Author Archives: Alan Ilagan

A few weeks ago I started seeing a therapist to work some things out – a few of which, I soon discovered, went back decades into the past. I should have done this a long time ago, but I simply wasn’t ready. For the last year or two, however, I felt myself stumbling along this path, toward a place of greater understanding and peace, even if the ways I was going about getting there were wayward and, let me finally say it, wrong. It took a few instances of lashing out to realize that I had masked some foundational fissures from childhood up to now with various substitutes for love. Sometimes it was easier to wear those masks, and in certain situations and areas, those masks were so convincing I managed to build up some authentic courage and self-confidence in the process of all the pretending. That can only get one so far, however, and when some of those masks crumbled, I was left vulnerable and afraid. It’s a feeling that has haunted me since I was very young. Perhaps that’s why I’ve tried so desperately to escape – in words, in wardrobe, in whimsy and wanton abandon. In the guise of what you see and read here. In this very post, at this very moment you are reading it. I’ve just begun to look back in a meaningful manner. There are many memories I’ve conjured here, many posts which revisit eventful days of the past, but I never delve too deeply because on some level I knew how dangerous that could be. That said, sometimes in order to get over something you must go through it – the pain, the fear, and the muck of one’s history, one’s life. I’ve started that dive into the treacherous pond of therapy, and though it’s taking an emotional toll, it feels very much worth it. I just need to make it through these next few weeks.

When I was a little boy I loved water lilies. I’m not sure why – we didn’t have them anywhere near our yard, and the only ones I saw flew by at 65 miles an hour as our car passed some tantalizing water feature while heading across the country on a family vacation. My mother had grown up with access to ponds that had water lilies, and she told me about lily pads and their flowers, so they ended up feeling magical, like something out of a myth or fable, and ever out of reach. Their homes – those glorious ponds teeming with life seen and unseen – embodied summer and, in a larger context, childhood. Drawn to water, probably because we were too often landlocked, my brother and I were fascinated by seas and oceans and rivers and lakes and ponds. Even the smallest stream or brook held enchanting allure – the gentle gurgling of the water cast like some irresistible spell. A pond dispersed a different sort of charm.

Ponds could be placid and tranquil, smooth and clear as glass when the atmosphere was still, barely a ripple on those sultry, tranquil days. But dive deep and suddenly all sorts of murky possibility could be turned up. It was possible to make a pond in your own backyard if you wished, provided you had enough space and power. You could fill it with water and let nature take hold. You can plant water lilies (water gardens are gaining in popularity with each passing year) and soon those lilies will take hold, sending down roots into the dark pond bottom, before sending shoots back up to the surface. Soon you’ll have water lily flowers in the heat and sun of summer, and the lily pads will expand outwardly, providing a perch for frogs and toads and turtles. A couple of cattails might take hold at the water’s edge, or perhaps a stand of pesky loosestrife that you’ll have to watch or eradicate. All in all, it could be a very pretty scene, but if you hadn’t been careful in the beginning, if you hadn’t made sure that there was an adequate basin with adequate nourishment, and no cracks or holes, then you would have to revisit it later on. Could you leave well enough alone and hope that enough layers of detriment had landed over the years to bury whatever mistakes lurked in the deep? Could you let it all go, allow it to remain buried and hidden, and go on with blooming on the surface? Yes. You could. And you might get away with it. You might escape the scary stuff of the depths, dark as night. Your pond might survive and thrive, and no dragonflies would ever sense your secret sorrow. But there is danger in that. You run the risk of having one of those beautiful water lily roots reaching into a poisonous patch of what you thought was in the past, and once it taps into such darkness it will send it up to its flower buds, stalling them in their growth, stunting their bloom, aborting their promise of beauty. There’s nothing sadder than a bud that is stillborn, especially when it comes from the root.

My therapy has begun in similar form, as if I have just taken a drill to the bottom of my life pond and begun dredging up all the things that looked and felt so perfect a few scant months ago, only to discover the mess and the flaws that went unaddressed and unadorned. It’s not pretty, and I tried for so long to make everything beautiful that at first it’s a bit overwhelming. But I need to get through it. I need to make it through the muck and make sure I can live with what’s at the bottom of my pond.

I passed by the little house with the mermaid on it just as dusk was settling on the Cape. No lights were on – a strange sight, since I hadn’t really seen the house in any other way than populated with people, bright with celebratory gatherings and lights of all sorts: candle, Christmas, and lamps. On this night, in the gloaming of a cold December afternoon, a Christmas tree sat dimly in the window, and my heart broke for my friend JoAnn who was, at that very moment, greeting people who were saying goodbye to her Mom.

Losing a parent is tough at any time of the year, but I would imagine it’s doubly so around the holidays. And losing a second parent at this time of the year must feel especially sorrowful. As I looked upon the empty house disappearing into the darkness, I thought of my friend and what she must be going through. It was a helpless feeling, with no way to line it with any sort of comfort. That’s the grief inherent in losing a loved one. There is no way around it, no way to soften its blow.

Unable to process it, I turned the corner toward JoAnn’s old home, just around the bend and looking over a pond. I paused at the edge of the water. The moon had come out. It still wound its way around the earth, it still reflected the sun’s light. The wind whipped around me and I remembered the parties where her Mom would sit beside me with a cup of tea. It was never cold then, not like it was now. There was warmth in our hearts, even when the fall arrived, and winter afterward. Now there is an emptiness, and I’m not sure it can ever be filled.

Driving back onto Shore Road, I took one last glance at JoAnn’s tree. The moon hovered above the house. The sky was deep blue. The mermaid shifted in shadow. The tears were silent.

A band of rogue turkeys roams the neighborhood.

I’ve heard stories told of turkeys that terrorize children at school bus stops, and from the size of these birds, they would indeed make for a formidable threat. 

Suzie’s had nightmares about turkeys. 

At least about thrushing them out. 

I forget if the turkeys were what scared her or if it was something else. Maybe a horse? Either way, not all turkey connotations are Thanksgiving and sweetness. 

I’ve also heard that turkeys aren’t very bright, which could make them even more dangerous. 

Ignorance results in injury. 

These birds are best left alone. 

Or served on a platter. 

A different sort of gobble-gobble.