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Posts Tagged ‘positive attitudes’

Dear Ella, What I Wish I Could Tell You

Posted in inspiration, Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on March 23, 2022| 3 Comments » 

 Some of the most wonderful people are the ones who don’t fit into boxes. Tori Amos.

DEAR ELLA:
WHAT I WISH I COULD TELL YOU

My Dear Ella,
You lead our make-believe time
as we make a blue birthday cake for cow
and scoop chocolate ice cream for rabbit.
The birthday song needs only happy and birthday,
repeated with fervor, sung with heart.
I’ve often wondered if your tripled
twenty-first chromosome holds unique gifts,
including a sixth sense, compassion.
I recall a day before you learned to walk,
when you scooted freestyle along the floor.
A movie on television showed a violent scene,
reminiscent of an old crime,
different victim—me. I gasped.
You climbed into my lap
and blocked my view of terror.
Too young for words, your eyes said
what you could not. Don’t look at the screen.
Look at me.
Then, the past faded into
the beauty of your presence,
a reality lost to those who have not yet seen
more than a slant to your eyes and
delays in your motor skills.
Now, my attention returns to cow,
rabbit, snowman, and dog,
unequal in size, shape, and fabric,
equal in importance.
Today we pretend. The ordinary
opens to show the extraordinary,
above, below, and beyond
the surface of each moment.
My youngest granddaughter,
watching you be you
makes me a better person.

Love,
Grandma


In honor of World Down Syndrome Day
celebrated this past March 21

Third prize poetry contest winner Down & Beautiful 2017

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One Incredible Ten-Year-Old Boy

Posted in inspiration, tagged , , , , , , on March 10, 2022| 1 Comment »

bass violin

A kind word never broke anyone’s mouth. (Irish proverb)

Sometimes someone needs to hear about the good

he or she does, not as a reward. As an acknowledgment.

A chance to give kindness a fresh shape. Not an avalanche

of compliments. A moment of recognition, a boost.

After all, life is both sunshine and storm.

 

I won’t share the full printed note sent to my

daughter-in-law about her son, Dakota.

I don’t know the music director who

wrote it. Her words were directed to

Dakota’s mom. His mom and I are close

friends, and she shared the message with me.

The message in Essence: Dakota, is a ten-year-old, fourth-grade boy. He is learning to play the bass. And learning to play well. He works without expecting immediate gratification. Dakota also helps his fellow bass player. With whatever she needs. Dakota is a neat child. He helps clean-up after class. He doesn’t need to be asked because he is an independent thinker. 

My addition: The child has depth. I know because one day while we were collecting rocks in an old wagon, he said, “You know you won’t live forever.”I answered. “True. So, let’s enjoy the day together. Make it worthwhile.” He smiled and we continued our play. Dakota and two old, yet still-moving rocky wagons. The message from his teacher was a precious gift, but not a surprise. Dakota is a young boy with mature insight. I am blessed to call him grandson.

Peace and many kind words to all.  

 


					
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Women’s March: from Caleb’s Point of View

					

					Posted in inspiration, tagged , , , , , , , , , , ,  on March 3, 2022|
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“Never believe that a few caring people can’t change the world. For, indeed, that’s all who ever have.” 
Margaret Mead


Women’s March
From Caleb’s Point of View
 
My name is Caleb. I’m ten years old.
I wear a sign that says, 
I march for my sister,
and my mom didn’t make me do it.

Great-Grandma links 
her left arm into my right. She holds a cane 
and shuffles from one foot
to the other, an offbeat rhythm
reminding me of an old-fashioned scratched CD.

Dad helps Great-Grandma from the other side.
The kind crowd gives us plenty of room.
Great-Grandma’s parents died at Auschwitz.

Our family matriarch marches 
in silence. I am only a kid, yet
the pain of her story has leaked 
into our lives. I know its depths.
Mom rushes ahead with my sister.
 
A woman nods toward my sign.
"Perhaps your sister can become president
one day." Dad and I look at one another
with the same tight-lipped understanding.

When Mom runs my sister laughs
and kicks her legs as if she could control them.
Mom pauses and waits for us to catch up.

My sister tries to rise from her wheelchair,
her legs weak as dried kindling.

She squeals with delight and flaps her arms
when she sees us.  I don’t march for my sister
to become great. I march for my sister
to be accepted for who she is.



originally publishing in For A Better World 2017
illustration made from public domain images and cut paper



					
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I’ll Get Up In A Minute

					

					Posted in inspiration, tagged , , , , , , , ,  on February 18, 2022|
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winter solstice with background


To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist. That is all. (Oscar Wilde)


 I’ll get up in a minute. 


Or two, or three, or… A minute has been redefined. It has been carved from the clock and thrown into infinity. And no longer has meaning.


A line of pink appears on the horizon. Then two more. Parallel stripes. They don’t stay. Like the existence that passes before this old body faces the day. 


I toss blankets aside. The weight of my past had been keeping me down, pressing into my dreams. 


The pink in the sky has already faded. Its beauty passes. Nevertheless, another day begins. Another chance to grab the dark, the light, and the unexpected. Then create with each possibility.  


 

					
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Should, Should, and More Should

					

					Posted in inspiration, tagged , , , , , , , , , ,  on February 3, 2022|
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There is no way you should feel, there is only the way you feel. 
(Akiroq Brost)



How easy it would be if life
could be explained in a word
or two, if should transferred
into reality the way words fit
on a page. In blocks. At least

my mother believed it. She
made sure I recited rules in
perfect cadence. Know the
answer without studying any
questions. Feelings had no


place outside a prayer book.
Strange. Now, I wish I could
reverse roles. Hold her hand
and tell her that I understand
why her care arrived broken.

              Mom, years before you died, 
                                             I told you I loved you.
                                                             You didn’t know what to say.
                                                                                        But you heard my voice.

And I stepped outside the rigorous
                  lines set by 
                            impossible perfection.

I look into the sky now
                        and find more colors
                                         than blue, white, and black. 

And I wish that I had found
                             rainbow memories inside you.
                                         I know they are there. Even now.



					
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If Only, a Poem

					

					Posted in inspiration, tagged , , , , , , ,  on January 14, 2022|
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To move freely you must be deeply rooted. (Bella Lewitzky)


 




IF ONLY

If peace were a bird, it would fly through heat or wind. 
It would thrive in a nest open to storm.


If peace were a mountain,
it would stand patient,
constant, firm for centuries.

If peace were a tree, it would begin
as an acorn, unafraid of darkness,

then grow to house birds,
and reach for mountains.

Peace. It transcends
mountain borders, 
and allows foreign bird species
to nest together

despite unseen possibilities.



originally published in For a Better World 2011






					
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Dear 101st Birthday, Dad

					

					Posted in inspiration, tagged , , ,  on January 2, 2022|
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broken angel


When we think of the past it’s the beautiful things we pick out. We want to believe it was all like that. (Margaret Atwood, The Handmaid’s Tale)


Happy 101st Birthday, Dad!


I have this image of a cartoon. On the outside of a closed door is a sign that reads: miscellaneous. Papers stick-out from all sides. Recently, I shredded or recycled notes that could have been in Sanskrit. It was about time I eliminated the clutter. Other items struck me as precious finds. Jewels at the bottom of a deep sea. 


If he were alive my father would be 101 the first day of this year. In the chaos I found this fantasy letter I wrote for him on his birthday in 2004.


***


Dear Dad,


This story is fiction. After all, I don’t recall anything that happened before I was two. However, I am imagining talking to the angel in charge of directing new souls. In the tale, fresh individuals can request either a young father or mother to-be, with the approval of higher authority of course. 


The angel on duty sighed a lot as I chose my dad. I mean, perfect wasn’t possible, and the angel kept telling me, “You need to learn from life.  Not live on some comfy cloud like a particle of icy elements. Think carefully…” 


I took the guide literally and checked-out earth in the 1940’s for half of forever.


He got testy after I finished the tenth global spin. “The boss didn’t take this long when he chose his son’s mother. Give me your best-daddy data. Now.”




He entered the statistics on this computer that was part cloud and part moving keyboard. At this time only manual typewriters existed on earth, the kind that required a complete redo when the user made a mistake on the last line. “You do have non-cusser on my list.”


“I got it. I got it.”


I add, “I will need someone who can fix things. You know, a man with good mechanical sense.”


The angel shook his head and then looked into the store of talents I would have and nodded. “Oh yes, you will have creative abilities. However, you will need help in the practical field. Please take you-know out of that sentence. I have a sense your future father won’t like that habit.”


“Make him a generous carpenter.” I added.


“So now you are asking for Joseph II.” The angel sighed.


That’s when I saw you, Dad. In Africa. In an army uniform. “Yes! I decided.”


“Are you ready to see who he will marry as soon as the war is over? Dad’s busy taking bombs apart before they explode right now.”


The angel turned a switch and I saw a short woman with blue eyes and natural brown curls. A great cook.


“Okay, let me know when to be ready.”


“You’ll know. Believe me. You’ll know.”


 Sometime before the birth process I lost all recollection of this story and grew up like every human does. I think it’s supposed to be that way. However, I am glad I made a heck of a good choice. Happy birthday to a super father, even if this page reveals more imagination than fact. 


(And maybe an edited word or two… or three.)


The angel in the above photo fell, broke, and had a botched super-glue surgery. Nevertheless, she never dropped her light. She is also a statue; the injury becomes metaphorical. No one escapes pain and loss. May we continue anyway.

					
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Adeline, Teach Me About Innocence

					

					Posted in inspiration, tagged , , , , , , , , ,  on December 27, 2021|
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Addie back view (2)


Children are the true connoisseurs, what’s precious to them has no price just value.
(Bel Kaufman)  


 


Two-year-old Adeline takes my finger, not my hand. Her hands aren’t big enough yet. Her charisma is sunshine mid-summer style. Time to play. I am the only other kid available. My granddaughter doesn’t seem to care about the seventy-three-year age difference.


The make-believe electric surface of her toy stove would be on if the scene were real. A wooden cell phone lies on the right front burner. Adeline needs my help to get corn on the cob out of the coffee pot. Strange, I’ve never faced this problem in my own kitchen.


She pulls two t-shirts out of her drawer and puts one on her head and one on mine. The procession begins. Unfortunately, she doesn’t have enough vocabulary to explain the ritual. I do understand the end of the game when she takes both shirts, returns them to the drawer and says, “all done.”


I don’t understand much of what my youngest grandchild says. I do comprehend her laughter, her enthusiasm, and her love. The slightest sound calls for a dance. Why walk when you can run? World ugliness hasn’t touched her yet. My son and daughter-in-law provide a place where love lives. She is blessed but doesn’t know it yet. I accept the warmth of her hand and revel in her innocence.


When my husband and I close the door and say goodbye, our little one cries. The reality of the outside world appears occasionally. When another child grabs one of her toys. When sickness appears. When fun ends too soon.


We will come back. In person. In the flat space known as facetime. The fullness of reality will arrive slowly. Hatred, pain, destruction, are real. Yet, when I look into her eyes and savor her personality, I want her to be a fresh, simple toddler forever. 


Not every child knows the blessings our granddaughter lives. I consider the outgrown clothing I have in a drawer and realize they need a home. 


If only I could pull an infant shirt from a drawer, put it in a bag for a child who needs it and say, “all done.” In the meantime, I celebrate what I have, do what I can for somebody else, anyone else, and let time do what it will. Perhaps somehow, I will grow up, too, and understand the difference between peace and pieces.


 


 

					
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Wrapped and Unwrapped Gifts

					

					Posted in inspiration, tagged , , , , , , , ,  on December 21, 2021|
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Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life and you will call it fate. 
(C.G. Jung)


Before wrapping paper becomes shredded wads of color in the recycling bin, I imagine who-I-am leaking into an empty box. The first gift is meant for me. It doesn’t need a tag. It needs sorting. Understanding. Not hard censure and not high praise. Acceptance perhaps. And a willingness to change what isn’t working.


Breathe in. Breathe out. Catch the moment and ignore the hype. Then send the message—peace and joy to all. Names on the presents. No labels on the greeting.





					
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Time, A Poem

					

					Posted in inspiration, tagged , , , , , , , , ,  on December 13, 2021|
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All men should strive to learn before they die what they are running from, and to, and why. (James Thurber)

Time. I’ve tried to wrap it in boxes
tied it with ribbon, 
then attempted to 
bind an hour with duct tape.

I’ve balanced on one leg,
kicked through water
and pretened strength could be
my master over the inevitable.

Hurry through tasks, I say,
beat the clock, and then tell 
exhaustion it doesn’t exist.

This moment—I’ve claimed it,
but held on longer than night and day allows.

Perfection. It doesn’t exist.
The whole of being can’t be 
grasped, owned and hugged 
as if it were a teddy bear.

I smile at a stranger. She smiles back.
The moment is neither longer nor shorter.
And yet its presence feels stronger.

No eternal answers
and yet, we instead of I, 
a recognition of companionship
in a world that doesn't need 
to be one-hundred percent struggle, 
adds running-with instead of fighting-alone.





					
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