Susan Shultz's Blog, page 9

I’ve stopped bleeding

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I’ve stopped bleeding

so say the surface signs — 

ask my bandage

Fighting on the front lines.

I’ve stopped bleeding

My wound is tightly grasped.

What happens if I fall again?

Advise you not to ask.

 

I’ve stopped bleeding —

My heart is rid of soil

My cradle bare,

No more born, nothing left to spoil.

 

I’ll stop bleeding —

You can avert your eyes.

I’ve deeply hidden all the hurt

You’ve made clear you despise.

 

I’ve stopped bleeding —

Ignore that copper taste.

I can no longer swallow

And now spit out my waste.

 

I’ve stopped bleeding —

No matter the raked nails.

And only time will tell

If my death or life prevails.

 

I’ve stopped bleeding.

Let’s celebrate my clot —

In it lies a certain strength

(Maybe all I’ve got).

Feathers

“Hope” is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul – 
— Emily Dickinson

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I saw a tiny bird’s remains
upon its grayish stone.
Its fragile bones sang sad refrains,
Hinged to its wings, still strong.

Why do the heart, the flesh decay,
And not these woven wands?
Why do they try to guard and stay,
And fight what lies beyond?


Is it these feathers with us stand,
Escort us to God’s door?
Until our souls release their hands-
To fly forevermore.

Grocery shopping

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(Don’t you)

Which chicken is on sale?

Tired.

My eyes search prices.

Sales.

I’m shopping…

(forget about me.)

Lingering

The song plays.

(I’ll be alone)

Echoing a time

When I didn’t care

Which color grapes

Were on special.

(dancing, you know it, baby).

What number am I

At the deli?

Right now I’m 85.

I’d welcome the wait,

Behind 84.

And before 86.

(Hey, hey, hey, hey.)

Excuse me, I need the

Goldfish.

The ones on sale.

Do you see me?

Or another 40-something

Too close to 50-something

Woman

In serious lack of color

Texture.

(Neon and hair spray)

My childhood is a punchline

A Halloween costume

(When you grow up)

I need the milk.

Ours is expired.

Almost ready to be

(your heart dies)

tossed.

Our eyes meet.

Yes, I’m singing along.

You know you want to.

(Will you recognize me)

We share a smile.

(Call my name or walk on by).

I see my reflection

In the teen ringing up my

groceries.

Not in her glasses.

In her eyes — her smirk.

Her future.

(Don’t you.)

I smile at her.

(Forget about me).

My songs are old

My body is older.

My clothes are less colorful.

My kids more embarrassed,

As I sing along

With the soundtrack

of my life.

Someday,

They will be me.

Telling themselves,

Don’t you

Forget about me.

(Who cares.)

I care.

Almost like a girl

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Written circa 2013

I know many of us are thinking of Chris today and I know so many have stronger and more important ties than I do.

Still, today I’ve been pondering who he was to me and what sort of significance he had to my life. And once I feel compelled to write something, these days, I sort of have to get it out.

[image error]I met Chris in 1984 at a Farrell dance, which in retrospect was one of the more life-changing events I can recall. I was 14 years old, and extremely naïve, and terrified of boys. But I took one look at those blue eyes and it was ‘crush’ immediately.

The feeling was not mutual. (Haha.) But the connection was there, and I’m glad it wasn’t mutual, because being friends was what we were meant to be.

We spent hours on the phone talking about music and culture and him educating me on life as he found great amusement in the things I didn’t know, being rather sheltered growing up, and making fun of me for not knowing them.

My crush didn’t fully go away immediately and of course, being well-aware of it, he took great joy in making me help him rehearse lines of Romeo & Juliet with him. I can still remember him laughing when I was like, seriously? Give me a break!

He was also the first boy I ever drove in a car with — and that time, I was nervous. I remember buying him a St. Christopher’s medal for the Gran Torino and us pulling out of my parents’ driveway. I was so nervous I probably was holding onto the handle of the passenger-side door.

But the bulk of our relationship was teasing me and me falling for it all the time.

His long-time running gag was that I wasn’t “really a girl” as far as he was concerned. That lasted forever, to the point of when I went to visit him at the firehouse and someone suggested I could possibly be a romantic interest — and his dramatic feigned horror at the idea. What! She’s not a girl!

Throughout all that, Chris never forgot what we called our “friend anniversary,” the day we met at that dance, Dec. 8. We always celebrated it in some little special way. The last friend anniversary we shared, he surprised me at my office downtown with the best gift ever — an NYFD fleece that I treasure to this day.

And the jacket I’m wearing in this picture was his. I told him I loved it — so he just gave it to me.

That’s what Chris was about to me. So much of him was the wise guy, so often not serious, but his heart was always pure, strong and so evident.

If I’d never met Chris, my life would have been entirely different. It was Chris who gave me so much of my musical history. It was Chris who introduced me to this nutty guy Greg who liked Godzilla. It was Chris who convinced me to join the Farrell band — certainly something that changed my entire life’s path forever.

Perhaps my favorite memory of Chris of all time, that defined him and us to me, was when he took me to get my prom dress.

For some reason, maybe because I was afraid of driving on highways, Chris took me to Menlo Park to pick up my senior prom dress after having it fitted. It was 1988, and I was 17. I remember his car having no back window, taped over maybe? —and having to listen to Psychodelic Furs or something similar the whole way.

We got to probably Macy’s, and I tried on my enormous, white, 80’s prom dress — a dress I loved more than anything. I can still remember stepping out of the fitting room in bracing for what sort of wise-crack or teasing was going to come out of his mouth upon seeing me.

We looked at each other, those blue eyes sparkling, and smiled.

“Wow, Sue. You ALMOST look like a girl. Almost,” he said.

And I’ll never forget that moment. It was the best compliment he could have ever given me.

I’m sure I screwed up some details in these memories, but the essence is there.

That’s what Chris was to me. Above all, he was a friend you could always rely on. A friend I knew no matter what, if I called, he’d be there. When it mattered most. He was always there when you needed him. And what made him the perfect friend also made him the perfect fireman. Thinking of you today, Chris. It will be forever my honor and privilege to have known you.

And I know somewhere, you are still laughing at me for being a goofball.

xo

This is no Black Friday shopping — “The Gift of the Magi” by O. Henry

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I haven’t had much time for this blog lately, but being that it is December and we’ve already been listening to Christmas music on the radio for what seems like a month, I’m enjoying a bit of Christmas spirit. It certainly doesn’t hurt to have two little elves with visions of sugarplums coming out their ears bouncing off the walls to remind someone of the magic of the holiday season.

That wasn’t always the case. There were a few years there where I was not a fan of Christmas for a variety of reasons. Not quite a Grinch. But close.

One of those years, one of my friends decided he was going to remedy this and brought a Walkman (for all you young people, that was the great, great grandfather of the iPod) on the Staten Island Ferry and made me listen to The Christmas Song by Nat King Cole.

He also made me read The Gift of the Magi, by O. Henry. While I dig Nat King Cole and all, it is The Gift of the Magi that really brings home the meaning of love and gift-giving for me.

If you haven’t read it, and want to, it’s right up there in the link so I don’t spoil it for you. Otherwise, SPOILER ALERT!

The Gift of the Magi is about a young, married couple, struggling to make it in the world. Della and Jim, both seem like lovely people, working hard, totally in love with each other. Most of the time I’m sure love can be enough, but for Della and Jim, they are faced with a day that commands a bit more than love — Christmas.

Thus the opening of the story, a perfect opening of any short story if you ask me, describes the predicament:

One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one’s cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty- seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.

Poor Della. She’d scrimped and saved on Jim’s meager salary and all she could come up with was $1.87. She cries in frustration.

There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.

Ain’t that the truth, O. Henry?

Foreshadowing alert! Despite the mainly impoverished lifestyle lived by the couple, there are two things they possess that bring them joy and happiness, as well as pride. One is Della’s luxurious hair. The other is is Jim’s watch, that belonged to his father and grandfather.

Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim’s gold watch that had been his father’s and his grandfather’s. The other was Della’s hair. Had the queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty’s jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.

Poor Della, unable to afford a special gift for her darling husband. If only there was a way to earn some quick cash. Fear not, Della does not sell pints of blood or anything else unsavory. Instead, in order to buy her husband a gift worthy of her love for him, Della parts with the one thing besides Jim that is dearest to her — her hair.

She is nervous because Jim loves her hair, but with the weight of the hair removed it seems the weight of her being broke has also been removed. Now she was free to find something special for him — and what more perfect than a beautiful chain “worthy of The Watch” — all caps, of course.

Della rushes home to prepare her gift, get dinner ready and curl her new hairdo to make it more presentable, in the hopes that the initial shock might fade into finding it adorable. After all, it sounds like Della is a looker with or without her long locks.

Jim is late, though, increasing Della’s anxiety. This part is my favorite:

Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit for saying little silent prayer about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: “Please God, make him think I am still pretty.”

I’m going to start saying a little silent prayer over the simplest, everyday things more often. So cute.

Finally, the moment of truth. Jim arrives home, and again the level of poverty at which they live again is driven home, with him needing a new coat and having no gloves.

Jim takes in Della’s hair, and is fixated on it, but Della can’t figure out what emotion he is feeling.

Finally:

“You needn’t look for it,” said Della. “It’s sold, I tell you–sold and gone, too. It’s Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered,” she went on with sudden serious sweetness, “but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim?”

Jim, realizing now she is afraid his feelings have changed, snaps out of it (and just in time too, Jimbo).

“Don’t make any mistake, Dell,” he said, “about me. I don’t think there’s anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you’ll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first.”

In the package, of course, are the beautiful combs that Della has longed for …for hair that she no longer has. But don’t worry, she’ll cheer up the mood, for she still has to give Jim his present!

She tells him to get his watch for his new chain, but alas:

“Dell,” said he, “let’s put our Christmas presents away and keep ’em a while. They’re too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on.”

So two people with no money to buy a gift worthy of their love for each other — they sold the dearest thing of value, really, for them, the ONLY thing of value that each possessed. And now that they both have lost those things, what do they really matter?

And here we are, the end of the story, where O. Henry points out that the Magi brought the baby Jesus the wisest gifts, being wise men and all. What could that possibly have to do with this story?

And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. O all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.

In the true meaning of love, Christmas and sacrifice, though both of them might have lesser after their gift giving process, in the end, they learned that though they may not have material things, they have each other. They have love.

What wiser lesson can we all learn, when Christmas so often seems to focus on the material things, that Christmas is fundamentally about love and giving of oneself. And this story so beautifully illustrates that.

 

 

 

 

 

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Break the sky

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The original, circa 1990

The young forget that only creatures fly

The child dreams his own immensity

And circles violet-hazed intensity

His only driving need to break the sky.

 

But later on, the boy can’t see as high.

And his ambition aims for smaller spheres —

surrenders to his aching mortal fears,

afraid to fall, afraid to break the sky.

 

And now as the old man prepares to die,

his dreams return to taunt him with his fate.

The violet bursts and stars now separate,

allowing him at last to break the sky.

 

The soul forgets that only mortals die —

Its final driving need to break the sky.

Too high

The rustic beauty of the fall may celebrate decay.
Yet laughter of our children chases winter thoughts away.
 I watch my daughters, fearless, searching for next  branch to climb.

My mother’s fear says “Too high!” — but my kid’s heart says “They’re fine.

The scent of leaves, the buzz of bees, the crackling of a branch —

the roughness of the bark, the sticky sap against my hands.

The holding of my breath as grownups wander down below.

And looking up, it seemed there was still  farther I could go.

“Too high!” my mother said when — as always — I was caught.

“You’ll break your neck!” she’d cry, but, still that fear was never taught.

Did knights fear Dragons seeking out a legendary light?

Did beanstalk climbers look back down when seeking heaven’s height?

To fear to fall will always keep us tethered to the land.

To look above, and not below, only dreamers understand.

Today, my daughters grasp and strive through oranges and reds –

To get closer to blue, too far to not stir mother’s dread.

But I’ll stand watch as they are carried up without a cry.

My heart has been, and won’t forget, where others fear’s too high.

Hummingbird

Flutter —

Unbelievable

Unattainable

My soul

With long-sought wings

You flutter

barely in sight —

delicate and determined

swayed by sugar.

That glimpse of heaven

Tiny, trembling, tenacious

Wings, like an angel’s tears

A temporary traveler —

A sneaking spirit.

A miraculous wisp that seems to —

Flutter,

my cheeky cherub —

my flickering heart —

my fleeting friend.

 

Until

your wings

can lift my soul

again.

 

Goodbye

For Harry and Rosie

You are perfect
Souls
free of selfishness
Spirits unfettered
Your joy is pure
Your love
Boundless and unburdened
My sorrow is for myself
I give you back to heaven
To purity
To where you belong
For my time, grateful
For my privilege to cradle
Your sweet heart
It’s hard to let go
But I see them
Do you feel them?
Your wings
You’re free
I will feel you in the wind
Running from gravity
Until you
my perfect Angels
Welcome me

Flashback: A fall from grace: Was justice served?

Susan Shultz; Times Reporter   Reporter’s Notebook — Dec. 2007: Forgiveness. Justice. Restitution. From the beginning of the case of the Rev. Michael Jude Fay, these words have been used often.

The teachings of Jesus Christ in the Roman Catholic Church, as well as any other faith in which He plays a part, are about love, faith and forgiveness.

In Tuesday’s court proceedings, Fay said he was unable to ask for forgiveness from his parish at the time of his resignation. He said he wrote a letter, but it was not allowed to be published. Fay didn’t say who refused it or why.

At the same time, the Diocese of Bridgeport not only presented St. John Parish with a letter of forgiveness from the Rev. Michael Madden; it was issued as a press release. Madden was the priest who, with the church bookkeeper, hired the private investigator who uncovered the lifestyle Fay was living off the church’s money.

Fay appeared quiet and reserved Tuesday in court. However, in addressing the court, his voice commanded attention. Using symbolism, references to Lillian Hellman and Leonardo Da Vinci, calling himself a man of many layers, Fay was composed and articulate. It was not surprising that he was good at public speaking. His devotion to theatrical performances was presented as a large part of the evidence he’d done good works for society.

But was he acting now? There was no emotion breaking the perfectly spoken plea to the judge. No trembling in the voice so artfully weaving together a soliloquy of repentance, of a “chained and broken” man.

The same could not be true of Fay’s supporters. His brother, Daniel, had trouble getting his words out in pleading with the judge to spare Fay prison.

And in one of the most moving moments of the sentencing, an elderly friend offered to serve a year in jail on Fay’s behalf if only Fay would not have to go.

These expressions of devotion to the former pastor could move one to compassion, as could the psychologist who said she had to counsel Fay on his growing cancer ordeal. The prostate cancer racing through Fay’s body was one of the most compelling arguments to keep him out of jail. Yet, it was not enough to move the priest to re-inventory his life while he was taking money from his devoted parishioners, a point made by the prosecutor.

In fact, following his diagnosis, his theft got worse.

It is easy to understand the concept of forgiveness in this situation. In some ways, Fay is lucky his crime involved St. John Parish. He stole from people who by their very definition believe in the principles of forgiveness. They follow the teachings of Jesus Christ. He teaches to forgive.

Was justice served? It is hard to tell. Where is the justice for Father Madden? If, as the prosecutor says, Fay served himself for the last seven years as pastor, Madden served the people of St. John’s – for both of them. Filling the pastor’s void. And emotionally and physically exhausted, punished and maligned, he had no choice but to leave his life’s work and walk away, as his faith too was irreparably shaken. Into the silence. No longer punished, but never exonerated. And never fully understood. And never able to explain everything to a church he loved more than himself.

Was justice served? For Fay, as the prosecutor pointed out, his jail sentence is less than half of the amount of time he stole from St. John Parish.

Was justice served to the people of St. John Parish? To Catholics everywhere, who are forced to once again defend a faith that takes hit after hit due to the actions of individuals – individuals who were trusted, and betrayed that trust. Individuals who were held to a higher standard and fell much lower than would have been expected from the average stranger.

As far as restitution, Fay’s monetary theft was approximately $1.3 million as per the plea agreement. After Fay transferred his half of a Florida condominium, plus some additional assets, he got it down to approximately $1 million. That amount, during yesterday’s proceedings, was basically written off. He can’t pay it back. It’s gone.

But more valuable, and even more impossible to return, is the faith in God and the church that he robbed of so many of his parishioners. Many people have either left St. John’s or left the Catholic Church. Their faith permanently destroyed by a man they trusted, and who stole it from them as easily as he would a dollar from the offertory basket. That restitution can never be made, and that debt is too pricey to ever place a number on.

Fay pleaded for the judge to have mercy yesterday. He begged for compassion.

Perhaps, if the former pastor had shown those feelings for the parishioners who were placed in his trusted care, those people who placed their delicate faith in his hands in a world where believing is hard enough, he wouldn’t be going to jail.

And those who held onto that faith know that God is just, and justice will be served.