May 21 – Mortality and a Dancing Queen

by Carol Ziel

Mortality is on my mind today.  The delivery guys just brought my on sale Martha Stewart fade free, stain free, blue fir wall to wall carpeting. It had a twenty-year warranty which clinched the deal. I figured that I had about the same warranty. Eventually the rug would fade around the time that I was fading, and they could carry us out together.  It wasn’t any personal morbidity that had me meditating on my numbered days. My five-year-old grandson has been telling me daily that I am getting old. He notes in wonder that my hair is getting browner. Of course he means grayer, which is a color he hasn’t mastered yet. I wish my hair was getting browner, or redder.

So I am sitting in front of the radio bemused with my accelerating aging process and the symbolism of my rug when I hear about Donna Summer’s death. A part of me dies with her. We both arrived on the scene about the same time. She was singing  ”Bad Girl” when I was trying to embrace the “bad girl within”.  That was my anthem for a few years, along with “She Works Hard for the Money”, and “Disco Queen”.   This was a period of serial births and deaths.  I was constantly stretching out of my skin to embrace parts of myself that I could not even name.  My love of yoga, tofu and natural peanut butter, running, and fruit juice fasting had to die to make room for marijuana and alcohol. My farmer john overalls and Birkenstocks had to demise to make room for slinky black Danskin body suits and four-inch heals.

Eventually I found my way to a spirituality that supported the best of who I am and could be.  However, my persona as a disco queen had to die to create space for a spiritual me to grow. That was painful , too. A veritable dark night of the soul.

I am sitting on the edge of my garden as I catalogue these deaths.  I began planting it six months after I bought my house. I was diagnosed with a brain tumor–and then ovarian tumors that were presumed cancerous, two knee replacement surgeries, and many years of trauma therapy.  Each diagnosis was a mini death, and the chronic emotional and physical pain was fearsome. However each time fear seemed ready to suck me into the quicksand of despair I planted something–coreopsis, lilies, rose of Sharon, fairy roses, butterfly bushes. Sometimes they lived, sometimes they died, but nature was incredibly generous. Birds and squirrels brought seed for things I would never have thought to plant–like the monkshood that is a hummingbird magnet.

My garden teaches me about the partnership between life and death, and lets me relax into my own cycles. This is where I belong. The first fireflies of the year are blinking in front of me now, and I accept that as affirmation for a life still to be lived.

Carol is a sixty-four-year-old gardener, grandmother, social worker, Goddess centered aging woman who has been writing with SCN Circle 6 for 2 1/2 years.

May 20 – Promises Fulfilled

by Kali’ Rourke

In 2007, my husband Dan and I had an idea that would change our lives.

We had created a scholarship program for single mothers with dependent children at our local community college, funded by an endowment created by Dan’s parents. It was helping mothers start new lives after death, divorce or loss of their partner through other circumstances and we had created it with my mother’s experiences as a single mother with little education in mind.

I knew that if something like that had been available for her, our lives could have been changed for the better.

Success is empowering, and after years of reading the application letters and thank you letters from these women, it occurred to us to think of another group of people we could assist in a similar way.

I was President of the Board of Directors of the Seedling Foundation, and we had started a mentoring program a couple of years before that pairs highly trained and supported community volunteers with schoolchildren who have a parent in prison. Seedling’s Promise serves Pre-Kindergarten through 8th grade primarily, although the matches are supported through high school.

Dan and I thought, “What if we gave scholarships at the end of middle school?”

Would it make a difference if these children entered high school with a college scholarship already in their back pocket? Would they see themselves differently? Would others see them differently?

Seedling has been giving $5,000 scholarships to 8th graders since 2007 and our second group of Seedling Graduates will take us up on our promise this month as they graduate from their high schools and proceed to their universities.

Our mentored students often have many obstacles to overcome and we follow them through their high school journey.

One of our graduates last year was not on target to graduate when we checked on her progress as a junior. She was a young woman with incredible challenges and we knew it would be difficult for her, but our Executive Director spoke with her high school, reminding them that she was a scholarship winner and that it was within her reach with their help. Her high school counseled her, enrolled her in additional classes and shepherded her in a way that resulted in her graduation and her acceptance and enrollment in our local community college. We don’t believe that would have happened without the advocacy and support she received.

This year, another of our graduates was having challenges and again, our Executive Director stepped in and worked with his high school to make sure he was on track to graduate. He caught fire and will not only graduate, but has been accepted to two universities and is auditioning for an Academy of Dramatic Arts.

Does a scholarship, awarded on entry to high school, make a difference?

Only time will tell, but the first years of the Seedling College Scholarships have a 100% success rate and we are so proud of our young graduates.

On May 16, 2012: Promises…fulfilled!

Kali’ is a proud Mom, Wife, Philanthropist, Semi-Pro Board Member, Genealogist, Geek and Diva. She believes in being a force for positive change in Austin, Texas…in ways both big and small.

May 13 – Mother’s Day

by Fran S.

August 30th has become the happiest and saddest day of my life. On August 30, 1967, my lovely daughter, Simone, was born with a head full of curly black hair. This first child (and first grandchild on the maternal side of the family) was a blessing. When I held her for the first time, I felt pure love. On August 30, 2012, I sat in a crowded courtroom in Florida where a cynical judge announced that my second child, my son, might be going to prison for a long time. When I heard the news, I felt pure fear.

My adult son has been challenged with a serious mental health illness (bipolar disorder).Like many bipolar individuals, he has self-medicated with illegal drugs. He’s been in and out of treatment, in and out of mental health facilities, in and out of trouble. Our family has experienced the joy of recovery and the sorrow of relapse. We speculate on “what if,” ask ourselves “why,” and wonder, “how can this be?” What if I hadn’t lent him money when he was broke? What if I hadn’t believed him when he lied? What if I hadn’t divorced?

Why God? Why me? Why again?

And how can this be? I’m a professional. I owe a nice home. I drive a nice car. I have a loving extended family and caring friends. My son graduated from a good college. He worked for the National Basketball Association in Europe. He comes from a good family. How could this have happened? Turns out that no one is exempt from addiction. The disease cuts across gender, race, nationality and affects family members, friends, employers, and co-workers. Seventy-six million Americans, about 43% of the U.S. adult population, are exposed to alcoholism in a family.

This coming Sunday is another special day. Mother’s Day. Since my daughter is working in South America and has limited phone access and my son is in jail, I doubt that I’ll receive a phone call or a card. And forget about flowers. But I plan to honor it anyway. I’m having brunch with two of my twelve step friends. Three moms whose offspring are troubled. No doubt we’ll vent. But also we’ll help one another “accept the things we cannot change.” And that’s a big step toward coping with the tragic news I received on August 30, 2012.

Fran is new to Story Circle Network. She recently attended her first conference and looks forward to future experiences with SCN.

May 5 – Age Is Only a Number?

by Laura Strathman Hulka

“Age is an issue of mind over matter. If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter.” Mark Twain (American Humorist, Writer and Lecturer. 1835-1910)

Today I turn sixty. Six-O. For some reason, in our society, the “0″ birthdays (with, perhaps, the exception of 18 and 21) are the biggies. I vaguely remember 30 – I had two toddlers, so wasn’t too interested in tracking my life through age! 40, yeah, that was sort of a big deal. To me the top of “that” hill we all talk about going over. 50. Hmmm. No, not really a big deal, but a lot was going on in my life at 50, 51… first grandchild, born when I was 49. My mother moving in with us. Major surgery (total knee replacement, x 2) my husband’s bout with Prostate Cancer. I didn’t care about turning 50 as a number – was more concerned about SURVIVING 50!

Now I am turning 60. My children and grandchildren see me as “old.” I don’t remember thinking about my mother that way when she was 60 – my mother always seemed vivid and vital and alive. I thought when I turned 60, my life would be mellow, laid back, easier… NOT! There have been great changes in my life in the last 5 years. A major move back to my home-state, my own struggle with Endometrial Cancer. I have always been aware of human frailty, and my own mortality. I really believed that Mark Twain was right about age.

So what is different in this day? Is the sky any less blue? My love for my husband of 38 years any less true? No, of course not. Life is a lot harder than I expected it to be; less money, mediocre health, fewer contacts with my grown children… And yet, somehow, Life is a lot easier than I expected it to be as well; fewer highs and lows, more dedication to hobbies and activities I enjoy, greater enthusiasm for each dawn, and each sunset.

I have learned to embrace the cliches – roll with the punches, not to let the little things bother me, to forgive and, hopefully forget, to sing in the rain and dance (at least metaphorically) with the fairies in the garden. I have learned to appreciate the friends that have stuck with me on this journey, and let go of the friends that couldn’t grow old with me. I have learned that perhaps my greatest gift to myself, and to others, is the ability to laugh at the good, the bad, and the ugly.I am a rather curious person.I like finding out about new things, meeting new people, exploring new ideas.

And I have discovered that there is richness in 60… from the gentle touch of lavender in my garden, with its wafting scent, to a smile from my husband, for no reason at all except because. Happy Birthday to Me!

Laura describes herself: “In a nutshell: Curious, funny, reader, writer, Momma, Nana, happily married 38 years, baker, crafter, volunteer, pacifist, spiritual feminist, Rubenesque! Life’s an adventure!”

April 4 – Holding Space

By Kali’ P. Rourke

My husband and I just visited our older daughter’s law school for a “Parents and Friends Day.”

It was a revelation in many ways. Our daughter had shared the school with us in a small tour when we visited earlier in the year, but this was the official version. She and a friend are regularly leading tours for prospective students in their spare time, and so they were assigned to our group. We got to see them do their actual spiel. It was wonderful, and they were so good at pointing out everything from architectural features to history, while sharing their positive experiences as first year law students at Vanderbilt.

We know, of course, that it is actually the hardest thing our daughter has ever done. We know the challenges, difficulties, disappointments and her feelings because she shares many of them with us. We listen, commiserate, encourage and try very hard not to direct her or solve her problems. They are truly hers to deal with as she sees fit along the way.

I recently participated in a spiritual leadership pilgrimage retreat and along with meditation and observation techniques, we learned about “holding space” for another person.

Feel free to try it yourself. Try consciously letting another person do all of the talking for just five minutes. You say nothing, but listen intently and hold that time for them to talk about whatever is on their mind…or even to stay silent.

I won’t kid you; it is incredibly hard to do. Your mind will try to race to the next thing you want to say, or a story that relates to what they are saying. There may be many distractions that will try to divert you from your intent. If you can tame those impulses and stay on course, the rewards are surprising.

As human beings, we crave one thing almost as much as we crave sustenance, shelter and safety. We crave to be understood. When we find understanding, we are so grateful and feel such a strong connection to those we feel offer it to us.

You can offer this gift to your spouse, your children, your friends and family…anyone! Just hold space for them in a conversation. You can tell them you are doing this, or just do it. You can ask for the same gift from another person after they have experienced it. You will be amazed at what you have been missing.

Thanks for holding space for me while I shared this with you.

Kali’ is a proud Mom, Wife, Philanthropist, Semi-Pro Board Member, Genealogist, Geek and Diva. She believes in being a force for positive change in Austin, Texas…in ways both big and small.

March 31 – Scent of Jasmine

by Khadijah Lacina

A few days ago Mujaahid called me from Yemen. It was the second time I’ve spoken to him since our return to America, and I admit I had trouble speaking through the lump that filled my throat. I talked to little Suhayb, and heard baby Yasmeen in the background. It made my heart ache to feel the distance that separates our worlds now. I wanted to share with you the story of baby Yasmeen, to try to bring her and her family just a little bit closer…

On September 27, a new little person entered the world. My eldest son, Mujaahid, and his wife, Hiyaat, had a baby girl. She was delivered at home, with a midwife and Hiyaat’s mother present, and by all accounts was a big baby. She was born with a caul- in Islaam this doesn’t have any special significance, but I can imagine that my Bohemian grandmother, and my Irish grandmother, would have a few things to say about it. They named her Yasmeen, which is the source of the English word, Jasmine. I pray that she will both spread joy and goodness like the fragrance of her namesake, and that she will find the world to be sweet and scented in the same way.

I wasn’t there for the birth, just as I was not there for Suhayb’s birth, making this a bittersweet time, one which brings home forcefully the reality of distance unrolling over desert and mountain, of time spent apart and the choices which led to this separation.

The first choice, I suppose, was when we sent Mujaahid to study in the village a few months before we ourselves were going to make that transition. He would call every week, his voice sounding small and far away and tearing at my heart-strings. He would assure me that he was fine, and was studying hard, and that everything was alright.

The second choice was when, a couple of years later, he decided to marry and to build his house attached to his wife’s house across the valley. Automatically he became a part of their life, while stepping out of ours in a major way. His brothers and sisters felt the distance at that time; perhaps it was for the best because when we left the village a year or so later due to my continuing illness, he didn’t even consider coming with us.

That was the next choice, and it was both ours, to leave, and his, to not join us. It was so difficult leaving the village. I had teachers there that I loved and respected, I loved learning about Islaam and attending classes and lectures, and the village itself had found a deep and abiding place in my heart. And, of course, as we were bumping off in the pre-dawn darkness over the trackless mountains that surrounded the village, my heart felt like it was being physically ripped in two as part of it stayed with Mujaahid.

I don’t have any photos of Mujaahid as a baby, but last year, when I was able to see his son, Suhayb, for the first time, I immediately saw the shadow of my little blond boy in his face. It made parting with them after a month even tougher, bringing home truth of the saying that when we choose to have a child, we choose to allow a part of our hearts to walk around outside our bodies for the rest of our lives.

Now time, and distance, and political upheaval have made our lives in this beautiful land more uncertain than before. When I think that I may never see Yasmeen, or Suhayb, or Mujaahid and Hiyaat again, I feel an intense sense of loss, and sadness, and a wish that I could somehow change things, while knowing that I cannot. Too much time, too much distance, too many choices made that led us to where we are now.

But I know that even while a part of my heart is with them in their mountain village, a part of them remains, and will always remain, within my chest, as close as the air I breathe. And sometimes, that is all you can ask for.

Khadijah Lacina has recently returned to the States after almost ten years living in Yemen. While trying to get over her culture shock, she spends her time homeschooling, writing, knitting, crocheting, playing in the dirt trying to grow things, and messing around with herbs.

March 7 – Horses, Motorcycles and Lemons

by Tania Pryputniewicz

I can’t stop being attracted to horses so maybe I should just ride one; is it spring, or the astral maneuverings of my daughter’s obsession with horses surfacing as if I’d thought of it myself?

Like the woman with grey eyes and coral mouth preparing to mount her motorcycle in front of Howard’s Station over the weekend, sheathed in her leathers, something about the loose black hood framing her silver hair that made her appear as a nun as she tilted her head to slide on her helmet. We exchange a few words on Ninjas and I consider briefly, riding one again, almost not afraid of dying again, my daughter standing quietly at my side.

Not since the screaming descent, before children, on the carbon-fiber frame of a bicycle, my husband’s helmet glinting far below through the sun/shadow spattered curves I had yet to navigate, have I used that full-body lean and swerve to sweep the curves for the joy of it–with that unhesitating precision you need on a motorcycle. And without that god-commanded umbilical restraint hardwired into mothers that keeps them within a two foot radius of their children at all times.

The rider waves, snakes smoothly out of the parking lot. I take my daughter’s hand, steer us and the conversation towards breakfast and the rest of the week’s lessons in gravity and heat. One of my sons will fall out of a lemon tree; one of my sons will mist water from a spray bottle onto a light-bulb. Rinds of glass will continue to appear over the course of the week in the toy boxes under the stairs.

The sound of the shattering glass takes me instantly back to childhood, Illinois, my brother’s lemon meringue filling on the ceiling, thick shards of pie glass exploding into the corners of the kitchen and under the refrigerator the instant my mother took the pie out of the oven and set it on the cold counter.

Here, in San Francisco, the pupil’s of my son’s eyes shutter appropriately tight; talk of a concussion recedes and by afternoon’s end he’s selling the lemons he harvested for fifty cents apiece.

And in the last two miles before our house on the drive home, the wild turkeys with their tan necks jolt raggedly along the edges of the horse pasture…my husband murmuring something about how much horses weigh, how much damage a fall at full gallop can do, why isn’t ballet good enough for our daughter. If horses are meant to be in her life, they’ll find her, I think to myself, knowing better than to share the insight aloud.

It’s not that I find my disinterest in danger waning, but a desire to inhabit the body returning as the kids individuate and release back to me parts of my psyche, incrementally, with highs and lows erratic as the tides. The body follows suit, with time on its hands again, wanting to wrap its arms around the neck of a horse.

Tania lives in California with her husband, three children, kitten, Siberian Husky, and four feral cats. She has an MFA in poetry and taught in the classroom for many years, though recently found herself living more of her life’s dream by working with women writers on-line, including her forthcoming class for SCN this March, Beginning Transformative Blogging.