Family Taboo

I was almost in the lotus position. I replaced the Indian sitting posture with a nice straight back instead of twisting my moderately jointed legs into a position that hurt not only in full lotus but for days afterward. I was like that for about half an hour, arms extended in my lap in a pose of open acceptance. I was on the beach at dawn; Fortunately, at this time of year, dawn didn't come so early. It was early January in Sarasota, Florida. I'm not sure this therapy is for me.

I gradually moved away from my meditation and looked around me in the morning, finally noticing what was going on around me for the first time since I started meditating and having an uplifting experience of the day. Today was one of the first times I immersed myself in the sound of the waves and the calls of the shore birds, the feeling of the sand below and the gentle breeze behind me.

I came every day for a month, rain or shine, even Christmas and New Year mornings. Meditation was part of my self-reliance to get through the passing of Nancy, my wife of thirty-four years, eight months earlier.

At first after she died, I denied it, made sure she walked through the door at any moment and kept me informed about what my sons, daughters and families were up to, like she used to do. Then I got mad at everything and everyone. I threw a favorite vase through the window; I hold malice and hatred towards friends and merchants who sympathize with even the slightest of their transgressions. I thought I would sue his doctor or the hospital or anyone, anyone I could think of. I am angry. It is a long and debilitating illness. I would burst into tears at random times.

A few months after Nancy's death, I discovered alcohol. I went from having an occasional glass of wine with dinner to drinking a whole bottle at dinner and then lunch, and then I found Bloody Marys at breakfast great, then two, then I Drink all day and all night. It eased the pain, and then I became a vindictive drunk for weeks and months.

I'm entering a period where I blame myself for everything, even Nancy's illness, and I drink more. I became increasingly irritable and depressed. I know my kids worry about me, as do some of the friends we've developed in our neighborhood. They can watch me leave. I even thought about suicide, but I was too cowardly to accept the idea for a long time.

One night I couldn't sleep. I tried watching late-night television trying to sleep, but it turned out to be an endless stream of commercial information and offered no solace to my pain. I feel incredibly lucid and for some strange reason, I don't want alcohol to dull my senses. A small voice inside told me to go to the beach. At four in the morning, in the early morning darkness, I was the only car on the road as I drove about a mile to the nearest beach.

I walked in the dark to the water's edge and sat down. I sobbed over the western stars who had lost Nancy, my only and greatest love. Those who know us marvel at our closeness and connection, our obvious love, care and respect for each other, and I think they envy that we still do. little romantic things for each other all the time. We are always in each other's heads.

Nancy and I met in college, fell deeply in love, got married midway through. Somehow we both graduated and did everything special couples have to do in careers, kids, family, vacations, family, friends, vacations, and accumulating wealth. . When Nancy was sick, we were both off work; We didn't need to make money at that time. We managed to accumulate thirty more years of life the year before his death.

Nancy is my rock, and I am her rock. I have to protect her from all the bad things an ugly world can throw at her, but I can't fight her cancer. I prayed. I made a thousand promises to God or whoever would listen. "Please heal her, don't let her die." Nothing works.

She weakens and tires quickly. I held her in my arms as she slept on my shoulder. I will kiss her hair and forehead. She was subsequently bedridden by some of her treatments, but nothing really prolonged her prognosis. It is a predictable disease. I slept with her, hugged her whole body to mine and bathed her in love. “Oh my god, it's all gone,” I sob into the darkness and the indifferent sound of the ocean waves on the November morning. Dawn has come. I stood up and thanked the Universe for the first time for our time together 35 years after we first met. The bay lapped at my feet, the water cool in the cool morning air. I fell to my knees, bowed my head and prayed, asking for redemption and forgiveness.

My inner voice told me to come back every morning for three months to pray and meditate, so I started a routine. I wake up an hour or so before sunrise and go to the same spot on the beach. I sit down and try to open my mind to the messages I will receive. Amazing things happened in the first thirty days: I stopped drinking almost immediately; my attitude towards others improved although I was still depressed, I guess I stopped trying to get others; and I decided not to sue anyone; After all, bad things happen and this time it happened only to Nancy and therefore to me.

I took a close look at myself in meditation one morning in early January. A voice said to me very clearly: “Talk to your friends. Go help others. I actually came out of my meditative state and went back to see who was talking to me earlier that hour, but no one was there. I suddenly realized that I knew voices; it's Nancy's. I don't believe in ghosts and... I sobbed when I realized his spirit was still alive and communicating with me.

Nine a.m. is the earliest you'll call anyone home in Florida. Many retirees like to stay up late, so I go around my home and office to organize things and make a list of people I want to call.

Sometime after nine o'clock I called Dave LaSalle, a friend and neighbor I had known for twelve years. He was surprised to hear from me and even more surprised by my apologies for my abusive behavior over the past few months. He forgave and said he understood and hoped that I would hurt him the same if his wife died. I told him that I would be happy to help him in some way if he had something to do; he said he wouldn't but would keep the offer in mind. We chatted more and by the end of the call, I felt like I had at least repaired some of the damage I inflicted on him and our relationship.

I repeated the process dozens of times before noon. Every single person I called was at home and responded like Dave, with sympathy, tolerance and forgiveness, even love, no matter how hurt I was during those months.

I feel renewed at the end of my call. I got out my bike and went into town, found a sidewalk luncheon, and ate cheese sandwiches and diet coke. I nodded and smiled at the people walking around the tables in the restaurant. I made a point of not complaining about anything.

Suddenly I realized that I pay more attention to beautiful women than anyone else and that there were many beautiful women downtown that afternoon. I tried to guess what they did. There are some younger girls on my mind who I guess work at the bank. Each wore short skirts that hugged their curves and revealed their sexy legs as the wind blew the lightweight fabrics.

There were tourists of all ages wearing tight shorts and turtlenecks. Some were shirtless, and I noticed more than one person whose excitement for life was revealed by the evidence of nipples poking through the fabric of a blouse.

Several professional women passing by also caught my attention. I would expect most of them to be attorneys as the town seems to thrive on their trust management and estate planning, not to mention the real estate market. They behaved differently, more upright and sober, more conscious. Their clothes are somehow sexier, more expensive but tailored to glamor without revealing too much skin. I hope this has contributed to the increase in payout rates and scoff at this thought.

While cycling five kilometers back home, I analyzed my sudden fascination with women after a long hiatus. Maybe I'm healing.

The next morning, during my mediation, I heard a voice say, "Go and help someone other than yourself." I focused myself and continued to listen, but this message was the clearest.

A few days later, my friend Martin Williams called and asked if my offer of help was still available. I told him yes. He said their daughter Claire has a friend who is moving to the area and is looking for help with moving, finding an apartment and a job, and getting to know each other. He hoped that I would be willing to help him. A few minutes later, I had my name and number on the piece of paper in front of me Marilyn Seaburn, 4435551984.

I thought for a few minutes what to say when I called and then dialed.

"Hello. Marilyn here," a cheerful voice answered my call.

"Marilyn, my name is Jim Crawford. My friend Martin Williams showed me your name and number and asked if I would organize your come and find work around Sarasota, help you find accommodation, etc. Just wanted to introduce you. introduce myself and let you know how happy I would be to help you in any way that I can."

Her playful voice replied, "Well, I'm impressed with the circle's work. How quickly THIS ended I spoke to Claire, Martin's daughter, about an hour ago and told her what I needed; no, I was desperate for something. Your call is the answer to my prayer. "

" Nice to serve," I replied.

" Now I'm in the car driving down Sarasota. I come from Ohio. I'm probably in four or five hours, just crossing the state line. I don't know anyone there; well, except you now. I've known Claire since college, and we've met since. Somehow, I remember his parents were in Sarasota and that's where I wanted to be. Oh, I'll explain everything to you after I meet you. "

" Listen, you're coming late afternoon. I would love it if you would join me for a drink or even dinner. I'm completely open and up to you. I can help you find accommodation and you can reinvent yourself at home. "

"That's amazing," she said.

She's had my number since I called her cell phone. She said she would call me when she was closer and ready for detailed driving instructions. I told him which highway exit to aim for and we hung up.

I iced wine, defrosted steaks, made salads, and cleared the house of the mess I'd built up during the months of my depression. Three hours later, I'm proud of this place again and feel the best I've had in a long time.

Four hours later, the phone rang. Marilyn told me she had turned onto Fruitville Road and was heading into town. I showed him the way, and twenty minutes later, an old brown Chevy sedan laden with clothes and luggage was pulled up into my driveway, where I waited for him to arrive.

"Welcome to Sarasota," I greeted her before she stepped out of the car. "Go home and do it yourself."

Marilyn Seaburn looks about forty years old sitting in her car, debilitated from driving for so long. She has a very good model face. Her shoulder length blonde hair was blowing in the wind and looked disheveled. She sighed heavily, then stripped naked behind the wheel and stepped out of the car.