They were cuddling on the couch watching the 11 o’clock news.  The house was silent, except for the TV, kids tucked in hours ago.

“There’s that woman.”  She said straightening up.  ”Her husband shot her three times in the head and she played dead.  For seven hours she just lay there.”

“What did she do to deserve it?”  He asked.

I watched her telling me these things, wondering if today would be the day she would spill her secrets.  The morning was bright, the sun streaming in across the table of the breakfast joint we’ve frequented every first Saturday of the month for 12 years now.  She slides her cell phone across the table, a brave smile trembling on her lips.

“He’s keeping track of me.  Wherever I go, he knows.”

I glance at the text she had received from her carrier, a text telling her that another number is keeping track of her phone’s location.  Her eyes glisten and she wiggles her nose to keep the tears away.

“I just want you to know.  Just in case.  I know you write about these things.”

I know better than to ask what he does.  There are things she cannot bring herself to say, even to me, one of her closest friends.  And I know better than to ask why she stays.  I know the church she is part of.  Her family’s reputation within it.  The fact that no matter what, she would be found at fault and not he.  And then of course, there are the children. One must always consider the children.

I had an inkling that things weren’t what they seemed.  A certain wince she’d quickly mask with a smile if I’d give her a tight hug.  A sad look in her eyes when we’d talk about our husbands.

The things that happen behind closed doors.  Who can tell?  Sometimes the children wake up with nightmares of things real (and imagined, to be sure), in their pretty princess and cowboy bedrooms, their little hearts heavy, their spirits dragging.  Wondering if it was something they did.  Feigning sleep, and praying for it all to stop.  And you go driving down the street of beautiful homes, manicured lawns, luxury cars in the garage, and think how perfect it is, and how you wished you lived right there, in that particular home with the silk Bergere chairs framed by the leaded window, and Savonnerie rugs throughout the house.  The lamp left on in the downstairs hall has such a welcoming warm glow.  But you don’t know.  You have no idea at the horror the pretty things are masking.

I read somewhere that truly beautiful people can obliterate you.  I don’t remember if it was Margaret Atwood or Isabel Allende who said it, but the phrase stuck with me, although I am not certain I wholeheartedly agree with it.  Sure, there are some beautiful people that just leave you speechless.  I have a few such friends.  When I see them I wonder how such physical perfection can occur.

Standing next to them though, I hold my own.  I have charm and wit on my side.  I grew up in a subculture where cosmetic enhancement of any sort was frowned upon, yet beauty was the calling card of any girl lucky enough to claim it.  When I was young an uncle told me that if a girl was not beautiful of face, she would do well to be likable, and I truly believed him.  I think the French teach their daughters the same.  I could be mistaken, but I’m pretty sure.  French women are utterly charming!

Anyway, a few days ago I was reading a post written by Holly of #mce_temp_url# (I will figure this thing out soon.  I promise!).  And she was talking about a project she was going to be a part of, regarding beauty.  A project that will explore the concept of beauty from all angles, seeking to find what is the truth of it.  Because I am so enthralled by the word, let alone the idea, and because Holly never fails to amuse and enchant me with her intelligence, I decided to go and find out if more participants were needed.

Yes, more were needed.  And guess what? You can be a part of this too, should you so desire.  A Beautiful State of Mind - The Project, is still seeking contestants.  Visit #mce_temp_url# to find out more and participate in the discovery of your inner and outer beauty.  Rhiannon, the founder of this project, is seeking women of all ages and all cultures to explore this often elusive and misunderstood concept.  I can hardly anticipate the answers to some fascinating questions I am certain will pop up along the way.

Now for the icing on the cake, here is a photo of me taken with my iphone, sans make-up.  I would like to point out that my son doesn’t think make-up really does anything for me.  He says I’m pretty much the same without it.  Just more faded. Enjoy!

I suppose it is inevitable, as I am surrounded by my wonderful sisters and so many good friends, that every once in a while my thoughts turn to the friends I’ve betrayed and those that have betrayed me.  I catch myself considering each failure in part and wishing for another chance at a friendship that ended based on a misunderstanding or childish tantrum.

Because even years later a handful of these failed friendships still consume, I imagine holding out the olive branch and sitting down together over a cup of coffee to figure out if the friendship is still worth saving, or if we had outgrown it and we need to both continue on our separate ways.  I am not so daft, as not to know that there are all sorts of friendships and that some are formed to serve some purpose and once that is completed the friendship terminates (had a few of those), while others are a connection between the souls, some sort of craving to share the good, the bad, the beautiful, and the ugly. These fully dimensional friendships gone awry are what I’m talking about.

I admit that when younger, injustices against the goodness I saw so clearly in myself, brought out the petulance so near the surface.  It seemed a violation of the unconditional gift I was offering, and my reaction at the time appeared justified. I couldn’t imagine how anyone could take a friendship so lightly.

However, going our separate ways, I imagine we both felt lost and hurt. While I had been able to salvage one of those friendships a few years back, I’ve noticed that the trust is slower to build up and I have to remind myself to be patient and act my age.  The hesitant hand held out was grasped with the same eager uncertainty, and it gives me hope that the others out there, my long lost soul sisters might be just as enthusiastic to reconnect.

And so, that is what I plan on doing going into the month of February. I plan to love, to share, to cherish, to be patient, to be grateful and to rekindle those much missed old friendships.

When my paternal grandmother died, her daughter and daughters-in-law prepared her body for burial.  For three days they kept her open casket in the middle of the front room while neighbors and the church community stopped in to pay their respects.  Every single evening her seven loving children held a vigil in their childhood home, the room and hallway filled with people.  I was eight years old at the time.  I sang a song one night that to this day makes me cry.  It was a song about a mother and her love for her offspring.  As old as time itself, it was my daddy’s favorite song.  I remember that I could barely finish singing it, as everyone in the room was crying, myself included.

I cried for my daddy who lost his mommy.  I couldn’t imagine a worse fate.  What is a mother, but the sun, the moon, the stars, buttered bread, warm milk, down pillows, storytimes, golden apples, silvered pears, castles in the sky, dragons, princesses, tears, laughter, hugs, kisses, and forevermore love.  As a mother myself now, there is only one thing worse.  And I cannot fathom it.

Death had come and took with it a dear friend’s mother today, another sweet friend’s grandmother days ago, and still insatiable, it lingers in the darkened corners of another sweet friend’s family.  I have nothing to offer, no words of comfort to erase the pain or lighten the heartache, just a reminder that LOVE will remain.  Death has no power over that.  I am thinking of you three.  I can’t stop thinking of you.  I love you.

This is a work of fiction.  Although it is loosely based on a childhood neighbor who hated children, Christians and Jews, I have no way to know if any of it is true.  All I know is that one day a breathtaking beautiful young girl appeared out of nowhere, hired herself as a maid to the richest family in the city and ended up marrying the son.  Rumors swirled and people talked, and I only knew her as a woman of a certain age, yet my nine year old self couldn’t help but wonder how a beautiful woman such as she, could be so mean and spiteful.  Here is one version.  I have written a few others, but since this is the one I have shared with my writing group, this is the only one I will share for now.

Hope you enjoy it, but if you are easily offended, it’s best if you don’t read further.

Muriel

The village itself looks like a fairy tale come to life. The narrow streets are lined with pastel-colored lime-washed houses underneath steeply sloped shingled rooftops. Luminous light bathes the jagged peaks of the mountain where the ruins of an ancient fortress still stand. I have lived here my entire 17 years and know no other home.

Every Tuesday on my way to the market I ponder what is on the other side of these granite walls God has surrounded us with. The thirty minutes it takes to walk there, across the man-made bridge spanning the thunderously rushing river, and on through another village almost identical to ours, pass by in a dream. I reflect on many things upon my walk, but mostly my thoughts go back to the souls who have lost their lives in that river. Each spring the body of a woman is seen floating downstream, victim of the slippery logs men put up as a temporary crossing, or victim of despair. Last year’s woman was rumored to have carried the priest’s child. No one knows for certain, and rumors find a fertile soil in the minds of peasants, yet a number of old women claim to have seen the two lovers in the blue dark of the night, beneath the cluster of willows at the water’s edge.

I have carried a secret for the last two months, and I dare not breathe a word of it. My sister knows, and she is my accomplice. In my womb there grows a child, and as the first, it is a child that must not be. My marriage is not a happy one, and hasn’t been. I am married to a harsh, shrewd and cruel man. The voice coming out of his square and bony face appears to be only giving orders and finding fault.

During the wedding procession I dropped my glove twice upon the dusty road. The first had been as we made our way to the town hall to place an imprint of our thumbs in the marriage register, and the second, from there to the church where the matrimonial ceremony was chanted by the sexton and we were crowned in sparkling silver crowns.

Once alone is bad luck, but twice, that is a portent for certain disaster. And soon enough it came, because some things are meant to be. That very first night in our bedchamber, I received my initiation beating.

The musicians had been strumming on their lutes, blowing through their bagpipes and their clarinets. The wedding guests were loud and tipsy from too much drink. When my husband entered me there had been no bleeding, only dryness. With suspended breath and clenched muscles I wondered what he would do. I could hear the women whisper and snicker on the other side of the door, perhaps wondering what was taking so long and where my bloodstained shift was. How they would enjoy the spectacle and revel in it.

But my husband is a proud man. He does not appreciate being made the fool. He appreciates it even less made public. And so he pricked my skin with my hairpin, unmercifully drawing blood, oblivious to anything but getting his revenge and saving face. He smeared my thin nightgown with it, promising me a lifetime of fear, and took it to his mother.

I suppose I should be grateful. He could have flung me in the crowded hallway; he could have called me a whore; he could have invoked the old law of the harrow and paraded me through the streets of the village, before dumping my shamed body in my father’s courtyard and demanding more. He was within his rights. And within those rights the beating, the kicking, and the chocking started. I had plowed the ground, sowed the seed, and it had rained on it.

Ah, why did I marry him, you ask? At fifteen when I first saw him at the village dance, I was the most beautiful girl in the surrounding hamlets and villages. My flaxen hair and pale skin, my green eyes and rounded body, brought suitors from afar. Good looks and health had been my dowry, for my family was poor and sickly, burying it seemed, a child every spring until only my older brother, my sister and I remained. My mother coddled the two of us girls, feeding us the fat off the milk by spoonfuls, and we grew up into beauties. And he had been an officer in the army, recently moved back into the family home due to an injury for which he had been greatly decorated. I had been seduced. It wasn’t every day that a hero proposed.

What my mother-in-law knows is hard to tell. Yes, I live under her roof, or better to say, under the roof of my husband’s childhood home, where the mother-in-law reigns until the day of her death. I often see a smirk upon her wrinkled face on the mornings after my nights of fright. Her small, beady eyes are hard and cruel, and she would hit me herself if my husband allowed it. But he does not. He prefers me to fear him alone. And I do; I live in the terror of his shadow, a terror that has built a nest inside my heart.

On the other side of the river, behind a grove of acacias, is a narrow pebbled pathway that goes deep into the wide woods. I have heard whispers of this place. I come upon a clearing and stop in front of a little hut. Turtle-doves resting in its mossy roof stir at my footsteps and dart in quick flight. White and red geraniums crowd themselves around the mud and twig structure. An arched door opens and a toothless woman comes out, her rheumy eyes watching me expressionlessly. She stretches out her palm and accepts the gold coin I place within, not once taking her eyes off mine. The interior is dark and smells of wood smoke and damp ground and something else I cannot name. I force myself to stay inside its walls. She points me to a straw filled mat. I undress and she surveys my body, taking in the fullness of my small breasts and the flatness of my belly. My waist hasn’t yet thickened.

I gulp down the repulsive mud hued drink she hands me, and pray for it to go down quickly. It is much better to drink this than to eat the beetles she keeps in a large jar, as I had done the last time. With this one, the nausea is earlier than with the first. A certain sign that it wants a chance at life. The old woman kneels beside me and begins to massage my belly pressing down hard. I wonder if it’s possible for my body to split in two. Sweat pours down my temples and pops out of my eye sockets. The witch stabs at my insides with knitting needles and suctions at my privates with cupping glasses. I hear the crows caw outside, and I shudder. Slowly, I feel myself floating away.

When I awaken the light in the room is bright and I know the sun must be at mid-day. The woman helps me dress, unhurried but full of purpose, showing me how to clean myself and apply the witch hazel. As I’m about to leave, her eyes reach out and stroke mine. No words are needed between us. She doesn’t judge me.

My sister awaits me at the edge of the clearing, shielded from view by the thorny blackberry bushes. She helps me change into the man’s trousers and pullover sweater she has brought, and chops my long braid off with shears. I am thin, too thin, and overworked. There are muscles in my arms and muscles in my legs. I can easily pass for a boy. She hands me a satchel containing a dry salami roll, a change of clothing, and our brother’s stolen bulletin. To get through these woods and over the mountain, I need to be playing the part of a man. We cry for a bit, holding each other tight. Only God knows the future, and if we will ever see each other again. My discarded clothes she will take and dump into the river. And when the villagers find them and start the search for my body, she will cry alongside our mother and pull at the roots of her hair. But by then I will be far away. And this life here, but a distant memory.

mommy and me

So, I am only adding this photo because I adore the fashion sense of#mce_temp_url# and contacted her as to what I should wear for my sister’s wedding.  She chose something extraordinary just as I knew she would, yet I ended up not wearing it because I worried the color would blend in with the ocean too much and imagine how wide I would have really looked.

I wore this plum colored dress instead.  My lovely mom wore black because it is her favorite color to wear, and suddenly it’s acceptable to wear black to weddings.  No, not really.  But she did have a recent surgery and wanted to wear a glamorous color if she couldn’t wear a glamorous dress.  Someone asked if I was a contender on a belly dancer reality show (?????), and someone else confused me with an Egyptian singer (again, ?????)… And all along I thought I looked very classy.  Hmm…

So, Kate, next time I will take your advice!

I’m torn when it comes to awards.  For the longest time I couldn’t figure out how to add them to my blog.  When I finally got it, I realized that maybe it had been best if I hadn’t.  It feels too much like a popularity contest, and in all fairness, I want everyone to be popular, because everyone is special in their own way (don’t I sound just like a grade school teacher saying that?).  However, it is so very rude to receive something and not accept it.

So with that in mind, here are my most recent awards.

First: 

Thank you Deb for thinking of me.  I truly feel honored that you’ve selected me as one of your recipients.  Please visit with Deb at #mce_temp_url#.   I love how deeply and purely Deb feels.  Her words give me goosebumps and tingles, and glue themselves to my heart.

Second:

Deb (not the same one, mind you)  at#mce_temp_url# wants me to tell you my deepest, darkest secrets.  Her blog is filled with wonderful ideas for writers, and I learn something new every time I visit.  Make sure you stop on by.

My last two awards:  and

come from lovely Michelle at #mce_temp_url#.  Michelle loves books!  Apparently she, too, wants me to divulge my secrets.  Ha!  Go visit her and read her reviews.

And now, not to be a spoilsport, I will share 5 things about me.

1.  I am the oldest of 5 children.  That means I have grown up with a distorted view of my own authority in the family.  I believe it’s within my rights to boss people around.  Sadly, no one shares my feelings on this.

2.  I don’t like cats because of the insides of their ears.  When I was young, I got grossed out being able to see so far down in there.

3.  I am vain.  Yet I love chocolate.  I struggle daily between my love of self and love of chocolate.  Chocolate mostly wins.

4.  I used to love confrontation, now I hate it.

5.  When we came to the States we were brainwashed by a certain church we attended.  Some really weird things happened there.  There was a grown man, for instance, father of 10, who stood up in church one day and demanded that all girls over the age of 12 pin up their hair, as they were the cause of his impure thoughts.  All the girls were forced to pin up their hair AND cover their heads.  We had to wear long sleeves and dresses long enough to touch our ankles.  The guy continued to lead the church in prayer from time to time.  I was 14 when we left that church.  I was publicly accused of being a temptation because someone had seen me in the park wearing shorts and riding a bicycle.  Did I say, I was 14?  We left the church, and the state weeks after.  I could write a dozen books on the craziness that place inspired in others.

That’s it!  Now everyone, grab an award!  But before you leave, thank you for visiting me, and supporting me, and showing your love.  And if any of you want to friend me on Facebook, click on the About Me link, up there on the left so you see what I look like.  The photo there is my current profile photo on Facebook.

God bless you all!

my sister and her husband after their vows.

my daughter

Something very odd happened to me today.  Although I have mentally tried to prepare myself for such instances throughout my year of blogging, I was far from prepared.  Two emails arrived within hours of each other, patronizing in tone, almost verging on hateful.  The senders aren’t Peeping Toms into my life, I know them both.  And that’s why I am shocked and saddened.  Not to flatter myself in any way, but I know that the motive behind the snarky attacks are not due to a concern about whether my soul would burn in hell.  Rather they are about envy.  It’s as pure and simple as that.

I will not laugh them off, nor will I respond personally.  I do not owe anyone any explanations.  And I will not live my life excusing myself to others no matter how much they wish to condemn me.

You won’t hear me complain of this again.  It is no more than a footnote in the story of my life.

When Krista of #mce_temp_url# asked if I’d like to guest post, I felt as honored and nervous as I did going on my first date with the boy of my dreams.  I accepted, of course.  She’s too beautiful of heart and spirit (and also of face) to turn down.  And she is a superb writer. So, will you please head on over and see what I had to say?  After that make sure you go through her posts.  You’ll gasp in awe at her words.

I have been in awe of Lidia Boicu’s photography for quite some time. To begin with, I did not know much about her personal story, although I did know that she is my age, a cancer survivor and mom to a preschooler.  I was drawn to her determination to persevere and confront the enemy by living her life passionately, and by giving back to the community of families affected by cancer through her non-profit organization, Tiny Sparrow Foundation.  Facebook brought us together, and gave us the chance to form a real friendship when we started conversing over the phone, and finally met in person.

Through Tiny Sparrow Foundation, Lidia has been offering families with children suffering life threatening illnesses, free of charge professional portraits and albums, while bringing smiles to those faces most needing of them.

Lidia, how would you describe yourself?

I would say that I am optimistic and motivated.  I try to live my life without fear.

Have you experienced any miracles?

Oh, so very many.  When I was 5 months pregnant with my daughter, I developed an infection for which I was hospitalized.  My white blood cells were so high and the doctors determined I had C-diff.  It was so out of control that I was in the hospital for 2 months.  My colon was inflamed and my body retained so much water that I soon ballooned out to 240 lbs. Although I was on both Morphine and Oxycodone, the pain was excruciating. I had a nurse that had to just take care of me and she would come at night and massage my body in hopes the pain would go away.

Those moments when somebody reached out to me are in my mind forever.  My hand in somebody’s when I was in the lowest of lows was so astounding that I vowed that if I got better I would be the person offering comfort.

I did get better, and 3 months later my baby was born.  She, however, was missing her entire sternum… You could see her heart beating.  At 5 weeks old she woke up choking, we rushed her in and the doctors discovered a hemangioma blocking 75% of her airway.  We were hospitalized.  At 7 weeks she was diagnosed with PHACES, a relatively new condition discovered in 1997, affecting only 200 worldwide, and lacking information on it.  We were hospitalized again.  And then again when she was nine months and we determined that fixing her sternum was necessary as it protects major arteries.

When my daughter was two, I was diagnosed with an aggressive form of breast cancer which involved my lymph nodes.  The miracles started pouring in.  Although we were in a new town and knew no one, people jumped in cooking meals for us, helping with my daughter, cleaning the house.  I had a double mastectomy and a hysterectomy and spent many hours in bed.

Is that when you started your photography?

Yes, my husband had gotten me a nice SLR digital camera for Christmas.  I placed my computer in bed next to me and learned photoshop.  I took picture after picture.  After I recuperated, at the encouragement of my new found friends, I decided that I would take my photography to a different level.  Cancer gave me the courage I needed and had been lacking. I contacted Kate McRae’s family and told them that I wanted to provide them with professional photos of Kate and their family.  I was surprised when they agreed.

Do you think about dying?

Only every single day.  But I am not afraid anymore.  Life is a journey.  Still, I would love more than anything to be here for my daughter.  She beat all odds.  I so want to see her grow up into a beautiful young woman.

Any regrets, Lidia?

That I have spent too much time agonizing over what people think and say.  And for what?  No one has a perfect life.  Everyone has problems.

How do you want to be remembered?

That I made a difference in someone’s life.  That I have built strong, lasting relationships.  But I don’t want the focus to be on me.  I want it to be on those little boys and girls that Tiny Sparrow Foundation is hoping to touch.  Their memory will live on.

Thank you, Lidia.  Please take a moment and visit:#mce_temp_url# Bookmark the site, and if you find it in your heart, please make a donation.