RSS

Category Archives: men

Of Endings, Beginnings, And What Happens In Between…

Of Endings, Beginnings, And What Happens In Between…

Life is about cycles. Day follows night. Sun follows storms. Good days happen after bad days. Last week was…a bad week. Now when I say “bad”, what I really mean is “hard”.  I mean, for instance, when sunny days happen outside my front door, there really is not a whole lot for me to do except enjoy it. I dress for it (shorts and my go-to sandals that dress me up, or make me look devil-may-care casual), and drink in the beauty and joy that come with the day. On the other hand, when it rains or snows, my stress level goes up. I have to PLAN, for heavens’ sake. There is the wardrobe dilemma (boots or Keds). And, do I don the downy coat that is stifling (but with sleeves that only go to the top of my wrists, which leaves a gap between my gloves and the said coat), OR, a warm-ish jacket (two sizes too large, but one that Is more pleasing to the eye). Once I’m out the door, there is then the windshield issue. Scraping the darn thing with the defrost blasting, or just making sure the windshield wipers work? When that is settled, off I go in the car. The last, and most important thing to think and plan for is, WHERE THE *BLEEP* IS THE BLACK ICE/STANDING WATER?? Basically, I feel a bit assaulted, right off the bat.

So, yeah, I enjoy the ease of things. Which makes last week…bad.

I’m sure most people have flashbacks. Memories that come up vividly. Sometimes, they are from our mind, and sometimes they come up in the form of body memories. Like, I have memories of teasing a cow out in a pasture as my dad fixes a barb-wire fence. I spook the cow. I run away, scared that it will chase me, and jump into the old work truck that just happens to have rolls of barb-wire still in it. I gash my leg, my dad rushes to me, scoops me up, and dashes to the house. He saves the day, and I still have the scar. I usually just tell people, when they ask, that I fought ninjas and got a souvenir. Now, every once in a while, I can remember what the pain of the gash felt like, even though it was several years in the past. I think I was about 6 when it happened. I am now…um… a few decades older. We will just leave it at that. Nevertheless, every once in a while, I feel it, remember it, and it still HUUURTS!

The memory startles me.Then, I think about it, feel about it, and let it go. I move on and my world moves forward. The thing is, I relived it for years. My leg hurt a lot, and for quite a while, during which I became scared to go out in the pasture. Even now, cows are something to be respected. A few decades give that wound a lot of time to fade into the past, I notice. But the scar stays. The body memory rolls right along and keeps pace with my life. I guess it has it’s own cycle, in a way.

This gives me hope, then, about something else.

I have another set of memories. They have their own set of scars and body memories. They also started when I was young. Those memories are more complex, layered in with several memories that were formed as a teen, and again about 5 years ago. They are incredibly painful, and even though I have worked to leave them in the past, they come and go in a cycle. Certain things trigger them, and when they come up, it is…bad.

I go from living a sunny day kind of life, to an overcast, drizzly life that is full of heartache. In fact, I hurt all over again. I feel kicked in the gut, and bruised from head to toe. I shake. I cry. And, the worst part, I freeze. Not the cold kind of freeze. I mentally check out. In the “fight or flight’ arena (and to my shame), I do the “flight’ part, mentally. This shows up as holding stock-still when someone touches me or hugs me, even to comfort me. My reasoning is that if I am still, then it will all be over soon and I can survive. Or, maybe the other person will lose interest. Or, maybe they won’t see me.  Idunno. Makes no sense logically, but it is how I have reacted since I was little.  I feel, as I look for any reason at all in these situations, that this knee-jerk reaction comes from when I was little and physically weaker that the opposing force. I shrank down mentally, then, and just turned to stone, weathering the incident.

And that is my shame.

I was once told me that my virtue was the most precious thing I had, and I should protect it with everything I could. I should kick and fight and bite, if that was what it took to protect this gift. It was God-given and was only for marriage. It is hideous to me that it was taken from me, but more hideous that I froze when I should have been fighting. Back then, I decided that I was a bad person for not physically fighting, and not worthy of the gift I was given. I also decided that I was supposed to be in this role so that others wouldn’t have to get hurt. I would be the focus of the damage. Not them.

Fair trade for a bad person.

Here’s where things didn’t add up to me, though. Each time this happened (several times as a child with 2 different men, 2 times as a teen, and once as an adult), they were people I didn’t know well. Or at all. So, how could they possibly know to treat me like this? How did they know that I would let this happen? That I would freeze? I must be a magnet, I would think. I did deserve it. It was all I could come up with. I decided, as well, that this was what was expected as the result of attention from men. I came to expect it. It became what was a typical “Man-Trait” to me.

I hated it each time. I would cry silently, trying to tough it out. I would squirm. The last time I even belittled him while it was happening. Right out loud, instead of in my head. But that was as brave as I got. The only “logical” answer I could come up with was that I secretly wanted it. I basically was ASKING for it. I mean, when I  told a certain adult about the 1st time, when as a kid I didn’t even know the names of the body parts that were violated, I was told that I was having a bad dream and I shouldn’t talk badly about a guest. I didn’t know at the time that she was mostly asleep (it was past midnight), and I didn’t know she was a deep sleeper. In fact, she didn’t even remember the conversation. But I did, and it reinforced to me that she knew what I was happening, and was on the side of the guest. I resented and spent a lot of time loathing her. Later, as a teen, I talked with a religious leader. A man in position of power who was to be trusted. As I stumbled to describe my shame, confessing that it had happened a few times since, he let me know that I had brought this on because I had most likely dressed immodestly or had given an indication that I wanted “attention”. Again, it reinforced my belief that I must desire it somehow. And if I desired something sick and twisted, then I MUST BE SICK AND TWISTED.

I knew I was a bad person.

Now, I have an amazing husband. He is amazing in that he has full knowledge of my past and he loves and accepts me anyway. Not only does he accept me and love me, but he has partnered with me in recovering. He has encouraged me, held me while I’ve sobbed, and provided much needed logic when my emotions were taking over. For instance, he encouraged me to talk. To participate in therapy. Life Courses. Writing.  Whatever it was that got me through the pain and the shutting down part.

Because I did. Shut down, I mean.

At first, in my marriage, and then as a beginner at being a mom, I pretended it didn’t happen. I told myself I didn’t have time to dwell on it. So I stuffed it down. It came back up, though. So I pretended it wasn’t a big deal. Then, I simply pretended I initiated it. That was the most comfortable reason. Finally, I pretended it didn’t matter. And THAT became the cycle. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m Fine. I’M FINE. I AM EFFING FINE!!!!!  I’d blow up over something small. Then would come coldness. And physical sickness. And emotions that I didn’t care to link together. And I’d rationalize and bring the excuses. “I must be PMS-ing.” “Its just the baby blues.” “it’s just been a hard day/week/month” Oh yeah. And there was, the bedroom. The intimacy.  Uggg. The intimacy was … traumatic. For both of us. I’d break down, He  would scoop me up and wait it out while I sobbed, wondering what he did wrong, what he could do to fix it, and not knowing how. I’d fall asleep with tears on my face, and then I’d get back to life. BADA-BOOM BADA-BING.

This was the cycle.

So why bring it up? Uh, because it doesn’t really go away. It settles into the background quite a bit of the time, and life goes on. But every 14th of February, Valentine’s Day, I have the complete experience of wondering “How will I deal with it this year?”. Like clockwork. Five years ago, at 3 a.m. -ish, on V-Day, I awoke to an unpleasant experience with a man I’d never met. A co-worker’s boyfriend’s roommate found me sleeping on the sofa. And, I froze. I effing froze. As a grown-ass woman!. Again! As a mother of five, a wife, a grown-up, I felt helpless. All of a sudden, I was small again, and it didn’t matter that I was pinned down or that I could barely breathe with him on my chest. I just knew I had to disappear.

I was reliving my own personal hell.

When it was over, I was pondered the only victory I had. I belittled him out loud, and eventually squirmed enough that he fell off the sofa and crashed over the coffee table, bringing the boyfriend out to see what was wrong. The roomate fumed as I told the boyfriend to stay with me until the roommate left. And finally, the a-hole did. But not before he paced the room, glaring and threatening me behind his roommates head. Later, I pondered what I did to cause it, but mostly, I found that I had broken one cycle, at least. This time, I took initiative. I wasn’t the little girl anymore. I found my voice a bit. I didn’t have to do what men said, just to be polite. I stopped it.

I was also in shock. I drove home. It wasn’t until I got there, an hour later, that I put a name to what had happened: Assault. No. (gasp.) Rape. That was an ugly word. One I shied away from desperately. It was the first time I had ever allowed myself to believe that I did NOT want what had happened. In no universe did I bring this on. So I told my husband. We went to the hospital, and also reported it.

It was another hell.

I was bruised and cut already. I ached all over. I was shaking and hurting, but forms needed filling out. Personal accounting of the incident needed to be verbally shared over and over again, just so they got it right. Pictures of EVERY INCH OF ME were taken clinically and efficiently.   Now, I’m not saying that they weren’t as gentle as they could be. Or compassionate. They were. Many people there were furious. They let me know that I was right to come in. That there was no way this was consensual. Cuts and rips and tears and bruises were all documented.

I felt violated all over again.

The nakedness. The pictures that “Had to be documented for the record.” The chill in the air. The going from room to room to room, being poked and prodded. Never will I gloss over the words, “Rape Kit” again.

I share this because I took body memories home with me. I took phone numbers of advocates and officers and therapists and support groups, but  the biggest thing I took home was me wanting to disappear. I wanted to freeze all the  time. Getting out of bed was out of the question for quite a while. My husband and kids were supportive, but worried. I went from knowing how to live life to shying away from it. My mantra was, “Don’t look at me. Don’t notice me. I just want to fly under the radar.”

And I went there. I stopped singing. I stopped playing piano. I didn’t function at work. I gained 70 pounds. Anything I could do to stay still, I did. But, I did go to therapy. For years, actually. I talked about it, wrote about it, cried about it. And I saw slow improvement. I started being mom again. I started communicating with my husband and became much closer to him.

Except for the body memories.

They come up much less now, but when they do, I am right back in that hospital again. I’m exposed, and my everything hurts. All my private places, my vulnerable places… ache. Deep up inside me, I hurt, and I need to vomit. It comes up for days before the holiday, and I’m raw for days afterwards.

It’s hard to tell about. It’s hard to hear. Many people feel uncomfortable and wish I would keep it private. I wish, sometimes, that I could, as well. I’ll tell you why I don’t keep it to myself. It’s simply this: AVOIDING TABOO SUBJECTS AND HAVING ONLY POLITE CONVERSATION IS WHAT GOT ME HERE. Life is messy. I don’t like talking about it, honestly, but I will talk about it, and talk about it, and talk about it, until I don’t need to anymore. Until it is no longer a secret to me. Until it becomes something in the past. That will happen, by the way. Just like the scar on my leg. It happened, though. No longer will I buy into “You probably brought it on yourself.” and “We don’t talk that way.” Or “He is a guest in our home. Please be polite.” And definitely not “You wanted it. I can tell.”

That is the tragedy, and is over for me.

So here I am. I feel broken. And strong. I am a victim and a survivor. I am shamed and proud. I am terrified, yet ready to move forward. All of it at the same time, and that makes things complicated. I’ve been looking for closure, but I am learning that there isn’t so much closure as there is… forgiveness. From me, to me. Life will take care of the perps. Karma is a… well, you know. But what is imperative now in my life is allowing myself to forgive me for my weaknesses. My human-ness. My flaws. My should-have’s. That’s a tall order. And part of the cycle of healing.

It’s a start. Again.

Advertisements
 

Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

Here. Hand Me Your Purse…


That was how it ended. My date. With the man of my dreams.

he just offered to give up his man card to hold my purse so I could put on my jacket. In fact, he held the purse in a public place, right outside a movie theater for a minute or two so he could convince me that I did need the jacket In the first place. Yes, he argued, he knew I would get cold, even though I thought I wouldn’t. And… I was cold, Just like he knew I would be.

our date ended like that, but started with him telling me to put down my iPad and put on my jacket. We were going out. He wouldn’t tell me where. (I didn’t put on my jacket, but just held it on my lap because, I reasoned to myself, I was just going from the car a few paces to wherever we were going. He just looked at me indulgently.)

now he didn’t want to go out. We had been out earlier that day, but he could see that I was restless.

How could he know I was restless? Or that I would need my coat for later, but that I would ignore his suggestion that I put it on in the first place?   Oh yeah. He knows me better than i know myself. He is the man of my dreams. He has known me for a long time, and knows my pros and cons, my daily habits and tics, and he loves me anyway.

that is what makes him the man of my dreams. That he knows all of me and loves me in spite of me. He is my husband of 22 years.

Did I know he would be the man of my dreams when I first met him?  Um, no. In fact I got kind of ticked that he etched himself into my heart so quickly. I had a different plan for myself. I was to be a single, strong, independent woman who possibly ran the country, if not the world. I would invent something amazing, travel the world in fame and fortune, and…. Yada yada. You can assume the rest. I wanted to be a SOMEBODY.

I didn’t have time for him. Or for love.

my heart didn’t listen. The traitor. 🙂

for some unknown reason, this man fought for me to marry him, stay by his side through thick and thin, and make me smile daily. now here he is fighting with me to put on my jacket so I won’t catch cold? I fall in love with him all over again, every single day.

At the end of the date, I put on my jacket. I reached for my purse so he could get his man card back, but he just smiled at me like he knew what I was thinking. He deliberately held onto it for another 30 seconds, as if to let me know that holding a woman’s bag was not his kryptonite.

I smiled as I realized that I had indeed fallen for him again tonight. and I zipped up my jacket. He opened the car door for me, and climbed in.

 

My Husband is Not My Prince Charming


While this is not my story, it is my view. I loved it. Amen, sistah.

My Husband is Not My Prince Charming.

 
 

Tags: , ,

An Update…


Dad passed away on October 7th. Just 2 weeks ago now.
In some ways, it feels like years.
In other ways, I am still in the middle of it.

I see the sunshine seeping in my parents kitchen window. It’s about 2:00 PM, and it’s just that right temperature of warm but not too warm.  I still hear dad breathing hard in the other room, from his hospice bed. He is in the very last hours, and 2 of us kids hold his hands at all times. It’s not my turn. (When it is my turn, I look forward to touching his warm skin, and looking at his face, knowing I won’t have very long to do that.) His breathing gets easier for a bit, then stops. We all count, as we have been told that an apnea can come at this time, stopping the breathing for anywhere from 15-45 seconds. …5, …10, …15, and he takes in a deep breath. We all take a breath, too, and continue our scrabble game.

Yeah, scrabble. We were playing a game while my father was dying. We had been looking over and after him for 5 days straight, and as neighbors, friends, and relatives came to say their goodbyes,  or dropping off cards and food and hugs, well at some point we just realized that it was ok to do something other than watch the man die. It didn’t mean we loved him any less. In fact, it was probably a relief for him to hear some laughter and gossip coming from the next room, like in old times. (You should probably know that dad got 5 daughters, and would lament, only half jokingly, that he had somehow upset The Lord for Him to punish dad with so many chattering, laughing, bickering daughters…)

So we went on with our game. QAT was my word, and I got it hooked to a double word score. Woot! And I did woot, right out loud.  We all looked at each other quickly, and then at dad in the other room. And our voices raised even more. It was almost a relief to remember that we were allowed to be living, while he was dying. It was odd, but during this vigil, we still ate meals, and hugged each other, and talked normally.

At first this all felt like a betrayal. How dare I sleep when I should be watching over this dying man! Right? And I could not imagine leaving his hospital bed, whether to go to the bathroom or for food, a walk outside, or to play a game of scrabble. Why should I go do these things when he could not?  I don’t know what I expected. I guess for us to be hush hush around him so he could labor in quiet…. I guess that was it.

Well, life is not tidy.

What happened instead was 8 siblings descending upon the Thornton home, from across all sorts of states, all in various stages of grieving. The one thing that didn’t happen was quiet. I was stupefied. The house of grieving flipped like a switch. We had a room of crying and whispering. A room of food prep and eating. Then we had a room of catching up and visiting. And, because we are Thorntons, that room turned into a room of laughter and loudness. In all rooms, reverence was gone.

It was the best thing that happened, in my opinion.  Where I had been moping and obsessing before, being exhausted beyond belief, there was now a life and energy renewed.  Instead of literally watching a man die to death, we provided a father and husband with family living and celebrating his life all around him.

We played board games in the kitchen, just a few feet from where his hospice bed was set up.  We played the piano where he could hear his favorite songs. We put Pandora on the iPad and let him listen to the “Tabernacle Choir” channel because he loved the music so much. And it worked

Whatever IT was.

IT spread through the house gradually. Through each room of sadness, IT seeped in and smiled the sadness away. Oh.  The IT was… Peace.

Peace spread through the house and household. It made it ok for us to laugh or cry. It made it ok for us to sleep in, or stay up all nigh with our sweet dad. Peace made it ok for dad to rally at the end, for us.  He came out of the labored sleep he was in, and acknowledged those who were there in the house. He said he loved hearing the music. He touched our faces and let the little ones give him kisses or high fives. He loved our laughter and talking which, he said, just sounded like LOVE.

And that was when I let go of the process looking a certain way.  I was not in charge, and neither was anyone else. Dad’s death was between him and The Lord. My only responsibility was to be part of the peace and love that was family.  And so I did.

He passed away peacefully, between one breath and another, with family around him.

 

A New Day, A New Outlook…


Well. It is a new day, and after an emotional wreck of a day yesterday, and a lot of sleep, I have a new perspective. My dad is still on his journey with Cancer. I am still sad. And time is still ticking away too rapidly. I do see something new, though.

Nobody knows what will happen after death. Movies have been written about it. (Somewhere In Time, Heaven Can Wait, etc…) Books, articles, and stories are all about what CAN happen after death. Then there is the

Stairway to Heaven...

religion aspect of it. The faith that plays into BELIEVING what will happen after death. There are even people who have had a near-death experience. And they related their experience as well. But no one knows except the dead.

What comfort does that leave for us? None, unless we choose to buy in to a method of coping. I choose into the method of faith. Religion. Heaven, to be exact. I believe that I will see my dad on the other side. Which I guess means that death isn’t the end. Just a new beginning. I just have to wait a bit to see him. Which is what the sadness is about. I  will miss him. It isn’t that I don’t think I will ever see him again, it is just that I will miss that he isn’t there, in the flesh, in my house that I grew up in. It is a new phase. And I’m scared.

Life without dad. Not exactly true because I have the same memories that I have now. I live 8 hours away from him now, so I rely on memories anyway. My kids rely on memories. There is just something so comforting about the THOUGHT that he is in the house when I want to go see him. It’s my choice.  And now that choice will be taken away. Harrumph.

Well, I don’t have much to say except I feel better today. As I’m writing, my head is clearing, and I am learning a new perspective.

I talked with him again today, and I made another memory. Sure it is a sadder one, as he couldn’t really remember what we were talking about, and he mumbled a lot. But I got to make it , nonetheless. What really matters is that he is pain-free now, and comfortable. This is not something I am in charge of, and frankly, it isn’t about me at all. This is his path. His circumstances. I’m just along for the ride when I can. When I can get out there. When he talks with me on the phone or in person. That is when my path coincides with his. And I am honored to take whatever part in it that I can. Right now it is just a painful part, that’s all. I will cry when I need to, and love the memories I have, and the memories I make.

I’ll take it one day at a time, and that is enough.

 

Tags: ,

A Little Sun In Between Storms…


English: Blackbird in Crab Apple Tree. On a dr...

I almost feel new to this place. It has been so long since I have written, there is moss on the north side of my comfy chair.  The birds are warbling hesitantly outside my window as one winter storm passes, and a new one forms over the Rockies.  They sing just a little, on the branches of my crab-apple tree, then cock their heads as if listening for the ominous snowflakes that herald another foot-and-a-half-er.

I listen, too.

Then back to my iPad and on to the thought that has built up in me.  Why haven’t I written, I ask me. Well, says me, I haven’t had time.  I have been so busy. I have…. and the list builds up. The real answer is, however, just because I haven’t. Who cares, really? The writing is for me, and now here I am. The sun comes out, and I think that this time deserves my laptop time so I can really type fast. I realize I have things to say today. And out comes the laptop from its hiding place. I wipe off the dust, and boot it up, knowing I have neglected it, and issue a quick apology for it.

Sorry.

I haven’t written for a while because I have not felt like it, if the truth be known.  I have reminders set on my phone every day that let me know it is time to write for 15 minutes a day. I have ignored them for at least 2 months now. I have felt I don’t have anything to say. Which is silly because there is a lot to say.

Like The Thing. The sad thing. Someone close to me has Cancer. I’ve been in shock for a few days, as this is the first I have heard of the C word, but I have known something was wrong for about 2 months. They live far away, and I feel very far away now. You know how sometimes you can just pick up a phone and chat with someone and it is just like you are right there with them? Well, this is not that time. I feel sad, and I yearn to do …. something… to fix it, and I know I can’t.

I still call them, don’t get me wrong, and the conversation is good. A long, sincere talk. But I simply cannot take his hand and hold it now. I can’t see him smile when he talks about the good part of life. And I cannot see his face when he doesn’t hold it together for my sake. And I don’t think he should have to hold it together because he is on the phone with me.

In fact everything about the distance between us ticks me off. I have to use a phone or Skype to see him, well, it just blows. Mostly because I can’t touch his shoulder or hug him spontaneously. I hate that I get my news through a 3rd party, even well-meaning, because he is too tired to keep me up to date daily. I hate that I cannot just go pick up his mail, or vacuum his floor, or dust, or … any of a million chores that he is having a hard time with now. And my excuse is simply that I am far away.

I know that others do it for him, and that makes me sad, too. Even though I have leaky eyes when I write this, it is a relief to put it out there on the screen. It is a relief to say it out loud.

There is good news, as well, though.  Like…

 

My son Hayden wants to be a marine just as soon as he gets out of high school.  And no matter how I have ignored, patted him on the head, or tried to redirect him away from this decision, he has stayed true on this course. Nothing has made him waver.

So I started supporting him.

My son Hayden is now in Young Marines, and has turned into a recruit to be proud of. In spite of being in Boot Camp, with all the mud-crawling, miles-running, and yessir-ing he does, he holds his head high when he speaks. (His high and tight head, I might add. That is a mighty short hair cut, the military standards have…) Although he comes home from these trainings covered in mud and dirt, sweaty and exhausted, Hayden is happy, coming to the car with a smile on his face. He keeps his word in school and at home. He has a great attitude and is driven by the goals that the Young Marines have sparked in him. And he has bloomed. His teen-age grumpiness seems to have gone the way of the Dodo Bird. He smiles. He laughs. He looks adults in the eye when they talk with him. I am proud of him. So that is something to write about.

(A squirrel moves past my window at eye level.  He looks right into my eyes as he nibbles on a branch. I instinctively to the shoo-ing motion at it, then stop as I see that he doesn’t care one whit. I just turn back to my computer…)

Lastly, I have the Boston Marathon Bombing to write about. I have feelings of heartache right along feelings of pride for both the citizens of Boston and police officers that put themselves in harm’s way to aid those that couldn’t help themselves.  I also am exhausted from staying up late night after night, watching the news and hoping for some resolution. I could have read or heard about it in the next morning’s news episode, but to me, it would feel a bit of a betrayal to go to sleep in my bed, all comfy and stress-free, when so many others could not do so.

Again, I feel far away, with no ability to help.  I hate that feeling.

The feeling of elation that happened last night, when the police were tipped off that the last suspect was hiding out in a boat in someones yard, all wounded and desperate…well, that finally seemed to burst a bubble in me, and I could let things go from there. The police apprehended the boy without me. The anchor man on TV reported it all just fine without me. The citizens in the town cheered and waved and loved the police… all without my help. I was able to turn off the TV, and the iPad, and let it go last night.

So now I finish my thoughts at noon, all snuggled down in my favorite spot for writing, and look out the window at my yard. It gives me mixed signals, based on the mixed signals of the weather. There is snow, drifted in all the corners of my yard, on the patio, and covering all my plants. We just finished a large storm that kept us inside for 30 hours. But today, the sun gives us better news. The grass is green and free of snow. The sun is out, and it is about 50 degrees, reaching its sunny hands into all the places that shadow doesn’t hold. Water is pouring off the roof and down the gutters, and it is a gurgling, happy sound.

I guess I have my mixed signals as well.  While I am saddened about some things that go on around and in my life, I have happiness to go with it, and I am grateful.  While I haven’t written and expressed my feelings and thoughts on here for a while, I have the ability and drive to do so today. Again, I am grateful.  Being back in the saddle is a good feeling. I have no idea how long it will last, but it is a good day. 🙂

 

 

Tags: , , , , , , ,

Trying out a new story…


English: Schematic map of the italian regions ...

So here I am, writing for my 15 minutes. I really don’t know what to say today.

I have put in my time starting a story. It’s about a girl who is almost out of Julliard as a Cello player, has a wealthy boyfriend, and some good prospects. All she and her parents have trained her for are about to come to fruition. She is a small town girl who works hard to fit in with the New York crowd. She never wants to go back to small town life, in fact, and it doesn’t look like she has to. However her life takes a turn when all but 1 auditions fall through, and that audition takes her to Italy, where she knows no one, doesn’t know the language, or the atmosphere. She loses even that prospect and has to face that she may not be as good as she thinks she is.

Dejected, she starts the short journey to the airport when her wallet and identity are stolen. She is stuck and has to rely on others to survive in Italy. Through a kind man, she ends up playing in a small group for a traveling opera around the smaller regions of the country. She learns to rely on small town people to keep her going, and she finds a love of the country and a man.  She also finds out what it is to let go of fortune and fame, and embrace service and love.

I like it, but we will see how it really takes off, when I start fleshing it out.

 

Tags: , , ,

 
%d bloggers like this: