CHAPTER 5

A Second Chance (July)

music: Ravel

Wow, re-reading the June chapters was tough for me. It’s all true, and all beautiful, but honestly, all this love and light has me feeling pretty cynical. Look, I am experiencing something amazing that can’t be put into words. And now I spend an entire morning feeding my soul to the Google Monster, hunting for quotes to validate what’s happening to me, like one from Thoreau’s Journals:

A few weeks after I came to the woods, in the midst of a gentle rain, I was sensing an infinite friendliness around me. Every little pine needle expanded and swelled with sympathy and befriended me. . .

He gets it every time. And so do I- I swear I know how he feels. Sometimes I go outside and everything becomes, well, friendly. Hanging out in the garden, watching the wind blowing through the leaves, waving to me. I drop the self-talk and relax my imagination, and it feels like I’m being invited to simply listen. They silently ask me to let go and just be there with them, and I silently do it. And it’s the same with music. The music asks me to breathe with the rhythm, flow into the harmonies, become the melodies. Let go and become the music.

But honestly, I don’t know if it’s real. I don’t know if anything’s real, and I’m terrified that my sanity is teetering on the edge.

I haven’t talked much about Mom, (except for me mostly ignoring her) because deep down I still blame her for Dad leaving us. And I blame her for me hating Dad. And for me hating me. That’s why I spend hours gazing at paintings and photographs by Georgia O’Keefe and Ansel Adams, getting lost in the mystery of their beauty. Alice is gone, and the one turning pages is their daughter. it’s like my birth parents aren’t my real parents, at least not any more. Who is my mother, and who is my father? O’Keefe and Adams? Emily Dickinson and Thoreau?

Oh my God! I keep asking questions, desperate for answers, until suddenly reality crashes the party and my lovely make believe world falls apart like a house of cards: like the playing cards attacking Wonderland Alice. All this relaxing into silence with playful flowers and loving trees may be very creative, even good therapy, but it’s time to wake up and smell the dead roses. Self-doubt, shame and desolation don’t hit often, but when they do, they hit hard.

Anyway, on Thursday I couldn’t hold back and I told Lili everything. All of it came streaming out: breathing with the flowers, becoming one with the grass and trees, the light that surrounds me and breathes with me as I play music. And the intense depression I feel when I crash and burn; the fear and horror that shivers through me when I think I’m losing my mind. Then I throw my arms around Mom and cry my eyes out, holding her tightly so I don’t shatter into a hundred pieces like a fragile looking glass.

Mom holds and comforts me, asking questions to make sure I’m ok: do I ever want to hurt myself; do I feel paranoid or frightened of others; do I feel my life is useless. She makes me promise, if I’m feeling alone, anxious or depressed, to please talk with her right away, adding that whatever happens, she will always love me and be there for me. She also tells me that a good therapist can be a wonderful friend that cares about me and can help me feel grounded. Through my tears I whisper, “Maybe you’re right, Mom. Please give me some time to decide.” But all I really want is to be held, and loved, and hear someone say, “I believe in you, Alice. Don’t give up.”

The next day it’s late Sunday, twilight. I’m lying in the garden between two rose bushes, breathing in their soft, subtle fragrance. I hear someone walking toward me, and it’s Lili, who smiles and sits next to me, taking my hand. We sit together in the quiet evening, gazing up at the dark sky. And next to the crescent moon is her bright friend, Venus- the Morningstar.

Suddenly I hear soft sniffles and I’m startled by soft crying. I turn over to see Mom weeping, and it freaks me out. I sit up and we hold each other. Lili apologizes for crying, then adds she’s so very sorry for the mess she made: how she took John for granted (she’s nine years older) and performing, traveling and being in demand for lessons, she never gave him the affection, or me the attention, that we both needed. she shares how she loves me more than anything in the world, and she sees the boundaries between reality and my imagination dissolving and she’s terrified of losing me. So now I have to comfort her- telling her I’m ok. Really, it’s ok, Mom. I’m not losing my mind, it’s true! Because we have each other. And I love you. Really, we’re ok. I love you.

We’re both softly sobbing in each other’s arms. Then the sobs turn into deep breaths and we gently lie back down on the ground together. Feeling the cool earth embracing us. Losing track of time.

Finally, Lili clears her throat and whispers, “Alice? Sweetie, what would make you happy? More than anything, I mean. What do you really want?”

And without missing a beat I reply, “I don’t want to go back to school. You’re not performing, and we can homeschool together.” She tells me that school will probably be online for a while and I’ll be home anyway, but I tell her I can’t stand school, whether it’s online, or with 2,000 other kids at Fairview High.

“All I really need are my flute and piano, and the backyard as my school yard. Please say yes.”

I’m expecting an argument, but Mom manages to flash me a smile and says, “Ok, Sweetie. Come up with a curriculum and this will be your year to stay home and explore your world. And I swear, I’ll be here for you and make sure you’re safe. It’s a second chance for both of us.”

I’m stunned- I can’t believe it, it’s like a dream! The next morning at breakfast, she’s on the phone to Boulder Valley School District, giving them info to get our homeschool started in mid-August. The only connection to school is that I have to pass a national standardized test at the end of the school year. And I’m an expert at late night cramming to ace useless testing. Product of the system, and all that. Other than that, like Mom said, it’s my year.

So that’s it. And here I am, almost bedtime, at the piano, playing Ravel’s Sleeping Beauty. Softly, gently drawing out the colorful, soulful sounds. Along with Bartok’s Mikrokosmos, they were the first pieces I played, solo and with Mom as a duet, and now I’m playing Ravel’s solo transcription. It’s simple loveliness is so haunting. And it’s so appropriate, because it feels like I’ve been asleep for years, and I’ll say it again: I am a princess, waking up to her enchanted world. The real world. Because it is real, damn it. It is!

I head off to bed and stretch out, making plans for the future. A year of exploring nature and music. I see myself searching for magic, and hearing Magic say, “Alice, listen to me, and I’ll listen to you. Look for me with all your heart, and you’ll find me.” A future with hope and new possibilities, rather than a year of schoolwork that snuffs out anything new, strange, or seemingly impossible. So what if we don’t know what’s our imagination and what’s real? Maybe not knowing is most intimate. Maybe not knowing is the real knowing!

When I wake up the next morning still lying in bed, I imagine my favorite teacher, Henry David Thoreau, looking deep into my soul with his bird friends perching on his shoulders. He actually went to jail for not paying a war tax that gave soldiers money to kill Mexicans and steal their land, which he wrote about in his essay Civil Disobedience. His feelings about government are my feelings about school. And staring up at the ceiling, I’m repeating the famous lines from his essay, except I replace the word “government”:

“The best form of school is no school at all,

and when we are prepared for it,

that will be the kind of school we will have.”