April 4 – Keep Looking Through the Windshield

by Cathy Scibelli

Don’t let your rearview mirror be bigger than your windshield.

Anyone attempting to navigate through the rough terrain of a serious or chronic illness will understand that quote in a second. It is so tempting to keep looking in that rearview mirror because the view back there very often is so much more pleasant than what seems to lie ahead. It’s like coming back from a vacation in some tropical resort where everything was sunny, you felt great, and any worries you had in your everyday life were forgotten for a time. You look at the photos of your trip and say, “What I wouldn’t give to be back there again!”

But that quote is right–we can’t let our rearview mirror be bigger than our windshield because that only leads us into a detour where we bump along complaining and pitying ourselves and failing to see some of the great sights that lie ahead and the possibilities that can open up if we focus on the future and stop whining about the life we left behind in that rearview mirror.

In my personal experience, I’ve found the cancer highway is filled with ruts and potholes and dark tunnels. But along the route I’ve also picked up some “hitchhikers” who have turned out to be really fun and inspiring friends. I’ve discovered “new” cousins who I never had the chance to get to know when I was busy speeding along in my life at 100 miles per hour. Now that I’ve slowed down, I see a lot of sights I never noticed.

If I pay attention to what lies ahead, I often discover new avenues for my writing and new opportunities to share my passion for World’s Fair history. I admit that it’s not easy to keep looking ahead and sometimes it’s scary to wonder where the road will end. But it’s still better to keep looking through the windshield than to live regretting what you can never go back to.

Cathy Scibelli is a writer who enjoys exploring new avenues where she can use her experiences of living with metastatic breast cancer to inspire others to continue to “look ahead” with anticipation and not fear.

March 21 – Literally Letty: Snake Face

by Letty Watt

The funniest picture I never took happened the moment I threw out some old tuna salad. Now, you ask, why would throwing out tuna salad be a funny picture. The answer is easy. We lived in the country, and I often “juiced” our breakfast meal. So I had left over pulp that I took outside for the critters that lived around our country home East of Norman, Oklahoma. I had selected an area covered with low bushes and grasses very near the corner of our stonewall. On a regular basis I would take the pulp, peelings, or other tasty morsels outside past the stone wall and toss them to critters that could hide under the bushes and eat them.

One day I found a young deer sitting there, as if it were waiting on a treat. I sat quietly at the wall and just watched in silence. It was a quiet moment that I reflect on often to still my heart, but then that is not the funny picture. One energetic morning I decided to clean out the refrigerator, and that’s when I found the stale tuna salad bowl in the back of the shelf. It only smelled slightly of aging fish, so why would I waste it, knowing that some raccoon or opossum would delight in the aroma and taste.

With the refrigerator cleaned, I stepped out passed our stonewall to the bushes and tossed the aromatic bowl of tuna. Usually, the food hit the leaves of the bushes and settle down to the ground. On that day, at that moment it hit a snake squarely in the face as the snake lay resting on the bush. The snake reared his head first, in shock I’m sure. I yelped in surprise and jumped back hitting the stonewall that stopped my retreat. The two of us then stared at each other in wonder until I absolutely broke into laughter. I must have been the only person in the world to have ever laughed at a snake face covered in smelly tuna. The snake sent his fangs out, as if licking the tuna, then shook its head much like a dog shaking off water. Silently he slithered away humiliated, leaving me laughing out loud as I sat on the wall alone with nature at my side.

We’ve moved to Kansas since then, I miss those moments of country life, but I have the memories, and they restore my soul.

Letty Watt is a retired librarian/teacher and now spend as much time outside in nature as possible by gardening, playing golf, walking the dog, and studying the stars from her hot tub. Winter months bring her inside and she writes daily collecting stories that mutter around in her head.

March 19 – The Color of Heaven: Lessons My Grandchildren Taught Me

by Carol Ziel

There is a saying that the reason we have children is for the grandchildren that follow. I could catalogue and index all that they have taught me. Recently I was tutored on a bitter Minnesota morning.  Snow piled under the dawn sky while we piled on the couch: Matthew, Jen, Amelia, Lulu, and I. A video was plugged in and Rapunzel cavorted with her pet frog. The hero Eugene sparred with a horse.

Lately I’ve begun to suspect that beginning my morning with a half hour of Disney might serve the same purpose as my meditations. What is more sacred than the magic of imagination, the miraculous presence of good even in the darkest moments? The presence of humor, of laughter, the colors and energy of creation– especially when the going gets tough?

I begin the day reading the newspaper because I want to know about the world around me–the wars, financial drama, neighborhood politics. However, I’ve begun to wonder if I lose the perspective of magic and the possibility of miracles this way. What would happen if I began my day with the conscious expectation that good can triumph, and the confidence that magic is always around the next corner? My grandchildren and Disney teach me that it could be so.

Later we piled into the car and drove to the Sound of Music. Actually, the only song was “Doe, a deer”–otherwise known as “My favorite things”. That track was the primary song of transportation. I don’t believe the car could have moved unless it was playing.  What would happen if the sound track to my life was recognition and gratitude of my favorite things? What would happen to a world where this was the truth?

Fast track to a week later as I was driving my five-year-old grandson to school. Out of the blue he says “I think the color of heaven is orange”.

It took me several days to digest that, and come up with the logical question, “Why orange?”

Jacob shrugged his shoulders in dismay. “Because red is for fire! And orange happens when day starts and  ends! Duh!”

A couple of days later, we were already late for school, and Jacob hung back–lost in the wonder of catching snowflakes on his tongue. I’d like to say that I found magic in that moment and sacrificed timeliness so I too could catch snowflakes. However, I’m perpetually a slow learner about the important things in life.

It does make me ponder how our lives might be different if we held on to the magic of Disney and went through life with a sound track of gratitude. And how would our lives change if we reflected on truly important things, like the color of heaven? But it’s snowing now. I think I’ll go out and catch a couple of snowflakes. More to be revealed!

Carol Ziel is a grandmother, gardener, social worker, goddess-centered woman who has been a member of Story Circle Network for 3 years. It’s one of her greatest joys and challenges, and she is grateful for the support she finds there.

March 18 – Judi and the Poem

by Lily Myers Kaplan

This past weekend I read a poem at the funeral of my friend, Judi’s, sister. Though I did not know Barbara Ann, Judi and I have recently developed a sweet intimacy, though it was not always that way. Years ago we were colleagues who, in her words, “bumped heads, forcing us to each grow…and bonding us forever.” In our final year of working together, when first my mother, Margie, then my sister, Lois, and finally, my brother-in-law, Dave died, with blow after blow to my heart, her compassionate and kind presence stands out.

It was a no-brainer, then, to offer my support when she responded to a Spirit of Resh Foundation update, telling me she was in the hospital sitting at the bedside of her husband, Michael–who she met and decided to marry in the fourth grade – after a cancer operation in which more than one organ had been removed. I’d quoted Dave’s words about cancer being the “blessing in disguise” that awakened him and Lois to “love greater that we’ve ever known.” Judi said that as she looked at her soul-mate, hooked up to tubes and monitors, with fears swirling, these words gave her courage–just when she needed it most.

After more trips to and from the hospital, Michael begins chemotherapy and the long journey toward healing, which looks an awful lot like illness as pounds fall off his body. Then, adding insult to injury, Judi’s sister dies in her bed, suddenly and unexpectedly. Blow after blow. Judi, the Rock of Gibraltar in her family of five (now four) sisters, plans the service and asks me if I know of some poetry that she might use. I share a few poems, then feel honored when she asks if I would read the one that she particularly likes at her sister’s funeral. It’s the one that Dave’s college friend (Page) read at his memorial (see below.)

Cancer, death, life-threatening illness. They are the great equalizers. They take us right smack dab into our humanity. Into our vulnerability. And into our relatedness as human beings – spirits encased in bodies which, one way or another, will ultimately fail us in this physical reality. In the face of loss and its attendant swirl of emotion–ranging from grief to remorse to anger to sorrow … and more … the emergent question of what matters most and what brings meaning to life arises from the center of our beings. This question inevitably connects us, one way or another, to our hearts.

As I stood to read the poem in the chapel, love, deeply felt among friends and strangers is what I felt among the assembled mourners. Sharing that moment in a room of people I mostly did not know, I felt a deep commonality and communion between us. Love and loss is universal. And to share it with others, well, that’s intimacy.

Lily Myers Kaplan, director of Spirit of Resh Foundation holds an MA in Culture and Spirituality, and BA’s in Transpersonal Psychology and Divinatory Studies. Her most valued credential, however, is her soul-path grounded in the everyday world, guiding people through love, loss, challenges and growth into an ever-evolving sense of self and place in the world.

February 25 – Do You Dream in Color?

by Janice Coffing

“Do you dream in color?” Katy, a colleague, friend, and art teacher asked.

While we had been talking about dreams, I was taken aback by her question. I had to think before I answered. “I don’t really know,”  I said. “I only know I dream in stories.”

We both felt we had discovered something interesting. Her dreams were vivid, colored images that often told a story or expressed a dominant emotion, but sometimes her dreams were just scenery. My dreams were stories in which the scenery was vague. My dreams had characters, action, and dialogue. Her dreams had beautiful or scary scenes, images. Her medium was paint, mine words.

I’m not sure how we left that conversation since it took place some time ago. But I do know that I began to notice how I learn, how I know things. Story is how I learn, how I remember, how I recall events, how I know people. It is the mode of which I am confident, certain. To me, a life is a story. While neither words nor paint can capture the essence of that life, we try because it is important to know who we are as humans.

Not so long ago, I recounted a dream to my brother about how I was trying to get home from work to our childhood residence. My bus wasn’t running; I started to walk but some stranger was chasing me; running away, I got lost. At every turn, there were obstacles. He said he had dreamed a very similar dream; only he was trying to get home from college. My brother and I are aging siblings who had both dreamed these dreams recurrently.

A psychologist might tell us our dreams meant that we were trying to recapture our innocence, our youth, a time of unconditional love and security. I think we were longing for a place, a time, a moment in our mutual history, a story that is past, a story that can’t be relived but can be told. I see those dreams as a warning not to forget. For me, it was a warning to write it down before the memories are gone. Interestingly, when the old homestead was demolished to make way for condos, our dreams about getting home stopped.

But I did forget to ask him: Do you dream in color?

Janice is a retired technical writer, trainer, and adjunct professor, who has time to read more, to write what she wants, and to reflect on a life and a time. Her passion is golf but she also loves living close to family, residing in Kentucky, owning Golden Retrievers, and cooking.

February 20 – A Big Red Bird is all that Remains of My Past

by Pat Bean

“It’s surprising how much memory is built around things unnoticed at the time.” — Barbara Kingsolver

Today, I hung all memories from the past on my wall.

The year was 1978 when I found myself single with two of my five children still left to support. It wasn’t an easy time, especially that first month when I had to borrow money to pay rent. Although there have been many difficult times since that day, as there are for all who occupy this planet, my life from this point forward only got better and better.

I spent the next 26 years finishing up a 37-year career in journalism, following it–and twice where my heart led me to go.

My career took me to the Star-Telegram in Fort Worth, Texas, for three years, then to Ogden, Utah, as features editor for the Standard-Examiner. I stayed for three years here before love took me to Las Vegas for eight months that included a stint working for the Las Vegas Sun.

When love betrayed me, I took myself away from the neon lights to Twin Falls, Idaho, where I stayed for two years as regional editor for the Times-News. It was then back to Ogden, where my former newspaper offered me a job as assistant city editor.

In 1987, I answered my heart once again and moved to Erda, Utah, and undertook a daily 56-mile commute to my job in Ogden. But in 1989, I moved back to Ogden alone, and happily stayed there until 2004, at which time I sold my home and bought my RV, Gypsy Lee.

With few exceptions, everything I owned was either packed into my 22-foot home on the road, sold or given away. The exceptions, mostly books, were eventually stored at my youngest daughter’s home here in Tucson, where I recently moved into a small apartment after almost nine years spent living on the road exploring America from sea to shining sea.

Sunday, my daughter brought me a few of those bins. And this morning, I hung the only remaining possession that remained from 1978 on the wall of my apartment.

As I stood back and looked at this simple sketch of a cardinal, which belonged to my grandmother, whom I adored and whom died when I was only ten years old, tears came into my eyes

The colored-pencil drawing, which even for a while accompanied me in my RV travels, held a lifetime of memories. It is the only thing I own that connects me to my past. As a person who prefers to look forward not backward, I have no regrets that there is nothing else.

But my heart tells me that this red bird may be the most precious thing I own today.

Pat Bean, who thinks of herself as a wondering-wanderer, is a former journalist who lived in an RV for almost nine years and recently moved into a third-floor apartment in Tucson. Her passions are writing, reading, hiking, birds, art, family and her canine companion, Pepper.

November 22 – On Plato and Roasted Chicken

by Tina Bausinger

My son Nathan, who is 13, is momentarily experiencing bliss–all from a chicken.

“Mom…this is soooo good,” he says with his mouth full.

I giggle. It’s the week of Thanksgiving, and I’m home from class, so I thought I should cook something. It’s kind of my thing. So many times I am not here to do the “mom” things for him (I work 30 hours a week and am a graduate English student, a writing tutor and a writer) so when I’m able, I try to make something he likes.

I sometimes wish I had something else to share with this man-child who has grown six inches in as many months, but I tried playing “Call of Duty” and (it’s just sad) ended up blowing myself up. So, I go with my strengths: cooking. That’s how I get him to turn off the video games and chat with me for a while–or as long as the food lasts.

It sometimes bothers me that I have such a connection with cooking. It’s so cliché, right? I guess 50 years of feminist rhetoric have done little to change that part of me that equates feeding with love. Did the works of Gloria Anzaldúa and Julia Kristeva (whom I adore) fall on deaf ears?

When I read these women, I learn from them, but I find little of me, my soul, changes. They have done little to alter that part of me, inherited from my grandmother, that takes pride in creating something from nothing. It seems confusing, but it’s not. I am a liberated, educated, American woman who does not need to lean on archaic ideas of womanhood. Except, maybe it’s the misconception of those ideas that distracts us. Maybe the feminists of past and present wrote and spoke not to take away from my freedom to roast the perfect chicken, but rather to keep that freedom to do what keeps us happy.

And writing does make me happy–just like cooking. I don’t have to choose. Good writing is cooking, when you think about it. Taking letters, forming them into words, and stringing those words together in a meaningful way, it’s not for everyone.

Plato wrote, “[Rhetoric] seems to me then . . . to be a pursuit that is not a matter of art, but showing a shrewd, gallant spirit which has a natural bent for clever dealing with mankind, and I sum up its substance in the name flattery…Well now, you have heard what I state rhetoric to be–the counterpart of cookery in the soul, acting here as that does on the body.”

I guess I see the connection: To take an ugly chicken carcass and to baste it in olive oil and garlic and roast it to perfection (that makes my teenage son ecstatic) or writing a short blog, are not so different. Either way, it sure feels good to see my son, who I don’t always understand, get a second plate.

Tina is a wife, a mom of three, a student, a lover of words, and a writer. She also make a mean lasagna. She loves finding the perfect word and placing it in the literary puzzle of her life.

November 19 – Monday

by Madeline Sharples

I wake at 6 and get ready to go to the gym. I negotiate the huge and blinding sun as I drive east. I work out on the elliptical trainer and lift some weights and then go on to the grocery store. By this time it is sunny–much clearer and cooler than usual in southern California at this time of the year.

I have a lot on my plate so I rush home to eat breakfast, shower, and change. Then I go to my office. The stickie reminders on my desktop overwhelm me. I need to finish two website articles, write a poem for Robert Lee Brewer’s November Poem A Day Chapbook Challenge, and do my regular marketing and blogging work.

Today I also work as a volunteer administrator on Facebook’s Putting a Face on Suicide (PAFOS) page from noon until 8:00 pm. Though I feel good about doing this volunteer job, it takes a toll on my emotions.

PAFOS, a memorial page, provides education and comfort to survivors by creating personal tribute pages featuring their loved ones. Its objective is to collect 99 photos of people who have died by suicide for each day of the year. As of this writing PAFOS has 1750 faces and is on Day 18 of our 365-day project. PAFOS also creates commemorative posters and a video for each day. My son Paul is part of the Day 4 video. His music plays in the background.

My job is to either Like or respond to every comment posted. Though I’m still able to do my writing work while volunteering, I check back every few minutes so I can respond quickly. I need to keep minding the store.

I’m overcome by all the young faces on the PAFOS page–a 15-year old girl, and boys 18, 21, 16, 17, and 19. A few older faces are also there. It’s either the anniversary of their death or their birthday, each date lovingly remembered by PAFOS staff. While I look at these faces, I can’t help wondering what makes these people take their lives. How do the young ones even know how to do it?

I also have another challenge. Someone leaves a message that she would just like to talk. Unfortunately that’s not our job. I explain I’m a survivor and volunteer, not a therapist. I suggest, if she is in trouble or distress, that she contact the National Hope Line Network 1-800 784-2433 (SUICIDE). She thanks me. I still worry about her.

My son was diagnosed with bipolar disorder when he was 21, and he took his life at 27. Ever since I’ve worked to remember him and help erase the stigma of mental illness and suicide. I also find writing a way to heal. I turned to writing during his illness. A few years after his suicide I created a memoir, Leaving the Hall Light On (Dream of Things, 2012), in hopes that others will find it useful in surviving their own tragedies.

Madeline is the author of Leaving the Hall Light On: A Mother’s Memoir of Living with Her Son’s Bipolar Disorder and Surviving His Suicide (Dream of Things) and Blue-Collar Women: Trailblazing Women Take on Men-Only Jobs (New Horizon Press). She co-edited The Great American Poetry Show and wrote poetry for The Emerging Goddess photography book.

Another Morning

by Margaret Stephenson

Today I wake to a depressed mood again. Not one where I can’t function, but the walk to the kitchen to make breakfast for the family is slow and the air pushes against me. The windows are open and I glance at the deer by my porch, wondering why the dogs have decided to ignore them.

Walking past the kitchen, I’m drawn to the kids’ new guinea pigs. I sit for a few minutes watching all three of them: Wilson, Simon, and Darwin. They are so little still; only 22 days old. They’re scared of me, I think, so I grab some baby carrots and alfalfa hay to show them I’m safe.

They huddle together in a corner where they don’t think I can reach them. I talk to them quietly until Simon is brave enough to come to me for a nibble. He runs up to the guinea pig loft to eat his treats while Darwin and Wilson squeak below.

I forget about my family’s breakfast. My husband wakes up and finds me with the guinea pigs. He says, “you just love those guinea pigs!” I say, “no, I don’t really, I just like sitting here with them.” I don’t have strong feelings for the piggies, but they are cute and little and seem to be getting brave and confident. They’re interesting to watch and I forget about my mind for a while.

My head aches on one side and it has all night. I reluctantly take some Advil and sit on the couch with my computer, checking Facebook and email. I check email to make sure nothing really important needs my attention: bills, classes, a favorite friend. Nothing. Just coupons for Kohls, J.C. Penney, Old Navy. And notices for new homeschool classes and an invitation to a kids’ Shakespeare play.

So I snuggle with my Facebook friends; I am an observer. I will often commit to a “like” on cute photos; rarely I will “like” a status update. It takes a lot for me to post on Facebook, but sometimes I do. Usually after a cup of tea and an unexpected burst in mood. I wonder too much about what people will think about my statement; will they “like” it, ignore it, or wonder who I am? Will friends of friends comment on my comment? Will it be nice, will it be confrontational? Facebook takes a lot out of me.

My husband leaves for work. I hear my son’s feet as he wakes up and runs to the computer to play Minecraft before anyone can tell him not to. “Can we go to the craft store today?” asks my middle daughter. My teenager comes out of her room, showered, dark eye make-up, ready for voice lessons and her theater internship. Giggling and singing fill the house; I get to work–breakfast needs to be made.

Margaret is mother to three amazing kids who learn in the real world as they homeschool together. She loves to write about her kids, emotions, and the moments that make up her life.

October 19 – A Wake-Up Call

by Ardine Martinelli

The skies are a clear blue as we snorkel off the Kona coast. What a leisurely day of pure pleasure, being on the ocean, spotting spinning dolphins, hammerhead sharks, and a great humpback whale. Mother nature offers us so many gifts to feed our souls. It’s hard to remember she can also be a treacherous, dangerous, howling force.

After a wonderful day, we return to our condo on the South tip of the Big Island, Hawaii. Saturated with sun and astounding beauty, we went to be early to rest and restore for another day. I am awakened from a deep sleep with pounding on the door and someone calling, “Get up, this is a Tsunami alert, you must evacuate in two hours”. Stumbling to the door he tells me, “Plan on being gone a couple of days, take medication, water, plane tickets, etc.”.

I wake my friend, telling her we have to pack and be out within two hours. Like me, she’s a little fuzzy, but we get ourselves in gear and begin packing up the car. There is no time for fear; we just start packing so we can get to higher ground. Luckily we thought to take pillows, blankets, and some food.

We were told to go north to a small town with a community center. Arriving in town we filled up with gas and were directed to the community center. My image of emergency shelters was what I’d seen on TV. Cots lined up, a table with coffee, rolls, etc. and someone coordinating the center. Not here.

Several cars were already gathered in the parking lot, and all were congregated on the steps of the center. This is where we learned of the massive earthquake that hit Japan. We had no TV or radio at the center to keep us updated, so Lorie and I went to the car to sleep. We slept fitfully until about six. With no news, we took a long walk through the small town, scoping out any restaurant for breakfast.

The prominent feeling I had then and still have is one of deep gratitude. We had a car to get us to safety, and to sleep in. Inconvenient, sure, but we were safe at all times. It was a tiny window to see what happens in an emergency. People cooperated and helped one another. We were a small community so we didn’t face the long lines for gas and bathrooms that those in Kona experienced. All we did was pack up, move to higher ground, and sleep in our car. We were back in our condos by noon the next day, enjoying the rest of our vacation, but with a different consciousness. This experience brought the reality of how fast life can change. This was a wake up call. I don’t want to forget how fragile life can be and how swiftly it can change.

Ardine lives in Tacoma, WA where she is a Spiritual Director and retreat leader. Her interests include: gardening, hiking, reading, traveling, and good conversation with friends. She has been a member of Story Circle Network for four years and loves the incentive and inspiration it continues to give her to write.