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.

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 13 – First Blood

by Caroline Ziel

“I ring the bell
So we can tell
The story of her passage”.

The incantation began.

Leelee was a thirteen year old young lady who had just started her “first blood”. Night was unfolding around us and our circle of women stood in the shadows of a cold Saturday evening. We had come to honor this passage. We were eleven women. Some of us had already passed into being crones. Others were still of childbearing age. She stood in our midst and we asked her: “Are you ready? Are you really ready?”

We wanted her to know in the cells of her being that monthly bleeding wasn’t just about cramps and tampons and the need for protected sex. It was about being fertile for all of life–it was about possiblities. One by one we reminded her who she was:

“Leelee, you are creative. Leelee, you are spunky. Leelee, you are helpful and kind and caring. You paint and dance with abandon.”

We wanted her to be firmly rooted in the splendid reality of who she is so that she can blossom into all that she can be.

l rang the bell again and asked her if she was ready to move into maidenhood. She said “yes” and her grandmother walked her out to prepare her for the passage.

Later, one by one, we asked her to remember: “Your body is an altar. Remember that it is sacred. How you live your life is an act of worship. Your words have power. Bring light into a world that sometimes seems dark. Be the light in your own world.”

We then made an arc for her to pass through. Our arms stretched across her and we joined hands, remembering pieces of our own journey into maidenhood, into womanhood, into cronehood.

Later that evening we pondered the importance of having community, of being community. It’s so easy to get lost in the demands of the day and to become isolated with life’s expectations. What Leelee helped us learn that night was not only that we need to honor our passages, but that we needed to continue to extend to each other the hand of remembering. We need to hold each other in the light and remember to be the light in our own lives. We need to remind ourselves that our own lives are sacred and to find a way to renew that awareness day by day.

Caroline has been a delighted member of SCN for three years, and a member of Writing Circle 6 for all of that time. She is a gardener, grandmother, and goddess centered woman who is grateful to have the support of this circle.

February 12 – Weaving Our Way Through Asperger’s Syndrome

by Margaret Stephenson

I try not to cry as I sit close to my son while he shivers and cries on the floor – he won’t let me hold him. In the room across the hall, my daughters continue with the archery class that he has been asked to leave. My heart hurts watching him feel so deeply about something he is incapable of at this point.

Braden wanted to try archery and I thought it would be a good way to add some balance to his computer time. Everyone is required to do an introductory class before enrolling – the coach said the class would be easy, as long as the kids can listen and focus. So, I figured, Braden is super at listening and focusing. No problem.

“Pick your bow, grab your arrows, pin up your target, put on your safety glove, find a finger grip, stand behind the blue line on two whistles, shoot your arrows on one whistle, pick up your arrows on three whistles,” says the coach. “If you cross the red line before you have heard three whistles, I will yell and pull you back by your shirt because this is a dangerous sport.”

We all listen. I watch Braden out of the corner of my eye. I see the signs. Covering his eyes with his hair, looking down, shifting around, complaining about the fit of his glove, not being able to put on his finger grip. I repeat the directions to him, slowly and calmly. He listens to me, but the coach says, “No mom – you can’t help him. He has to do it by himself. He needs to pay attention, stop being silly.”

He’s never silly, I think to myself.

“How old is he – isn’t he eight? An eight year old can do this,” the coach says.

“Watch what I’m doing and copy me,” I whisper to him. I know how much he wants this.

He says, “I can’t do it. The glove hurts. Where do I go. I don’t know what to do.”

I’m getting worried, his voice is getting higher – do I just quit now or do I let him keep trying? Will I be giving up on him if I suggest we just sit and watch the girls? I know he will freak out if I say we need to quit now. Sometimes there’s very little time between happily focused and overwhelm.

His body melts onto the archery room floor and the teacher barks that he is no longer welcome in the class.

He has Asperger’s Syndrome and I’m learning more each day about how to help him. He’s smart and capable of so many things that I’m often caught off guard by the things he has trouble with. By getting away from the computer, I was hoping for more balance in his life, but I realize we’re not out of balance because he loves to play computer games – we’re out of balance because other things are so hard for him.

Margaret is a mom to three wonderful kids in Austin, TX. They have been unschooling for six years and find it still so interesting and exciting that she has decided to to put her passion for alternative education together with her love of writing in a blog that she hopes “people will learn from and enjoy.”

January 15 – Kitchen Window Thoughts

by Laurinda Wheeler

This morning I caught myself, as I often do, staring out the kitchen window as I puttered my way around; washing dishes, putting things away and tidying the counters. My mind began to drift as I realized that what I was seeing is not my own, in many ways, nor is it what I wish to see.

I wish for the simpler times; simpler in ways that seem to justify the hard, back breaking, painful side that also fully encompassed that life. Worries and concerns that were, perhaps, life threatening, changing, but real. Work, a lot of it, that fostered true appreciation for what was had, held, cherished, consumed.

I think about how different, how special, beautiful and healthy this world could be if only things were just a little simpler, not to be confused with easier.

Later, as I walked down the street, a quick trip to the corner store, my mind was still challenging the world, weaving words together, thoughts I wanted to get out, when I began to take in the sounds of cars that were passing by; the whiiiirs of motors, the constant whispers, shelu, shelu, shelu, as tires tread through the muck of melting snow, the sudden blast of muffled music as a car speeds past.

And then, I was standing in the middle of an intersection, having been narrowly missed by a car that had mindlessly sped through the red light, as it came to a stop only two feet beside me.

The thoughts swirling around my mind cemented as truth.

The way that we are living should be different…

…it should be nothing like this!

Laurinda is a Stay at Home, Homeschooling Mom who is always trying to find time to write. She is also a contributor in SCN President, Pat LaPointe’s recent book, The Woman I’ve Become.

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.

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.

September 19 – Blanketed in Grace

by Sherrey Meyer

Grace means many things–a name, a note in music, a fluid movement in dance, the composition of artwork, forgiveness. Although many definitions exist for grace, my favorite is found in 2 Cor. 12:9 (The Message): “My grace is enough; it’s all you need. My strength comes into its own in your weakness.” David Reagan, pastor at Antioch Baptist Church in Knoxville, TN, says he likes to call this “God’s enoughness.”

In 2001, we moved my mother from Tennessee to Oregon in order to care for her. An unsafe nursing home situation mandated the move and gave her a greater sense of safety.

The most difficult part of caring for mother was the fact that ours had always been a strained relationship. Elements of verbal and emotional abuse comprised mother’s discipline with my brothers and me. Just before the move through a third party, I realized that Mother’s childhood had great bearing on her temperament. However, this didn’t diminish the pain or invisible scars.

Ten months after the move Mother was speaking less and spending more time sleeping. Communication became difficult. Although she was in an excellent facility and well cared for, I needed to know I was meeting her needs. One afternoon when I stopped by to collect her laundry, Mother seemed more awake than usual. A good time to try to get her to talk.

“Mom,” I said. “I’ve been wondering if all your needs are being met. If you don’t let me know, I can’t be certain everything is going as it should.”

An almost imperceptible nod and she softly responded, “Everything is just fine. You have done everything just right.” A slight smile and closing eyes let me know she was finished.

My heart pounding, I picked up the laundry bag and made my way to the door. I could hardly see through my tears. Here I was 57 years old, walking through the rain to my car crying over just a few words. All I had ever wanted to hear from her were words of love, approval and affirmation. Not once in my life could I remember hearing favorable words. And now, she had affirmed me as having done a good job caring for her over such a short period of time!

After I got in the car, I just sat there, processing what had just happened. Suddenly I felt awash in a diaphanous mist of comfort and healing, like a blanket wrapped around me on a cool night. Although my memories from childhood would always linger in the background, my heart was soaring with abandon in this recognition of love and approval. Our history together had not been mentioned in the past 10 months — the hurts we had inflicted, the pain felt by flying words and hands, no apologies, no mention of forgiveness.

Nothing other than grace could have brought this extraordinary exchange into play. Grace had the power to make it happen, and on that day grace was complete in its “enoughness.”

Sherrey Meyer is a wife, mom, grandma and great-grandma living in Portland, OR, with her husband, Bob. She is avid about books, needlework of all kinds, and writing. Currently, Sherrey is working on a memoir.

September 11 – Remembering 9-11

by Cathy Scibelli

It seems like yesterday I was sitting at my desk working on a research paper for a grad program when my husband Joe called me from his office in lower Manhattan.

“A plane just hit the World Trade Center.”

That simple statement began a day that is etched into my brain, my heart and my soul.

Hours of frantic phone calls to family and friends, the endless waiting to hear if loved ones were safe. Horrific images of smoke and fire, faces frozen with terror, bodies covered in soot. The immense relief of reunions as loved ones arrived home, and the gut wrenching sorrow at the news of those who would never return–the childhood friends, the members of our brother-in-law’s fire company, neighbors from my old hometown.

Life changed. Security checks became routine. We got accustomed to seeing soldiers on our streets and in our train and subway stations. Each morning’s partings took on new meaning and our cell phone batteries got a workout as we kept closer in touch. When a plane flies low overhead these days, we involuntarily look up and still find ourselves catching our breath for just a moment.

We Will Never Forget:

2,606 lost in the World Trade Center
125 lost in the Pentagon
40 lost in Pennsylvania aboard Flight 93

343 FDNY Firefighters
23 NYPD Officers
37 Port Authority Police Officers

Cathy Scibelli lives on Long Island and attempts to stay positive and maintain a sense of humor when writing about her life as a survivor of many crises, including a late stage breast cancer.

“Pat, Mike is Dead”

by Patricia Roop Hollinger

I heard these words uttered by Michael’s father, May 3, 2009. My chest imploded as though someone had just thrown a brick at it. His Dad found him sitting in his lounge chair, remote in hand and “Leah”, his cat on his lap. Mike had not shown up for breakfast that morning with his father and stepmother since a recent move to South Carolina.

Chronic pain had plagued him for years. Surgery was unsuccessful in relieving this pain. Workmen’s Compensation became a nightmare to obtain which only increased emotional pain and angst. He became addicted to his pain medications.

The move to South Carolina was one last effort to begin anew. His marriage had ended in a mutual divorce as the never-ending pain was more than the marriage could endure. He withdrew from all medications and any other substances that he may have been using.

Christmas 2008 he spent a week with me and his friends. Michael was “back” again. Vibrant, energetic and hopeful about a new beginning in spite of chronic pain that was being managed with less addictive medications.

Michael came into the world 2 months before he was due. Weighing in at 4 lbs. 4 oz. Amazingly, he not only survived, but he thrived. His second grade teacher told me he was college material. On his 6th birthday he came to the breakfast table with a book crying, “Mommy, I can’t read yet.” I suppose I had told him that he would learn to read when he was age 6.

Michael excelled at any task he chose to pursue. But…drums became his passion. However, the dream of “making it” never materialized. Enlistment in the army where he became an MP eventually led to police work in civilian life. The murder of a close friend contributed to this career choice.

He tried to make sense of life in the midst of senselessness that abounded in the world around him. Zen Buddhism brought him the peace he was seeking. He asked me to spread his ashes at a Zendo he attended in the Catskills of New York if he ever died before I did. This wish was carried out August 8, 2009 when the O BON is held annually for deceased loved ones.

A week prior to Michael’s death I spotted an owl on a wooded lot where I lived at the time. An owl had never appeared in the front of the house prior or did it after his death. I learned that in the Native American tradition the owl is the “angel of death.” In Michael’s personal effects I discovered his astrological chart from Native American tradition. His totem was an owl. I knew at the time the sighting was significant. Was it ever!

I miss him! I am relieved that he is free of pain. I miss him! Mike, I want to hear you say, “Hi, Mom!”

Patricia Roop Hollinger is a retired Chaplain/Pastoral Counselor/Licensed Clinical Professional Counselor after practicing 23 years in an inpatient and outpatient hospital setting. She is becoming a freelance writer. She married her high school heart-throb October 2010. They enjoy life in a Retirement community setting.