“When infants aren’t held, they can become sick, even die. It’s universally accepted that children need love, but at what age are people supposed to stop needing it? We never do. We need love in order to live happily, as much as we need oxygen in order to live at all.” Marianne Williamso
A toddler wanders wherever his curiosity leads
while Mommy and older siblings caution him.
Greens, blues, and moving objects call
to his curiosity. Come.
This moment is alive
even if he doesn’t know language
or time. Grandma’s wrinkles intrigue him. He sees intricate gold on her wrist,
not the hours held inside her memory.
To Grandma this moment seems
as limited as the space Mommy
permits her son to roam.
Toddler snuggles against
Grandma’s cheek. She knows
that all moments face limits.
Yet love endures.
If you're to choose to paint your life today...What will it be? Remember, you're the artist, not the canvas. (Val Uchendu)Color. A celebration because I see.Can I discover what is insideeach treeflower, blade of grass, bird on a branch?
Darkness and light, or a lack of privilege?
I close my eyes and picture the scene outside my window, every leaf, every bendin the branches, dark and light greensdepending upon the favor of the sun.Color, simple yet complex.Complex, yet asking no morethan to exist.
The afternoon knows what the morning never suspected. (Robert Frost)At dawn and duskthe sun touches the horizonwith the same elegance.I celebrate evening.Not because nightdissolves the sky's brilliance.But because dayif livedbrightens midnight.
“The best tunes are played on the oldest fiddles!” – Ralph Waldo Emerson
Capturing the whole of life continues to evade me. I have been 70 for more than a few years. Yet, learning doesn’t stop. Life has too many complex parts.
When I stood waist-high to grownups, I thought gray hair and wrinkles belonged to creatures of a separate species. Children in the late 1940s and early 1950s lived in another realm.
We learned rules after we broke them. For example, building a campfire in the basement is not advisable. Even if the responsible individual planned to put it out after the Native American ceremony. I was probably about five at the time. And yes, I was the child who found fire in a box by the hot water heater.
Children sat separately from their elders during family events. We didn’t listen to any adult discussions. Some of our questions received a laugh and others found censure.
Why isn’t Grandma bald like Grandpa? The observation was innocent enough that a quick guffaw was the only answer. Asking why Mommy and Grandma were so fat was another matter.
Distance. A distinct memory of my early life. The higher and the lower class. Where they were to meet was vague.
Transitions take tangled curves. I wonder if an easy path would have left space to experiment and fail before succeeding.
Now, I speak to my grandchildren at eye level. We play. My three-year-old granddaughter has no understanding that my husband is my son’s daddy. There is no need to explain yet. Wisdom doesn’t come with a set of rules. It’s organic.
I earned the lines in my skin. I treasure a few more as long as each road offers new passageways.
The above painting is part of something new I am discovering.
“And suddenly you know: It’s time to start something new and trust the magic of beginnings.” Meister Eckhart
New Tree Buds
The first tree buds I notice this year seem fuzzy, like fine chihuahua fur or moss. The leaf-to-be will give more clues about itself as Spring arrives, even if the observer knows nothing about the botanical world. However, my purpose is metaphorical. Living beings change.
I ask the inner me to be an encouraging atmosphere for any living presence I touch. Peace.
the photo was taken at Mt. Airy Park in Cincinnati, Ohio
I am alone in the room. I smile. A large window opens a view of my neighborhood on a 50-degree January day. Choosepeace, I tell myself while the news repeats horrors in a universally expected monotone.
A sunbeam appears. Winter-bare trees stretch rich, dark branches against stark cobalt blue. The light reaches into our ordinary living space. The sun’s intensity splashes inside.
Breathe me in, sunbeam seems to say. I won’t stay long. The briefness of my appearance does not negate my presence. Even as the darkness appears, remember my brilliance lives within you, too.
“Self-acceptance is self-love in action.”
― Jodi LivonINSIDE THE NARRATIVE
A few fellow writers gather at a coffeehouse
to share poetry. I read a narrative piece
about a nameless boy who pretends a painful event
has never happened. He hides
inside a malignant silence, innocence shattered.
His wounds leak into cells under his skin
long after the bleeding has stopped.
I pretend to hide behind the gender switch,
inside fictional scenes, and create places I have touched
but never embraced. My voice remains strong
through ten stanzas
until a single unexpected stammer
rips through my veneer,
thin as ice on a lake in early spring.
I’m afraid I could drown in my own metaphors.
I come to a moment when my character
compares himself to a goldfinchwho leaves winter and enters spring
with bright warm-weather feathers.
He flies onto a budding branch.
My character knows who he is again.
I recall expecting death one night when
I didn’t know shades of color would reappear
and develop subtlety, strength, and shape.
Songs would rise from my dried throat.
The boy in my poem grows through each stanza,
speaking, becoming whole. Another woman in the group
suggests with a single tremulous glance
that she, too, could tell a similar story. She nods and smiles. I prefer it to applause.
May I speak to the Martin you were when your grandmother died?
Thanks.
I’m asking because I’m a grandmother now. My grandchildren look to me to discover who they are. They learn from the attention I give to them. By my presence. Death took your grandmother and hope left you.
You regained more than hope. You let an entire group of people know who they are.
It’s a privilege to be a grandparent. And yet the child inside me pretends to be gone. I developed into a loving, accomplished woman who helped pay a stranger’s bill in a grocery store. Yet, I struggle sometimes to feel important enough to get past moments when I was a lost child too. The sun is not gone. The world celebrates today because you planted love, Dr. King. I can’t deny recurrent feelings but can allow them to pass and recognize the whole.
Love, may we learn to allow it to spread inside and outside of our families and neighborhoods.
The illustration is taken from a public domain drawing. There are many, just as Dr. King’s gifts are many.
“It’s not how much we give but how much love we put into giving.” ― Mother Teresa
The holidays magnify expectations. Suddenly, I think I need to fall into perfect alignment with the world. A perfect world. However, perfection doesn’t exist anywhere except in the dictionary. Pause. Breathe. Ask for help. Or give it. Christmas tree lights are artificial. Human light isn’t.
Good morning, mirror. I can count on you to be truthful. This day may be young, but my face shouts geriatric. Reflections don’t need to speak to shout reality. You can be powerful. I watch and let what I see connect with my brain and heart so soon after Thanksgiving. Life is a precious gift. I think about gains and losses. People. Things.
One glance outside shows me trees with rough bark. When birds and animals visit a growing oak or maple, they don’t change the tree’s mind about what the species is, or why it doesn’t have leaves this time of year. I wonder, was my last storm worth fighting? Or would it have been better to wait it out? Wisdom discerns when to act and when to remain silent. Whatever I do, may I choose to do it, to be it, to act with as full a vision as possible. May I lose this notion that I need to be perfect to be okay.
Good morning, mirror. Good morning, fresh-day me. One more opportunity to make a difference.
terrypetersen 