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 18 – Trouble in Paradise

by Carol Ziel

He gave me an evil eye and swished his bushy tail.  Eyeball to eyeball we squared off as he raised one succulent tulip bulb to me.  He seemed to be having a “Bogart” moment, saying: “Here’s looking at you, Kid!” He chomped once and tossed the remains into the quince bush. He’d made his point about whose garden it really was.  Squirrels have nibbled on tomatoes, gnawed on corn and shredded lettuce. However, they are not the only demons in my piece of paradise.

Let’s talk birds. Last spring I planted broccoli and onion sets–several times. I’d tuck their sweet little roots in at dusk. By early morning their carcasses were laid out end to end. All they needed was a funeral dirge and some tiny caskets. Personally, I was blaming the squirrels. Although this modus operandi was more delicate, the destruction was equally devastating. I already knew what they were capable of. However, the true “perps” were exposed at dawn one day.

I was luxuriating with a steaming cup of dark roast on the deck. My feet were propped up on cushions and I was having one of those nature-bonding moments that can happen in late spring. While meditating on a sky that was as pink as if it had been smeared with strawberry jam, I was distracted by action in a raised bed. Dirt was flying like confetti on New Year’s Eve. It was a robin. I assumed it was looking for worms but this was one of those lasagna gardens with newspaper on the ground and layers of sterile organic goodies. There would be no worms.

“Do you hear me, Robin? There are no worms!”

It continued to toss seedlings. Perhaps it was only interested in an easier, softer way to dig, even though there could be no fruits for its labor.

I switched to beet and radish seeds and by the time they had stems and leaves the robin had lost interest, wizened up, or otherwise moved on. It was an excellent beet and radish year.

Spring warmed up into summer and the season became curiouser and curiouser. A Black Knight butterfly bush sprung up in the middle of my front garden lilies. Moonwalker and saw-toothed sunflowers popped up in front of the tomatoes and next to the sidewalk. Multi-branched they climbed to 16 feet. The stalks were as thick as a quarter and echoed the tale of Jack and the Bean stalk. Sturdy yellow blossoms moved with the sun as it crossed the summer sky. Two hardy tomato plants miraculously appeared in the middle of a tub of geraniums.  They just might blossom before Halloween.

I’m sure the squirrels and the birds were responsible in some way. Whether they were making deliberate amends or continuing to stake a personal claim in my garden, the result was magical. This tug of war with nature is partly why I garden. The interplay between my vision and nature’s “will” creates my personal paradise.

Carol is a sixty-four-and-a-half year old gardener, grandmother, poet and writer, goddess-centered ritual creator and social worker. She has been a member of Story Circle Network for three years and feels like she has been born again.

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.

July 31 – Tuesday, 7/31/2012

by Cecily Mahoney

Today was a typical day. I started out checking, feeding the dogs, letting them out and in, out and in. (4 dogs, 2 leashes) While they were taking turns I dressed for work and prepared breakfast for the old fart and I. Oatmeal can only be dressed up so many ways, but a former heart attack patient eats what he’s told to eat, most of the time.

Breakfast is easiest.

As I get on the freeway for work I thank God again for the DOT repaving the freeway so the speed bumps we were hitting at 60 MPH are gone. It may only last a season, but it’s nice for now.

I get into work 35 minutes later, in spite of the mini traffic jam in front of the university, where they are building new dorms.

I promptly start checking for transportation requests from the providers for their elderly riders, and making sure my staff has the copies they need. I spend most of the day rechecking for the faxes as they come in, checking off what is completed and doing the work for the staff member absent.

Just as I get things ready to close down, I get the bi-weekly call from my daughter asking for enough money to get her through another two weeks. If that husband of hers could get work this wouldn’t be an issue, but now that they check credit scores for something as stupid as a stock boy job at the local grocery, there is no hope he’ll ever find work. I keep hoping that he won’t have to become the eternal student to become a graphic designer, but, he needs student loans to get the degree and they mess up a credit score big time. He is a good father and house-husband, but I wish he could find a job even part-time just to help out. As long as he’s out of work, I have to keep working to keep them out of the poor house (or my house). I want to retire.

I dream of writing a series of stories that get published monthly, that pay me monthly, and that people can’t wait to read. I dream of finally mastering the banjo, so I can play for my friends when they ask. Last but not least, I dream of my daughter being self-sufficient, raising her 3 kids without financial assistance from me, and having a loving husband that works also. I want to retire to the cabin in Southeastern Ohio, raise a few chickens, and not have an alarm clock. The chickens will NOT have a rooster. (They lay eggs with or without a rooster I’ve been told.)

That’s it for today. Tomorrow is Saturday, and we’re going to an Amish School auction. They’re fun, the food is good, and we can never afford what we want to buy. But bidding is fun. If I do buy something, I’ll write another addition to the blog. Cecily

Cecily works at a non-profit as a Medicaid specialist, Transportation Supervisor and all-purpose, know-it-all, supervisor keeping an eye on ten competent adults who check in with her periodically regarding the work they do. At home she is wife to the old fart, mother of one, grandmother of three and caretaker for four young and expressive dogs.

July 30 – If Only Dad Knew…

by Pat LaPointe

When I was born on this day in 1949, my father was in freight traffic school and this was the day of his final exam. Every year on my birthday he would call me or I’d call him in later years and I would have to ask one question: “Was it 98 degrees that day and you got a 100 on your test or was it 100 degrees and you got a 98 on your test?” He never gave the same answer each year. But we’d both get a good laugh. Before he suffered from dementia, if I called him, Mom would answer and say “Hold on I’ll get him”. When the dementia worsened and he could barely remember my name let alone our little game, Mom and I would continue to talk about past years, wondering if we’d ever have the answer to that question.

Dad has been gone for a little over a year now. It’s been about 6 years since he understood my question. I still wake up on my birthday and think of our little game. Mom has been gone for nearly four years now and there is no one to share this with.

Today I realized that I could probably get the weather report somewhere online. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. As it turns out it, if I had checked, the mystery would have been solved. The report I found listed 93 degrees as the highest temperature that day. I wish Dad was here so I could tell him it is likely that, considering it was 93 degrees, he must have got a 100 on his test!

Pat is currently the President of SCN and has recently published an anthology: The Woman I’ve Become: 27 Women Share Their Jurneys From Toxic Relationships to Self Empowerment. She is also the editor of a monthly online newsletter for women: Changes In Life.

July 29 – Thank You, Story Circle Network

by Linda Hoye

I had received a text message earlier in the day letting me know that a package had been delivered to my home. When I left my office at the end of the day excitement took hold. I couldn’t wait to get home, open up that package, and hold the contents in my hand.

Five years earlier my husband and I had moved from our home in Canada to a community just south of Seattle. For two and a half years I had commuted from Canada to the Seattle area for my job; two weeks at home, two weeks away from home. Living with one foot in each place was hard and ultimately we chose to move to the Pacific Northwest.

I felt lost for a while after the move. I missed friends and family, and my husband worked on weekends leaving me alone and lonely. With the extra time on my hands, I decided it was time to start writing again and I started a blog with the vague notion of writing about things I wanted my children to know about my life. Before too long I connected with other like-minded blogging women and on one of my journeys out-and-about in the blogosphere I came across a link to an organization called the Story Circle Network.

I decided to become a member. I joined an online writing circle where I began sharing my writing with others and I took some classes where I received feedback and learned new writing techniques. Over the years I got to know many of the members of Story Circle Network virtually and was thrilled to have the opportunity to attend my first Stories from the Heart conference—and to facilitate a panel discussion on blogging—in 2008.  Meeting women I had come to know online, and others I met for the first time at the conference, was like coming home. I felt like I had found my tribe.

Fast forward to a May afternoon in 2012 and I’m on my way home from work looking forward to opening a package containing the first proof copy of my memoir.

Story Circle Network opened up a world of opportunity for me. It helped me access the tenacity necessary to put my butt-in-chair long enough to finish writing the book. The friendships I’ve formed, the encouragement I’ve received, the things I’ve learned, have all contributed to me being able to see my book in print.

Today, I’m proud to serve as a Story Circle Network board member, an editor for Story Circle Book Reviews, coordinator for the group’s One Woman’s Day blog, and I facilitate a local Story Circle near where I live.

I’m also a published author and the acknowledgment section of my book credits Story Circle Network with being instrumental in helping me find my voice so I could write my story.

Linda Hoye is a writer, editor, adoptee, and somewhat-fanatical grandma. Her work has appeared in an assortment of publications in Canada and the US and in 2009 her piece, The Face in the Mirror, won second prize in the Susan Wittig Albert LifeWriting Competition. She recently published her memoir, Two Hearts: An Adoptee’s Journey Through Grief to Gratitude. Hoye currently lives in the state of Washington with her husband and their two Yorkshire terriers. She is looking forward to retirement and moving closer to her children and grandchildren

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.