could go back and make things right. I tried to beg for her forgiveness, but the agony of this existence is, she never heard me.
I really didn’t deserve her forgiveness. I still don’t. But I need it. I yearn for it.
She refused to believe what the police told her about my death. She couldn’t accept that the father of her children had been shot down by a drug dealer. I still love her for that faith in me. Although many doctors told us over the years that her heart muscle was damaged and weakening, she still had twice as much heart as most people. Maybe more. She deserved so much better than I ever gave her.
She looked beautiful the night she finished boxing up my things in the office. I wished I could still smell her. My wife had a certain scent, clean and beautiful like morning itself. It wasn’t cologne from a bottle, it was just her.
She stared down at the box and finally picked up one of my CDs. I used to be a composer. We never lived like kings, but I made a living. I wrote mostly commercial jingles that I hated. I think that was the beginning of the end for me. My dream was to write a symphony that would live on well after I was gone. But somewhere along the way I gave up my dream. I let fear and doubt steal my soul. The drug habit came later. It numbed the pain.
She put my CD inside the stereo, and the moment she pressed play, we were engulfed in music. My music. It filled the room, surrounding us. If I had eyes I would have cried, but I think she wept enough for both of us.
I had orchestrated the symphony on my computer, painstakingly weaving each instrument into the fabric of my music with a keyboard synthesizer. All of my love, hate, rage, pain and fear were right there in my music for her to see. The music I never shared with her.
Because I was afraid.
I watched the woman I love weep until she clasped her chest.
“No!” I screamed, but I had no voice, not anymore. I tried to hold her, to comfort her, but I had no body, only my music on the stereo.
She gasped for air and whispered out her last words. “I love you.”
Love.
I don’t even remember what my last words were. But I’ll remember hers until the end of time, and I will never feel worthy of them. My music moved her, but I let fear keep me from sharing it with her until it was too late. When I was alive I could have held her and told her I loved her, but instead I was snorting white powder and hoping it would make my dreams real.
Our children moved in with her sister. I wish I could see them. There is so much I want to tell them.
Oh God, please don’t leave me alone again. No, wait! I can barely hear you…
Last words?
Dream, live, love. Oh and one more thing. Don’t fear ghosts.
Fear being one.