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.

March 9 – The “Ring” of Death

by Patricia Roop Hollinger

The blinking red light on the answering machine was demanding to be listened to. “Aunt Pat, this is Matt. Call me as soon as possible.”

I knew there was yet another crisis in the life of my younger sister Elaine. In spite of being an American Airlines flight attendant, and LPN, and a Chiropractor she has battled with the demons of mental illness most of her life. In recent years the illness had won; thus leaving her without employment and living in subsidized housing.

As family members, we had each made our attempts to intervene when we feared she could possibly end her life. A semblance of health often restored for brief intervals.

I called Matt. “Aunt Pat, Mom was found dead in her shower today. I feel so guilty. I had taken a break from calling her daily recently.”

“And why might you have taken a break?” I asked. He knew the answer.

We all had taken breaks, for she heard TV’s that were not on, refrigerators running in the background, and breathing that hurt her ears.

My 99 year old mother was still sending her money. Believing and hoping that a cure could be found.

I knew this phone call was inevitable. I felt relief, sadness, and grief that a life so filled with promise and potential had ended so bereft and alone.

Flying to California was not an option.

My memorial was that of spending time with my 99 year old mother and older sister as we shared photos, stories, letters and the feelings of anger and love that her behaviours engendered in all of us.

I wrote her obituary for the local newspaper in Maryland; this is where she was Miss Francis Scott Key at her local high school.

Her children and former husband came together to clean out her apartment. Recalling numerous times when she “bolted” from their lives to unknown destinations and for unknown reasons, when her sense of humour had them rolling with laughter, when she slopped the hogs on the pig farm where they lived in Missouri, and when she climbed ladders to paint the farmhouse.

Last week her ashes were scattered in the Pacific Ocean where her mind, body and soul are free at last.

Patricia is a retired, after 23 years, Chaplain/Pastoral Counsellor/Licensed Clinical Professional Counsellor from Brook Lane Health Services. She married her high school heartthrob in 2010 after the death of both of their spouses. She loves books, playing piano, singing, cats, and nature. Patricia is “still a farm girl at heart.”

January 21 – A Daughter, Sand Angels, and the Sun

by Tania Pryputniewicz

I woke curmudgeonly grumpy from a tangle of blankets, one son’s knees grazing my spine, husband and Husky hugging the far wall. At my feet, my middle son. Parallel to the bed on the floor, my twelve year old daughter, hair smothered by pillows as I turned off the alarm. Transplanted from northern to southern California, I should have been overjoyed after three years of two-city living without my husband to be reunited under one roof.

But I’d acquired a hyper-vigilance due to raising our children alone–a “too-little-to-go-around” self whose reaction to any sentence starting with, “Mom” opened with, “What?…can’t you see I’m….” x, y, z. My daughter, with infinite patience last year, drew note after note decorated with rainbow letters, “Can I come down for tea with you tonight?” Fatigued, as hard as I tried, I felt locked in internal sorrow, afraid I’d never rise above our circumstances to be larger of heart.

I feel my shortcomings as a mom most intensely in relation to my daughter. Because we are both firstborns? Female? Because her brothers’ needs seem easier? I only know I’m more conflicted with her. And she has no qualms about letting me know how I’ve failed her. Which took me to some dark places last year (given the struggle to raise the children, work, hold down the fort, and stave off the ever present poet’s dream of writing a poem worthy of eternity).

But even as we wrangled, I understood the only way was “through”–not over, not around, not under, but through. The sun would rise; I’d try again. Some nights we had tea; others I deferred to stacks of student papers, dishes, or her brothers, especially during the month the littlest broke his elbow and needed surgery.

We’ve only been in the new city for two weeks, but my shoulders have dropped several inches now that two adults absorb the field of the kids’ needs. The one place that soothes all of us remains the ocean, mercifully close by here as it was up north, so instinctively, we keep the ritual.

Within moments, I’m photographing patterns–the retreating waves make sand angels below each beached pebble everywhere I look. My girl comes abreast of me and delights in the find. My husband salvages a purple bucket and one tiny green plastic soldier; the boys catapult down the sand dunes. The Husky runs leashless in wide arcs, nipping at the waves.

Dusk finds my daughter and I walking together. She’s willowy, lovely, inching towards adolescence. Hard to believe soon she’ll yearn less and less for my attention. I ask her to stop long enough for a double self-portrait. Finally, we get it right, shoulder to shoulder, positioning the setting sun so it crowns half of her face. We found that when you tilt just far enough apart, the light of the sun breaks into a gold-red fan of spokes across both faces like a blessing.

Tania lives in southern California with her husband, three children, husky, and two disoriented housecats still recovering from the move. A poet by night (MFA, Iowa Writers’ Workshop) and a writing teacher by day, she is heading into her second year of teaching Transformative Blogging for SCN (next class starts February 4th) and is writing a book for women bloggers.

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.

July 27 – Summer

by Juliana Lightle

Summer: hot, occasionally humid, lazy. Last night I stayed up until 11, crawled into bed, and completed my usual ritual reading. My bedtime reading varies. Last night it was “Earth Justice”. This ritual includes my grandson when he stays with me. We lie there, side by side, encircled in quiet, closeness, and peace, reading.

I awaken late for me, seven, walk to the kitchen, plug in the coffee pot, listen to the beans grinding, amble back to bed, and meditate while the coffee perks. The semi-arid landscape where I live creates cool, refreshing mornings. I open up the doors, pour myself a cup of coffee, and walk outside in my nightgown, one of the advantages of country living. Coffee cup in hand, I turn on the spigot, water rushing into the two and one half-gallon, green bucket. I water the potted geraniums by the rock retaining wall, the thyme in the tall, brown, Mexican urn, the succulents in the two ancient pots reclaimed from someones abandoned building. Some animal, a deer, a bunny, eats a bite or two each night even though they reside less than six feet from my house.

My grandson sleeps late and soundly. I walk back into the house, check on him and surround his eight year old cafe-con-leche body with pillows and stuffed animals so he won’t fall out of bed. I refill my coffee cup and return to the morning watering ritual. It has not rained in nearly a month. My xeroscape flower and herb garden needs little water, but it does need some. While watering, I periodically check on my grandson, readjusting the pillows and stuffed animals. I do not want him to fall out of bed and hit his head on the grey cement floor.

A girlie girl, I like make-up and polished toes and nails. Make-up application follows the watering ritual. When my face looks like the me I prefer to see in the mirror, I walk to the barn and feed the horses, a summer treat, morning feedings. On winter workdays, they have to get by on once a day.

We eat breakfast, my grandson and I, hungry for a new day. He likes two eggs over easy. I eat yogurt or cereal. Our summer days are lazy days, filled with board games, reading, kids’ TV. We eat when we are hungry; we rarely notice the time.

Late in the evening cool, we head to the barn, feed, clean the runs, and scatter the manure over the crunchy, dry grass, waiting for the rains that will eventually return. Sometimes we also take a property walk as my grandson calls them, hiking the perimeter of my canyon country landscape, checking the fence, watching for wildlife, admiring the abundant wild flowers. When he was little, I had to help him cross the canyon. Now he runs ahead, all energy and life.

I love summer.

Juliana Lightle writes, raises horses, xeroscapes, sings, teaches and wanders the wild on a canyon rim in the Panhandle of Texas.

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.

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?

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 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.