Impoverished

The word poverty brings up many images for most of us, whether or not we have experienced it. Impoverished still more so. For many people the two words sum up vast regions of Africa or other 3rd world nations but for me those words, especially impoverished, brings up feelings of a period of my childhood that,  try as I may, still come to haunt me in the night. Tonight was one of those nights.

Many things can be said about my mother, she was funny and had a great personality, outgoing, stylish in her own way, vain and proud. My sisters would both probably add cruel and thoughtless to that list, but I have to say that I didn't experience that in the way that they did. Looking back on our lives to the period following my parents divorce it was an impoverished existence. I would not realize that for some years to come, however. Immediately following the divorce we moved from a typical suburban home to a charming home in the mountain town of Paradise California. Had we of stayed there, I think that life would be quite different for my sisters and I but we did not. We moved to Texas so that my mother could be closer to her sister that always seemed to be her emotional anchor. Even with her anchor though my mothers spirit seemed to wither and die. I remember her saying to me once that children did not know if they were poor or not, but I knew that we were. We left a beautiful and comfortable home and moved to a dark country style house with a crazy land lady that lived the back rooms which she had converted into an  apartment.. I still remember the sound of rat traps going off in the attic and finding the evidence in the trash can the following morning. Still for awhile we were happy or let me say I was happy. Even tornadoes couldn't wipe away my optimism as one of my favorite memories of that time is my sisters and I being shoved in a bathtub during a tornado, foolishly believing that the house and everything might blow away but somehow being attached to the plumbing we would be safe. I didn't know enough about the world not to be happy at that point.

We would move yet again, this time to a small drab box of a house next door to my Aunt and her husband. Once again, I knew we were poor. Yet I would go and visit my father who was living in Ft Worth, Texas the time and know that at least a part of my was ok. Somehow, my life seemed to have a safety net. For my mother that was not the case. She dried and withered emotionally in the Texas heat. My sisters and I begged to return to California which finally, loaded into my mom's Chevy we did. Mom never recovered from the divorce. She would go on to re-marry a man that I believe she resented and looked down on, but who kept meals on the table. She would continue sewing and designing cloths that she would wear only in the drab little house. As she escaped farther and farther into dark red color of many bottles of wine, I escaped into books. My oldest sister escaped into the Army and my middle sister, I am still not sure if she found an escape. She still bears the emotional scars of those years. Looking back, I see how my mothers depression came to cloud or vision. What I knew them was simply that our existence was no longer one of beauty.

Impoverished is a word that describes not just the physical financial landscape. It cuts much deeper like a scythe removing the golden wheat from the ground. It removes the scenery and color and movement until there is nothing but dried nubs left in the ground. Impoverished is the word for losing hope which is what happened to my mother. Far to proud to take a handout or help or to admit her actual age (but that is yet another story about her). She created and accepted an impoverished existence and all that goes along with it, especially the lack of joy. Even the Sunday outings to church seemed to be filled with resentment and bitterness. Our trips to get ice cream after church became just fond memories. I can speak for no one but myself, that church became the place that I couldn't wait to leave so that I could get back to my pile of books that I was always reading. It was thanks to those printed words in paperback pages that I never lost the ability to dream or see or know beauty. They were my drug of choice. I was saved from a drab and impoverished existence by them. I was saved from bullying by them. I was saved from opinions of the outside world by them. In order to graduate from the sixth grade, we had to log and do book reports on two thousand pages. My pages numbered in excess of twenty thousand, and I actually won some sort of award for having done so.

It is clear to me that being impoverished is a state of mind. Having traveled much of the world, I have seen many people with no money but much joy. These people are not impoverished, in fact some of them are most likely the richest people in the world. Joy and love create a richness all of there own. Happiness is it's own reward. God is infinite and unlimited and tapping into spirit brings about the sense of being unlimited. I have experienced this first hand many many times. And much like the story about going to the river with an eye dropper and going thirsty, while envying the man who brought a cup, far to many of us cripple ourselves in our lives by our own behaviors. Rejecting joy is a choice. It is harder physically and mentally as well. It is much easier to be happy than it is sad. You don't seem to have to work at happy, where sadness takes constant work to remain in that state of mind, so why do we bother? I wish I had the answer to that but do not.

What I do know is that in spite of what my bank account says about me, I feel rich and privileged. I look around at the beauty that I easily create and see evidence to back this up daily. I am nurtured by family and friends who are rich in spirit. My mind is incapable of sustaining a dull and grey world, and thanks to the lessons of life I know that I will never be or feel impoverished.