Finding joy as a respite from bullying

This morning, I longingly looked out the window at my poor garden, overgrown with five-foot tall weeds. The weeds are so pervasive, it is difficult to see the pink and white stargazer lilies, blue balloon flowers, and purple coneflowers that have somehow hidden themselves from the voracious deer’s nightly feeding frenzies. And then, I saw it. An emerald glimmer of beauty darting from one orange lily to another. A tiny hummingbird, and then a florescent yellow goldfinch, visiting my garden which only moments before seemed hopelessly, irretrievably choked off from anything resembling its former self as a source of joy.

I remember how this garden evolved. When my sons were small, I would tend this garden after work as my boys played in the front yard and sidewalk. This garden was always known as "Mom's garden" and it grew like my sons: starting out as dreams hatched while poring over January's blitz of garden catalogs, then planting the tiny bulbs, seeds, and plants, full of promise of what they would become. Despite my organic battles with slugs, rabbits, chipmunks, and squirrels, despite my battles with the school district to provide appropriate educations for my sons, despite my desperate entreaties to prevent my husband from compulsively borrowing yet more money to buy his custom-made shirts while continuing to pay off a corrupt contractor bent on cheating us with an addition that would never be completed, my garden and my sons grew into sources of great joy. I allowed myself to feel pride as my neighbors would compliment me on my garden, bursting with color and surprise pockets of flowers that enticed Monarchs, hummingbirds, and goldfinches. I allowed myself pride as my growing sons achieved in school, sports, and Boy Scouts. Ashamed of my inability to have a home life like my neighbors, I hid my efforts to single-handedly rebuild the kitchen, to patch kicked in doors, to save money while he went off on "guys only" scuba trips to Bonaire, and to fend off the verbal detritus of never being "good-enough."

And so, the festering winter of family dysfunction and divorce that had gradually sneaked into my life took over like dandelions in a yard during vacation. Shoved out, locked out, starved out, and cut off from adequate funds to defend myself in court and to pay my obligations, my garden and my relationships with my sons lay fallow. Occasional fleeting pockets of past joy would peek out as perennial flowers or furtive get-togethers with my sons tried to push their way through the choking weeds of dysfunction to sparkle in the sun before being stomped down by a neighbor's dog-do or a nasty Narcissistic communication from the Ex.

How can it still be such a Siberian winter when it is ninety degrees outside? Even though my ex took essentially everything, the Courts still seem bent on perpetuating, bent on enabling the continued denial of equal treatment, denying due process to those who, like me, do not have funds to fend off scorched earth divorce tactics. Friends ask how this could happen, aren't there laws to protect women in 26 year marriages? Aren’t there domestic abuse laws? Aren’t there laws preventing him from taking essentially all of the assets and retirement funds? What about the contributions I made to the marriage? How can the Court allow the father of my children to get away with taking everything, to get away with continued coercion, to get away with enforcing an unconscionable agreement forced upon me after continually denying me time and funds to hire adequate representation to protect my rights in court?

I only know that our legal system has become so inaccessible to those who don't have deep pockets to fend off abusive legal maneuvers that innocent people, coerced into confessions by the John Burges of the world, sit on death row awaiting vindication. I only know that the Goldman Sachs of the country can avoid admitting guilt as they pay a fine that is a mere pittance of the funds they stole. I only know that students with diverse learning needs only get an adequate education if their parents can afford private tutoring. I only know that women who are abused are only protected if they have their own deep pockets, their own funds to hire top-notch legal teams complete with public relations savvy.

I have come to believe that protective laws without adequate enforcement are worse than no laws at all. Reasonable people believe that, because there are protective laws, if a spouse is denied an equal share of the marital estate or a suspect is convicted of a crime, then it must be due to clear-cut fault or guilt. Claims of coercion are ignored and lives are forever ruined. Only if reasonable people, such as the Innocence Project at Northwestern, persevere to challenge the John Burges of the world, are convictions overturned, but many lives are forever ruined because of our two-tiered system of justice. Most of those who are cheated out of justice in divorce courts are told their only choice is to walk away and start over. Corrupt divorce lawyers, pockets bulging with family assets seized through churning cases, are never reported and move on to the next case.

Unfortunately, my ex is apparently not done with me yet. It seems he will not be satisfied until he has kept his promise to make me destitute and not satisfied unless I am homeless. He continues to use his attorneys to prevent me from reclaiming what belonged to me, to refuse to uphold his end of the unconscionable agreement, and continue his legalized harassment.

However, I also know that in the middle of this July day, this ninety degree winter of domestic abuse, I found a fleeting pocket of joy today. As I longingly looked out the window at my poor garden, overgrown with five-foot tall weeds, I saw that fleeting pocket of joy. The weeds are so pervasive, it is difficult to see the pink and white stargazer lilies, blue balloon flowers, and purple coneflowers that have somehow hidden themselves from the voracious deer’s nightly feeding frenzies. Right there, I saw it. An emerald glimmer of beauty darting from one orange lily to another. A tiny hummingbird, and then a florescent yellow goldfinch, visiting my garden which only moments before seemed hopelessly, irretrievably choked off from anything resembling its former self as a source of joy.

I must remind myself to nurture my garden, to hold onto those fleeting pockets of joy in relationships, and realize that, despite my current life of destitution, I AM capable of new ways to nurture healthy relationships with my sons, of creating things of beauty, and giving to others to make this world a better place.