Haley - In the Envelope of Memory

Copyright 2019 Ilana Haley

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

Cover and Interior Design by BookBaby

ISBN (Print) 978-1-54398-404-0 (eBook) 978-1-54398-405-7

Contents

Forward by John Brusseau

What is it that takes a woman eighty plus years to understand, to unravel, to sort out? How is it that she can live an entire life and still need to review the patterns that replayed over and over, patterns begun in childhood and morphed into the long series of relationships that followed her all through adulthood?

These clippings now, at the closing years of life, pulled from the envelope of Ilana Haleys memory, are played like cards from a most winsome deck. They tell both Ilana and us the answer to these questions dipped in sorrow and wonder. They speak to us the riddle of un-faced early childhood conflicts and early childhood dependency, by a father, on a daughter, for emotional support, early templates for every relationship that would come to Ilanas willing and adventurous soul. These clippings from Ilanas mental envelope reveal these mirrored templates in the stories of other members of Ilanas early life. This is a book caught on the edge of a lifes great challenge. It has the importance, the meaningfulness, of a story spun from the autonomous unconscious mind of a person for the spiritual (there really is no better word for it) purpose of aiding Ilana in making sense of the precious, the anguished, the sweet, the fulfilled, the unrequited, even the trauma-filled moments of her life. And as we read this correspondence from Ilanas inner mentor we are given an invitation to discover the meaning of our own life.

You cannot possibly read this book without simultaneously reviewing your lifes meaning and purpose, and that is what a book such as this one is for. It is a spiritual trigger, provoking you to seek out the meaning of life, of your life and its moments stored in the envelope of your own memory. Dont be surprised when this happens, and remind yourself along the way to pour yourself into this self-reflective adventure. Engage this process with gusto. After all, you have your own inner Ilana Haley to satisfy.

Chapter

Flight

Panic took hold of me on the airplane. On my right, Helen held my hand, as she kept moving her gentle, white fingers over my forehead, insisting: Calm down, girl. Take it easy! For a moment it was not so bad, passing like a dream through a mist of dull pain: her fingertips with their fluttering pulse. After a while, I lay down between the seats on the floor of the plane. It was hard, cold and harrowing I returned to my seat, my heart was still booming like the jet engines; and again Pearl urged, as she gently massaged my temples with her cool fingers, which dripped with gold and diamonds: Calm down, take it easy girl;. for a moment I sank deeply within myself...

Teddy was not at home when I arrived. I was so exhausted from the flight, returning to Boston, that all I could do was to drop everything and collapse on the bed fully clothed. I didnt even hear

Teddy when he came home, although I did imagine that I felt as if a butterflys wings are touching my cheek. I was dreaming of you, Ora, my beloved friend. I dreamt I woke up in my small room in Boston to find you, winking down at me from your paintings on the walls, enveloping me in your aura. The clown painting on the wall looks at me with curious eyes. Whats wrong, he asks. I do not know what to say. With tortured eyes, suddenly he seems old, tired. A girl is gazing into the distance her eyes full of blue longing; a dove hovers above her airy fingers. Three women, one faceless, are looking at me in surprise Well? I dont know, I answer, turning away in shame. Faceless laughs placidly: You know, she whispers. The two lovers are still longingly entwined. An invisible hand offers flowers to a beautiful woman. She looks at them with a hard, slightly cold eye. Only the mask remains unmovedAt this point I woke up. I looked at my watch: only 3:30 in the morning. What is there to say at three oclock in the morning? I look through the window. I cannot see the sun yet and my Teddy is still fast asleep; each white hair of his beard vibrates in my heart. If I could I would wrap him in a halo and grant him eternal life. (That would be a curse!)

And I am conveying to you, my friend, all the chatter my brain contains. You are my soul mate, the woman I love most, because it is my destiny and I cannot change things set in another time, in our previous lives, when we didnt yet know wed have one soul in two separate bodies. Not the soul of identical twins, but of two strange and different worlds that meet and part and yet remain intertwined, even if harmony is not what it used to be. Do not dare laugh at what I wrote here, even if you do not know about the two worlds. And so, my Ora, listen to me, read the words I have gathered for youThese are the precious memories of a life we once lived out together in the bloom of our days. I have kept them in the envelop of my heart and have taken them out to share them now with you, my friend, my souls echo.

I told you it is a crazy sun; Lemon trees consumed burning paths on their way. I am pulled to the center of light in you. In the vortex of consciousness you are a glowing gallop. In the abyss of my youth you are an orchid of the sun.

Chapter

In The Kibbutz

Early morning in Boston. Soon Teddy will get up, acknowledge me and say, as usual: My one and only love. But I am not here yet; I am still at my mothers home. In my minds eye, I see my mother all alone, waking from a night of torment, with aching heart and a brittle soul. I am not there to smile at her, or soothe her. Her image in my mind changes suddenly. I see her lips pursed with the injuries of time. I remember greedily eating the hard-boiled eggs and cheese she prepared with her hands full of love and sorrow; hands covered with brown spots painted by a merciless, malignant sun and relentless, shaming age.

Time drains away, says mother, as her lips tighten even more; every line in her face is as deep as a grave. And I did not even visit my fathers grave; the Rocky Hill exists only in my stories.

So rest quietly father; rest in peace. There is nothing left. Only the anemones bloom, as a perennial breeze plays in the tops of the cypress trees. The scent of lilacs caresses the senses and birds fill the universe with their song, as if nothing has changed since creation.

And in the kibbutz? How are things in the kibbutz? In the kibbutz doors are closed like tight mouths, as a paucity of pioneers creep by, their heads bent, eyes half closed, seeking, asking: Where did creation go? What happened to happiness? Where did the colors go? Where are the children? The silence of Genesis floats around them, embraces, penetrates, and their flesh crawls. Out of the silence a voice: Yes; things are changing.

And my brother? I see him too. I hear his voice like a hollow echo, saying what he always used to say when he saw me:, my beautiful sister.

He too wakes, knowing I am not there to caress his forehead with my hand, a hand that has known distant lands, that lovingly drives away the weariness in his head that has turned gray, like a dusty Eucalyptus tree after a heat wave. I think about him, my brother. I speak to him in my head: Do not allow pain to crush you; yours is a magical soul, a pure soul you do not always understand. Who does? Life changes, drained of light. Children disappoint and parents die. There is a deep, scorching sorrow in ones heart. Sometimes sorrow wins, sometimes joy; dont let pain crush your soul. Fight to the end! And as I thought of him, a shock of pain filled my whole body. So I sat on the toilet, buried my face in my hands and sobbed without tears