February 29 – Unexpected Grace

by Khadijah Lacina

February is a month of birthdays in my family. I was born in that month, as were three of my children. Each birth was special, but the one I want to share with you today is that of my son, Mu’aadh, who was the first of three babies I had in Yemen.

When we moved to Yemen I was four months pregnant. I was worried about having a baby there, due to the fact that I tend to hemorrhage severely after every birth. I found myself in a strange environment, full of strange germs, and dealing with customs that were totally different from my own. I didn’t even speak the language well at that point.
I went to the Mustashfa Um, the mother’s hospital, a couple of times before I gave birth. I found a doctor and an ultrasound technician who spoke English, more or less, and the ultrasound doctor even gave me her home phone number and told me to call her when I went into labor. In Yemen, the custom is for some of the women of the family to accompany the mother-to-be to the hospital, and she was worried because I didn’t have anyone to go with me. I didn’t think I would call her, but knowing she was there was a comfort.

The night of the birth arrived. I hadn’t felt well all afternoon, and was keyed up and full of energy. I wasn’t sure at first that I was in labor, but by evening it became clear that that was the case. I was determined to stay at home as long as I could, as I knew that once I went to the hospital I would be by myself- they don’t allow men into the labor and delivery areas at all, so my husband, who had been present at all the other births, would be waiting downstairs. Finally, around midnight, I decided we had better get going. We walked downstairs, and I crouched on the sidewalk by the buildings while my husband tried to get a taxi in the nearly deserted streets. The first cab driver saw us an opportunity to make some extra cash; the second, however, was reasonable- and when he saw I was really really pregnant, he hot-footed it all the way to the hospital. I remember that trip as a collage of lights, glimpses of men sitting in tea rooms or gathered on street corners, and wild dogs skulking in the shadows.

Once at the hospital I was told to go right upstairs. I tearfully said goodbye to my husband, clutching my walkie talkie in my hand so I could talk to him once I was settled in. I walked up two flights of stairs, and was met at the top by a doctor I had never met, one who didn’t speak English. She smiled at me sweetly, though, and talked to me as if I could understand…and I almost could. Her expression turned alarmed when she checked my condition- apparently I had waited just long enough before coming, because I was ushered straight into the delivery room.

“Bismillah!” In the name of God, she said, and told me to push. The nurse held my hand and said “Bismillah” as well, and I felt comforted, blessed that these women who shared my faith were helping me have the baby. Three pushes, and there was Mu’aadh.

After a few minutes they walked me, with the baby in my arms, to a room to rest for a bit before going home. There were two other new mothers in there, along with an entourage of female companions. They spoke to me, and the first thing I was asked after they wished Allaah peace upon me was, “Where is your mother?” I knew how to answer that, anyway. I told them she had passed away. “Your sisters? Your aunties?”
“They’re in America,” I answered, suddenly feeling very alone, and very young and very far from all that I knew.
“America!” they said. “Miskeena!” Poor girl! Suddenly they were swirling around me, pressing cookies and milk into my hand, offering to hold the baby for me. Tears welled up in my eyes as I felt the kindness and love of these women who were complete strangers to me. “I will be your mother,” said the mother of one of the other women. From her bed, her daughter smiled and waved at me. “Sister!” she said in English.

My walkie talkie beeped. I pressed the button. “How are you doing, Sweetie?” asked my husband’s voice, quiet and reassuring as always. “Fine, alhamdulillah…and you’re a daddy!” He didn’t understand at first, and then he was bursting with happiness. “Are you okay?” he asked.

I looked around at my little impromptu, totally unexpected family and smiled.

“I am,” I replied. “I really am.”

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.

February 17 – Valentine’s Day Is Not Neccessary

by Carol Kunnerup

Children buzz into to the preschool, faces alight and chirping about the treats they have in their backpacks. Each child tells about their Valentine’s cards–Super Heroes and Disney characters. They all want to know when they can pass them out to their friends.

The day runs on schedule just as we’d hoped, even with a preponderance of 3 year olds. Children busy themselves with the business of learning at exploration centers throughout the classroom.

Lunchtime comes and the excitement is palpably building. “After lunch everyone gets to pass out treats, right, Miss Carol?” asks one little girl. All eyes are on me as I give an affirmative nod and smile.

Five minutes until lunch wrap up. The door opens and a gal comes in with two vases of flowers. The delivery gal says, “For Angie and Kathi.” I feel a twinge. No, more than a twinge. A full on tornado twisting in my stomach and mind. No flowers for me. I am almost embarrassed. Not good enough to receive a treat says a cruel, phantom voice.

My Danish husband does not celebrate Valentine’s Day. I know this in my head and heart. It is not a custom in Denmark and he has not picked up the habit living in the US since 1996. We have been together for 16 years. This is not something that is going to change.

I manage to pull myself together, offer congratulations, the appropriate oohs and ahhs, the, “oh you’re so lucky!” All sincere, by the way. These are my work mates. I am happy for them. They did not choose a Dane, after all.

The festivities go on as planned. Angie hands a bag to each child. Kathi and I make sure they have their treats and are lined up to pass them out. We have created an assembly line of sorts to minimize the chaos. Each child happily takes their turn delivering friendly treats, dropping small delights into bags with their friends’ names on them.
Lesson planning after the children have gone for the day is interrupted by, “oh, my husband is so sweet,” and “what a good guy I have.” I am still happy for them. I also realize that I am happy for me. I know that this show is not necessary for me to feel my husbands love. I am glad for others who celebrate, but do not feel the need.

I have reconciled myself to the fact that my husband finds that this piece of American culture is not one he will adopt. I have tried, and we laugh about it, but he tells me that he shows his love for me each day. He doesn’t need one day a year to “prove it with flowers and candy. It is not necessary.” His love is a daily occurrence.

Besides, I can get my own chocolate. And as for gifts, well, several boxes of various items from ebay will be arriving this weekend.

Carol is a wife, mother, grandmother and artist who LOVES living in rural South Dakota where she has, “Pens that won’t run out of ink, cool quiet, and time to think…” (Mary Chapin Carpenter) She is learning the blogging thing and getting passionate kisses from her man.

February 11 – The Perfect Birthday Gift

by Cathy Scibelli

I decided that this year for my birthday I’m going to give myself something I’ve always wanted. Permission.

That’s not to say that I won’t appreciate all the thoughtful material gifts I receive from family and friends. But I think the gift I’ve picked out will be the most useful, especially when it comes to my writing.

How many times do you find that you’re all set to work on a great idea for a writing project but something nags at your mind and doesn’t let you concentrate? You think, “I can’t do this now and leave “xyz” undone. Whether it’s something you noticed that needs to be cleaned, mended, paid, or answered you just can’t seem to allow yourself to clear your head and focus on that writing project when this other thing keeps tugging at you like a small toddler and screaming “pay attention to me!”

I don’t know whether it’s the way we’re raised or something in our gender, but most women I know have trouble allowing themselves to focus on their own personal projects. In my experience, most men don’t seem to have this problem. They can step over a pile of dirty clothes on the floor, grab some leftovers out of the fridge, push aside a stack of bills on the table and sit in a contented coma watching a sporting event for several hours without the slightest pang.

So this year I’ve decided I’m going to give myself “permission” to do the same when it comes to my writing. I’m going to tell myself that the house won’t fall down, the family won’t be poisoned or permanently scarred, and the world won’t end if I don’t take care of every little thing that needs doing before I allow myself some time to work on my writing. And when I’ve accomplished my writing goal each day, you can borrow my “permission” to do the same.

Cathy Scibelli has published personal essays in several anthologies and magazines and recently started a blog. With her new gift of permission, she plans to finally work on the two books she’s had outlined for several years.

February 8 – One Dazzling Day

by Juliana Lightle

When people ask me who I am, I tell this true tale of one dazzling day:

The rancher next door called one Saturday morning begging for help. Three truckloads of yearling cattle had arrived; several of his cowboys had committed a no-show.

I pulled on jeans and boots, brushed my hair, and headed for the pens and chutes. I held their legs while they were “cut”, shot them full of meds, and branded. In four hours we worked over 300 head.

Lunchtime arrived. In one hour my volunteer job at the state park gift shop began.

No time for a bath; I smelled of smoke, blood, and poop. In one-half hour I applied make-up, mascara, blush, sprayed perfume all over me, changed clothes, and headed for work.

At five, I closed shop, went to the restroom, changed into the third outfit of the day and headed for a health care volunteer gala.

Two hours later I attended the opera, silently singing along.

Woohoo!!

Juliana Lightle writes on the canyon rim. Her new blog, Writing on the Rim, will appear in the next week. She raises horses, teaches high school, sings with a master chorale, and wanders.

February 6 – Take Back Your Crayons

by Monica Devine

Remember when you were a little kid, and the actions of drawing and coloring flowed freely, without thought, angst or reservations? One of my fondest memories is getting a brand new box of 64 Crayola Crayons, usually at the beginning of a new school year, opening them up and smelling them! Yes, I smelled them, and have discovered that I’m not alone. Lots of “kids” my age would get a head rush from the smell of fresh crayons (I heard Crayola puts vanilla in their mix). Pair that with a brand new coloring book (I loved coloring within the lines) and voila…pure happiness! A few years ago, on a long…very long…ferry boat trip from Alaska to Washington state, I brought along crayons and a set of mandalas to color (mandala means center, circumference, or magic circle in Sanskrit).
I discovered again, the joy of coloring.

What I have known all along, but have most recently begun to REMEMBER is that there is supreme value in the exploration of color and design on a page, whether it be with crayons, markers, or paint. All of us have creative instincts or urges buried within, and are capable of discovering our voices through the creation of art and craft. (Sometimes it’s hard to choose; I love painting, drawing, sculpting, photography, & jewelry making…another lifetime, please). Did you know that doodling is actually good for your brain and creates a space for active listening (how many of you doodle while on the phone?)

I once took a Watercolor 101 class and had a strange experience driving home that afternoon. The colors on the trees exploded; I saw color within color, a radiance and brilliance missed on a normal, everyday basis. Somehow I was seeing differently, like my right brain had woken up from a very deep sleep. It was a short-lived experience, one that couldn’t be reproduced through my own will, but memorable enough to recognize the existence of another way of “seeing” through the creation and study of art.

“Deep greens and blues are the colors I choose.” (James Taylor). At a garage sale I bought a set of hinged panels, painted a dull gray. They were to be used as a room divider up in the loft at our cabin; a way to provide a little privacy for guests; but once I got them home and painted them (deep greens and blues), I decided to leave them right here in the studio because the colors make me happy and I want to see them everyday. Amazing what a few stencils and poster paint can do to a room.

It’s time to take back our crayons and doodle again. Color within and without the lines. Have a paint “throwdown”. And discover the many creations lying dormant within our hearts.

Monica Devine is the author of four children’s books, among them Iditarod: The Greatest Win Ever, a former nominee for the celebrated Golden Kite Award. Her adult nonfiction piece, On The Edge of Ice, won First Place in Creative Nonfiction with the New Letters literary journal. She currently writes fiction, memoir, poetry, and a weekly blog.

February 1 – Dreaded Snow Angels

by Kali’ P. Rourke

Snow angels have always been a threat to me. When my husband and I dated, his parents lived in Minnesota. He had lived several places with major snowfall and he actually snickered when I confessed I had never made a snow angel.

It wasn’t because I had never been around snow. No, it was because I saw no joy in laying down in cold, wet stuff that would inevitably creep down your neck, leaving your hair in sopping curls all over the back of your head. It seemed totally logical to avoid it!

Snow angels re-surfaced when our daughter Devin was eighteen months old and ready for her first Christmas visit to Grandma and Grandpa’s house.

Granted, I may have gotten carried away with her powder pink snow bunny suit with buttoned gloves and lined hood, but hey, Minnesota is COLD!

We flew up from Austin, where snow rarely falls, to a winter wonderland of snow laden trees, frozen lakes and beautiful wooden houses tucked up into the hillsides.

We warned Devin about the cold and that she was not to go outside without her “bunny suit” and a grown up. She was so excited when Daddy talked to her about her first “snow angel.”

“Really,” I said? “You are really going to make her do a snow angel? I won’t even do them!”

He assured me that Devin was going to have a fabulous time romping in the snow.

Day dawned, the sun was shining and it was time to “hit the slopes” sidewalk style. I dressed Devin warmly and she looked angelic with her blonde curls and big blue eyes. Her cheeks pinked up as soon as she went outside and she seemed to be glowing.

The grandparents, Dan and I gathered around her, guiding her to a fairly flat place in the snow. She still had her little gloves buttoned over her hands and so I asked, “Are you ready to feel the snow?”

She nodded enthusiastically, so I slipped her mitten off said, “You can touch that snow bank. Then Daddy will show you how to make snow angels!” Notice I was not volunteering for this gig in any way.

She slid over to the snow bank and inched her hand toward it tentatively. We watched and waited for the wonder we just knew she was going to experience…

Our petite, pink cherub reached out and touched the snow with her hand open and there was this long and silent pause when her expression seemed as frozen as the ice she was touching. Then her face crumpled and a banshee wail came out of those tiny lips that could shatter glass.

“Aieee,” she shrieked! “Cold, Mommy. Don’t like it!”

I had a feeling that additional snow play was not in her immediate future as we bundled her back up and into the house. I also knew, for the time being at least, that I had an ally against the dreaded snow angels.

Kali’ is a wife, mother, writer, board member and undercover “Geek Goddess,” creating web sites for non-profits. She writes songs, sings country and western and yodels! Blissfully married to Dan, with daughters Devin in law school and Dani in her junior year; both at Vanderbilt. A sneaky way for a singer to get to Nashville, don’t you think?