A Rose and Nothing More

I found this rose pressed between the pages of my Impressionist Prints book, an enormous tomb, just right for pressing things. I had to get rid of my book and others like it because I am now moving again, getting rid of most of what I own, and that includes a lot of my pride too. But this post is about the flower.

I found a note I had left between the pages with the rose, scribbled in pencil: "from ----Valentines Day, 2000." My youngest was only 6 at the time. I was still a homemaker, so happy that I could be there for my kids, but always in a state of inexplicable uneasiness that left me sort of colorless, lifeless.  I wonder now if this was the last flower given to me by the ex. It was miraculously preserved, this twelve year old rose- the color true, the stem still graceful, albeit, a little brittle. 

I had no feelings toward this rose. I had no desire to stomp on it or grind it into bits. It did not coax a single tear from my eye. I don't even remember him giving it to me, although this note was telling me that he did. And its discovery did not churn out even a trickle of other unwanted memories.  I was merely surprised to find it. A neutral surprise. 

I studied it, admiring its form. It was a delicate curiosity.

In the end I did crumble the dear thing. Just a soft crumble, rolled between my palms, and brushed off into the trash can. It had to be. I am moving on and no longer have room for such things.

With These Hands

 

For 55 years these hands have cherished what they touched, cradled what they held. The work they have done, the tender care they have given, the gifts they have received has been guided by love. They created when they were not resting or working or nurturing. They have readily shared, and celebrated the gifts of the earth. Rarely have they acted in haste or anger, and with each passing day, they linger longer over the smooth surface of abundance that unfolds every day. I have tried, in their every movement, to uphold the dignity of their design. 

Like anything else, the longer and more often we do something, the better we get at it - one of the many good things about growing older. I love my age spots, I love my knobby joints and the veiny rewards of hands well used. When my grandbaby fell asleep in my lap today, they were expertly ready to hold her with absolute reverence.  

Prayer in a Night Wind

flicker flames of candles near 

dance out heartache, fend off fear

speak to me, through the trees

whirl through limbs, rustle leaves 

bend branches down to reach me

teach me faith, teach me, teach me

carry courage to my skin

wave my hair, lift my chin

dry all tears from my face

call me, pull me

take me home

promise lightness

to my bones

show me how

tell me now

speak to me 

through the trees

sing me answers

in a breeze

        

                                  

This Wrinkled Heart of Mine

 This wrinkled heart of mine, I'm gonna let it shine, let it shine, let it shine...

Ahhh, if only that were completely true.  And it is not for lack of trying.  The sharp ache from the implosion of a 3 decade marriage that used to be constant, has given way to more of a continuous dull ache and maybe that will give way one day to the equivalent of an annoying callous and then wonder of wonders before I die, maybe just a clean, clear shiny heart... all better now!

Although, if it doesn't, I have a suspicion that all will still be well.

 We all have our heartaches, coming from all different modes of delivery. So I guess most of us walk around with patched-up hearts. Mine is cracked to be sure, but the crevices are over-flowing with the beauty of my girls, my grandbaby, my old parents and sisters and their kids, and friends and flowers and yes butterflies too, and birds and words, oh the words! that comfort and enlighten, and that includes words from fellow bloggers who affirm and commune and offer poignancy and humor. Thank you...

This wrinkled heart of mine beats another day, and does it still hurt? Hell yea! as my youngest would say. But at least I know that it is still working; that I have a heart that loves and longs and carries on the rhythm of another day. Pretty miraculous right?

So excuse me for now, as I get ready to enjoy a day at the beach with two of my trio of beautiful daughters. The sun awaits, the sky is open and my achy, breaky heart, is joyously, shamelessly full of happy cliches.

* A note about the heart rock. This was given to me from my daughter, who even on her honeymoon in Maui, found a treasure and brought it home to her mom. And it even still smells like the ocean! What a lucky heart I have, I have.. what a beautifully broken heart I have.

Tomato Update

I am sorry to report that this, has fallen prey to this:

It was a quick strike -snap! I knew the sound before I saw the plucking. She held the tomato baby in her hands.

"Ahhh!", she said, inspecting her prize.

" Ohhh!", I said. "That was a tomato, now it won't grow. "

Eyes wide, I saw the programing going on, the cataloging, the adding of this to her knowledge base. She sat cradling the little darling. "Mato!" She confirmed, nodding, grinning.

 Then without warning, with a flick of her dimpled wrist, she flung it off the balcony.

It was a perfect metaphor. We grow. We stop. We live; we die.

But this is what I learned from my grandbaby today. To be truly seen, to be the object of unadulterated  appreciation, pure and without agenda, is a pretty great thing. Even if it lasts for only  a few seconds before we hit the pavement.

Talking to Tomatoes

There you are. Just one tiny tomato, dangling. Yellow-green, firm and adorable. Like a child, knowing only now - you swing in morning breezes. Bird songs echo. Morning light bathes and all is right in your little tomato world. 

You assume water will come and sun will shine and are oblivious of bad bugs that for now, are busy elsewhere.

Tomato baby, it isn't courage at all that empowers you to grow.  It's just trust, isn't it? Faith, that you will be, all that you are meant to be. 

                           

7:00 AM Grace

I wear the cool morning air across my shoulders, squint into the brilliance of the day. I hear birds celebrate in trees as millions of green bits of beauty ruffle this way, flipping that way, shush, shush, shush, in playful breeze. I get to see it, I get to hear it! I get to hold a tiny hand, touch my daughter's hair, smell the dark earth, taste this orange, write these words, breathe another breath...