Hi Peter:

I was afraid that the emotionality in my “WOW! I AM OLD!!!” post last night meant I was failing at being still—and at healing, transforming. Looking back, I realize I’d been thinking that stillness meant the absence of feeling—that healing was supposed to resemble the end of a fairytale: no more pain, no more noise, just a peaceful, happily-ever-after kind of hush, soft as a lullaby. ✨🎵💫

And that post of mine (like many others) was not… as soft as a lullaby.

Yet even though I was afraid that I was a burden to you—that my emotions were unwelcome—I wasn’t sorry that I submitted that post, or the others that came before or after it.

Your response today was as perfect as could be: no criticism, no disappointment—quite the opposite. It was gentle, compassionate, respectful, humble.

If only I had someone like you in my young life…!

For a moment, back then, I did. It was an uncle who asked me a question. I don’t remember the question, only that I’d never experienced anyone wanting to know what I thought in such an open, inviting way—not waiting for me to answer “wrong” so they could punish me for it.

I think I was going to answer him in that magical moment, but my mother sat there beside him, looking at me with those dark, threatening eyes and slightly raised corners of her mouth… warning me. So I stayed silent—on the outside.

I never got to thank him for asking me that question.

Fast forward so many, many years—and now, you are like that uncle. And there is no one sitting beside you threatening me.

So many years of suppression, day after day, night after night, decade after decade. I did express myself through poetry as a teenager and in my early twenties… but she read my poems and gave me that disapproving look—with those same slightly raised corners of her mouth.

There was also that art class where I drew hands reaching out from a person’s head (my own), demanding HELP.

And there were bursts of laughter here and there.

But mostly, it was a desperate, depressed, suppressed kind of existence.

So here I EXPRESS—and express and express—and it makes me feel alive. A life worth living.

Thank you so much, Peter. Like I told you before: you’re the bee’s knees—one of a kind, in my humble estimation.

Anita

More Expression because I can. Whatever comes to mind:

Do you see the photo above my name? That’s me a few months ago, I still look the same and dress the same and have my hair in a pony tail. And I still weigh about the same, 108-110 pounds at 5’5”. I care about looking like that, YOUNG (from a distance.. ha-ha), torn jeans, no make up, like a girl, a girl I didn’t get to be when physically young.

It’s just that I need to look young, to feel young- because I didn’t get to experience those things as a girl, a teenager, a young adult. I was definitely old way before my time.

My life was a life put-on-hold, postponed for a better time, a time that did not come to be.

I was dancing to live music outdoors a few months ago. A girl (preteen) was dancing with me, jumping, so I thought I’d jump with her, and I did, for a long time. It was heavenly. My knees hurt for a few das after, but I did Jump, I did Dance!

The other day, I danced with older people, a woman in her 80s. It was MAGICAL!!!

Well, this is it for now 🕺👯‍♀️🎶🎤💃🏼🔥🕺🏽🌟

Anita

Dear Peter:

It’s so like you—not to demand or instruct, but to invite so gently (“I hear the beginning of a song”). You offer openings, not expectations, and that’s something I deeply value in the way you communicate.

I’ll be thinking of a song… and wishing you rest and renewal during your offline time.

Until next time, Anita 🌿🎵

I’m not usually awake at this time, after midnight- technically, Sat morning- dark, totally dark, finally. No Longer Friday.

Wow! It really is dark. Had to wait till past midnight to get rid of the last of sunshine that held tight to yesterday.

It really is the day after. These few precious hours of in-between.

And it is raining, steadily, heavily!

12:20 am.

No birds. I miss them, as always. Birds- my best friends.

Don’t forget me, don’t forget Life- Be back, back to me. I miss you.

Anita

❤️ back to you, Alessa!

Anita

Dear Alessa:

Thank you for your thoughtful message—I really appreciate how open and caring you are in the way you communicate.

I think I may have accidentally given the wrong impression in something I wrote to Peter. I mentioned to him that I appreciated the way he offered invitations instead of expectations—but that wasn’t meant as a contrast to how you speak with me. I’ve genuinely found your words warm, empathetic, and thoughtful. I feel that you come from a place of kindness, not instruction—and I really appreciate that.

Your British sense of care absolutely comes through, and it feels sincere and grounding. So please don’t worry—you haven’t done anything wrong at all. I’m grateful for your presence and the steady kindness you bring, and I do wish for connecting more 🫂🌷🌱

With warmth and appreciation, Anita ❤️

Journaling—just typing what’s on my mind- trigger Warning..:

It’s the 10th day of the Israel–Iran war, and not even a full day since the U.S. launched its attack on Iran. That’s the big picture. But within it, four members of my family whom I deeply care about, two I’ve never met—live under the shadow of the next missile, caught in a deadly game of Russian roulette. Who is hit, who is spared—it comes down to chance. Nothing more.

Then there’s the smaller, more personal picture: my 85-year-old mother, over there—frail, stooped, and unwell—could die at any moment. If not from a missile, then from the slow, ongoing erosion of her body.

And still, some tiny part of me— almost extinguished, but not quite—still longs to reach her. To reach her heart. To make her SEE me, HEAR me, Notice me.

Growing in—not up, but inward, shrinking into myself—I was a non-entity in the space between my mother and I. She was Everything, and I was Nothing. There was simply no room for me, so I was alive only, mostly, in the biological sense.

And now—she’s dying.

So yes, part of me wants to be there. To hold her, to let her know…

But she can’t. She never could see me, hear me, or notice my love for her.

It was always like I wasn’t there all those years and decades- nothing but a ghost.

It was only a dream that she might one day see me as more than a two-dimensional item: something to be fed, clothed, and taken to the doctor when burning with fever.

It wasn’t her fault. She simply couldn’t.

And I know, without a doubt, that she still can’t—maybe even less so now, in her frailty and decline.

Yet I believe there’s a part of her, locked deep within, that still longs for life. And for love. I can’t reach that part. I never could.

So I reach toward people here, in these forums, hoping—maybe, just maybe—I can reach someone.

And in that reaching, I am finding myself. No longer an object, but a three-dimensional being. A person. A human.

I am settling into a 3D existence. Giving space to my feelings. Exhaling the breath I’ve held in for far too long.

Decades of waiting to exhale.

Sitting here on this quiet Sunday late morning, almost noon, birds in the background- not loud, but still alive- I take it one day at a time, one hour at a time, because truly this is all I have, and this is all anyone has. The “happily ever after” is nothing but a fairytale- an imagining of youth.

Five minutes ago, some part of the Iranian regime has announced it’s getting ready for another wave of attack.. Sunday, 9:35 PM in Israel, 10:35 PM in Iran, one minute, one hour at a time.

And back to my mother-myself, where it all began for me: it’s the story of trying to reach the unreachable. In the core of me is that hopeless pursuit- to reach her, and in so doing, to get her to notice me and.. in so doing, to give myself the right to exist, the legitimacy to exist- as a 3-D creature, an animal, a person, a human being.. not a 2-D item.

Sunday, noon-time (12 pm) here, Sunday 10 pm in Israel, Sunday 11 pm in Iran.. next missile…?

Anita

Dear Alessa:

“I think it was one of your posts that wasn’t addressed specifically where you mentioned that you didn’t want sympathy or empathy.’- it was just for that moment, for that particular thing, in that particular post that I didn’t want empathy.

I have been taking in your empathy for some time, Alessa, and it means a lot to me ❤️

You have an amazing skill and talent, Alessa, in expressing empathy and thoughtfulness. You are one of a kind. Thank you so very much for your kind words!!! 🙏💐💛🌟🫶✨🌸 

Anita