Views From a Cruise

VIEWS FROM A CRUISE

Everything looks prettier from one's private balcony on a cruise ship. Or so I imagine. I'm so spoiled. I've grown accustomed to the view while sipping a pina colada in my pajamas. Snap. Snap. I click the camera at the sunrise, the waves, the remote islands we sail by, the inconceivable cloud formations, the eventual goodnight salutation of the sun ... an animal that surfaces, anything that touches an emotional chord. The music is the humming of the ship, the cracking of the sea, the hushed winds that whisper all day and all night.

Is that a Monet painting? It could be. Except that it is from my little point and shoot camera. The only thing more beautiful than the actual Venetian view is the surreal surprise of seeing it later looking like this! I don't remember it being that beautiful as I looked through the tiny lens.

People say they're bored on a ship. "Nothing to do," is the common complaint. I understand that. There can be long days at sea, where eating or shopping or drinking or thinking can become a rigorous routine of monotony. The noise at the pool and the incessant sun is not for everyone. I get it. That's why a private suite with a quiet balcony is the only way to sail. Except that solitude is not for everyone either.






Of course you could always come and hear the special interests speaker (ME!), and learn about etymology or gemology. I'm listed on the daily program somewhere below origami oranges or how to crimp a braid. Seriously? There's the casino ... but I'm free. (And fun!)

You want to hike in the mountains with giant spiders? Sleep in a tent? Sit cross-legged at an ashram? Bicycle across a continent sweating, panting, inflating tires, and sipping a small bottle? Walk through endless ruins contemplating the scholars of centuries past? All great ideas. All activities I do too, in my imagination. *Knock - knock* What's that? Room service? Ahhh ... try that in your jungle paradise!

Or ... try this! The sunlight shimmering with twinkly sparkles along ridges of cresting waves. Soon the illumination of stars on waters. Cloud formations slither as wispy shapes or dense cover between patches of intensely blue sky. Structural patterns, occasional dark clouds, animal shapes, an angel, a spreading shadowy sprinkle ... peace. It's peace, pure and wet, and wonderful, and never the same to be seen again.

The higher up you are on a cruise ship, the more expensive the accommodations. I like the lowest balcony I can get. The closer I am to the water, the more I can see the depths of the sea and the animals below. There are telltale signs of a feeding frenzy, a whale's tale, excited dolphins diving in the wake of the ship. Once, mere miles from Key West, we passed over millions of jellyfish in a gelatinous bubble of frenzied feeding, but who else noticed? Certainly not all the boozing sunbathers on the top of the ship, Am I the only one that saw that unbelievable sight? Maybe.

Everyday a new thing to see or a port to explore. Everyday, meals made for me, sheets pulled back, little towel animals waiting on the bed. This is luxury, and I like it.

I've conquered sea-sickness, a migraine in Africa, the medinas and bazaars in many foreign lands, losing a throng of tourists I was in charge of in Amsterdam. (No, they were not in the "coffee bars".) I've weathered all kinds of weather, including a hurricane in the English Channel that tossed my stateroom like a salad. (That'll teach me to pack so many pairs of shoes ...) I've endured the dirty waters of the Atlantic to get to the bluest waters of the Adriatic Sea. And then there's the Med. Nothing beats the Med. Heck, they named a whole club after it!

I do have one fear, however ...

That something might happen to me way out on the water. Something really bad. Not that the ship should sink, but that I might sink. What happens to sick people? Really, really sick people. Heart attacks, strokes, falls, that sort of thing. Well, like anywhere else, it happens all the time. There is a hospital on board and they handle broken bones, the dreaded Norovirus, all sorts of maladies. Even death. Yes. Even dead people don't get to get off. Your cold, dead body does not disembark until the last port of call. You'll be in cold storage with the meat. (Kidding -- they have a separate shelf for the steaks.) No, cruise ships don't stop except in ports of call.

That's why one night while I was reading in bed, I clenched decidedly when the ship stuttered to a clangy, loud, throttling halt. What was that?! We've stopped in the middle of the ocean? Hundreds of miles from anywhere civilian? No way! But, yes. We stopped. (Another reason why a balcony is mandatory  - so that you can verify you're stuck dead in the water ...) I went outside and we stood still. No motors. No familiar wave noise. We were stopped. They were opening the side of the ship and a small boat from I don't know where was approaching rapidly. Were they pirates? (I've watched way too many movies ...) Wait .. what's that? A stretcher? A person on a stretcher? Leaving like that? From the bottom of the big ship onto a tiny little boat? Family and luggage going too? I watched from my low-down perch. Incredible. The only other time I knew of a medical emergency, that person was whisked via helicopter from the top of the ship. I had never seen anything like this that I was watching. The tedious unfolding of the bowels of the ship and a person's very life, simultaneously. The ordeal took about two hours. The tiny ship finally sailed off, the ship closed up the portal, and we laboriously lugged along again.

What had possibly happened to that person that was worse than death? Then... it happened again! The next morning, someone else, same ordeal, off the Greek islands. This time, I saw the chef among the crowd of ship's personnel, noticeable by his tall toque, helping the ill person disembark. Why was the chef there? Should I worry about room service? Is there something in the food that's putting people off? Literally, as in these two cases?

No. I have a balcony. I will surely eat again. And then again. That's what we do on a ship when we're a sea. There's nothing else to do, remember? Then, I'll buy something I don't need, win the ship's raffle (because I pulled the winning ticket out of the bag and it was curiously my own), discover the delicious taste of a wasabi martini (no, I don't know what's in it, only that I want another one), and return to the respite of my beloved balcony -- with my camera of course, because I always want to remember the glorious views from a cruise.

Just Another Lori Story.

124,002 WORDS

124,002 WORDS

Finally, it's finished. And it's 124,002 words. No, not this blog post (breathe with relief!), but my book. My beautiful book about my beautiful relationship with an “Angel”. At more than 450 pages, it is nevertheless an unfinished story.

It took 3 years of my life to write Torture: Broken Foot, Shattered Soul. It takes time to tell a story like that. And it took ALL my time. It stole my sleep, exacerbated exercise efforts, stifled social life, toyed with my self-awareness, and manipulated me like a puppet with a pen. Nearly every moment of every day surrendered and spent writing, thinking about writing, reading about writing, or chastising myself for not writing.

The monster grew until it materialized as a big book. A very big book. Unbelievably, only the beginning of an even bigger subject matter.

My intentions were clear from the start. Firstly, I wrote Torture for the “Angel”. “He” changed my life in every way and in extraordinary ways.

He changed me.

I needed the “Angel” to know the meta-psychology, the why behind the “why” and beneath the “why”. I wanted him to know the truth. About me ... and about those around him. I owed him that much.

I owed him more.

Catharsis stood as reason number two.

"Many patients keep a journal as they recover, for catharsis,” the “Angel” had told me.

Though a cathartic intent rests soundly in logic, that intention didn't work. Research supports a different view. Running through events over and over, reviewing them endlessly through an astonished mind, only buries them deeper and indelibly, offering little relief in the form of Letting Go.

Catharsis should be an understanding, a release.

It didn't work.

My last reason for writing Torture was to get answers.

Answers to questions I had yet to conceive. Answers to questions I had asked endlessly without sufficient clarity to understand. Answers to questions I was scared to give voice to.

I wanted to heal, but most assuredly lacked the knowledge or experience to cope with such a wide swath of wound, which wound tightly throughout my every exhalation. If I couldn't relieve, how would I breathe?

Only the “Angel” holds the power to heal my hurt. He has that power because I gave it to him. How do I get that back? More questions … I can't answer.

People have suggested that I am allowed to be angry, that I should be angry.

Too late. I promised myself when I started my story that the “Angel” never deserved anger.

I still choose to bless rather than blame.

"He" didn't know any better than I knew.

And what I knew from moment one was that ours was never a random chance encounter.

Random stars collide. Sometimes a brighter star results, sometimes a star explodes, sometimes an uncharted orbit expands both stars via a celestial gate, into a new and unknown galaxy. The collision, however, originates from a place of predetermination.

The stars don't select. They surrender.

I wrote. I'm still writing. I still need to sort it all out, all the while realizing I may never accomplish that alignment intention.

I wrote only for the “Angel”.

"He" doesn't think he's an “Angel”. So far, he's been unable to grasp the metaphorical aspect – that though he is a man, he's an “Angel” for me.

Is it possible God picked “him” purposely, knowing “him” quite well, and knowing “he” would be exactly the right intercession for me at precisely that moment? What if God recognized that this “Angel” was the one and only one who would reach me and rearrange my potentiality. The perfect fit of imperfect personalities. Is it imaginable that God specifically put us on the same path at the same time because the journey we needed to take together, through the layer of spiritual substructure, would forever alter us in unknowable ways?

I only ask, what if?

How scared I was … when I finally finished Torture and went to deliver the “Angel” the first printed copy.

Stunned, “he” told me he would read it.

"I'll read it ... and I'll let you know what I think ...”, the “Angel” assured my scared spirit self. Relieved, I sighed.

I trusted him. Still.

I believed him, even after so many letdowns. I believed him when he promised he'd read the book I wrote for him and let me know --- something. Any thing. I believed him.

I had the renewed innocence of hope. I believed him once again and once again he fooled me. And I fell for it. My unwavering trust and vulnerability vanquished, yet undiminished.

I expected my “Angel” might have questions of his own after reading my story.

I have answers. I am ready.

How should I interpret “his” silence?

A kindness is missing. A validation. An understanding that “he” acknowledges and affirms me. That “he” hears me. We may listen with ears, but we hear with hearts. That “he” realizes the part “he” played in the damaging demise, the ruins of what was real for me. His disregard is deafening.

My favorite priest, who read and enjoyed Torture, said to me, “If he's a sensible man, I think he'll be awed.”

Apparently, my “Angel” is not a sensible man after all. On the face of it, my “Angel” appears to be odd … rather than awed.

I wrote 124,002 words for an “Angel”....

From “him” … I heard … not one word.

Just Another Lori Story

The Little Skater

THE LITTLE SKATER

She skated by me on spindly, unsteady legs. The park path was smooth, but the little girl on roller skates kept falling down.

While swaying back and forth on a glider, I watched her. Each spill to the pavement made the small seven year old less unsure and made me more distressed to see her less able to master her skating skill.

The park was packed with families, pets, screaming children. A beautiful scene on a beautiful spring afternoon. I noticed everything, but the little girl on skates captured my attention.

I admired her tenacity, even as she got slower each time to rise up and try again. Her face registered heavy concentration and consternation at the same time. Determined to skate correctly, but worried for failure. Her knees hit the cement and as she rose yet again, I saw a bloody scrape.

Little children are so brave. I would've left wailing after failing so many times, but she still kept skating, arms flailing wildly for better balance.

Ironically, those rapid motions were her downfall. And down she went again.

As she struggled my way, her expression signaled a pleading request for a rest. I motioned her over and slid left to offer a seat next to me on the swing. Immediately, the little skater smiled, nodded, and collapsed quickly next to me with a grateful sigh.

“Hi!” I said brightly, and smiled big at her. “Hi,” she answered, as she looked up at me and then held her head in her hands with an audible sigh.

“I can't do it ...” she whispered with a throaty, whooshing sound, raising her sad face to look at me closely.

“Yeah, it looks like you're having a hard time,” I acknowledged. My tone brightened as I announced, “well, guess what? Today's your lucky day!”

The little skater looked at me with a toothy, eager grin.

“You just fell down next to a skating coach,” I continued, “and I'll bet I can have you up and skating within five minutes!”

“Really?” She smiled bigger as if she really had won something. She had a tooth missing and a precious personality. I knew I could help her and my confidence was contagious.

“Are you ready?”

She nodded eagerly.

Using my hands, I demonstrated the correct posture and explained how gravity, motion, and body position all affect balance and the ability to glide gracefully without worry of falling.

“Your body will follow your arms, so if you wave them around, you will be unsteady and fall back if your arms are behind you,” I explained. “Keep them level and in front of you, and if you feel yourself start to fall, push your arms even further ahead of you to regain balance.”

Anxious to succeed, she immediately tried to skate again, implementing my corrections. I think she surprised herself that a smooth and balanced glide actually was that easy! As she rotated to smile wide at me, she jerked herself back to balance, realizing that that turning motion made her wobbly. Her determination and belief solidified as the little skater gracefully glided away – seemingly taller with pride.

With matching satisfaction, I watched her skate over to her mother and brother, and pointing to me, the little girl mouthed some sort of over-exuberant explanation of our encounter and her newly found expertise at skating. They looked over to me and nodded.

The little skater skated away. Faster and faster, happier and happier. As she rounded the oval to pass by me again, she waved as if we were old friends. I clapped to applaud her confident success.

We were old friends. It was that easy.


Just Another Lori Story.

                                           

TORTURE! Broken Foot - Shattered Soul - A Memoir

https://www.createspace.com/Preview/1157618


Here's a look into my upcoming book!

TORTURE!





Just Another Lori Story

"TORTURE" An excerpt from soon to be published book!

A week later, I was on a cruise ship sailing out of New York harbor, remembering Graham's pride as I pondered my own pride at having made it to this long awaited reward. Settled into a balcony chair outside my cabin, I marveled as the ship passed directly in front of the Statue of Liberty – so close, I felt as if I just leaned out long enough over the railing, I could almost touch her. There she stood, seemingly inches in front of me, tall and triumphant in her everlasting pose, while I reposed triumphant in my own glory that I had made it to this point. Ahead heaved the open ocean. Rest.

Extending over the horizon, the ocean swelled and undulated with beckoning blueness, the cerulean sky above sparkled clear with its blueness, while inside me, a disquieting depression rose in its own blueness.

Everything blue.

I didn't belong on a cruise ship. Not yet. I couldn't walk.

Impressively, I made it to the ship's gym first thing every morning. Watching the sunrise over a rippling ocean does make it easier to exercise willingly. On the flip side, my foot hurt and I limped along in pain, barely able to enjoy any activities. After navigating those long hallways to get anywhere I'd be in devastating pain and desperate to return to my cabin. Thus, I spent a majority of my time on my balcony thinking and watching.

The fall foliage never manifested anyway. At each port, I bandaged and braced my ankle and attempted to go out and explore, but by the time I staggered the length of the ship and hobbled down the gangway, my foot swelled, pounding and throbbing, practically begging a return to my balcony. Dejected, I had to turn around and go back before ever making it off the quayside.

In Halifax, I managed to make it to the famed gardens where the resplendent colors of flowers and trees and vistas were worth every painful step. A Canadian landmark, these gardens are surrounded by beautiful iron gates.

In St. John, I hired a taxi for a brief tour of the sights and quickly bonded with the driver, also named John, who ended up driving me around all day showing me his favorite places and wouldn't take any extra money for those extended hours. We went to the Bay of Fundy, his favorite museums and markets, and he delighted in showing me a particular spiral staircase with no supports that remains in place over one hundred years after construction. John told me his stories. (Okay, I give up – why do men want to tell me the stories of their lives?) His confession about his alcoholism and how he reached instant sobriety with the birth of his child moved me.

Otherwise my days were cut short, unable to accomplish what I would start out to do.

Being a sort of V.I.P., and sort of disabled, I disembarked first off the ship back in New York and first into the customs hall where the agent greeting me had yet to adjust his date stamp to October. I waited while he set it, upside down, instead of October 1, he set it to the mistaken date of October 10, and he stamped my passport. I looked down and knowing the date to be October 1, walked off smiling in amusement that the 'homeland security agency' had everything under effective control. I arrived 'back to the future.'

Just Another Lori Story.

Excerpted from the soon to be published : "TORTURE"

Follow the Baton: A blog Hop

I received an invitation from Wendy Van Camp who writes the blog nowastedink.com to pass a baton in a blog hop - which since I sometimes limp, seemed like something I could stride into ...


I guess it's sort of a chain-letter-kind-of-thing, but since it's a blog and not a letter, it leaves behind the unfortunate stigma associated with the former.


Besides, it's fun, right? Well, I'll let you know after it's done.


First of all, I've got to overcome my computer liabilities - as in, I'm not very good at it. Then, I have to master the links. (Refer to previous comment). After that, I pass the virtual 'baton' to 3 fresh writers of blogs, all of whom have impressed me with their passion and words.


But before all that, I answer 4 questions - which makes me think I'm the youngest boy at a Passover Seder. (There's an illusion to distract you ... ) So, here goes the relay ...


1) WHAT AM I WORKING ON?


I am writing my first book, a memoir, titled TORTURE, about a trauma accident and the ensuing fallout. (Pardon the pun) It has been an arduous journey, nearly three years of my life, and will publish later this year.


2) HOW DOES MY WORK DIFFER FROM OTHERS OF ITS GENRE?


It's my first book. That should tell you it will be different. I've published many articles and written for numerous projects, but all that becomes irrelevant to a certain degree when one undertakes the task of a book. Although I've read many memoirs and consulted many experts, in the end, it is my heart and soul bleeding onto the pages, so it will be uniquely mine.


3) WHY DO I WRITE WHAT I DO?


I'm writing a memoir for all the usual reasons - a cathartic expression, a need to tell my story, a searching for illumination regarding what happened to me, to get out the proverbial 'thorn'. But, mostly I write because I had no choice. I've come to the conclusion that most memoir writers write because they have to. It's write - or be wrong.


4) HOW DOES YOUR WRITING PROCESS WORK?


Process? Hahahahahhahaaaa. *Falls out of chair, laughing* First, I had to develop a 'practice'. That took a long time. I tried an outline, but memoirs have a way of drawing outside the lines. I make lots of notes and unfortunately, they occur at the most inopportune times - say, like when I'm in the shower? Or, driving 80 miles an hour? At the gym, on a treadmill? The best stuff comes when I'm not even trying. But the book does consume me, both awake and asleep. (What's that?)


Now, I do write everyday. Because if I don't, the guilt gremlin chases me around. Often I write more than once, but early mornings seem to produce the best results. I know. I know ... other writers have already pointed this out. But it's true. When you are closer to sleep - at either end - stuff seems to have more gravity.


The computer is too difficult (I already made this point), and I like the feel of pen and paper, and a certain free flowing kind of pen. I handwrite into a journal, then transcribe to the computer (erroneously counting that as a sort of edit), then copy it in 14 different places and ways (because I don't trust my techno skills), and actually print it on paper, too, for a read and cursory second edit.


PASSING THE BATON:


I will pass the baton to 3 other writers whom I admire greatly and hope you will enjoy discovering the same and more with them! First, I thank Wendy for inviting me to this party - (where's the cheese?) and she's always writing or entering contests and inspires me with her amazing word counts, which usually amount to the words I write in a month, but Wendy does them in a day!
http://nowastedink.com  is Wendy's link.




1) Gerry Buncher


I have known Gerry since I was a teenager. (way, way back in the dark, dark ages ... of black dial phones and typewriters - Goggle it if you need to know what those are ... ). Gerry didn't know it then, but he was a formulating inspiration to me. Perhaps as the director of a youth musical I participated in, he sowed the seed of show business, which eventually became a career for me. We had fun. We went our own ways. And then Facebook, that illustrious finder of all people from everywhere brought us back together. Now, Gerry inspires me more. He is passionate for his causes and a promoter of good health in a time when that is an anomaly. I hope you will discover him for yourself. He is a cool cat. (Vernacular to go with the dark ages of our youth together.)


Here is what Gerry writes about himself, along with his link:
t was a dark and stormy political/cultural/religious night with demons and devils roaming roughshod completely out of control. Hyperbole and hypocrisy harmoniously ran through the veins of politicians, pundits so out of control that unless stopped there was no telling how ruinous and ridiculous this virus would get. So it was time for Gerry Buncher to Blog away the stupid, identify the insane and call out the fiction lovers smacking them in the face with fact. For over five years seeking truth, justice, equality and freedom Gerry Buncher has tried to set a record straight regarding the virtues and victories of people whose voices are never quite as loud as the monsters and the makers of those of creatures.
gerrybuncherblogspot.com has been around for five years. I have taken my two an half decades of communal service experience of listening to people in hopes of finding solutions into writing my blog. I have selected topics that I believe are used to divide and conquer when in fact they should be nothing more then reasons to find a common ground. In communal work the ideal is finding a sense of community, and just exactly your place in that environment, for me to blog is to also find sanctuary.
http://gerrybuncher.BlogSpot.com




2) Catherine Yesayan


Catherine is a member of Women Who Write - WWW - an esteemed writers group nationally known and facilitated by the amazing Vicki Abelson. (Vicki is also an incredible writer and sponsors monthly salons and writers workshops.)
Catherine has a depth of understanding about many world events and a personal story unlike any other. I've heard her read and her blog is a tribute to her life and the lives of others. Give it a look!


Catherine writes about herself:

I'm game. the name of my blog is BEYOND THE BLUE DOMES. I started my blog on May of 2009. In earlier posts, I shared memories about growing up in Iran during the Shah, fleeing the country at age thirty, because of the Islamic revolution an...d then raising a family in the United States. Lately I'm posting my thoughts on stories or news that have touched me. My theme is exploring social realities and the intersections within cultures, and preserving history.

http://beyondthebluedomes.blogspot.com/


3) Cheryl Nielsen


Cheryl is also a member of WWW and we have exchanged several interesting comments back and forth. I recently enjoyed meeting her at a workshop with WWW, and she specializes in divorce coaching and has already published works relating to that subject. Cheryl is enthusiastic about helping others avoid the pitfalls of painful separation and her attitude and attributions make her an expert worth reading!


Cheryl writes a terrific blog and here is a partial bio from her site:
 Cheryl Nielsen was born and raised in Southern California.    She speaks two languages – English and “Wine Babble.”
She is the author of the book entitled: Meritage Divorce: A Blend of Financial, Physical, Emotional and Spiritual Guidance…Through Wine Colored Glasses  and coaches through Meritage Divorce Journey Workshops adapted from
her book.  In her coaching practice, she combines her personal wisdom, vineyard experience and love for wine with her coaching skills to assist clients in becoming “re-produced.”  The journey is laced with wine metaphors and analogies and embarks on self-discovery through the “barrel refinement process.”

http://meritagedivorce.com






All three of these writers will entertain and inform you at the same time.


I'm running to the end of the line here - (looking for the water boys ...?) and there it is - The Finish Line.


Happy Reading Everyone.


Just Another Lori Story.