The Beginning

Preface:

At times, my verbal purging is raw. My words are honest and in full representation of my thoughts, my heart, and my spirit. I share these things as a means of bonding with those who might recognize me. I ask, that you not only read the print on paper, but look deep between the lines. Life is not colored in black and white. There is a precarious balance when using words like: never & always. Search for rainbows.

My description and telling of my life’s events is candid. I pen this tale, not so that you will feel sorry for me; rather, I elaborate to empower and encourage. My journey makes suggestions to find meaning from experience whether tormented by fear or joyful in simplicity. To pay attention, though your days seem ordinary or mundane. There is dignity in shining light on a place that was once dark. Life’s challenges are meant to propel us forward by honoring what has come before. When we can heal the past with forgiveness, then, and only then, are we able to let go.

I can not tell a story of days for it is only moments that are remembered.

.....and so I begin

The definition of the word Mother, according to Dictionary.com, is:a female parent. A daughter regards this word with a multitude of emotion and therefore definitions become plenty. Birth vessel, mentor, disciplinarian, advisor, dangerous, intimidating, soft, loving, unrelenting, judge, jury, nurturing, frightening, powerful, weak, understanding, critical.... My mother was all of these wrapped up in one body with a conflicted soul.

I don’t think we fully comprehend the power of our parents life, before our own began. The past, for me as a child, seemed a fairy tale of people and places that existed "once upon a time". I believed that my parents life began with mine. Isn’t that the beauty of youth? To embody innocence by living in the moment.

As time went on, I realized my parents were not only influenced by their past, they were bound by it. Each word, each action hinged on the whispers of ghosts. Voices from the past were crying out from beyond the grave. Thus, perpetuating generational cycles. Do we succumb or do we survive by becoming warriors? Do we fight vehemently for change without exception? Or do we find comfort in complacency?

My parents fought with the passion of a starving man put before a feast. They used this passion, however, to fight each other with debilitating reactions to past hurt and pain. Events that kept replaying over and over again, though, through different circumstances and scenarios. Consequently, they would keep spiraling into darkness by excepting the lack of light.

Solutions came in the form of broken dishes, language that splattered like bullets, and intense physical combat. They were ravenous and explosive with fervent love and vengeful hate. Kill or be killed. But how do you gauge victory in an emotional war? The carnage and mayhem is void of recovery and becomes detrimental. Once words are spoken without consequences we can’t un-hear. I bore witness to this without realizing my own fortitude and pacts for the future.

The intensity of violence could turn without remorse to tenderness. Loving embraces and soft gentle words would round the sharp edges of scorn and bitterness. So rich in compassion were these two souls, their bodies intertwined without effort in cradling the other. I would hastily meld myself into these moments. My little body was weary from the wars that raged. Thirstily, I would drink the essence of purity which took us far from the battle cries. I would gasp and gulp, for I knew, that without warning, I would be required to walk the dry, arid desert once more. It was powerful to be in the presence of extremes.

When we know better we do better -Maya Angelou

I must believe that my parents did the best they could with what they knew. Otherwise, I would be left to imagine my conception acted out by monsters. They believed destiny to be by chance and not by choice. They found a comfortable complacency there. Attempting a smooth ride, but getting sucked into divots. At times, fighting furiously to turn the wheel, but to no avail. Was the phrase "stuck in a rut" coined from such a pattern?

I can fantasize a different reality. June and Ward Cleaver. In actuality, however, my mother was one who physically reacted to her disordered brain process. My father was a sweet enabler unto her derangement. His happy demeanor would fade with every sip of his evening scotch.

By the age of seven, the universe was teaching me that I was responsible for my own security and happiness. I was master of my destiny and keeper of the key. I was to be a warrior. A warrior knows by instinct when a battle is about to ensue. Survival was my teacher and I rarely made the same mistake twice.

I am able to remember the exact moment I became aware that I was raising my parents, and not vice versa. My mother acted and reacted as if I were the cause to everything. My life defined hers, and her life defined my father’s. My existence was a gauge to happy or sad; mad or glad; rage or bliss; guilt or innocence. If you were to put all your eggs in one basket, I was my parents proverbial basket. Keeper of the eggs to all hopes and dreams.

Leaves -1964-

It was autumn with a sky of bluest blue. I longed to feel the cool air on my face. I loved the sensation and flush of rosy cheeks. I wanted to run and breath the scent of fallen leaves. I remember every detail with all of my senses. I need only close my eyes.

There was a comforting sound that rose up to my bedroom window provoking my desire to reach the outdoors. My father was raking and it was my invitation to join him. There was nothing more comforting to me than standing in his company. He had a smile and a laughter that reached inside your heart. His green eyes had the ability to tell stories. They sparkled with genuine expression of his love. He was my peace. He was my knight.

I threw on jeans, a turtleneck and a bulky sweater. My long hair hung to my waist, though, normally pulled tightly back in a braid. It rarely hung free, but I was in too much of a hurry to stop for coiffing.

Once I reached the out of doors, I sought after my tool of season. My little hands maneuvered their way around the full sized rake. It stood a good foot taller, but what a big girl was I in helping her dad with the chores. Our synchronized rakes created a melody that sang like a symphony. We would catch each other’s gaze and smile with mutual admiration.

I believed for those first seven years that my life was as it should be. My father was adoring and attentive. My mother would weave in and out with no consistency or reason. She was dark and then she was light. She was there, and then she wasn’t. Asleep in her room, checked out to leave me on my own. Or, teaching me lessons that remained after the bruises healed. It seemed normal and OK. I felt that I had a balance to turmoil. I was merely waiting for the event that would change it all. I knew I would be saved.

Without warning, a horrible sound came crashing down and muted the sound of rakes and fallen leaves. My mother’s voice pierced through the autumn air and called out my name in damnation. "CHRISTIE!!!! CHRISTIE!!!!"

Initially, it would seem that I should be filled with terror, but I had waited my whole life for this moment. My mother had never taken retribution in the presence of my father. I had believed that my suffering of irrational consequences would come to an end the day my brave savior was versed against the beast.

The screaming from indoors became closer and louder. "CHRISTIE" and then guttural, "Where are you?" I remember feeling giddy with anticipation, until I caught my father’s gaze. There was no adoration, no smile, no attempt at my defense. And then, a moment that changed destiny and hung like a cloak on a hook. I shattered into a million pieces as I stared in disbelief. My father’s eyes averted mine, and he resumed raking leaves.

Time began to play in slow motion.. "Save me." I screamed, but without sound. "Save me." I said telepathically as his back turned and the sound of raking drowned my thoughts. "Save me." went rolling down my cheeks in tears that hit my hands as I released my rake.

I began to walk slowly toward the back door. Nobody runs toward the face of danger. My little heart was pounding. My dreams were dying with every step. I was not prepared to see the rust of armor and my knight fall from grace. My hand reached for the door handle, and there was no force to stop me.

My young life had already given me pause for moments that would require my spirit to move beyond my physical body. Unspeakable retribution for irrational causes. My rosy cheeks flushed from the crisp October sky would be the cause for this day.

"Were you outside?" came shrill from her lips in upper octaves. I felt the familiar terror of uncertainty. "Yes." I replied in a quivering voice. "Are you CRAZY?" My ears heard sound as if I were under water. My mother’s face was contorted with the insanity of her rage. This kind of anger never made sense. She believed my outdoor adventure would spiral me back into ill health, though I had been recovered for days.

Without warning, she reached out and used my long hair to enmesh her hands. I struggled with balance as she abruptly pulled me backwards. My feet fought furiously to gain ground to alleviate weight from my scalp. I was dragged from the kitchen, up the stairs, down the hall and into my room.

All the while, she was screaming incoherently about the flu, relapsing and my excursion outside being premature. Once she had me where she wanted me, she disengaged and I was propelled forward. I hit the floor face down.

Out of fear in having my back towards her, I rolled over to face my punishment. The glint of the metal spatula reflected the morning sun and her hand rose skyward. "Pull down your pants!" "Nooooooo!" I was screaming in full terror. Where was my knight? Why was he not riding in on his white horse? Where was his mighty sword? When would he save me and behead this horrible beast?

Each slap came down with a searing pain. The target being the inside of my thighs, soft and sensitive. My spirit took flight and watched on as my body took blow after blow. My mind continued to display images of a valiant knight’s crusade. Then the visions were gone as I lay beaten and helpless on my bedroom floor.

My mother exited through the slamming door. I lay there for a while with my pants around my ankles. I was afraid to get up. I knew then that everything I had believed was only my belief. It wasn’t real. My father was afraid. There would never be a rescue.

When I finally rose to my feet, I walked slowly to my bedroom window. I looked out at our backyard. Tears welled up in my eyes, and I fought to focus......on my father.....still raking leaves.

2007

A life lived without regret is a life filled with purpose. -Christabel-

Journey to Africa

Was I really going to Africa? Alone? A singular thought acted on just by saying it outloud?

I sat before the travel agent. Jane, my ex-husband's wife; my daughter's step-mother; and now my commerade in my path for peace. We spoke a foreign itinerary of names and places I onced dared to only dream. Mozambique. A world away. There would be multiple flights with layovers, time differences and languages to cross. My hand shook as I wrote the check with no turning back. It was to be my journey.

Amazon.com afforded the Pimsleur method to European Portuguese. I imagined speech of a more tribal content, but was quick to learn that Portugal once occupied this massive country in Africa. A wretched enslavement of the natives who would gain their freedom in 1975. It is questionable if this freedom created independence. The struggle of poverty, education and advancement is far reaching today, thirty four years later.

My trip was scheduled to begin on May 27th 2009. The daunting process of preparation began in January. I sent away for my first passport and once received mailed it off to the Embassy of Mozambique to gain a travel visa. I began the schedule of vaccinations (ie Hepatitis A&B, yellow fever, and tetanus). I was given contemplation to the 4 different types of Malaria meds. Claustophobia, paranoia, and nightmares was on the list of side effects. A hard thing to sign up for, but getting malaria, for sure, far worse. Malarone became my drug of choice, and I am happy to report I felt no ill effect. A pill taken daily, and I remained diligent in upholding the regiment.

January afforded time and space that loomed way out in the distance. Without warning, the months gave way to weeks, days and then, abruptly, a tomorrow. Richie and Haig prepared to drive me to the Comfort Inn near the Portland Jetport on Tuesday, May 26th. My mind was spinning with details and retracing every item in my suitcase. Richie and Haig looked on, tearfully, as we wheeled my luggage up to my room after a dinner at Chile's. How to say good-bye? It felt strange and unchartered. The distance left to travel so magnifiscent and mysterious. We found our words and embraced to settle emotions. And the journey begins....

The wake up call came at 3:45am. I was downstairs and boarding the shuttle in quick time. My heart fluttered in my chest, and there was no way to appease anticipation. I gave myself to the process and knew that time was moment to moment. I would savor every second.

I said good-bye to my suitcase at JFK. It was filled with birthday surprises from Jamie and I for Nia's 24th birthday. Shredded swiss cheese, chocolate brownie torte, the movies Rent and Sister Act 2, to name a few. Precious cargo in the making of a joyful reunion. "See you in Maputo", I quietly regarded to my luggage, myself and the clerk at check-in.

Approaching hour 8 of the 15 hour flight to Johannesburg, I felt my ass bone had drilled a hole in my seat. I sat next to an unfortunately heavily set man who sweat a great deal and incessantly spoke about himself. He would happily receive extra food that I would not consume, and at one point looked on and uncomfortably expressed an unsettled stomach. I closed my eyes, took a deap breath and privately chanted, "This is part of the experience".

A six hour lay over in "Jo Burg" afforded me time to explore every nook and cranny of this massive port. I was in awe over the fact that I was now "in" Africa. Spending US dollars and receiving change in Rand. How international.

My flight to Maputo (the capitol of Mozambique) threw me right into my Pimsleur method. My limited Portuguese would find me deciphering words and breaking down content. Intimidating, at best, and fascinating all the same. As the wheels touched down, my heart soared knowing that my daughter was in reach.

Franco, my Mozambican taxi driver, met me as promised. I was quick to hand over my travels to this English speaking beacon. The language had become a little frightening for me alone. There was no other for me to turn to and say, "What?"....more like "Que?" and then the reply would be lost on my ears. Frantically, searching for words to recognize.

I was expeditiously wheeled out of the airport by a little man who would bypass customs. That turned out to not be an advantage when I was ready to leave the country. It seemed a comfort at the time, however. The drive away from the airport propelled me into the life I was about to bear witness to. Third world...it is all I can say.

Franco pulled up to Hotel Africa and his fluent English, after 12 years in NYC, was crucial in communicating my pick up for 6am the following morning. The 7 hour time difference alluded me as I was able to sleep during Mozambican night on my flights from NY. I was acclimated and ready to get it going.

Nia had arranged for some of the Peace Corp volunteers to get me out of my room and take me out. I had drinks with her friends and, in addition, visiting parents from NJ. It was surreal to have journeyed to Africa and sit in a sidewalk cafe, drink sparkling water and talk about Jersey. I felt and tasted every moment. My senses were on high alert.

The flight to Nampula was met with so much emotion that I found myself crying in intervals. I could only imagine the sight of my daughter. I could only guess how my body would react to the touch of her skin, the moment that her body would hollow against mine, and the joy of this journey would end to a new beginning.

I was told later, that I was so ambitious and steadfast that I looked to be plowing ahead as if I had flown to Nampula a thousand times before. Nia and Jamie would be waving at me from a second floor balcony, but I was blind to everything around me. My vision found me focused straight ahead with intention.

As I wheeled my luggage out the front door of the airport, my eyes struggled to see familiarity. I wondered if two years would make the sight foreign and if I would have instant recognition. And my knees grew weak. It was as instant as turning on a light, and a thunderbolt of emotion struck me deep inside. I hardly remember how I got to her through the crowd. I wept openly and loudly as I held her in my arms. Never too old to be cradled. Never too big to be my baby girl. I couldn't get close enough and I couldn't let go.

From that moment on, I was an infant. Experiencing everything for the very first time. Nothing was typical or commonplace. Every sight, sound, smell, and touch was brand new. I was wide eyed and ravenous. I was drinking it in as if I had been stranded without water. There are few moments in our lives that strike us with so much impact.

We hired a private driver in order to alleviate the doubts and reliability of "African" transportation. With 11 precious days to experience, every moment became important and with purpose.

Ilha is a small island attainable by a bridge that is one lane and literally a car length wide. Very interesting transport in the darkness. Headlights ahead meant to pull over in one of the few side park areas to give way to any oncoming traffic. It was a dance with specific timing. We spent one night and an afternoon walking the boundaries. I was being eased into life in this remote place on earth by the experience of having a flushing toilet.

Nia's boyfriend, who has been nick-named her "lovas" by one of her students, found no akwardness in our meeting. What could have been strange felt habit. Jamie has no pretense or ulterior thoughts. He is true to himself and anyone he meets.

The dirt road to Chocas seemed to be on its way to nowhere. It spanned out mileage of 30K which felt like 100. In Musseril we dropped off Jamie's roommate, Imani , where the safe transport of his new laptop reached completion. I had been carrying this precious cargo for days and felt a relief to know that my mission was a success.

The vision of the latrine was my first glimpse into what was to come. Jamie and Imani's house allowed me insight to the labor intensive nature of what the simplest chore becomes without running water. ie laundry, showering, cooking, doing dishes and even washing your hands.

This reality would be held at bay for a few more days as we loaded back into the car with destination "beach" in Chocas. It felt like being dropped off on a desert island. There was one restaurant with simple fare and several bungalows which one became home.

I broke out the homemade granola, fixings for fondue, and we ate, we napped, we watched Rent, Sister Act 2, footage of filming from Kennett and home, photos of family graduation , anniversary party and memories of Dad and Jane's visit in November. It was relaxing, memorable and filled with reconnection.

Exploration of a Mother's Heart

There is a special and distinct place in a mother's heart. A compartment that grows when our daughters are placed in our arms for the very first time. I was given the opportunity to explore this place inside me. I have been blessed with experience. A discovery of stength that would not be known, if not for the path I walked. I am able to retrace every footstep in the sand. I find the salt of my tears sweet. My joy, immeasurable, just for the knowing of despair.

My Journey to Africa began five years ago when a deafening silence fell between my daughter and I. Words were spoken, yet resounded foreign and indecipherable. Each of us had our own code for pain. Lost to one another's interpretation. Scrambles of words, emotions, tears and frustration. Puzzles of pieces that didn't fit. A deepening pit into darkness that grew with each encounter. And we spiraled and fell without wings.

I don't remember the exact moment that I felt my daughter no longer loved me. And yet, memory allows me the way that it felt. I had believed from conception that biology held a cosmic connection. A life born inside my womb would continue to flourish in open air always in sight. A love that never reached farther than the length of a mother's arms.

The dance of estrangement between mother and child is mysterious and off beat. It is uncoordinated and disconnected. It threatens the nervous system and challenges perception. A mother stomping furiously and frantically to find solid ground realizes her fragility of power. The terrifying reality creeps in. Control beyond our own thoughts and actions does not exist. A paralyzing grip takes hold when you know that sight must become inward and not towards horizons. I fell to earth. My nightmares allowed me to hit the ground, when most wake up seconds before. I became the only person on the planet. Feelings of isolation, self doubt and guilt imprisoned me. I was terrified all the time. I lived for months of tomorrows without reaping the glory of moments. Bottom struck when I found myself face down on hands and knees searching for lies.

The truth finds its way to us whether we want to know it or not. We are given insight to our power for choice. The truth presents us with tremendous opportunity to rejoice in life's simplicity. Moments of grandeur come few and far between when the little things constantly surround us. There is glory in seeing the forest for the trees. It is empowering to capture the journey as a whole and not a specific moment. And therefore accepting that today is our reality. Tomorrow will never come in less than 24 hours.

The honesty of hope and fibers of strength burst from that compartment in my heart. With me or apart from me I knew my love for my daughter. She would always be born of my body and therefore carried with me each and every day. And I gracefully bowed to the process of distancing with love. For a mother it bears a semblance of giving up. Initially riddled with uncertaintly. And then, mercifully, it gives way to recognition. We are powerless to make choices for others. Even our own children.

On May 27th 2009 my five year journey to Africa became the end of this story. I boarded a plane, and another one, and another one. On May 29th I took a 4th and final flight straight into the arms of my child. A loving and most tearful embrace that consisted of old hurt, past doubts, the roar of silence, but mostly with joy of hope. On this vast and foreign continent we were women. We were powerful. We were together.