Deep, in the
back part of my throat, I pass a short all-knowing breath, one of
camaraderie. It's Tuesday night and I'm watching this new PBS
phenomenon of Old West living. I don't answer the phone. I
respect these people because they know what it's like to be shoveling
mercy with a pitchfork.
Being a
realist and a visionary at the same time here in the New West,
just about wraps up my life. I am an early representative of the
first generation of middle-class women who had the opportunity to
build a life completely on their own merit. Over the last two
decades, I have thought back to childhood ghost tales of miners with
eyes of liquid night as I choked, as they must have, on feelings of
survival.
My story
starts as I stand in my mobile home, a baby in my arms and no way to
support myself. I clearly remember the sinking feeling of doom as I
faced the staggering task before me. I dropped out of high school,
had a short marriage and had no idea where to find my absent husband.
Harboring a fervent hope, I set out on a 20-year trailblazing
journey.
During this
time my day-to-day life felt like a vast stretch of the unknown and
unanswered. There was no escape from the pressure of
performing physical labor all day, going to school at night, and
tending to my home and daughter in between. In the first few years,
I literally ran out of cuss words. I often thought of my
grandparents who, as dryland wheat farmers, never knew the meaning of
the word "vacation." With no education or job skills, I washed
other people's toilets while I earned my first degree. And, while
my personal situation was stressful and humiliating, it paled next to
the emotional maelstrom I made for my daughter. I had to live with
the fact that I passed down to her a legacy of hurt and abandonment.
My mother left me when I was a kid so I knew deep, devastating pain
on an intimate basis. How could I have chosen a mate who brought that
same destruction, devastation and desolation to my own flesh and
blood? This truth walks through my soul like an iceberg from hell.
Although my
path was rude and ungeometrical, my professional contributions were
rewarding. As a single mother and a highly independent member of
this contemporary family phenomenon, I chose to build my career. I
succeeded beyond expectation. Some high points included being called
by the Clinton Administration to serve on Colorado's Task Force for
Race Relations and working to develop programs for Welfare-to-Work
reform. In my own community, I was a charter member of a citizens'
group that successfully petitioned the school board to open an
alternative school. After almost ten years of night school, I
obtained my Master's Degree and began a public speaking career
directed at inspiring single mothers like myself.
As time
passed, what was overwhelming became my element and finally my
element took the life off of my bones. Without a spouse and a typical
family, I had to do so much on my own for so long that the cumulative
affects today are a haunting fatigue and psychic pain. Some of the
realizations I made during those years were so pervasive and
diminishing that I felt like my life was an endless eerie wail. My
childhood reality of being a stabilizer for those around me was
severely threatened when, after years of counseling; I understood
that safe, supportive relationships existed and I had yet to
experience one. What is especially poignant about my choices were the
years of isolation and loneliness I experienced. I cried at the stiff
silence of my own existence. Then, like a spur gouging me, my mind
would ask the question, where were the voices to cheer me on?
The cost was
quite high in terms of connection to my daughter, as well. I was so
busy building my life that she got the short end of the stick. I
knew my knees were bruised and scabbed; life had brought me to my
knees repeatedly, without mercy. Broken into the knowledge of pain,
she has to live with the poisonous memories of watching this happen
to her mother.
I am so
mad about this that a part of me paces before God, finger pointed,
demanding an explanation. She should not have had to take this
into her little soul. Today, she is angry and I'm at a complete
loss for how to build a connection with her. Now that she is raised,
I find myself in a total emotional vacuum. Living with the stark
contrasts of my efforts causes me great angst.
From the
years of perpetual, pervading pressure I did learn to be deeply
comforted by the little things. I have moments of delight when I yip
for joy as I ride my bicycle through Aspen groves flouting reds and
golds and moments of awe as I summit several of Colorado's
sky-marching fourteeners each year. I feel a kindred spirit with
the mountain views of grandeur for I have developed self-realization
through intense, unrelenting personal efforts.
Today, I am
examining the vortex of my experience and have found a precious gift.
I have a keen sense about the vast personal potential of all those
around me. My journey, much like the Old Timers, gave me a voice
that speaks of "challenge vistas." Having the Spirit of the West
within helped me with the challenges I was willing to accept,
unwilling to postpone, and ones that I intended to win. I have lived
resilience. I know the spine of my being. I got to the top of this
mountain by my own sheer determination and that feels good.
Unfortunately, I'm standing alone, and this makes all my
accomplishments seem like a river of futility.
