Are stories memories?

I have this wonderful memory of my grandmother and great grandmother going to this place called the Solko. As a child I would run free, playing on the swing set, getting muddy in the creek or the pond. Sometimes sneaking into this giant kitchen to find so many ladies, my grandmothers age and my great grandmothers age, sitting around snapping beans, canning jellies and jams , laughing and talking. It was hot as the blazes in there, but the laughter and the jokes ran free as the sips of water or Becherovka. I may have not understood the community of women and often the words that poured out and around me I would have trouble with . "Grandma, what does Huvna mean?" and a swift laugh and an admonishment to get something to eat and go play. However now as an adult I look back fondly and realize that I was part of something very special. That bearing witness to women coming together to get all these chores done, made it fun, shortened the time and had a strong sense of belonging to something special.

As I sit in my kitchen alone, snapping beans and canning jams and jellies, I listen to music and reminisce about a life style that is fading into memory. I wish I had friends or neighbors who would come over and laugh and talk and work along side me to put up the harvest.

Someday my memories will just be stories, of something long gone...

Posted on July 19, 2017 .

story time

More than 20 years ago I lived in a trailer, on a hill, along a logging road in West Virginia. My neighbor was a sweet old man named Eddie.

Eddie had seen the world,He had sailed on a rich mans yatch, he had back packed as far as his wandering feet would take him andhe had been a steward on a cruise ship for the 15 years before he had retired. He had come back to almost heaven after his partner had died in Singapore.

I would try and sneak over for tea with him once a week, while my son, "napped". I always loved listening to the stories he told, ports of call I can only imagine from his words; Tunis, Monaco, Greenore, Galle and Buenos Aires.

One day as I was packing to move, he came over with a parcel. He said " If you don't want it, I will completely understand, but I thought that you might appreciate the story behind it."

I opened the package and there inside was a bible. Of course I raised my brows at him, for Eddie was both an atheist and had been raised in the Jewish faith. He laughed at my look and told me this story.

He had wanted to join the navy, the army anything to go fight in the war. However, he was slight of frame and even at 18 had to have his father come forward and swear that he was of age.

" I was johnny come late" his reedy voice filled with a deep sigh. "By the time I got in and deployed we were almost to Berlin. I had marched for what seemed like forever it was strange to be headed in one direction when so many would pass us going the opposite direction. One day we came to a town, I wish I could remember the name of it, but it looked like so many of the others. Bombed, broken down and destroyed by the war. We were sitting around waiting. Something they can make you do a lot of in the military. I was on this pile of rubble, staring off, not really thinking anything when I looked down into the pile of rocks there that I was sitting on. I saw something, and so I started pushing rocks and dirt out of the way.  There was this pile of books, all of them in German of course. " he smiled at me and shook his head on a laugh. " I had no clue what any of them were until I pulled out this one. Doesn't take a genius or someone who reads German to figure out when you have a hold of a bible. I had cracked it open to a page that had a picture of a women finding a baby in a basket floating on the river. Doesn't that crack you up?" he asked me. " a skinny Jewish boy finding a bible in Germany and the first page he comes to is Moses?"  I turned through the book until I found that particular plate. He smiled and nodded when I showed it to him. "It became my souvenir. I suppose the family was gone, I'll never know. But the bible is old, I think some one told me it was published in 1890's. I had a friend who could read German.." he said with a smile.

Gathering dust on my shelf is a book old and falling apart. It's not light, has some weight to it and it's hard for me to imagine that frail old man carrying this book around in his back pack as he tromped around the countryside. He died the next year, I will never forget his graceful if some what effeminate hands patting the book and smiling at me " It's really not the book, it's the story."

Posted on June 17, 2017 .

I'm Her.

I don't want to fight it.

I don't want to take a swing at it,

don't want to punch it, beat it, scream at it.

I don't want to wage war on it.

Don't want to shame it,

Blame it,

degrade it.

I don't want to hurt it, subjugate it, enslave it, control or destroy it.

I am done with his way or the highway.

I can't keep trying to win by being Him.

I'm Her.

I want to nurture it

I want to caress it, snuggle it, sing to it,hug it and laugh with it.

I want to take it deep into my womb

protect it, give birth to it, Love it, feed it from my body and teach it.

I want to give it wings and be filled with Joy when it flies away.

I am her, and trying to be Him, takes from me.

I have endured, and will continue to endure.

I have found my voice, my strength, me. 

I will not fight him on his terms.

I will change the world

On mine.

Because I am her.

 

Posted on March 8, 2017 .

Messages

listen.jpg

I always dreamed of finding a bottle on the beach with a treasure map. I dreamed of finding a box of old love letters between my grandparents, or some ancestor of mine filled with love and tenderness. I still look for bottles at the beaches, but love letters I know I will never find.

I love to look for messages, for little hidden things that only I see. Maybe that is why I write little messages on the bottoms of my pottery. I want some one to discover what I have written and have it be "exactly what they need at that moment."

My Friend Merry today wrote and told me about a jar full of scrolls at a local gift shop. She spotted them and wondered what they were. She said "

 So in this expensive store by the check out counter there was a jar full of little scrolls tied with a piece ofjute. I asked what they were for, and was told there was a message in there for me. He told me to find it. So I opened the jar. It was like looking for your just the tight jelly bean in a sea of jelly beans. I stuck my hand down into the middle and came up with a scroll.  Here's what it said “You can’t fall if you don’t climb But there’s no joy in living your whole life on the ground”. - Unknown.

I love the whole thing. And here's the thing, the man said they don't tell anyone the jar is there. Only the people who ask about it get a scroll. It's like the Universe pointing the people who need a message, get a message. Anyway, I loved it and now I want to go back every day. Perhaps I should look around me and find messages everywhere."

What a grand adventure! To actually have the intention, the focus to look for messages from the Universe.

I have many wonderful decks of affirmation cards and some days I feel the urge to pull one, just to see what it says. However I think it would be even more fun, and wondrous to just pay attention to things outside your normal purview. See what catches your eye, what speaks to you. I can get so busy with distractions, that often the magic gets lost, because it's there, but I am not paying attention.

Where would you look?

Should you keep track of what they say? or does that take away from it? or even worse if you keep seeing the same message over and over, would you feel a little sheepish that maybe you're not listening? ~grin~

I am going to start looking for messages... I want to see what gets whispered up to me... will you let me know if you find any? :)

 

Posted on February 17, 2017 .

Poetry lessons

I am trying to introduce Q to poetry again. I tried a few years ago, and was mostly unsuccessful. There was much eye rolling, and not a lot of enjoyment, on either of our parts.

But the past couple weeks I pull out book after book, introducing her to some of my favorites. My fingers crossed, waiting for one to grab her, speak to her.

I heard her laughing and say "oh" in that sad little voice after reading Nye.

" These are beautiful" she tells me after reading Machado.

Today she walks up and hands me this poem and says "Can you paint me something, and put these words with it? I love this one.. I want to hang it in my room..."

Crazy Little Love song by Mary Oliver

I don’t want eventual,
I want soon.
It’s 5 a.m. It’s noon.
It’s dusk falling to dark.
I listen to music.
I eat up a few wild poems
while time creeps along
as though it’s got all day.
This is what I have.
The dull hangover of waiting,
the blush of my heart on the damp grass,
the flower-faced moon.
A gull broods on the shore
where a moment ago there were two.
Softly my right hand fondles my left hand
as though it were you.

 


Perhaps my deep love of poetry is shared?

Do you have a favorite poet? poem that I might share with her?

Posted on February 7, 2017 .