Celebrations and hope

Ramona Behnke offered today's writing inspiration/prompt - to think about 'small celebrations' in our lives. Check out her thoughtful reflections on this theme, and read the comments on her post for links to other writers and their responses.

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June simply bursts with celebrations - so many weddings and anniversaries, graduations, backyard barbecues to kick off summer, end-of-year parties to celebrate happy conclusions of various clubs and activities. Often, there's special travel to see loved ones at this start to summer (all the more special after two years + of pandemic) and, of course, there's Father's Day, as well. Yes, June is a celebratory time. 

We were invited to a gala event in celebration of a special someone recently, a dear friend of our family. I'll keep the party 'anonymous' in the interest of sharing something a little deeper:

there was one invitee whom I was totally surprised to see, 

someone I knew in a wholly personal, emotional, confidential way, totally apart from this celebration, 

someone I never imagined running into there or anywhere again

though I had hoped and prayed I would.

Years ago, we had met in a time of parallel pain; we had met at a recovery program, both of us parents to a child with addiction. This recovery program was an extraordinary blessing, giving us space to share our hurt and the tools we needed to move forward. Every participant shared personal stories, with the assurance of anonymity. 

I was awash in empathy for everyone, but this one family's story is one that I held in my heart these many years. One evening during the support group, this parent and I had the opportunity to share more deeply one-on-one, and I felt a sad yet beautiful intersection of our grief. We listened to one another and 'held' each other in this time of fear and confusion. I know I reflected on their words many times over, in the months and years to come; I was lifted by their story. I realized then that it is no small thing to be alongside another in suffering; there is great power in this.

"Although the world is full of suffering, it is full also of the overcoming of it." Helen Keller

Over the years, I have wondered about their child. I prayed for their recovery. I hoped for strength for the family. 

Here, many years later, we cross paths again! In the midst of a completely separate and jubilant celebration! 

It felt coincidental, so happenstance, so wonderful.

(I have a friend who assures that a coincidence is the work of the holy - when you are surprised like this, believe in the mystery of something much larger than you. In the midst of this celebration, I did feel the holy.)

This person and I, we greeted each other like old friends, with a warm embrace. We met each other's eyes. With just a few tender words, we were able to impart how much healthier each of our children now was. We shared big smiles, and moved apart to chat and mix with others at the party, continuing the celebration at hand. I, however, basked in the second celebration of simply intersecting with them, again.

Recovery, 
my goodness, 
this is truly cause for celebration - 
one that, so many years ago, I could hardly imagine. 

I hope I have been able to impart how serendipitous and special this reconnection was to me. I have been smiling for several days now, ever since running into this person again. 

I am so aware of 

    the healing power of time, 

    the strength, fortitude, and perseverance of individuals, and 

    the iridescent and lasting beauty of interactions. 

You simply never know what the future holds, and 

how your presence might help another. 

SOLSC 2022 #6 - On hopelessness

 

It is March 2022 and time for the

 15th Annual Slice of Life Story Challenge  

Every single day, for all thirty-one days of March,

writers will share stories.

Thank you, Two Writing Teachers, for creating this supportive community 

of teacher-writers!

Most days, I begin quietly, contemplatively. I read, re-read, listen to, absorb a variety of meditative, loving, inspirational sources. It's somewhat aimless, unstructured, this quiet alone time. I take a lot of notes. I write write write in a daily journal. I write into the day. I love this time alone. It is sacred time.

Today begins with my finding these notes on an index card, kept at my writing table, from an interview I listened to ages ago... words from Devendra Banhart   - 

I have no faith -

zero, zilch, nada -

in today being a good day.

But I can try to do good today.

(I jotted them down quickly, they are perhaps an incomplete quote, but you get the idea.)

I love this.

Seriously, I do.

Just what I needed to absorb today.

I am grieving, we are grieving; raw from the death of our sister/sister-in-law just two weeks ago, the sad surprise of her death, all the emotions, history, memories it has dredged up... battered from the daily painful news of the war and atrocities in Ukraine; I could go on and on; yes, I'm just/we're just hurting, hurting, hurting. 

I have no faith -

zero, zilch, nada -

in today being a good day.

But I can try to do good today.

I went out on a long walk by myself, trying to lose myself in my head, pound and ground my body to churn away all the yuck inside...yes, if I can't seem to solve it through writing, I'll often try to walk it off.

There was this little guy, maybe eight years old, struggling with his bicycle - walking it on the side of the road. He wasn't someone I knew, he was a stranger to me, just a young boy. He was at that 'thickening' stage of child development, before height and hormones come racing in. I was immediately heartened to see him, just to feast my eyes on his roundness, thinking about my three sons when they were younger, how they grew just like this. Yes, I'm a weirdo. Hahaha. Anyhow, I called out to him - 

Do you need help? 

And he shook his head, no. At once, I could see the mixed-bag fear of 'I don't know you, lady, I'm not supposed to talk to strangers,' maybe even - 'hey, neither of us is wearing a mask, I need to keep away from you.' But his sweaty, frustrated face, the struggle and exhaustion in his eyes, made me think otherwise - he did need help. He couldn't get the bike going. I crossed the street to his side, keeping a distance, and said gently,

Looks like that could be the chain. I've had that happen a time or two. May I give you a hand? and I pointed towards the bike. 

He whispered, okay and rolled/scooched the bike towards me.

One knee in the dirt, next to the bike, I held the bike up with one hand, and took stock - yep, there's the drooping chain, slipped off. With my other hand, I grabbed it, pulled it, tucked it back into position onto the sprocket, instantaneously feeling the mucky slime of grease on my fingers (such a distant yet familiar feeling is bike grease). I rolled the bike back towards the boy, and wiped my greasy hands in the grass.

Give that a go. I think that's all it needed.

He jumped back on the bike and rode off, with an enthusiastic - Yes! It works! and an even bigger shout "THANK YOU!"

Leaving me smiling.

I have no faith -

zero, zilch, nada -

in today being a good day.

But I can try to do good today.

#verselove - 14: hope

For the month of April, I am participating in 30 days of #verselove poetry writing with Dr. Sarah J. Donovan's Ethical ELA. 

Today's poetry inspiration was by Dr. Padma Venkatraman, who encouraged us to write about hope. I spent the morning at some beautiful gardens with my granddaughter, and throughout our adventure, I kept note of things that gave me hope. As I tried to piece my thoughts into a poem, I decided to try to write it in a "Duplex format" (a poetry form created by Jericho Brown) which I had learned about through a May OpenWrite with Ethical ELA. Here's where I landed:

hope

renewal and innocence in the garden
water reflects trees, shimmering rainbow koi 

rainbow koi shimmer a tree’s soft reflection
young children alongside loving caregivers

loving caregivers alongside young children
courage is her hand curled around my thumb

she holds courage in the curl of her hand 
question, wonder, imagine, all are hope

hope questions, wonders, imagines more
roots work invisibly before blooming

blooms need the invisible work of roots
the joy within a single fallen petal 

joy at holding a single fallen petal
this renewal and innocence is hope

Let me also include a photo of those shimmering koi with the gorgeous reflection of trees -

This is our land

I am participating in the
Tuesday Slice of Life.
All participants are writing about one moment, one part of their day.

A big thank you to Two Writing Teachers for providing this unique opportunity
for teacher-writers to share and reflect.

The day is stifling hot, with oppressive humidity and very little breeze. Maybe it will be cooler in the mountains? What a delight to be in our air conditioned car, listening to our favorite music, with a few hours free to drive to our property for our ritual summer visit. A few years ago (oh my, has it been 12 years now?), Tony and I purchased four acres of land alongside a creek in the Chattahoochee mountains of Georgia. This is sweet country! Great hiking, beautiful vistas, lazy living. When our boys were young, we often rented cabins in this vicinity. Our family has enjoyed so many fabulous days walking wooded and mountainous trails, collecting rocks and sticks, splashing in streams, finding waterfalls, playing in the dirt, reading, drawing, and eating outdoors. One day (soon?) we will get our act together and build a simple cabin here, a get-away.

We travel to Georgia each summer for Tony's family reunion. Every summer we trek to our property for a bit...and our imagination runs wild with plans. We create sketches, talk about a porch overlooking the creek, wonder about trees, birds, deer, and bears. Then, turn around, we are back in the thick of life in Maryland/Washington, D.C. and these musings fizzle out, become more faint.

But, hey, Tony is retired now...maybe we will finally take some serious steps to building this cabin...let's visit again and dream.

Tony knows the way to the our land by heart, but for me, I am still at a loss for how we get there until we are racing along on this one particular two lane road that curves a little to the left and then, just at the bend, Tony slows down considerably and makes a sharp right onto the narrow dirt and gravel lane...a road that demands we drive at 10-15 miles an hour max. We drive past our "neighbors" with simple homes and cabins. I love all the pretty porches, the flowers, the stonework. I smile. We're almost there!

Oh no.

What's that? Just up there on that barn, on the right?

Tony, do you see that?
Was that there last year?
Whoa.

I don't think it was. I'm sure we would have remembered.

We continue on, quiet.

The next house has one, too.

That DEFINITELY wasn't there last year.

As does the next.

And one more...that makes FOUR!... this one is HUGE and ENORMOUS, hanging alongside an American flag.

I am clutching my seat, my feet are acting like brakes on the floor board of the passenger seat. Oh, Tony - what in the world? How can this be? I ask with alarm.

Four Confederate flags.








I try to absorb this visual assault. My mind is racing - these are our neighbors? Just as I think that I cannot breathe, cannot catch my breath, we pass by a fifth property with an enormous flag.

A rainbow flag with the word PEACE emblazoned across.







It's impossible to describe how this rainbow flag lifted me.


Hope, waving in the heat.


This is the world that Trump has unleashed. A world where meaning is reduced to bumper stickers, tweets, and flags; where everyone is certain and absolute, digging in their heels, shouting their truth, and not listening to the other. Daring one another. Opposing. Hating.

This is our land.





We stop at our property and get out of the car, walking slowly and quietly. A hawk soars overhead. Tall trees surround us. So much green all around. A smattering of lacelike white wildflowers. So many beautiful rocks. A chipmunk scurries through the underbrush. The creek glistens in the sun.


This is our land.

It is always something

I am participating in the
Tuesday Slice of Life.
All participants are writing about one moment, one part of their day.

A big thank you to Two Writing Teachers for providing this unique opportunity
for teacher-writers to share and reflect.

Wrinkled, worn, weathered, looking older than his years,
Thin body, sunken eyes, missing teeth.
Everyday norm is achey, heady, tired.
Much neglect of health, and, now, diabetes.
It is always something.
Money, money, money. Always needing money.
How to pay rent? Buy groceries? Get insulin?
Mistakes made, hints of jail time served.
Marriage lost.
It is always something.
Wages garnished for childcare,
Full-time work is beyond his grasp.
No experience, no education, no training.
Odd jobs only, clearing trash, pulling weeds, handyman tasks.
It is always something.
Do you have any work for me?
Cellphone is a luxury. Just cannot afford.
How to get in touch with him?
No affordable housing nearby.
Long commutes from remote suburbs.
It is always something.
Tiny setbacks have big consequences.
Missing the bus.
Too much rain, can't work outside.
Someone steals his wallet -
His little cash is gone, as is driver's license
It is always something.
Need replacement ID for food stamps...
Red tape, bureaucracy, slow lines, paperwork
(Precious time spent not earning money.)
Begging landlord to give him a couple more days -
He'll get that money for rent, yes, he will.
Please, could you spare a little?
It is always something.
Life is hard when you are down and out.
It seems impossible to crawl out from under the burden that is your life.
What does trying look like, when everything is hard?
He wears a big smile of hope.
It is truly something.