A Mother’s Silhouette

To all of our mothers.  Thank you for your love~

 

A Mother’s Silhouette

I awoke for a moment in late afternoon, the hospital room spare and efficient.   I looked over and saw my mother sitting with a rosary in her hand, a cool dark silhouette before a window fiercely illuminated by the hot desert sun.

“You don’t have to talk,” she said noticing I was stirring. “I’m just going to sit here.”

Thank you.  It’s exactly what I needed.  An immense, familiar peace filled me, her profile eliciting early memories as I continued to drift in and out of sleep, my body ridding itself of the anesthesia from an early morning surgery.

I dreamed of sitting tall beside her as she drove the white station wagon with two sure hands on the wheel down bright summer streets, and squinting up from my canvas raft to see that she still sat in the striped beach chair in case I needed her to rescue me from the crashing waves.   Then I was suddenly spinning on the old brown naugahyde covered stool in the kitchen as she prepared dinner, her black wavy hair in sharp contrast to the fading glare of a snowy afternoon through windows over the kitchen sink.  I felt the weight of her as she perched on the edge of my bed saying prayers with me, the hall light streaming behind her into my room cloaked in night. Her slight frame in the living room window as I pulled up to the house in an old blue Ford with my first boyfriend.

All of these memories, backlit, glowing.  A mother’s silhouette.  Anchoring, soothing, solid.  As an adult, going about the daily routines, I had forgotten about the calming, restorative effect of having my mother simply sit in my presence.  I looked to her as I always have.  My mirror, my friend, my ever present reminder-er that my hair cut is all wrong and my weight is too low.  All these years she has been the constant in my life.  Now sneaking around the edges of my heart is the knowledge that she will someday be gone.  It is an unbearable knowing. Where will she be when I need her?  Who will be backlit for me then?

The ability to have children may end, but mothering endures.  It is a singular and beautiful calling to become the silhouette to God’s light here on this earth.   In this room, helpless and still, I saw clearly that my position in the chain of motherhood would remain unchanged.  A child doesn’t stop needing his or her mother simply because he or she is turning fifty, and a mother’s instinct to love her children never ends.

My thoughts turned to my son and daughter, young adults trying to find their way and make sense of their circumstances.  I wonder if my silhouette holds the same power. If I was there when they needed to peer from their own darkness and look toward the light. If I understood when they were young that love shines brightest during the simple moments of mothering that become so routine that we perform them without thought.  I look forward with a new understanding to the many years I have left  with them.  Even if that means just sitting in a chair in a shadowy room by a sunny window, a chance to remind them of the immense, familiar peace of a mother’s love in this often harsh world.

I awakened again, my head pounding.  She was there in a second with ice chips and a cool cloth.

“Do you want me to turn off the ceiling light?” she asked as she leaned over me.

“No, leave it on,” I replied adding one more image to my my treasure box of silhouettes.

Sheets smoothed, pillows adjusted she stood searching for some other detail to attend.

“Thanks, Mom.” I said as I felt the tug of sleep once more.

“I’ll just sit over here,” she whispered. “You don’t have to talk.”

The Power of Your Story Writing Retreats

The Power of Your Story Retreats 

I am happy to announce the launch of a great new Writer’s Retreat Series!  I have teamed up with renowned veteran Life Coach, Carlette Patterson to create a unique program that blends life coaching and writing instruction.  

One is designed as a year-long experience to provide the structure and support to write a book length memoir, and the other is a seven-day adventure/writing retreat on the Italian Riviera. Both flyers are printed below.

We are accepting registration now.  Just click on the brochures for more detailed information.

Capacity is limited to ensure personal attention!  

Hope to see you there~

Ben’s Bells and the Power of Kindess

~Deliberately seek opportunities for kindness, sympathy, and patience.
Evelyn Underhill

This morning I had the priviledge of participating in the “belling” of Phoenix.  All over the valley, volunteers hung Ben’s Bells to spread the message of kindness and remind us of its power to soothe broken lives, create hope, and affect positive change.

My friend, Diane, and I were entrusted with twenty hand-made bells, twenty pieces of wire, and a rough hewn map on a blue index card. As we walked to the car, I carried this bundle with reverence for it wasn’t just an old grocery bag crammed with ceramic  flowers and bells, this was a bag filled with hope. And hope is the most powerful force on the the planet.

We drove carefully to our designated area and began to choose unlikely spots: a tree in a parking lot, a vacant playground, a bench along a bike path.  We understood that our role was to deliver the kindness, and it would be someone else’s to receive it.  With each bell that we tied to a random location, we knew that it would become a bridge to hope to the person meant to find it.  Each bell would become a chapter in a story of healing.

When I returned home, I began to check the Ben’s Bells webpage where people will often post their story about finding a bell, or how a bell found them in a dark moment of their day.  A few of the stories were about bells Diane and I had placed. The circle of kindess complete.

Here are a few of the stories:

Jackie writes…

Thank you for restoring my faith in… well, faith. I have been feeling so alone since losing my husband to cancer last year and now raising three boys. Some days are just so long and hard and on this night I was rushing to my son’s baseball game after working a 12 hour day. I parked the car and as I walked past a tree on the jogging path, I caught a glimpse of a yellow flower hanging beautifully from a tree. I remembered reading about Ben’s Bell’s a while back and wondered if maybe I had found one. As I read the card and happily untied it, I felt such a connection to the heavens. Someone was watching over me! I truly felt that this daisy bell (my favorite flower) was put in my path for a reason. Thank you Ben’s family for making my heart lighter and putting a spring in my step. I will be sure to spread the kindness in honor of Ben (and Bill.) My husbanded loved Tucson dearly, but ironically the bell found its way to me in Scottsdale.

aurelia b writes…

Today I woke up missing my daughter, Violet. She died almost five years ago. As I often do on days that I feel a bit more overwhelmed and unsure. I performed my own random act of kindness this morning in honor of my daughter. My day was long and griefy. I got home and my boyfriend(Violet’s dad) gave me Ben’s Bell. Someone had left it in a tree near his truck. It was just what my soul needed. Thank you for allowing me to know your son and be a part of this kindness.

Julie writes…

I found myself having somewhat of a stressful day today at work (I am a RN in Phoenix) so I decided to head out and get away during lunchtime. I caught a glimpse of something colorful hanging in a tree by my car–a beautiful Ben’s Bell. I read the tag attached and later looked up the website. I was so moved by this project, especially the story behind it, as I, too, have lost a child. It’s almost as if the bell found me instead of me finding the bell. I immediately knew where this bell would hang – 9 years ago we had planted a gorgeous, flower blooming tree in our backyard to honor our son Trey’s memory and it would be perfect for this bell! So after work today I told my family about this bell and tonight we hung it on a branch. Thank you a million times for making me smile today and reminding me that kindness does go a long way.

Jeannette and Dean, Ben’s parents and the founders of Ben’s Bells tell the story of their son and the meaning behind the bells.  Please take a moment to read about it here.

Our simple acts of kindness to strangers as we go about our days are as important as those shown to our loved ones. As you travel through life remember that your choice to be kind will light a dark day for another.

Peace and Kindness to you~

 

Learning Ally

A few weeks ago I was sent an email informing me that Halfway to Each Other was chosen as one of the books that would be added to the Learning Ally library during Phoenix’s  annual Record-a-Thon.  I was honored and excited at the opportunity.

I have been aware of Learning Ally (formerly Recording for the Blind and Dyslexic) for many years through my teaching profession.  It is a godsend for students and their families.  This national non-profit, offers an online catalog of the best audiobook and audio learning opportunities on the internet.  I have referred them to families of struggling students and have watched these children take charge of their learning and glow with the pride of achievement.

Here’s a blurb about them from their webpage:

“Founded in 1948 as Recording for the Blind, Learning Ally serves more than 300,000 K-12, college and graduate students, veterans and lifelong learners – all of whom cannot read standard print due to blindness, visual impairment, dyslexia, or other learning disabilities. Learning Ally’s collection of more than 70,000 digitally recorded textbooks and literature titles – downloadable and accessible on mainstream as well as specialized assistive technology devices – is the largest of its kind in the world. More than 6,000 volunteers across the U.S. help to record and process the educational materials, which students rely on to achieve academic and professional success.”

Though headquartered in Princeton, NJ, they have recording studios and offices all over the country.  Pam Bork runs the studio here in Phoenix with a staff of generous volunteers.  Dorothy Burns and I had a lot of fun recording Halfway to Each Other together, or at the very least I had fun and she was tearing her hair out with all of our re-do’s whenever I would flub a word or phrase.

Dorothy and I after our recording session.

If your family has a need for this organization, don’t hesitate!  If you can’t find the title of the book or textbook you need, they will record it for you.

If you would like to voluteer to read/record books,  all it takes is a short demo in the recording booth and you’ll be on your way to helping people of all ages enjoy reading and experience the wealth that printed material provides.

Click here to browse the titles in their catalog!

Mother of the Year

Lately, I have been sifting though some of my old “mom-oir” pieces.  This one sent me into a nostalgic giggle. My son, Matthew, didn’t go through the terrible two’s until he was four.  During that tumultuous year, I learned more about the inability of men and women to communicate effectively than I did from the previous ten years of marriage.  Every conversation was about power and control, but I didn’t realize it until it was over.  I fell for it every time, like a child that is continually surprised to see the Jack in the Box explode from the can after five cranks of the handle.  A perfect example was a cloudy day in March when we went to Safeway for a few groceries…

 Mother of the Year

After circling the block three times in my navy blue mini-van, I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw that Matthew had finally calmed himself. He gazed at the tree-lined street, one pudgy index finger tracing circles on the window as the other twirled a chunk of sweaty blonde hair into a knot.  I exhaled with relief knowing that the dreaded Phase One of Every Car Trip was complete. Weeks earlier I had resigned myself to the reality that every excursion would begin with a wrestling match that would result in my pushing against his rigid little body of steel with all of my might to get him to bend to a point that I could buckle his car seat. Without fail, it would leave us both out of sorts and screaming.

Heading toward the grocery store I put in his favorite tape, the one where his name had been electronically inserted into every song.  Both of our moods lifted as we sang together about Matthew going to the moon on a magic rocket ship, and Matthew sailing the high seas with pirates.

The third song was about to begin when he called my name.

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

“Is stupid a bad word?”

I turned and gave him the exaggerated head nod and wide eyed stern look, “Yes!  Stupid is a terrible word. You should never call someone that.”

“What about shut up?”

“Shut up is awful!  An insult to the person you are talking to.  Never, ever say shut up.”  I saw him pondering my words, his blue eyes shifting left and right as he thought about what I was saying.  It felt so good being able to impart manners and social skills to my little guy.  Mother of the Year, that’s who I was.

“What about jerk?”

My jaw dropped with another dramatic expression of horror as I looked back at him again. “That could be one of the worst words of all time.”

“Hmmm.”

“Where are you getting these words?”

“I don’t know.”

“They’re all bad. They hurt people’s feelings, and  we don’t use them in this family.” I turned off the music for the remainder of the trip so my motherly wisdom could sink in.  Finally, he was listening to me.  I hadn’t connected with him on such a level in days.  We were forming his conscience together.  He would grow to be a fine man. A priest, or the president.

We pulled into the Safeway parking lot and he climbed into the cart without incident, an event so rare it made me grab the handle with sure hands and whistle while I pushed him up and down the aisles. I even took my time for a change, scanning the shelves for new products and the usual staples.

When I rolled the cart down the cereal aisle, I could sense a mood shift.

“Can we get Captain Crunch?”

“You know the doctor said no sugar cereals.”

His hands tightened around the cart’s handle until his knuckles and fingernails turned white.  “I want Captain Crunch.”

“We’re getting Crispix.”

His heels pounded a slow, tribal rhythm against the cart. “I-hate-Crispix.”

“You love Crispix.”

His kicking picked up speed and the sound of the vibrating metal turned heads toward us. Our empty aisle was now crowded with carts. Where did these other shoppers come from?

“I want Captain Crunch!  Captain Crunch! CAPTAIN CRUNCH!”

“WE’RE GETTING CRISPIX.”

“I WAANNT CAPTAINNN CRUUNNCH!”

Like a freeze frame in an action movie, time stood still as I looked up and down the aisle. Staring eyes to the left.  Staring eyes to the right.  Everyone was unabashedly waiting to see how Mother of the Year was going to handle this.

I took a deep breath to regroup, flashed my best fake smile to my growing audience, and dropped my voice to a gravelly whisper, “With that attitude we are not getting Captain Crunch or anything else today, Mister.  We are going home right now.”

Matthew looked me straight in the eye, and at the top of his little lungs he screamed with the utmost confidence, “SHUT UP, YOU STUPID JERK!”

My mouth dropped in unison with all of the other mothers in the aisle.  Shocked that he would string together all of the worst words he knew against me, I pulled his rigid, screaming body from the cart, and carried him over my shoulder, like a writhing sack of potatoes, toward the door.

Humiliated that all of the other mothers saw me as a failure, I gave them a final glance.  Imagine my relief when I saw them clapping with looks of sympathy and understanding as Matthew screamed unintelligible sounds and pounded his fists into my back.

“Go Mom!” were the last two words I heard as I stepped outside, thankful that my cheering section wasn’t coming with me to witness the upcoming wrestling match at the car seat.

Hey Guys, Come See the Butterfly

I took a break from my morning chores and walked to the kitchen sink to wash my hands. Glancing absentmindedly out the window toward a solitary orange tree that sits against our garden wall, I was caught off guard by a majestic yellow and brown Monarch. Its wing span was at least four inches and it fluttered, almost frantically from branch to branch, a butterfly ballet in the hot September sun.

I turned, instinctively, to call to the kids, Hey guys, come see the butterfly!  But the physical turning of my head pulled me to the present.  Katie was twenty-three years old and two states away teaching fourth graders, and Matthew was sitting in a college classroom in Ohio. I don’t think either one could hear me.

There was a time when such a sighting would incite a frenzy of motion.  Two sets of feet would come running from the playroom and the three of us would note, in whispered tones, the butterfly’s every move. Matt would point and try to bang on the window and Katie would scold him like the big sister she was, imparting wisdom like she was the expert of How to watch a butterfly without scaring it away.

And there we’d stand, noses pressed against glass.

“Do you think it’s a boy or a girl?”

“Duh, Katie, it doesn’t have any babies with it. It’s a boy.”

“Look, it’s sitting on the top branch!”

“What if it falls?”

“Can we catch it?”

“Where does it live?”

Then off it would flutter, its magic along with it, though the moment would live on though rudimentary etchings of crayon on white printer paper and countless remember whens before bedtime.

I miss sharing those moments of innocence.  My heart still calls out to my two babies when these everyday delights are revealed to me at odd hours. I have a feeling it always will.

It catches me off guard, this new stillness. This empty house of mine, the now quiet car rides, the lazy almost reckless way I can saunter through the market.   I am realizing that emptiness is not always solitary. I am startled to discover that these quiet spaces are inhabited by ghosts.

This strange new phenomenon is putting me on edge. I am being visited by my children at their various ages.  They haunt me, these younger versions, like they are trapped in time and I am separated from them by a clear glass wall.  A blond head with a coloring book at church, a giggle of silliness that erupts from a toddler at the mall, tanned skin and baggy swim trunks digging a hole to China at the water’s edge, and a pre-teen with gleaming braces and a long pony tail.  Katie and Matthew’s faces are everywhere, their voices fill my head.

I know I am grieving the end of an era. Grief always involves mysteries of one sort or another. Our two children have grown up.  And these little sightings I can handle, explain away as the musings of a mom who’s moving on.  But there is a presence of two other beings that I can’t explain.  Two blurred faces who have recently begun to roam the halls of my house and sit on the edge of my bed.

After almost sixteen years, long past the days when I accepted that two of our babies had not made it to term, I am wondering, once again, who they would have been. How their lives would have blessed us and the world.  They would be in high school with boyfriends and girlfriends and displays of acne that would curse their days.

This shocks me.  To tell you the truth, I never would have guessed it.  Miscarriages happen all the time.  A natural process, the doctor had assured me, making perfect sense. Of course it was a disappointment, but I was young.  I’d have more babies, she promised.

But she was wrong. We didn’t.  Years passed and we didn’t have a number three; no number four.  I cried my tears and then, one balmy Spring day, I surrendered.  We accepted and stopped trying. That was that, or so I had thought.

It can’t be coincidence that the door has sprung open to these memories at the same time I am grieving the empty nest.  There are four spirits wandering in this house, not two.  How can it be that I am just now considering that?  Of course it impacts a universe when a pregnancy ends in miscarriage.  There are souls involved, and the souls of children claim their mothers with a bond stronger than time or distance. This thought comforts me, two little ones who will always remain.

I dry my hands on a kitchen towel and fold it just so, knowing that it will not end up in a heap on the floor or secretly used to wipe peanut butter crumbs off the corners of a teen aged mouth. The Monarch flutters past the window again, and then a second one joins it.  I study them as they hop from leaf to leaf, unaware of me and the two little noses pressed to the glass.

Wabi Sabi Love

Wabi Sabi

In 1987 my husband, Tim, and I won a trip for two to Japan. It was our first real adventure together, two young kids, just married, off to see the other side of the world. West meeting East on an unexpected first date.

We landed in Tokyo, bought two tickets for the Bullet Train and raced at top speed into the past, discovering an ancient culture that spoke deeply to the places within me that my Western soul had yet to discover.

Now, years later, when I lie awake on sleepless nights, I sometimes travel back there in my mind remembering the moments and characters that illuminated that adventure: an elderly man in a sedge hat, his back bent with the weight of time sweeping the already clean path to a temple in Kyoto; a cab driver with white gloves driving us up a steep hill to an address we pointed to in a travel book; the sand dunes piled high against the Sea of Japan; millions of peace prayers written on tiny origami cranes strung together in strips along the narrow streets of Hiroshima like giant paper Man o’ War floating to heaven.

One night, as Tim and I sat in a tiny bar in some tiny village, we struck up a conversation with a khaki clad man on the stool beside us. His English was impeccable and he turned out to be Jordan’s ambassador to Japan. I don’t remember his face but I remember the conversation. He spoke to us for hours, revealing the beauty and culture of the Japanese, comparing and contrasting Eastern and Western philosophy. It was a brilliant evening in a brilliant setting. One of those points in time that I look back upon and realize that it wasn’t chance. It was a moment of grace. A moment of revelation. A seed.

One of the philosophies of which he spoke was Wabi Sabi.  The name made us giggle, or perhaps that was the sake we drank from tiny cups, but I took in its wisdom and chewed on its power. Though more complicated than I can explain, Wabi Sabi is the art of finding beauty in imperfection. It is an aesthetic ideal that results in an inner serenity and acceptance. It can be life changing. How interesting that twenty years later I would be invited to share our love story in Arielle Ford’s newest book, Wabi Sabi Love: The Ancient Art of Finding Perfect Love in Imperfect Relationships.

Arielle Ford, a pioneer and leading figure in the personal growth and contemporary spirituality movement and the bestselling author of The Soulmate Secret has written a powerful and hopeful book. She believes that with a simple Wabi Sabi shift in perception, couples can discover the beauty and perfection in themselves and their partners leading to a deeper, more loving and fulfilling relationship.

As Deepak Chopra deems “Wabi Sabi Love weds ancient wisdom and modern concerns to create the formula for a sustainable, loving relationship for years to come.”

Sometimes, a shift of the lens through which we view our relationships and our circumstances can alter our relationships in unimaginable ways.  My husband of twenty-six years and I can attest to that!  Don’t miss this path to deeper love~