You’re allowed to leave any story you don’t find yourself in. You’re allowed to leave any story you don’t love yourself in.
You’re allowed to leave a city that has dimmed your light instead of making you shine brighter, you’re allowed to pack all your bags and start over somewhere else and you’re allowed to redefine the meaning of your life. You’re allowed to quit the job you hate even if the world tells you not to and you’re allowed to search for something that makes you look forward to tomorrow and to the rest of your life.
You’re allowed to leave someone you love if they’re treating you poorly, you’re allowed to put yourself first if you’re settling and you’re allowed to walk away when you’ve tried over and over again but nothing has changed.
You’re allowed to let toxic friends go, you’re allowed to surround yourself with love, and people who encourage and nurture you. You’re allowed to pick the kind of energy you need in your life.
You’re allowed to forgive yourself for your biggest and smallest mistakes and you’re allowed to be kind to yourself, you’re allowed to look in the mirror and actually like the person you see.
You’re allowed to set yourself free from your own expectations.
We sometimes look at leaving as a bad thing or associate it with giving up or quitting, but sometimes leaving is the best thing you can do for yourself. Leaving allows you to change directions, to start over, to rediscover yourself and the world. Leaving sometimes saves you from staying stuck in the wrong place with the wrong people.
Leaving opens a new door for change, growth, opportunities and redemption.
You always have the choice to leave until you find where you belong and what makes you happy.
You’re even allowed to leave the old you behind and reinvent yourself.
The year gone by has been brutal to say the least. Doctors, nurses, healthcare workers are holding their forts bravely, counseling, leading, consulting, treating and guiding caregivers on their kith and kin. They have been through the entire cycle – from the point a concerned family member approaches them with the first symptom, to the point they have had to share the “news” that the patient is no more. Some are holding up, some lost hope and gave up on their lives, some are hanging on by the thinnest strand of hope, love, patience, whatever they can.
Life has given up a million times in this last one year.
Almost every one of us are, or were, a caregiver to someone during this period.
We have never ever felt more helpless, more powerless and more desperate than today. The sights of graveyards and cremation grounds on TV channels is nothing less than an apocalypse. The thought of so many people in grief – wrenches the heart in fear.
The apathy of those we entrusted our lives to;
The cold blooded, ruthless stare of the self-centered soul wreaks heavily of hands drenched in blood.
But that is not what comes to the mind when caregivers hear screams of their loved ones. Not the shrieks but the silent screams of helpless eyes searching, looking, knowing that something dreadful will happen. These screams, silent screams, if one were to translate, would have just one question – Why?
Why did we allow someone to gag us silent, to bully us into servitude, to convince us that suicide is the best route to salvation?
Why did we allow someone to convince us to hate our brothers, to choose a path that would lead us to devastation?
Why did we not see it coming, when human life was being squandered on the roads leaving blood red foot steps of those wanting to return home, but no one to hear their pleas.
Why did we not see it coming when lifeless men were erected to be worshipped as those who laid its foundation – alive, hungry, struggling, surviving, were ignored?
Why did we allow such huge eons to creep up between the affluent and the common, that the common had no other way except to embrace crime so the pangs would stop?
More questions – but maybe, one day, maybe we all will breathe free, talk free, express free and live free, without fear.
Maybe we all will breathe free, talk free, express free and live free, without fear.
Maybe one day, we all will remember how many of us donned angel wings and tried to help unknown souls, some successful, some not, some punished – but maybe one day, we will all remember what kept us sane is the little bit of humanity that we clung on to, for one another.
Life, in reality, is very beautiful – each cell inside the various forms of nature – tress, oceans, waves, rivers, wind, breeze, birds, bees – throbs with the testimony of life’s relentless pursuit for happiness. Man has complicated everything with fear, expectation, pride, jealousy, greed and rat race.
In a mother’s womb were two babies. One asked the other: “Do you believe in life after delivery?” The other replied, “Why, of course. There has to be something after delivery. Maybe we are here to prepare ourselves for what we will be later.” “Nonsense” said the first. “There is no life after delivery. What kind of life would that be?”
The second said, “I don’t know, but there will be more light than here. Maybe we will walk with our legs and eat from our mouths. Maybe we will have other senses that we can’t understand now.”
The first replied, “That is absurd. Walking is impossible. And eating with our mouths? Ridiculous! The umbilical cord supplies nutrition and everything we need. But the umbilical cord is so short. Life after delivery is to be logically excluded.”
The second insisted, “Well I think there is something and maybe it’s different than it is here. Maybe we won’t need this physical cord anymore.”
The first replied, “Nonsense. And moreover if there is life, then why has no one has ever come back from there? Delivery is the end of life, and in the after-delivery there is nothing but darkness and silence and oblivion. It takes us nowhere.”
“Well, I don’t know,” said the second, “but certainly we will meet Mother and she will take care of us.”
The first replied “Mother? You actually believe in Mother? That’s laughable. If Mother exists then where is She now?”
The second said, “She is all around us. We are surrounded by her. We are of Her. It is in Her that we live. Without Her this world would not and could not exist.”
Said the first: “Well I don’t see Her, so it is only logical that She doesn’t exist.”
To which the second replied, “Sometimes, when you’re in silence and you focus and you really listen, you can perceive Her presence, and you can hear Her loving voice, calling down from above.”
~ Authored by Útmutató a Léleknek, a Hungarian writer
Note: I don't own the images and anyone who believes their photograph has been used here, please write to me and I shall connect with you asap.
One look at her and he knew she was a rag doll, a million shards of glass fixed together with something that was hardly visible – what held her together?
SHe intrigued him. He just did not know why he hired her. She was a mess. A clear mess. Deepika. Her eyes told it all – every broken shard shone in her deep eyes – blinding me into shock. What could have happened?
A heart break? He thought? Nope.. doesn’t look like. This is something much more deeper. He did ask her, “Have you ever loved someone?” And she just nodded. That’s it. Something about the way she fluttered her eyes made him feel that she could love deeply. As deep as her teary eyes.
But still, heart break wasn’t really what it seemed like. He had seen enough of life to know how many different faces this being called ‘grief’ wore. She was in grief. Yes. Absolute grief. That’s the right word. Grief.
Deep, dark, lonely, shrouded, NUMB.
A zombie. That’s what she had turned herself into. A zombie that knew only to work. Go back. Sleep. Get up. Come to work. Sleep. Nothing else. She hardly ate – and when she ate, it was tasteless crap, which she’d so sweetly share with me. Grief had turned her so numb that she couldn’t even make out the blandness of food.
WOuld you like to have coffee? Would you like to go out for coffee? I asked again, ensuring that she heard me. She looked up from her laptop. “Huh?? I don’t like coffee.” That’s it. This girl. This 30 something just turned a date into a coffee preference conversation. My Bloody Goodness!! She was either too smart or just too naive. Naive was a tall order – naive doesn’t exist these days. What was she?
All I knew was she worked – like hard labour. Effing hard labour. Tell her anything about the work she did, and she’d turn into this tigress – roaring and defending left right and center.
Something about her told me she could be trusted. Perhaps the mean gossip that went around about her ‘wierdness’ never reached her ears. Or if did, she perhaps didn’t care. Whatever it was, I could sense a flicker of respect for her. Unlike all other women of her age, she was just. A girl. Like a tiny tot that hides behind her mother’s sleeve – except that she hid behind her grief.
And she was determined to not let anyone shake her pieced up million shards up. It would have taken her ages – to pick up the pieces and walk tall again. I suddenly felt another sharp sting in the center of my heart. Protective?? Of course not!! I have seen enough. But the sting kept digging in and in – until it morphed itself into an arrow that pierced to the other side of my heart. I was confused.
It doesn’t really work that way. It doesn’t. But that sting was a growing desire to unbreak her. To peel off that pieced up skin to reveal a bright shining beauty that had retired some 5-6 years ago, I guessed, only to be proven correct later.
Deepika, he thought, somehow, I believe there would always be space for your hand in mine. “Give me your hand”, he said.
The lady doesn’t even turn her head!! She just gives a cross eyed look.
Phewwww. The Board Room fight was easier, I guess!!
Who does he think he is? Absolutely no sense of how to talk to a woman..!!
*back to her article
Do you think this is a paragraph from a Mills & Boon story?
Those of us old enough to remember when the phone was wired to the wall, usually in the kitchen, can relate to this story. I loved this read.
When I was a young boy, my father had one of the first telephones in our neighborhood. I remember the polished, old case fastened to the wall. The shiny receiver hung on the side of the box. I was too little to reach the telephone, but used to listen with fascination when my mother talked to it.
Then I discovered that somewhere inside the wonderful device lived an amazing person. Her name was “Information Please” and there was nothing she did not know. Information Please could supply anyone’s number and the correct time.
My personal experience with the genie-in-a-bottle came one day while my mother was visiting a neighbor. Amusing myself at the tool bench in the basement, I whacked my finger with a hammer, the pain was terrible, but there seemed no point in crying because there was no one home to give sympathy. I walked around the house sucking my throbbing finger, finally arriving at the stairway.
The telephone! Quickly, I ran for the footstool in the parlor and dragged it to the landing. Climbing up, I unhooked the receiver in the parlor and held it to my ear. “Information, please,” I said into the mouthpiece just above my head.
A click or two and a small clear voice spoke into my ear.
“I hurt my finger…” I wailed into the phone, the tears came readily enough now that I had an audience.
“Isn’t your mother home?” came the question.
“Nobody’s home but me,” I blubbered.
“Are you bleeding?” the voice asked.
“No, “I replied. “I hit my finger with the hammer and it hurts.”
“Can you open the icebox?” she asked.
I said I could.
“Then chip off a little bit of ice and hold it to your finger,” said the voice.
After that, I called “Information Please” for everything. I asked her for help with my geography, and she told me where Philadelphia was. She helped me with my math. She told me my pet chipmunk that I had caught in the park just the day before, would eat fruit and nuts.
Then, there was the time Petey, our pet canary, died. I called, “Information Please,” and told her the sad story. She listened, and then said things grown-ups say to soothe a child. But I was not consoled. I asked her,
“Why is it that birds should sing so beautifully and bring joy to all families, only to end up as a heap of feathers on the bottom of a cage?”
She must have sensed my deep concern, for she said quietly,
“Wayne, always remember that there are other worlds to sing in.”
Somehow I felt better.
Another day I was on the telephone,
“Information,” said in the now familiar voice.
“How do I spell fix?” I asked
All this took place in a small town in the Pacific Northwest. When I was nine years old, we moved across the country to Boston . I missed my friend very much.
“Information Please” belonged in that old wooden box back home and I somehow never thought of trying the shiny new phone that sat on the table in the hall. As I grew into my teens, the memories of those childhood conversations never really left me. Often, in moments of doubt and perplexity I would recall the serene sense of security I had then. I appreciated now how patient, understanding, and kind she was to have spent her time on a little boy.
A few years later, on my way west to college, my plane put down in Seattle. I had about a half-hour or so between planes. I spent 15 minutes or so on the phone with my sister, who lived there now. Then without thinking what I was doing, I dialed my hometown operator and said, “Information Please.”
Miraculously, I heard the small, clear voice I knew so well.
I hadn’t planned this, but I heard myself saying, “Could you please tell me how to spell fix?”
There was a long pause. Then came the soft spoken answer, “I guess your finger must have healed by now.”
I laughed, “So it’s really you,” I said. “I wonder if you have any idea how much you meant to me during that time?”
“I wonder,” she said, “if you know how much your calls meant to me. I never had any children and I used to look forward to your calls.”
I told her how often I had thought of her over the years and I asked if I could call her again when I came back to visit my sister.
“Please do,” she said. “Just ask for Sally.”
Three months later I was back in Seattle. A different voice answered, “Information.” I asked for Sally.
“Are you a friend?” she said.
“Yes, a very old friend,” I answered.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this,” She said. “Sally had been working part time the last few years because she was sick. She died five weeks ago.”
Before I could hang up, she said, “Wait a minute. Is your name Wayne?”
“Yes.” I answered.
Well, Sally left a message for you. She wrote it down in case you called. Let me read it to you. The note said,
“Tell Wayne there are other worlds to sing in. He’ll know what I mean.”
I thanked her and hung up. I knew what Sally meant.
Never underestimate the impression you may make on others.