08: What's a Nice Kid Like You

CHAPTER 8

What’s a Nice Kid Like You,
Doing in a Life Like This?

As I recall my kidhood, rarely was there a visitor to our home. To my knowledge, my mother never shared any female friendships. Possibly because she had yet to make friends with herself. But, I'm not sure as she barred me from ever calling on her thoughts and heart, even as a visitor.

Likewise, I never developed any friends as I dreaded the idea of bringing anyone home. Not because I was adopting her social aloofness. Rather, I never knew what mood she'd whip up to serve unprepared company. Mommy Fearest or what?

Guarding the home from prying eyes, potential friends or not, became a primary pastime. Building a moat around the hearth and heart is the normal custom for the abused people I've met ― be they kids or mates.

Lack of trust in the world, even ourselves, can really cloud our scanners, making outsiders seem like threats to our status woe. Denying us the possibility that amidst prying eyes there may actually be genuine insight and possible help from caring others.

Though I longed for company and to shout to the world: "Hey, let's Party! Y'all come over, I'm cookin'!", I recoiled from life into writing, painting and whatever offered the best outlet for the moment's expression.

Then hiding all signs of creativity under my bed and in the closet (where else) for fear my mother would destroy them for not being money producing. Or not liking them. Or her just being abruptly ticked off at life in general.

Though art therapy wasn't acknowledged then, as I look back upon what work I still have from that era, it's clear to see that art was my kidhood catharses. It held so many messages.

My art expressed on canvas, music, bond and clay what I could not voice out loud, as is the case for so many artists when anxiety is positively vented.

Unfortunately, before we split, my mother discovered all my diaries documenting our life together and fed them to a gluttonous garbage truck. Guess it was her short term method for absolving our wrong term past.

Fortunately, my creative escapes eventually proved to be a training ground for careers that were to support my future.

Isolation served a purpose.

But ultimately my Leo/Libra spirit roared: "Enough already! Let's get some balance on this roller coaster!" Sure, isolation can be creatively invigorating and necessary, but I wanted a few more friends other than me and my shadow.

To survive, I chose to view my mother's indifference as a blessing. I pulled personal value from never being watched as a kid. Her absence allowed me the freedom to create welcome breathers from the bizarre.

When she was in-house, I stayed out on the town. She seemed content knowing I was out of sight. For me, where I went mattered less than the fact that I was out of range.

The merit of absentee familyhood and siblings was just about the only subject we agreed on, though never out loud.

For a time, I sprinted off to the dark comfort of the Hayden Planetarium in New York City to watch the stars twinkle across the concrete ceiling, longing to beam off to a more congenial planet.

I was positive the Master Planners made a programming error. My constant cosmic query to the heavens became:

What's a nice kid like me doing in a life like this?

The only reply I heard was: "That's for you to figure out!" Oh, great! I was sharing a hot line with Galaxial Gagsters.

No matter how I told the Little Voice within my spirit that I wouldn't hold honesty against her, no more clues ensued. Guess I had to trust. Scotty was obviously off-duty as my Beam Out Plea was never acknowledged.

Eventually, I decided to make friends with others closer to the planet (sort of) who might understand my isolation.

I began hanging out in the art museums and galleries of Manhattan. Searching for the stories the artists were ex-posing on their canvases became my silent quest.

During one of my romps, I met a lady near the private member's area in the Museum of Modern Art. She was a bundle of curt power stuffed into a Munchkin sausage skin.

I liked her immediately. Perhaps because she seemed, in some vague way, a tourist to reality more than a signed up resident. I guess we hit it off as she asked me to call her Auntie Elsie.

She invited me to a dining area to share cake and chit-chat. I had nothing to lose. And! I had a chance to talk. A real live person wanted to talk with ME! Uncustomarily, I dove in.

I thought she was part fairy tale harlequin as I heard her stories of the rich, famous and infamous, of Princes and Princesses, of the grand parties she hosted all over the globe.

I loved hearing how she chose never to be tied to anything except her freedom and her joy of giving great galas.

Though I was never sure if she was for real, I loved her attitude. In fact, I glutted on it. Repeating every shared story over and over to myself.

I didn't care if they were true or not; that she was letting me share her fantasy held great significance to me. She let me know I mattered by talking with me. Wow! I existed.

Throughout my 10th year, our friendship remained a private party. She called whenever she was in town and I'd skip school by feigning an audition call, racing to the Plaza Hotel's Palm Court to meet her for cake, milk and more royal fairy tales.

I heard of secret phone books she stored in vaults all over the world, filled with private listings of clients, contacts and connections.

I loved her deep belly laugh and sense of whimsy over how the "noo-voo reesh" were so eager to have her make them look good. And paid handsomely for her festive social makeovers.

Hey! Did this mean I wasn't the only one attending life's masquerade party without a costume?

Curiously, I felt I could be ME with her. And! I began learning that ME meant ME alone, devoid of the Whimper Well my mother preoccupied. This was my first gesture toward cutting the apron threads tying my value to another's persona.

With Auntie Elsie, I left my home thoughts behind, telling her how one day I'd be a party giver, too. My home would be filled with loving, happy people and lots of laughter. Her reply was:

"You must do it, dahling! The world can never have enough parties and laughter. Maybe if there were more parties, there'd be less time for fighting. Less time for war."

The last thought I shared with her was my vow to keep that promise ― no matter what!

Suddenly, we lost touch. I couldn't take it personal. Nor do our friendship the disservice of rating her a phony. Nor think our scattered get-togethers were meaningless.

Not until many years later, when I read an article of her sudden death, did I discover my gut's message to trust her had not deceived me. Auntie Elsie was Elsa Maxwell! The famous Party Giver for The World.

Possibly that's why, my home now is nearly always filled with the warmth of friends, parties, laughter, open dialogue and joy. No one's ever turned away who's in need of kinship & listening without judgment. Yo! 'Bout time!

My current life absolutely yahoos of never giving up on what we know in our G.U.T. ― God U Trust ― that we can create when we choose to stop adopting the attitudes and lifestyles of others that are dissimilar to what our heart knows we desire; when we align with complimentary natures for our soul; and, when we align with our heart's true partners rather than hopelessly martyring away with soul hate opponents, biological or not.

At some point during every bash I host or attend, I silently toast Auntie Elsie for planting the Seed of Possibilities and Hope in the 9 year old I once was.

She let me know I mattered, which just goes to show how the slightest brush we share with another, comforting or abrasive, holds the potential of affecting their journey and our journey.

It would have been a cinch to have whimpered away from Auntie Elsie behind the kidhood guise of intimidated shyness. However, my angel must have sensed the goodness in her, the value in our meetings, giving me a kick in my cosmic fanny to grasp the brass ring when it dangled so temptingly within reach.

Sure, I could have let my logic corrupt that relationship by berating myself for not having told Auntie Elsie what was occurring at home. Maybe she might have helped. Maybe. But who knows? I simply acted as I felt at the time.

Though I was never thrilled with my home script, I knew I had to see it through. Auntie Elsie was a Heaven-sent oasis. An incentive to discover the Truth about who I was and what my potential could be. And what a giggle life could be if I joined in for the love of it.

How could I taint that memory with regret?

And who can say? If I hadn't traveled through the Land of Love Lack, had I not trekked through the alternative, I might not have grown to appreciate what I have today. I'd most likely not be sharing these thoughts. Heck! I wouldn't have the material.

I'm not recommending Hell as the best route to Heaven. I just know there's always a reason for all we endure, as long as we don't prematurely misjudge our predicaments or judge ourselves wrongly for being in and with them. And most of all, remain flexible to up-scaling our setups once we have gotten the messages they sought to serve.

Frustration occurs when we turn our Progressing Paths into Blightful Battlegrounds leading us straight into the Tunnel Vision that ego and stubbornness can trap us into. Trap us via wanting to tough-out setups we created, but are no longer healthy for our spirits.

And if the Tunnel Vision we've been trekking has become a consummate struggle, a darkness wherein we see not a pin light of hope, then it may well be time for us to backtrack and switch tracks for a brand new direction.

A Tunnel without a Light of Hope becomes a living grave.

Frustration is a signal that it's time to dig ourselves out of upsetting setups that no longer serve us the Light our spirit needs so as to brightly flourish.

Beside Frustration, the simplest clues that we have be-come engraved in a winless war zone are:

We frown more than we smile;
We cry more than we laugh;
We belittle life more than we bless it;
We doubt more than we hope; and,
We fear more than we trust & luv.

THOUGHT: Perchance if we all lived Auntie Elsie's advice, our homes, our communities and our Globe would be a far more pleasant place to inhabit.

So here's to you, Auntie Elsie! May your advice be taken to heart, personally and globally:

The more Parties, Laughter, and Love,
The less Winless Wars.