Life Letters ( part 2 of 3)

   The drive home from Boston to NH never was pleasant. Friday afternoons were the worse as crowds from Massachusetts headed north to the lakes and mountains of NH. Some days I reassured myself with the thought that people were rushing to vacation where I lived. But on Fridays, I silently cursed them as my 70 minute commute home increased by 20 minutes. We thought that we had it all at this point. The house in the suburbs. The required colonial on one acre, complete with window boxes spilling over with flowers. Two beautiful girls and a bright red Volvo (our dream car) But as I pulled in the driveway, I was exhausted. Paul was on the road full time and I was working in Massachusetts while living in NH. I felt like a gerbil on a wheel most of the time. Going through the motions as seasons and years passed. Too busy to stop and really contemplate anything. We were still young, in our early 30’s, and from all appearances we had accomplished a great deal in ten years.

    All of this was going through my mind as I stopped at the mailbox and collected the mail. There was a letter from Paul who was working on an account in Canada. He loved to send us pictures of his adventures. This was before Facebook and Smartphones. But the letter would have to wait. I had dinner to cook and grass to cut, a babysitter to pay, books to read to the kids, all long before I touched the mail. 

At the end of the day, with the youngest asleep and the oldest watching Nick at Night; I grabbed some coffee and sat down to tear into the mail. When I got to my husband’s letter I ripped it open. Pictures tumbled out on my lap. Pictures of great meals, great restaurants and a rooftop wine tasting with the fellows. The letter that accompanied the pictures talked of adventures on the road, French restaurants, and the cigar bar he had visited. I closed my eyes and thought of not writing back. My extreme fatigue gave way to a bit of jealousy, a bit of anger and a bit of sadness.

So I ripped a page out of the kids notebook, grabbed a Bic pen, and started writing. I wrote of the long commute and the long hours and how little sleep I was getting. I told him the lawnmower was on the brink again and that I was having to push-mow the acre yard. At some point I mentioned that the septic was acting up and I was going to have to go outside and dig up the back flow lid the next morning. I mentioned that I had seen a mouse in the garage and that I was going to set traps later that night. Halfway through the letter I stopped.  I thought about what I really wanted to say. I wanted to write that I was overwhelmed during the day and lonely at night. That being a commuting working mom with him on the road was beyond hard. I wanted to tell him that while the pictures of his meals looked wonderful and his evenings out fun; I longed for time out on the town that wasn’t geared towards, basketball, gymnastics, girl scouts,or drama. 

But I feared writing all of this down because I knew that the response I would receive would make things worse. Was it uncaring that he had started to trivialize my frustrations? I didn’t know at that point. But what I did know was my words would be wasted if their intent was to generate change.  So I continued with writing what amounted to a general report on the state of home and put the letter in the basket of outgoing mail. I thought about crying. I felt like crying but the tears didn’t come. Instead a deep weariness had set in.

Life Letters ( Part 1 of 3)

         

  

There were many letters written during my long marriage. Three stand out in my memory. They are reminiscence of the full circle of the relationship itself. The letters captured the enchantment of the beginning, the frustration of the middle and the finality of the end.  

  During the first year of my marriage, I decided to write a lifetime of love letters to my husband. I considered each letter a work of art that would make a wonderful collection at the end of what would be our long union. So I went out to Harvard square in search of wonderful paper. We were very young and student poor because we were both still in college. A coin jar served as our entertainment fund, and I emptied half

of it for this special gift. Then I went in search of luxurious paper. I found a store in the heart of Harvard Square. It was a combination used book store, consignment art store, and museum of great stationery. The paper had been designed and hand painted by equally broke students.  I felt my way through the paper, touching, smelling, and staring, at every sheet.  I wanted something pale and translucent, but I also wanted a touch of color.  In fact, I wanted the paper to be almost dream-like. Finally, I came upon some ultra-thin onion paper. Hand painted in oils with wildflowers around the edges, it was perfect.

  Next I found the perfect pen. It was a mock quill that discharged a river of deep red ink the moment the point touched paper. Sitting outside in Harvard Yard on that late fall day; I started writing. I wrote of beginnings and youth. I filled paragraphs about our young love and the baby on the way. Of the promise of all that was yet to come and the happy fatigue of the hard work that was getting us there. I wrote about all that I loved about my husband; his spontaneity, his drive, his intensity. Perhaps it was the church bells ringing, or the way the autumn sun made beautiful shadows on my paper.  Maybe it was simply hormones. Whatever the reason, tears dropped on the paper one by one.  Once wet, some of the ink formed beautiful butterfly like patterns. I thought about starting over but I realized that joyful tears would be part of any letter I wrote that day.  I filled the envelope with the rose petals of a single rose I purchased from a nearby flower shop. In my haste to finish before dark, I somehow managed to crush some of the petals into the still damp paper.

 Decades later, I remember how surprised my husband was to receive the letter after dinner that night. I can still picture how the petals rained down on the table and made their way into his water, But more than anything else, I remember the smell of the rose that seemed to have made its way into the pores of the paper. As he smiled, the scent flowed over both of us. The aroma of roses would linger on the paper for years to come. The stars seemed to align with the fact that this first letter,written before time could leave open wounds and scars, was one blessed by roses and tears.   

Sweets for the Soul

The last of the herbs are cut and drying. My hands smell like a delicious blend of Rosemary, Mint, Thyme and Sage. With the windows closed and an Autumn wind blowing outside; my thoughts turn to gingerbread. Not 'Gingerbread light 'either. No, the old fashioned kind that is dark as chocolate and laced with crystallized ginger and sweetened with black molasses.  For those stopping by this weekend this will be paired with chamomile tea infused with turkish honey.

                                   Autumn Weekend Gingerbread

INGREDIENTS

• 6 tablespoons butter
• 1/3 cup light brown sugar, firmly packed
• 1/2 cup molasses
• 2 large eggs
• 1 3/4 cups sifted flour
• 1 teaspoon baking soda
• 1/4 teaspoon salt
• 1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
• 1/4 teaspoon ground allspice
• dash ground nutmeg
• 1 teaspoon ground ginger
• 1/4 cup finely chopped crystallized ginger
• 1/2 cup buttermilk
• granulated sugar

 Cream butter and brown sugar until light and fluffy; beat in molasses. Beat in eggs, one at a time. Sift together flour, baking soda, salt, cinnamon, allspice, nutmeg, and ground ginger. Add sifted dry ingredients alternately with buttermilk, beating after each addition. Stir in the crystallized ginger. Grease a 9-inch square baking pan and sprinkle lightly with granulated sugar. Pour in gingerbread batter and sprinkle top with more granulated sugar.

Bake the gingerbread at 350° for 25 to 35 minutes. Serve gingerbread warm or cold with whipped cream, lemon sauce, or other dessert topping.

Miracle Grow is inside you,activate it now.

There no right age,or right stage,to bloom. Whether you blossom at twenty or seventy; at some point you will expose your petals and show the world your glory. Meanwhile,there is a splendor in a flower that is waiting to open. The tightly encased petals swell with repressed yearning to release and a hint of the fragrance to come is heavy in the air. The unique combination; of sun, wind, water, and temperature, sets the stage for blooming. Some may need water in the form of tears, wind in the form of conflict, heat in the form of disorder and finally the blazing sun of pain, fear, and disappointment. Yes the most beautiful flower sometimes requires the most extreme weather conditions. When those flowers unfold, they shower the world’s garden with fragrance, magnificence, intricacy, and passion.

What comes next is unknown, but learn to love it all.

The thing about love is that no matter how many times you vow to run from it, it finds you. Hiding places are wonderful especially after you have been hurt. But love finds you despite every attempt to block it out. When it does, you start remembering how wonderful it really is. For it is the forgetting that both protects us and hurts us at the same time.  But once you are reminded of the very thing that has inspired men and women since the beginning to time; you realize that this is something that you will never run from again. Which of course means that you could get hurt....again. But the decision to take that risk is a decision that reminds you that love, which brings the risk of profound pain, is also the act of profound joy. A metopher for life perhaps. We have to live it fully and absorb all of it.
 So the cabin in the woods is on hold for a fairytale cottage in the village. I could care less about 'Happily ever after,'for my happy is now.

Once upon a time....is now.

It seemed surreal, watching the news last night. Crouching under their cars, running to assist each other. Still protecting the crowd as they were being shot. Our superheroes were being hunted. I wondered if Tamir Rice was crying in heaven.  He must be saying " No, I was killed by one bad guy,. These are not the bad guys.They are still my superheroes.They are the good guys"


Tamir Rice,that child, that name, that moment. He was 12 years old. Playing outside on a cold winter's day with his toy gun. Like million of children before him and like millions after him; he felt joy lost in the land of make- believe.
I have been that mom who has sent her tomboy out to play with her toy gun. In our suburb it was common to see young children toy guns in hand, camouflage on their bodies,playing 'ambush the aliens'. I use to drive into my garage very carefully because I was never sure when some smiling child would pop out, fake automatic rifle in hand, ready to detain me. Often I would be captured while unloading the groceries of my minivan. I would put my hands up and laugh. I would be met by a child's toothy grin. Sometimes I had to search to identify the face under the the bandana and war paint. Kids having fun. I allow no political correctness  in the land of Wink and Nod.

Tamir, who perhaps did not have a suburb to play in, ran to a neighborhood park. But that is ok,we have all either played or watched our children or are neighbor's children playing with everything from water guns to realistic looking prize weapons. As adults we know that this has ALWAYS been acceptable in this country. As a child, this little boy thought the same thing. So what happened on that day when one little boy played by the rules we all play by? What he did not realize was that he was going to meet a big bad monster. A man who had already been informed that he should not ever chose a career in which he had to make decisions with a gun. A monster who knew that by ignoring this assessment by professionals in his own field, that he would be putting little boys and girls everywhere at risk.  This monster ignored this advice and did exactly what was predicted that he was capable of doing. He drove up, stepped out of his car, and looked at this child and murdered him. This little boy died with no one to hold him,comfort him, or cry with him. We failed him, we could not keep the creatures that live in the dark away.

The sad part of this tale was that the monster lived in cave of the superheroes. The good guys who  protect little boys from monsters. The men and women in blue who put their lives on the line everyday for little boys, just so they can feel free to run wild and play all kinds of games.The superheroes come with candy at Halloween, Help children when they are lost. Comfort them when they are hurt and protect the parents of the children, so they can simply be children  So when children see the superheroes they feel safe and  secure.They know they can run to them, not away from them. This is the way it has been, this is the way it should be. Until a monster slips in and destroys everything that children believe in. Destroys everything that the parents believe in.

Then we had last night where the superheroes were being superheroes. They were out with the crowd , taking pictures, protecting them. That's what they do they protect the villages and the villages have always loved them for this. But suddenly out of the village, came a monster and started killing them. Murdering them in cold blood, as they stood unprotected while protecting. Once again leaving the children to wonder what has happened to all the adults. For we have come to a time when they really can't be safe,because the monsters have infiltrated every level of their world.  We have to stop our monsters wherever we find them; in the midst of the superheroes,within our communities, in the branches of our own family tree. Maybe, just maybe, there will come a time when this story is not a true one, but simply a very dark fairy tale. Perhaps we can get to a time when the children know that when the book is closed, the adults are always there to make sure dark fairytales don't ever come true.

Fields of flowers wherever I look

Summer is short in New England, so making time to write seems a luxury. This is the time of year where I get seduce by sunrises and sunsets. Wildflowers on the side of the road are a constant threat to anyone driving behind me. I have been known to abruptly stop the car and jump out to gather a handful of color and scent. Memories of  lavender days and jasmine nights will keep me warm in the winter months ahead.

Summer breeze, makes me feel fine
Blowing through the jasmine in my mind
Summer breeze, makes me feel fine
Blowing through the jasmine in my mind

See the paper layin' on the sidewalk
A little music from the house next door
So I walked on up to the doorstep
Through the screen and across the floor

Summer breeze, makes me feel fine
Blowing through the jasmine in my mind
Summer breeze, makes me feel fine
Blowing through the jasmine in my mind

Sweet days of summer, the jasmine's in bloom
July is dressed up and playing her tune
And I come home from a hard day's work
And you're waiting there, not a care in the world

See the smile awaitin' in the kitchen
Food cookin' in the plates for two
Feel the arms that reach out to hold me
In the evening when the day is through

Summer breeze, makes me feel fine
Blowing through the jasmine in my mind
Summer breeze, makes me feel fine
Blowing through the jasmine in my mind

Summer Soul

Tomorrow, June 16, the Summer Solstice arrives. For those on the East coast the magic hour is 6:34 pm. This is what happens; the North Pole at its maximum tilts toward the sun. The sun reaches its highest point in the sky all year. What this means to us is ..LIGHT glorious light. Especially to those of us on the East Coast who hoard daytime during the few hours of winter light in the dead of winter. Even if you attended a solstice gathering this weekend, don’t let the actual solstice pass without an acknowledgement of the longest day of the year. People celebrate the Solstice for many reasons; religious, culture, or just because it feels so good. It you are in the feel good category, my ideas at the end are for you.  Just as an FYI the solstice is known as Midsummer. Midsummer, you wonder? Well, there is an explanation for that term. 'Midsummer' refers to the middle of the period between the equinoxes when the sun is at its highest, not the middle of the season we commonly regard as summer that takes place during the second half of the "light half" of the year.  No matter what you chose to do or not do, around this planet the solstice is celebrated with joy and celebration. The past few days have included feasts, bonfires, dancing, circles, and in some cases, naked sprints across town.

So what to do if you are home alone on Monday without herbs, oils, a smudge stick and a group of people who want to hang out? Grab yourself and keep it simple. Gather a candle, some paper, powered sage and sit under the full Strawberry Moon. Light the candle, sprinkle it with sage. Tear your paper in half, write down what you want to release, burn that list. Write down goal and aspirations, keep that list. And if you are really feeling righteous, turn on some soulful summer tunes and take a nap under the stars.

This Old House

The farmhouse first caught my eye because of the sun that day. It was high in the sky and a single ray seemed to pierce the center of the roof. From a distance, I could make out what I thought was a graveyard, a dilapidated greenhouse, and several weathered outbuildings. Although I couldn't bring myself to get too close, it seemed to pull me in. I was scared to find out more, yet scared to walk away. I walked the fields surrounding the farmhouse all last summer and every day I moved a little bit closer. Until one day, edging nearer, I saw that what appeared to be tombstones were really broken slates of a fence. The shadows I thought were curtains,were actually cracked window panes. In fact,the house itself seemed to be broken.

Summer doesn’t last long in New England and the house seemed to realize that the fall and winter ahead might be the end. After years of abandonment, the house threatened to collapse. Even without the weight of the season of snow. I thought for sure that when I returned to the fields this spring,winter would have claimed the farmhouse. Yet, spring is here once again,and so is my farmhouse. So I am back to walking through the wildflowers again. The farmhouse is still holding on, pulling me closer with every walk. One day I will get close enough… for it to tell me its story.

Tea Stained Tears

"During his dark days he would open the letter, reread it and inhale the roses. His tears would add to hers until the letter itself would disappear into a rose pool of love."

Electromagnetic field

We talked quietly under a corridor of crackling

high tension lines. Properly grounded in

respectable prose, we felt safe. Then one night 

he dropped a word on the floor. The current 

shook the ground. Unsure of what to do, we 

both reached down to pick it up. We touched. 

What followed is what happens when electricity 

finds a conduit. It soared through both of us, 

almost changing our molecular structure.

Every Day is an Epiphany

Yesterday afternoon was a typical late spring afternoon.  I cut up the last of the vegetables and sautéed them until they were translucent. I added them to my butternut squash soup, the basis for my “Healthy” chicken and dumplings. As I worked in the kitchen, my youngest daughter bounced my grandson up and down, all the while recounting her day at school.  In the background the magic violin of Damien Escobar filled the air, along with baby squeals, and an occasional dog bark. As the food cooked on the stove, I watered my herbs, heated a simmering pot of mint and dried lavender, and supplied both the dogs and the teen with water and snack. Finally, I scooped up the baby and inhaled his scent of bananas, milk, and pure sweetness. The first two ingredients came tumbling out of his mouth on to our  shirts. I laughed as I headed to the bedroom to change both of us.

Later as I walked the dogs around my favorite deserted farmhouse, I collapsed on a hill with them and watched the sunset.  In that moment, I was completely tired and completely happy. Feeling tired because I have loved people and pets all day, is something I aim for every day. The occasional ache when I hit the bed at night, is a reminder that I am very lucky to have people to love and moments that will indeed make me ache. Of course it is easier to give in to the fatigue and skip cooking the meal in the afternoon or push away the embrace at night. But  I would rather earn the deep fatigue that comes from living a wonderfully exhausting life

What Dreams May Come

   Several summers ago, I sat outside under a towering pine tree and created a dreamboard. Under the scorching Georgia August sun, I pasted pictures of New England, wrote inspirational quotes, and painted pastels, onto a huge poster board. Years before, I had moved from New Hampshire to Georgia. Even though I loved my friends in Georgia; the big cold house I had moved into mirrored the coldness in my marriage. So my dream was to return to New England, I had no idea how this was going to happen, but I did know that all great moments start with a dream. So with a blue poster board, magazines, markers and art supplies in hand, I mapped out my dream

 
  My board included quotes from Robert Frost and Henry David Thoreau. I circled these quotes with silver glitter. I framed the board with pieces of purple ribbon allows the edges to flow into streamers.  Diligently at work, I did not notice that I was being watched until I noticed a shadow appeared over my poster board. I looked up and there standing with his back to the sun, stood my husband. He looked down at my board and laughed. “Since when did you return to preschool" he asked. Bending my head back over the board, I continued to work; although the shadow remained.. After a few minutes, without looking up I said, “This is my board, for my dreams. Think it is silly, Think it is impossible. I really don't care. But whatever you think, but please move out of my light and out of my dreams"

  When the board was finished I hung it in our sunroom. A room with nine windows and a gazebo ceiling; this room should have been a room filled with color and beauty. Instead, like the rest of the house, it reflected my husband's need for conformity and utility; rather than my love of art and magic. The one exception to the classic formality of the room was my dreamboard. It was hung on the wall with a bright red tack.  As I came down the back staircase and looked into the sunroom, that board was the first thing I saw. As I played board games with my daughter or even cooked in the kitchen, the sunlight would catch the glitter and sparkles would appear in the sun rays streaming into the family room. Little by little, I worked at creating my reality.  My reality was my dream. So much so that it didn't matter when 8 months later my husband ripped the board down. My dream was in motion, unstoppable just like me.

Two years after I created my dreamboard, I moved back to New Hampshire. It has not been easy to create, implement, or maintain my dream. Getting here was work. Staying in the dream is work. Planning for future dreams is work. It is not enough to just wish for something, you have to act on it to make it happen. Acting on your dream never stops, nor should it. Ironically, I realized after touched my dream, that it wasn't a place I needed. It was a lifestyle that came from coming back to where I felt grounded. It turns out the New Hampshire symbolized peace in my life. A way of being that is portable. This dream achieved, is on a board that I can carry with me anywhere.

 .

Deal Me In

"In the beginning there was hope, faith, trust and lust and love. You replaced hope with despair, faith with doubt, trust with fear,  lust with loathing. Love the glue that held it all together, amazingly was still there. It changed shape and  no longer acted as a conduit for all that was good.  Love became the fixative that allowed me to hold on to  the very essence of everything bad"

My journey entry from a few years ago. A reminder of why reflection is important to enjoying the now and planning for the future. Love, a tremendously powerful emotion was assigned a role in my life that did not belong. Love was an all-purpose excuse, a get out of jail free card, an emotion that I refused to allow to evolve as relationships evolved and ended. That has changed for me. Love is now something that is allowed to grow or wither as the natural course of the relationship with the one who is loved. Trust, hope, faith, lust and love, these remain the cards I play with. Chances are they will never change face value again. But should that happen, I am always prepared to just shuffle my deck and keep on playing. The game of life is much too wonderful to fold on.

Venus is Rising

This summer the' Venus Rising Project' will  offer a series of Wise Women Circles (Ages 45 and up)

n this circle we explore, share and understand what is deeply meaningful to each of us regarding our ripening. This circle is usually composed of six or more women who seek guidance and affirmation as they enter mid-life.

Loving our body while nurturing our spirit; We will discuss and explore changes that are both external and internal.

Creating a Zen Zone; We will design a template to establish sacred spaces in our homes.

Anointing our souls. Using herbs and essential oils we awaken our sense of smell and touch.

Storytellers. Participants will be given a journal to write about their transformation and transitions between circle meetings.

At the end of the session participants will be asked to continue the circle as an online group. This circle will meet each season

“These are our autumn years. We break out in spectacular colors and take people's breath away with our mere foliage. Realize that the real blooming happens after we have teased people with our innocence of spring, and our physical beauty of summer. As autumn women we are like treasured oil paintings, rich in depth and perception, and shining with the patina of wisdom…Colette”

The Fragrance of Life

Several years ago I set out on a journey to examine my senses. My exploration of the sense of smell was a separate journey on its own. I studied the art of burning essential oils just for the pure pleasure of enjoying their scent. I read about herbs and flowers and finally decided to grow my own. I have filled my bedroom with candles, incense, and oil burners. My living room holds basins of dried mint and sage. In the small kitchen,a pot of orange peels and cinnamon simmers every morning. I shower in anything that smells like; lavender, mango, jasmine or honeysuckle. Even my teas are now highly fragrant. After school, my daughter comes in and deeply inhales. She is always intrigued by what is; brewing, cooking, or burning. I try not to disappoint her. Even the dogs are captured by the allure of scent. One sleeps next to anything that smells of me, while his brother needs the real thing. He will curl up at my feet and at bedtime he puts his nose at the nape of my neck and falls into a deep sleep.

     Come summer, the scent infusion intensifies. The sweet combination of moist floral air on a summer night, and whatever oil I happen to be burning; makes staying up late very tempting. On any given warm night, incense is burning non-stop and whatever herb that is growing strong is dried up and sprinkled on the deck. On the hottest of summer nights I keep my sheets in the freezer and sprinkle them with Ylang-ylang. I take them out about an hour before bedtime, to allow both the scent and temperature to mellow. 

      Start exploring your sense of smell. Order a starter set of oils. Start out with Patchouli, Lemon balm, Lavender, Tea Tree, and Bergamot. Rub them into a variety of surfaces, sprinkle them in your hair brush onto your comforter or add just oils to your bath water. Beautiful oil burners can be found a thrift shop's, buy at least two. Wake up your sense of smell, and touch, taste, and sight, will follow. 

Band-Aid not required.

I have kept journals for years now. They are full of poetry and prose. Until a few years ago,honesty with myself about my home life was a strange and new process. Because of this,the most interesting journals to read are the ones I wrote  as I contemplated ending my marriage. There was something about committing the words"It's over" to paper, that led me to go deeper into my own psyche to reflect. One languid Georgia afternoon, I sat in a friend's backyard watching dogs and children run in the late evening sun. I remember thinking how much I loved so many parts of my life, but the gaping wound in my heart was causing massive fatigue. Almost in shadows, my friend and I we talked as kids and dogs collapsed on the lawn, After a few minutes of silence I started collecting leases and  canines. As I bend down to grab a dog, I heard her softly say  "This must be painful" As the last of the sun streamed through the tress I whispered back "You have no idea"

Later that evening I went into my green office, turned on the fairy lights and  closed my eyes. I thought about pain; both the onset and the ending. In the dark room that was only illuminated by twinkling blue lights; I wrote the following. Moments after I finished writing, I exhaled. For the pain was not that of ending a relationship. In fact it was it was a beginning of being pain free because it was ending.

                    The wound

Sometimes the first cut is hello. With that simple word,the laceration is created. Goodbye is the antiseptic. It brings first a profound burning.Next a lingering sting. Then blessed relief,as the wound begins to heal.