inspiration often comes by way of dreams. remembering and recording them has brought new understandings of life and this mysterious journey unfolding before me.
A man had just bought a hot dog from a street vendor on 42nd street in New York. It was a hot summer day, and he had the day off from work. As he was putting his change back from his purchase, a five-dollar bill dropped from his hand and the light breeze blew it away to land before a vagrant sitting on a piece or cardboard. He had no sign asking for help. His clothes, though worn, did not appear particularly dirty.
The vagrant picked up the bill just as the man walked over. ‘Hey, that’s mine!’ the man yelled at the vagrant. Their eyes met and the man’s anger vanished for a brief second. The deep brown eyes of the vagrant seemed to penetrate the man’s thought, but just for a second. ‘Can I have my bill back?’ the man asked.
The vagrant sat for a second looking at this man. ‘Would you offer some help to an old man?’ the vagrant asked. ‘Why would I do that? You probably would just buy some booze or drugs with it.’ The man stated with an edge of disgust. The vagrant began to stand as the man stepped back. He wasn’t much taller than the man, but his stature was straight and strong.
As people passed them, the man demanded the five dollars back. The vagrant held out the bill as the man grabbed it from him with a quick jerk of his hand. ‘There you go Mark; I hope it helps you in some way. ‘How did you know my name?’ the man asked. ‘I know quite a bit about you Mark.’ The vagrant said emphasizing the man’s name.
The man stood frozen in place. People pushed by as the two men continued to look at each other. ‘Shall we talk a bit?’ the vagrant asked. ‘The man, now known as Mark, turned away for a moment then began walking on. He stopped a few yards from the vagrant and turned around. Still holding the five-dollar bill in his hand, Mark looked back. The vagrant was speaking with an old woman who was nodding and smiling. She hugged him and walked on.
Mark decided out of curiosity to walk back to the vagrant. ‘I’m still confused on how you knew my first name.’ The vagrant smiled and said ‘Mark Webster, born on January 23rd, 1952.’ Mark was dumbfounded. He could not fathom the thought that a random street vagrant would know about him. He leaned up against the cold granite wall of the building. The vagrant then told him he knew everyone.
Mark stood when his mouth open. ‘I, I don’t understand. How can you know everyone?’ A couple passed by the vagrant and said hello to him, calling him Jesus but with the Spanish pronunciation of the name. the vagrant smiled and wished the couple well, addressing them by their names. Mark was so terribly confused.
‘Mark, your life has been a series of fits and starts. You have been trying to find your path in life, but it has been an elusive dream you seldom touched upon.’ Mark wanted to speak but had no words. A young man walked up to the vagrant Jesus and thanked him for his kind words and guidance. ‘You found your path, my son?’ the vagrant Jesus asked. ‘Oh yes, it was like the opportunities opened when I stopped fighting it. My eyes are wide open now!’ Jesus smiled and hugged the young man, whose name was John.
Mark watched as many people walked up the this seemingly inconsequential human and were happy and appreciative of seeing him. ‘Who are you?’ Mark asked. Jesus smiled and told him he is just an old man with a great amount of wisdom and curiosity. ‘I hold the soul of the world in my heart and every person is important to me, including you, Mark.’ There was silence between them for a while as Mark felt like he fell into a rabbit hole of lost reason.
Mark had no more words. He mumbled something about a meeting he needed to get to. Jesus knew it was a lie. ‘Okay young man. I hope your day is filled with potential and promise.’ Jesus offered. Mark turned and walked away, this time not stopping or turning back. The vagrant stood watching for a moment then began walking away. Mark turned a few moments later and notice for the first time that the vagrant was wearing an old robe tied at the waist. His long gray hair tired in a ponytail hung down to the middle of his back. Mark thought to himself, damn, Jesus does wear Birkenstocks!
PART ONE: Often early relationships are attempts at reconciling one’s childhood experiences of witnessing troubled parental relationships. Often this is done subconsciously. The search for and redemption of childhood trauma through adult relationships keeps the generational trauma continuing. It is only when a person begins to identify and understand the patterns of childhood are being repeated, and develops the desire and importantly, courage to face this and change, that the generational trauma has a chance to heal and not permeate the next generation.
PART TWO: Often condescending and abusive remarks appear to be pointing outward. But as the old saying stated: one finger pointed out, three pointed at self. It is most definitely a reflection of self rather than the other. The inner anguish and pain of the abuser becomes so overwhelming that most will, instead of going into reflection, will lash out at an other to relieve some of the pressure. This, of course, is futile and very short-lived. The best a person can do, witnessing/enduring ongoing abusive behavior, is to understand the background and the source of the hatred. Returning anger further justifies the emotional turmoil and self-loathing. Feeling sympathy and understanding for them is more effective, both for yourself and for them. (often from a distance) Choosing to leave the abuser is the very best option, as they may not learn about their own trauma while in relationship.
Next: The fear of leaving what is known (although horrible) for the unknown.
I am ravaged by the death of my freedom. My every waking moment controlled by his emotions. My every moment decided by his will. Yet, I cannot find my way out. I am so terribly fearful of the unknown, of the freedom I have never knew. The fear of my own death is no match for the fear of him leaving me.
He is so much like my father, but I do not see it. My past is so very evident in my present, yet I replay all the same scenarios over and over again. Father was abusive. He tormented mom, he terrorized me. Mom made excuses for his behaviors. She apologized endlessly for her faults as he described them.
Mom died before he did. My father cried the first tears I had ever seen. He sobbed for hours days later. It wasn’t until the end of his life that he began to understand his actions. I sat at his funeral empty. I had no future, only that past.
I was lost in nightmares of the past. I was falling into a deep abyss of loneliness. The he appeared. A knight in shining armor. My savior, my soul. Our courtship appeared to be a fairytale. His attentiveness and thoughtfulness filled my heart with joy. But I did not see the red flags.
He was cold and distant with his family. He was usually rude and demanding of waitstaff if his order was just not right. One day we were walking into a store, and he didn’t hold the door for me. We seldom held hands anymore. I just dismissed this as him being a highly focused and demanding person.
The first time he raised his voice at me I cowered. It was an innocent moment of forgetfulness on my part. I attempted to apologize, but he continued to scream at me. As tears fell, he looked away in disgust and walked out of the room. This was but the beginning. It was years and years of relentless anger.
It wasn’t until I began speaking to a counselor that I began piecing together my childhood with my current relationship. I finally felt understood. I finally felt. Returning home after the first session, I had an understanding of his behaviors and the reasons why. I began attempting to reason with him during our arguments. To my surprise it didn’t work. He became more rageful and slapped me across my face.
I felt the full force of his inner demons for the first time. It really wasn’t the first time. That slap brought back terrible memories of witnessing my mom being hit by my father. Now the terror was distinctly mine. I felt so very alone, again.
Sitting in my bedroom, tears falling. I felt trapped. Leaving meant being alone. Alone held no substance. I could not wrap my brain around what it actually meant. I endured several years of his abuse. I never hated him, I felt a supreme sorrow for his own hell. During subsequent sessions with my counselor I began to understand why I held such fear of leaving him, of what I was really looking for in him.
It truly wasn’t about him completely. As my counselor had described, in finding and marrying this man, this abusive soul, I was attempting to reconcile my abusive childhood by attempting to fix this man and therefore giving my past a happy ending. As this rarely comes true, I was left with the terror of abuse or the crippling fear of being alone.
It was during a lunch with a close friend that I heard my own words for the first time. She asked what I never left him, why I chose to endure such abuse. I lowered my eyes, and in almost a whisper I stated: ‘I’d rather be beaten, than be alone.’
(That last statement was once said to me by a close friend who had been in a terribly abusive relationship. It was his attempt at killing her and her defending herself that finally brought her to seek and more importantly, accept help.)
The Devil stated that he could win over a large percentage of the population in America
God, being eternally curious, asked how. But the Devil wasn’t about to give out his plan.
They bantered a bit about the frailty and ego of most humans.
The Devil offered a wager. ‘If I win a large percentage, I get to take them with me when I am done.
God thought about this. He thought that hell was already crowded, but decided to agree.
The Devil needed not to return to earth as a person. He just began sowing the seeds of hatred and distrust. He whispered gentle words of superiority as he had for so many centuries. He then sealed his plan with one last sentence. ‘I am Jesus, follow me.’
Someone’s mom died. Her bedroom was dark. The air was still and silent. The deep green heavy curtains were drawn tight against the bright morning sun.A single table lamp with a Tiffany-style glass shade dimly lit the room. Two others were in the room with me cleaning up and boxing her worldly belongings. The rose-colored walls held a couple of landscape paintings and a photo of her mom in black and white with a lovely silver frame.
Boxes were being filled with the contents of the single bureau, her dressing table held lots of silver jewelry and cosmetics. I went to the closed and opened the door. Inside were two dresses. Colored horizontal stripes were bright against the darkness of the closet as there was no light inside.
I looked at them for a while before being called to help load a box.
From here the dream ended and I awoke with a heavy sense of grief and sorrow.
The Journey of a thousand miles 