Saturday, April 11, 2020

Hallelujah. . . .

Play "Hallelujah"
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"Hallelujah"
(originally by Leonard Cohen)

Well, I heard there was a secret chord
That David played and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do you?
Well it goes like this:
The fourth, the fifth, the minor fall and the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah...

Well your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew ya
She tied you to her kitchen chair
She broke your throne and she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah...

Well, baby, I've been here before
I've seen this room and I've walked this floor (you know)
I used to live alone before I knew ya
And I've seen your flag on the marble arch
And love is not a victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah...

Well, there was a time when you let me know
What's really going on below
But now you never show that to me, do ya?
But remember when I moved in you
And the holy dove was moving too
And every breath we drew was Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah...

Maybe there's a God above
But all I've ever learned from love
Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew ya
And it's not a cry that you hear at night
It's not somebody who's seen the light
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah

Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah...
Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah...
Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah
Hallelujah, hallelujah

I love this song. While life giving, it also makes me feel sad. Little M is still in ICU. No news at the moment regarding his progress. His mom posted this song on FB today. I realize how lucky we are in the big scheme of things, yet, this cloak of despair woven from threads of anger, fear, and frustration seems to be the predominant means of keeping me warm these days.

I tried to watch mass online today.  Palm Sunday without Palms. Unheard of. At any rate, while our quad sat on the couch, Honey pie seemed very distracted, trying to paint her skin, my hands, etc. with a paintbrush. Up and down. Up and down. Trying to get water. Going to the bathroom. I get it. She is seven. For her, it is like watching a documentary that you have absolutely no interest in. But I want to soak up the fact that we are here as a family. Together, when my other half, for the second week in a row, tells her to go up to her room, since she is not "behaving."

What started as us being together, resulted in us being divided, separated, like we do not have enough of that already. I go to her room. I ask her if she is ok. She wants nothing to do with me. Anger pulses through her. She does not want to go with me back downstairs. She does not want to go for a walk. And so, I am again, alone. I am angry. I am pissed. I don't want to go back and watch mass, only the three of us, with Honeypie alone in her room.

So I drive. I drive throughout Brookfield. I see blue everywhere in support of Little M. I think how good people can be. How kind. Yet, I am sitting in my own excrement of anger and don't know how to release it. Service. I can release it through service. So, to find a service outlet that won't result in my further separation of my family.

Thursday, April 2, 2020

Hope. . .


From where I sit. . .

I dreamed a dream . . .

That God would be forgiving. . .
Young and unafraid. . . .
No ransom to be paid. . .
No wine untasted. . .
Tigers come at night. . .
Voices soft as thunder. . .
They tear you both apart. . .
Turn your dreams to shame. . .

Still, I dream . . .

The dreams that cannot be. . .

There are storms we cannot weather. . .

I had a dream my life would be so different . . .

Life has killed the dream I dream.

I realize that we all have much to be grateful for amidst this pandemic of pain and sorrow. We have  a roof over our heads, jobs, health, and more. Meanwhile, #23 is fighting for his life at Loyola after being hit by a train. His siblings cannot gain entry to visit him and are struggling. These are real problems. Health care providers on the front lines, intubating young people, exposing themselves to the virus, while sit, wallowing. I am so ashamed.

My kids need my help, my husband needs my consolation, and I have very little to give them. Honey Pie's face is breaking out; she is angry, ripping her work.  Ladybug is an explosive mess. The yelling is unbearable and so reminiscent of childhood. It is something that I cannot stop. I want to run, but cannot. In these moments of tense desperation, I appreciate the struggle that those with predilections for substance use are enduring. I appreciate the pain felt by those who cut, or enter into such penetrating darkness that hope seems untenable.  I, too, want to escape. I want to crawl into my bed, cover my head, and stay there.

I feel like that Mother's Day coffee mug, that has a crack in the side. Filling it one  more times and I will shatter on the counter top, never to truly hold. My mother's laughter that morphed into a blanket of tears is beginning to feel all too familiar and threadbare.

And so here I sit, devoid of warmth, devoid of dreams, wondering what tomorrow will bring.