May 3 – Penteli Mountain

by Marilea Rabasa

My son and I loved to fly kites when he was growing up in Virginia. The right kind of wind could propel his paper bird high and far, with us right on its tail giving it enough slack to keep it soaring in the air currents.

He’s a grown man now, but I remember a day twenty-five years ago when we were living in Athens, Greece. We were driving home from his friend Chris’ house. Chris lived on Penteli Mountain, one of my favorite haunts outside of Athens. From the crest of this hill on a clear day in winter you could see the whole bowl of Athens, with the smog hovering overhead, and even beyond. This was where the Brits came to celebrate Boxer Day every December 26. They hiked up more for the whiskey than the view, but that’s another story.

As we turned the corner, we saw the tail of a kite peeking out from under a pile of rubbish. We knew it was a kite tail because it had flags zigzagging down the string. Also, everyone came to fly kites on Penteli Mountain in December when the weather changed. This kite had lost its wind and lay abandoned in the field, its owners having no more use for it.

And so, our curiosity taking over, we stopped the car, got out, and went to investigate. Right away our curiosity turned into compassion and we wanted to breathe new life into this broken and tattered old kite. I never thought that something inanimate could come to life. But at this time in my life there was a dying in me that I knew I had to defeat or it would defeat me. My son was part of this tragedy, and somehow we knew that the road to healing could start with repairing this kite and watching it fly again. A dust-covered old TV pinning it down to the ground was holding the kite hostage. Its colorful tail saved it from certain death.

So we took the kite home and repaired it with glue and tape. We waited for a good day with just enough wind to try and fly it. The day finally came, a clear sunny day with a nice breeze. Together we took the kite back to the mountain and flew it. We watched it continue to rise and float in the air until all the string was used up. We ran with it as it leaped in the wind. It was flying like it was brand new – a miracle!

We didn’t let that kite go. We brought it down and carefully put it in the car. We knew we would probably never fly it again, but we couldn’t let go of something that had taught us such an eloquent lesson: I was sure from that day on that there are second chances for those who have the heart to reach for them.

Marilea is a retired teacher. Toward the end of her career, she earned her Master of Arts in Teaching. “This was a critical step on my life journey because it concentrated on reflective practice. Now I have time to reflect back on my life and put my stories down on paper. I look forward to sharing them with you.”

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 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.

January 14 – A CALL FOR HELP

by Patricia Roop Hollinger

“God, I am not in the mood for a formal prayer, but I need HELP!” This was my plea as I lay in my bed while my left shoulder throbbed with pain.

This was the same throbbing pain I experienced in my right hip as a result of Lyme’s disease. Within the span of three months a perfectly formed and functional hip dissolved into “mush.” Using a walker had become my method for mobility. After yet another MRI the technician exclaimed, “I don’t know how you are even walking with a walker.” The pain was controlled with Vicodin. Hip replacement surgery was scheduled ASAP.

I wasn’t even able to consider having a shoulder replacement.

With 7 hungry cats weaving in and out of my legs as bacon was frying for breakfast there was a “knock, knock, knock” on the kitchen door. “Who would be knocking on our door at this hour?” I exclaimed.

With reluctance I opened the door. “Hi!” said the familiar voice of Tony. “I just wondered if you needed any help.” I threw my arms around him and exclaimed, “So, you received the prayer request!”

Tony was my “lawnmower, fix whatever” person. This was the first time he arrived without first receiving a phone call from me. The cats and the bacon had to wait.

“My shoulder is killing me, my husband is ill and the lawn needs mowing” I exclaimed frantically. “But….you must know that there are deer tick back here in the woods. Cover up, spray yourselves with DEET.”

“Butch has already had Lymes,” Tony said matter of factly. “Lost his sight in one eye. Would have the other if I hadn’t found a Lyme’s literate M.D. in Hanover, PA.”

“What’s his name, phone number, address?” I cried, as I ran for a paper and pencil.

As soon as I had the necessary information I called the M.D., made an appointment and was treated successfully with 6 months of antibiotics accompanied by supplements and probiotics. My pain subsided and I have had no ensuing symptoms of the dreaded Lyme’s Disease.

Most of my prayers have not been answered so dramatically, but no one can tell me divine intervention was not at work that day.

Patricia has been a Chaplain/Pastoral Counselor/Licensed Clinical Professional Counselor for 23 years at same hospital where once was a consumer. “Seeker of the “truth” which has set me free. Third marriage to high school heartthrob 2010 the best yet. Musician, voracious reader and hopeful writer. Cats a must.”

December 30 – A Man Named “Cecil”

by Sherry Wachter

Today I learned that my plumber’s first name was actually “Cecil.” This was something of a surprise to me–when his white van pulled into our driveway–which it did on a couple of Very Bad Days–the man who fixed the pipes and stopped the water from pouring introduced himself as “Rob.” I suppose I could be pardoned for believing that “Rob” was actually his first name.

Not that it mattered much. Let’s face it: most of us associate plumbers with Very Bad Days–the day the toilet terminally backed up, the garbage disposal fell off the pipe, the valve under the house broke. I don’t think I’m alone in preferring to let days like that bury themselves under the sands of time. In my case, they left me with the satisfaction of knowing that the parts of my house that are supposed to stay dry are, and the deeply comforting knowledge that should a Very Bad Day come again, Plumber Rob would be there with me, mending pipes, replacing valves, and ensuring that I stayed warm, dry, and safely on my own city lot. It was good knowing that–comforting, like knowing that the car will start on cold mornings.

All that came to a screeching halt when one of Plumber Rob’s neighbors took a handgun and started shooting through the businesses windows into a roomful of people. There was a story behind it–the gunman believed that Plumber Rob had turned him in to the local authorities. I don’t know if the story was true–the same article that enlightened me to the real facts of Plumber Rob’s first name also quoted a young woman, one of Plumber Rob’s daughter’s friends, who insisted that he was a real American who wouldn’t “snitch” on anybody, but the real story lies in the very fact that she was there to tell it.

When the bullets started coming through the window, Plumber Rob pushed her down and threw his body over hers. He saved her life by doing exactly what he did for the rest of us in this town, being there when we needed him on the Very Bad Days, sleeves rolled up, scarred hands muddy, saving us from disaster.

He died, and his death reminds us all once again that we are defined not the moments grow not out of who we think we should aspire to be, but who we are. When the bullets began spraying through the window of Rob Carter Plumbing, there was no time for anyone to puzzle out what “should” be done. There was only time to act–instinctively, thoughtlessly. For Rob–Cecil–Carter, that instinct was to do the same quietly heroic thing he has been doing for decades, place himself between us and disaster. And in that action, in his last action, he showed the color of his soul. It was true blue.

Sherry Wachter lives in a small farm town in north central Oregon with her son Patrick, two formerly feral black cats, and the House Leroy. She has published two novels (one of which won the best of the best e-books award in 2009), a memoir, a collection of short stories, and several picture books.

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.

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.

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.

December 20 – Christmas: a burden of the heart?

by Teresa Schreiber Werth

Sometimes Christmas feels like a burden of the heart. After the turkey carcass has been boiled, the bones picked and the soup is gone, I find myself crawling sheepishly into December, dreading all that must be done, missing family and friends that are gone and those I love who live far away. I don’t want to be a scrooge but the feelings overwhelm me and I am trapped…until “the Spirit of Christmas” finds a crack in my armor seeps in and saves me from myself. This year was no different.

I was “humbugging” along right on schedule, having rationalized and accepted that there would be minimal holiday decorations at our house this year. No Christmas tree? OK with me. I wasn’t at all happy with myself but I recognized the situation as normal (for me) and seemingly hopeless.

I had gone out to perform my weekly volunteer duties at Reach Out Radio where I read national and international news on our local PBS station, for the blind and visually impaired. As I was driving down our street, almost home, I could see from two houses away, that the Christmas tree was up and fully lit, in our living room. Bless the man that married me! I didn’t ask why he’d done it or how he knew that I couldn’t but, when I saw our tree, all beautiful and bright, the shiver I felt must have been the Spirit of Christmas seeping in. Close to tears, I came in the house and stood there, amazed and thankful. I actually felt as if I had to decorate it right then, and we did. I asked my husband to hang the evergreen garland around the front door and he did even better, stringing it with Christmas lights.

He got up in the closet and handed me the holiday Folkstone figures I have enjoyed collecting. I went to work on the mantel, then the entryway, the hexagonal window. Retrieving my six little button trees from the attic, I placed one in every room. What had seemed impossible a short time before was suddenly exciting and satisfying. The process of decking the halls had fixed my spirit.

I don’t want to spoil the magic by dissecting it, but I can’t help notice that finding the Christmas spirit had nothing to do with buying or wrapping, malls or catalogs, lists or sales. It was about someone performing a simple act of love. I recognized it instantly.

Perhaps Christmas seems like a heavy burden because we long for the impossible–a holiday like the ones we cherish in our memory, Christmases when we were younger and more innocent, when times were simpler and merriment seemed more attainable. Maybe we set ourselves up for disappointment by failing to live in the present, to recognize all the blessings around us in this time and place. All I know is Christmas is coming and I am ready.

Teresa Werth writes because she must. Ever since kindergarten, she has written poems, stories, songs and plays. Writing and revising words give her great joy A retired communications professional, she celebrates life daily, keeps busy making memories.

September 29 — Reading with Rachel

by Kali’ P. Rourke

“Hi, my name is Rachel.”

She looked down and protectively wrapped her arms around herself. Then she looked straight at me with big, brown eyes.

I introduced myself and asked if she would like to find a place to sit. We were in the library of her middle school, and there were long tables with incredibly uncomfortable little plastic chairs grouped around them.

The smell of books, children and an occasional whiff of whatever the cafeteria was serving that day filled the air. I let her lead the way to a table near the back of the room and she sat with her back to the bookshelves. I took a chair across from her and so began our first mentoring session.

I tried active listening, the way I had read mentoring should be done…but that assumed that the other person was talking. Rachel wasn’t saying much at all, and I found myself floundering, just asking one leading question after another with little response.

I tried telling her about myself, seeking in vain to find some common ground we could tread. I was thanking God that I was an extrovert, so this was not the root canal experience it might be for some people, but I also felt that Rachel tested the outer limits of my social skills.

Finally, something I said clicked. I saw it slot into place just from the look in her eyes, and like an anxious angler, I cautiously tugged on the bait line to see how far she would advance.

“So you like art?” I asked, leaning forward slightly. “Who is your favorite artist?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, “But I really like pictures of oceans.”

“I think I might want to be a marine biologist some day.”

“Really, “I asked, “What do you have to do to become a marine biologist?”

“Um…go to college, I guess.” The corners of her lips drooped in a defeated curve and I realized this was something she hadn’t thought through at all. It was as much a child’s dream as wanting to be a ballerina or an astronaut and she had no idea that it might be within her grasp.

I suggested that we get a book about marine biologists, preferably with lots of pictures, and we set off to the check out desk to find the first of many marine biology books that we would bond over in the coming months.

In time, I would share in the grimy truth of Rachel’s home life, her incredible challenges and mourn her ultimate decision to fail that year of school and to terminate our mentoring relationship.

I learned far more from her than she learned from me, but she inspired me to help create a much better program than the one I had joined. I think of Rachel often, and her face is the one before me when I give speeches and presentations about mentoring and the difference it can make in young people’s lives.

“Blessings always, sweet Rachel.”

Kali’ P. Rourke is an avid volunteer in Austin, Texas and leads the board of the Seedling Foundation, which mentors children with incarcerated parents through a site based program called “Seedling’s Promise.” Seedling Foundation partners with the Austin Independent School District in positively affecting thousands of school children each year. Learn more at http://www.seedlingfoundation.net/images/stories/seedlingvideoicon.jpg and
 http://kalipr.wordpress.com/2011/08/26/58-a-promise-kept/