Tonight, after not having blogged for nearly 2 months, simply because I haven't taken the time to download photos to go with my stories I've completed, I have decided to post without photos - I will add them later. Wayne Dyer has been an inspiration to me since about 1974, when my older brother, Bob, introduced me to "Your Erroneous Zones."
Many years later, while going through mediation for my second divorce, my husband's attorney lept over the conference table to attack me. The mediator immediately took me to a room to sit by myself. I pulled a book off the shelf - it was by Wayne Dyer. I opened randomly to a page, like we used to do with the Bible, seeking a message from God.
On one side, the page was blank. On the other, was the Prayer of St. Francis. I was nonplussed. There was my answer. Peace. Make ME a channel of peace. I cover this at more length in my Blog elsewhere, but today, I am posting my "Closure University" Blog in honor of Wayne Dyer - a pioneer, an inspiration, a man of God, a lover of my brother, St. Francis.
Today, Wayne is beginning a new adventure. His closure on this earth, leaves a wide open gift of love, openness, acceptance, power, faith, and positivity. He always made me smile - - and still does.
CLOSURE UNIVERSITY
We’ve all said it, “I need closure.”
Your spouse has left you for another lover, your partner has ditched you for “space,” your parent or sibling or child or close friend has abandoned you or died, you’ve lost your job for no apparent reason. The list is endless. But what each of these experiences begs, is “closure.”
What is closure? What happens when one finally gets closure? Openness to a new person, or job, or outlook, or adventure? Certainly “closure” cannot bring back the dead.
How do you stitch up a wide gaping hole, needing to be filled? If it miraculously gets closed tightly, we are left with a scar, sometimes seeping with pus and blood, feeling like a leper, until an antibiotical friend, lover, partner, job, adventure, accepts us with that ugly mark of our past.
It is ugly because it wreaks of the scent of death - of loss - of unimaginable destruction. It is ugly, because we are not powerful enough, in and of our own selves, to make whole what is now less than half - of something or someone wonderful that completed us - or in other cases, something or someone that destroyed us.
“You’re what? Going to Paris by yourself for a month?” some friends questioned, “And leaving your kids?” they chastised.
My “kids,” the last two of four living at home, were 18 and 21, recent high school and college graduates. At a time when most children leave home to go to school, mine stayed, while I went away to the “University of Closure.”
Some suggested I was “running away.” Others understood that it’s possible I was “running to.” As for me, I was just taking advantage of a generous invitation, trusting my children and certain friends to tend to the Big White House, and trusting God to watch over us all, as I travelled to a foreign place, not knowing a soul, the language, or the lay of the land.
Thus began my journey toward closure. Having suffered physically from Fibromyalgia, and now mentally from diagnosed L.A.S. (Legal Abuse Syndrome), my doctors concurred that a change in environment, attitude, and obligations would be the best medicine.
The story of France, and the countries that followed, is a book in the works. Seven years later, going over the more than one hundred thousand words I wrote, my inner scars still sting.
Who knows where I would be had I not said, “yes” to my French friends’ offer to stay in their apartment while they traveled to Corsica for the month of August.
Who knows what I’d have become or whom I’d have met if I hadn’t hopped off the Metro at 1AM with three young students, or walked across the street at Louis Vuitton on Champs Elysees at the precise time that I did, or…
Paris, her people, her food, her music, her art, her architecture, her Churches, her own energy, filled my open wound, replacing the cavernous darkness with a warm, welcoming luminescence. For me, the City of Lights was “Closure 101.”
There were many “courses” along the way, some of which I flunked, some of which I barely passed, and most of which, I Aced. But when you Ace a class in be-friending homeless Bohemians, living hand-to-mouth, or surviving all-night Salsa dancing, not everyone agrees with your “Field of Studies.”
No matter - for only you can live your life. If anyone else would have offered to live mine for me, I might still be trapped in the CA court system, or in a mental hospital, or worse yet, dead by suicide.
Yes, I had been to the depths of despair, and it was my faith that gave me the courage to call my friends, to open the door for them when they came to my bedside reminding me that life has purpose, and to let my youngest daughter hold me and encourage me when the bottom had fallen out from beneath my world.
It was faith that commandeered my journey to “Closure University,” and ironically, it was the fruits of my travels that strengthened my faith. Through each and every face, moment, bite, sip, and step, renewing light flowed into my collapsing veins. In short, Paris pumped me up. She made me want to live again - to write again, to sing again, to dance again, to love again.
I have just spent a good chunk of time with a couple, 94 and 87, with whom I had never spoken before, except for polite greetings at high school events in the 1970’s. I dove in, and so did they, to this “Companion Vacation,” having no expectations, no demands, and few concerns.
Opening up a summer home, after nine months of dust, rain, closed doors, and, as we came to find out, no electricity, was a chore unto itself - one I did not expect.
Removing protective newspaper-coverings from all the furniture in a twenty-two room villa, attempting to unlock stuck doors, and open weather-sealed windows, along with eating take-out pizza and warm juice (with no electricity, we had no refrigerator) were obstacles I had not anticipated.
But we were troopers, cheering each other on each evening by candlelight, as Giovanni told stories of the “War,” the family farm, his grandfather’s courage and lessons, and why and how he relentlessly pursued Carolina.
Carolina would interject, embellish, and correct, all the while smiling at me as if to say, “he always tells these stories.” And as the days turned into weeks, he did repeat many a tale, all of which I responded to as if it were the very first time I had heard them.
This time with these two very distinct individuals, taught me about loyalty, patience, tolerance, and what it means to just be grateful you’re alive. I have learned to adjust to the exhaustingly slow pace of senior life, to walking slowly, praying slowly, and eating slowly.
One day, during the “Candlelight” week, as Carolina and I walked to Tigre supermarket, about a quarter of a mile down the road, I considered finding out how to get a cab home. My “penance-oriented” inner voice told me to take a deep breath and not to look at the time. I kept reminding myself that neither of us had anything else to do that day except get back home.
When we arrived at Tigre, it was closed. It was then that Carolina told me about all the businesses shutting down from 1 to 4 PM. It was 2:30 - and, after she mentioned the thought of waiting until 4, probably after seeing a hideous look in my eyes, she decided we should come back another day. Forty-five minutes later we were both home in bed.
I’ve gotten used to midday naps following the 1PM main meal. My circadian rhythms have flip-flopped between my lifelong nocturnal lifestyle, and the “early to bed, early to rise” clock of my current world.
I’ve popped out of bed, energized, at 6AM, and I’ve fallen asleep exhausted by 10 some nights. I’ve exercised a lot, written plenty, eaten smartly, and hopefully, served as a congenial and helpful companion to my friend’s parents.
Before putting closure on my time in this neck of Italy, I had three things more to accomplish; swim (not wade) in the sea, eat at La Casseta to taste Enzo’s renowned cooking, and make a trip to Montepagano, the walled city fortress that overlooks Roseto, the Adriatic Sea, and the surrounding hills.
I have swum, lusciously soaking in the balmy waist-high waters down the block, and tomorrow we are going to Enzo’s restaurant with Gabrielle and his wife. Today, after Giordano of Aurora had failed to bring me here on his motorcycle, (no extra helmet), I hopped a bus to Montepagano.
Arriving in a minute medieval village during “nap time” is both a blessing and a curse. Though neither businesses nor Annunciation Church were open, I wandered quietly through the stone alleyways and crevices, basking in the hot midday sun, while admiring sweeping views of sea, mountains (Gran Sasso Range), perfectly “scored” farmlands, one-thousand-year-old plus homes, and visiting the four “gates” through the fortress walls.
The four archway entries, some pointed and some rounded, were the only access to the city a thousand years ago, during the “feuds.” There are two on the East, the Belvedere and the “da Pié,” one on the North, the Boreo (also where taxes were collected), and Santa Caterina on the South, facing a cross, the only remains of a once active Church.
I followed a group of junior high aged school children down the hill from Santa Caterina, hoping they were on a tour and could lead me to more sites. They jogged directly to a large soccer field, where they joined other youth, apparently practicing or competing. I turned back up toward the town.
“Lambie” and I managed to find a shaded bench, where we rested a little under the watchful shadow of the clock tower. As locals began to crawl out of their handmade brick houses, I searched, unsuccessfully, for internet.
This was a day to Skype with my granddaughters, something I live for, but unfortunately, the waitress at a little café informed me that there is no public WIFI anywhere in Montepagano.
I decided I will turn off my airplane mode and make a necessary contribution to family communication. Two more hours to fill (only one bus back) in this one-horse town.
After peeking into the simple Church of the Annunciation just after “nap time,” I walked and “tapped” slowly around her front courtyard, listening to the hollowness beneath my feet, confirming Giovanni’s history lesson about the underground passageways that underscore the village. Another War tale.
Instead of waiting two and a half hours for the bus, I opted to walk the pedestrian route through the hills down to the seaside. But first, I Skype my granddaughters. No answer, so Lambie and I leave a video message.
Then, after twenty seven seconds of Skype-ing my parents, I received an AT&T text, alerting me that I had spent one hundred dollars in roaming charges! I restored airplane mode and headed down the hill, only to find a cemetery just outside the Northern Gates..
Most of the grave sites had pictures of the deceased on them. Some were unmarked, and seemingly abandoned. I prayed a Rosary, (Sorrowful Mysteries), as I wandered around the headstones and mausoleums, feeling the spirits sensing me, and blowing kisses as I departed. (pardon the pun).
I chose a path that reads “Rosetto - Collegio,” only to descend steeply to the main highway, which Giordano, (the motorcycle guy), had told me was about a ten-kilometer drive. I turned around and went back up to the starting point, panting and sweating like a n out-of-shape 55-year-old, hoping to find another path. I did.
The steep drop to Fonte del Accolle, a source of mountain spring water where locals used to wash their clothes, bring their cows, and fill their jugs, was beginning to give my knees a licking. The overgrown path led me through an array of wild flowers, butterflies, the shirring of cicadas, and scenes of wheat fields, olive groves, and Abrruzzian vistas, until I finally came to the water. I doused myself liberally, and then had to make a decision.
There was a “Y” at the Fonte Accolle. Though the path that led “up” looked wide, clear, and well-worn, I chose the path leading down, as I had already done enough uphill climbing for the day. Overgrown, wild roses, and thick brush challenging my girl scout courage, this passage delighted me with sights, sounds, and smells, as well as a bit of trepidation.
As I clicked a photo of a lovely purple cluster, I heard an unusual noise, not unlike a small, angry raccoon or strange Italian creature I might have never heard of. I startled and took off at a clip, praying that this was indeed the right path, and also, that the terrain would soon level, as the angle of the decline was causing pain between my “flip-flopped” toes. “A girl Scout is always prepared.” Not!
I had no water - and was parched. I had no “useable” phone - and had no idea where I was. I had no first aid kit - and was snagged several times by thorns, and possibly poison ivy. I had no bug repellent - and saw weird-looking bugs flying before my face.
I looked backwards, up at the mountain I had already partially descended and then forward, at the unknown completion of my intermediate-level trek. Both ways were a bit unnerving, but I breathed deeply, recited Hail Mary’s, and walked with confidence, consciously stopping to smell the roses, take account of my surroundings, and be grateful.
A mere forty-five minutes later, I arrived at the base of the hill, near the cement company, just ten blocks from home. En-route to the Villa, I saw the street sign “colle Patitto,” and realized that this was the street Carolina had told me to take if I were going to walk up to Montepagano. The path was wide, clear, somewhat worn, and obviously much less treacherous than the one I had traveled. Oh well, there’s always a next time!
I had proudly pushed onward, surprised at myself once again, and patting myself on the back for having the guts and hutzpah I’ve had to “go it alone,” facing hardship, secret passageways, questionable situations, and unusual and challenging circumstances - with just the four of us - me, myself, I - and Lambie.
I ponder my recent past, seven years since I began “Closure University,” and realize I have graduated. Though the pain never goes away, it dims. New pains arise, but somehow, having been so deep into darkness, I am better able to cope. I am more eager to change, to grow, to be open to new possibilities in this new stage in life. I have begun my Masters in Openness.
I’m sure, as most professionals, I will need some “closure” brush-up classes along the way - lest I slip back into self-pity, depression, or self-hate. One of the most difficult passages in the closure passage, is self-forgiveness.
Whether it be divorce, death, bankruptcy, job termination, family feuds, or whatever, most normal humans writhe in self-blame. What could I have done differently? Why did I x, y, or z? Why didn’t I think to…?
Recognizing, naming, identifying, and then forgiving one’s real, true, honest - OR poor, evil, or unfounded perceptions and/or decisions that have been harbored and festering, is paramount to closure.
Perhaps the best way to achieve Closure, is to remain or become Open - to purposefully fill the heart’s empty spaces with new people, places, prayers, and possibilities.
Sometimes, moving forward takes more effort and courage than the crippling comfort of looking back on or being paralyzed in the past. Once again, no one but the self can begin the journey to accomplish the goal of peace, success, health or whatever it is you decide you need.
I chose to remove myself from the “physical place of heartbreak and distress,” and in so doing, I became able to start to heal the emotional and spiritual damage I endured.
Closure - and openness - are in no one’s power but the self.
What lies behind us and what lies before us are small matters compared to what lies within us. And when we bring what is within us out into the world, miracles happen. Ralph Waldo Emerson
