Kristine E. Brickey

For years, I have believed and shouted out that there is no such thing as coincidence. What happened this week had simply reaffirmed!  We are supposed to be on vacation this week, floating in the lake, enjoying the view of my horse in the mini-paddock as we laze under the camper awning, laughing with my parents over grilled burgers and brats.  Life happened and we had to stay home. Sad. Life happened and we had to stay home. Whoo!  The multiple events I was going to miss instantly popped into the emptied vacation slots on my calendar.  Making lemonade from lemons. Silver lining.       Thursday morning writing with MMWG in Ionia. Yay!      Friday night, Artist's Umbrella: Art is Shelter. Yay!      Saturday afternoon I can go visit my cousin at the Grand Ledge Arts & Crafts fair and Sunday I can ride my Mustang with friends all day long. Yay! Any of these would have been enough to ease the loss of lazy vacation days with my hubby, dogs, horse, and hilarious parents. Last night, T

*Note: This has been spinning around in my head since early June, and then, last night, I listened to brilliant artists speak at The Creative Collective around issues of discrimination, injustice, and equity. I listened to Mason families share horrifying experiences of being attacked and assaulted by racist terrorists, in my own town. This morning, I woke early, knowing it was past time to write this piece. It isn't much. It probably won't change the stock of options. It certainly hasn't erased the images evoked last night or from the card shopping, but writing is what I do, and it will lead to more. Change can't happen if we ignore the world around us. Father's Day was approaching, as I  stood before the cards. Hundreds before me to choose from, I began picking up one, skimming the words briefly, knowing instantly if it was right, for Dad, from me, his daughter. Card after card, almost blindly searching, and then one hit me, perfect I thought, reading the inside ag

  Breathing out memories   Take a deep breath, I told her. No, deeper. Breathe in for five seconds. Hold it for five. Now, breathe out for five…six…seven. I held her hands for round after round, guiding, leading, until she quit shaking, could look at me without tears flooding her cheeks.    Life hurls us into moments we might wish had never happened, that seem impossible to survive, but then we keep breathing. In for five. Hold for five. Out for five.    Loved ones die. Breathe in. Breathe out.    Lovers betray, batter, make us believe less of ourselves. Breathe in. Breathe out.    One day passes, and we survive. We breathe in the memories of that person, that event. We take it all in. Remember their smiles, their laughter, the silly and the painful. We hold the memories tight, fight the heaving in our chests that try to split our hearts wide open. We breathe them out, releasing the tightness, the pain, the horror of loss, no matter the reasons. We breathe in, and breathe out.    A wee

Surviving my first was expensive but empowering.  Surviving my second almost ended me.  It wasn’t the financial ruin he actively attempted, though that could have been enough. It wasn’t the social ruin he felt he could impose. It was the internal shame he set off. It was replaying the red flags, knowing that I should have acknowledged them well before we married. It was knowing that I had felt the breeze from those red flags, heard the whump of snapping fabric as the winds of ‘holy shit, what did he just say/do to you?’ raged around me. After leaving, after counseling, after building up my strength and finally standing proudly on my own, I stopped questioning myself, and instead began asking:       Why did HE do this, why did HE treat me this way, why did HE feel it was acceptable to lie and steal and bully, why didn’t THEY believe ME? I became a survivor.  I chose this path.  I didn’t quit.  I didn’t drive my car off that curved section of highway into the solid bulk of that ancient o