It can be very tricky to navigate the sounds of it; like attempting to hear the sound of one hand clapping amid a cacophony of them.

Enter cognitive dissonance: Intuitively knowing what’s true or best, but choosing to ignore it.

Cognitive dissonance is experienced when our desire for truth alignment, consistency and understanding are not being met. Whether consciously or not, this inability to discover cohesion between words and actions (choosing to feed an immediate gratification cycle, despite the known damage it causes), is not really an inability to discern, but rather, a choice not to.

It’s a choice to deny oneself access to alternative (and often times, better) options. This is done to prevent ‘the fear’; fear of having to deal with losing that which offers familiar and reliable outcomes, in the great unknown.

But there’s another reason cognitive dissonance can visit.

Oftentimes, we are challenged to discover cohesion between words and actions in others, when there is none to discover. For instance, if pertinent information is intentionally withheld, this directly affects one’s ability to trust, and more importantly, to make sound decisions (and, again, this is typically done to satisfy a need for both immediate gratification, and fear avoidance), which further imposes a sense of ‘this doesn’t feel right’-ness. Yet we remain, seeking discovery.

Cognitive dissonance occurs in these cases because the need for immediate gratification (from all contributors, in different ways, and for variable reasons) is heavily encouraged (hit the easy button!) and naturally, very strong. So strong, in some cases, that it can supersede, override or ‘sound drown’ consequential truth. This imbalance is transmitted on an intuitive level, the effects of which are misalignment. This in turn can manifest in a number of ways: As anxiety, confusion, repeat spin cycles of the same old ‘mother-clucking bird noise’ in both your head, and demonstrably, in the form of others who feed the cycle, or even, as dis-ease. Oh dear.

MS: You post-dated letters with a burden of proof … are you trying to communicate my denial of truth?

Our power to choose our own and best outcomes are therefore determined not just by our own ability to invoke the former power, but also, by those we choose to share time and space with. (This is why Trust is huge.) So, as we bear witness to selected and selective versions of us, chattering away in our minds, like a flock of clucking birds in a word-cage, we must indeed be very selective.

I feel comfortable saying that the measure of a system as a whole can be considered ‘perfect’, aligned or at equilibrium state, when certain, precise conditions are met.

Analogy exercise time: Think of your thoughts as the conditional parameters which determine the atomic and molecular alignment within your thermodynamic system; as the ‘arrangers’ for the constituent parts of your whole, working body; as that which can preserve energy (for optimization), and maintain homeostasis and optimal health and wellness, within your ride, within your house, within your body.

Does this mean it’s possible to send some thought letters back to my MS? (I’ll refrain from making a joke about the letters my bird brain would like to send.) Indeed. Is it probable I will do so? Indeed.

Possibility is qualitative (subjective, as it may or may not happen), whereas probability is quantitative (a mathematical measurement of how possible something is or isn’t). Example: It is possible to eat well; it becomes probable when one chooses to repeatedly do so. Another example: It is possible for one to heal oneself by addressing the discord inside, on a cellular level, and sending back harmonious feedback; it becomes probable (likely) that one will heal oneself when one chooses to repeatedly do so.

Our thoughts and actions are like this: A constant stream of input and output possibilities, which must be appropriately and selectively entertained, prior to being fed into the probability loop.

What shall I choose to offer as harmonious feedback in response to the dissonant MS letters? Let’s see.

Dear MS: I heard and hear you. Now hear me. Your encrypted message has been decoded, and my operating system has been enhanced and rebooted as a result. Thank you for the reminder that this was necessary. Now, I release you from service, as the lesson you provided has served me greatly: To better understand discernment, and how to be more gentle, kind, loving and selective with my letters and words inside the communication process. Sincerely, MR.

Maintain course. Maintain focus. Keep thoughts sound.

Photo Credit

Murmuration – by AJC1 on flickr – Some Rights Reserved

Yesterday the bluebird left my chest
and stopped singing aloud for all to hear
the same bluebird Bukowski hid
behind his toughness

I wandered through the hospital
waiting for the next test, the next injection
and it all seemed so fieldless – no sky anywhere
the doctors, new interns, rushed up
one set of stairs as the others went another way
it reminded me of a flock without a destination
and I asked myself, “how did I end up here?”
“how did I end up here?”
no one answered me, not the nurses
not the doctors who rushed about
but I didn’t talk above a whisper
I didn’t really want them to tell me how
nor where it was I’d be going

Sitting in the cafeteria, a woman
in a blue hospital gown with no hair
seemed far away
maybe we were somewhere together 
a place we both knew but never spoke about
to anyone but God
maybe the bluebird in my chest went there too

Then, as if its wings of flight caught my soul
I felt a flutter in my chest again
for no apparent reason
just the sight of sky and snow
falling over city buildings
I asked myself again, “how did I end up here?”
this time the bluebird answered
“to understand the way it feels when the bluebird leaves”

Photo Credits

Photo from Pixabay – Creative Commons  

Beautiful songs are lonely
in the daylight

At dusk they find the hearts
of souls reaching for some
reminder of the smell of
lilacs in Spring

Blown around gateways and fences
and the outdoor playgrounds
of rusting bronzed hands swinging
alone and left empty

Beautiful songs are lonely
in the daylight

They circle around the women
and men alone weeping in their
beds painfully longing to fix
what can never be mended
by hand or by dreaming

Beautiful songs are lonely
in the daylight

They comfort the thoughts of
murdering men and liars
afraid to face their truths
and ease the pain of
the women whose necks
still carry the bruises of
time left to die and forgotten
by everyone
and soften the blow to widowers
who know
no one is coming back

Beautiful songs are lonely
in the daylight

Searching out the old
rocking in their chairs
with pages thrown about
the floor of places and news
that helps them escape their
certainty

Beautiful songs are lonely
in the daylight

When a hand touches
nothing but what their hearts
imagine and none of those
songs can bring them
the lover they ache for

Beautiful songs are lonely
in the daylight

A song can say it all
during the night when
no one is around to hear
the singers crying over
words they know too well that
make sense of life
and the
“if only I’d remembered
to listen a little longer
to every note
and song before
the darkness arrived”

Photo Credits

Photo from Flickr – some rights reserved

To the end of the 
dreams that hold
a man and woman’s head high
through the realization of failures
and the acceptance of success

In the conquering of the 
unconquerable guilt 
for desiring the best life

Photo Credits

Photo from Flickr – some rights reserved 

I wandered around the cliffs of my home
searching through the fir trees lining the shore
I stood to face the east and west
neither brought me any less meaning
I sat in primitive graveyards
I wandered in and out
I sat with the Inuit on tent floors
drinking teas in Labrador
a second home
I ached for their need to hunt
remembering the seal hunt
that sustained my island home

I wanted land touch
I wanted soil feel
I wanted to fly with the birds of my island
landing on rocks to consume kelp
I understood my ancestors
and wanted to dance on the floor
stomping the lifted birth from their lifeless existence
I begged for the return of a fishery with lonely boats
sailing on quieted banks of a far away fishing ground
I wanted to hold the island of my family in my memory
and to see the ships sailing out once again for a net of fish
left in the dawning of small boats

where the earth ended
I began
where the day fell
I sat
and when the moon orbited
I looked up to slow it down
they took me to walk with the rabbits of the interior
a constant movement to lightness
with shadows holding streams of cold water
it was here that I found knowing
an islander isn’t separate from her land
but part of it
the roots of being dig into the ground
and the ocean meets her to send her forward
to others with land awareness

I never knew a constant state
my island’s currents made me see the need for holding on
in the faces of others
the need to maintain a way of life
through a land’s need to protect resources
I saw the riverboats and the artisan of all lands
in the eyes of my own people

I listened to bearded priests walking and holding railings
to explain orthodoxy to me in the books I read
I sailed to the all
seeing nothing of race or nationality
I found meaning in the need to fall over water fountains
an island’s isolation gave me
a tuning of the senses

I flew to the ivory tower and was understood
as quietly observant amongst the intellectual
I went down to the eastern sun
where a soldier made me understand
true foundations in understanding
I grew roses in jars where nothing was seen
in droughted soils

I knew lost meaning
I found thousands of people
sitting on the banks of my heart
from fostered care and torn down morality
looking to religion for answers
when the answers given
were from industrial landowners

It was the downfall of my presumptions
feeling the chains around me in dug out roads building wells
I tore away from majestic to swim in my own waters
when the Irish drummers played outside my window
and the angry lords of war danced beneath my bed
we want the lands of our people like you islander

I sat in a dream state by the door
not escaping the constant daze
and I fell into the subconscious
until I wrote
I fell down on me and didn’t know
if I could re-emerge the same way when I felt the rituals
I saw me sitting there
I ventured down the past
in memories of ancient histories
I had read them somewhere long ago

the ocean currents brought me back
and I knew the worded memories
I found the washed stones in my shoes
and the velvet sofa of my grandmother
but I didn’t find the jaded words I heard
thrown around in city lights
with shadows being cased in misunderstood verbiage

I forecasted rain over hilltops
destroying waters of all lands with industrialization
in the name of corporate taxes
and they stared at a man in a simple hat
when he carried signs saying
save the rain forest
protect our fishery
and let us feed our children with crops
sustain the lands of all people
let the islander walk amongst all

she’s lost in the all
and her island drum
the one that travels through her writing
begs to be heard
to give the waters back their movements

she was island
the sound and the rhythm
in each stanza flowed from the need to be emerged in water
and her freedom lived in her subconscious need
to live on the island she called her home
Newfoundland

Photo Credits

Photo courtesy of Melinda Cochrane – all rights reserved

My Mother was BEAUTIFUL       every Child’s dream
a blue-eyed blonde with milky-white skin and a big bosom
loved silk and satin    diamonds and pearls
always wore pink and blue
she decorated with pink and blue wallpaper
pink and blue velvet cushions and curtains that matched
I hated pink and blue so I lived in the barn with my Father

My Mother had a gift for celebrating friends
making everyone feel good
when she dressed up in pink and blue velvet and silk
she sparkled like Christmas and every one loved her

No one knew she cried in her sleep 
I heard her in the night
in the morning she’d laugh and say I was mistaken

My Mother was afraid of growing old
when she got plump she lived on cottage cheese and pineapple
when she got wrinkles  had surgery take them away               

Mom wore pointy shoes with stiletto heels
that made her back and head ache
she never wanted to grow old and didn’t
turned 65 in the Winter and died in the Spring

Now I wear pink and blue and I celebrate my friends
I like to dress up in pink and blue velvet and silk
but it’s not enough

I want to grow old knowing I’ve done something Important
Watch me Mom    I’ll do it for both of us

*******

For many years, I studied dream analysis and found it fascinating to learn how God Moments worked their way into my dreams.  Of interest, some members of my Mother’s family (e.g., Granpa Charlie) were said-to-be psychic. Stories were often sad, happy, scarey or weird; but the best kind predicted the future, just like the one recorded here.

I called my Mother “Pink and Blue Lady” and I told you ‘she was every child’s dream (but I digress).  My Mother was a shopper extraordinaire; every morning she worked hard in the house, then in the afternoon she (literally and figuratively) went to town. I wasn’t really a dedicated shopper, but I’d meet her somewhere in a Lower Mainland Shopping Centre. There were many times we went together in her car.

Homage to My Mother’s Mercedes

Cars were very important in Mother’s life; they defined her as somewhat unique. Mom had a brand-new, made-to-order model (classy and unique) every 2 years. Father was a self-employed Dairy Farmer and he paid cash for those big beauties. My Mother often picked it up and we’d go shopping together.

A few days before Mother died, we had synchronous and prophetic dreams. She dreamed we’d finished shopping and were heading for the car, when we discovered Mom’s car with a Mercedes in it’s place (she would’ve loved to drive a Mercedes, but Father couldn’t afford one).

About the same night, I dreamed we’d finished our shopping, when we found her car was gone. I went directly to a payphone and dialed the RCMP, but the phone went dead.

The next day, Mom called to tell me her dream; I related mine and we laughed.

A couple of days later, my Father called to say “Your Mother is on the floor and I think she’s dead!” My heart skipped a beat and I suddenly remembered our dreams and knew right then and there, my Mother was up in Heaven driving a brand new bright blue Mercedes. That was a wonderful “God Moment” for me, because (though I grieved) I was at peace. I remembered God loves us all and at that moment He loved my Mother best.

Image Credits

Sandra Cusack – All Rights Reserved.

Guest Author Bio

SANDRA CUSACK is an Educational Gerontologist specializing in Education and Aging; a Researcher, Educator, and Writer. Over the course of her career, she has published 6 research books, more than 80 research articles in journals, magazines, newsletters and other people’s books.

At the top of her game, Dr. Cusack and co-author (Wendy Thompson) wrote MENTAL FITNESS FOR LIFE: 7 Steps to Healthy Aging (2003), available in French and Russian through Amazon, Chapters, Indigo and bookstores across North America (as well as Jaico Pbg. in the Middle East).   She was flying high (the title of her Leadership Training Manual), when she crashed and burned.  After 4 small strokes and THE BIG ONE, she lost everything: home, car, and (most tragically) her mind.  Fortunately, Sandra knew just about everything there was to know about mental fitness; and with the help of great support and excellent doctors, she got it back and more.  Her recovery and life are a miracle!

Now retired as Professor and Research Associate from the Gerontology Research Centre at Simon Fraser, Dr. Cusack has reinvented herself as a Creative Writer, having completed 2 Creative Writing courses at SFU and a course: Advanced Writing for Professionals with the focus on editing and publishing.  She recently completed a book of poetry and 2 collections of short stories and is currently focused on editing and revising the Mental Fitness for Life book including a section on strokes based on her own experience, and the latest research on strokes and recovery.

Follow Sandra Cusack on:  Linkedin

Email Sandra at:  drsandra.cusack@gmail.com

We married in June, 1980. I was so happy and excited. At 29, I had finally found him. I designed my wedding gown and selected my favourite flower for my bouquet: gardenia. It would be the happiest day of my life, or so I thought.

He had wined and dined me and took me to splendid parts of the country to enjoy nature’s bounty. He was a teacher; certainly the perfect profession for a stepfather, and his students clearly loved him. We read books together, laughed and talked for untold hours about everything. How perfect.

All of that changed on the honeymoon. I won’t go into details but suffice it to say he suddenly became a stranger; quiet, moody, isolated and was not about to touch me in any room let alone the bedroom. Six weeks after we were married, I found out quite by accident he already had a girlfriend. It was downhill from there.

The company he worked for moved us to Texas then Illinois, Ohio, and Pennsylvania. All the while I was trying to be the wife he wanted. I planned candle light dinners, secret and sexy surprises, evenings alone and so on, all to no avail. Our ‘conversations’ always ended up in his favour and confused me to near a breaking point. He became a pot-smoking, OCD salesman who could talk an Eskimo into a deep freeze. The company loved him, while I began to think I was losing my mind.

One day he told me to get ready; we were going out. He silently drove us four hours to Chicago and the Baha’i Temple in Wilmette.

It was early March, cold, almost dark and stormy with a light dusting of snow on the ground. I stepped out of the car in utter astonishment that he would be so kind to even think of bringing me to this special place. Dennis was proudly an atheist. We entered the building and found an elderly woman with perfect white hair welcoming people at the door with a hug. I waited for my turn.

We entered the giant rotunda, a huge inner room with rows and rows of chairs. There are no podiums or pulpits for preaching in the Baha’i faith. My gaze went around the room as I noticed the nine archways, one in honour of each of the major religions of the world. Dennis left me to my devices and began walking around the perimeter, one shoe squeaking upon each step. I selected a lone chair in the middle and sat down. I glanced up to the dome above me.

The intricate pattern allowed in but a smattering of light and yet it was the crowning glory. Could it be that the Universe was peeking in at me? A wave of emotion crested in my chest and my eyes filled up. Suddenly I felt the safety and the presence of an Energy much bigger than little old me. My eyes closed to push the tears cascading down my cheeks.

I prayed and offered my gratefulness at just being there.

I don’t know how long I sat there, maybe 30 minutes or so. When I finally opened my eyes, I looked down at my hands lying one upon the other in my lap. I gasped. There, bathing my hands in warmth was a single beam of sunlight. I looked up. It was the only beam of sunlight that penetrated the latticed dome and it was falling directly upon my hands. More tears; more gratefulness.

I sat a while longer in the peace then I met up with my husband. As we were leaving, I waited in line once more for the hug. My husband tapped me on the shoulder as I wished in silent repose that he’d take his squeaky shoe and his intruding attention and leave me to my peace. He tapped again, and again, and then he whispered my name.

I turned and said, “What?” He merely pointed at something. I glanced in the direction of his insistence. There, in all its glory, was a giant gardenia bush with one single flower blooming directly in the center. More tears. I choked on the air. My eyes overflowed again and it was all I could do to hold myself up.

I heard Divine Messages that day and I knew I’d be alright. I knew there was strength and determination within me and I knew I didn’t need to be somewhere where I wasn’t wanted or loved. My husband had driven me to the Truth.

After two and a half years of a one-sided marriage, I left. When I told him I was going home a few weeks later, he merely said, “Say hi to the folks.” I knew he really didn’t get it that I was leaving him for good.

I count my visit to the Temple as one of my miracles to this day; the choice of chairs out of hundreds, the beam of sunlight, the single blossom on a snowy March day. It had been a day of gentle sweetness and a reminder that even when I felt so alone, I was connected to the Life Force…call it what you may.

…to be continued

Photo Credits

Wedding photo – By Faye Thornton – All Rights Reserved

All other photos @ 123rf Stock Photos

Then the mind circles around the possible meaning of everything from burning tissues, a collapsed immune system, chemotherapy to the ultimate grim reaper, none of which are subjects anyone wants to contemplate. The possibility of meeting one’s maker injects waves of fear through and through and overloads the senses with a myriad of other symptoms even when the doctor claims, “We got it early enough.”

Friends don’t know what to say because they’re afraid of saying the wrong thing so suddenly there are fewer people to talk to. Doctors smile softly and speak with a reassuring tone along the line of, “Well, we don’t need to go there.” My OB-GYN told me I was “lucky” that if I was going to get cancer, this was the one to get. Then he advised me that I was ‘so’ lucky, I should go right out and buy a lottery ticket, which, by the way, I did.

What he didn’t know was that I used to do data entry for Hospice, and I didn’t believe him about the ‘lucky’ part, and no, I didn’t win the lottery either. Adenocarcinoma was a beast, a very determined one, and no one is lucky when cancer strikes regardless of what it’s called.

My mind still wandered to the deepest reaches of my fear. Pain, surgery, radiation, chemo, hair loss, nausea, vomiting, more pain, sleepless nights, cold sweats, and more pain all rose to the surface at various times. But the strangest thing happened as well. These bouts of fear became fewer and further apart over several months and I found myself slowly beginning to feel at peace; smiling, laughing easily and really touching on what it was like to live. This was not due to my trip with cancer however, it was due to the very long journey I had been on to find my Spirit and to acquire the kind of Grace offered through Spirit that would carry me this time as if on a cloud through yet the scariest trial of all.

You see, my life was not exactly the kind that one might dream of with rape, stalking, kidnapping, mental, physical and emotional abuse and several con games during my 30 years of darkness. Fear was almost my middle name, and for sure Lady Luck wasn’t.

About ten years prior to this diagnosis, I had met a new friend who was the wisest and eldest of souls. As they say, “When the student is ready, the teacher will appear.” She became my mentor and taught me about my life from the perspective of a kind of sweet naiveté that I had lost many years ago. It is the same kind of naïveté that a new born has: clear eyes, unquestionable faith and an internal light that shines so bright no one could help but notice.

She fully believed we all arrive on earth with a built-in angel that the two of us would later come to call Spirit. The truth I came to learn about Spirit had nothing to do with religion and everything to do with what one might think of an Angel. We would learn about Spirit together, and I would spend nearly five years testing each and every one of my new revelations along the way just to make sure they were real. My journey to Spirit became an intimate and very real encounter with the ethereal.

Over a period of years, we would write about Spirit, and yet it would take another five years to grow into a fuller understanding of what we were experiencing. There were so many buzz words circulating, and many of them came with giant suitcases of baggage; like God, spirituality and Soul. Language was limiting. How could we describe this inner angel? We certainly found out how difficult it was to adequately explain the unexplainable.

We finally came to describe this Angel as the Sacred Spirit. This Spirit, as with Angels, was incapable of evil or wrong-doing. Each Inner Spirit inside every living thing is seen as a gentle guide, a wise entity of much insight, a guardian and helper, a Light of Grace, Life and Wisdom. For both of us Angels and Spirit grew to be one and the same.

Alas, the space after the cancer diagnosis became one of peace as I escalated my work to reconnect with that Spirit after many, many years of life’s distraction. I now had a great reason to give Spirit a true chance in what life I had left. The journey had been long and slow, but I knew that something as valuable as Spirit was never gained without commitment.

Where was I? What did I gain from reconnecting with my Inner Spirit? I found a new Peace, a renewed sense of happiness, the ability to live in the moment, the Gift of Life as if this was the only day after all.

This diagnosis had become a catalyst for time travel, back and forth from one Golden Thread to another, from one familiar fragrance to another, and from one friend, one love, one moment in time to another. This was the journey I had longed for.

…to be continued

Photo Credits

All photos @ 123rf Stock Photos

I fell headlong into my studies and consumed a giant Biology text of over 500 gruelling pages in six weeks, memorizing, reading and re-reading until the words spilled out of me upon command.

Six weeks later, I knew he was home. I knew, not because he called, but because I could feel him; closer. I phoned his best friend, and sure enough, Robert was there. My heart started beating so fast as I heard his voice for the first time in nearly a year. “Why didn’t you call?” There was a long, empty pause before he answered. All he said was, “I’m going to marry her.” It would be the shortest conversation we ever had.

1989 still stacks up as the worst year of my life. I lost my mom, and now I lost my love. There wasn’t much else life could steal from me now.

That would be the last time we would speak for quite some time even though Robert would never fully leave my life. Every now and then he would call, invite me to coffee or dinner, on his way through town. On occasion he would even show up mysteriously when I really needed something. Robert would just happen by with whatever I needed at the time.

He would spend a mere six months of each year with his wife, whom he moved off of our island to a small town inland and a full two days from his new paradise, hundreds of miles north of me and off in a wilderness called Winter Harbour. I never asked him about her, he just told me she was sick. It didn’t matter anyway; Robert wasn’t with me. And after crying for seven years, and taking on a new partner more out of loneliness than love, a gentle silence finally began to settle into my heart. Each time I saw Robert, I noticed the veil growing thicker and thicker and at one point I could barely even see the man I had once loved more than life itself.

His last visit occurred in 2005 when he dropped by one day, again out of the blue. He seemed quieter, and more distant. He told me he wanted to sell his property in Winter Harbour because he was ‘going to retire’. He invited me to visit, expenses paid, so I could see his place before he sold it. It was an endearing invitation, but I had to say no because my life just wouldn’t allow him in at the time. To this day, I still wonder what it would have been like to be back in the wilderness with him had I dared.

Fast forward to August 2006, and to the death of a childhood friend named Brian. I grew up with Brian and his family living across the alley from them for eighteen years. I babysat Brian and his brother and the adults spent many hours partying and neighbouring over the years. Brian, I was told, had been in a car accident and was hooked up to life support. When life support had been finally turned off by his 18 year-old daughter, I started crying.

I had no idea how come Brian’s death was affecting me so deeply. He was a great person and a long-lost friend but I hadn’t seen Brian in over twenty years. Still, the tears kept falling and my heart was grieving in a very painful way. I wondered if I was connecting his death to my mother’s. That must be it, I thought. I made my way to the funeral with my sister, and I cried off and on the whole way. “I just don’t know what’s going on. I can’t stop,” I told her. At the funeral on September 1st, my heart was feeling broken and pained like never before. My grief had continued to grow and lasted about five days.

Eventually I returned to my life and put Brian’s tragedy behind me. The following February I received a manila envelope in the mail. It was addressed to me personally in an unfamiliar hand. When I opened it, I found an 8 ½ x11” photo of Robert on his boat. I wondered what on earth he was doing sending me a picture of himself. Had he finally lost it, or what? I turned the photo over looking for more clues and found some more writing.

 “I know you and Robert had a very special relationship, and I thought you might like this picture. Robert was scheduled for open heart surgery in November of last year, but he didn’t make it. He died August 27th in Winter Harbour. His ashes will be scattered there in June. Elizabeth”

My memory bounced back to August 2006, and I immediately went to the obits. Brian’ accident happened August 25th and he died 2 days later on August 27th. My soul knew that Robert was gone, just as it had known when he was near. Now, it was done: the grief made sense. Soon all the rest would too.

….to be continued

Photo Credits

Robert by Faye Thornton – All Rights Reserved

All other photos @ 123rf Stock Photos

It was winter here, and my life was all about work, mothering, work, housework and more work and everything else that is boring. My daydreams were about turquoise waters, sandy beaches, balmy breezes and Robert. I wrote and sent little gifts from home like scotch tape, string for his garden, seed packets and bubble gum. Each letter took six weeks to travel to him, and I would wait another 6 weeks for a response in the beginning. When I felt really low I’d sit on the shore overlooking the ocean that separated us. I would touch a wave and know that he could touch it too. I would watch the moon and know it was the very same moon that hung in the sky above his island. In our letters, these would be the comfort we would come to share.

In late February, I ran into a mutual friend of ours one cold rainy day. He invited me to coffee, which I gratefully accepted. As we sat warming our hands on the hot cups, we started talking about Robert -things. I mentioned I had been waiting for the first letter. He tilted his head and scrunched up his eyebrows at my words. “What?” I asked. He stumbled a bit and then said, “Ah, you know he took someone with him, right?”

I spent the next month tending to the terrible crack in my heart. I wanted to call him and yell at him. I wanted to ask him why, and I wanted to know what I had ever done to warrant being treated like this. And yet I still defended him to my heart. Somehow I knew this wasn’t what it seemed to be.

One month later, the first letter arrived. He described a little bit of the paradise he had found there, and spoke of the kind people and their interesting language, a form of pidgin-English he said. He wrote about the incredible scenery, the heat, the many bugs and flies and the lazy days. His task, he said, would be difficult as the people readily found fruit just lying on the ground, and the fish were plentiful whenever someone needed a meal. There was no commerce on this South Pacific Island, and no need to press toward it. At the end he mentioned that he missed me.

I would write back as if nothing had happened, and I would give him time to confess for nearly a year. Without so much as a hint, the following autumn, I bounded into my manager’s office to tell her of my sudden prediction. She knew the story of Robert and I, and she had been intrigued especially by our dreams where we would meet in real time. “Mark my words. He will be here by Friday.”

The following Thursday, the phone rang at home. It was Robert. “Where are you!?” I knew he was here: there wasn’t a doubt in my mind. “I’m in L.A.” My heart skipped a beat. “I knew it! Why are you in L.A?” There was a pause and then an answer, “My son has been in an accident and they say he’s not likely to survive, so CUSO flew me out to be with him. I’ll be in Edmonton tomorrow.”

It was 30 below in the middle of a snow storm at the Edmonton airport. When I finally made it inside the terminal and we spotted each other, we ran into each other’s arms, just like they do in the movies. Home. We spent the next four days together. He confessed and cried over me, and I cried over him. She was a nurse with three kids who took advantage of her, was about all I remember. We held each other but something was different yet again; the veil was thicker somehow. We were all about reminiscing of times gone by, of things we did and the way we were with each other, and we even talked about our strange connection. And strangely enough we didn’t make love, just held each other as if by some magical force we would be forever linked regardless of what or who happened. He professed his love for me, and I held onto his words with a death grip.

His son recovered, he went back to paradise and I returned to boring. Our correspondence continued and as the months fell one upon the other; his discomfort of being away and even of being with her began to show more and more in each letter.

The following March I would leave home to care for my mother on the mainland. Robert’s last letter arrived just before I left. He would be home by mid-June behind his apologies and ramping-up loving wishes. This is an excerpt from his final letter.

“Warm fuzzies is a good way to wake up in the morning. I can’t wait to wake up next to you. Take care and think of me. My love as always, Robert.”

…to be continued

Photo Credits

Letter from Robert by Faye Thornton – All Rights Reserved

All other photos @ 123rf Stock Photos