Count the Days

Eclipse Homework. Now I know why it took so long to write this.

I’ve been trying to let this spew out for the longest time. Actually, I’ve been aware of it curdling up and over for months, but have tried to remain unconscious about it, because it felt like a wide gaping bloody hole, that still hurts, that I created. Writing about it, much less sharing it in public, felt far too revealing.

But 3/25 is the 46th anniversary of losing my virginity.

Yes, I wrote about it in red-ink on the diving board with a candle.

Oh, it was three candles. What an abundance. I remembered one but then what I wrote about wasn’t one man either. Hence, the short blips I’m sharing.

My folks married in 1956 and this is more about the tail end of my relationships with them, than it is about me and my tail.

And 3/25, just six and a half hours away for me at this moment, is a Full Moon in Libra (all about relationships) south node Lunar eclipse. South Nodes deal with the past and things to let go of to make room for a new lease on life that begins in the North Node Solar eclipse on April 8th. LeaseAGuest. Lisa is all about leasing even though I’m still driving a 1998 I was given in 2003. TMI? But you’ve come to rely upon me for that, perhaps to remind you of the need for brevity.

I have felt guilty about the line that titles this piece. Count the Days.

Sometimes, to me, it seems pitiful that I continue to write so much about my folks. They aren’t even here anymore. But they are not out of sight or out of mind. They did so much for their three children, and four grandchildren as well. They use to say, “For the Kinder.” For the children. They were united in doing the family thing. He the Virgo, she the Scorpio.

A friend of mine who counsels CEOs in business and law as well as with their everyday problems says that 95% of the people bring her something that has to do with their parents. That gave me some comfort. She also said, “A Virgo and a Scorpio for parents isn’t an easy go of it.”

I remember when we weren’t behaving the way they wanted us to behave, or thought the Grand Canyon was fake, when they went out of their way to take us there, “FOR THE KINDER” came out as a guilt-trip. They wanted to be appreciated for how they gave us culture with theater, symphonies, and plays. I’ll never forget that Three Dog Night concert where Mom was saying as we inched closer to the round Long Beach Arena, “That’s a funny smell, what is it?”

Count The Days. 444 words before I even attempt to get down to the crux of this blog. On 5/23/14 I wrote COUNT THE DAYS on a little yellow post-it note and attached it to the front door of my office. On the day my father died I went to MathCats.com and calculated how many days had gone by since I put that post-it on my door. In February I went to May 23rd, 2014 in my online diary and read what I wrote then that caused the Post-It note to exist, and my guilt to continue because I felt that way during his last years.

“I wish he would release the mortal coil quickly and easily in his sleep. No big health drama, no long drawn-out kvetching dragging mom down even more. I want him to stop making mom crazy (which he does every day now). He worried he would go at 37, which was how old his father was when he died. Then later when he was 52, he worried again because mom’s dad had died at 52. Mom said both times, “If you don’t die, I might kill you.” It was just a joke, right? Him dying early would have freed me to live without so much trauma. It is his stuff that caused me to choose men that also traumatize me. Not all his fault. There is some with Mom’s Scorpio… but I also carry Scorpio and I’ve worked hard with her to learn and we’ve grown and are capable of communicating about our insufficiencies. We don’t project them on others. Please Jesus, Lord, Steven, God and Angelic realm. Please count the days and make it painless. Let me refocus on my work, rewrite my book, gain “work” that pays which is satisfying.”

After all they had done for us, I was counting the days as he got more and more belligerent in his body and uncomfortable with all the destruction decades of “fine dining” had done to his body. Losing my younger brother devastated my folks. I tried to be there for them. Years went by and they grew accustomed to me being an easy distraction that could buffer the antagonism they were feeling for each other.

Another post-it note showed up a while after he died and 616 days before she died. I am not a paragon of patience, but I tried as much as I could to distract her from her pain. “Hi Mom, what would you like to do today?”

“How should I know? I always did what anyone else wanted me to do.”

Five years before he died after reading my book she said, “I realize I’ve wasted my entire life taking care of your father. If I had my life to do over again, I’d live my life exactly as you have lived yours.”

My brother died when his oldest was two and a half, and his baby was 30 days. A few years ago the baby said to me, “Don’t feel bad for me that my dad died. If he hadn’t, I wouldn’t be as strong as I am.” When I danced at her wedding last October it was the happiest wedding I’d ever attended.

Mom always wanted me to read my latest writing to her. She’d always say, “You write the things that everyone feels but hardly ever talk about.” I loved them both and know that separately and united they gave much of their souls that I could develop into being exactly who I was meant to be. Did they have different pictures of how they wished I’d have developed, yes indeed. But they both cherished that we kept the lines of communication open.

Dad used to say to me, “Your problem is you have too many options.” Now I realize he didn’t have many options because he knew exactly what he was supposed to do. He couldn’t relate to me having so many options. Plus, after all the years as a student leader, then four straight years of college at UC Berkeley, my first taste of freedom, with no plans, no schedule, lots of ‘shoulds’ but a daily realignment of what had been and what might be in the moment without all the pressures was like learning a new language without a book on what that language was I needed to learn and master. Although it was uncomfortable and I felt guilty about it, I love freedom and releasing pressure, but back then was afraid to admit I needed freedom and the lack of pressure in order to become comfortable in my skin again. It’s taken me decades to realize that’s what is necessary for my creativity and flow to percolate and produce.

My friend the psychic pharmacist stopped by last week. She wants to do a pod cast together. She said, “Your ancestors are proud of you. They love watching you live your life.”

“Why?” I mean I know I have them all up on my ancestor wall, but exactly what do they love about watching me live my life?

“Because all of their lives were focused on survival and you have been free enough to focus your life on the soul’s path and your preferred evolution. They find it fascinating and it is healing parts of them when you heal parts of yourself.”

This is my attempt to release the guilt for any pain my behavior caused them. I know now my parents who admirably did what they were told to do couldn’t relate to me slowly drifting away from the young Most Likely to Succeed person they were grooming to become the most authentic I can be in each moment.

I release this pain I felt for any old patterns that are no longer present.

For the first time in decades I’m beginning to feel a delightful dancing future originate in each moment of the present day I’m lucky enough to awaken to, to rise for, and to breathe through as I stretch my unconscious and make it more conscious.