ONE WEEK COUNTDOWN
Until New Edition is up on Amazon Kindle.
Now over 88,000 words. Bigger. Bolder. And even more exciting than the first read. Join Cinderella as she travels the Four Directions to reclaim her name Charlotte, her Kingdom and Prince.
Prelude
to the Fairy Godmother
It
was a raw April morning. Outside, the gutters and windows, the trees
and plants, were dripping with run-off rain. Inside Cinderella was,
once
again the size of a puddle.
On the stone floor, protecting belly and head, she was tightly curled
into a ball. Physically, her body was clenched. Her mind and spirit
floated,
disembodied, while the mop lashed her. For her, life is a fairy tale,
filled with insurmountable obstacles, enormous burdens, and heart
breaking tragedies. If
I could disappear...there would be no more beatings. Who knew a mop,
used as a weapon, would create welts? Swollen with lymph, they itch,
then burst before drying to flake like a sun burn.
Looking
into Cinderella’s life it’s easy to understand how we forget the
purpose of fairy tales. When we’re trapped in the time prior to the
pivotal moment of change, we become discouraged - or as happens in
the very best fairy tales, despondent. In the endless monotony of
drudgery, before positive momentum carries us free of heart-breaking
tragedies, who does believe in fairy tales? We’ve forgotten fairy
tales are templates for living a life of wonder. It’s exactly at
the moment when we give-up - when we abandon believing in the
possibility of our happy ending - that happiness lies in plain sight,
hidden in the debris of failures.
Believing
in the greater purpose of fairy tales begs the question: “Does
everyone find his or her happily-ever-after?” For most of us it’s
difficult to accept our future successes are excavated from our
failures. Yet for eons myths and fairy tales have reminded us, “the
Phoenix rises from the debris, the ashes, of its former life.”
When
did we stop noticing the hardship embedded in fairy tales reminds us
to squeeze every failure, each mistake, set-back and heart-break for
it’s message. Fairy tales confront us. Learning to read the terrain
of our fairy tales leads us to the skills we refused to learn. Our
happily-ever-after requires us to drop attitudes that keep us from
happiness and resolve the character flaws that court disaster. Until
we decode our misfortunes, we postpone the beginnings of our
happily-ever-after. Did you think, because Cinderella is often
portrayed as a victim, trapped in the shadows of grief, she was not
responsible to mine the gold hidden within those shadows? As a
victim, living with a psychopathic stepmother, for Cinderella, the
world is composed of unfathomable grief and mind-numbing drudgery…or
is it?
Even
Cinderella wants to avoid the journey of the Phoenix. And so it is,
in the cycles of seasons, prior to the arrival of the Fairy
Godmother, Cinderella’s singular wish is to disappear. She walks
along the edges of shadow and light anticipating her step-family’s
needs. She fulfills them and retreats into invisibility. She worries
her stepmother’s violence might prove deadly and has begun to
suspect her involvement in the deaths of her parents. It’s a game
of cat and mouse. If
the inconceivable is true...How
can I survive living with a murderer?
No,
not a murderer, a serial killer.
“It’s
too much,” she cries out. Walking the razors edge of invisibility,
she muffles her voice with blankets and pillows. “It’s too much!”
Rather than grapple with the realities of her traumatic past,
Cinderella prefers to relinquish her ties to the losses across the
landscape of her personal bereavement. She often imagines letting go.
I’ll
blissfully slip into the welcoming darkness as one would edge into
sleep.
But under the surface of her longings is the insistent question, What
is worse, remembering or forgetting?
If
we respect the purpose of fairy tales is to guide us beyond
insurmountable obstacles, enormous burdens and heartbreaking tragedy
- at what point do we set aside grief? What does it take to create a
new life? What exactly went on before the life-altering arrival of
the Fairy Godmother? How many years did Cinderella scrub the house,
run errands, cook meals, take care of the animals and gardens while
living with a monstrous stepmother and two mean-spirited
step-sisters? What happened to prepare her for the Fairy Godmother’s
arrival? Are impossible circumstances the fertile ground required for
the arrival of beneficent-supernatural-aide?
Here
is what I think happened: After losing her parents within one cycle
of four seasons, Cinderella transformed from a blossoming teenager
into an abandoned shell of the young woman she had been. On the
surface it seemed her parents died of natural causes. No questions
were asked when the stepmother applied to become her legal guardian.
In
the first days and weeks after her father’s death Cinderella was
adrift in the anesthetic, featureless, dimension of grief. Her
endless stare could absorb a day without a blink. Lying twisted in
sheets, her losses made it impossible to breath, or get out of bed.
How long did she lie in the bed numb to the world around her? How
long did she skirt the boundary between sluggish wakefulness and
agitated stupor?
Only
when daylight transitioned into night, Cinderella found she couldn’t
rest at all. She wandered the house searching for the familiar amid
the distortion of crushing sorrow. Hallways loomed into elongated
tunnels. The library shrank, claustrophobic with family memories. She
found retreating to the bedroom a stark prison. The kitchen, once the
heart of their home, had expanded to proportions so impersonal she
could find no solace. From a corner, Blackie watched over her, a
solitary witness, until exhausted she sank to the floor at the edges
of the fireplace. Stretching out across the limestone hearth felt
warm and safe. Finally she could close her eyes. Oblivion sank into
her heart and she lost herself until just before dawn when she
dragged herself back to her room and the daylight hours belonging to
the endless stare.
When
the narcotizing effects of early grief released Cinderella, life
scraped along raw fringes of her losses, demanding attention. She was
dismayed to find she was filled with rage. It was a pervasive
hatefulness, toxic to breathe. Cinderella had never experienced
feeling overwrought with emotions she couldn’t control. In despair
she turned her attention to the demands of daylight and the minimal
requirements to function. Now the simple act of getting dressed could
take all day. She found herself sitting on the edge of the bed,
exiting the endless stare. She came back to herself wearing one shoe,
with the other shoe held in her hand. “Am I taking it off or
putting it on?”
We
don’t know how long the featureless landscape of early grief held
her captive. We do know, once beyond her shock, she was not released
from the rigors of brokenhearted sorrow. Over the next several years
she floundered in the Great Silence: A time of indeterminate length
where life is unresponsive to our efforts and wishes.
Loss
wears many faces. Her former home, shining with the love, now felt
dreary,
damp, and foreboding.
Cleaning the house top to bottom, to Cinderella, it
still
feels
dirty.
Planting the garden, weeding, harvesting crops was drudgery.
The joys she shared with her mother – canning and baking – were
lost, replaced with mindless
labor.
Engaged in the repetitive nature of housekeeping, she began wondering
how
could both my healthy parents die within months of each other?
I
know the excruciating symptoms of their illnesses, but not the
idiopathic origin.
One question led to many questions, including, How
have I gone from daughter of the house to a servant?
The
strangers living in her home found fault with Cinderella’s every
effort. Too soon she discovered, There
is a bleakness that comes from living in perpetual criticism.
Nothing could shield her from the chilling conversations with her
stepmother. Just preparing a cup of tea was hazardous. If
there wasn’t enough honey, there was too much. If the tea wasn’t
strong enough, it was too strong.
Flying into a rage, her stepmother spitting, “You ruined my tea on
purpose!” One paranoid accusation led to another, “You’re
trying to poison me!” It was a grind that wore away the fabric of
her natural sweetness, replacing it with anxiety and dread.
Baking
cookies, pies and cakes to feed the voracious sweet tooth of her
narcissistic foster family, Cinderella tried anticipating their next
angry demands only to find, Nothing
can satisfy the ravenous needs of these women.
They darkened the fabric of her ancestral home. Cinderella’s
silence was filled with stormy resentments and angry confusion. A
bitterness choking her with indignation, settled - swollen
in my belly like cast iron
- making it impossible to eat.
She
withdrew. Pulling in her spirit until it was a tiny speck in her
belly. She tried to be invisible. Yet tip-toeing avoidance couldn’t
keep her safe from the dark rages and undercurrents of violence
penetrating the house. She learned emotions can produce lingering
smells: sickly sweet, oozing with the stink of intestinal distress.
Smells so vile they hit the back of her gag reflex as she scurried
out of the room with a heaving stomach. Barely breathing, she found
refuge from the stenches next to the purifying fire.
At
twilight, walking into the house from the garden, Cinderella collided
with her stepmother’s emotions. She learned to identify the burnt
corn smell of anger, signaling
impending violence.
Depression smelled sickly
sweet.
Fear smelled, how
I imagine collicky baby poop might smell.
Interwoven with the feelings the air was saturated with fermented
grains the stepmother drank every night. Walking into the kitchen
Cinderella felt the buzz of angry demands, the undercurrents of
depression, or the paranoia of false accusations. Her foster family’s
unpleasant moods, compounded
by their self-pity; it all settles in my belly, until I feel like
vomiting.
The
outside world has gone on without me.
No
one notices me missing.
I’m
alone. She
was increasingly aware she lived
in a hostile territory that skirted the edges of homicidal danger.
The shivers of fear she felt when her stepmother pinned her with her
gaze...
She
cleaned, ran errands, cooked meals, baked deserts, gardening and
tending the animals. Caring for the life her parents had built, she
never gave-up hoping to feel a sense of accomplishment familiar to
life before living with a wicked stepmother. But the memories were
slippery and she couldn’t hold on to them. Despite the countless
efforts she made, the burdens she shouldered, working as efficiently
as possible to fit in more tasks to meet the never-ending demands,
depression haunted her. I
feel like I’m walking across the ocean floor in boots.
Her
escape from the strangers and stench growing in her home was time in
the woods with her dog, Blackie. Together they searched out herbs
used in teas. She hunted for cooking mushrooms. Cinderella bitterly
recalled her father’s warnings to avoid the poisonous. She didn’t
know what
would feel worse – remembering his tutorial or forgetting?
Her mother had taught her where to find the wild onions they used in
soup. Leafy greens were summer salads or steamed over rice and topped
with fish caught in mountain streams.
Striving
to embody the ethics her parents taught her, she didn’t feel
connected to their moral compass. Even implementing their practical
instructions felt surreal. Though she reached out and sought her
parents spirits, they remained shrouded. When the intensity of her
loss threatened to burst out of her, when she was immersed in a
roaring outrage that tested the seams of justice, her inward scream -
I
want to tear apart the spirit of righteousness that could sanction my
parents deaths
- reverberated in her soul. Composure shredded across the
circumstance of her life, with nowhere to spend her outrage, she
whispered into the folds of Blackie’s fur, “I understand why
people losing their mind to grief literally pull out their hair.”
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