"Why was it so necessary to nail down as truths those aspects of life which had no answers?"
" . . . I did not even touch the vastness of Being and even less the essence of nonexistence."
My Personal Belief
If through the very mysteriousness of life one is able to grasp a sustaining faith, perhaps this alone is proof of an undeniable presence in the heavens. I am humbled by knowledge, and simply through that which I shall not understand, I have developed the belief that existence on earth is only a mere wisp of that existence which shall follow one's death. That I do not know what will occur after death does not worry me; at best, I hope for a unity with an all-encompassing entity, yet I would not reject the thought of eternal rest. What peace I have comes through hope and limitless possibilities; it does not rest in an established faith. If there was ever a working force to sway my personal beliefs toward a more assured stance with respect to an eternal life, it was after the death of my brother. I was the only one present at the moment of his death, and his long expiration was followed only by peacefulness. His face was that of a young man at rest. There was nothing to fear in that silent face, and my grief was only for myself.
Two days passed, filled with anguish, when a quiet peace settled in my chest and I realized that he never really left my inner being. In me he lived on.
Following weeks and months brought dreams of Norm, some of which were given the quality of messages rather than mere conjurings of my own mind. Thoughts never before conceived in my conscious mind appeared in my dreams concerning after life; also within my dreams were those subjects about which Norm had dreamed. It was as if he was living through me; in my actions, I saw through his eyes.
Many people think of death as the worst occurrence which they shall have to bear, especially when their lives have been relatively without pain. Death is no menace to me in itself; the unpleasantness of ill health or the grief of losing a loved one is that which, for me, evokes the wary anticipation associated with death.
Given the basis of Christianity, it seems amazing to me that some of its followers so desperately fight death. They believe in a life everlasting, where in heaven they shall reside, cleansed of sin, forever with God. Yet despite this promising array of unearthly splendor, they seek to prolong life with vigor rather than celebrate their nearing death. If indeed, they are so certain of heavenly bliss, there should be no need for fear and death should be more valued than life.
I do not truly consider myself to be of one established faith for I detest labels, as it immediately implies their inherent limitations. Moreover, my religion is a very personal thing, not bound to a certain mode of thought; labeling would only provoke attention… some of which is difficult to manage.
I recall several conversations centering on religion in which each of my questions was countered with a quote from the Bible. I soon felt as if I was talking with a programmed robot rather than an intelligent, capable human being. They all seemed bereft of opinion. "But what do YOU think?" I'd ask, agitated. "It says in the Bible that…" I knew it was futile to continue. They had been robbed by their own church denomination; it seemed to me a terrible injustice.
I am unable to accept the Bible as the whole truth, for I feel existence and its counterpart cannot so easily be explained. While there are those who profess to believe wholly and completely, I think certain individuals find it easier to accept their religion's creeds as truths to avoid the unanswerable questions brooding deep within their minds. This one problem of life is solved. Perhaps, also, some individuals are fearful of fostering doubt toward God and salvation, lest they be turned away on judgment day. To these people, thought is sinful; yet I believe one is given an exquisite mind with which to reason and evaluate stimuli; it is a natural function to be inquisitive.
It always bothered me when people would state as a fact that which was only faith. Why was it so necessary for them to nail down as truths those aspects of life which had no answers? Despite my thirst for knowledge, I reveled in the endless possibilities, knowing that I did not even touch the vastness of Being, and even less the essence of nonexistence. Since either belief or disbelief toward a given thought could be one day proven entirely wrong, I found no malignancy in uncertainty.
I do not feel that living a "good life" should call for a reward in after life; an indestructive and morally objective existence should be a reward in itself and should not need the impetus of a reward to live righteously, for that implies one would live in a lesser degree of goodliness if he was certain no reward would come in a later form of being.
The thought of reincarnation into another earthly being after one's death is, for me, an unpleasant thought. I look upon each being as an individual which is part of an ultimate whole, and in that belief, reincarnation has no part. The only indication which could be attributed to reincarnation are those instances when a person speaks in a foreign tongue and laments an historic occurrence; the spirit of another speaking through a living person. To a lesser degree, there is the inexplicable, yet common feeling of de ja vu. If a person has never been in a place before, how could he feel that he has seen it in another point in time? As mysterious as these happenings are, I would rather think of them as earthly contacts made by uneasy or tormented spirits, rather than any sign of reincarnation. Then I would hope that there is nothing but rest after death, although the reality of this wish certainly is not augmented by tales told of those who have, so to speak, departed and then have later been revived. I would be quite annoyed if, after lapsing into a serene dreamland, I wake, only to find myself deposited on earth in the form of an infant, destined to bridge the tide of humanity once again…
"What man thinks of as solid "truths" could be obliterated once one has passed from worldly existence . . . "
"one's beliefs, once established, remain a cane to lean upon throughout those times of uncertainty and change."
Reminiscence
I was reflecting how some people lump together instances which, personally, I feel are complete opposites. Case in point; the dissimilarity, in my opinion between telling a person he has a piece of cake on his chin and telling someone he has a pimple on his forehead. I would be grateful to the person who would say, with discretion, that food had somehow missed my mouth and had adhered to the skin surrounding my mouth. There is nothing more degrading than to have had a lovely luncheon, followed by a shopping spree, only to discover upon looking in the mirror at 5:30 p.m. that you'd been carrying a splotch of cake on your face for the better part of the day. In the event that someone announces that you have a blemish on your face, however, I feel nothing short of mild revulsion toward that individual for augmenting an embarrassment which you've already acknowledged to yourself upon awakening. Chances are that you are fully aware of the exact longitude and latitude of the facial offender which so hatefully appeared on your face. I simply feel that comments of that nature are unnecessary because there is absolutely nothing you can do except to hope it exits as rapidly as it made it's debut. Unlike the piece of cake which can be whisked away after its detection, the blemish remains until full maturity and disappears only when it is quite prepared to do so! Thus ends my dissertation on facial concerns.
Much of the fear that I now perceive deals with the question of where I would go should I outlive Mom and Dad. I feel so utterly dependant upon them, especially given the condition of my health and my inability to earn a living of my own. I had depended on Norm in the event I should have more years of life than my parents; we had said we could live together, and my worries were somewhat allayed. I hope I will die before them, although I realize this would hurt them deeply. Hidden inside me is, perhaps, a coward which seeks the road of least resistance. Given my past degree of luck, however, I'm sure that my wishes will not come true. One must take those things in life which are difficult to endure and attempt to grow with each new development. Life seems unable to be a "no load" experience; perhaps it is impossible to think that the sunshine and the rain maintain equal balance.
Feb. 2, 1984… It was good to drive Norm's Chevette today. It seemed the barrier was broken and I was comforted; also to know that I could get out, that I could drive the car with competence and at the same time, I could feel close to Norm. It's easier to shift than Dad's Chevy truck.
Feb.7, 1984… Some of the reason I felt so bad that awful Monday and Tuesday was the feeling that it should've been me. It was as if an angel came to retrieve a soul at 5440 and got the wrong room. Everyone was expecting me to die, and it would have been a lot easier…
Feb. 11, 1984… It began to storm around 12:30 while I was still down-stairs. I've never experienced such a loud and brilliant display of nature's fireworks at such an unlikely time of the year. Upon hearing the noise, I elected to turn off the T.V.in favor of listening to and observing the lightning. It was quite intense for a brief period of ten minutes or thereabouts. I wish it would continue to storm throughout the passage of the night. . . it would effectively break the monotony of sleep.
Feb. 12, 1984… Sunday's just aren't the same… it was a gray and misty day, temperature of 52. I guess the committee at Church went to the Bishop to obtain a replacement for Rev. Hess. I'll miss him…he was the only minister with whom I felt at ease to express my true feelings. With others, I was backed up against a wall. I must believe as they did. . .if God knowingly created man as imperfect beings which had to attain greater knowledge through experience, how could He simultaneously punish them for eternity simply because they doubted His existence or some of His principles? It would, in my opinion, be folly for Him to place such a temptation as Knowledge (the apple) within man's perception and then command him to shun it at all costs; an all-knowing Being, God would have already been aware that man, yet a child in mentality, couldn't resist such a command, just as a child is unable to keep his hands in his pockets in a souvenir shop.
Man has a mind for a purpose; to think, to inquire into the unknown, to rationalize the meaning of this complex universe. If God had not wanted man to think, he would have created man as an imbecile, and would never have placed an apple tree in Eden. I feel that through questioning, one grows. No man knows of that which comes after life on earth. One can only hope for serenity; the certainty of heaven is yet a dream, to claim otherwise violates all sense of rationality. What man thinks of as solid "truths" could be obliterated once one has passed from worldly existence; perhaps "truths" could just as rapidly change through higher vision on earth. The longer I live, the more I realize that nothing is certain and binding. One can simply hold beliefs with the hope that they are at least true in part. Knowledge can undergo change as quickly as a new discovery is made which breaks a former "law" of nature; one's beliefs, once established, remain a cane to lean upon throughout those times of uncertainty and change. If those personal beliefs accommodate room for such change, one's growth is not stunted; rather, one is able to rise above the poison and find fresh air once again.
"God is my inner sense of wholeness and peace, melding me with all creation."
"God could be no less than infinitum."
GOD, My View
The wealth of unanswerable mysteries which Life presents has led me to create a hoard of personal speculations as to their possible solutions. Following are those insights which I maintain as "possibilities" and those with which I heartily disagree. Included also are the possibilities with which my mind has struggled yet cannot truly "claim" as my own beliefs because of their sheer incredibility. Attempting to rationalize that which is not an "absolute" has always been one of man's delights and obsessions; my speculations have brought peace to my mind in a chaotic world. They are my own, with which I can live in harmony through all of life's crises.
When I was young, I would listen to the Bible stories and sermons and soon began conjuring an image of God in my mind; in essence, He was an old, white-haired man, seated in the clouds in a brilliant robe at a magnificent desk, holding in his large hands a mighty scroll of the names of his earthly subjects. As I learned more, and was given his personality as if it was truly a simple, well-known fact, I began to foster deep feelings of rebellion, yet I knew not the reason for my disgust.
Only years later did I realize I was not the pagan I had thought myself to be. I believed in an infinite creator, yet the problem I had with established religion and church was my antipathy toward the restrictive quality which language itself bestowed on God. To give attributes to God placed him within fathomable bounds and he could not be Everything, as I so needed to believe if I was to believe in a creator.
I think of God not as a person, or a being to whom one communicates as if to a friend, but rather as a core and ultimate unity of all creation. God is all things tangible and intangible…he is Everything. I do not worry over the question of whether God is the sender of morality among humans, for the creation itself is enough of a reason for me to justify a power which is to be awed. Injecting within an animal the capacity to love beyond himself, and mourn for more than the loss of his own life further supports my heartfelt admiration. I have never thought to blame God for wrongs and injustices because in nature all is not fair; we, as all creation, are part of a life cycle, an endless wave of being and nonexistence. God is my inner sense of wholeness and peace, melding me with all creation.
If one can accept the biblical statement, "God created man in his image," as true, then perhaps there can be other speculations drawn from that source. Since man is generally capable of growing beyond self-love, and, through life's observation and experiences, gaining wisdom; it is possible that God, also, is growing, reaching ever outward just as the universe itself is said to be expanding. As humanly inconceivable as forever seems to be, I feel God could be no less than infinitum. There is not a wall but that something exists on the other side; even within emptiness is the presence of nothing, which in itself is something!!
No one will ever know the mind of God while trapped in the vessel of human flesh… No one will know how much he controls, indeed, how much he is able to control. Perhaps he can control suffering but does not, or would control the pain but cannot. We must live with the knowledge that pain exists in the world for both the good and the heartless.
We are taught as children that if we behave we shall be amply rewarded. Eat your vegetables and you'll get a cookie. If one is an honest, diligent worker, he will gain success and honor. Religious teaching also states that the righteous will prosper. Attentively listening, many ingest these tales of fortune and assume that their earthly reward is forthcoming. However, the world cannot live up to the story-tellers "idealistic view" and we see with distress that our childhood tales had severely bent realism. A member of my church cheated on a test, unobserved, and later received an A while another student who also neglected to study received an F. The former was not punished, nor did the latter student, who honestly failed the exam, receive acknowledgement for his honesty.
A drunken man slammed into an unsuspecting car housing a mother and two children. The drunk barely felt the impact, but the mother and one of her children simultaneously cracked the windshield. It was the third offense, and again he merely paid a fine and the damages. No one was seriously injured, yet the man was not fairly punished for inflicting undeserved wounds and mental anguish on innocent victims.
While instances like those illustrated above are numerous and quite prominent in daily life, usually destroying the bulk of one's childhood idealism, certain individuals cling to the "reward ethic" until evil befalls their lives; it's difficult to completely shirk childhood teaching, so firmly rooted in the recesses of the brain. This is why, I believe, there is a possibility for tension between ones self and his religious stance upon facing unpleasant or shattering news. "God was supposed to be my shield from evil!" followed either by the conclusion, "God is unjust," or "I must have done some great disservice to the Lord."
If I needed a reason for the existence of "evil" in life, this is the most agreeable one that I could surmise. For there to be freedom in life, there must also be choice. Choice necessitates at least two possibilities, and perhaps it is here that good and evil come into view. If God is the ultimate creator of all things, He then knew that existence would bring nonexistence, and all things would have its natural counterpart. Good without evil would allow no choice for individuality and we would be reduced into mentally-bonded puppets. Being the creator of all things would not necessitate his intervening in all life, for within his framework, nature balances itself. The most calamitous effect on the natural world is when it becomes off-balance; thus to control suffering would also place limits and restrictions on humanity's freedom. Mental freedom is better than bondage, yet for freedom one must sometimes pay a great price. God can be everything without standing above humanity as a punitive figure; though he may embrace life he does not necessarily have to control it.
When viewing "bad" occurrences in a more practical light, perhaps it could be maintained that "badness" can only be so labeled by the one who is placed under an immediate threat. Surely a mouse dangling precariously in an owl's vice-like talons would call his predicament "bad," yet the owl would find only good in the circumstances at hand, for through the mouse, he is able to sustain himself. Consequently, I feel there must be illness and old age, and ultimately death. The earth could not support its population of animal and human life if there was not the presence of death. Indeed, those of us who live today would not have lived if there was not death; birth into a flooded planet would be impossible. Thus, nature controls itself; though imperfect, it is an infinite miracle, ever growing and continuous.
Perhaps it is because I never believed in the story-book image of God often presented to me from the outset, that I did not have to grapple with the seeming contradictions which life gradually brought to my view contesting either God's undying love or a person's goodness due to the presence of suffering in the world. When God is viewed as nature itself, or at least the core of the natural world, injustice becomes less of an issue regarding the distribution of pain among societal members. Each day in the wild, countless deaths make way for new births and sustain those beings which, for the time, live on. Life is agonizing for the victim and sweet for the victor; yet the one who survives may fall prey to the hunger of a greater beast. . . and life continues.
"I have walked in the mountains and seen the beauty surrounding me.I have heard the babble of a stream and the eerie hoot of an owl."
"I can see and hear. . . I've known what it is to feel physically normal. Some people never do."
". . . the core is intact despite the withering exterior. . . . that undefinable part of oneself that lives beyond earthly existence."
Continuum
Feb. 13, 1984… I have often thought, "If only I could make time stand still.".. when I am involved in an enjoyable day. I know that wish could not possibly occur, but if it could, it would most certainly be a selfish desire. In that same instant, perhaps another individual is struggling with overwhelming sorrow, and an extension of that sorrow would cause the individual many times more difficulty. No, it is much better that time continues. The inconsistency of life necessitates the seconds, minutes and hours which make up a day. Life is, at times, difficult to bear, and time passes, allowing one to rest and derive solace from the bits of serenity found here and there along the way. I would not elect to make a change (even if I could) in the system of time unless I was able to better that particular moment for all concerned.
After Dr. Freeman stilled my paranoia and filled my cavity, I'm conscious that my own worth (in silver) has escalated! I sat outside on the "stoop" (what a name). . . suddenly I was inspired to compose a poem. . . I rushed inside for a piece of paper upon which I could unleash my inspiration. It was a beautiful day, complete with sunshine and snowy clouds sailing rapidly by overhead.
The Truest Friend
The air is freshWith the promise of Spring…Sap flows to the treetops,The chickadees singThe insects respondTo the warmth of the sunAnd the grass will stand tallE'er the day is done.Myriad clouds reignA flawless blue sky…Short-lived is their kingdomThrough which they flyFor springtime deliversTheir wealth to the earthTo nurture the landWith the newness of birth.The time so quicklyHastens by. . .Soon spring is goneAnd summer, nigh(As after dawn,The pearly morn)Upon warm wingsThe summer is borne.Time goes onLike an endless maze,Melding seconds to hoursAnd hours to days.The seasons reel onward,Ever the same,While humanity strainsAgainst winds of change.It is well that timeIs beyond man's controlFor to meddle therewithWould but injure the soul.Time, alone, is willing to shareGrief too great for one to bear,For time will comeOne misty dawnWhen the mind has grownAnd sorrow is gone.Perhaps timeIs one's truest friend…One's sole companion'Til the very end.
Lauren IsaacsonFebruary 13, 1984
Feb. 20, 1984… I had a brief cry in my room while holding my green parakeet. It seems to know Norm is gone. I can just hear Norm saying, "Even bird misses me!"… he used to get a rise out of me by saying how good he was… "Even bird LOVES me!"… or looking in the mirror at his reflection he'd say "Damn! I'm handsome!" he would never get his hair styled so he'd ask me if I liked his hair and when I'd just smile he'd say, "Dummy!"… it was a standing joke… I made Dad's birthday cake, then sat outside for a time and wrote another poem about emptiness.
The Cure
It was not food I hungered forNor did I seek material gains…I thirsted not for toxic drinksOr pills to mask life's heartfelt pains…I did not look for merry crowdsTo fill my days with mirth;I only sought totalityAnd peacefulness on earth.Into this world, I came aloneAnd so, I must depart;My life-long cure for emptinessWas loving from the heart.
February 20, 1984Lauren Isaacson
Mar. 19, 1984… I realize some people who keep diaries do not include those things which would detract from their personalty. However, I feel that a journal cannot be complete without those embarrassments, for they are a part of me and help me to improve myself. I speak of negligence and selfishness tonight. . . I came across 3 toggle buttons in my sewing things which Norm had purchased months and months ago. They were intended for his big sweater, and I'd volunteered to to sew them on; I never did, and eventually. . . until now. . . forgot about the job completely. Now I regret my laziness with regard to follow-through on projects. It just seems so stupid of me, and I wonder why I put it off. It was not a big hassle… I just never got to it.
Another thing of which I am ashamed is that since I can't eat everything, I tend to be rather protective or hoggish over those certain foods which seldom make me sick. One such food is cake. At the steak supper the other night, they were selling baked goods. We bought some things, among them 6 creme-filled cupcakes. They were delicious, similar to Ding Dongs. Anyway, I ate 3 of the 6, and then tonight, Dad was going to have another. . . the last. . . and I was silently upset. Later Dad said I could have it, that he didn't really want it. I felt bad even though I hadn't mentioned anything aloud to him about my wanting it. . . perhaps we foster a bit of selfishness whether we will admit it or not. I am disgusted with my own selfish quirks which occasionally spill out, but at the same time I feel fortunate that I am able to be aware of them. Awareness leads to overcoming faults. Later I took pictures of a hibiscus and of birds near the feeder using my 2 x extender. I again embarked upon my quilt project, sewing together more squares. It seems that I have sad spells whenever I sit down and reflect upon Norm, recalling our times together. Whenever I'm alone, I tend to break down. I'm glad I can release my emotions. It seems incredible to me that Norm and I won't be sharing Canada together. I have no desire to go with any other person, for it wouldn't be the same at all. I hope it will work out with Mom and Dad. (I will have to remember my ear plugs, for both snore!) I'm sure I can enjoy the trip…I'll take books and my journal to tide me over in the car.
Mar. 23, 1984… It seems, as yet, an impossibility that Norm and I will no more share the lovely transformation of winter to spring, and all those seasons to follow. Perhaps my time is now best spent alone, for in this way I shall be able to be with him in my mind and feel within myself those qualities which we shared.
Perpetuation
Skeletal remnants of autumns bygoneHabitate the woodland floorAs if, in silence, to assureThat through each deathNew life will come.
And so it is that spring explodes,A vibrant mass of color,Flaunting the essence of life itself;Thinking not of life long pastBut only life forthcoming.
In the wake of smold'ring heatEmerald cloaks a naked branchAnd guards the fruitWhich bear the hopeThat blossoms will not cease to bloom.
When golden overtakes the greenAnd shadows yawn 'fore noonday sun,A message, though unspoken, blows'cross weary field and aged groveTo beckon, as to timeless friends,A sojourn shared 'neath winter snow.
And thus, a pod from which all life has flownMust bid its earthly stance farewellAnd harken to a chillwinds' callTo rest unto eternity.
Lauren IsaacsonMarch 28, 1984
April 1, 1984… April Fool's Day came and went without incident… it was great to feel better! The afternoon was well spent in a lawn chair outdoors. I thought of many things, and it was nice to be alone… read some old poems and writings and then wrote a new poem about hatred. I really like it…
Fatal Emotion
A mind which housesNaught but hateKindles eager flameWhich lick the doorsOf happinessUntil the oneWho lives withinBecomes engulfedAnd is consumed.A fire which feastsUpon itselfIs not a means…It is an end.
Lauren IsaacsonApril 2, 1984
April 4, 1984… It's almost as if Norm never lived here now. I've always been very adaptable to my environment. . . I guess I've had to be. I've seen so much change, and if I didn't roll along, I could never be able to stand everything. I think a lot of Norm when I'm alone, but when I'm busy I can let go of my problems. I wouldn't be writing so much if all was "quiet within." I also realize that some of this "buying binge" which I have been experiencing of late has to do with my sense of loss. I'm trying to restore that which has been taken from me through material finds. I seem to need to keep my mind occupied. . . two things which satisfy me most are my photography and my room. . . aside from my writing and being outside. Hence, my purchases for both of these "passions" of mine. I would get the things eventually, however, the need is here now. . . I am fortunate enough to possess the "means" through the use of money I would have used for my college education. . . I have not waited; after considerable thought, I have made these purchases, and have found all to be very much to my enjoyment. Mom said, "It's good. . . there's so little you can do now!" I guess she's right. I'm limited physically…
April 5, 1984… Decided to simply relish the beautiful day! I sat outside in a lawn chair, photographed more flowers and then wrote a poem. I really enjoyed the afternoon! Sherry (Syracuse, N.Y. pen pal) called and we talked for quite a long while. She's a good kid; be coming around July 1st.
Reflections
Though each day comesBut once each yearNay, only once foreverI cannot blockMy mind's disputeThat this day's twinHas dawned before.It seems as ifThe time has lapsedIn naught butBackward motion,EncompassingThat long-lost dayE'er before the changes passed.Perhaps through theseReflective days,The mirrorOf more carefree times,One may rekindleTender sparksWhich in the darknessBurst to flameTo guide and warmThe dismal heart.
Lauren IsaacsonApril 5, 1984
April 14, 1984… Started our trip to the Smokies…had a good day.
April 16-19, 1984… Took pictures of forsythia, redbud and rhododendron; the mountains are gorgeous! It has been cold enough for light snowfall in the higher elevation, adding to the beauty of the deciduous trees as well as the pine. Each day I'm having trouble with my bowels… I had to go to a gas station… nearly had a nervous breakdown… it was locked… when I finally got the key, I could hardly get it open in time. I was beside myself with anguish and terror. Shortly before, I had a similar experience with another bathroom. While in a park area, I was afflicted with the dire necessity to "go."… it is difficult to make a nonchalant brisk stride convincing as one hastens to the "john." In Gatlinburg I had yet another siege, but luckily we were at the motel. I drove only two times on the trip. . . sometimes we would have to stop within a very short time… I was so scared! I feel like a Class A Slob!
May 27, 1984… I'm off on another rampage concerning feelings and other people's dogs! I get so infuriated by careless dog owners who believe that everybody ought to love dogs too, (as well as the distasteful traits that go along with them). Mom said that it is just natural for a dog to mark it's territory, that it must be an unchangeable characteristic. I said it could be unlearned. . . did you ever see a seeing-eye dog that paused to mark each tree? The poor blind person would not be able to make it down the street! So much for that subject!
Mom and Dad thought it in my best interest to re-furnish the up-stairs room that had been Norm's. I'll make it into a living room.
May 29, 1984… Death is the end of life on earth as the living perceive it to be, however, man will forever derive solace from the hope that death does not also herald the end of awareness.
Sometimes I wonder why an individual chooses to write at all, for I'm quite certain that there is no thought written today which has not been written previously. It is astonishing to read the words of Plato and his associates, for one discovers again how alike man's thoughts have been throughout the ages. Taken in this scope, it is truly egotistic of someone to claim his ideas as unique at all. We are born and develop at varying rates, but even the highest of minds have no doubt had their equal at some point in time. Despite similarities, I write for necessity rather than immodesty; I have little doubt that my sanity would be thus intact if it were not for the scratches which I frequently mark on a page.
May 30, 1984… I watched the partial eclipse of the sun through a paper-punched hole! Gary and I left for Wild Cat Den at noon. I drove… since Rt. 22 is "under destruction" I had to go on 61 through Blue Grass. We hiked on the trail and I snapped a few pictures. Once the moon passed away from the sun it was hot again; I became rather overheated as we walked back on the road.
After I got back, I started feeling pretty rank. I over-did and overheated too. It took me the rest of the day to get back to normal. I always "hammer" myself out in the sun or when I do something. It makes me mad because it's an inconvenience. I guess I'm always testing myself or trying to prove I can still do some things.
May 31, 1984… I struggled with a poem about memories and how they fade (but that's not all bad)!… photographed a yellow iris, spiderwort, a daisey-like weed, and some chickadees. . . I again grappled with the main elements of the poem, finally setting the whole package aside to retain my sanity. (It wasn't really that bad!)
Faded Memories
The mind records picturesAnd fleeting sensationsOf life's precious momentsAnd futile concerns;Images as randomAs pieces of film,Developed with care,Preserved with love.
Yet, in timeOne's pungent impressionsOf years gone byAre obscuredBy a fathomless haze;The imprintOf a radiant smileAnd laughter,Tender as the dew…The image from a mountain topAnd autumn's coral moon…But also dark imaginingsAnd morningsBleak and grayAre strewn amongThe misty hoardWhich timeHas struggled to displaceAnd bury'Neath a tranquil sea.
The unhealed woundEvokes more painThan does the faded scar…So should it beWith memories…Fragments scatteredOn life's pathTo mingle with nostalgic dustShould not besiegeThe growing mindWith sorrow or despair…For once dismissed,The inner selfCan, with the whole,Be joined as One.
Lauren IsaacsonMay 31/June 1, 1984
First Impressions
There is a friendly countenanceThat still my mind holds dear…A face of striking character,An aura sure and strong…He seemed to own that innate spiceWhich tender few possess…Without trite conversationI knew him as a friend.
Perhaps the passage of an hourWould prove my image wrong…Yet could it be that feelingsSpeak more truthfully than words?
Lauren IsaacsonJune 2, 1984
June 4, 1984… Sometimes it seems to me as if those afflicted with long-term or chronic illnesses, whether physical or mental in nature are often able to find and retain meaning in life. It is rather discouraging that many cannot shape their lives without such catastrophic events, for all around there are reasons for contentment and understanding if one is but openly aware, and perhaps, willing to spend time alone, immersed in thought.
June 11, 1984… Mom came up because she knew I was upset. . . we began talking and finally the hatch on my emotions gave way… then I rampaged about how there was the notion that Mom and Dad were to blame for all of our family's strange and various ailments. "It had to be something to do with their combination to make all their kids have such odd disorders." Well, I don't believe it. Some people always have to point a finger of blame for their own misfortunes. Mom and Dad didn't give me Big C. I just will not buy that. And to blame parents for being screwed up in the head is not intelligent either, because it not only is the parent but the way in which the kid deals with what his parent says, that make or break problems. People do the same thing at work… it never has anything to do with their own personality… that people have a hard time being around them… well, I got it out and cried a bit and it really helped. Mom was up here 'til 12:00!
June 12, 1984… Looked at a few slides in the morning… upstairs a better part of the day. . . so tired. . . slept most of the afternoon. Dad sold Norm's motor for the canoe. . . we sure had fun with that… once a year was enough, but boy, what a riot. I always think of our late fall ride when we had KFC along and we bought some Grolsch beer because I needed a bottle of it to draw for art class. It was so brisk, we needed to wear our "Pepto-Bismol Suits" (snowmobile suits). It was also great in the summer to lean over the bow and let it bounce over the waves. I have so much time to sit and think, yet less control over my emotions… weakness causes me to be upset concerning things which I would otherwise forget about. Now, all I can do is talk it out or write it out!
June 14, 1984… I look into the star-filled sky and feel that there must be a Creator; the galaxies continue beyond the farthest reaches of man's telescopes, and so they must continue forever, for if there should be an end… a wall … then surely something must lie on the other side; and thus, I am overwhelmed.
If only people would not be blind unto themselves! If only they would hear and understand. . . but then there would be no need to talk.
Life Song
A cool breeze filtersThrough summer's last green,The raiment grown weary of bygone heat,Weaving with the insects' droneAn eerie, melancholic spell;Forever crickets seem to chantAmid their restless, aging cloak,Singing through both day and nightAs if their ever present trillWill mask their own mortality.So vigilant these singers areYet they are not awareThat those who never cease to singTheir daily melodySimply mirror common thoughts(And mirrors but reflect the songThat Life is wont to sing.)Beware the cricket and his songLest you, as he, be singing stillWhen autumn shadows yawn,For never can one live againthe hours of singsong mindlessnessWhen one sought not that higher noteWhich would embrace eternity;The change which robs each creature's breathIs deaf unto Life's steady chantFor what is LifeBut numbered daysThat march from countless decades passedUnto the land beyond?
Lauren IsaacsonJune 15, 1984
Sensory Dreams
My eyes yearn to see those thingsWhich I have never seen…To scale the highest mountain peaksThat rule the evergreen…My legs desire to trace the way'Cross meadows, fields, and streamsAnd to traverse that narrow pathWhere few footsteps have been.I would love to feel the windUpon my flowing hair…To hear the birds and smell the flow'resAnd breathe the unspoiled air.If stars were made for wishing,And dreams made to come trueI'd conquer all my frailtiesSo these dreams I might pursue.
Lauren IsaacsonJune 16, 1984
Captive(Milkweed Pod/Man)
Borne through the air on silken shafts,The product of a waning lifeIs hastened on its windward course;Imprisoned in its silver craft,It journeys toward that fateful endWhere it shall rival life and death.
Man thrives upon the tender thoughtThat he is master of his life,Remembering not the autumn seedWhose dormancy is blessed with lifeThrough nature's will and circumstance;Yet is not man as surely boundUnto his birthright's soul and mind,Entrapped upon the winds of timeAnd captive of the senses?
Lauren IsaacsonJune 17, 1984
Beyond
How I longFor a place beyondWhere land and sky are oneWhere the beamThat will shineUpon fruit and vineIs a true, benevolent sun…
Where age and timeAre not malignedLike sun obscured by cloudAnd battle fieldsTo peace shall yield;Old scars it will enshroud…
The unseen frightsOf moonless nightsNowhere shall be foundAnd love will fallOn each and allAs rain upon the ground…
Here joy shall windThroughout the mindAs streams toward a pondAnd I, to One,As all, to One,Eternally shall bond.
Lauren IsaacsonJune 10, 1984 (1st and 2nd)June 21, 1984 (finished)
Time spent immersed in thought is time best spent. One can cleanse his mind and clarify his beliefs, as well as open himself to the objective definition of new ideas. Some thoughts: Marriage can be self-inflicted punishment. The habitual liar will bury himself alive.
Mom finished typing all of my poems dated from my time at Augie to the present… they look nice.
July 1, 1984… I think my spending spree is quite similar to Norm's after Tracy took off. It's like you are trying to fill a void by masking the same old place. It keeps the mind occupied, too. . . but no matter how occupied the mind becomes, trivial concerns never quite do the job. After all the money is gone, the emptiness still persists. At least I can enjoy the mutuality of our relationship, and look forward to great things in the future. . . long after I am released from this "earthly bondage."… it must be worth any trials one need endure previous to the journey into "the beyond." I believe I shall see Norm again, as I do now in my dreams.
July 3, 1984… I woke up and speedily dressed. Hyman's was going to deliver the furniture. Les and Dad took my antiques upstairs before they arrived. Everything fits and I think it looks great. It was rather amusing… one of the topics we hit upon while the movers were upstairs was the raft of old bottles (whiskey) I have displayed on the console… (from the Thrift Shop). One of the fellows said, "Women shouldn't drink when they're pregnant." I wasn't completely sure, but I thought he was referring to me. When I went down to get the check for him, he said, "So when is it due?" I said, "Don't feel bad, but I'm not pregnant. I have a liver problem… my liver's enlarged." I felt sorry for him; how could he know? He was just trying to be friendly… maybe he had a family of his own. I guess the episode did make me realize that I don't exactly look like a "stick" anymore. . . but it was rather funny.
July 7, 1984… haven't done much today… didn't feel too great… did take Steve to The Dock for a late birthday celebration. He likes that place the best. I could just eat the salad, bread and Won-Tons. We saw a guy with a hole the size of Texas in the seat of his pants; he was taking a woman to eat at The Dock! I wonder how he'll feel when he finally discovers why everyone is smiling at him?!!
We sat at the Moline Riverside Parkway for awhile, 'til the bugs drove us out. . .there were millions of those "cheap bugs". . . what a waste! They're built so cheap… all they can do is incubate, breed, shed their skins all over people's cars, and then die!
July 10, 1984… This is the first day in, well, I'll bet a year or so, that I didn't apply a speck of make-up on my eyes or elsewhere! It was another HOT day. Mom and I worked on the rag rugs. She cut the warp thread to size and I strung three strands through a needle and proceeded to tie the fringe on the rug. Yesterday she unpacked all my china from the storage boxes in the cubby holes; we put it in my antique buffet. It looks great! It's fun to see it all again.
The Day
I watched from my benchOn the sun-dappled lawnAs the cool glow of morningAged to radiant noon.From youth to primeIn naught but hoursWith n'er so muchAs a backward glance,Disdainful of its hapless plight.Scarcely had the Day begunWhen shadows bent from earthly things,Yet steadfast to its mission bound,It envied not the youthful lightThat shall tomorrow take its place,But with unselfish wisdomShed its golden beam upon the earth;And when the distant western skyLet go the aged, fiery disk,Whence, for hours, it reigned complete,Precious little time remainedTo cast upon the glistening hazeA brief reflection of the DayWhose life had touched eternity.
Lauren IsaacsonAugust 23, 1984
"Of Butterflies"
In a shaft of yellow lightA monarch captures on her wingsAn ambered, opalescent glowWhile sailing on the Breeze of Life.A seeming drunken path she weaves,As if berefit of aim or goal,For fields of flowers compose her worldAnd nectar sweet sustains her breath.So high she fliesYet sees no moreThan that which self-indulgence brings;How glad am IThat through these eyesI see more than the butterfly.
Lauren IsaacsonAugust 24, 1984
Aug 27, 1984… I had a tension headache tonight. It finally went away after talking with Mom. Sometimes I wonder if I'll die the same way Norm did… I have a bump on my thigh… who knows what it is! Then I was thinking how every time someone sleeps in the other room or near me on trips, I wonder if they're "gonna die on me." What a drag it was to find Norm. Strange how I always kept an ear peeled for Norm; sometimes I wonder if we have a 6th sense that tells us things apart from the conscious world.
Sept. 1, 1984… I'm such a turd sometimes; I hate myself. I always balk when someone starts to sing, no matter who it is; Mom loves to sing, and with her it's also an emotional outlet. Whenever she sings though, I cringe and she stops. Today she was going to sing a song (that told a story). I uttered a small protest. She stopped, apparently quite hurt. After I did that, I felt like nothing, but there was no way to recall my "ugh" once breathed into the air. She said, "I have feelings too," in answer to my, "I'm sorry, Mom!" and went downstairs. When I'm writing I'm an intolerable creep to be around. I don't know why I didn't think first and be considerate. She always listens to my writings, no matter how trivial; why can't I abide a few notes of song? I wish I knew why song grates so heavily upon my ears… it always has. I most certainly have a terrible voice and use it only on the rare "happy birthdays" and so forth. I'm kind to society in that regard, at least. For now, I wish I could find a .45.
Mom came up and we talked. I feel better now. She felt sorry for being too sensitive and what she called "uppity," and I expressed my regrets too. After a cry, we both felt better. I guess we both felt rather stupid!
Sept 6, 1984… Mayo Clinic sends out a form letter for its Statistic Unit. I wrote… "It has been nearly 3 years since my re-diagnosis of cancer and I'm still alive to tell about it. As the afflicted area is my liver, I experience the symptoms generally associated with liver diseases (so I am told), such as over-heating and water retention. My liver has expanded to such a degree that casual onlookers sometimes mistake my appearance for that of a pregnant woman. I was once asked when I was "due"! Perhaps I should've said, "I don't know… so far I'm 36 months along."
So much for my reply to Mayo Clinic… I sometimes find it hard to believe I've lasted so long; liver cancer is seldom smiled upon as a long-time acquaintance. If it weren't for Big C, I'd be real healthy! I also stated that should some breakthrough be discovered for the curing of leiomyosarcoma I'd appreciate notification. . . until then, it is best to create one's happiness each day. I worked more on my story… it's fun to do actually.
The Miracle Of Chance
The spider spins her silver threadsInto a silken sheenDeftly pouring forth her selfUnto the net which is her life.Though possessed of marked skillThis artisan shall reap no wealthBegotton of her grand design,And yet the misty hand of dawnTransforms her modest web of silkInto a diamond-scattered orb,Sparkling as a precious crownBefore the rising sun;Thus wrapped in laceShe mans her snare,Entrusting nature with her life.The spider dangles weightlessFrom her wispy spinnerette,As does all existence hang suspendedIn the grasp of chance.For each successive heartbeatFroms the web which heralds every breathAnd leases yet another momentFrom the miracle called Life.
Lauren IsaacsonSeptember 19, 1984
All things considered, I feel that I have had a beautiful life. I have loved, and been loved in return by a warm family, and developed a once-in-a-lifetime closeness with one of my brothers. I have been blessed with a certain degree of intelligence, common sense, and awareness. My countenance is agreeable and unobtrusive, and I have a pleasant, though realistic outlook on life. I am adaptable to change and strive for growth, not stagnancy of character. I have walked in the mountains, and seen the beauty surrounding me. I have heard the babble of a stream and the eerie hoot of an owl.
Though I am no longer able to actively pursue many of those diversions which have so colored my memories, I yet possess their image in my mind. I once felt the pleasure of vitality and physical endurance marked by an unblemished body, and though my body is no longer beautiful to behold, nor functions as it once had, yet it sustains me.
I am fortunate to live in a comfortable style among furnishings and sentimentalities I love, and have the option to be alone should that be my need and desire.
I am thankful for my many blessings, for I have a good life. Quality cannot be marked by time, but rather, by the smiles along the way.
10/1984
Oct. 5, 1984… When I dropped the film off yesterday, I was mentioning that I wish I knew some practical use for the film canisters. The clerk said, "Now that you're pregnant, maybe you can use them as rattles if you fill them." It always is a cold blow and it strikes me speechless. I wonder what people think; I wear no rings… oh well, I know I'm straight! That's what counts. I'm enjoying the sheepskin rug I bought in Estes Park. It's gorgeous!
Traces Of Autumn
Autumn plays no timid songAnd wears no modest vestment,Flourishing its last hurrahBefore a restful interlude.Dying leaves fall to the ground,Whispering in the gentle breezeTo haunt the heels of passers-byAnd gossip to the cold north winds.The sweetly reminiscent smellBorn of leaves now laid to restPermeates the autumn airAnd bids the traveler raise his headTo breathe the singular perfumeBefore the icy gales of winterRob all traces of this heady scent,Left to linger only in the mindWith autumns passed and indistinct.
Lauren IsaacsonOctober 14, 1984
Oct. 19, 1984… I took a drive but was fearful of stopping to take pictures while alone… what a chicken. My Beauty Book order came. Everything is nice; items will make perfect gifts.
Destiny
Though autumn weaves its imageWith an all-pervasive air,Encompassing one's sensesin its splash of brilliant colorand the rustling of the leaves…in the scent of drying foliageblowing freely through the trees…and the taste of ruby applesand the crispness of the wind,The barren months which lie aheadTouch upon one's very soul;The slanting sun sets trees aglow,Their leaves a restless fireKept alive by northern winds until,As embers blackened by the flames of yesterday,They tumble to the ground…Carpeting the well-clipped lawnsAnd waiting for the icy handThat shall transform their shape to dust.Like the child who aged beyondA once-beloved bear,Leaves—uniform as paper dollsCut by fingers deft and sure—Casually are flung asideAs if their purpose has expired.Quietly a funeral dirgeMourns balefully amid the breeze,Heard by all and yet ignoredAs if death denied may not unfold.So silently the coldness seepsInto the autumn breezeAnd birds fall mute before its touchSo one might think the very chillHad robbed their throaty cries.No more leaves cling to the trees,Making idle chatter,For winter siezed their quiet voiceAnd hid it deep, 'neath frosty snow.Silence reigns ov'r one and allWhile clouds converge in murky skies;Death obscures ones visionTo a darkly shade of gray,And yet in time, the clouds recede,Rendering warm the gloom-filled heartAnd purging sorrow from the mind.
Lauren IsaacsonOctober 21, 1984
Oct. 22, 1984… It was a great day, until after lunch. I got sick…it was extra discouraging when I realized the beautiful day was passing me by. I finally settled my stomach and Mom and I drove on some rural roads. Later, while in the safety of my home, I had the runs. … Sometimes when I feel so sick, so lousy, I cry… but this time I feel too sick to make the effort… so I just sit.
Oct. 24, 1984… Mom and I took a drive to Loud Thunder. I took some pictures… it was beautiful out. There was a stick bug on me… they're strange little creatures. Later we drove to Petersen Park. Mom suggested I write a poem about the man who was using one of those metal detectors. He was the inspiration; I did so, once home…I like the poem.
Copper Pennies, Golden Leaves
An old man strolled through autumn leavesWaving slowly 'fore his pathA wand to guide his watchful steps.Were it not for earphonesClapped upon his graying headAnd a tiny garden spadeWarming in his gnarled hand,I'd have thought the man was blind;Yet blind this man might well have beenFor all that he refused to see;With eyes feasted on the ground,He looked for copper, bronze, and gold.A rusted bauble on a chain,And perhaps, some pocket changeLying 'neath the colored leavesWas an afternoon's hoard…And a splendid reward…For several hours spentWith his back bent to the sun.'Twas a shame he could not seeThe wealth amid the shining trees…The leaves turned golden by the sunFalling near his outstretched wandYet of no value in his eyes.After all his sightless questsAre only shreds of memory,This man shall have no hoard of wealth…Only pennies in his hand.The golden fragments in my mindAre wealth beyond an earthly price;For ten million copper penniesI'd not trade a single thought.
Lauren IsaacsonOctober 24, 1984
Oct. 25, 1984… I made Mom and Dad's bed, but neither seemed to take note. That's OK, each probably thought the other did it!
Oct. 31, 1984… I love Halloween… I carved two pumpkins after Dad cleaned out the internals for me. Sick, sick, sick after supper; I get so depressed. I decided to write a poem; I wanted to cry, but it would've taken too much effort. Time is better spent writing.
Yesterday's Dreams
My heart is filled with salty tearsMy eyes shall never shedAnd my mind reflects the many roadsThese feet will never tread…Forgotten and exhausted dreamsAnd those that cannot come to lifeAre buried like the husbandOf a newly widowed wife;So while the dreams of yesterdayShall never be exhumedPerhaps those of tomorrowShall defeat the moldering tomb.
Lauren IsaacsonOctober 31, 1984
I've been thinking about Halloween as I knew it. I loved it so, even though I didn't care much for the candy. It wasn't such a worry then. Now everyone's scared; afraid some weirdo will put a pin or poison in the candy. They even X-ray the treats. Dear Abby feels "trick or treat" is a threat! Most kids wouldn't know how to trick someone. . . when Dad was a kid they put entire hay wagons on top of barns or tipped over the out-house. . . soaped windows and often were dunked by the inhabitants of the house as they stood under an upstairs window pulling their rat-a-tat-tats! They deserved the cold soaking.
Nov. 1, 1984… My stand on immigration, abortion, and criminal justice would probably classify me as nothing short of an inhumane and prejudiced killer. I have my reasons, however. I believe there must be quality in life or life is simply existence. Population growth hinders peace within humanity, and chaos results, not happiness. Abortion saves children from neglect, inherited negative patterns of behavior such as moral outlook and personality traits that would be given from the mother and the erstwhile father. Finally, one who violates or murders another person does not deserve life, for he gave his subject no choice; in innocence the victim lost his life.
Nov. 5, 1984… Mom and I enjoyed an amusing situation today while running some errands. Moline's 23rd Ave. is under construction, and a truck hauling tar pulled in front of us. A red light stopped us behind the truck, it's exhaust chokingly black. A workman was standing along the curb, engaged in conversation; when the truck started up again, it blew black smoke directly into his face. He noted our sympathetic amazement concerning his predicament and immediately stuck out his tongue in the direction of the truck, thus portraying his disgust of the entire affair! Some of those little shared moments can "make the day"!
Nov. 13, 1984… Sometimes I wonder if at least a good third of my life has been spent sick. . . whether from Big C or other junk!
The Wings Of Time
Bourne upon the wings of timeMemories cloud my eyes today,Masking o'er the tempting sightsWhich seek dominion of my mind…Childhood years that mockedThe very passing of the days,Wishing time would hurry onQuickly, as the setting sun.I smile upon those early years,Fueled by futuristic dreams,For long I did not have to wait'Ere time clipped short the youthful flame.One need not beckon unto time,Master of the endless hoursBoth passed and yet to come…When life is gone, time remains,Ancient, yet forever young.Passed moments and tomorrowsI live only in my dreams.Today is all I truly have,Bourne upon the wings of time.
Lauren IsaacsonNovember 24, 1984
I've thought so much about the "givers" and "takers" in a society. It is amazing to me that there are actually those who feel no obligation whatsoever to help or to give to others. Unbelievable! Most people at least feel a twinge of guilt about being so selfish. If everyone was a taker, the world would be nothing but "existers." Nothing would be accomplished or invented. Why is it that a taker must always be asked to perform a duty? Perhaps selfishness breeds laziness… let George do it!
A child cannot give except with the knowledge that he will at a later time be amply rewarded. Maybe this trait cannot he overcome if the awareness factor is not there to aid in "overcoming."
When one gives freely and without expectation, it is beneficial to both self and others. Givers do not hinder.
Why do takers think they are so special that they don't have to offer conversation, aid, or show gratitude? What contributes to their lack of obligation? A lack of conscience, or is it a lack of conscience awareness???
The lazy and the selfish will not put themselves under any strain… neither will the inherently low-esteemed. Perhaps a low self-image combined with an inability to face that image leads to ingratitude… gratitude would compliment the other, thereby raising his (the"others") status. . . and lowering one's own. No matter how old this kind of person grows, he will never mature. It inspired another poem…
Aged Child
Possessed of apathetic eyesWhich mirror only childish wants,He kindles flames of disbeliefWhen thoughts bereft of rationaleAre thrown amid the unspoiled breeze.The unrivaled child of woeAmongst the realm of thinking manExerts naught but vehemenceToward duty and concern.Ill mannered and unkempt,An animal regards itselfMore frequently, indeed.Demands spill forth,Yet aid will never be returned.The mind, developed, yet constrainedBy ropes he will not cast away,Displays a blatant haughty showAnd retreats behind a stagnant pool…A silent product of neglect.
Lauren IsaacsonNovember 25, 1984
Nov. 26, 1984… I put the lights and decorations on the Xmas tree. It's nice to have the house look like Christmas. Mom and I went to Dr. M. She had some growths burned off and I had some questions. I feel so stupid. Nothing can he done. My heart races, I have that bump on my leg, swelling, nausea, the runs, heat problems, low lung capacity, emotional weakness, tire easily, appetite fluctuates as does food appeal, thirst, and water retention. All that can be said is that my case is very unique. . . questions really have no answers.
Nov. 30, 1984… I have another dissertation to expound upon. . . to those needing to "find themselves," let me say this: It cannot be done by cheating on your spouse, or hitting the honky-tonk bars; rather, go away in a remote wilderness or park, and all alone, spend time getting to know who you are and what you believe in. There is no turning yourself away when you are alone. . . you must face who you are.
Should you find that you do not like who you see, trust your judgment. Don't go running to a "shrink" to have him tell you "you're OK." Chances are, your own opinion is right; take the traits you dislike and try to improve your disposition. Find the love you buried under trivial matters. Trying to improve is better than hiding behind a mask you loathe and despise.
Dec. 18, 1984… Thoughts on my extensive reading: Strive to attain harmony with your beliefs, for the price of discord is bled from the heart. Attempting to rationalize that which cannot be rationalized is a cruel and purposeless task that shall not be mastered; it is like digging a foundation through unyielding stone with a paper shovel. It cannot be done.
Feb. 25, 1985… I wrote again today; if I can keep a decent momentum, I'll make progress. After supper and a bout with diarrhea, I decided to try to venture washing my hair in the shower. Even a simple task becomes a worry. The shower is in the basement, the toilets are on first and second floor; what if I should encounter another siege?
Feb. 27, 1985… I wrote more today, although it was rough going, words weren't flowing. I wish summer was not coming up again. February flew past, and my story is not half-way. I get so tired, or sick, interrupted or otherwise side-tracked. When I can write, there's no guarantee that I'll be able to get my brain jump-started. I need a new battery; perhaps I have "Writer's Retardation." . . . writer's cramps aren't sufficient!
Feb. 28, 1985… Sharon came around noon. I had one of those really sick days. Later in the afternoon I could sit outside; I wrote a poem
The Present
Do not forsake the presentHolding fast to yesterday;Do not search for treasuresBuried deep and long decayed…A moment lost cannot be wonFor memories fade as the setting sunAnd n'er will be regained.'Tis best to think of what you areAnd one day shall become.
Lauren IsaacsonFebruary 28, 1985
Feb. 28, 1985… I got sick at night. I hate it, but I just have to sit it out.
Mar. 2, 1985… Afternoon sunshine brought me outdoors. I was in a sad and reflective mood; the poem follows…
Life's Dusty Road
On life's dusty road I treadAlone, save for that inner peaceWhich bears me 'long when spirits fallFrom that which is and cannot be;For sorrow is a grain of sandWhich festers in the open heartAnd preys upon the tender mindWhich seeks the sunBeneath the clouds.I cannot claim a smoother trail;Though faltering steps impede my way,I travel on through misty gladePast crossroads of a different hueAnd onward, though deep shadows loom.Footsteps mingle with my ownYet on my path, I walk alone;The dust I bear upon my feetAttests that my road is unique.
Lauren IsaacsonMarch 2, 1985
Mar. 4, 1985… Mom gave me a permanent today. I feel like Goldilocks! It's fuzzy and appears to have been braided… but it's an improvement over my limp hair. The liver must have taken it's toll on my "extremities."… hair, nails; I hope my teeth don't go! It seems to be better for me to eat throughout the day whenever I feel hungry. It is truly March; the wind's a regular terror!
Mar. 7, 1985… Tomorrow Norm would have been 34. It seems rather strange. I wrote a profound thought yesterday; "Does not the sunrise from out of the Darkness?"
I finished re-reading the 2nd of the Tolkien trilogies and began the 3rd. I love those books.
My room and "living room" are so neat. I just love having my "apt." …it wouldn't be this way if it weren't for my Big C. I'd be making money somewhere and probably still live here, but as far as furniture goes. . . well, who knows? Maybe I'd have done this. I know I'd also have wanted to save and scrimp for a down payment on a house. Strange how a person's life can be so altered from that which one had desired. Health means so much, yet few are thankful for it. I remember how great it was to climb in the mountains. . . now that is all I have… memories of health long passed. I suppose I didn't truly have health since late grade school years. Cancer had been with me for a long time to have grown so large in my stomach. But of course, cancer isn't my foremost pain. . . that comes only from the death of Norm. I used to laugh far more often, for we were always joking around. It was such fun. I'm lucky to have had such a relationship at all, for few do in a lifetime.