A Requiem for Me

I lead a local weekly writing group, and for this week, I gave them a series of paintings and told them to choose one and "write themselves into the painting." So the story below was my attempt to do the assignment with them this week. I started with the painting above, knew that I would be writing about old love letters, and let the story run from there. Like all good fiction, it contains some elements of reality, but I'm not telling you which ones are true! I wrote this in under an hour.

Enjoy.

A Requiem for Me
5-27-14

I sat in the semidarkness, the bed littered with the well-worn evidence of his love surrounding me. I picked up a handful of the pages and lifted them to my face, breathing in the scent of sandalwood that still lingered there, even after all this time. Tears streamed down my face as I marveled that ten years had passed since last I saw his slanted writing grace my mailbox. How could it be that long? Where had life gone? How had it passed me by without shaking me from my grief-riddled slumber?

With a gentle sniff, I choked back the tears, leaning back against the pillows tossed careless at the head of the bed. I sat, gazing sightlessly out of the sliding glass door that led to the sheltered deck outside, but it was images of him that danced before my eyes.

I remembered that day - god, was it 25 years ago? – that he found out that he had gotten approval to write his Requiem Mass for credit, instead of taking the Freshman interim class. He swooped into the room, feet barely touching the scuffed linoleum flooring, gathered me up in his arms, and swung me around in circles until I was dizzy. I had never seen him so ecstatic, before or after that moment. He was transformed.

It was a busy month for us, while he was writing and casting his requiem. He carefully selected his musicians and singers, turning to me and saying “And of course, you will sing, won’t you? I can’t do this if you won’t sing. I’m writing it for you.”

All I could do was nod my acquiescence, as the lump in my throat was as large as a grapefruit. How could I deny him this?

For weeks, we rehearsed, painstakingly repeating each measure, tweaking and changing, until it was exactly as he had envisioned it in his mind. As we stood the center of the cavernous chapel, before the mighty pipe organ, our voices echoed from the stone and glass that surrounded us. We were finally ready.

That month was the beginning of it all: the daily rehearsals, the late night sessions where he confessed his dreams by candlelight, listening to the music that was his inspiration. As his composition matured, so did our relationship.

The night of the performance, I was nervous. Our small band of performers huddled together in the vestry before the announcement of the program, saying a silent prayer to the muses of music that we would be at our best.

As we walked through the chapel door to the haunting prelude of the organ, I swept a glance through the crowded chapel pews, my gaze locked onto his, and I knew in that moment that everything was right.

The performance was flawless, and the audience rose to its feet with applause as the final notes died away behind us. Tom was on his feet, accepting the congratulations of everyone around as I sneaked a quick glance over my shoulder on the way back into the vestry.

This was Tom’s night to shine, and shine he did. The high he had lasted for months. We would sit in the dark, talking about the future, planning and dreaming, and knowing that it all just seemed right. I was madly in love.

Then one day, Tom came in with a rather serious look on his face, and told me he had some news. I didn’t like the sound of that. He sat me down on the bed and took my hands in his, without meeting my gaze.

I knew I was in trouble then.

“What is it, Tom?” I asked, with trepidation.

“I’ve made an important decision,” he replied. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, then went on. “I’m going into the Navy in two weeks.”

“The Navy?” I couldn’t believe my ears. How could this talented musician let it all go to waste by enlisting in the military? What about all his grandiose plans?

“Yes, the Navy. It’s the only way. My money is gone, and I have to do something to support myself.”

The reflection of headlights outside the bedroom window brought me back to the present once more, and I fingered the yellowing pages on the bed beside me once more.

Those were hard years, the ones during his enlistment. The stack of yellowed letters, sent from ports around the globe, had been her only sustenance during that time. Oh, he loved her – at least he said he did – and he told her all the right things in the letters, but he was
physically absent for far too long.

She supposed that they both glamorized their relationship while they were apart. It’s an easy thing to do, highlighting the exciting and wonderful traits of a person while forgetting their flaws, while they are distant. She created a fairytale life to which she assumed he would return one day. For six years, they carried on this way, each knowing that reality was far from ideal, but neither willing to shatter the illusion they had carefully crafted between them.

And then, suddenly, he was home. For good. He stood before her, a changed man. Gone was the wild-eyed, carefree youth of their college days, whose eyes glimmered with hope and promise. Instead, she faced a shell of a man, who had seen far more in his tours of duty than any human should ever have to see. Her Tom, her glorious musician, was gone.

They played house for a few years together, trying to make things work. Tom jostled from one job to the next, without ever finding his groove, and always seemed to be just a little off kilter from the world. He had no spark in his eye, no joy in his heart, and I was devastated. Meanwhile, I was settled into my comfortable career as a high school teacher, slugging back and forth to school each day, grading papers, dealing with stubborn students and even more stubborn parents. It was an existence, but it certainly wasn’t a life.
One day, I took a chance and sent a recording of Tom’s Requiem Mass to a recording studio, without his knowledge. Patiently, I waited for some response, some sign that would tell us what we should do.

Finally, the letter came. The studio was thrilled with the composition and wanted to do a recording session in New York. This was Tom’s big break. I sat him down that evening and told him what I had done, saying “Music has always been your first and only true love, Tom. It’s time for you to acknowledge your love. You are going to New York, you are going to work with the studio, and you are going to BE the musician that you were born to be.”

Tom fell silent in contemplation. “But, what about us?” He finally asked.

“I need to stay here. This is your dream, not mine. This is what you need to do.”

We sat; quietly holding hands for what seemed like hours in the darkness that night, and in the morning Tom made the arrangements to begin his new life.

Once he left, we stayed in contact, of course. At first, it was daily phone calls and frequent letters, but as his muse grew, he needed me less and less. I was like a mother bird, watching her fledgling chicks find their wings. It was time for Tom to leave the nest.

Finally, the letters slowed to a monthly missal reporting on his latest musical achievements before stopping altogether ten years previously.

I gazed out the door again, into the ink-black night. I squinted, trying to discern stars in the dark sky, but saw none. I ran my hands softly over the sandalwood-scented scraps on the coverlet once more, before rising to put Tom’s Requiem Mass on the CD player. It marked the beginning and the end of their ill-fated relationship. I sighed, knowing that my loss was truly the world’s gain.

Experimentation By Design

I have been experimenting with poetry lately, playing with variations on rhyme and meter. I was chatting with a friend today, and something in the chat - just a random phrase - made me say, "There's a poem in that!" So, here's the poem, experimenting with bold misuse of rhyme and meter. I don't know if it's a success or not, but it was interesting to work with it. And the poem is not about me, so don't fret! Although I wrote it in a strict meter, it should not be read in one....


Kaleidoscope Feelings


It took whiskey last night
To banish my fright.
As demons descended,
My visions amended,
And scrambled perceptions
Became my deceptions,
Distorted reflections
In a carnival mirror.

Reality bending,
Down paths ever wending
Condemned to be spending
In time never ending
The moments I cherish
While hoping I perish
Kaleidoscope feelings
Projecting my furor.

Awakening in me
a need no one can see
Incoherently seeking
The control that is leaking
Right out of my fingers
Their senses still linger
And no one can stop it
Or catch as it flitters.

My energy’s waning
But I’m not complaining
I’m seeking to find here
Some concrete reminder
That behind that silk curtain
are things that are certain.
I only want closure
Avoiding an error.

The Dreamweaver's subtle language of the self

(Altar of the Church of the Nativity in Erie)

I have been suffering from a series of disturbing and related dreams for weeks now, so I thought it was time to write a post about dream symbolism and their messages.

Sunday, we enjoyed the Dinner in Old Russia at the Russian Church of the Nativity here in Erie. After the meal, we went into the church itself, and I spent quite a long time admiring the chapel and taking photographs. The stained glass windows in particular struck me, and reminded me that I need to be a bit more reflective myself.


(Stained glass window at the Church of the Nativity)

Perhaps it was the vivid blue of the glass, or the simplicity of the designs in the windows, but whatever it was drew my attention immediately, and kept me fixated on those windows, even as I struggled to move away and take in the splendor of the iconography that adorns every available space in the chapel.

I even stopped and lit a candle, a ritual that I do not often complete, but which I felt compelled to perform on that rainy Sunday afternoon.


(Prayer Candles at Church of the Nativity)

The three of us (me, my husband, and my father-in-law) were the only ones in the chapel at the time. My father-in-law discovered the alms box, where donations are accepted for the candles. He stated flatly, "I'm going to light a candle." And, in that moment, I knew I needed to do the same.

So I lit a candle. And I lit it for all the suffering in the world, especially those who have been the object of tormenting and teasing in their years of development and adolescence. I thought about the recent victims of bullying who have given their lives senselessly, both those whose names made the nightly news and the many, many more whose names did not see the public eye.

And the action, the lighting of the candle, also turned my attention inward, to my own experiences, and my dreams of late.

Though the subject matter of the dreams varies, there are common elements. First is the ever present element of water. Water represents emotion, and in my case the sense of being overwhelmed by emotion and not knowing what direction to turn. As the dreams have progessed, so has the size and power of the water in them. Most recently, I was swimming in (and against) the ocean, in order to reach the bathhouse, which was located offshore and only accessible through the water. What a clear message that sent me! I need to resolve my emotions, but I can only do so by pushing THROUGH the emotions themselves. Quite a spot, I'm sure.

Another common element has been the presence of a young girl, often in distress. In one dream, I watched a young girl walk into a lake and drown herself, while I and others stood by pondering her intent and wondering if we should stop her until it was too late. In another dream, I was in charge of a young girl, trying to comfort her, but instead my actions made her more distressed. In a third, the young girl was the daughter of my best friend, who was very upset and concerned that she could not dry off (she was freezing cold) and I was trying, unsuccessfully, to help her warm up. These images all seem to point to my need to nurture, but the feeling that I was not doing a very good job of it after all. It reflects my sense of insecurity and lack of confidence that I am, in fact, making a difference in the lives of those I touch, both figuratively and literally.

And underlying all the images and the messages, is the most subtle and also the most subversive of them all: the idea that I am not worthy, that I am inferior, that I do not deserve to be happy or successful.

And these feelings have very deep roots, going back to my childhood, to a childhood much like that of those for whom I lit that candle in the Church of the Nativity. But in my case, it was not just in the school yard that I experienced denigration of my self, but in the bosom of my family, at the hand of my paternal grandmother.

So, as I fight to achieve stability in my life and figure out my path, my dreams are digging deeply into my past and revealing those (I thought) long-resolved feelings of insecurity and fear, and shining them over the movie screen of my dreams over and over again, coming at me like the proverbial two-by-four to pound me into submission.

And yet, the glimmer of hope remains, as I struggle to translate this twisted language of dreamland, that I will not succumb, as I once might have, to these feelings of inferiority. Because now I have more strength and more love in my life than ever before. And with the help of my loved ones (both human and furred), I will conquer these challenges to my weary brain and move past the images of failure into the brighter ones of success.

Dreamweaver, weave your magic. But tonight, remember, I am no longer interested in wallowing in the past oceans of despair, but would like to soar to the new heights of self-awareness and control. Oh, and while you're at it, you can take the migraines with you, too.


(Ceiling and image of the iconography in the Church of the Nativity)
Here's to happy dreams, and a happy self.

An Affirmation

(the historical map that hangs over my home desk)

Yesterday, I had a totally affirming moment with a student after my last class of the day.

The interchange validated what I do on a daily basis, and it made me feel like I was flying.

Yesterday, we were discussing the Armenian Genocide of 1915 (which did, in fact, take place) and the modernization efforts of Mustafa Kemal in the emerging Republic of Turkey in the post-war years.

After class, one student came up to talk to me. He is from Somalia, originally, and his family fled when he was just a child to avoid the violence there.

His first comment was, "I really am enjoying this class very much. I appreciate that you let us discuss things and voice our opinions and come to our own conclusions. I'm a senior, and I had been avoiding my history requirement, because I dreaded taking it. I thought it was going to be like high school, where you just threw a bunch of facts at us."

And I knew, in that moment, that I am doing what I am supposed to be doing in this life.

I am opening young minds to the possibilities.

I am charging them to become independent thinkers, to use evidence to draw their own conclusions, and to follow through on their thoughts with actions.

He went on to say that he is committed to making the world a safer place, so that things like this can not take place ever again.

He has a police background, and is working to go into full-time law enforcement.

He told me that as they were fleeing from Somalia, he asked his mother why people do such horrible things. He said, "How can this happen?"

She replied, "All that is necessary for evil to occur is for good men to do nothing." (a very famous quotation, by the way, from Eleanor Roosevelt).

And he told me that is why he is determined to go into law enforcement.

I told him we need more people like him in our world.

This thoughtful, intelligent, determined young man is going to leave his mark on our world. I can see that very clearly.

And he let me know, in no uncertain terms yesterday afternoon, that I have left my mark on him.

I feel honored.

And I flew.

Tales of the Tall Ships

(The Bounty)

This weekend the Tall Ships tackled the Erie docks for a spectacular festival showcasing these marvelous sailing vessels.

There were six ships here all weekend: The Bounty, the Niagara, the Lynx, the Roald Admundson, the Unicorn, and the Pride of Baltimore II.

We spent a delightful day on Dobbins Landing, soaking in the history and romance of these impressive ships.

My personal favorite was the Bounty, a ship built as a replica of the original Bounty in 1960 for the Marlon Brando film "Mutiny on the Bounty." This ship has also made appearances in other films, including the recent "Pirates of the Carribean" films.

This ship simply oozed romance, power, and history. Belowdecks, the woodwork gleamed. The red leather in the captain's office glowed. And we got a real glimpse of the life the sailors led as they took these ships into unknown and often dangerous territory.


(the rigging of the Bounty)

The rigging and flags on the Bounty took my breath away.

We also were able to board the Niagara, whose home base is Erie. This is a replica of the ship from the War of 1812, the flagship of Oliver Hazard Perry. It is also an awesome vessel.


(the Flagship Niagara)

Belowdecks, one has to duck in order to move through the cramped quarters. (and if I have to duck, as I stand at only 5'1" tall, you know that the ceilings are indeed low!). Aboard the Niagara, the cook was in the process of preparing lunch for the crew, in the tiny galley, and let me tell you, lunch sure smelled good!


(flag on the rigging of the Niagara)

The third vessel that we had time to tour was the Lynx, a much smaller ship that the Bounty and Niagara. Based out of Newport Beach, CA, the Lynx is an interpretation of a naval schooner, approximating the original Lynx built in 1812, which was among the first ships to defend recently won American freedom by evading the British aval fleet that blockaded U.S. ports.


(the rigging of the Lynx and the Niagara, Lynx in foreground)

The Lynx, though small, was also impressive, as we were informed that she can travel up to 12 knots under sail. A beautiful ship, indeed.


(view through the gunwhale of the Lynx)

We also took the opportunity to go to the top of the Tower on Dobbins Landing, to take advantage of the spectacular panoramic view of the ships from above.


(the view from the tower, Niagara on the left, Unicorn top right and Roald Admundsen lower right).

The weather was a perfect Fall day, with plenty of sunshine, a gentle breeze, and temperatures hovering right around 70 degrees. I could not have asked for a better overall experience, as I let go of everything but the sensation of the sailing ships around me.

And it reminded me, again, of the significance of hands on education, and the importance of seeing "how it really was."

All in all, the Tall Ships Festival in Erie rates a huge FIVE STARS out of FIVE. I hope they repeat the experience many times.


(powder barrel aboard the Bounty)

Ready or Not, Here I Come!

Today was the first day of classes for me.

As many of you know, I was approaching this day with a great deal of trepidation. How would the students respond to me? Would they KNOW I was denied tenure? Would they treat me differently? Mock me? Scorn me?

I was a bundle of nerves. Raw energy. Ready to be labeled a failure before I even began.

And I walked into my classroom at 7:50am this morning to find two thirds of the class already there. Many greeted me with a cheerful "Good morning!" I responded in kind, sounding much more confident and upbeat that I really was.

And I proceeded to the podium to open the computer and get set up for class. Of course, I was having technical difficulties (par for the course at my institution).

As I was working, I glanced around the room, registering faces and scoping the students to gauge the tenor of the class.

And I heard a bright voice ring out "Are you ready for us, Dr. Kern?"

Following the voice, I found a female adult student, smiling with bright eyes, gazing intently at me. "Are you ready, Dr. Kern? Ready for us?" She repeated.

And I smiled back at her, broadly, and responded "yes, I am! Are you ready to be back?"

And in that moment, I knew I was, indeed, ready. I have always been ready. For the classroom is exactly where I belong.

And this morning, in that 8am class, I had one of the best class sessions ever. I felt alive and vital and on top of my game, and the students responded. My passion for history and for teaching shone through all the crap and crud of the past year, and everything fell away except that passion. The students felt it. They grasped it. And I reveled in that moment.

That student, with her casual charge, "Are you ready for us, Dr. Kern?" reignited me.

So, despite the difficulty of facing my colleagues on a daily basis, and the stress of being in a place where SOME of my coworkers don't want me, I will have a good year.

Because it's not about them. It never has been.

It's about the students. It always has been, for me.

The rest of my day went well, too. I had two other good classes (though not as good as that first one), and I had a visit from a student, interested in World War II, who just stopped in to chat about his interests.

All in all, a highly successful first day back.

The first of many, I hope. It's time for my to fly, and teaching gives me my wind.

So watch out, world. Ready or not, here I come!

Headlong into the wind....

(our newly remodeled home office)


If you have been reading my blog, you know that I've had a rough time of things regarding my career. This year marks my last year at my current institution, and I admit that I am facing the beginning of the year with a great deal of trepidation.

It will not be easy.

Let's face it, it will be an extremely stressful situation, to go in every day with a smile pasted on my face, pretending that I have not a care in the world. Just thinking about going back has had me sleepless or with nightmares for weeks now.

Meanwhile, I need to figure out where I go from here.

That's not to say that I don't have ideas, or haven't been thinking about options.

Believe me, I have.

Life, however, must cooperate with my dreams. So this year, I need to be extra sensitive to the opportunities that avail themselves to me, and grab for the golden ring. In fact, one particular opportunity made itself known to me just this week, as if a sign from above. I will be following up on that avenue, rest assured!

I know that I will overcome this bump in the road.

And I know this, because I have the greatest support system in the world, waiting for me at home.

And this is how I will make it through this year.

With a newly remodeled home office space, to make working pleasurable!



And with these smiling faces and warm cuddly bodies to help make the world disappear, if even for a few hours each night.

Our sweet, adorable Miss Scarlett...


And our old man, Monte, who I swear is at least 50% cat himself...




(and our two elder cats, who remain a bit camera shy....Sulu and Lucy).

I will endure. I will survive.

And I will thrive.

Thanks to the ones who've got my back. Oh, and of course, most of all to the best warm cuddly body of all, who can always make me smile.

Hana's Story

(my sketch of Hana)


This must needs be a multiple part post. It's a bit unnerving to me, to write about Hana, because it is so close to my soul. She is so much a part of me, that it is like exposing myself when I write about her.

But I promised, so here goes.

Hana's story is complex.

I have written here before about my Holocaust dreams, dreams that started when I was a child of only about 4 years old. Over and over again, I dreamt horrible things, images of the atrocities of the Holocaust. When I began to have these dreams, I had no idea what the Holocaust was, or what any of the dreams meant. I only knew they frightened me, and that I felt as if they were not merely dreams, but memories.

But how could they be memories?

As I grew older, I began to understand what I had been experiencing. It was not until I was in my mid-30s, however, that I comprehended their full significance.

I was having dreams from a past life.

The first past life that I fully uncovered was that of Rachel, a Russian Jewish woman, who was killed in a pogrom in Russia in the 1890s. She was married to a man named Yakov, and they had a beautiful daughter, Sarah, who also perished that day in the pogrom, despite Yakov's efforts to save them.

As I began to delve deeper into my past life experiences, I re-discovered Hana.



(The town square at Kazimierz-Dolny)

Hana was a 10 year old little girl, from the town of Kazimierz-Dolny in Poland. This was a quiet market town, about 2 hours outside of Krakow. She had a lovely life before the war, adored her father and was the apple of her mother's eye. They had a small farm and her father sold milk and produce in the town square every week.

One night, as I opened myself up to her memories, a flood of names rushed at me. I believe that her last name was Skibiskova, or something similar. She also was very fond of a man named Pulli Eckstein, from the village, who served a grandfatherly role for her. Her father, Wladek played the violin, and her mother Elsabet was a strong woman with broad shoulders and a huge heart. Her maiden name was Rawkow.

Their life was peaceful and calm, until the Nazis arrived.

Her family was rounded up, along with all the other Jews in the area, and sent to the camp at Maidanek, where Hana would perish in the gas chambers. She was captured by two Ukrainian brothers, Anton and Marko Danilovich, who were aiding the Nazis with the persecution of the Jews.

Once in the transport, Hana was ripped from her parents, and she became frantic to find them again. At the camp, a female Nazi SS guard took Hana roughly by the hand and began to walk her down the Black Path towards the gas chamber. Hana had her red ball in her hand, but dropped it along the way and was worried about finding it again. Inge, the guard, distracted Hana, singing songs and telling stories, and promising that Hana would find her parents once more at the end of the walk.

Instead, Hana found blackness.

Hana would perish, along with about 100 other young women, in a gas chamber at the back of the camp.

The dreams I had, starting with age four, were all various versions of Hana's memories. Most of them revolved around a huge door being shut on me, and my screaming in fear at the guards who were closing them. I also had repeated dreams about dying inside the gas chamber. This is most likely the source for my claustrophobia.

All of these memories came to me, repeatedly, before I made my trips to Poland and to the camps. Once there, especially at Maidanek and at Kazimierz-Dolny, I felt Hana everywhere. These experiences only solidified my conviction that I was Hana. Over and over again, I saw what she saw, felt what she felt, experienced what she experienced. And, ultimately, as I stood on the grounds of Maidanek, I knew when, where, and how she perished.

Her story has come out in bits and pieces, in the form mostly of poetry, which I will share here on this blog. And more of her story will also emerge, as I haltingly begin to let the memories tell themselves here.

Please help me remember Hana, and all the Hanas of the Holocaust, to ensure that such tragedy may be prevented from ever happening again.

Taking Care of the Self

Lately, my dreams have been out of control.

I usually have vivid, detailed, and often bizarre dreams that are filled with meaning, and I learned long ago to listen to my dreams and what they are telling me.

Lately, though, I'm being overwhelmed by them.

Though the subject of the dreams varies, the underlying meaning does not: my life is out of control.

To the outsider, nothing is noticeable. Life goes on, and I seem calm, collected, and on top of things.

And for the moment, this is true.

But my need for long-term control is driving me nuts. Because, as I've written about here earlier, as of May I will not have a job. And that knowledge is driving me insane.

So much so that I am driven to control the aspects of my life that I can, indeed, control.

For instance, it explains my rabid desire to finish painting this summer before I go back to school. Originally, once I had finished the TV room, guest room, and bath and hallway in the basement, I was going to take a break from painting until at least Christmastime.

But now I have a bee in my bonnet to paint our office. You see, it's the last room I can paint on my own, without hiring someone, in our house. So, now I want it done.

Because it's something I CAN DO and thus I can control the outcome.

It's not fear, really, that is getting me. I have this sense that, ultimately, things will work out and I will be fine and that I will be meant to move in whatever direction comes next.

It's the uncertainty, though. That's what gets me.

I hate not knowing.

I hate not being able to determine my own path.

And my dreams keep reminding me that, in fact, I do not. For instance, the other night, I dreamt that I was in charge of getting a living history display up and running in a neighboring town. I was in a van with several others, driving full tilt down a highway over the mountains, with the doors of the van flung open and us struggling to keep inside. Behind us followed a Canastoga Wagon pulled by 6 horses, and a hitch team of a variety of farm animals (including pigs, goats, cows, and a mule). As we came down the mountain, suddenly it was covered with snow (lots of WHITE imagery in my dream - highly significant) and the wagon lost control and wound up plowing into the bank and flipping over. The animals behind were in danger of being crushed.

The interpretation of this dream is simple: the items in my charge were wildly out of control and there was nothing I could do about it.

So, the question is how I can wrap my brain around this dilemma and move beyond it. Obviously, I have MONTHS to go before I will know where my life will lead me next. How do I ease my troubled mind and let go of this need to control?

I think I am finding the answer, right where it has always been, in the pool. As I swam yesterday, I let myself go and let the water support me, let it take me where I needed to go, and let its energies fill my soul.

The angst is still there, admittedly, but its power is lessened. Hopefully, with more time in the water, I'll become strong enough to let go of the control completely and go where life needs me to be.

How will you take care of yourself today?