The Carousel Horse

Oh, how I would love to ride

a carousel horse again, 

like I did when I was a child.
Not just any horse, though,
I want to ride the white one
with the royal blue bridle
and flaming red saddle.
That’s the one that seemed to gallop high
as it went round & round and up & down,
taking me away on an unforgettable adventure
that had no beginning and no end.
Some riders would reach out trying to snag
the brass ring and get a free ride,
but others, like me, didn’t care,
all we wanted was to feel
the wind hitting our faces,
our hair flying wildly like manes;
it was energizing, exhilarating, liberating,
there were no worries, no frustrations
or disappointments to hold us back.
When we rode the carousel horses
we were galloping away, away, away,
feeling free & invincible in our innocence,
the world beyond was a whirling blur
that did not matter or cause concern.
Oh to ride that carousel horse again,
to feel free & indomitable,
even if only for a brief moment,
even if only in my dreams.

Perhaps Then

 I begged the universe

to allow me to surrender

to your love proclaimed,

to your promises of bliss

that are alluring

and cause me to feel

the me who is,

the me who hides,

broken and

in fear of being hurt,

abandoned.

I cried out to the universe

to allow me to accept

your displays of devotion

and apparent truthfulness

of your words, but

the universe did not respond.

Or did it?

Perhaps its silence

was telling me to

rely on my instincts,

to take risks,

to trust the clarity and power

of your intentions.

Perhaps then I’ll be able to

take in all that love

you claim to feel for me.

Perhaps then I will

experience a different

passion,

calm and profound..

Perhaps then this

gnawing emptiness

and fear that cripples

will go away.

ACCEPTANCE

          Surrendering to our present circumstances

          is not cowardice or conformity,

          it is the realization that life is not perfect

          and is always in movement.

         Surrendering to our present circumstances

         is to understand that at times

         feeling sad or frustrated is

         because we have delayed our dreams,

         because we feel trapped by our

         moral obligations,

         values instilled in us at a tender age.

        Perhaps surrendering is not the right word,

        and in its place we need to say

        acceptance.

        Acceptance of our present moment

        implies grace and gratitude,

        sprinkled with the knowledge

        that life is not perfect

       and is always in movement.

       Acceptance is knowing

       that this, our present moment,

       whether pleasant or disconcerting,

       is not everlasting.

                                                

Memories Past and Present

There are many memories of persons, places and emotions

from my past that I love and hold captive in my heart;

memories that I visit and revisit whenever the need arises.

I thought that by returning to those places and persons

it would be like stepping into a room

where nothing has changed over time.

I was wrong, life is not like that.

Where there once were many trees and multicolor foliage,

now there are houses, shopping centers, and super highways.

Where there once was a sandy beach I could stroll on,

now there are stones and rough terrains that are uninviting.

Where once conversations were about joie de vivre,

now they center on aches & pains, health & aging.

Upon reflection, I realize that

as I go from one moment to the other,

from one experience to the other, I change.

Whether I perceive it or not, I am different,

and, in that same manner,

the people and places I love have changed too.

Now, what should I do with my memories?

Should I adjust them? Should I keep them intact?

Should I abandon them and try to forget?

I choose to keep them because

only in my mind, only in my memories

can all past moments and experiences remain the same,

like the photographs I treasure and feel compelled to

contemplate from time to time.

I know that whenever I feel the need,

I will go back to those special moments

and enjoy them for a short while,

knowing that they belong in my past,

knowing that I must return to my present moment

and weave new memories.

                                                                                          Mildred Santiago

Free-Floating Anger

It seems there is plenty

of free-floating anger surrounding us.

Anger that fuels domestic acts of violence

against women & their children

who did nothing to provoke such angers,

yet they are there to be hurt,

perhaps even killed

because some persons cannot

or will not try to control their

frustrations or powerlessness

in the face of this unforgiving world

we inhabit.

Free-floating anger seems to lurk

in the minds of those who perceive

that others are restricting their freedom.

Blinded by years of hooded hostility

and underlying racism,

they are ready to convert late night

fun-filled outings

into hostile encounters

between young men & women

who believe that guns & violence

resolve all misunderstandings.

When adrenaline levels rise,

opponents are ready to rip each other

apart at the slightest provocation,

real or imagined,

in this world filled with indifference,

blind to basic human needs.

  

This free-floating anger is not privy

to the young and inexperienced,

it has been known to surface among

adults & seniors.

Perhaps it’s the cumulation

of many frustrations or,

having to accept the reality

of a diminishing life,

unrestrained.

Anger is witnessed

at supermarkets, doctors offices,

restaurants and roadways.

Whenever people feel they have been

underestimated, disrespected or ignored,

passions flourish, outrage breaks out,

age does not matter,

gender does not matter;

not even beliefs or social status

make a difference

Free floating anger:

Is it sleep deprivation,

fatigue, excess stimulants,

unresolved social issues,

helplessness,

sufferings from long ago?

If we identify our angers

and so desire, we can take charge

of our attitudes & impulsive

acts of violence.

If we listen without judging,

we can overcome our own intolerance

and share an encouraging word that

will help open the door

to different solutions,

leaving behind

unnecessary anger & violence.

We need to know that we have a choice,

we need to know that to walk away

from possible outrage

is not an act of cowardice,

rather, an act of courage.

Free-floating anger,

beware of free-floating anger.

                                                                                           (c) Mildred Santiago 2015

Hidden Anguish

Sometimes, only sometimes,

my arms ache from the need

to hold a child,

not any child, my child.

I need to hold her

close & secure next to my heart

so I can breathe in

the sweet aroma of innocence,

and feel the softness of

her small, tender body.

Sometimes, only sometimes,

my body & soul hunger to hold

in my lonely arms

the young child that once was,

and then bury my nose in her

neck so I can take in the

intoxicating elixir of purity,

love, and radiant warmth

that infuses life into every

corner of my existence.

Sometimes, only sometimes,

I am strong enough to silence

my aches and forlorn desires

for the palpable love of my child.

Somehow, I am able to hide those

feelings that emerge from

the depths within,

feelings that refuse to die,

feelings that I know will rise again,

time & place unknown.

                                                © Mildred Santiago 2015

Trees and Life

Trees are majestic creatures

whose roots dig deep into earth

as they search for

sustenance, balance… life.

Above the ground its trunk, over time,

grows wide & tall,

as if to flaunt its strength and

honorable place in nature.

Its branches reach out into the sky,

seemingly in search of wisdom and,

as the seasons come & go,

they reflect the bareness

of necessary solitude,

followed by bursting green leaves

that  proclaim the beauty of life.

And then, in time,

we witness in awe the emergence of

orange, yellow, and red leaves,

visible agents of change.

Oh magnificent trees that teach us

how at times our own lives

need be lived in necessary solitude,

with brief interludes of bountiful living,

followed by crucial, perhaps painful,

passages of change.

Only then can we, from season to season,

recalibrate our lives,

knowing that therein lies

our wisdom, honor, and strength.

                                                            © Mildred Santiago 2015

Spoiler Alert

         Okay, okay, I confess. Sometimes, only sometimes, I read the end of a book first.  It happens when I need to know what will happen to the protagonist.  Who will survive the harrowing trip through the scorching desert?  Does the husband forgive his wife in the end or does he leave her?  Who killed the mother-in-law?  I don’t understand why I should put myself though the angst of not knowing the outcome of the story if it’s in the last chapter of the book I am holding in my hands.  Reading the ending is something I have done ever since I was young and, as far as I know, I have not been scarred psychologically by this action.  In the majority of cases, if the ending is credible and satisfying, I will go back and continue reading the book.

            There are two specific instances where I find it necessary to read the end of book before time.  One is that the plot develops at a slow pace and I am on the brink of not reading the book at all.  I am at a crossroad, either I stop reading and go on to another book, or I read the last chapter and then decide whether I should continue plodding along till the pace picks up.  The last novel I had to submit to this technique is titled Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet by Jamie Ford.  It is a beautiful story that takes place in two time periods, 1942-1945 and 1986.  The story is about a young Chinese American boy, Henry, who meets an American Japanese girl, Keiko, when in sixth grade.  They become friends at first and over time their friendship evolves into a first love experience.  The early segment of the story takes place in Seattle, Washington during WW II. The conflicting element is the historical reality of the Japanese internment camps in continental USA and how this harsh government action affected Keiko and her family.  The other conflict Henry has to deal with is that his own father rejects any contact with Japanese persons, even if they are third generation American citizens as was the case of Keiko’s family. 

         Perhaps what makes the development slow is that the chapters go back and forth between the past and the present of Henry’s life and its very descriptive narrative.  It got to the point where either I read the last chapter and found out how the story ended or I would put the book down and begin reading another.  I read the last chapter.  I was content with the ending and then went back and continued reading the story. 

The novel contains many endearing moments, not only between the young Henry and Keiko, but also between the adult Henry, his son and the memories they both have of Henry’s deceased wife.  It is a story that highlights many significant life events like the importance of friendship, love, family, and commitment based on values.  So you see, I didn't spoil the ending, as a matter of fact, I enjoyed it more knowing that in the end Henry would be rewarded for the sacrifices he made for  his family.

The other reason I may decide to read the last chapter of book ahead of time is when the suspense surrounding the protagonist is too great for me to bear.  Why should I torture myself about the ending if it is right there in black and white?  I have more than enough unknowns in my own life without adding fictional ones to the list.  Besides, there are many novels and short stories that begin with the end and then go on to narrate the why and how of that particular ending, so it is not a cardinal sin to turn to the final chapter and find out what happens.  The latest book I had to do that with is a suspenseful story about a young Spanish girl who becomes a prestigious couturier and spy during the Spanish Civil war period when General Francisco Franco, with the help of the Nazi Germans and Italians, established a dictatorship. I read this book in Spanish; the title is El Tiempo Entre Costuras by Maria Dueñas. The book was translated into English and the title is The Time in Between.  In my humble opinion, a better title would have been The Time in Between Dressmaking…but they didn't consult me.

            The story begins when the protagonist, Sira Quiroga, a young, naive girl who is the only child of a seamstress falls in love with the wrong man and ends up living in the Spanish Protectorate in Morocco. The handsome boyfriend abandons Sira. She has no money (the cad took it all) and the civil war had begun in Spain so she cannot return.  She was able not only to survive but to become a respected couturier because of her ability to design and sew beautiful dresses for the elite women of Tangiers. Her first and most important client is a British citizen, Rosalind Fox, who becomes Sira’s best customer and close friend.  However, Rosalind also involves Sira in spying for the British against the Franco regime and the Nazis by listening and informing what her haute couture customers mentioned about their husbands’ activities.

            There is a point in the novel where I just needed to know if Sira would survive both emotionally and physically.  I fast forwarded to the last pages of the novel, read them, and then returned where I had left off.  To know how the story ended allowed me to handle the stress and unknowns of the protagonist’s risks as a spy in Morocco and later in Spain.  Even though it is a novel, the historical details and some names are real. It is a fascinating story of survival, intrigue, love, and mystery.

            A few of my friends are skeptical about the benefits of reading the end of a book first, but that does not bother or stop me.  I came across a study by researchers Nicholas Christenfeld and Jonathan Leavitt from the Psychology Department of San Diego’s University of California, which reveals that reading the ending does not spoil the reader’s enjoyment and that in most cases it actually improves it. 

            There are many readers who read endings, I am not alone. I became even more convinced of this practice when I read a book by Bill Schwalbe, The End of Your Life Book Club.  It’s an outstanding memoir of the relationship between Schwalbe and his mother during her two last years of life, even though reference is made to earlier years.  His mother, Mary Ann Schwalbe, was a remarkable woman who lived life with gusto.  She was first and foremost an educator, later on Director of Admissions at Harvard, college counselor, and finally she became an activist for the rights and needs of women and children overseas, especially in Afghanistan. Her main goal concerning Afghanistan and other countries was to establish public libraries through a nonprofit organization. The same way she lived her life, she faced her death due to pancreatic cancer that had metastasized. She is a woman to be admired. Basic to all of her endeavors is the fact that she was an avid reader who taught her three children the value of reading, a legacy that they will treasure for as long as they live. During her chemotherapy treatments mother and son read and discussed many books that in the end become a to-read list for us, the readers. When I began the book, Bill Schwalbe says something about his mother that caused me to laugh out loud and to connect with her in a special way: “My mother was a fast reader.  Oh, and one other thing I should mention.  She always read the end of a book first because she couldn't wait to find out how things would turn out.”  Yes! That is a fact I can relate to.

          So, please know that whenever I need to read the ending first, I will, without guilt or excuses.

International Women's Day

Today is March 8th, International Women's Day. It is true that we have come a long way, however, we still have a long, long way to go  Our quest for gender equality is not over.  I posted the following poem some time ago and I believe it is appropriate for this day.

  

    IMMORTAL WOMAN

Ever since prehistoric times

Woman has been dragged, pushed, pulled,

belittled, enslaved, raped, disregarded, & discarded;

her wild seed trampled.

Neither time nor history has changed

Woman's destiny of subjugation.

Receiver of seeds, willingly or unwillingly,

procreator of sons,

keeper of unnatural rhythms.

Ever since prehistoric times

Woman has struggled, resisted, defied, deserted,

endured, & transcended;

blossomed wildly, unexpectedly.

Even so,

Strong Woman has barely modified

time & history,

destiny & unnatural laws.

Ever since prehistoric times

Woman is receiver of instinctual wisdom,

compassionate giver of self,

mirror of daughters,

nurturing & encouraging freedom,

yet also guardian of boundaries,

with discernment & tenacity.

Ever since prehistoric times,

Woman is sagacious & steadfast,

maiden, mother, grandmother,

matriarch, wise & empowered Crone,

No matter destiny,

No matter history,

No matter time & laws,

No matter the predators!

Mildred Santiago (rev. 2014)

 

The Empty Nest

The "empty nest syndrome" is a feeling of loss experienced mostly by women (some men experience it too), when their children go off to college or to get married.. According to Psychology Today  it's a feeling of sadness, loneliness, or even depression. Nowadays more mothers have careers and work outside the home and therefore are able to deal with the absence of their children in a more calm and accepting manner. The mothers and fathers whose lives revolved around the children are the ones who have a harder time accepting that the little ones have grown up and are off living their own lives. This poem is about those parents.


This Ole House and I

Once upon a time,

this big ole house was bursting with life.

My kids were always playing, hollering, crying,

silence was a rarity, neatness unheard of.

Sometimes I scolded or punished them,

other times I laughed and joined them.

The days, months & years went by

as if on roller skates.

The kids grew up & went away.

Too soon, I thought, this big ole house

was empty, quiet,

only the echoes of laughter and

shrilly voices remained.

Some days I walk from room to room,

perhaps hoping to find my babies,

but I’m greeted by deafening silence,

an emptiness that hurts.

Now, from time to time, I must say,

my kids return

with their own offspring in tow and

this big ole house shudders & awakens to

screaming & hollering that seems to

ricochet off its happy walls.

The empty echoes fade,

the bedrooms are messy,

the kitchen bustles with activity;

a half-eaten sandwich is on the counter,

the coffee pot is brewing and

the dishwasher is humming its happy song.

There is warmth, there is love,

there is life,

in this big ole house again.

But, time does not stand still,

it continues hurdling forward.

Too soon the silence returns,

too soon I find myself walking

a worn, familiar path

from room to room,

listening to the new echoes and

waiting, waiting.

Together we wait,

we wait for their return,

this big ole house and I.

                                                            © 2015 Mildred Santiago

.

St. Valentine's Day

               Today is a special day that serves to remind us how important love and friendship are in our lives. I hope you all feel as I do: we do not need one specific day and month to celebrate love and friendship, it is important to us all year round, but we go along with the tradition.

              In keeping with the tradition, I have decided to share a poem I wrote some time ago. The truth is I wrote something very similar many years ago, but this version has undergone serious revision, it is a version that refers to present times.  The years go by and we all change, including our love for our significant other.  The love does not end, it becomes a different type of love that only comes after many years and the unavoidable ups and downs we all go through. It is a deeper and more knowing love, nonetheless, it is love.

FOR YOU

This poem is for you,

for the years shared,

in love & happiness,

in anguish and angers,

always together.

This poem is for the strong tie

that the years have forged

between you and me,

allowing us to depend on

one another,

yet also allowing the freedom

to be unique individuals

with our own ideas & illusions,

a freedom that only those

who love can experience.

This poem is for you,

in memory of that young man

I once knew,

full of energy, decided, tenacious,

yet also tender and passionate.

This poem is for the man

you are today,

somewhat serene & subdued,

still determined and strong.

This poem is for the man

who day to day shows me

in so many ways

a love transformed,

rooted in countless moments lived,

a love that only time

can nurture & develop.

This poem is for you,

the man I have loved, love, and

will always love.

This poem is for you,

my husband.

Life Lessons

Thoughts about destiny, free will and choice theory have been in my mind for many years. I am not obsessed with these life mysteries, but the thoughts came to mind every so often.  For many years I have accepted that there really is no "free" will, everything we do or say has a price.  Destiny at times may be a romantic, convenient belief, but when our so-called destiny causes pain and remorse, then we question it. Choices? Yes, we can make choices sometimes, other times we are faced with situations where we do not have a clear choice and we try to make the best of that particular situation, bracing ourselves for the outcome. The bottom line is that no matter the conditions under which we make a choice, there will always be outcomes, favorable or unfavorable.

This past month I have read many articles on all three concepts and decided to write the following poem. Those of you who are from my time insofar as music is concerned will know the song by Paul Anka that was out in 1958, You Are My Destiny.  If you remember the tune, instead of reading the words, sing them, it's more fun!

Life Lessons

I remember the song

from long ago,

when I was a gullible

thirteen year old,

it was one of my favorites:

“You are my destiny,

You share my reverie,

You are my happiness,

that’s what you are.”*

Destiny? What is destiny?

What about free-will and

my ability and right to make choices?

When I was young,

these thoughts did not concern me,

I lived a life I thought was free,

it didn't matter that I was part of

a larger, more powerful existence

governed by my parents.

Choices were made for me,

consequences shared or mitigated,

and in exchange, I felt safe.

I was an important piece

(or so I imagined),

of the puzzle called family.

The years went by

(as they insist on doing),

and gingerly, I began stepping out,

out of my protective shell of family,

cultural and gender boundaries,

risking the disapproval of my caretakers

and the warm comfort of home.

I realized that that which defined me,

in some ways also limited me.

Yet, I also knew that the time had come,

I had to make my own way,

and so I did.

Today,

as I take inventory,

I have learned without doubt

there will always be surprises,

good or bad.

I have learned that

even though I may not control

every twist and turn,

I still have a choice:

I can choose how to respond.

And so, I ask,

Is it destiny transcendent,  

or unrivaled free-will?

Do I really have a choice?

I prefer to believe that

life is a blending of all three,

working and weaving

the way together, as one,

compelling me to find and  

accept my place with

fortitude and a sense of self

in this exciting, unpredictable,

and at times inexplicable world,

after all......it is my life.

                                                            Mildred Santiago © 2015

*Lyrics and music by Paul Anka (1958)

My Inner Child Knows

My inner child is always present.

Sometimes she’s quiet and

sits in a remote, dark corner

trying not to cause trouble,

keeping out of the way.

Other times she wants to come out

and run, play, and laugh;

she wants to feel free,

do whatever makes her happy,

without censor.

For instance,

My inner child loves to color,

especially with brand new crayons;

oh the soothing smell of new crayons!

She colors up-and-down and

side-to-side; red, yellow green!

So much fun,

no cares, no worries.

But, as usual,

in the midst of all that fun,

the adult steps in and

questions the worthiness of

what she calls nonsensical,

inappropriate behavior.

a waste of time!

My inner child cringes,

and once again retreats

into her remote, dark corner,

and waits, waits;

waits for another chance

to come out and play.

My inner child does not give up.

She will try again, and hopes

maybe next time the adult will

understand that once in a while,

albeit for a short while,

her sweet, loving, care-free

inner child needs to take over

the regimented adult life and

do whatever helps to put aside

the angers, fears, and worries

that at times overwhelm.

My inner child knows that

even if only for a short while,

it could be a life-saving while.

                                                Mildred Santiago (c) 2015