January 30 – Homecoming

by Khadijah

A month home. A month of reunions, of revisiting the past, of revelations both large and small.

The journey was long; three days of travel, two nights spent in airports, planes missed, children sick. When we arrived in Atlanta no one was there to meet us, but when they came an hour later the hugs made the whole journey worth it. For three of my children, it was their first real taste of family beyond their brothers and sisters. Most of the others had only vague memories of grandmothers and grandfathers, aunties and uncles. Some of these, sadly, will remain in the land of memory. My children will never greet my sister Patty, or my father, as they left this world while we were away. They slipped through my fingers…but this only makes our remaining family all the more precious.

After a three hour drive, we were in our new, if temporary, home. Having never lived in the South, I wasn’t sure what to expect, but the smell of green and feel of clear blue sky on a winter’s day is apparently the same everywhere.

“I never knew there could be so many trees!” said six year old Maryam.

The children marveled over the variety of the houses, the ease of the washing machine, and the feeling of grass underneath them as they rolled repeatedly down the small hill in the backyard. When my mother-in-law took them to the Dollar Store and allowed them each to choose five things for a dollar apiece, they were in shock. It took them an hour to decide, having never had such riches or so many things to choose from before. Aunt Elise took us to the library, and even Mu’aadh was speechless for a few minutes, shocked at the idea of so many books in one place, and all of them within his little grasp. Eating tacos for the first time, seeing dogs on leashes being walked through the neighborhood or cardinals swooping and swooshing through the cold morning air…everything is new to them, and thus, in some way, new to me as well.

When we made the very difficult decision to return here to the States, people warned us about the negative experiences we might have due to the general negative image of Muslims that many people have. After having been here for a month, I can honestly say that we have had no negative experiences at all. Our neighbors have been welcoming, people in stores have been helpful, and strangers in the street often smile and say hello. I know that there will be unkindness because we experienced it here both before and after 9/11. However, I make a conscious effort every time we go out to be kind and friendly within the boundaries of my belief system, and I have seen the difference that it makes. The children naturally do this, and it has paid off as well. The other day I looked out the window to see several of the neighborhood children out on our lawn, running, playing and laughing together.

The sadness of leaving Yemen is still with me; I doubt that it will ever go away. But I know that my life is overseen by Someone who has greater knowledge and wisdom than I, and that in every situation He has put good. I look forward to teaching my Muslim sisters here, to writing, to gardening, to making a home for my family. I look forward to the opportunities I have to do good, to share knowledge, and to benefit others. So even as my heart looks backward, longing for Yemen and all that we left behind, I look forward to traveling another path here, knowing that my experiences in my second home have changed me forever, and will color everything the future holds, no matter where we might be.

Khadijah grew up in the Kickapoo Valley in Wisconsin and now lives in Yemin with her husband and eight children where she teaches Arabic and Islaamic studies to women and helps them recognize their importance and the need for their stories to be heard. Khadijah was the winner of the 2010 Story Circle Network Lifewriting Competition.

January 27 – The Fork in the Road

by Pat Bean

“Life begins at the end of your comfort zone.”–Neale Donald Walsch

It was a sunny day in 2004, just three weeks before I would retire from a 37-year career as a journalist, when I drove a brand new RV off an Ogden, Utah, sales lot. It felt like the butterflies in my stomach had developed thorns on their fragile wings.

Everything that had been a part of my past life was about to change. I had just blocked off all chances of remaining rooted in my small, but cozy home that sat in the shadows of the Wasatch Mountains I loved. There simply was not enough money in my future to both fulfill my lifelong dream of living and traveling on the road while maintaining fixed roots within a circle of friends that had taken over 20 years to acquire.

This day I had not only chosen the unknown road that lay ahead, but had wrapped my choice in cement. I had even traded in my Honda Odyssey as part payment for the undersized, 22-foot RV that was now my only form of transportation, and soon would be my only home.

By the time all the paper work giving me title to the 2004 Volkswagen Vista/Winnebago had been scrutinized, signed and finalized, it was early evening. I was too unsettled to take my purchase for a check-out spin. So, feeling tall and strange sitting behind the wheel with my new living, dining, sleeping, cooking and bathroom facilities behind me, I drove home. Emotional turmoil, good or bad, always sapped my energy.

On carefully pulling into my driveway, testing the wideness needed to turn my new RV, I heard frenzied barking from inside the house. It was how my dog, Maggie, reacted to the sound of strange vehicles invading her territory. She never barked when I returned home, nor did she at any of my frequent visitors. But she did not recognize this new vehicle.

When I opened the door, Maggie gave me a quizzical look of surprise. Then, realizing in a split second that something new was parked in the driveway, she dashed between my legs and ran out to explore.

I opened the RV’s side door and she eagerly hopped in. She slowly sniffed every surface she could get at, then finally hopped up onto the couch and gave me a look that I easily interpreted as: So where are we going? To explore America, the beautiful, I reply. I always answer my dog’s inquiring looks. .

And that’s how my my travels with Maggie began. It’s been a journey that’s now heading into its eighth year. And I still have nary a regret.

Pat Bean is a wandering/wondering old broad who is beginning her eighth year of full-time RV-ing with her canine traveling companion, Maggie. She is passionate about writing, nature, books and birds and writes a daily blog.

January 24 – The Teacher/Poet or Poet/Teacher?

by Lisa Rizzo

Today a funny thing happened in my middle school classroom. The teacher stopped “teaching” and became a writer being interviewed by her students. We were watching a video about an author of one of the stories in their textbook. When it was over, someone asked me what my writing routine was. I’ve told my students that I write poetry and have always written poems with them for classwork. But I’ve never really just talked to them about who I am as a writer, what I do and why I do it.

This day was different – I put aside the set curriculum for 20 minutes and just let them ask questions — and they had some really good ones. One boy asked if I thought it was better to start writing when you were still young or was it okay to wait until you were older. That is something near and dear to my heart because I never really wrote when I was a child even though I “wanted” to be a writer. I told them that I always loved reading books which had as the main character a girl who wrote – Little Women and the Betsy/Tacey books in particular – and that although I dreamed I’d be like them I didn’t do anything about it until I was an adult. I had to admit that I thought it would have been better for me if I had started sooner, if I had taken myself more seriously, if I had worked harder. I asked them to think about whether they wanted to create art in some way – to write, paint or play an instrument. If they did, I wanted to encourage them create a space for it in their lives when they are young, to feel the joy of creation now.

Who was more affected by this whole conversation – the students or myself? As with all middle school teaching, it may be years before I know if any student took this to heart enough to start on their own writing career. That’s the wonder and the ache of teaching adolescents – I must have faith that I am touching their lives even though they may never tell me. However, I do know that their genuine interest in me as a writer, their desire to understand me just a little bit more touched my heart in a way I won’t forget.

Lisa Rizzo is a poet and middle school teacher who lives in Northern California. Her work has appeared in such journals as 13th Moon, Earth’s Daughters, Bellowing Ark and Calyx and her chapbook In the Poem an Ocean. Rizzo blogs at Poet Teacher Seeks World. She won first prize in the 2012 BAPC Poetry Contest.

January 2 – A Grandma is Born

by Linda Hoye

January 2, 2009

The phone rings just before 6 a.m. as I’m throwing a Lean Cuisine into my bag and getting ready to race out the door for work. It’s my daughter, Laurinda and it’s the phone call I’ve been waiting for.

“We’re going to the hospital,” she tells me quietly when I pick up the phone.

We talk briefly and after we end our call, I do a little dance I’ve perfected over the past nine months and dubbed the “grandma dance.” Then I race upstairs to my office where I log on to my computer and search for the earliest flight that will take me from Seattle, Washington to Calgary Alberta. I don’t think twice as I enter my credit card numbers on the airline website to pay the exorbitant fee for a last-minute reservation; I wouldn’t miss being there to welcome my grandchild into the world no matter how much it cost.

Six hours later I’ve gone from a dark and rainy Pacific Northwest morning to a frigid but sunny Canadian afternoon. The hospital lobby is alive with activity and filled with the smiling faces of people carrying stuffed animals, balloons and flowers. My gaze rests on other women who appear to be near my age and I share a subtle smile with them. I feel like I’m about to become a new member of an exclusive club I’ve longed to join, and the “grandma smile” is like the secret handshake.

When I arrive on the labor and delivery floor and locate the swinging doors that lead me toward pending grandma-hood, I shove them open and confidently step into the ward. The nurse at the desk looks up and inquires if I am the mother of an expectant mother on the ward.

Can’t you tell by the crazy grin on my face? I want to ask her, but instead I just smile my goofy grandma-smile and nod.

              Later….

There are windows in the swinging doors between the waiting room and the labor and delivery ward. I keep an eye on those windows and every sound from behind the doors makes me stand and look down the hall in the direction of Laurinda’s room. Finally I see her husband, Gord, striding down the hall with a smile the size of the Bow River on his face.

“It’s a girl!” he exclaims as he pushes through the doors. “And she’s beautiful!”

“Congratulations, Dad!” I throw my arms around him and offer a silent prayer of thanks while I follow him back down the hall wiping tears from my eyes.

Laurinda is sitting up in bed, smiling and crying at the same time. There is an indescribable glow about her.

“Congratulations, Mommy!” I embrace her and kiss her forehead.

Satisfied that she is okay I turn toward the baby warmer. A nurse is bustling about and Gord is videotaping. They clear a path for me to get closer to the warmer. My granddaughter, eyes wide open, is looking around as if to take in the sights of this new world she has arrived in.

I reach over and gently take her tiny hand in mine as I lean over and whisper so only she can hear. “Welcome! We’ve been waiting for you!”

Linda Hoye is a devoted and somewhat-fanatical grandma who is missing her granddaughter more than usual today. She lives in Washington state with her husband and their two doted-upon Yorkshire Terriers. Linda blogs at A Slice of Life Writing.