Sweet Lemonade Out of Wrinkly Limes.

She was a gentle spirit who sang her prayers, but even the saintly have limits. She was an artist, a singer, a storyteller. She was a mother, a daughter, a wounded healer sought out by her neighbors for comfort and answers. She was my hero, my teacher, my friend.

She was crafts and science projects of carrot tops in shallow saucers or bird seeds in eggshells which later resembled a miniature forest on our windowsill. She was pastel colored chicks at Easter, picnics, and carousels at the park in summer. She was happy Christmas carols a shiny aluminum Christmas trees with bright blue ornaments.

I was her daughter – sometimes rude, sometimes impatient, but always in awe of the brave woman who could make a tall glass of sweet lemonade when life gave her a bowl of tart, wrinkled, old limes.

full drinking glass with slice of lime — Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

The Cat, the Rooster, and the Young Mouse from Aesop’s Fables

Letter C (A to Z April 2019 Challenge)

I am using two books for comparison as I share opinions or impressions of Aesop’s Fables. The first is Aesop’s Favorite Fables Children’s Classic Collection, illustrated by Milo Winter and was first published in 1919. The illustrations and moral teachings are certainly consistent with that era. The “Great War,” WW1 had just ended and the ongoing issues at the time in this country include such things as “the Prohibition,” “Red Scare,” woman’s suffrage, worker strikes, and race riots.

The second book I’m using is Aesop’s Fable, illustrated by Caldecott Honor winner, Jerry Pinkney and published in 2000. I borrowed the book from the public library because of the illustrations. Although the pictures are less in Pinkney’s book, I find them pleasing to look at for children and adults alike. The language is simple and more in accord with the way I speak. The moral of the story is presented closer to reflecting my personal view. I find it a more positive and empowering message. I will use some of the illustrations from these books throughout the challenge.

Today I’m sharing a story I was not familiar with, but I find it amusing and certainly reflects a lesson in life that I learned long ago.

“APPEARANCES CAN BE DECEIVING. “ Jerry Pinkney (2000)

It seems a young mouse was beginning to get restless about getting out of the mouse den and seeing the world. He urged his mother to let him go out independently to explore and have an adventure. The wise mother agreed but told him he couldn’t stay away long. She instructed that when he was out and about to pay attention so that he could tell her everything he saw.

A short while after, the young mouse came running back as quick as his little legs could carry him and shaking in terror. “ Oh, Mother! There are strange things out there! I was enjoying the pleasant walk when I came across a beautiful creature with a thick golden fur coat and bright, shining eyes. She seemed so kind and gentle as she lay quietly in the grass. When she saw me, she waved her long fluffy tail and smiled. I would have gone over to speak to her and make her acquaintance, but out of nowhere came the most frightening beast! He was tall and loud with red meat hanging from his chin and on his head. The creature frantically tore at the ground with clawed feet, and when he saw me, he beat his arms hysterically at his side and shrieked ‘Cock-a-doodle-do!’ I was so frightened; I came home as fast as I could!”

“My dear son,” said the mother, “that beautiful, kind and gentle creature that you speak of is a cat. Cats would like to have young mice like you for dinner. The terrible monster you describe is but a rooster that prefers seeds or grains and small things he finds in the grass. He would certainly not come after you. Be thankful that you escaped with your life. Next time you when you go away, be more careful and remember, never judge others by their looks.”

How many times do we fall into that way of thinking? If we are honest, we must admit that we all have our biases and prejudices. I am reminded to “not judge a book by its cover.” I try to trust my gut and give others the benefit of the doubt. It’s a belief that is not 100% foolproof but for the most part, it has served me well.

#AtoZChallenge #April 2019

Illustration by Milo Winter (1919)

Another year with A to Z Challenge

Aesop’s Fables for Our Times.

clip art — the grasshopper and the ant (clipart)

A year ago I participated in the A to Z April 2018 writing challenge. I had read about it on a blog that I follow, and it seemed like a perfect opportunity for me to commit to writing every day. I was too late to register for the official challenge or develop a theme, but none the less, I participated by sharing mental snapshots forged in my memories and used the letter of the day for my title or opening sentence.

I promised myself that the following year, 2019, I would be prepared with a theme and even planned to write some posts beforehand so that I would not feel so overwhelmed or pressured to write posts daily for 26 days. Life became somewhat complicated as the year passsed and my best intentions did not get me very far.

I do have a theme; however, it is Life Lessons with a Parable-A-Day. The idea for came about as I reviewed and revised some of my writing. I noticed that most of my blog posts share a memory and a life-lesson or a philosophy of life that I have as a result of my experiences. Sometimes my thoughts may seem cliché while others are a new take on a common belief.

Aesop’s fables have been a favorite collection of mine since I was a child. An elderly neighbor gave my mother a few vinyl Disney albums with music and stories that had belonged to her children. We played them over and over. Through the years, I’ve remembered stories especially the catchy tune “The world owes me a living, which ends with “I owe the world a living.”

My beginning post reminds me that we can count our blessings, but the world does not owe us a living. If we are able-bodied, we must work and strive for our own happiness and personal fulfillment. I’m not necessarily talking about money or status; I’m talking about taking personal responsibility for our lives, including reaching out for help when we need it.

Hope you can enjoy this old Disney cartoon that I’ve included. It’s funny to see how far they have come with animation. Please come back and share your own favorite fables and life lessons.

https://youtu.be/NWAIOuWoa6g?t=22

#AtoZ Challenge #letter A

My color is Ecru Cream

Alternative title – A Roze by any other name is still a Roze

I Have Been Weary

The other day, Jill Dennison of Filosofa’s Word posted “A SHARED OPINION …” in which she shared an article by Charles M. Blow of the NY Times, titled “You Have a Right to Weariness.” As usual, Jill’s comments to this article echoed my own thoughts. It is a great opinion piece for our time of unsettling barrage of news stories. I have been weary.” It’s not in my nature to ignore world events around me. My eighth grade Social Studies teacher taught me, “Those that fail to learn from history, are doomed to repeat it.” Winston Churchill. Unfortunately, watching current events unfold makes me feel like I’m watching a train wreck about to happen, but I’ve no superpowers to stop it.

I thought I was Over It

As I attempt a smooth transition to my “Third Act of Life,” I am dealing with feelings and frustrations that I thought I had overcome or mastered years ago. You see, I am a woman of color, I like to say it’s “Ecru Cream.” I describe Ecru Cream as a very light beige, like raw linen- almost white, but not quite. I lived most of my life that way-almost white.

I am No One’s Anchor

I was conceived in Puerto Rico, and when my grandparents found out that their 22-year-old, unmarried daughter was pregnant; they sent her to Pennsylvania to stay with her married older sister, Evangeline. Evangeline had migrated to the States a few of years before when her husband returned from his tour of duty for the US Army. They bought a house and started a family. My grandparents decided that Evangeline would be a good role model to help her sister in this situation, and so my journey of life began just outside “the City of Brotherly Love.”

No, I was not an “anchor baby.” My parents were born American citizens in Puerto Rico, and my grandparents were granted citizenship as young adults in 1917. My grandfather was drafted to the US Military shortly after, just in time for WWI. Brooklyn

Nuyoricans “Passing” for an Opportunity

After I was born, my father came to see us at Aunt Evangeline’s house, and since my mother was “the love of his life;” we moved with him to New York City. We joined his older sisters and brother who migrated and settled in Brooklyn. My parents seemed to quickly become accustomed to the new culture and way of life while maintaining and blending the traditional customs of the major holidays. We used to tease my mother that she learned how to be “American” by watching “I Love Lucy” and Days of Our Lives.”

My parents socialized very little with friends outside of work so that we spent our weekends and holidays with family. For the most part, my family is very light skinned; my cousins and I grew up without accents, and our last names did not end in “Z.” These characteristics gave people an opportunity to get to know us before realizing that we were just an illusion of whiteness. Yes, we were “passing” as a means to have a chance.

In school, at the church and in the neighborhood, our friends were not Puerto Rican. Our friends were the first or second generation of immigrants. They were Italians, Irish, French, English, Polish, Canadian, Brazilian or Middle Eastern. Most spoke a second language at home. Together we navigated the Melting Pot culture of NYC and were absorbed into the American Dream.

Celebrity Magic Shows and Miracle Excelsiors

It wasn’t all easy peasy as my granddaughter likes to say and when I hear the rhetoric, I can’t help but feel a bit of fear and frustration. I continue to say that DJT is not the problem. He is who he is and who he has been. He didn’t get more obnoxious on the campaign trail. He did gain more visibility. I was not a fan of his before, not as a businessman or as a celebrity. I never watched his reality TV show and rolled my eyes whenever he did a cameo in a movie that took place in NYC. I was one of those that would have bet my last dollar that he would not get into the White House. The American people would never vote a con-man into the highest, most powerful office in the country. By Election Day, I had changed my mind. I watched how Americans adored his bravado and his magic displays with smoke and mirrors. I was not surprised by his win at all. Mostly though, I was hurt. I continue to feel betrayed by friends and family.

A Christian Education

I knew race tensions existed, and I was aware the KKK was still alive and well, but the events of the past couple of years reach me at a very personal level. I am reminded of my years as a young adult, my first year away from home in a Christian Bible college. It was a small Bible College in the North East, about an hour outside of The City. In was presented as “interdenominational” in promotional events and material. The leader of my city wide “interdenominational” Christian high school club recommended it highly. Interdenominational meant that all Christians around the world were welcome. Even though Baptists founded it, the school welcomed students from Presbyterians to Pentecostals in all shapes, sizes, and color. We had to include a photo with our application.

By the end of my first semester, I learned that indeed all that glitters is not gold and whitewashing walls is a quick, effective way to cover up dirt and imperfections. We learned that the school accepted minorities and international students of color in pairs, one man and one woman. It was preferable if they were already married. One of our friends was “spoken to” because people saw her around campus accompanied by a Brown student. To be truthful, I don’t remember what country he was from, but in my memory, I recall him as perhaps from India or Pakistan. The girl was so upset by this situation that she did not return next semester.

The Founder and President of the school taught a class on Dispensations. It was in his class that I decided not to come back after my second semester. I did not go back to my local church either. His beliefs did not resemble the Christianity I learned at home. His lessons were peppered with digs and condescending, derogatory remarks about other denominations that were not entirely in accord with Baptist dogma. I questioned my beliefs, my faith. It was years before I returned to an organized religious community.

Who Are My Friends?

There were many other things about the school that made me uncomfortable,but the most hurtful thing occurred after I left the school. I had become close friends with my roommate and a few of the girls in my dorm. Gwen, Margaret and I were inseparable. Margaret and I made plans to visit our boyfriends at a Christian College in New England next semester. I continued to correspond with the girls by snail mail. One day I received a letter from Margaret. One line in the message hit me like a gut punch. “Gwen and I miss you so much; we had to adopt another inner-city girl.” Wow! I thought we were friends, real friends. I thought she was my friend because we had a lot in common because I was smart, witty and fun to be around. She saw me as an inner-city-girl who went to her school on a partial scholarship and lived in her dorm.

Disguised, They Came For the Immigrants…

Years later, I was working at a psychiatric day services program is a New England city nicknamed “The City of Immigrants.” One day, after the clients left, and we were meeting to review the day’s events and planning. There was construction going on around us, and the noise prompted a co-worker, Doug, to make some awful comments, similar to DJT’s views, about the men who were working on the project.

The workers were mostly brown men if I had to guess they were probably from countries in South America and the Caribbean. “I can’t believe you just said that,” I told him. His response to justify his words was worse. I explained that these men could very well be my cousin, brother, or father. While he had never been disrespectful to me or made racist comments of our clients in front of me, it hurt me that he thought this way of these people he didn’t even know – just because of the color of their skin and their accents.

Doug was a man that I worked with for several years; we co-facilitated successful groups, we walked together at lunch, had our coffee together, I considered him a close friend. He finally said, “I’m sorry, I just wasn’t thinking.” It didn’t make it any better if anything, it made it worse that he wasn’t thinking about the impact of his words. Things were never the same between us.

Then They Came for Me…

People forget I am not “white,” I am a woman “of color,” Ecru Cream is my color. If our country were to continue to erase all the progress made regarding equality for all people; if as a nation we lose respect for basic human rights what is left for us? What becomes of me, of my family? If someone comes knocking on my door and drags me away because of a flippant comment I made on Twitter, will my friends stand up for me? Will they say, “Well, you shouldn’t have said that after all, he is our President.” I remember the words of Martin Niemoller, “… Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.”

All this rhetoric brings all these emotions to the surface. DJT did not get to the White House on his own merits. Witnessing day after day that our lawmakers condone and defend his actions is very draining. I am reminded again: “…and when an experience is not retained, as among savages, infancy is perpetual. Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” — George Santayana

Hope for Rational Government

The recent elections bring some hope that people realize that the current events are not just politics and business as usual, nor are they healthy for our Democracy. On the flip side, the recent election shows that there is still lots of work to be done. The numbers were too close for comfort, and there were too many mistakes and too much irregularity at the polls. Yes, I am weary, but I am hoping that tempered and rational thought comes with the new legislators to Congress before we resort to “Hunger Games” for the dignity and survival of the 98%.

Left Behind after a Death

A social media post reminded me the other night that it was a year to the day since my cousin, Joe died. I’m sad I didn’t remember, I spoke to his mom earlier that day. We talked for an hour about all sorts of trivial things, but she didn’t mention him till we were wrapping up. Even then, she told me it was his wife that missed him. She said: “Lizzy called this morning and told me she had been dreaming of Joe.” I’m usually more on the ball and can pick up things with my “third ear.” She called because she was sad, but I missed it.

I grew up close to my cousin and his sister. Our families would get together every weekend when we were kids in Brooklyn. He was the best man at my brother’s wedding. He went to prep school in New England on a scholarship, and after that, as the years past, we saw each other very little. I know he was a family man; crazy about his kids and a good husband. His son posted a sweet memorial that day and wished his dad would have been around to meet his first granddaughter.

When hurricane Maria caused chaos in Puerto Rico, Joe went to get his recently widowed mom and brought her back to stay with his family until he was sure things were better in her town. It was November when he dropped his mom off at the airport. That day, Joe told his mom that he wasn’t planning to retire anytime soon. He liked his job and was in good health. “I’m in it for the long haul,” he told her. They said goodbye, and he went to work. A few hours later, a co-worker found him slumped over his desk. It was his heart. He was 60 years old. My aunt didn’t go to the funeral; she didn’t want to see her little boy buried.

This incident got me thinking about how after death, life goes on around us here on earth. I remember feeling disconnected from everything and everyone whenever I’ve lost someone very close to me. I sat at my desk one day holding back tears because I was in pain and the world keep spinning on its tilted axis. The sun and the moon each came up as scheduled, people worked, laughed and played all around me as they had the day before and the day before that. I wanted to scream “STOP! It still hurts, Can’t you see? I’ve lost a part of me.” Intellectually, I know we all take turns with grieving one thing or another; and we all grieve differently, but at that moment, it hit me how personal grieving really is, but as they say, “the beat goes on.”

Growing up, as an Evangelical in Brooklyn, I knew nothing of the “Day of the Dead” traditions. In that fundamentalist religious culture, anything otherworldly is anathema, considered evil and would lead straight to perdition. It is that way for Halloween and the “pagan” Gaelic origins in Samhain. I find it interesting that both the Aztecs and ancient people of Scottish-Irish islands had similar celebrations before Christianity got to there. I was curious and learned that other ancient cultures in addition to China and Japan also set aside one day to celebrate or honor the dead ancestors.

I found out later in life that my grandparents traditionally celebrated the Day of the Dead, but with a somber tone. Even though they were not Catholic, they liked to be respectful of the family members who passed on before them. It was a day of quiet reflection for them. When I converted to Catholicism several years ago, I found the celebrations of All Souls Day and All Saints very comforting. I’m glad that the Church did not erase the sentiment behind these “pagan” traditions.

In my family, we have lost many loved ones prematurely by today’s standards, but really who is to say how many days are in the itinerary for this journey. Because we don’t know, we are encouraged to live each day to the fullest, to take every opportunity or to “make it a great day.” What happens when things don’t work out the way we plan?

A long time ago, I decided to embrace the idea that life or success is not a straight shot. At least it hasn’t worked that way for me or others I have met along the way. As I mentioned to someone the other day, getting to our goal is perhaps more like using the subway system or public transit to get our errands done at the different stops along the way. Let’s say we have a “to do” list, and sometimes we forget or miss an item and have to go back, or we find something interesting but unexpected, and we are detained for longer than we planned.

Of course, sometimes the train malfunctions and we need to rethink our strategy. The problem is out of our control, but we need to get things done. What do we do? We get out and walk, take the next train, find other means of transportation or look at how we can rearrange priorities to maximize our time.

I’ve been fortunate to have great role models. Grandparents, parents, aunts, and uncles who taught me that is possible to overcome obstacles. I have heard stories of any one of them who was helpful to someone in need, even though they may have been confronting their own struggles. People remember them with love and admiration.

None of them were famous or of great wealth, but they left a mark that they were here. During these days of celebrating life and death, I didn’t light candles or put out food for their visit, but I remember them and honor their lives every day. And if there is a bridge or door or whatever for the spirits of our loved ones to visit, I hope they are pleased with how their seeds have grown and flourished.

I loved the movie “Coco” #Disney magic.

Why Bring Flowers?

Used to be Love, Flowers, and Goodbye

Tildie slowly exhaled and closed her laptop. Every morning after meditations, she checked her emails and social media. Now and then Tildie would come across the story of the eighty-year-old man who walked five miles to have breakfast with his wife in a memory care facility. When people asked him why he continued to go daily for so many years if she didn’t remember him; his answer always gave Clotilde “Tildie” Delsapo reason to pause: “She doesn’t remember me, but I remember her, and I haven’t forgotten how we used to be.”

Tildie dressed this morning with an old Barbara Streisand – Neil Diamond duet on her mind. The song, “You Don’t Bring Me Flowers” had taken on a new meaning for her. On rough days she would sing it fighting back the tears.

Today Tildie decided to stop on her way and buy fresh flowers from the garden nursery. She knew Sergio could still appreciate the beauty and perhaps the sweet fragrance would trigger a memory. She would make sure there were sprigs of lavender with hopes that somewhere in his new world he would find her.

At one time Sergio and Tildie were two spirits bound by love flying high above the clouds and earthly troubles. It wasn’t all rainbows and chocolates, but she had chosen to file the bad memories in a separate place. Tildie remembered the laughter, the tenderness and the adventures they shared. She remembered their late night talks. In her arms he was able to unlock the complex emotions he kept hidden from the rest. Tildie recalled how finding a smiley face on a post-it note in her notebook, kept a silly grin on her face for the rest of the day.

Sergio Miviere taught her many things about the world, about love, about herself. He helped her believe in her talents and pursue her dreams. Sometimes as they ate ice cream by the seashore, they would people watch. They would sit close together and whisper stories. They could build on each other’s imagination to create vignettes about their surroundings. “How do you come up with this stuff?” he told her often as he giggled like a small boy.

He had a scholar’s mind and could rationalize or give explanations in great detail about anything. Teaching was second nature, everything was a life-lesson, and she loved to hear him talk about the world around them. Yes, she thought, intelligence IS sexy.

She first started to notice a problem, when he talked to her of people she didn’t know, or he would say, “Remember the other day we were at …” but she had never been there. He had been there for business or with friends. She wanted to ignore the signs, but others started to ask concerned questions.

By far the saddest moment was when Sergio finally put aside his pride and acknowledged that his difficulty went beyond distraction or the stress having a lot on his mind. She watched him change before her eyes as he became angry and fearful of what was to come. Tildie promised Sergio all her love; to be with him forever.

In the years that followed they took extra care to cherish every moment. Every sunrise and sunset marked another day they were together. They received each day in gratitude, but little by little Sergio went down a path that left Tildie behind, alone to make difficult decisions.

The day Sergio moved to the care center was just another day of muddled talk and confusion for him. He stared at the ceiling as they helped him to bed unable to find words to ask questions. In that bed, Tildie left a shell of the man she loved, but also a piece of her heart. That night she couldn’t sleep, and the next morning she was at the Center by his bed before he awoke. He didn’t know who she was, but she knew him. She remembered who they used to be, Sergio and Tildie.

On good days Tildie thought there was a flicker of recognition. He would let her lay in bed with him. She liked to believe that his spirit remembered hers. She held him and sang to him “May I have this Dance?” until he fell asleep.

Today there was a vase of fresh flowers on the desk by the window with sprigs of lavender. Sergio’s eyes widened, perhaps in recognition of a memory they shared, but he no longer had the words. These moments had become Tildie’s life. How could she learn to say goodbye?

The more I write, the more I become aware of my process, and I’m beginning to see patterns in my writing. Even though I don’t post every day, I make it my business to sit down and work on something. I wrote this piece for my critique group this week. It’s flash fiction, and my challenge is trying to stay within the 750 words. I looked at some things in my drafts folder and started a few other stories, but nothing seemed to motivate me enough to put energy into it.

I went to see the new “A Star is born” last weekend. It was excellent on its own but some aspects still reminded me of Barbara Streisand. I started playing some of my favorites and was inspired to write this story with limited knowledge on the subject. It was well received in the group. Coincidently, another writer shared a personal account and a few poems about the same topic from a different point of view followed by some interesting discussion. I got some great suggestions which I will work on in the future, but it will certainly be more than 750 words.

(Pictures are not my own. Borrowed from Pexels on WordPress)

There is no magic to forgive and forget

I read another sad post the other day about relationships and the conundrum/riddle of forgive and forget. I believe one can forgive someone for hurting us and continue life without resentment or hold a grudge toward that person. Without going to any textbook explanation, but rather based on pure personal observation, I believe that not forgetting what has hurt us, is merely an instinct for survival. We need to remember danger to learn to avoid it.

My dog hates medicine for her ears, it fizzles in her ear as it goes down. It has been years since she’s had an infection, but if she hears me shaking a bottle with liquid, she stands by the stairs waiting to see if I am going to come after her. If she sees me taking a step in her direction, she runs up the stairs and under my bed. If I give her a piece of cheese or meat, she will smell it first to make sure there isn’t medicine in it. She had a treat in her mouth once, tasted the medicine, promptly spit it out and ran up the stairs and under my bed. I also have a seven-year-old niece that has severe allergies that sometimes cause anything from severe swelling to seizures. From about age three and a half; she understood that some foods make her feel very sick. Before she orders at a restaurant or any new environment she will say: “I have allergies, does this have…” It is truly a matter of survival for her.

While the breakdown of the relationship can refer to romantic partners, parent-child, siblings or best friends, the premise is the same. One person hurt another, and a trust was broken. Does it really matter why? I believe that to expect a person to forget is selfish and would appear that your wishes, personal need to feel better or comfortable with the situation, are more important than the other person’s healing process.

I often hear “I apologized and promised not to do it again. I’m trying to make it up to him. What more does she want? Why does she/he keep bringing it up? ” News flash, It’s not about you; it’s their healing process. They want to be OK. They want to stop hurting, to heal, and be able to trust again. You can’t speed it up, and you can’t make it better. The process needs to come from within the person. If you are honestly doing all you can do, keep doing it and wait it out. There is no quick fix or magic potion. Sometimes on the other side healing, that person may decide they are OK, but they don’t want or can’t be OK with you, and you will need to accept that.

We are all selfish to a degree. I like the analogy that we are all protagonist in our very own movie. We all wish life was perfect; that the sun would shine brightly every day and that it rains only on our flower beds. No one wants to feel pain, and we all wish that our happiness is all that mattered to anyone we encounter. Even the most loving, giving person hopes that someday, out of the blue, someone would do something special for them in appreciation.

I believe time does heal but doesn’t mean things go back to the way they were. When a broken bone heals, there are signs that healing took place. When something is mended, the repair makes it stronger; but sometimes it continues to be weak in that area. Some people do manage to find that special place again but it takes work, and it takes time to rebuild that trust and with it to restore that loving feeling.

I used to hate it when my friend would say “It is what it is. There is no magic.” One year I gave her ruby-red slippers and a magic wand from the costume store with a note that said “BELIEVE” written in fairy dust sprinkle. I still believe in the supernatural power of love but sometimes, it is what it is, and there IS no magic wand.

Each Day the Sun Rises

Life is not what it’s supposed to be. It’s what it is. The way you cope with it is what makes the difference. Virginia Satir http://www.brainyquote.com

The ocean’s waves came up, splashed around her and sprayed her face as she sat there waiting. She smiled. It was a good omen, she thought, like when the Priest comes around sprinkling everyone with Holy Water. Luella Delsapo came out for a walk early this morning, the beach town just starting to stir, the tide was out and the morning was gray. The sand, full of tiny holes and bubbles was cold and damp under her feet. She didn’t care that the rocks were still wet as she took a seat to gaze at the horizon. It was chilly for summer, and she was glad she brought a shawl. She sipped tea from her travel mug and took a deep breath. The salty air of a brand new day filled her lungs, and she breathed again deeper into her belly. She tried to relax.

Luella liked watching the sunset and closing the day with a colorful display, but she loved the sunrise. There was something promising about imagining a Higher Power slowly pulling up the shades to let the sunlight fill the day and bring us out of the darkness. Compared to sunsets, the morning colors seemed softer, gentler to her as the lavenders and pinks turned to honey behind the brilliant golden ball. Luella was not disappointed this morning. As the sun crowned the horizon, she closed her eyes to take it all in- the sounds, the smells, the cool breeze on her face; she waited for the sun to warm her. Luella Delsapo had longed to be here. She needed to be here.

She had visited other beaches, like the beautiful beaches in the Caribbean with aquamarine waters and parades of colorful fish. She had been to the white sand beaches along the Gulf of Mexico and enjoyed watching dolphins in their natural habitat. It was as if they performed their dance just for the pleasure of being alive. But it was this gray, rocky beach that through the years collected much of her tears. She came after the heartaches or to remember loved ones on her personal memorial days. It was this part of the immense ocean that allowed the winds to take away the hurt and give her the strength to start over. It was here she dared to dream again, and that’s what she came back for.

Recently when a friend passed expectantly, Luella heard the words one can’t escape at every funeral. The expressions of condolences are meant to be of comfort, but after the one-hundredth time, they seem to lose meaning. Well-intended friends and family try to be reassuring with phrases like “she’s in a better place” or “he’s no longer in pain” or “they would not want to see you suffering”; Luella remembered. She had heard it all more than once.

The first time Luella lost someone close, it was shocking to her that a person can actually feel the physical pain of a broken heart. She was twenty-three and never knew the heart could hurt so much. It was as if an elephant was sitting on her chest to make it burst like a water balloon, and yet it didn’t. After a while, as the days passed, when someone approached her to say: I’m sorry for your loss, she said: “Well don’t be, it wasn’t your fault, and there is nothing we can do about it now.”

People told her to give it time; everything is better with time. Well, Luella found out they were right, but it’s not magic. Time heals, but the pain doesn’t go away. It is there in the background, in the corners of the mind. She learned that over time the pain of grief is not felt with the same intensity or frequency, but on any given day something will trigger a memory and the wound is fresh again. Fortunately, she developed the ability to recognize it and give it a moment before continuing with the business of living.

Luella came to understand that to manage grief; one needs to prepare for the flooding of emotions. The first year, was the hardest. On every holiday and every birthday, she was reminded that the life she had dreamed of with her husband was no longer an option. She often cried for herself and for her children. She was familiar with the process now. She created traditions to remember, and activities for self-care. And so it was that each time Luella lost a loved one, she didn’t feel as confused or overwhelmed.

In prayerful mediation, she became aware of the sun warming her soul as her breathing caught the rhythm of the rolling surf – in and out. With each exhale, the ocean rolled out with the pain and gently came back in with hope. She opened her eyes to find the sun well over the horizon, the grayness had dissipated, and it was the start of a beautiful summer day in New England. She found what she came for – a new day with hope for new beginnings.

#shapingyourstory Week Two I’m incorporating assignments into new posts while I’m working on another project. Really enjoying the lessons. Thanks a bunch Michelle W.

Weeds and Flowers in our Life

As I mentioned the other day, I am doing an editing course right here on WordPress called “Writing: Shaping Your Story.” I have re-worked one of my most recent stories looking for an angle to develop a unique voice in telling stories of ordinary life. Enjoy.

Love who you are and what you are and what you do. Laugh at yourself and at life and nothing can touch you. Louise Hay from AZ quotes

The other morning I had one of those incidents where I had to laugh at myself or in spite of myself. I find I do it quite often these days; I believe it’s one of the perks brought on by aging and the wisdom of our years. I do think if you can’t laugh at yourself, maybe it’s time for soul-searching. No one is perfect, and if we can forgive ourselves for that, if we can be OK with our shortcomings, we become more tolerant of others.

I started my day, unlike other mornings. I had my mind set to do a little weeding in the yard. I’m house sitting while taking care of my daughter’s eighty-five-pound furbaby. She and her husband have their hands full with careers and a toddler size human baby, so I decided to make use of idle time and clean up the yard a bit before they got home. Nothing major, I’m not a gardener. I had a flower garden once which was mostly landscaped already when I bought the house. With minimal fuss, that garden managed to come back and thrive every year from spring through fall. These days I’m working on trying to get a potted orchid to flower again or at least to give me hope by staying alive.

I was up and dressed bright and early with my improvised gardening outfit. Yes, I needed a gardening outfit, like I use to have one for walking the dog or play clothes after school. I wore comfortable workout shorts, t-shirt, old sneakers-without socks and a safari hat. Perhaps I should have taken a selfie, but you can probably visualize the image. We live near the southernmost part of Florida and I wanted to get weeds out before the temperature became unbearable but I couldn’t find my daughter’s gardening gloves. I have allergies and an intense dislike for creepy crawly things, so I wasn’t going out there without gloves. What a dilemma! I was going to have to run to the store to pick up a pair of gardening gloves, but I was dressed for tropical weather gardening, not shopping. To quote the grown-up Christopher Robin, “What to do, what to do.”

Some may say my quandary was “just a girl thing” but to understand my problem; we’d have to go back to my family of origin where the mantra was “We may be poor, but we are proud!” Mom always made sure we were with hair combed, clean hands and nails, our clothes ironed with starch and our shoes polished. When we went to church on Sunday, she had to make sure that we looked ready to visit The King of Kings. She learned from her mother to check us out before we walked out of the door to make sure we were “presentable.”

My grandmother was an adorable, plump little woman. Over the years I’ve mentioned that someday I wanted to be a loveable, little old lady like her. (I’m practically there – wink). She wore her thinning white hair in a small bun at the nape of her neck. Her back slightly curved from years as a seamstress. In her late 70s, her alabaster skin was without blemish and smooth, and her eyes were a light turquoise green like the tranquil waters of the Caribbean Basin in the early morning. It had been just recently that my aunt had convinced her that she didn’t need to iron my grandfather’s boxers or her bed sheets because of the new permanent press fabrics. She still starched and pressed her house dresses and my grandfather’s white cotton shirts and khakis.

One summer when I was visiting, my grandmother asked me if I wanted to go to town for some shopping. She was walking to town and wanted some company. We were already in town, but she meant about a 20-minute walk to the stores on the main street, more if she saw friends along the way. I dressed quickly and waited for my grandmother on the porch. This was in the era before cell phones so to entertain myself in the meantime; I checked out the boy next door who was about my age and helping his dad bring things in from the truck. When I saw him, was glad to be feeling cute that day. Little did I know that years later, he would become my husband.

My grandmother, Mrs. Plumeria Martin-Ponte put one foot out on the porch, looked at me and stopped in her tracks. She looked up and down at me, and I noticed the tranquil waters in her eyes were starting to churn like angry waves before a storm. “Go in and change. I’m not taking you with me like that.” Period and end of the story were implied in her tone. Of course, I was young and feeling cute, so I needed to ask why: “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” At the time, I thought it was cool for a girl from the big city to wear overalls with a T-shirt and sneakers. My question triggered a lecture on the proper attire of lovely young ladies going into town. She didn’t want to hear what I did back home, so I went in and changed to a sundress, ladylike sandals and wore my long dark hair in a side braid.

Fast forward to 2018, and I’m standing at the doorway with my car keys in hand, ready to go to the Town Center in workout shorts, a sleeveless t-shirt, sneakers without socks and my wild hair particularly unruly this morning. I was just going to run in and out but what if I saw someone I knew? Well, I don’t know many people in this town, I thought as I encouraged myself. Besides Hollywood A-listers do it all the time, I just won’t take off my sunglasses! That’s when it happened; I laughed at myself for giving so much thought to explain my options as if to my grandmother.

As it turned out, once I was at the Town Center, I remembered a couple of other things I needed and made another stop. I was not just in and out at either store. I chatted with the clerks and a woman behind me in line. No one asked me why I was wearing comfortable workout shorts and sneakers without socks to the trendy Town Center.

At another point in my life, I probably wouldn’t have gone out, or if I had to, I would have changed to something more “presentable.” I realize though that if anyone passes judgment about me because of the clothes I wear, then they don’t value me for the person I am. I am beyond the point where I feel the need to prove my worth. I am what I am, and it is what it is.

“Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about.” Wendy Mass, The Candymakers from Goodreads.

Since it’s my nature to ponder, I reflected on how time and again we judge others by their appearance. I often say that it seems like the experiences from our school years play out throughout our lives. We see the same behaviors at work or in social groups. Only the names and faces change. Naturally, whenever this topic crosses my mind, I am reminded of a young girl, a classmate from my middle and high school years, he name was Grace Fore.

I was an average kid. I managed to stay under the radar and out of trouble. I wasn’t especially popular but had friends from different groups that I had met through various activities like art electives, tutoring, orchestra, boosters, yearbook, and church.

Grace Fore was a loner. She was a good looking girl with her blonde hair and big, blue eyes, but something always looked “off” and not quite right. I didn’t know anything about her home life, but I knew she played the viola beautifully with sentimentality that it moved me. I remember that it was often apparent that she was trying to “fix” her appearance. The kids in school teased her when she tried a new hairstyle and her hair still looked disheveled or when she wore a misshapen dress that she made herself in sewing class. They called her Grace Forlorn. I never actually defended her, I usually just moved my friends along before the taunting got worse. I always wished I had been braver. Can’t help but wonder what it would be like in today’s social media era.

As the world turns, a few years ago, I received a Facebook friend request from Grace Fore with a simple question “Do you remember me?” “Of course,” I answered, “you played the viola beautifully. Do you still play?” She wrote to me about the difficult life she had growing up and how it turned out not much better as an adult. No, she didn’t continue playing, but she wished she had. And then she broke my heart when she said: “but you were always nice to me, and it meant so much.” I never really went out of my way to be nice to her, but I was taught to be kind and not do harm.

If she hadn’t reached out, I would have never known that one small kindness would mean so much after all these years and all she had been through. She unfriended me shortly after over differences in political ideology, but I’m glad we connected. It validated my core beliefs that I continue to develop through my life.

After driving back to my daughter’s house in this meditative state, I decided I needed a drink before I tackled the yard. It was the middle of the day in Florida with temperatures in the triple digits. I poured a tall glass of iced tea, put my feet up and stared out into the yard.

I remembered that in another life during the summer, I would frequently get small bouquets of yellow dandelions from my daughters. They would run into the house filled with love and anticipation. Despite my allergies, I would marvel with oohs and aahs as if they were a dozen long stem roses from a long lost lover and put them in small cups of water till they shriveled up. Sometimes they would bring them one by one, white and puffy so that we could make wishes together. As they blew around the backyard like snowflakes, I wondered how many more weeds I would have to deal with next time.

“Weeds are flowers, too, once you get to know them.” Quote from Pinterest attributed to Eeyore.

What a perfect quote from Eeyore. Isn’t it the truth? Yes, dandelions are weeds, but they are bright yellow flowers and conduits for wishes. In the real world, we have found that they also have healing properties and are an excellent source of vitamins and minerals.

What great lessons we learn every day, I pondered as I continued sipping my cold drink. I shook my head in amazement and snickered to myself as I closed my eyes and decided I would start fresh tomorrow.

#Shaping your story – Week One

Home is Where the Heart Is

I was “home” this weekend visiting family. It’s funny we are all far from our childhood home and our parents have long past on but spending time with my sisters always feels like home no matter where we are. From the belly laughs to the tears it all feels just right. I am reposting this story, which is one of my favorites, in honor of spending time with loved ones.

Baby Girl woke up startled she didn’t recognize the loud voices in her home that morning. Strange things had been happening for days. Stuff was disappearing from all the rooms; like the picture frames on the mantel and the books her sisters liked to read to her at night. There now were big boxes all over the house. New ones appeared each time something else went missing. Nothing seemed to be where it should be, and the whole family was too busy to play with her.

Suddenly Baby Girl realized she was alone in the room and she was scared. She could feel the hair on the back of her neck stand stiff against her collar, but she had to go to the bathroom, and she was hungry, so she quietly ventured out into the hallway. Baby Girl peered out from behind the long wall. She did not see Lovey or Annie. Where had they gone without her so early in the morning? She called out to them as two big men crossed in front of her with the boxes. They smiled at her but went on their way carrying boxes out the open door. She glared at them. Where was Mama or Dad? Baby Girl called out again. No one answered.

Since the front door was open and the big men were not around, she decided to let herself out and go to the bathroom. She knew Mama and her sisters did not like her to go out by herself, but she was just going to the backyard. She had done it many times with the girls. She started creeping along the side of the house, the gate was closed, and she couldn’t open it. She continued slowly and carefully, close to the fence until she found a spot. Business was done but still no sign of her family. She couldn’t even hear them. She went back to the front of the house to check. Did those men have anything to do with her family’s disappearance? She sniffed the air – nothing. Should she worry?

Sometimes Mama and Dad went for a walk in the woods behind the house early in the morning before everyone else was up. Maybe Lovey and Annie went with them this morning. Baby Girl knew how to get to the woods. She would walk along the long white fence until the end and then walk into the woods no further than the Big Pointy Rock. Her sisters always promised their parents that they would go no further than the Big Pointy Rock so that Mama could still see them from the kitchen window. Baby Girl was getting hungrier; she wanted to find everyone so that she could get some breakfast. Off she went into the woods.

Lovey and Annie had gone with Mama up the street with a box of baby toys and books for the new neighbors. Dad went to take a few things to the dumpster. Lovey and Annie agreed to give those things to their babies because they were big girls now and would be getting Big Girl things in the new house. As they were walking back, Lovey and Annie noticed that the movers had left the front door wide open. They ran the rest of the way calling out to Baby Girl. The movers said they had just seen her near one of the bedrooms, but she was not in the house! She had not eaten her breakfast. The girls went outside and called again. They shouted her name all around the house and at the end of the fence.

In the woods, Baby Girl had followed a big green lizard past the Big Pointy Rock until it ran up a tall tree. She couldn’t reach it but as she was looking up, she spotted a big beautiful dragonfly and followed it as it danced in the air through the woods. She did not hear her family calling, but she did hear a splash from the gurgling of a brook nearby. Fish were jumping out of the water! She wanted to catch one of those, it smelled like food, and she remembered she was hungry.

Back at the house, the girls were upset, and Mama and Dad were worried. They had to leave soon, and they could not find Baby Girl anywhere. They put the last boxes in the car. As she hugged them goodbye, the neighbor next door, Mrs. Levy, promised to keep an eye out for Baby Girl and would call them right away. “I’m sure she’s just having an adventure. She’ll be back.” She reassured them.

In the woods, Baby Girl paced back and forth along the edge of the water, she wanted to catch the fish but hated getting her feet wet. She heard rustling in the bushes and looked up to see two baby deer. The deer are back Baby Girl thought with excitement. She forgot about the fish and ran after the deer. She ran and ran but couldn’t catch the deer. The baby ran straight to Mama and Dad Deer who stomped their feet at Baby Girl. She stopped in her tracks and realized she was standing in front of the Big Pointy Rock. She remembered she was hungry and headed toward the house. She hoped Mama and Dad and Lovey and Annie were back.

To her surprise Baby Girl found the gate to the yard open; and so was the screen door to the back porch. She discovered her bowls were on the back porch. How strange she thought, but things had already been odd for days. She was glad because she was sooo hungry. After she ate, she wanted to go inside and lay in her bed; she was tired. She called at the door for Mama or Dad or Lovey and Annie, but no one came.

Just as she was going to check to see if the front door was still open, she saw Mrs. Levy coming toward her. She liked Mrs. Levy; she smelled like food and always had a special treat for her. “Baby Girl, where have you been? You had us all worried! I heard you barking and called your family. Lucky for you they were not too far yet. They are on their way back to come for you. Let’s go to my house to clean you up before they get here.” Mrs. Levy picked her up and took her home. When she was clean, she lay on the rug by the door and waited for her family.

When they arrived, there were hugs and kisses everywhere. They were all glad to see each other. In the car, Lovey and Annie took turns holding her tight. They told her they were afraid she was lost and they didn’t want to go to their new home without her. Baby Girl didn’t understand all the fuss. She was home. She was where she wanted to be all along, snuggled in between Lovey and Annie as they all took a nap in the backseat of the car.

#everydayinspiration

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