“Strange Lands Invaded by Foreigner.”

 "Strange Lands Invaded by Foreigner.”

‘I've needed to take a little time.’

Okay, back up a bit. I’ve needed to take a LOT of time.

My brain aches as memories cascade. I want to say, “Cascade like dominos.” 

 However as those words circle the bottom of the sink, watery images rise out of the steam of a thousand years of war. My brain hurts even more as I think of all my friends who’ve passed on to another realm, or simply gone back into some mindless void. I go back to the old days when we were all not dead.

Hmmm. Very interesting. As I sit with phone in hand, crippled arm doing its best to lend strength to fingers beginning to ache, the keyboard comes to my rescue.

I know my battle has not been a thousand years even though it feels like that. Perhaps even describing my life as a ‘war’ is a bit of an exaggeration and yet…that is exactly what it feels like.

Back to the keyboard. As I pressed a key, autofill suggestions marched across the bar. At first I was annoyed. Then a rather astonishing idea came to my mind. Perhaps my device would write the story for me. Naive I agree and still some remote place in my brain gave serious consideration to the idea.

To fully appreciate the magnitude of this experience one need remember that I was born in the era, where a typewriter was a modern invention. 

My writing as a young person well into my forties was strictly pen and paper. Occasionally I had the bounty of finding an old typewriter which greatly augmented the process, but my brain worked mostly by the method I was taught to write by. Pen and paper.

When I was in grade 10 I went to a Catholic boarding school for girls.

In those rather archaic times students were divided into two categories. Those with a high IQ were herded into a program designed to prepare for a university degree. The other group was designated for what was then called the commercial program. 

Apparently, this program was not so demanding and required significantly less intellectual capabilities.

I confess to being somewhat proud of being lumped in with the first category.

I did my best not to judge or place myself above the inferior crowd that walked the halls to the rooms, dedicated to learning many different tools.

I certainly enjoyed our English program and the French class I was able to take along with the rather stimulating conversations generated by a group of girls who believed themselves to be a cut above the rest.

Eventually, this turned a little sour and I began to get bored.

In particular, I had a spare class during the morning which was designated as an opportunity to do more research for my religious studies course.

As I roamed the hallway looking for avenues of escape, I noticed an open door through which I could see girls typing.

There must’ve been about 30 typewriters in that room, and I observed that several of the desks were available for seating.

Quietly slipping through the door, I chose a chair. I pretended I belonged there and did my best to be very quiet and look like a commercial type girl.

The nun who instructed the class did not seem to notice that I actually wasn’t supposed to be there.

It took until Christmas before a rather stern University program nun came looking for me. She severely chastised me for evading the study class I was supposed to be in. At the same time she glared at the typing teacher for not having reported me sooner.

Of course it was too late as by then I had already learned to type. In three months I had managed to be able to produce 50 words a minute and knew I had discovered an environment in which I believed I could’ve been very happy.

The nuns had other plans, and sadly I had to return to the more academic routine.

That is over 60 years ago and I’m still daily grateful for what I was taught in that room. I may have been forced to forego further studies, which would have served me well over my life, but what I did learn, felt like a mighty sword of power.

I continued to sneak into the typing room when it was empty and practice the skills I had learned in the three months before being caught.

Few people could understand the advantages of learning to quickly type about how the “quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog.”

Still more challenging was the typing adage, “Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of the party.”

I vaguely remember being told why it was important for us to be able to type these two sentences. What I know for sure is that I spent hours and hours on my own repeating these two lines endlessly. Thank Someone that paper was free and typewriter ribbon also. I send a special blessing to our headmistress who never checked why I might be missing from my dormitory cubicle at odd hours of the day and night.

So it truly seemed that I needed ‘a little time to think things over, to read between the lines’ in preparation for that day ‘when I'm got older.’

I knew there were ‘many mountains I must climb’ and that it would often feel ‘like I had the weight of the world upon my shoulders.’

My endless gratitude is that I ‘could always see love shining through the clouds.’

I knew at an unshakable level that would ‘keep me warm as life grew colder.’

I knew ‘there’d be heartache and pain.’

Quite honestly after over 60 years of having learned to type, I wasn’t sure ‘if I could face it one more time again.’

I simply came to a place where ‘I could no longer stop.’

I think often of all the “good men” who were supposed to come to the aid of the party. Sadly many of them crashed wonderful gatherings and in drunken stupors violated the inner sanctum of many around them.

In all fairness I must own up to my own shortcomings and the valuable lessons I needed to learn through my participation in questionable activities.

I’ve learned to identify those behaviours that completed a pattern I’d learned many years before.

I was seven, born in July of 1949 when I began to comprehend the status quo and to carefully observe the female status in the 1950’s. That place was not especially favourable for many women. More sadly was that even though it appeared to favour men, they bore a burden for carrying that privilege. For many, it felt like a cross.

I sit in a darkened room.

Five weeks ago my arm was detached at the shoulder. Five layers were cut through in order to reach badly damaged bone and shattered debris of cartilage. New steel ball and socket replace that which was unrepairable.

As I slowly heal, I want to give up. I’m tired beyond description and I’m really not sure I want to go on.

As I do my best not to weep in despair a melody begins to drift through my world and I hear these words…‘You can’t stop now, you've traveled so far to change this lonely life.’

I now weep openly, loudly, seeking solace from a Source I can only begin to fathom.

I beg for that Source to ‘show me the way. To show me what love really is.’

I know without a shadow of doubt that ‘Ive nowhere left to hide’.

Over and over waves of loving compassion sweep across the borders of my soul and I know without doubt, at least in this moment, that I really do know what love is.

I bow down and kiss the earth. Perhaps not physically, though my prayers are that will come to pass if I maintain a sense of humility. I am overwhelmed with the presence of a Higher Power.

For many moments at a time I’m blessed to live within the safety of that beings love.

It is enough.

The wreckage of “Ground Zero” continues to disappear.

I am reminded of an old photograph taken in 1956/57. My sister and I stand in front of a pack of Boy Scouts. We are dressed in identical dresses even though I’m two years older. I’m smiling...tentatively!

I’ve begun to see the best and the worst of these boys who’ve taken an oath to serve and protect.

My gratitude builds.

I am, almost, complete🙏