Peaches

There’s a ceremony in Tantra that involves naming your genitalia. Some Native American teachings contain information about reconnecting to your genital sense of Self. I was intrigued with all this when I first began my studies. There are so many layers of shame and confusion that prevent us from having a relationship with our precious most private parts, and I thought the naming ceremony was a brilliant way to reconnect…a baptism, of sorts. My lover of that time was such a lucky man, as I was trying out the things I was learning with him. The summer of 2000 was one of the best in my memory. We were playfully, innocently loving each other and enjoying the lightness of our loveship – no expectations, no plans, no demands – that was our motto.

One brilliant, crisp July morning we headed for a stream in South Boulder that we’d visited earlier in the year, when there was still ice along the edges. We’d spotted a boulder in the middle that looked smooth and even, the perfect place for a picnic. Removing our shoes, we waded into the icy cold water, carrying our essentials. We had the makings of mimosas, champagne and orange juice, a comfy blanket and some pillows, some fruit, a little primo chocolate, and a copy of “Jitterbug Perfume,” by Tom Robbins.

The rock was the perfect spot for some kissing, some reading and some culinary indulgence. We’d picked up some of the biggest, most luscious looking peaches I’d ever seen at the farmer’s market on our way out. We dropped them into the stream for chilling as we read a bit and enjoyed the sun and the sounds of the rushing water. After a while, we pulled the peaches up beside us. I suggested we both take a bite out of one at the same time, as we gazed into each other’s eyes.

We’d been talking about the naming of my yoni for a while. Nothing we’d come up with so far had seemed just right. As our eyes met with that peach between our lips, taking an intoxicating, juicy bite, we both said, through the mouthfuls, juice dribbling off our chins, “Her name is Peaches!” Gasping, gulping, giggling, I rolled off the rock and into the icy cold stream and we baptized her right there. And Peaches is her name.

Fast forward to the grim, gray, bone-chilling coldness of a central Texas January, 2004. Since leaving my home in Boulder, I’d been through a weird kind of chaotic instability, floating without a home, traveling in my new old truck, and suffering through a living situation that had ended with a long-term friendship blowing up, causing me to find myself homeless again at the end of the year. On top of this, I was in the last throes of menopausal hell. No health care, no money to get herbal help, feeling fortunate to have food stamps. I’m of the opinion that menopausal women should be carried around on satin pillows, with a hot young stud working the fan. This is not what I was getting. But I did get a temporary place to live in a little bungalow cabin in the woods. In front of this cabin was an ancient looking tree that I suspected was dead. It was squatty and broken and was probably a fruit tree of some sort, I thought. It held a certain kind of comfort for me somehow, and I’d stumble out to it and lay in its low branches, breathing deeply and asking for help. I needed to feel like I had something still to offer. I needed to know that my heart could still love after being so broken, so many times, by so many tragedies. I needed hope, and it seemed there was none.

As the weeks wore on, I visited this tree almost daily, telling it my troubles. In early March there were buds on it. By mid-March is was obvious that this was, in fact, a fruit tree and I delighted in bringing armfuls of the blossoms into town and distributing them to everyone I saw. I knew that if the fruit were as plentiful as the blossoms, it would break the tree apart. And that’s just what happened. The tree filled with hundreds, thousands of tiny peaches, and I watched them grow into the juiciest, prettiest little things you’ve ever seen. Tasty, too. That tree broke completely apart, in spite of my call to friends to bring buckets and harvest all they could. And I did gain hope. If that tree could bloom it’s little old heart out like that, in its last season, surely my life could blossom again.

(c) Jade Beaty
Luscious artwork courtesy of Dakini Di: www.dichromosarts.com

Death of My Libido

Photo courtesy of www.allanalford.com

Once lovingly deemed "Sex Goddess of the Universe," I was the last person I ever thought would lose interest in sex. And it happened to me.

I found sacred sexuality at the age of 48 and learned that there were unexplored depths I had only briefly touched, in a few outstanding encounters. Now I had tools and techniques to cultivate awareness of the presence of the Divine, instead of just having the innate knowing that She was somehow in the room, watching from a corner.

My fascination with sex has always had a spiritual component. At age 12, I was pretty much done with Christianity, as it was presented to me in a tiny Methodist church in Kress, Texas. Reverend Secord was a dear old man, but his only answer for all my questions ("Why are babies born blind? Why do people have to suffer and die? What's up with all this suffering?") was, "It is God's will." I'd sit back in the chair across from his huge desk, my feet dangling, and think to myself, "And I'm supposed to worship this dude?" Fortunately, a book about Edgar Cayce, "Many Mansions," by Gina Cerminara, crossed my path about this same time and my lifelong love of the possibilities of reincarnation was born (or reborn, perhaps).

I was wildly curious abut sex and got zero information from the supposedly caring adults around me. I figured I was just going to have to learn by doing. I found a willing participant and suddenly I shifted my obsessions from horses to boys. Exploring in the back seat of a car is better than nothing...no, better than lots of things. I knew in my bones that there must be something mystical/ magical about sexual encounter. I just couldn't find anyone that understood my quest until I found tantric teachings.

As I approached menopause, the emotional content of unresolved identity issues arose. It seems I reviewed my late teens and twenties, which were filled with turmoil and confusion. My emotional states became imbalanced and my body seemed to jump at the opportunity to fall apart, piece by piece. It was grim. I was saved by bio-identical hormones and a hot, young man who became my lover after a long dry spell. Saved! And now that things have settled down I find myself with a different sexuality. One based in respect, exquisite attention to detail, and thankfully, a slower pace. Not a hot, cute chick anymore, but still a hot momma...make that hot grandmamma.

An Old Young Man

He rose to shuffle to the front of the room. His khaki work clothes were freshly pressed, the top button of the shirt fastened neatly at his neck, the lapels stiff and starched looking.

This week’s class had not gone as planned. Our topics for the session were gratitude and humor, and those themes had inspired my guys to tell their personal stories. The stories we’d heard so far finished up with a dramatic event of spiritual redemption, or a religious experience that had made them see the light, and the folly of their criminal behavior. I had the feeling, as I often did in my years of working in prisons, that the inmates were saying what they thought would be acceptable to get them through the program. Sometimes I felt like patting them on the head and saying “good little prisoners,” but I had managed to resist so far. They were running a scam, like they’d done all their lives, and we all knew it. I forgave them for it. It’s how they’d managed to survive the horrendous childhoods most of them had lived through. I held tightly to a cherished illusion that maybe just one of them would catch something that was said in a class and remember it at some point down the road, when the need was great.

He started his monologue in a soft, singsong voice. His eyes were fixated on the floor in front of him. His arms stayed clamped straight to his sides, as he swayed slightly, side to side.

“When I was young I was the meanest baddest ass there ever was. I joined my gang when I was ten and I was the youngest, but the meanest baddest mutha fuckah in town.”

“Uh, could we leave out the most colorful language, please?” I requested quietly.

Without acknowledging me, he continued.

“My boyz, we all took care uh each other. I saw guys shot. My boyz got shot. I got shot once, too, when I was young. The bullet bounced off my breast bone ‘n went sideways.” He lightly touched the tips of his fingers to the area of his chest where the bullet had struck, and showed us the route it had taken, to the left. His eyes remained on the floor.

“I laid in the street for a long time, bleeding, and this lady drove by in a car and asked me if I wanted her to call the po-leece. I said, “No, call a amb’lance.” I guess she called 911, ‘cause the cops came and there weren’t no amb’lance. They started askin’ me a bunch a’ questions, like who shot me and I was bleedin’, layin’ there in that street. I had to grab a cop and say, “get me a amb’lance, you mutha fuckah.”

I squirmed, recrossed my legs, but said nothing. Everyone in the room was awake and seemed to be listening, a rare event in this mandatory drug class.

He continued. “I finally got took to the hospital and I was there for ‘bout a week or two. The doctor said it was a mir’cle I didn’t have that bullet go in my heart. I got out o’ that hospital and went home to my momma’s. I had to smoke some dope. I yelled at my momma, “get me some money so’s I can get some dope,” but she wouldn’t, so I had to get up and go steal somethin’ to get some dope, and I went home and smoked it and smoked it. I was mad.”

He looked up for the first time and seemed to notice everyone was listening intently. He swayed a few times, looked like he was going to say more, but then just started toward his chair, saying, “I got back with my boyz and lots more shit happened...”

He stopped, hesitated, looked around. “Then I came to this here prison and that’s what’s happene’ so far,” he finished.

He sat down and grinned at me with his four gold front teeth. One of them had a star cut out of the gold and a gleam of white tooth showed through. His face was smooth and calm, his eyes clear and bright and totally cool.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Antoine DeLeon,” he said quietly as he looked deeply into my eyes for the first time. I realized I hadn’t seen him in class before and didn’t recall his name from the register.

I felt mesmerized, suddenly. His eyes were light green and beautifully framed in long dark lashes.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty.”

“And you talk about “when you were young.” Do you feel you are not young, now?”

“Ah, my momma tol’ me I was a ol’ man when I was ten,” he answered as he studied the floor.

“And what do you think about where you are in your life right now?”

“You mean in dis here prison? Aw, man, if I wunn’t here now, I’d be dead, no doubt in this boyz mind. I’m glad I’m here. Comin’ here, it saved my life.”

“Do you think there’s a reason you didn’t die when you were shot?” I asked. “Do you think there’s a reason that you made it to dis here, ah, this prison?”

“Doun know, ma’am, I’ve had lots of es’perience maybe I can share with other ol’ boyz my age.” That big grin flashed again as our eyes connected. I felt thrown off base, uneasy, intrigued with him and wanting to know more.

I broke eye contact with him, reluctantly, and looked around the room. Many of the older prisoners had sad looks. I thought I caught one with a tear in his eye, before he looked away.

“I hope you get to do just that,” I said quietly to the old young man.

It seemed like a good time for a break.

Written June, 1998, about a class at FCI Bastrop, Winter, 1996
(c) All Rights Reserved Jade Beaty

Sister Dede and Life on the Cat Farm

1964

Dedra Desaire "Dede" Beaty
December 19, 1957 ~ July 15, 2006

Check back soon for writing about Dede's walk with breast cancer, and the way that our culture causes us, as women, to dissociate from our own breasts. There are so many layers of cause of this terrible disease. It's time for us to look at the emotional and psychological factors.

Practicing Presence

Photo courtesy of www.andeesmits.com

I’m setting the intention, now, to be more present and conscious with every encounter I have. I’ve had many mirrors lately that seem to be the opposite of this, so it must be something I need to work on.

A friend says in February she’ll call in a few weeks. Never did. In July, I sent an electronic birthday greeting. No response. While in her area one day recently, I left messages, expressing a desire to connect and visit. No callback to date. What do I assume by this non-attention? Yes, we are all busy: that’s a given. The kind thing to do would be for her to pick up the phone and say, at least, “Eat s**t and die.” Or “I never want to hear from you again. Leave me alone” Or “I haven’t been in touch because I’m completely overwhelmed, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”

I was seeking help in the twilight time between attending my sister’s deathbed, and returning for her funeral. Looking for some bodywork, every bone in my body aching, I called a friend and was immediately told she was very busy with an important project and couldn’t talk right now. Honey, why the hell did you answer the phone?

A friend in a separated state from his wife calls and talks non-stop about his troubles and his joy in finding a new life. I patiently listen, hoping to share some of what has been going on in my own life at some point, but the opening never happens, the question is never asked, “So, how are YOU doing?” Yes, I do listening for a living, which is an especially good reason to inquire to learn if it’s a good time for me to visit. I will lovingly hold space for friends to discharge distress, if I feel I can count on the same from them when I need it. We don’t know if someone needs it until we ask. This takes a two-way conversation.

I’m at a recent memorial service. The widower had even talked about how we all need hugs. I joyfully approached a friend I hadn’t seen in a while and just as I was fully engaging her delightful essence, she pulled back to acknowledge a woman going by. “Hi, there.” She returned to give me a flash of her attention, and then she notices this woman is moving on, so she grabs her and says, “I really want to talk to you.” I guess she didn’t really want to talk to me. Obviously. She did ask me how I was doing on the way out, but in a rush, so it seemed there was not a chance to reengage and actually connect. On top of the loss we were there to acknowledge, this left me feeling especially sad.

I don’t know if I’m the only one having these sorts of experiences. I’m sure I have done all of this and more to others at points in my life. It certainly plays right into my sense of isolation and separateness and the deep wounding I’ve experienced in my family. It seems to me that if we were really taking on the task of spiritual evolution, there would be more loving kindness and conscious connection in all our interactions. And yes, I fail at this every day. Each person in front of me is a miraculous expression of the Divine, and a treasured Beloved Other. I’m setting the intention, now, to be more present and conscious with every encounter I have. The eastern Indian man at the gas station; the fierce looking black dude on the street corner, sign in hand, telling his story; the friend that’s been on and off in our friendship for 30 years, with much wounding, both ways, in the past; the new friend that has such tragic stories from his past: all the acquaintances of a lifetime, everyone, is a multi-faceted mirror of my own Self, as I spin through this world of illusion, density and pain. Could we bring a bit of solace to each other, just in a glance or a kind word, with full, loving presence? I’m setting the intention, now, to be more present and conscious with every encounter I have. (c) Jade Beaty, 2006

Write Write Write

I've just added some short stories and previous writings to this blog and hope you enjoy your visit. My intention is to write often here, now. This picture is from a photo shoot this year in January. I've got nudes from my 20s, 30s, 40s and now my 50s. Will I be so brave in my 60s? I do love the camera, even as I've fattened and wrinkled. Lighting, makeup and wardrobe can do wonders. I've worked on an article, off and on for years, about my relationship with my body throughout my life. I can remember being in my mid-twenties and in a yoga class. I managed to accomplish a shoulder stand and it seemed like my stomach fell in my face. "I've got to do something about my stomach," I remember grousing. I weighed around 118 #. Ah, the good old days. Now I would likely smother if I attempted a shoulder stand.

Nudes From My 20's

The Beginning

Chapter One - "Heart Wide Open ~ Journey of a Lover"

It was a busy, early summer Saturday afternoon at McDonald’s and it had taken a long time to get our hamburgers. As we sat down, seven-year-old Michael said he liked lots of pickles. I looked at the long line.
“You can have the pickles off my hamburger,” I offered, making the transfer with my fingers.
Marlynn shot from her chair, face flushed and eyes snapping. “I can’t believe you would endanger my son like that. Don’t you know the germs are everywhere? We’re leaving right now.”
She gathered his Happy Meal and their things and stormed out, looking back over her shoulder with a final, heart-breaking glare. Marlynn was getting much worse.
The next day, I got a phone call from her. Tentative at first, and then firm, certain she was making the right decision. “You tried to kill Michael yesterday. You are the one person I thought I could still trust. Luckily, he doesn’t seem sick yet. You can’t see him, us, anymore.” There was a rare finality, an assurance in her voice that made me wince.
“Marlynn, honey, this is not rational thinking,” I said. “Please get in touch with the therapist you were seeing. I’ll go with you, if you want me to.”
“No, I just need to stay away from people, and especially you.” She hung up the phone with a bang, and I sat there thinking about what I should do.
About a year prior to this, Marlynn had started remembering a brutal sexual attack by her father’s father, which occurred when she was four years old. She recalled nearly bleeding to death, and the women in the house taking care of her.
At first, she tried to work through it with a therapist, but the horror of it, the nightmares, the difficulty she had believing that it had happened blew her out of therapy. She tried to pretend that she had not remembered. We talked about it some, me always urging her to get back into therapy, get into a support group, find all the help she could. One day she looked at me and asked, “Do you think I’ll go crazy because I know now that this happened to me?”
“Of course not, Marlynn,” I said. “You are the strongest woman I’ve ever known. You can survive anything. But you need to find help, OK?” She would never agree.
Now, as I gently returned the phone to its place, I realized that if she was going to choose to isolate, there was not much that I could do about it. Michael’s birthday in October came and went. So did Christmas. The cards and gifts I sent were not returned, but not acknowledged either. I routinely called her apartment, always getting my old answering machine, that I had given her, with Michael’s sweet voice on the tape. I would leave loving, pleading messages for her to call me, that I loved them, missed them, and wanted us to be in each other’s lives. She never returned one call.
In October of ‘96, as I was driving away from a grocery store near her place, I saw them walking out the front door. Michael, having just had his ninth birthday, reached Marlynn’s shoulder in height. They looked great, dressed sort of chic-grunge, both with caps turned backwards and baggy shorts. I stopped right in front of them. Michael’s face lit up and he grabbed for the back door handle. Marlynn pulled his hand back. “Let me give you a ride home. It’s so good to see you,” I called through the open window of the passenger side.
“No, we want to walk, we’re getting our exercise,” she said, pulling Michael close, her arm around his shoulders.
“Well, how are you? How is school? Are you still living at Travis Park?”
She shrugged and grinned her old grin. “I have one more class to get my degree. I’ve been looking for work.” I had been watching in the rear view mirror as a car was approaching. I was blocking the drive in front of the store.
“Marlynn, please call me,” I said. “Here’s my card. I’ve moved since we talked.” I looked her in the eye for a moment. “I love you both very much. Please call.” She shrugged again, and I had to drive on. That was the last time I saw them.
The holiday season seemed long and tedious. I thought of them often, putting their Christmas gifts in the mail. I called a few times, but gave up on leaving messages, since they were never returned. I hoped Michael might answer the phone sometime, but he never did. Sometime in early January, I drove by her apartment, seeing that her car was there. I thought about knocking on the door, but it seemed too intrusive. Maybe she’s just working through some things and will get in touch when she’s ready, I thought, deciding not to go to the door.
On February 3rd I was in my bedroom, trying to get enthused about my wardrobe, matching skirts and tops in different combinations, experimenting with scarves. I’d turned on the local 6:00 news -- something I hardly ever do -- for background noise. I had just pulled out a beautiful orange scarf that had been a long-ago birthday gift from Marlynn, when I caught a word or two on TV about a woman who had stabbed her nine-year-old son and herself to death. How could someone stab herself? I wondered as I watched the film clip. The shot was of the outside of the apartment and, with growing alarm, I realized it looked like Marlynn’s apartment. They gave the name of the complex, and it was Travis Park. They gave the ages of the mother and son, which matched Marlynn and Michael’s ages. Names were not given, “pending notification of next-of-kin.” The story ended.
The scarf slid from my hand as I moved to the phone in the office. My mantra, my prayer, started: “Let it not be them, please, God, let it not be them.” I felt like I was on auto-pilot, moving underwater. I remember thinking, this is what it must feel like to be in shock.
I dialed 911. Speaking slowly, I said, “This is not an emergency, but I need to know the name of the woman that murdered her son and killed herself. Their bodies were found this morning, and I think it’s my cousins.”
“We do not have that information available, as it is still pending notification of next-of-kin. Let me connect you with homicide,” her formal, brisk voice offered. I waited through a series of clicks, my heart pounding. A mechanical voice came on to inform me that no one was available to take my call, inviting me to leave a message so someone could call me back.
I slammed the phone down before the tone sounded and tried to think. Where would the bodies have been taken? I picked up the phone book and found the number for the Travis County Medical Examiner’s office and dialed. Another mechanical voice. As I gently returned the receiver, I realized I was going to have to drive over there. I dialed my good friend, Jan’s number. She wasn’t home from work, yet, and I left a message for her, saying I’d seen the newscast and was on my way over to Marlynn’s. I felt like I needed contact, support from somewhere, if it really was them.
As I slowly drove through the neighborhoods between Marlynn’s apartment and mine, I remembered a neighborhood ‘cop shop’ in a small corner shopping center. I parked outside the darkened plate glass window and swung open the heavy door. A line of desks along one wall had several uniformed officers sitting behind them. I approached the first desk and repeated the query I had made to the 911 operator, twenty minutes earlier. A female officer spoke up and gave me about the same response. “We don’t have that information, pending notification of next-of-kin,” she said as if she said this phrase many times a day.
“What if I’m next of kin?” I asked, barely holding back my anger.
“Then you can call homicide in the morning and they’ll help you.”
I felt like asking her if she could just go home and go to sleep if she believed members of her family were dead, but I decided I didn’t need to be a smartass. I turned on my heel and left.
I continued my drive, slowly, carefully (please God, let it not be them), pulling into the parking space next to Marlynn’s car. It seemed a hopeful sign that her car was there. Wouldn’t it have been impounded or something? I rounded the corner of the laundry room, and there was the yellow crime scene tape, and a bright orange form sealing the door. Marlynn’s door. I felt my knees give way and I sat down hard on the sidewalk.
My mind filled with images of Michael. His bright eyes and sweet disposition, his precious big smile. And always near him was his mother, looking at him with adoration and such incredible love. He was her life. How could she have done this? What darkness had descended upon her, to cause her to take their lives? I realized, sitting on that cold sidewalk, that I would never have answers, that there would be no simple explanation, ever, and I would live with this event for the rest of my life, always wondering how it could have happened, what went so terribly wrong, and what I could have, should have, done to prevent its happening.
Eventually, I got up off the sidewalk and stumbled to a neighbor’s open door. A sweet Hispanic woman with many kids underfoot offered me the phone, and the operator at 911 gave me a back line at the medical examiner’s office this time. I was told that one of the doctors who had attended the autopsy would be able to call me back within an hour. I also called Jan and this time she was home. I asked her to come in and be with me and she said she was on her way.
The woman gave me a big hug as I left. Her grandsons had played with Michael. For the first time I thought about how this would affect the people in the apartment complex and at Michael’s school. I couldn’t let myself think too much about that right now. I drove back home as carefully as I had driven over. My prayer changed to “Please, God, give me the strength to get through this.” I knew that my life would never be the same.
(c) Jade Beaty All Rights Reserved 2006

The Psychiatrist & The Tibetan

She moved through the mental health ward of High Plains Baptist Hospital like the commander of a battleship, never stopping long enough to be fully detained, gazing over the heads of patients and staff alike, and issuing abrupt and gruff statements here and there, like rockets launching from her mouth. She was judge and jury over the sanity of all inhabitants within a seven county region. Her power was absolute, and she knew it.
She wore what must have been at least knee length gray hair in a braided bun, done up around and around on the top of her head, giving the illusion of a fuzzy pillbox hat. Her thick, black-framed bifocals prevented any illusion of direct eye contact with those select few she deigned important enough to look at directly. The glasses distorted her faded blue eyes to the extent that you felt you were trying to look at her under water. Her puffy face could have been called kind, grandmotherly, if not for the deep, mean-looking frown lines engraved into her forehead and around her mouth.
My parents had been called in to meet with the doctor and me. I had voluntarily admitted myself to her facility on Christmas Day, in the midst of what we kindly term in the south “a nervous breakdown.” The meeting took place two weeks later, after they had hit on the proper combination and dosage of the sedatives that had caused me to finally retreat into a coma-like compliance.
“I’m pleased with your daughter’s progress to this point,” she started. She leaned across her desk, hands forward, with the fingers entwined and the thumbs making a summit. Her eyes swam behind the thick glasses. “We were beginning to think she’d have to be sent for shock therapy at our Vernon facility, but she is now responding to medication. We have a diagnosis.” Her pause was dramatic, as if she were waiting for acknowledgment of her medical prowess. “Your daughter suffers from pseudo-neurotic schizophrenia.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my father shift in his chair and lean forward, his gray Stetson resting on his crossed knee. His mouth was silently trying to repeat her words.
“She will be required to remain on medication for the rest of her life,” the doctor continued. “It is unlikely that she will ever be successful at independent living. I suggest that we keep her another week or so, to be sure she has stabilized on her meds, and then, you may take her home.” She said this last bit rather grandly, like she was presenting my parents with a great gift. She dropped back into her chair with a sigh, letting go of the cathedral she’d build with her hands in the middle of the desk.
As she spoke these last words, I felt myself falling backward, into the inner worlds of what I had come to call my true reality. I found myself seated in my private consultation room, facing the loving gaze of The Tibetan.
“Precious One,” he began in the special way that we talked, “you will come to understand why you find yourself in this situation. Do not despair and do not accept this sentence of a life not lived. You will move through this experience of what they term “mental illness.” You will learn that there are things you should not share with those who are sleeping. And remember, Dear One, that you are an awakening soul, surrounded by the masses of comatose. A soul such as yours is a beacon of light and your light must be held forth. It is your commitment, your duty and your honor. You have much to do this lifetime, as you will recall. You have agreed at soul’s level to end your karmic ties with this earthly plane in this, your last lifetime here. It will not be easy, but remember that I am always with you. I will attempt to remind you of the work at hand, and assist in directing you toward the places you are to shine your golden light of soul.”
He took my small, pale hand between his large, rough brown ones. “If you don’t remember anything else, just remember that I am always with you. I am your guardian, your guide and you will become aware of me whenever you need me.”
His gaze was steady, open, and so full of unconditional love that I could not help but believe his words.
I had so many questions. “But should I take this medicine? How will I know what to do? When can I get back to my life in Austin?” I felt like I wanted to stay, in this place of comfort and certainty, and asking questions might keep me here.
His look told me this was not the time for questions. “You will be guided. Trust your inner sense of what to do and where to go. It is always right. Develop a relationship with your intuition and know that miracles will be all around you. All will be well. Go back, now, Dear One.”
With his last words echoing in my mind, I was back in the uncomfortable, green vinyl chair in the psychiatrist’s office. Mother was reaching to place her hand on my father’s arm, as he leaned forward. His Stetson fell off his knee and rolled just under the desk. “And how long will this last? We can’t support her, she’s been on her own. Is this medicine expensive?” He seemed angry, agitated, firing his questions through gritted teeth. I was being discussed as if I were not in the room, and I longed to be back with The Tibetan in our chamber. There was a flicker of blue in my inner vision and I remembered his promises and relaxed a little.
“Schizophrenia is a life-long condition. It can be managed with drugs and therapy, but it is never cured. Perhaps you can read about it to know more. My next consultation is waiting now. We can talk again after you’ve had some time to think.” She rose from her chair and gestured toward the door.
Mother, always efficient, gathered Daddy’s hat from under the desk and we all stood to leave. We had been dismissed.

Written sometime in 1996 about a day in January, 1977.© Jade Beaty

Bloody Sunday

It was a sultry, off-and-on rainy June Sunday in Amarillo, Texas. I was nine years old and had been without my waist length, auburn ponytail for less than a month. Mother had talked me into cutting it off because she was tired of dealing with the battleground of wills it had become. Some school mornings I left the house with my hair pulled back so tight I looked oriental, tears still in my eyes from her impatient roughness with the brush.
I had mixed feelings about losing my hair (well, not exactly lost... kept in a cigar box under my bed). It was definitely less time consuming and I could feel more like a boy with my pixie cut. I was even beginning to eye Barry Norman's burr and consider the possibility. The thing I DID miss about my hair was the attention it had gotten me. People had routinely stopped Mother and me on the street to remark on my beautiful hair color and deep brown eyes. "What a pretty little girl," I heard over and over from strangers. "Pretty is as pretty does," my mother would always wisely reply, her eyes on me.
On this particular June day, I had been dropped off at Presbyterian Sunday School and then delivered back home. I shucked the stupid dress with the stiff petticoat and elastic at the puffy sleeves that left deep marks on my arms. I put on pink quilted petal pushers and a white ruffled top. I kept the white patten sandals on, never dreaming that these shoes would soon lead me to disaster.
I dashed out to join the guys in Dickie Shawgo's side yard and we spent some time pulling marigold blooms from his mom's plants and throwing them out in the street. It was neat to see what they looked like after a car squashed them. We eventually tired of this and crossed the alley into the forbidden territory of Mr. Kelly's back yard.
Dickie climbed the fence and sprang easily into the center of Mr. Kelly's pear tree, swinging off a branch to land lightly on the ground, disappearing around the side of the garage. Barry followed and I, as usual, was last. The fence was no problem, but my landing in the tree was not solid, and as I hit the trunk, my feet slid toward me, because of my wet, slippery sandals, causing me to pitch forward. I hit the trunk of that tree, HARD, with my face, and slide to the ground. I must have passed out for a minute or two, because the next thing I knew I was away from the tree, sitting near the sidewalk, puzzling at the sight of my front tooth on the ground in a pool of blood. Barry and Dickie were standing over me, saying things like, “Cool, man. Look at all that blood.” Dickie ran to get his dad.
Mother has never had a stomach for blood, especially the blood of her own children, and she had been known to faint dead away, being no use at all in emergencies. The neighbors had learned to call her and delicately describe my injuries before bringing me home, hoping to find someone there more capable of handling things than my mother. As Dickie's father carried me in the back door that day, she managed to scream "She's ruined, she's ruined," a few times before hitting the floor. Due to my state of shock in that moment, I took that message to a very deep level of my identity. I have spent a good bit of time and money with therapists over the years around this one incident.
The trip to the emergency room got me six stitches in my upper lip, a broken nose set, never to be dainty again, plans for a new front tooth (it had come out clean, root and all), and they dug a good amount of bark out of my sinuses and gums. For whatever misguided reasoning, I was not allowed to see a mirror for a week (the therapists had great fun with this one). My cousin brought me a huge box of Millionaire candies, but I couldn't eat even one. I never felt pretty again, and to this day I hate pears.
However, I figure I saved myself from a life of superficial emptiness by having that accident. Most truly beautiful women I know seem more damaged than enhanced. They go through life getting what they want because of their looks, not their character or accomplishments. I could have been one of those truly beautiful, and would not have become the deep and glorious woman that I am today. Or at least, this is what I tell myself.
© Jade Beaty 1996

Lovers Forever

Most of my writing is from my own life. Here's a rare piece of fiction, inspired by a double suicide in the news.

"Listen carefully, my precious treasure. There will be a room somewhere. It will be exquisitely appointed, just as you would wish if you had all the money in this world. When we first arrive, there will be no one there, but once our joyful arrival is complete, guests will start to come. Your beloved mother, your sister, and our precious war-torn son. They will all be coming to see us. Our bodies will be young and vigorous once more, and your outer appearance will again match your inner beauty, as in our youth.
Sweet One, you may arrive before I do, but don't despair. I will be along soon, and time in this new place is very different. As we meet our loved ones, it will seem they have only been gone a few minutes, as if they had just stepped out of the room."
She weakly raised her head off the pillow a bit, straining her old, cloudy eyes to see his dear face. "Daddy, you are so full of nonsense. We don't know where we will go, except to the rest home. That's our next stop. And from there, only God knows. We are not meant to have this wisdom."
He started to reply, but heard a key turn in the lock on the back door. He felt a surge of irritation at Sonya, their daughter. She always stepped through the door as if expecting to find their dead bodies, calling their names and rattling her keys. As he listened to her clump down the hall to their bedroom, he took a deep breath and most of the irritation left. She was concerned for them and wanted to help, he reminded himself.
"What are all the lights doing off? Why are you sitting here in the dark?" she asked, without even a greeting first. She bustled over to the bedside table and turned on the lamp.
"Mother and I were just having our after dinner conversation. When you are almost blind, lights are less important, anyway. How are you, baby daughter?" He had risen from his chair by the bed and was holding wide his arms to embrace her. She quickly made a kissing sound near his ear and moved away before he could get hold of her. She hated to be hugged close to him. She could smell the decay in his body.
Sonya stood at the foot of the bed and pulled out her organizer. "We have some last minute business to discuss. The Community Center will be sending an ambulance for Mother in the morning at 8:00. I'll be over early to get her ready. Daddy, you will ride with me..." The old man started to protest, but Sonya raised her hand. "No, you may not ride with Mother in the ambulance. It is not allowed, and we will not discuss it any more. Remember when we visited the Center..."
“Why don't you call it what it is?” he interrupted. “An old folk's home. You are shipping us off to be cared for by strangers. Quit trying to make it sound like you are doing us a favor. We do not want to go. I can take care of Mother myself. I've been doing it for years. I don't understand why you and Claude think you can make these decisions for us. Why can't we come to your house?" He had lapsed into a helpless feeling, and realized he was whining. He was so weary of fighting her strong will.
"Now, Daddy," she said, as if talking to a dimwitted child, "do you remember what happened at the bank last month? You were trying to withdraw all your money and take Mother on a sea cruise. Do you remember that? We had to get power of attorney to prevent that sort of thing from happening. Thank goodness the banker called me at work! And Mother is not getting the kind of care that she needs..."
"I can give her better care than any stranger!" he shouted, as best he could. He suddenly recalled that when Sonya was a child she was sensitive to shouting. She would just crumple up and slink away. But not any more. This time she drew back her shoulders and stuck out her massive chest.
"I will not be yelled at,” she said slowly, as if trying to gain control. “We are doing what is best for you both. We have gone over and over all of this, and the time to argue is past. You WILL be moving to the Community Center tomorrow morning. We ARE putting this house on the market Monday and having a sale to get rid of what we don't want. You KNOW that Claude and I cannot have you with us, due to his heart condition. This is our only solution, and I'm begging you to please cooperate.” She was now yelling, her face bright red. He was glad his hearing was dimmed.
He thought she looked as if she could burst into tears. He had not seen her cry since the day, thirty years ago, that he had told her that her
worshipped older brother, Carl, had been killed in Vietnam. It softened him to her, just a bit. He watched as she struggled to compose herself.
The old woman had feigned sleep to this point, but now she lifted her hand from the bed and cleared her throat. "Daddy, it is time to accept this arrangement. We’ve discussed it for months and this is what must be done. I'm actually looking forward to being around people again. You know what a social butterfly I am." She smiled a hint of a smile and looked directly into his eyes. "We will be fine there," she said quietly and with great determination.
"OK, Mother, OK." He stroked her white hair and her face, then kissed her on the forehead. He turned to Sonya. "We will be ready to go in the morning,” he said quietly.
She breathed a sigh of relief and turned to go. "Don't worry about any housework tonight, Daddy. We will be cleaning all weekend. Just enjoy your evening, OK?" She stood in the doorway and looked at the two of them, holding hands in the circle of light from the bedside lamp. "I'll see you bright and early in the morning. Good night," she said, as she turned to go.
He listened to her heavy movement down the hallway and through the kitchen. He heard the keys rattle and turn in the lock. He turned to his wife. "I'm opening that bottle of fancy wine, Dear One. It's the last chance we will have to drink it, I'm afraid." When he had miraculously returned from combat duty in the Great First World War, he had brought with him a bottle of the finest French wine. For some reason, through all the celebrations of their lives, they had never opened it. It seemed there was always going to be some future event of such magnitude that it would warrant this special treat. The time to drink it had finally arrived.
He shuffled into the kitchen and took the bottle down from an overhead cabinet, where it had rested for many years. He had trouble getting the cork to come out, but it did, finally, with a jolly pop. He placed two glasses on a tray with the opened bottle. He eased back down the hallway to the bedroom, being very careful not to tip the bottle or the glasses off the tray.
They enjoyed the entire bottle over the next few hours, reminiscing about the house they would be leaving in the morning: the house that had held them through all their joys and sorrows for the last sixty years. Around 11:00 he gently picked up her frail little body and carried her to the garage. She was sleepy from the wine. He opened the passenger door to the big beige 1976 Cadillac that sat mostly unused, and gently placed her inside, wrapping a blanket around her legs. She did not seem to know where she was and he was glad for that.
He carefully placed the empty bottle of wine in the trash can by the garage door and opened the driver's side door. Settling into the seat, he started the engine as he lowered the two back windows. He did not know how long it would take, but he knew the garage was well insulated against the winter storms. The old engine rumbled smoothly as he took his beloved’s hand and spoke gently to her again of the room where they would meet. She stirred and looked into his eyes.
They found the room together.

©Jade Beaty, 1995

Blood Doesn't Tell

Scene # 1 around age 4, in a public restroom. I was in the stall with mother and noticed that there was blood in the toilet when she stood up to flush.

“Did you cut yourself, momma? Are you hurt?” The only response I got was an impatient, “No.” I felt scared and worried and thought I might pee blood, too.

Scene # 2, around age 5 or 6, playing with Karen and Carla Kirkman in the Amarillo neighborhood I grew up in. Sidney Powers, an older boy, came by on his bike and stopped to talk. He asked us if we knew what fucking was. Nope, none of us did. He laid his bike over on the curb and picked up a stick. He drew some stick figures in the dirt and then showed a line going from one of them to the other and said, “And that’s when they fuck.” When he left, I went home for lunch. Momma and Daddy were in the kitchen. As I walked in, I asked them if they knew what fuck meant. Daddy jerked me up and slammed me down onto the clothes dryer in the corner, looked me dead in the eye, inches from my face and sputtered, “Don’t you ever let me hear you saying that word again. You forget that word right this minute.” I was extremely impressed and needless to say, never forgot that word.

There was a big pink book on my parent’s bookshelf, along with the encyclopedias and the National Geographics. I came across it after we moved to the farm from Amarillo, when I was 10 years old. I would sneak into the den late at night, pull it from the shelf and sneak it back to my bedroom. I’d pour over it for several hours and then sneak it back into place. It was called “The First Nine Months,” and was written in the 40’s, I think, and meant to be for first-time mothers. I was fascinated with the pictures that were illustrations of the embryo at each stage of growth, month by month, with descriptions of what the mother should expect to feel at each stage.

As I approached puberty, I showed that book to girlfriends who were spending the night. We’d giggle and try to imagine how a baby could come out, and how one got in there in the first place. In 6th grade during health class one day, it was announced that the boys would be going outside, while the girls watched a film. I felt embarrassed and ashamed, but didn’t know why. They film explained about a girl’s first period. As I remember, there was no mention about potential pregnancy. I remember a girl in the class, Lois Null, who had developed more quickly than the rest of us. When the teacher asked if anyone in the room had had their first period, she raised her hand. Then she asked a question about tampons, which the film had mentioned as one of the choice for ‘sanitary protection.’ “What if the string breaks?” Everybody laughed loud and long, but it sure seemed like a reasonable concern to me.

At home that evening, I kept hanging around the kitchen after supper, wanting to ask mother about this impending event. I wanted to know what it felt like, what it meant. I needed to be reassured and given clear information about what was happening to my body. I knew mother had a problem with blood, and I was curious about how she handled seeing her own.

Finally the dishes were washed, dried and put away. She could tell I wanted something. Finally, I managed to blurt out a question. “How old were you when you had your first period?” She blanched, stared at the floor for a minute and as she turned to leave the kitchen she said, “I just can’t talk to you about that.”

Several days later I found an ad in one of my teen magazines. I clipped it out and put it with a note that I left in mother’s bathroom: “Could you please buy this for me?” Nothing was ever said.

A few weeks later there was a package for me in the middle of my bed when I got home from school. It was an introductory kit, put together, I’m sure, by the people that make kotex. There was a supply of pads, an elastic belt and a booklet with pictures. My education was finally underway.

Written 4/9/03 (c) Jade Beaty