...Who Is This Woman In The Mirror...a short story...

Who Is This Woman In The Mirror?

A Short Story By

Monica L. Sharpe

Six months ago, I forced myself to look into the mirror, focusing on the reflection of the precocious fifty-seven year old woman standing before it. I barely recognized her thin forced smile, heavy eyelids, and her hair streaked more with gray than her sassy dark auburn. They say you get the face you’ve earned by the time you’re fifty—all those regretful and angry expressions, hidden behind the artistry of makeup. It’s amazing how a little mascara and shadow masks the pain and hurt, while a dab of rosy pink blush camouflages the naked truth in a montage of endless miles.

I’ve been running away all my life. When I was six years old, I ran to a vacant lot—the only place I could be all by myself and contemplate my life as free as a butterfly. At seventeen, for no apparent reason I left home and hitchhiked as far as my thumb took me and became who I wanted to be. I tried to be my own person and thought it was deadly to be in the constraints which society held for teenage girls in the late 60’s. At fifty-four, I ran from another unfulfilled marriage and never looked back. Its no wonder all the term papers I wrote in college, the ones that remain tucked within my journals are those written about runaways. I gaze at this stranger before me, I look back and think; I’ll never be that way again.

It’s only been recently I came to know what I’m missing in my life and what I crave to have back. I want a true sense of balance that begins in my heart, an amalgamation of life experiences. This is what’s driving me to my future. I strive not to feel week and inferior and I selfishly desire more independence. I no longer want to keep up with the Jones’s who are keeping up with the Smith’s. I want a simple life with minimal complications.

I wake each day with self-determination, thirsting to make my way without needing or calling for help. I now struggle for autonomy and the rebirth of will. Every decade I live offered new leaps of faith and new challenges and as I near the threshold to the other side, always I strived to be me. With hard work and a strong will, I’ve conquered the past. Well, I thought I did, until I saw his smile again.

For the past six years, I have flown all over the country conducting seminars, attending retreats and lectures given by women for the aging female baby boomer generation. The majority of the women who attended were no longer satisfied with their careers, women who have been in long relationships who felt unappreciated and useless. Others were experiencing the empty nest blues, women who were seeking a higher calling and those who felt sexually undesirable.

I was one of those women. I fell into all of those categories at one degree or another, so did the majority of women who attended. We all needed something hotly cold to bite our souls while we longed for a new sense of being. Not only did we feel compelled to make a difference and prove we are still in some way independent of those who depended on us; we all secretly wanted to experience that little glimpse of youth that was rapidly slipping through our fingers.

My connecting flight to New York was delayed due to an ice storm in the Chicago area. An already exhausted airline attendant tried to joyfully announce the delay would be another six to seven hours, and that the airlines regretted the inconvenience. The ergonomics of the airport accommodations were already uncomfortable as I patiently sat for nearly three hours. Rather than sit here any longer listening to the rash of complaints from other passengers and tired fussy children, I thought about getting a room for the night at a nearby hotel and catch another flight early in the morning. If it wasn’t for the speech I was scheduled to give at a prestigious women’s club in New York tomorrow night, I might have spent another day or two basking in the Phoenix sun. Presently, I had no one to answer to and my independence allowed me to make that choice.

I collected my coat and briefcase and wearily shuffled to the airport lounge to make up my mind over a drink or two. The soft jazz playing was soothing and I had my pick of seating options. I chose a quiet table towards the back of the room overlooking the runway, hoping to review the speech I was going to give tomorrow night. I had the uncomfortable feeling I was being watched from the time I sat down. I looked up and over to my left, an attractive silver haired man was sitting at the end of the bar. He sat alone looking in my direction, nursing what was left of a mixed drink. His generous smile was familiar when he tipped his glass and affirmed my glance with a nod. I returned the smiled and went back to reviewing my notes. Occasionally I glanced his way, only to meet his equally puzzling expression. I was curiously preoccupied why he seemed so familiar, it was becoming impossible to concentrate on the speech I was putting the polishing touches on.

Unexpectedly, it was as if lightening struck, he crossed my mind. I hadn’t thought about him for years. I knew that smile. I would never forget it. That’s what gave him away. “Could it be?” I whispered. What are the chances we would meet in an airport more than thirty years later? Slim to none. But, it was him…I knew that smile…I looked into those soft soulful eyes too many times not to forget…I felt the pangs of my youth suddenly seize me in a flash of ecstasy when I reminisced about the boy I loved so long ago.

In a dam bursting instant, the past flooded my mind consuming every ounce of sanity I had left. Two things resonated in the back of my mind. Why didn’t I take the time to touch up my roots and the other was the little voice screaming, “Run, Theresa, run!” I mourned our bitter breakup for years and I often wondered what life would have been like if we married. I was infatuated—no, I was borderline obsessed with his memory and when the love affair ended, the “what ifs” always teetered on the edge of my mind. I imagined our life together and what our children would look like, if we had any. I wondered if he would make love to me, long after my hair turned gray and my breasts lost their firmness. I dreamt for the carefree days we shared and falling asleep in his arms for the rest of my life.

For more years than I care to admit, I rushed forward in a straight line, pushing onward never veering away from the path of rules set by other people—those rules against which I have measured myself. I never took the time to decipher where I was going—I just went without question. I never thought once to celebrate myself not even once—not after the birth of my children, not after nurturing them or helping shape their young lives. It occurred to me that I was always eager to applaud their accomplishments and yet I hardly noticed my own. I stood behind them and guided them as they matured into independent and responsible adults, taking pleasure in a job well done.

I did not take the time to grieve even after the hundreds of times I consoled others through loss or hard times. I did what was expected of a daughter, when my father passed away and six short months later, my father-in-law passed. I suppressed my grief to take care of two women, who like myself, never stood on their own two feet. More than thirty years have lapsed, I am now learning to grieve. I am the only woman I need to take care of.

I’ve taken that leap into uncertainty one too many times. The first monumental leap of my adult life was when I said, I do. I was afraid of indecision. I worried if this relationship would really last “till death do us part,” or would we tire of each other and move on separately in different directions. There were many times I leaped and fell flat on my face…starting one business then losing another. Going back to college in my thirties only to determine my career choice wasn’t what I wanted. I convinced myself, I will never know until I tried. I knew I didn’t want to reach retirement age with any more regrets and what ifs. In the words of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, “There is no past we can bring back by longing for it. There is only an eternal now that builds and creates out of the past something new and better.” I have taken that quote to heart, focusing on the here and now.

I realized risks are attached to everything, even if I was afraid or never took that initial leap; they are lurking around the corner. I have learned that I will never be free to do as I please if I stayed with the familiar. I lived in an era where women emerged as freethinking individuals. We broke the mold of our mothers. We made love not war, we protested, burned our bras, and went full circle in our lives to an age we need to find our true selves once again. I struggled to take two steps forward. I cannot allow myself to fall behind even one small step over a man, who as a boy, left me behind dazed and confused while he ran as fast as the wind in the opposite direction.

I am now weakened by the image of his boyish smile and the fond memories. I know myself too well. With one beat of my heart, I would let myself fall for him again. I could easily relinquish my heart for an old familiar feeling, the desire of youthful passion, and the need to feel alive again. I spoke to numerous women how a fleeting moment of passion could change their life’s harmony, and how they should think before they dove head first into a situation. Now, what I am thinking. Look at what I’m lusting for. My fellow supporters would be so disappointed and give me the finger motion of shame.

“Look at you…is it really you?” he said. I was lost in a moment. I was taken aback when I heard his voice, “It is you.” I did not notice him leisurely make his way to my table. “May I sit with you?” I knew his voice. My memory didn’t falter. I motioned for him to join me. There was no need for introductions. We sat across from one another and stared into each other’s faces like we did at our favorite restaurant when we shared one milk shake with two straws. “Life sure has been good to you Theresa. You’re as beautiful as I remembered.” he said. I tried to hide my excitement behind the shy bashful smile he used to kid me about. “Wes, you look wonderful,” he took my hands in his. “The years have also been good to you.”

We pushed through the initial awkwardness of seeing one another. We remembered some old chemistry that made us gel, and a whole lot of hopeful projections about who we thought each other was to the other. We talked about our past, a time when there was a brief us. A time we were enveloped in the moment, oblivious to outside interference and scared of ourselves. His lips expressed words with smiles that stretched across his broad face ending in soft corners that I wanted to kiss for hours that night.

When the conversation ran its course and drifted back to our current lives, I inquired why he was in Arizona. Wes told me he was waiting for his wife’s connecting flight to arrive from Chicago. When he found out it would be delayed for several more hours he stopped to get a drink before driving back home to Sedona. Once expressed, that thought of ending the night unfulfilled, nearly brought a young wide-eyed plea to my now aging face. His own countenance was dropping from what was moments ago a laughing grin to the same sad resolve that tonight we would not have more than what we had already tasted of each other. We exchanged goodbye kisses and well wishes. My lost love was content and fulfilled with his life.

I watched from my lonely table for two, as his easy gait strolled through the glass doors, out of my life again. It was tempting to follow at a safe distance, and perhaps suggest we share a bite to eat. Instead, I stayed behind and waited till I knew he would safely be on his way. I hailed a cab to a nearby hotel and settled in for the evening.

I didn’t feel the wave of depression I expected. Instead of waking in a fetal ball of despair, I awoke and saw all the wondrous things my life had become, all the beautiful souls that shared a step with me on the mortal journey of this life, and I was amazed by it all. All the beauty, all the warm and lasting memories, never understanding that this wishful full life that I wanted is what I have been living all along, and sharing all the way. The complete happiness that seemed to elude me was mine all along. I dreamt of experiences that didn’t happen to me, yet it was my life and I did live it. I am not a better person, nor am I worse. I’m only different. I only needed to be awakened to know it.

I look at my reflection and know that certain life experiences left a mark on me. I see deep lines of hopeful projections, some fulfilled, and others not obtainable. I smiled at the familiar woman looking back at me. I no longer feel isolated in my own selfish thoughts, because many wonderful women have openly shared that I’m not swimming alone in a haze of ambiguity. Like women before me and around me—we have, and are being seasoned by life’s experiences.



...About Mothers...

What is the price of an afternoon when a small child is soothed in your arms, when the sun bolts through a doorway and both you and the child are very young? ~Dorothy Evslin

How many times can you honestly say you write publicly about your family? Many of you will say you never have. I have shared a few stories about my parents and I how I wish I told them how much I appreciated them while they were alive. Myself, and each of my siblings have our own version what went on in our home growing up, most of us disagreeing with the other, and each argues our version is the correct version. I’m not going to write about my family but I am going to write about mothers in general. 

Lately, I’ve had several conversations about mothers—my mother, my friend’s mother’s, and other family members mother’s—most of all who have left us. Whether we are young or older children of passing mothers, we’ve learned to pick up the pieces and move on with our lives with the lessons they taught us. The conversation I had with an old friend this morning left me thinking how people’s lives are impacted after their own mother’s passing, and how their beautiful souls will never be replaced. One friend told me that the passing of her mother defies speech and can only write about in her personal journal. Why would we want to replace them with a surrogate? Why would anyone want to replace what was a significant part of your life?

Some of the greatest prayers and farewells in print contradict the humiliations to which is truly representative of mothers, like aging, mental illness, physical deterioration—by bringing the mother at least imaginatively back to life through a kind of poetic resurrection. I said everything I needed to say before my mother passed 31 years ago, but I still have two regrets with her passing; one—I regret she was not around to see my children grow; and two—she didn’t push me hard enough. I was a rebellious teenager and to keep peace, she gave in to what made me happy. In retrospect, I would have done some things differently, but maybe not. I’ll never know.

We live in a society where psychiatrists claim mothers are held responsible for 72 types of psychological disorders in their children, and talk show hosts are constantly pointing an accusing finger. A mother cannot discipline a child with a swat on the butt without some bleeding heart accusing her of child abuse. Nine times out of ten, they haven’t experienced motherhood! It’s difficult to think of motherhood without considering that Freud constantly denigrated the role of the mother. At the height of his absurdity, he believed that a woman’s desire to have a child was a way to compensating for her lack of a penis! Excuse me Bub, let me straighten my idiot sign! That had to be one of the most outrageous and blatantly false scientific analyses to be ever published, and difficult for most women to digest…I digress!

Motherhood brings as much joy as ever, but it still brings boredom, exhaustion, and sorrow too. Nothing else ever will make you as happy or as sad, as proud or as tired, for nothing is quite as hard as helping a person develop his own individuality—especially when you struggle to keep your own.

I got a call last week from my daughter-in-law, telling me my son was in a motorcycle accident on his way to work. I had visions of what my son told me about some of the wrecks he had to attend to before the words from my daughter-in-laws lips said, “He’s going to be okay.” At that moment, I only began to understand what my brother and his wife went through after losing their oldest child. Thank God, the accident wasn’t as serious as it could have been, but nonetheless, it was unnerving at the moment. I’ve never been an emotional person to the outside world, and my husband didn’t understand the surge of anger that poured out from me from the profound loss we could have endured. Several years ago, I worked with a woman who lost her only son in a car accident, she explained how she felt and she told me with tears streaking her pained face, “The pain of losing him was like someone poured acid all over my body, then set me on fire.” I shared this with my grieving brother and sister-in-law, my brother looked at me with intense pain in his heart and said, “No...it’s worse.”

Motherhood is a hard act to follow, it’s been transformed into art, and the artistry has been shaped by maternity. Perhaps, the meanings of motherhood are as mysteriously multiple and contradictory as the meaning of life itself…

I could go on and on about the love we have for our children, for our mothers, and for our grandmothers.  I can share the sorrow and loss of a miscarriage, but I won't...not tonight.  I want to end these thoughts with a smile as I think of my daughter and my granddaughter who is carrying my first great-grandchild, and how the circle of life continues...

P.S. By the way, Mom, you’ll be glad to know I eat tomatoes and mushrooms now. Oh, and remember how I stuffed the lima beans in my cheeks and then had to use the bathroom? Well, I spit ‘em in the toilet and yes, even though I’m all grown up—I still refuse to eat them! I see you smiling from above…With Love

..."Inducing the artistic coma"...

When Will I Find The Time

by Monica Sharpe

Today

I stopped writing

to make coffee

to read the newspaper

to shower

to put a load of wash in

to water the outdoor plants

to check the mail

to pay a bill

to send a birthday card

to call a friend

to put the wash in the dryer

to vacuum

to mend a snagged sweater   

to make lunch

to fold laundry

to go for a walk

to check my email

to answer a letter

to plant flowers

to make a cup of tea

to run errands

to make supper

to check my email

to chat on Facebook

to put laundry away

to shut off the computer

and then I wonder

at the end of the day

where I will find time

to write great things

This poem depicts how some days, my busy little activities along with the more serious commitments nibble away at my concentration. I get mad at myself when I cannot achieve a significant amount of words, whether it is in the form of a poem, a short story, or my novel. Trouble is, I want it all. I want to make more quilts. I want to learn how to do stain glass. I want to be like Martha Stewart in and around my home, and I want to paint with ease like Bob Ross.              

It occurred to me that my mother was at heart an artist. She never had idle hands. She crocheted tablecloths, afghans, doilies and baby clothes. She was a seamstress and designed her clothes. She wrote songs and stories. She could draw. She did a lot of different things, a little bit. As I recognized this about my mother, I also saw myself. I know how to do many things, a little bit.

A fellow writer told me that the achievement of a mature artist is a balanced life. We need the benediction of daily necessities, such as cleaning, gardening, cooking and playing. Ordinary life informs our writing, heals our spirits, and keeps us from going, simply nuts.

Maybe, I will never turn out to be the notable writer I dreamed I would be some day, simply because I want it all. There are too many forms of self-expression and so many things I like, and want to do. So, until I can figure out what venture will come next, I will take another walk and think about what I will write about next, then try my best to “induce the artistic coma.”

What do you do?

What do you do when you see emergency lights approaching or hear a siren in the distance?  I am reprinting this because once again I have witnessed the negligent behavior of motorists who ignore the lights and sirens of an oncoming emergency vehicle...

Reprint from letter to the editor July 10, 2011

At the height of rush hour Lady Antebellum was blaring on the radio. The haze of the sky indicated that it was another hot afternoon and glancing at the digital temperature on my dashboard it displayed ninety-eight degrees. Above the moody rhythm of country song I heard the faint sound of sirens. I turned the radio down to a soft whisper and I looked down the highway on both sides of the approaching intersection and in front of me and saw nothing. Within seconds, I saw the lights of an approaching ambulance in my rear view mirror and prepared to pull over as far as I could to the right side of the road and wait for them to go by. As I pulled over, I counted eight cars pass me. Three vehicles pulled over behind me and people in both lanes were driving at the normal speed limit unaware or didn’t care if that an emergency vehicle was trying to get to their destination.

Two of the drivers eventually pulled over into the middle turn lane long enough to let the ambulance go by. Then I saw a young man dressed in a white shirt and tie, driving a black Honda. He proceeded to ride alongside the ambulance spewing obscenities, shaking his fist and eventually giving the ambulance driver the “flying finger” believing he must of had the right of way. My question to that young professional, as I refer to him inconsequentially is this, “What would you do if someone disrespectfully tried to do the same thing as you did today in traffic? Suppose, when the call was dispatched it was to provide critical care assistance to one of your family members, such as a parent, your wife, or your child? Or better yet, what if they did that in route to a life and death situation you were involved in? Would you be the first to complain to when it took longer than the normal response time of 12 minutes to get to the 911 dispatched call? Or, would you complain that the ambulance held you up from getting your 5 O’clock latte at the Starbucks I saw you pull into?”

This isn’t the first time I saw a similar situation involving an emergency vehicle on our state’s roads and I doubt it will be the last. I am fortunate enough to know several paramedics throughout our county and have listened to their frustrations concerning these daily encounters with disrespectful drivers. The paramedics I spoke to articulate that motorists and pedestrians represent the greatest threat to safe and efficient responses by emergency vehicles. When the EMS are dispatched on a call, they have to assume pedestrians and drivers understand their responsibilities to yield to the approaching emergency vehicles when they hear sirens or see the oncoming warning lights. The ambulance driver has to abide by the same laws that all drivers do, and they also have to factor in the potential risk for a collision when they are requesting the right of way to save a life. Many states have laws in effect that will ticket someone who unlawfully ignores or obstructs the route of an emergency vehicle; unfortunately, the state I reside in is not one of those who enforce such insolent behavior.

Many people have the preconception that a paramedic is a glorified ambulance driver with some basic Red Cross training, maybe thirty plus years ago that was true in some rural areas. Today’s paramedics are professionals with college degrees and have several years of intensive ongoing emergency training, which makes them prepared for most crises. They have to make immediate critical life-threatening decisions and are trained to perform rapidly in all situations to make sure their patient makes it to the hospital alive. One paramedic I know has delivered five babies in the last four years and proudly wears his three pink and two blue stork pins on his uniform. So, I asked him, “What one thing would you like the public to know about your job?” He and his partner chimed in unison the almost identical words, “Making the public aware of the differences between a taxi service and an ambulance service.”

When they saw my bewilderment, they went on to explain that many people who call 911 have non-emergency situations that could be handled in a doctor’s office, (i.e.) a cough, flu or cold symptoms, dizziness, headaches or the inebriated person who requests to be taken to the hospital instead of to jail. Then there’s the “professional” frequent patient who uses the ambulance service to obtain drugs when they get to the ER for another mysterious symptom. This is what they refer to as those who unknowingly use the 911 emergency services as a taxi ride. By requesting an ambulance to get to the hospital they assume they will have the best chance of getting into the ER quicker. Wrong answer. Triage, the French word meaning, “to sort” is exactly what happens and even those who were brought in by ambulance, may have to wait several hours to be seen on a busy night. It is by no means, a guarantee they will be attended to immediately.

There was a recent case where 911 dispatched an ambulance and when the medics arrived on scene, the patient was complaining of pain from an infected ingrown toenail and another was constipated. Meanwhile, less than two miles away a child who was pulled from a pool, may have been saved if it wasn’t for the blatant use of the Emergency Medical Services. Protocol dictates medics cannot leave a “taxi ride” patient even over a life and death situation. Disturbing, as it was for the two paramedics involved, they ended up transporting the insistent patient to the emergency room.

These are only two of the many senseless scenarios that haunt the minds of dedicated medics. Those same men and women, who are trained to save lives can’t always be there to assist actual emergencies if others continually abuse the system.

Today's Pondering...Karma

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow once said, “If we could read the secret history of our enemies, we would find in each person’s life, sorrow and suffering enough to disarm all hostility.”


Everyone is suffering in one way or another. Some suffering is obvious; some is subtle. The fact is that few people in the world have found true permanent happiness. Most others suffer in their constant striving for approval, for pleasure, for respite from all kinds of hungers, for freedom from all kinds of thoughts and entanglements.

I fit in the last category. I have looked deep within and see that my own anger, restlessness, and abruptness have hardened the shell, shielding pain and anger. I’ve said it before, that I am no good at confrontation. It doesn’t mean that I am not compassionate or that I’m not aware of the suffering of another, coupled with the sincere wish to relieve it. It also doesn’t mean I am not willing to be compassionate before I have allowed myself to come to know what is inside me, before I feel my own outrage or fear. There is a cycle of healing, to experience, release, and transform, and we often have to live through the full cycle to heal.

I don’t feel I want to obscure the emotions I feel…the anger, fear or resentment, but I am working towards a more expanded understanding, that first by experiencing those things, I can move to other stages of self fulfillment, including the compassion I feel for myself. Eventually, I will come to see that everyone who makes another one suffer is also suffering greatly, and more than likely, has suffered at the hands of another.

I had a recent conversation with my son about karma and destiny. You know “what goes around comes around”…and “karma’s a bitch.” There is a great deal written about karma, which asserts that your suffering is preordained as a result of previous actions that you’ve taken in other times. I also think karma is stemmed from our roots, physical issues, illness, pain, hunger, and poverty creating states of human suffering and misidentifying ourselves as a being separate of those things. I relate what I just said the Hank Williams song, ‘Family Tradition.’

Okay, I’m getting off the path I started on, my mind wanders, and some days I wonder if I’m a prime candidate for ADD. Who know, maybe I am. I’m looking out the window, I see the sun is shining, the temperatures are rising, flowers blooming, and yes, my mind is wandering. With a broad smile on my face, I know it’s a good day to be alive!

If you’ve followed my journey this past year, you’ll see I ride a rather large wave. I’ve never been surfing, but I have experienced being in a boat in a storm. First, you’re looking up to the dark ominous sky, then in the blink of an eye, you’re staring at the water, all the while wondering if your little boat will plummet towards the bottom of the ocean. Not all my emotions are on the surface, but you have an understanding how I strive for contentment!

Peace…

The Challenge

The Challenge
by Monica Sharpe






The challenge appeared different
Yesterday
It meant remembering
Today
And exploring
Tomorrow

While confronting the present
We stand securely
Today
To understand what happened
Yesterday

Understanding
What tomorrow will bring
We can live
Today
And consider the future

Yesterday
It had its place
Measurable by rich qualities
Defined by faith, knowledge, concern
A calm elasticity
For coping creatively

Today
Challenge, now faster
Nudging strong and hard
In constant beat
Burning no longer for
Yesterday