Open Me

Open me, come open me. Open up my heart.

Remind me where we came from by showing me the start.

Sing to me, you sing to me. I hear you in my soul.

Let you overwhelm me with a feeling of being full.

Feel me how you feel me. I can feel you too.

I can feel as we feel past all we ever knew.

Open me, I open up. An open heart for you.

Forever is our ever as only known by few.

Jason

-OM

44.1

@smokendust


HarsH ReaLiTy

Bored: Well… this blog sucks.

Jason: Um… I’ve been busy. Any time one of you pumpkins wants to write some shit feel free.

Drunk: Why haven’t we refilled the glass? It has been sitting there for 4 minutes and 17 seconds. I’ve been counting, obviously.

Jason: Because I just worked thirteen hours and I’m tired. Why don’t you go get us a drink?

Sarcasm: Mr. Funny pants. Mr controls the legs but doesn’t want anyone else to have fun. Boo.

Jason: I hate all of you. Can we go to bed? Must we really turn this into a blog post?

Sarcasm: Oh because people really want to hear you whine about whatever you whine about. Someone get this guy some cheese!

…………………

Mental fight breaks out

March

It would be interesting to have each of my siblings describe their experience of the week that my father died. It was the first time since my sister’s wedding ten years earlier, that all four of us were together for any length of time. And yet, there we were, keeping a five-day vigil at my father’s hospital bedside.

It was fascinating and frightening to watch my father move through the stages of dying. He was quite lucid as he called each one of us to his bedside and asked permission to die. He didn’t ask for forgiveness, or apologize for hurting us; he just wanted permission to die. As the doses of morphine increased he began to go in and out of consciousness.  He was seeing and talking to his deceased family and his beloved cat. These were all ghosts to us, but they were real and comforting to him. For two days before he died, he held conversations with his mother, who had been killed in the war when he was seventeen years old. Eventually, he spoke only in Hungarian, his first language.

He struggled to die. Part of that may have been the morphine, but he seemed to have a need for closure with certain people before he could let go. The day before his death, a steady stream of people came and went, said their goodbyes, and he fell into a deep sleep.

Once he drifted into that sleep state, we were told that he would probably die within a few hours. We opted to stay in the hospital that night and wait. Each of us was dealing with our father’s death in our own way, and nobody was talking to or comforting one another.

Once a year while we were growing up, my father had made us sit in a line on the couch and recite, “See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil” while he took pictures. Waiting for word of his death we seemed to be recreating those moments, sitting in a row staring blankly into space.        

My sister Lucy loved my father with all her heart. He was always her daddy, and she was grief-stricken that he was dying. She spent a lot of time in his room feeling an otherworldly connection to him and reporting many sightings of his mother. My brother, Thomas was filled with guilt for never living up to the rigid standards that my father had so often reinforced with his fist.  Thomas’ mix of guilt and grief was making him angry and contentious. Adam hated my father too. He could never live up to the impossible standards that had been expected of him either. He was distant and off in his own world; silent and withdrawn.

I felt a lot of ambivalence about my father dying. I had watched him struggle with three rounds of chemotherapy and had seen the disease ravage this once very powerful man. I didn’t want him to suffer any longer, but at the same time, his suffering was the only restitution I would ever extract from this man who had abused me since I was a baby.

When I moved to Minnesota, he and I had spent countless hours together. He taught and then quizzed me for hours about national and international politics. He spent a lot of time telling me his life story.  He seemed anxious for me to learn his past so that he wouldn’t be forgotten by his future grandchildren. My father’s entire family was killed in the Holocaust and he carried immense survivor’s guilt. It was confusing for me. He was unbelievably abusive to me and yet I felt compassion and respect for his life story. I would have preferred to feel a neat and clean hatred and disgust towards him.

Early the next morning, the rabbi on the hospice team came into the room to talk to the four of us. Rabbi Lyon had spent many hours talking with and comforting my father during his extended hospital stays. The four of us siblings were exhausted from lack of sleep and the endless waiting. The air was heavy with grief, confusion, and boredom. The rabbi told us he wanted to relay a few words from my father to each of us.  I had an instant distrust of this man when I met him, and that day, chills ran down my spine when he began to speak.

He stopped first in front of my brothers and told them that my father loved them very much. He knelt down to my grieving sister, took her hands into his and began telling her how much my father loved her, how much my father spoke of her and that he himself would be there for her in her grief.

Then he walked over to me and without a moment’s hesitation said, “You are our tough little shit, and you will be fine.” He walked away. I felt three things simultaneously: hurt, rejected, and a profound sense of dread.

excerpt from, Untangled, A story of resilience, courage, and triumph

Featured Image -- 1269

Thank you for reading my memoir, Untangled, A Story of Resilience, Courage, and Triumph

http://www.amazon.com/Untangled-story-resilience-courage-triumph/dp/1514213222

https://www.amazon.com/Untangled-story-resilience-courage-triumph-ebook/dp/B013XA4856

 

An Open Letter to New WordPress Bloggers

Some great points about blogging Susie! -OM
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Susie Lindau's Wild Ride

Dear New WordPress Bloggers,

Thank you so much for following my blog! I’m so glad you’ve decided to become a part of my blogging community. Or have you…

an-open-letter-to-new-wordpress-bloggersA few of you left comments. You are so good at what you do! That’s exactly how you build a blogging community. You are on your way to being a successful blogger. I always respond and try to stop by your blogs to read and comment. Here’s the thing: Most new followers never stop by the Wild Ride. EVER. 

Some new bloggers have an itchy index finger. They click to “Recommended,” and hit “Follow, Follow, Follow,…” all the way down the list. How do they handle so many new email notifications? They probably turn them off. What about the Reader? It may resemble a Twitter feed when following thousands. Whoosh!

A properly built WordPress blog is structured with real connections with…

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Blogging

I give people 24 hours to fix their mistakes and they don’t take it. You guys must want me to turn ugly. Doesn’t it feel wrong or is it just so easy to copy and paste someone else’s work? Didn’t your mother teach you not to steal? Did you copy homework in school? Did you take photos off the internet and use them as your own in college? No? So why in the fuck do you people think it’s right to do in the blogosphere? Because bloggers aren’t real writers? Because my words aren’t bound by a cover? Do I need to buy a giant copyright symbol for my damn site? I swear bloggers make me want to stop sharing my work for free sometimes. Grow the fuck up.

-Opinionated Man

44.1

@smokendust

In Between The Rains

What a great post to bring some calm. -OM
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Hope For Today

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As I sit at my desk and look out my front window at the still quietness of the pre-dawn morning, I see storm clouds have moved in and this view reminds me of God’s faithfulness and I think about the storm clouds of life and the adversity they mostly bring.

Many will run from adversity because of the fear adversity invokes. I know, I use bolt not run. God is teaching me to stand toe to toe with adversity and to recognize the opportunity to trust in Him and depend on Him even more. To allow Him to stretch me beyond what I thought possible and to grow in spiritual maturity. To praise Him and to be overwhelmed by His Sovereignty.

With the storm clouds come rain and as the clouds move on they leave in their wake the sun. It is in between the rains that the opportunity for…

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