A Wisp of Progress

People often tell me "how far I've come".  And I look behind me and I look ahead, and I say, "Really?"  At work I hear it often. "You are not the same scared rabbit that came in here. " Gee thanks. I think.

I am still scared. And I have a long, long way to go. Mostly for practical purposes. Like earning enough to make a little nest for myself and my daughter, and figuring out a way to do it.

I am learning to believe that this will all be revealed to me. And this does not mean in a majestic moment where the clouds part and the answers are hanging there, glistening. It is not an idle revelation, but one that comes from keeping my eyes open, my hands working and my heart receptive.

So how far have I come, really? I still break out into a true, heart-pounding sweat every time I have to open an email from the ex or his lawyer. Is this being a scared rabbit, or just being a real human not yet immune to betrayal? If it didn't bother me, maybe that would be true cause for worry, and not progress at all, but a loss of my own sensitivity. Still, this sure doesn't look or feel like progress.

And I still weep, often, over not having a nest of my own, no kitchen to make tea for my flock when they are sick or weary. But I will find other ways to nurture. It is what I do best. I carry it inside and to know that I still have the strength and desire to use it, is something to be proud of. But progress? Eh, not so much; still the same in that regard.

But this morning, as I lit my incense, I said a prayer, as always for peace for my family, and the rest of the world. For three and a half years no matter how hard I tried, I knew that this meant, the rest of the world, except he and she.  But today, when I blew out the match and whispered the words, " I light this incense with a prayer for peace for my family and everyone else" - I knew that I meant them too. What a revelation. For me to wish them peace and to really mean it - is progress immeasurable. 

just a whisper

in the morning hush
the seed cracks ever slightly
sprouting hope today

Tuesday's Grace

I sit with two cats
and sip pale coffee
from a Honu mug
savoring the wishes
that came
with the gift

Squirrels leap
from rooftop
to branch and
cheer about
their perfect
landing

Good books
and a red bowl of
rubber duckies
are at my feet

So much, it
is all so much
I lift my face
toward the
morning sun
and breathe

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.  

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.

Babies Grow Up

 

 All around the house, scatter pieces of your dream come true. Photos clipped carefully from magazines of hairstyles and shoes and flowers. I see now how this dream sustained you these past two years, while you endured it here, in this temporary place with your mommy, this place that you had long outgrown. But you endured lovingly, so gracefully - bringing home tea and Diet Pepsi and butterfly mugs to make the sipping special.  I'm drinking my morning coffee out of the blue one; I always tried to give you the pink one when I poured yours, did you know that? Still giving you the pink cup, 25 years nonstop. How I love you, my little girl, all grown up. It is your time, Bird, finally, your turn. I look at all the spaces where your things are propped up waiting for you to take them. You deserve your own space. Your own alters. 

  The day after your wedding, I felt so tender, sore all around my heart that at the same time leaped with joy for the two of you. I have a friend who cannot understand, how I could feel anything but pure happiness, but it's ok, I know I am allowed to feel a little sad. We humans are complex creatures and life is rarely all or nothing. I will miss you so much, but oh how much light you and your big, loving, laughing man give off. How you belong together.  

It's a familiar feeling I have right now. Much like those early days after I gave birth to you. Feeling so very feminine, with a tender, secret ache.  Bliss was tempered with the ending of having you all to myself - knowing that I had to share you with the rest of the world, and knowing that the rest of the world didn't, couldn't ever love you as much as I do.  But guess what, Bird?  I think your laughing man might, I think he just might, and there is immeasurable relief in that.  I gave you away when you said, " I do" on a perfect day at water's edge. But your happiness, your happiness was worth it.

I am thinking now of all the times you helped me when I was too tired to stand. All the times you came through the door at the end of a long day, happy for the meals I made, and smiling, just about always smiling. And each time I knew, I always knew, I wouldn't have that forever. Today, wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles,  I know that I am able to open my heart and let you go. Really truly, gladly, let you go. Because, sparkly one- in -the -middle, that's how much I love you.

Wedding Days and Little Girl Ways

In one week's time, my little one in the middle will be getting married. She has been the sparkle in my days, the hug around my neck, for almost 25 years.  A sprite of a girl, I will always see her with her side-pony-tail, bouncing off the school bus and running into my arms. She will forever in my mind's eye, be six years old with a glint in her eye and a few cherished Nerds stuck to her palm.  Sometimes, even now, I will be talking to her when it suddenly hits me that  that I am sitting with a beautiful, fully-grown woman. Oh but she is still so full of light, still such a pleasure to be around.

Today, I was looking through my box of broken bits, you know those catch- alls where we keep stray earrings and rhinestones, and broken chains? I needed an AB crystal for the snap closure on a vintage purse I picked up for her wedding. Of course I had one crystal, just the right size; I have been putting oddities in this box for 35 years.  But I also found this.

It was a little pipe-cleaner tiara that I made for this very bride- to- be, 23 years ago for her first trick-or-treat outing. We were all fairies then, her older sister, and me too, wearing wings with my wedding dress. Oh those days were spectacularly easy, blissful.

When I held the little tiara in my hand, tenderly turning it over, I saw that it still had her baby hair caught in it. White-blond, fine, eternally baby hair.  Of course then I wept, what else was there to do? My baby bird is flying the nest. And even though it is into the arms of a kind and giving man, I will miss these "everydays" with her more than I can say. Her little sister will miss her too. The earth will shift on its axis, just a tiny bit next Saturday, indiscernible for the the rest of the world, but I will know as I stand and watch her take her vows at water's edge, that my life will never quite be the same. But I'll smile bravely and lift my champagne glass with everyone else. 

I'll watch intently all the goings- on: her dance with her new husband, her dance with my dad, her sisters' speeches -trying to freeze-frame it and hold onto it forever, with a million other memories. I'll do this right up till the last guest is gone. Then, when the ocean is dark, and the dance floor is bare except for a stray sequence and hydrangea petal,  I'll come home to a dull, quiet apartment. I'll kick off my shoes and get ready for bed. Then I'll lift the lid on my catch-all box, take out  the little tiara, and cradle it into sleep.

I Give You Glassware

       Dear T,
Bought a cut-glass pitcher for us today at the thrift store. Six dollars! Thought it would make us feel a little elegant, with the light streaming through, reflecting off our turquoise table. No bottom-feeders living here! 
       
 I imagined our fresh-brewed iced-tea or sparkly lemonade pouring from the spout. I swear I heard the ice clinking against the inside, heard us laughing about the dirty lyrics to your music, taking turns, turning the handle for refills. 


I brought the pitcher home, started to wash it in hot, hot, sudsy water. Then I saw it! The giant chip out of the spout, with a crack echoing on down. How could I have missed that, T? Did I want the bargain so bad, that I made believe it was part of the ruffled rim? Did I just look the other way and pretend not to notice? Well, I guess it wouldn't be the first time that I did that.

I know it was silly to think that I could lift our spirits with a second-hand pitcher. But, I tried; I'll keep on trying. For you T, always for you.

          Love,
          Mom

Just Wondering, Not Wallowing

"Do you promise to love, honor, cherish and protect her, forsaking all others and holding only unto her?"

Out of the above losses, I have of late begun to wonder what I miss the most. Certainly not the fidelity, because that was the easiest of the five pieces of that broken promise to recover from. I am not saying it is easy to learn that your trusted partner has betrayed you in that way. No, it guts one open, pretty nastily, and the wound stays raw for a long time. Sometimes it is just  merely a huge slip-up, a mid-life crisis, an incredible moment of weakness, drunkenness, insanity or whatever. Other times it is deliberately deceitful, and calculated and everlasting. My experience with this betrayal was the later. Still, I would have to say this wasn't the worst  promise, broken. 

     So out of the other four losses: What hurts the most? What is the hardest to heal from? All four were, I too lately discovered, only an illusion that I lived with, but even so, it was still a loss of what I thought I had.
   
      I sure do miss that sense of protection, that feeling of closing my eyes to sleep and knowing that if a brute broke into the house, my own man would fend him off, risking life and limb for his family. Or the notion of having a man protect me from treacherous traffic when my car breaks down, or defend my dignity at an inappropriate comment. Yea, I miss those scenarios or the illusion of them. But I got over that pretty quickly and really no longer get to be damsel in distress, ever... So what? 
     
     Next loss. I think I always knew I wasn't cherished. That would have been such a great thing to feel. To be cherished by a man. But as stupid as I was, I knew that wasn't there, so I guess I didn't lose even the illusion of that after all. 
   
       So what about love? Ouch, ouch and whoa, ouch.That loss or the loss of thinking I was loved, does take its toll, hobbles a soul for a long time. It was, still is, at times, hard to hold my head up, hard to brush the hair on that head and walk like a woman after that was pulled out from under me. Still, I limped away. I eventually stopped bleeding, except  occasionally, when the scab gets unexpectedly torn off. But I do carry the literal ache in my chest, everyday, just like anyone else who has lost in this way, but you get up and get going because, as hard as it is, we all know that there are way worse things to deal with. 
  
        So then it must be the honor, right? The worst loss? Not being respected, valued, held in high regard?  It sure does a lot to cripple the ego, to not be honored. It is a wonderful thing to feel like you are honored. That you are so special, so unique, so appreciated, so worth honoring...But if I am really honest, I think I knew all along I didn't have that either.
      So this morning's revelation is this: I miss having the belief that I was loved most of all - out of all the promises in that one enormous statement above. But more than that, much, much more than that I miss, not being able to offer those things to a man in my life. I miss the love, the honor and the way I cherished years upon years of layered memories, I miss protecting, verbally, emotionally, physically in the daily way that I did, the man in my life. Where, I would like to know from anyone who might be listening, does one put all that love, honor and need to cherish and protect? I am not talking about redirecting your love to your children or to those less fortunate in volunteer work or even keeping busy with what you love: your work, your art, a special cause. I am talking about the particular love between a man and woman and all the promises that go with it.  The loss of these leaves a gaping hole in the abandoned one's heart, but the burden of carrying around the unwanted gifts, and having no one to offer them to, I  think, is the worst of it all.
    
      So is the dumpee destined to lug around this load of goodies until love visits again? What if love never comes? Is the one left behind doomed to take all this good stuff to the grave? What have all  of our abandoned ancestors done with this left-over love? Does anyone have a secret to share? A chant? A spell? A recipe for releasing it into the universe, so it can rain down on the down-trodden, wrap around the lonely and cushion the steps of the newly love-hobbled?

It's Only Hardware

      

Worn smooth by all of us, coming home and leaving, coming home, leaving. Now, none of us cross this threshold any more to infuse the old house with laughter, reunited. I was tempted to take the doorknob with us, but it would have been disrespectful, wrong. 

So instead, I have this photo to remind me of bringing babies home for the first time, of little ones on tiptoe- opening that door with two hands, of teenagers letting it slam, of my mom and dad, visiting. That doorknob turned in trust and expectation, opening and closing our years.  To hold it was to hold home in my hand. Looking at it now - I see a blessed piece of hardware, I see the past and inevitable change, and I can see without a doubt, the patina of my heart.

               

      

Picking up the Petals

This is a flower from the bouquet that my youngest brought for me on Valentines Day. She had the roses in one hand, a Starbucks vanilla cappuccino in the other and managed to juggle some caramel creams too. All my favorite things. She hugged me and said, "You're my one true Valentine, mom." She is 18 years old. I tell you this so you will have an inkling of how lucky I am.

                             

                                                    

This is what was left of a rose from that very bouquet after my grandbaby, 17 months old, sniffed a little too heartily and cherished a little too mightily. "Oh", I said at the sight of petals at her feet, and this in her hand. "Star", she said, and so it was. My grandbaby handed me a star.

Since I have been blessed with this tiny new being in my life, I have actually begun to think, in many ways like a toddler again. So much is beautiful, the rocks we find and coo over, the petals at our feet that are are soft and veiny and hold life, still. And I marveled at the divine timing, this grandbaby coming just when I need her most. Just when I needed to be retaught, that rocks are beautiful, because, rocks it seems are about all that I can acquire now. And if flowers are in pieces, and petals lie at our feet, well, isn't that a wonder too? As the wee one has shown me today, when you pick up the pieces, you should  look, really look, at what you have. And then hold it dear. "Because stars fall from the heavens sometimes and miracles rise out of little things..."*

 


*This is from a quote that I have carried around with me since I was a teenager, the newsprint brown with age, and credited to anonymous. When googling it to find its maker, I found, of course,  that I was not the only one wondering. http://callmenurse.blogspot.com/2010/12/stars-fall-from-heaven-sometimes.html

This I Know for Certain

Years spent

wiping jelly 

from round cheeks,

stretching socks

over tiny, curling toes,

playing fairies,

gathering flowers

It's true,

I am a wrinkled girl

Don't know much

about the world

Numbers turn upside down

collide in this old brain

Politics,  I can't

 speak it,

Chemistry, physics,  fills minds 

far greater

than mine

Never could develop

appreciation

for arts of deception

My time - timid, steps unsure

forever questioning

choice upon choice

but

this i know for certain:

when a baby babbles

to whipped cream,

pats the soft cold swirl

and licks little lips

with joy,

the world pauses, 

on mighty axis

a split second,

stunning,

brilliant,

every thing explained

Alive on Wednesday Morning

The morning, still dark, is enchanting.  It is 6:00 AM. I walked both my girls to their cars in the velvety mild of this wondrously warm January day.  There is something in the air, great happenings soon, both heart breaking and beautiful. I can feel it on my skin, I can hear a sweet mummer, close by. 

My muscles are alive with tender care given.  Yesterday I watched my Gumbygirl, grandbaby for about thirteen hours.  It is blessed time spent. It is also exhausting, as I swoop her in the air, wrestle when it comes time to change, crawl into play huts, push a toddler car and generally police everything that is a hazard to a 16 month old. And everything is a hazard. A fork is a deadly weapon. I hear the Jaws theme when I spy a Chapstick cap on the floor, diving for the choking hazard that she is drawn to like moth to flame. She is so quick. Leaving for a walk to soak up some of that glorious sun yesterday, we were met with a ten inch patch of snow, hanging on right outside the apartment door. "Ooooh!", the Gumbygirl said, eyeing the slush up like Hawaiian Ice.       " Snow!" I said, slipping my key into my pocket. In a micro second,  with one turbo swoop, she had a mouthful of the bedraggled stuff.  "Mmmmmm!"she said, brown eyes shining, shredded mulch hanging out her mouth, dirt smeared up her cheek, into her eyebrow.

When she leaves I am still in mode, still scanning, still on alert for a good two hours. These old bones are tired. But for some reason I just had to make my dad his favorite cornbread and rice pudding before I sat down. I knew I would be seeing him today; He is 88 and it's a small thing I can do for him. Moving out of my house had been so draining; and with this apartment kitchen, being all but nonexistent, I had sorely neglected him these past few months. As the cornbread baked and as I stirred the rice pudding, I called my mom to check in, like I do every night.  Usually when I ask how they are, I  hear, "Great, we're both fine." But last night's, response was, "Not so good."

It seems as though my dad's bones have worn away. Either disintegrating or cracking, or maybe worse, and he has extreme hip pain, has been in extreme pain, which he did not want to worry anyone with. I swear this big Marine of a man, is, among other reasons, staying alive so he can be certain that I am back on my feet. But this big Marine of a man is literally falling apart and even he cannot stop it.  It is happening, I know it is happening and although I looked the other way in the demise of my marriage, I will not turn away this time. I will find a way to see the sacred in this impending loss.  I will find a way to be of use to my dad, the only man, that may have ever loved me.

Incubating also, is the marriage of my daughter. The middle one: A chirpy bird of a girl. Happy, giving, a love- bug from day one. She is marrying a good man. If I personally had scoured the planet for her I could not have handpicked a more generous soul. 

Beginnings and endings are vibrating all around us. Molecules of each swirling all about, colliding, embracing. My dad is to give my daughter away at her wedding in a few months. All of us pray that he will be able to do that, and if he can will himself to do it, he will and if it is God's will that it does not happen, we will find a way to accept that too. 

If I perch and picture the rest of my life unfolding there is no doubt at all that it will continue to be punctuated with great loss, just like the rest of humanity's.  Up until a few years ago,  sorrow had not stopped that often at my door.  I am so very aware that I will come to know sorrow intimately from here on in. I will have to befriend her to survive, inviting her to tea with my good friends Grace and Love.  We will each drink from old china cups, each with a different pattern, hopefully mine will have sweet peas, or maybe forget -me- nots. All the cups will have a hairline crack or a smooth chip or two. We will sip our tea, looking over our steaming cups at each other- Sorrow, Grace, Love and me. We will see that we are each beautiful and here for one another.   

                                       

Shopping for the Man of My Dreams

So I have done it.  I have officially joined a dating service. I feel absolutely ridiculous. I feel like a screaming spotlight is on me, knowing my photo is out there for criticism and review. For a private person, it is a great leap of faith, and the weirdest part is that I am not even sure I want another man in my life, now or ever. But, not long ago my kids had given me membership as a gift. Having the unactivated membership was like having a plate of cookies set out. I kept glancing at it, knowing I shouldn't, but what would a nibble or two hurt? Boredom and curiosity got the better of me and I activated the damn membership.  

Like Facebook, it can steal your time if you are not too careful; Too many minutes spent pouring over the dapper little lovelies. I am drawn to look, but there is always the nagging feeling that I am shopping for a man.  I am an eBayer, and I love to peruse, so online shopping should not be new to me. But when there are actual humans involved, faces looking back, it feels sort of wrong, shallow, immoral even.

But oh the tempting variety of sights to be viewed! Some of it is accompanied by  genuine familial love. Some of it is pompous, bragging. And some of it is really sad: aging men clinging to motorcycles or propped up next to corvettes. Most pose with their dogs, or their neighbor's dog, sponging off Buddy's charm, heads tilted in cultivated cuteness. There are exposed abs and glistening tattoos, there is facial hair, sprouted in a manner I could never have imagined. And fish, lots of men holding fish for some reason.

I am not hating on the male species here. If memory serves correctly, they can at times be wonderful, cuddly creatures. And there is no doubt that we woman fall prey to equally desperate measures in this game. I am merely observing with a skeptic's eye because those are the eyes I have right now. 

As of yet, I have never met face to face with a single soul and never even spoken to anyone on the phone. My communication has been limited to emails, which I quickly sabotage after a few are exchanged.  Did you know that it is not only easy to make someone think you are loony, it is also mildly entertaining?  Men scare off pretty easily. Think "How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days," but wrinkled girl version.  Most men fear a woman who coos on and on about how she dances around the house in spontaneous outbursts of joy. Most men archive the match if you recite the order and exact increments in which solid food was introduced to your grandbaby. Most men run for the hills, when you tell them you are poor. I think revealing things like this is a much kinder way to end a budding friendship than a flat out rejection. 

But I have very recently exchanged a few emails with a man who appears to have no need to impress. He actually seems sane, not too in love with himself, and  damaged yes, but not destroyed by love lost. Maybe I will think about meeting him for coffee some day, if fear and cynicism doesn't send me diving for cover again. We'll see.    

Resolution '12

I want to be a thin woman
who goes to church.
Believes what she sings.
every note clean, clear
affirmation
no doubt
at all
catches in
her throat.
What stops me?

I want to be a woman
earning enough to cushion
steps of her
beloved three.
Ease burdens, erase debts,
fix a car, clear up skin,
cut and color hair.
What stops me?


I want to taste the ocean deep,
have it cling, crisp my hair,
feel  waves roar, rumble
wild in veins
widened in wonder
breathing deep, abandon blue

What don't I?

I want love to know
no bounds.
Abundant so, it wraps
around  family,
my own, tenfold
seeping out home cracks
 into streets
settling on strangers,
just a fingerprint
of good.
What keeps me?

The wind beats sense
into morning, dark
I await answers.
Wind chimes oblige,
always polite,
Today's urge, gentle.
R e l e a s e
your fear, familiar.
Come, crawl
toward mystery,
coaxes now the day, dawning.
Darling one, it whispers, firmly.
Get out of your own way.

Poets, Pups and Cheer-Me-Ups

Sometimes I crack myself up thinking about what a good catch I would be for some late fifty something or sixtyish man. I require so little, and the simplest things make me happy: the hum of a heater, good coffee, ephemera.... If only that old guy who walked right passed me and blatantly stared at my eighteen year old could see past my crows feet long enough to learn that I could bring him great joy by sharing my simple abundance. Mostly though, I just have this inner dialog for fun, since I have not yet even entertained the notion of dating again.

Today was one of those great days, where simple joys reign; A day when I hide from my inbox, lest anything (from the ex's lawyer) interfere with the gratitude that I feel. Two of my girls and I went out, like normal people, to eat and celebrate my college freshman's first semester - triumphant in grades and a promotion at work too! For the longest while we didn't dare eat out or buy a thing. We don't have cable TV, we wash out straws and don't buy paper towels because of the expense. This has become second nature to us, and being thrifty and creative at attaining life's little luxuries can be a satisfying accomplishment. But sometimes, just sometimes, one has to find the means to celebrate and participate in the normal activities that many (including me, in my past life) take for granted.

After dinner we made our yearly trek to Barnes and Noble for calendars and planners, now 50% off, even if the selection has dwindled. I do hope I will have something to write in my planner this year, besides meetings with lawyers. Maybe wonder of wonders I will be able to write in a schedule for a regular job.

Back home the girls and I tidied up the apartment, readying it for the busy start of the new year which will involve a fresh semester for my youngest and a marriage (wedding, yay!) for my middle daughter to a kind, caring, golden-retriever of a man, who is all smiles and all heart. God bless him. 

Right now, I sit in front of a Duraflame log (I told you it didn't take much to make me happy).  I have the best cup of coffee in a little birdie mug my daughter gave me for Christmas and have my feet propped up in lime green furry slippers (that look like Oscar the Grouch under black light), that the baby picked out herself. I am one happy woman. I survey this temporary home, this apartment of healing and I sigh. Literally, I sigh in contentment, and it has been a long, long time in coming. I know the New Year might have us packing up again and mooching on a  relative, but for now, just now, it is perfect.

I look over to the large marble heart that sits alone and stately on the mantle. I bought this soon after the world (as I knew it) imploded. This carved-stone heart,this thing, this material thing, that cost 15 dollars at Homegoods has the power to remind me of what my life has been about; regardless of manipulation and lies, regardless of abandonment and betrayal and attempts to define my contributions as worthless.

As simple as the symbol of a heart is, I still love it. I will always love the shape of it.  From the time my girls were little, they scoured beaches and mountainsides for stones in the shape of hearts for me.  My gaze drifts off to a table, an alter, where some of these stones huddle, lobe to lobe, energizing each other, showing solidarity. I am reminded of collecting one of them on a terrible, terrible day, the first Easter of my family's fracturing. My ex had one foot out the door, busy making plans to set up permanent living arrangements with his girlfriend. His girlfriend, how incongruous a word is that after you have trusted someone for almost 34 years? 

On this first Easter, I tried very hard not to let what happened effect whatever relationship there was with the girls and their father. I tried very hard. But they are young woman with eyes and hearts of their own. One cannot hurt one of us without the others reeling and aching too.  But still, the magnitude of what had happened had left us all in shock and reluctantly the girls went out to Easter dinner with their father.  I watched him arrive with Easter baskets filled with the best chocolates from Bayards, that I could not afford anymore. How odd  a sight, I thought, considering that I had been the only Easter bunny for 25 years. It was one of the hardest days of my life, watching the four of them walk out that door to my favorite restaurant and not being invited. Invited, another nonsensical word when one thinks of family.

Stunned, I did not know what to do with myself.  I couldn't remain in the house with those baskets mocking the life I had led.  So I piled up the dogs (my friends, my dear friends, now gone) into my little car and drove to the tiny lake, where my ex and I used to go for picnic dates, where I used to take my children when they were little to look at the ducks and hunt for frogs.  We walked together, my dogs and I for what seemed hours.  Violets were at my feet. How many hundreds of violets have the pudgy hands of my children handed to me? How many had my husband picked for me over the years?  Happy, intact families passed by, again and again. I could barely breath. 

I got back in the car, cried into my water bottle and shared the water and tears with the dogs. And I prayed. I prayed to find a way to go on. But after staring out the windshield of my car, waiting until I thought it was safe to go home, even if home didn't feel safe any more, my tears dried a little, my stomach whined for food and even a broken-hearted woman got bored. I found a Superfresh receipt and a sharpie in my handbag and scribbled this poem of hope, where I desperately tried to convince myself, that all would be well.

Easter Weekend 2009
I pick my own violets today,
scour the ground for heart-shaped rocks
with love abundant, still. 
Hope lies in the surprise of
purple in my path
and trust is small
and solid
as the stone 
in my hand.

Each day that has passed since the earthquake of my marriage, I have looked heartily for inspiration. I have made little journals of beautiful quotes, out of old little books, pasting old postcards on the pages or images of birds or butterflies from vintage field guides. These volumes feel sacred in my hands.  Some of them are riddled with pain and cry out with Psalms and prayers.  Others hold poetry and wisdom from Rumi, and Khalil Gibran, and Emerson and e.e. cummings... It was with a sense of serendipity that I pasted e.e. cummings' poem next to my Easter poem, the similarity striking, when I discovered it.

(I) came home 
with a smooth
round stone
as small 
as a world
and as large as
alone.
e.e. cummings

Of course my small poem pales in comparison, but tonight when I am feeling so grateful, it is nice to be reminded that surprises await us at every corner. It is comforting to know that a friend can be made when you least expect it, even when you meet on a dusty page and the common ground is a love of words and simple pleasures.

On Maternal Instincts and Seasonal Toppings

Sometimes, I am so glad to be a woman. Today, I am not talking about great dresses or vintage jewelry or any other favorites. I am not even talking about sensuality and the deeper joys of being female.  Today, I am talking about instincts and the push-button response we women, especially mothers have in certain situations.

It happened in the midst of an ordinary Christmas gathering in my living room. My grandbaby had just opened a few presents and the rest of us were sitting back, sipping french vanilla creamed coffee and chatting.

Then we heard it. It was coming from my mother, the elder, the wise one, the mother of four, grandmother of thirteen, great-grandmother of nine and great-great grandmother of two. It was that siren, that oh- so -familiar alert, "Ooh! Ooh! Ooh!"  She pointed at the fifteen month old. My mother had spotted an object in the baby's hand that she deemed a possible danger. "She's got something!"

I don't remember how I got off the couch. I am supposing that I flew. My daughter, the baby's mother was supernaturally transported across the room too. We surrounded the baby on the floor. My mother continued to provide stats. "It's green!"

Squawks were emitted from the three of us. High pitched worries filled the air as six hands searched her chubby fingers for signs of the threat. A piece of broken Christmas bulb? An errant pill from some one's pocket? God forbid.  We picked her up, we inspected her mouth, opening our own mouths wide, wider, widest to show her how to give us a better view. She giggled and drooled. 

I was vaguely aware of my son-in-law, a doctor, looking on, calmly assessing the situation. If his eyes showed any surprise at all it was over the gaggle of concern that had swarmed his baby in less than a second.

Our frantic search seemed fruitless. Had she swallowed it? We scoured the floor, the furniture - hands flat, covering all surfaces. 

 

She seemed fine, we agreed. Cautiously relieved, we began to catch our breath.

Then I spied it! In between her chubby fingers - the enemy, the threat to our peaceful Christmas.

Together, we extracted the danger. It lay in my palm as mother, grandmother and great-grandmother all leaned in for closer inspection. 

My son -in-law raised a curious eyebrow as he peaked over the top of our heads. 

"It's a sprinkle!" He said, blatantly amused.

It must have come from the chocolate- dipped Oreos, we woman concluded.

Even though my son-in-law laughed heartily at us, there was a hint of admiration for the pack that we are. How the lionesses pounced and worked together in precision to protect the young. He would never admit this of course, but I saw it flash across his young, confident male face. I saw a smidgen of understanding and new- found respect for our rapid response, even if it was in folly. 

And we women? Of course we laughed. Of course it was thankfully, wonderfully ridiculous of us. We also know that in a heartbeat we will make fools of ourselves again and again to safe-guard the ones we love.

 

Shrink Not , All You Violets

 




 It's pretty common for a young poet to reveal her tears, achingly, unabashedly holding up her broken heart or bubbling over with the joy of new love or life experiences - but for the older woman, it is mostly expected that she keep such thoughts and feelings to herself. And a lot of us do.

We might hide what is inside our hearts because of the risk of  ridicule. No one wants to be thought a fool, as in, "Have some pride; a 54 year old longing for a kiss in the moonlight, really?" But pride has its downside too. And I am not too proud to talk about this gentle kind of longing.

We also might not talk about matters of our seasoned hearts in fear of confronting indifference: " No one cares about a matronly heart."

Or do we keep silent because when we are older it is just not acceptable to want what the young want? I have seen it flash across a younger face or two :"Your time has come and gone." But we at this stage of life know that that kind of longing doesn't really ever go away.

At any age, a woman longs to be appreciated and valued for her femininity. And what she values about being feminine is uniquely personal. For me, it has much to do with my ability to nurture, a keen sensitivity that is guided by love and gratitude and experiencing it all from the perspective of every stage of being female. 

But, these days, it seems like this aspect of femininity isn't really appreciated all that much. I often feel like one of a thousand violets, blooming in a field, capable of adding to the world's beauty, but left behind without so much as a glance or a sniff.

Now I am not necessarily looking for sniffs, (the complexity of the sense of smell is best left for another post). But a glance might be nice; to be picked out of the crowd and admired, laugh lines and all. What a wonder it would be, not to be noticed in spite of these lines but because someone was interested to learn the kinds of things that had made me laugh for all of these years. There it is: a reveal, another glimpse into a the heart of a wrinkled girl. There is inherent vulnerability in statements like that.

So the tiny violet and I are both vulnerable. And being vulnerable isn't easy.  In fact there is something courageous about it. It is brave to bloom with the ever-present risk of being crushed, or worse yet, unnoticed.  It takes courage to talk about what is buried in the recesses of  our hearts. To release it, is  akin to whispering on the rooftops, "Our hearts still ache and soar much the same as yours!"

The fifty-something heart has a lovely patina, worn smooth by time's many moments of joy and pain, and it is my mini-mission to hold it up for appreciation.  Rest assured, all of you not yet here at this stage of life, there is no such thing as a matronly heart. No matter how it is dressed or carried or covered, it stays supple and susceptible, forever.

So thank goodness for this space to blog. Because I can't really go around tapping on shoulders, shedding some light on this, the way I can here. Nobody wants to have the contents of an older woman's heart dumped on them in a supermarket.

The trick of course is to actually be heard. Thanks, by the way, to the one, two, or dare I hope three of you, who have already stopped by to read. But I wonder, how does one really get read around here? Since I'm so new to this, the answer will either surface by perseverance and learning, or remain a mystery if I give up after few posts.

For now though, like the violet, I'll keep on reaching upward a little while longer. Maybe I will figure this blog stuff out and hear from other like-minded souls. Maybe not. But like the violet, I'll put my precious vulnerability out there. The fact that it hasn't been read, doesn't make it any less precious. Does it?