Category: recovery

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

     “Mirabel, you must let me 

    Tell Mom and Dad. They don’t

    Deserve this silence.”

    She turned mulish. Resistant.

    More stubborn than I’d ever be.

    “Mirabel is dead. It’s better for everyone.”

    “Mom & Dad won’t miss me. I was

    Nothing but trouble.”

    I spoke truth when I said;

    “I guarantee you that’s not true.

    They will never get over you.

    And in the meantime, Lord Verne gets away

    With murder. He’ll just kill

    Someone else, Mirabel;

    Don’t you get it? Violence is

    His foolproof way

    To get what he wants.”

    Mirabel moved her shoulders restlessly.

    She’d almost escaped that life and saw me

    Pulling her back.

    “I can’t go to jail. I’d rather die.”

    “People who make immunity

    Deals don’t go to jail. Derek’s family

    Must know a lawyer who’d negotiate

    For you. You stay anonymous

    Because deals never go to court.”

    She eyed me suspiciously.

    “What do YOU know about 

    Bargaining with prosecutors?”

    “I have a Netflix subscription!

    I watch the ID channel! If you tell them

    What you know it might be enough

    To convict him.

    Get him out of all our lives

    Forever.” Fingers crossed.

    She struggled to believe me.

    She had so little trust.

    Yet I was the one

    She’d invited inside.

    “I have the murder weapon,” she admitted.

    “I told him I got rid of it. And

    The shirt he wore – it’s bloody.

    In a safety deposit box.”

    A thrill ran through me.

    I hadn’t expected

    Such cagey planning, but

    I should have; from

    The Girl Who Got Away.

    “That’s probably enough,” I promised.

    But still my sister hesitated,

    Torn between embracing her 

    Imaginary life with its

    Brand new identity and

    Facing her destroyer.

    I played my final card.

     “You owe me,” I whispered.

    “You owe the dead girls.

    And so Mirabel – not Franny but

    The grown up girl who’d always been

    My sister; made up her mind.

    She accepted herself; the way

    I had always accepted her.

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    I had to ask

    The ultimate question.

    “Did he kill the real Franny?”

    Were we a survivor chain of

    The lot, the disconnected, the

    Threatened?

    Her eyes slid back and forth

    As she repeated her question;

    “Did anyone follow you?”

    I wasn’t aware of anyone

    But in our day and age

    Of advanced surveillance

    Was it possible to reassure?

    “No. No hiding stalkers

    On your tiny island.”

    It worked.

    For the first time she relaxed

    And smiled. But still she

    Whispered as if we could be

    Overheard.

    “I’m sorry for putting you 

    In that position but I knew

    You wouldn’t let him hurt you.

    You were always different

    Born yourself –

    I’m not myself yet but

    I’m trying to be.”

    She began to swing us

    Her thin legs in white gauze reached out

    Pumping us higher.

    “You didn’t answer my question”

    I insisted, “The real Franny

    Is dead. Who killed her?”

     “Verne killed them,” she confided.

    As our swing vaulted heavenwards.

    “My friends were

    “Hiding me from Verne but

    “I still had to work. He stalked me – he

    Broke in – stabbed Franny and Jane.”

    “But missed you?” I prompted. ”Because

    You were in the broom closet?”

    “No,” she said, “He found me

    Covered me with their blood – said

    I was the cause of

    Everything, I was the one who

     Made  it happen.

    He threatened to kill me too

    But slowly. I knew he planned

    To torture me to death.

     I could never get away.”

    “Why not tell the police?”

    Her eyes were so big, pale blue shading

    Into gray – same color as the ocean.

    “They’d lock me up –

    He knows too much about me.

    I tried everything I could think

    To get away but nothing worked

    Till this.” She held my hand

    Me – feeling like the 

    Older sister.

    “Remember the fable I used to

    Read to you – the dog that dropped the bone

    Because he saw a second one?

    That’s my gambit –

    I felt sure that you would recognize.”

    She held my wrists enlaced in

     Skinny fingers.

    “Verne was always telling me

    I was ruined, that I’d spoiled myself

    And destroyed our future.

      I convinced him you were me

    Unscarred – the way I was

    Before he met me –

    Better than I ever was – me without

    The things he hated.”

     I recoiled, disgusted, trying not

    To show it. That bastard! Hating

    Her feeble resistance.

    She smiled the old one-sided smile.

    “I was right too. You were too smart

    To fall for him. 

    “You were born so confident! 

    So good in school! Your brain

    Seemed always working right –

    Reading my schoolbooks

    Helping ME to do my homework!”

    It was funny, listening

    To this different recollection

    Of our years together, so distinct

    From my modest memories. 

    At the very moment I was

    Iconizing her, she was

    Idealizing me.

    The swing slowed. My sister

    Looked away – that far off glance

    That was the skill she’d mastered –

    Disassociation –

    Floating above the rest of us –

    In her inner world of safety.

    I heard my voice –

    “But I’m so plain.”

    “You’re wrong about that, –

    More beautiful than I ever was –

    I think I’ve learned what real beauty is –

    It’s wildness – untamed – and

    Those who want to capture it

    Are killing their desire.”

    My sister, the guru 

    Clutched at me again – fearful

    She could lose me as I’d lost

    Her. She knew the world

    Was full of melting women

    Simulacra who seem

    To be but aren’t –

    Shadow people enlisted

    Replacing those who

    Never came to be.

    I recoiled in horror at 

    The degradation

    So closely missed.

    “And then you found me,”

    She breathed, scaring me

    With confidence in my miracles. 

    “This island’s pictures

    Were the only ones I ever sent 

    To you; I thought 

    That you’d remember.”

    “I almost didn’t! 

    Answer one for me. Did you steal

    Diamonds from Kruptupian?”

    “His broker was cheating him.

    When I gave him the evidence, 

    He sold my ring

    Giving me the cash to get away

    Without informing.

    I’ve been taking yoga teacher training.

    I’m going to give Franny Vallea the 

    Flourishing life she

    Din’t have, without

     Family, without chances.

    All she ever wanted was enough money

    To be safe, to have peace, quiet

    And a lock on the door.”

     “Mirabel, you must let me 

    Tell Mom and Dad. They don’t

    Deserve this silence.”

    She turned mulish. Resistant.

    More stubborn than I’d ever be.

    “Mirabel is dead. It’s better for everyone.”

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    Quite a trudge – hundreds of steps –

    And I was alone. Maybe these

    Holiday-makers were all just too old.

    But with every step

    I felt increasing peace –

    Then came a sign:

    “SSSSHHH! MEDITATION IN SESSION!”

    Tamed my labored breathing –

    Climbed the last few steps

    Silently. One teacher – a very old man –

    In perfect lotus position –

    Eyes closed –

    Orchestrated six students – 

    Their backs to me –

    All wearing white.

    Like a cult?

    I studied them thoughtfully.

    No hair like Mirabel’s –

    A couple of blondes and one boy  –

    Very close-cropped, maybe chemo?

    My gaze increasingly

    Fixed on him;  felt

    I must be hallucinating.

    Weren’t those Mirabel’s ears?

    The hair just coming in

    Was silvery – the tiny ear studs –

    Silver, not diamonds.

    I inched my way around – one student

    Opened her eyes – gave me

    The harsh look my inquisitiveness

    Warranted. But I persisted – the skinny

    Silent student lost in meditation

    Was my sister!  No other jewelry, no makeup, 

    Just cheap gauze clothing, dirty bony bare feet

    And that scarred lip.

    Looks like the joke was on Mirabel –

    Bald, at her thinnest – that

    Magnified her true self so

    Hugely no one –

    No one who loved her –

    Could ever mistake her.

    Tears sprang to my eyes. I closed them and

    Backed against the stone white-washed wall

    Trying to mentally connect with her.

    What was she thinking

    Right at this minute?

    Maybe nothing.

    I’d meditated – a couple of times and

    Found it annoying. I like my own brain

    And don’t want to escape it.

    I launched an experiment – she forced me

    To come all this way to find her –

    Now I will make her

    Feel my presence. That project quenched 

    My tears as anger always does;

    Focused everything I had

     On her. She was strong;

    I’ll say that for her

    It took a long time to reach her:

    Deep in her dream place –

    Mouth slightly open – 

    One tiny tear sliding down from her eye.

    That’s when I touched her!  I could feel it. 

    She stirred.

    Eyes opened. My sister Mirabel took a

    Long, long look into me.

    Chapter 19 – Killer Signature

    “Mirabel?”

    I mouthed her name. She ducked her head,

    Bowed deeply forward, then rose

    To her feet. A ripple ran through

    The group and the leader opened one eye

    In displeasure.

    My sister grabbed my arm

    And began dragging me downstairs.

    “My name here is Franny.” 

    She whispered.

    Franny? That name set up echoes.

    Had she stolen a murder victim’s

    Identity?

    I refused to unleash her;

    Knew she was meditating for a

    Superpower of

    Invisibility;

    Miraging at will.

    At the base of the lighthouse steps 

    We burst out; 

    Into the strong sunlight.

     “I thought you were dead,”

    I gasped. “You left me with HIM!”

    She pulled me into a swing

    Beneath a shady awning

    Two sisters swinging

    Side by side –

    Both of them crying.

     “I’m so glad you found me,”

    She said, “Did they follow you?”

     “How could you leave me

    With HIM,” I raged at her.

     “I knew you could handle him,”

    She insisted with equal ferocity,

    “You’d never fall

    For any of his tricks.

    And wasn’t I right?

    Look, here you are.”

  • The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 18 – Dream Island

    Isla Ensueno is a resort –

    Luckily Derek’s air miles included the

    Pink stucco hotel.

    “No one by that name,” the desk clerk told me so 

    Patiently. What kind of avatar name would 

    Mirabel choose?  He wouldn’t stand for

    Guessing so I tried describing her –

    But the clerk shook his head.

    Well, I couldn’t leave until tomorrow

    Might as well check in and prowl.

    It’s a very small island.

    My thoughts were uncomfortable –

    That oh-so familiar feeling –

    Dinned into me by every adult I’ve ever met

    That I’m probably doing

     Everything wrong.

    My “great idea” seemed feeble now

    Typical teen impulsiveness.

    This wasn’t far enough away – Florida!

    How could Mirabel feel safe here?

    Smart money said she’d flee

    Ocean-wards – the Maldives or Malta or 

    Some such place – with a whole new

    Passport and some new man in tow

    Whose identity she could hide behind.

    That’s if she wanted to create

    A new persona. But what if –

    This is what I gambled on –

    She wanted instead to uncover 

    The old persona – the person

    Who had always been there?

    It was the only explanation

    For involving me –

    Other than simply feeding me

    To her monster.

    I had one single chance –

    And possibly I’d blown it.

    Dream Island was authentically gorgeous –

     Mirabel hadn’t lied 

     But in the eight years since

    Her photo shoot hadn’t its splendor 

    Diminished, wasn’t it becoming

    Just the tiniest bit shabby? 

    Some people – myself for example

    Like things whose edge has been

    Taken off.  As I circumnavigated 

    The island’s walking trail 

    A certain peace overtook me

    That could have been

    Maturity.

    Was this what it felt like

    Having nothing left to prove?

    If you can enjoy the moment –

    Filling yourself with it and

    It with yourself –

    Then you’ve arrived.

    Questions bubbled. 

    What do you do

    When your game has gone horribly wrong?

    You start over.

    Even if my guess was off

    There was still that intriguing 

    Probability: what if Mirabel evolved

    Until her only desire was having a self

    Worthy of presentation to the magnificent

    Universe this island represented?

    Even at fourteen I understood nostalgia –

    Viewing the confident know-it-all 

    My eleven-year-old incarnation 

    With the purest envy.

    What if Mirabel re-set the game – 

    Made different choices

    Stopped pleasing others by

    Contorting her body into

    Simulacra and challenged the world

    To accept her real being?

    The younger self I knew – hopeful – 

    Gorgeous – naïve, impatient –

    Wasn’t in the Maldives!

    As I walked I systematically

    Searched every nook;

    Old trees shading the privacy of

    Lovers: I broke into – peering under

    Awnings, stared right through

    Sunglasses: but Mirabel 

    Wasn’t there.

    The trail wound around a sand beach cove 

    And right up to the lighthouse; 

    I was unprepared; requiring

     Binoculars, sunscreen and a

    Really big hat;

    Sea breezes made me shiver

    In just cami and jeans – 

    Something put me 

    In the mood to climb the lighthouse.

  • Purrsiflage – Today’s Zen for Your Inner Cat with Alysse Aallyn

    Feb 14

    Today the Universe Alerts You – You have a legal issue. Do you have a secret life? Most people do and Purrsons definitely do, because we contain multiples. Are you a bit of an alley cat? Have you been stepping over lines in public or private? Remember, lawbreakers break themselves.

    Do You Dream of Judges? Lawyers? Court? Are you obsessed with TV programs about justice? When justice is delayed or denied, do you obsess about that? Have you been feeling unjustly punished? Do you envy or rage against those who have “gotten away with something”?

    Purrson’s Desire for Justice is Hardwired – Just as our desire for freedom is factory installed, so is our demand for fairness. Do you envy or rage against those who have “gotten away with something”?  Think: “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be filled.” In my view, the mere concept of Complete Justice is heaven enough. We are repeatedly warned that it won’t ever match our earthly ideologies, that we are children scrapping in a sandbox who haven’t noticed, much less comprehended, the real issues.

    What Is Our Armor? – What laws resonate with you? Do you believe in karma? How would you define it? What laws make you angry? Which laws would you modify? What is your attitude towards the police – protectors of order or agents of mayhem? Dick Nixon was famous for talking endlessly about “restoring law and order” until just before he was forced to resign because of multiple crimes. Many Trump followers insist everything Trump has done is “justified because Democrats are worse.” Is this a race to the bottom? Where’s the off-ramp?

    Purrson Danger – “Judge not lest ye be judged” is a scary proposition. How would we come off if our standards were used against us? Come to think of it, what are our standards? Are they fluid? Flexible? Jesus also said the “letter” i.e. “written rule” KILLS. That it’s the “spirit that gives life.”

    Law Is Our Armor – Purrsons dream of a “spirit-filled” Law. Maybe you wanted to go to Law School but life intervened. It’s never too late to study any subject that’s close to our heart. We become Purrsons because we wish for heroes; I think that’s the sole reason for the wild popularity of the Marvel movie series.

    Do You Admire Heroes Because They Break the Rules, or because they uphold them? We acknowledge the need for rules, but how can we make sure they’re “spirit-filled”?  In what areas of your life are you too rigid? In which are you too flexible? Imagine yourself speaking in court, making a case for yourself. What arguments would you give? Ask your dreams to start imagining a Justice World. How would it look?

    Models & Mentors – “Law is not law if it violates the principles of eternal justice” – Lydia Maria Child

    “The only stable state is one where all are equal before the law” – Aristotle

    “Law is the public conscience” – Thomas Hobbes

    ‘Able in argument, accurate in analysis, strict in study, candid with clients and honest with adversaries, today I shall not, to win a point, lose my soul” – St. Thomas More

    “If we desire respect for the law, we must make law respectable” – Louis D. Brandeis

  • The Book of You – Haiku Diary by Alysse Aallyn

    #Haiku: The Columbine

    Reckless

    Drought victims

    Seek flood;

    Drenching mimes

    Drowning;

    Overwhelms

    Parched cells

  • The Book of You – Haiku Diary by Alysse Aallyn

    #Haiku:  The Bridge

    Stuck:

    I’m here and you’re there.

    I’ll meet you

    Across an

    Ocean’s loneliness.

  • Haiku Diary by Alysse Aallyn

    Haiku: The Life Force

    Energy

    Resurged –

    De-powers dread

    Re=powers health

    Re-focus

    Aim

  • Butterfly Language for Caterpillars – Soulmate Seeking with Alysse Aallyn

    Meditation = MINDFULNESS “the Poet On Her Walk”

    “Understanding and accepting the moment”

    Meditation is the Art of Looking Deeply. It takes concentration and practice and all the gifts that makes us human – but our physical, mental and cultural “tics” – fight against our cultivation of this vital skill. We must master our physicality to engage our brain in Deep Looking.

    Begin with the breath, inhale, exhale, calm the tumult in our blood. As thoughts appear, set them one by one before your Inner Eye and turn each over in your mind without judgment. We are just floating by. The goal is to learn to feel compassion for the creatures of this earth; so that ultimately we can calm the tumult in everyone’s life journeys.

    Before our eyes now is our yearning for our Other Half. If we are living in the past growth hurts like a requiem for a Lost Self. Yet deep looking into our “now” will rescue us from past suffering. We see past the pain of our perceived unworthiness and the inadequacy of others to the universal healing magic that is love. We perform the “thought experiment” of transforming our minds in order to recognize the Beloved and be recognized by them. This is the most powerful charm; a transformation that solves our earthborn dilemma.

    Meditation is quieting and emptying. Once we soothe the rattle of panic and hysteria that infects each of us through the pressure of living, learn not to react to the “what ifs” and “shoulds”, the fears and preconceptions, we will become our own crystal ball. Push gently on the inevitable thought-balloons drifting through the cathedral of our minds and let them go. When we master the breath, we seize control of life itself.

    Find a “mantra.” Some use prayer – I suggest St. Julian of Norwich’s “All will be well, and all things will be well.” or “the light in me honors the light in the world” or “I am peace” works as well. Feel free to invent your own mantra. Give yourself permission to take loving charge of thoughts and body. Be a tender mother to your new self. When you support your shy new self, you practice welcoming the Beloved. Picturing ocean waves rushing in, then rushing out again along the sand. Relax all your muscles, one by one. Wait. Begin again. Continue until flooded with peace.

    The Poet on Her Walk

    Who dares malign
    The intellectual consolations of this morning
    When every leaf becomes the corner of a star
    And every pond a covenant. Where
    Isles of light illumine
    Tracts of water – blind the
    Spaces where I first saw you.
    Transfix my grief with
    Arrows of wisdom
    Dissolve the veil that
    Separates me from
    Myself; eight years old.

    Who are you that I should fear to
    Stroke you wrong, dissolving pride in
    Mansions of darkness that hood your eyes; the
    Terrible readiness , the
    Dissipated resolution;
    Deepening the silence
    Deepening between us
    Like the ocean between us;
    The silence of wheatfields
    Waiting for wind

  • Butterfly Language for Caterpillars – walking the path of attachment with Alysse Aallyn

    Recovery = REBIRTH “In the Hour of Our Death”

    “If you don’t have a loving relationship with yourself, no one else will.”

    Several times on your path you will feel the need to “re-boot” and start over. “Rebirth” is available to us any time, following a period of reflection, retreat and re-centering.

    “Recovery” begins to happen we manage to repel a demonic force that kept us in thrall – addiction, illusion, corruption, compulsive behavior; even a poisonous culture. Sometimes, we were hostage to another human being who didn’t have our best interests at heart.

    What ARE our best interests? As our brains begin to clear we begin to understand. Ernest Hemingway used to say we are “stronger at the broken places” and Nietzsche expressed it as “what doesn’t kill me makes me stronger” but obviously these maxims only hold true if a complete healing has taken place.

    Complete healing provides peace as well as joy. We give thanks that we have started on the journey.


    Second Chances – Expect to stumble. Watching toddlers try to “rise and walk” we must consider what a good thing it is that they don’t mind being laughed at. (In fact, they love it.) It takes them quite awhile to figure out this new challenge. Like beginning skiers, they cling to objects, sway exaggeratedly back and forth, slam into others, and plop down SPLAT; not just once or twice but over and over. In fact the toddler hasn’t been born who suddenly vaults up suavely and starts swanning around in a sophisticated manner.

    And those are the ones with no impediment to walking – watched hungrily by the less fortunate who only wish they could be blessed with this magical opportunity to make public fools of themselves.

    Once we take in the meaning of these facts we embrace the last step of Recovery: “Expect to go splat.” Of course we don’t WANT to – fingers crossed – it’s dangerous and bruising. We’d better arrange to have someone around – just in case. But you don’t fail unless you refuse to rise again. Don’t even bother counting the times you were “brave”. It’s only the “getting back up” that counts. As long as you’re doing that, you’re a true winner.

    As we study ourselves with a desire to put our best foot forward we are increasingly overwhelmed with despair. This old self won’t do. We are the club no one wants to join; us included.

    We have to ask ourselves if part of our desire for the Other is a longing to be rid of Self. But how is this to be accomplished, when we know that any relationship built on fakery must surely fail. How can a New Self be the Real One?

    Fortunately, there is a model for this in the recovery movement – legions of people giving up self-destructive habits and birthing a fresh new self. They say the relief is glorious, everything is more meaningful as their confidence grows. We want some of that. We must abjure all the behavior that have caused us suffering in the past. What are they, exactly? Let’s identify and enhance the wonderful things about us, the self we want to keep.

    And in the Hour of Our Death

    I am wind sucked
    The tempest starts without me
    Scuttled like a leaf


    I loose your hand
    My words come fire
    My blood blasts forth


    And vomits out
    This darkness
    Some god commands


    I push
    I flee – I won’t be born –
    I push


    And then relax.
    It can’t happen all at once.
    The corpses dance


    The trees devour their own roots
    I’m spat like pulp
    I push –


    I’ve gone too far
    To get back now.
    I’ve lost your cord


    Threaded in the frenzy
    That is life.
    My lips are ceremonies


    My hips are burial grounds.
    Silence rushes in to bear me up and I explode
    To atoms.


    What is this new lightness?
    Into this furnace of stars
    I collapse my burdens like


    A house of cards, I soar, I flirt
    My strength
    Is limitless


    My soul, my life
    An infinite caress.