April 20 – Spring

by Ariela Zucker

Spring by far is my favorite season. Every year when the snow finally melts I can’t get over the magic of the first spring sprouts. It’s as powerful as God’s promise never to bring a second flood. Regardless of the craziness that engulfs us daily when even nature at times seems to lose its grip and lash at us humans with unremembered fury. When April rolls in, the days get longer, the ground gets softer, and the green erupts. Soft greens at the beginning dot the ground or appear as tiny buds on the trees until one morning everything is green.

My favorites are old friends I saw last fall and are now coming back. The Clematis who all through the winter looked like a dead twig springs new leaves and buds that will open into glorious purple flowers. The sweet pea in the corner sends tender, shy shoots that from experience I know will grow and grow relentlessly and if not stopped will cover walls and windows. In the wet ditch, bordering the road the nine cattails raise their brown heads and sway in the light breeze while next to them my pride and joy, the wild lilies I planted years ago start their journey that will yield my favorite orange blossoms.

It’s nothing less than a dazzling celebration. The colors of the new growth mingle with the loud music of the peepers. First, just a lone forerunner whose voice is heard at dusk from the wetland in the forest across the road but before long another one joins and another to create a deafening orchestra that salutes nature and will last all through the night reaching its crescendo shortly before dawn.

The cycle of life, perhaps a cliché, or maybe it holds an inner truth that we can adopt into our lives. Decline and death are but stages that interact with the spring bloom and the summer’s lush. It makes me feel good to know that the seeds I invested in the ground will forever become a part of this everlasting succession.

Ariela Zucker was born in Israel. She and her husband left sixteen years ago and now reside Ellsworth Maine where they run a Mom and Pop motel. She blogs at https://paperdragonme.wordpress.com/

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March 14 – Cooking for Passover

by Ariela Zucker

It is my mother’s cookbook that I kept after she passed away many years ago, so most of the recipes are hers. Every year I open it a few days before Passover and minutes later I am treading knee-deep in thoughts and images and even the smells of my childhood. I know from prior years that these entangled sensations, a neurological condition called synesthesia, is temporary and will pass after the holiday but for a brief period I let myself back into the land of memories.

The book’s hardcover is dull brown that is peeling in all four corners. When I open it, a stream of papers of all sizes and colors fall out and spread unevenly on the floor. Another thing I tend to forget is my habit to write recipes on random pieces of paper and tuck them inside the book, for a keepsake. The pages themselves stained from the years and the many times they were touched with oily or flower covered hands.

As I flip through the book, gently, so not to tear the pages that tend to stick to each other, I make it to the part marked Passover. I look at my mother’s angular handwriting and remember how the Hebrew letters, she adopted late in her life, never gained an easy flaw. I remember how she complained about it yet insisted on writing the recipes in Hebrew so I will be able to read them. In between, my handwriting, round and flawless, unlike her I drew a lot of satisfaction from the act of writing.

Passover flowerless cake, a family recipe my mother learned from her mother. Matzo dipped in chocolate, my favorite. Chicken soup with matzo balls, gefilte fish, brisket, compote, the list seems endless and with each recipe an image of the Seder table and the voices of people who are no longer alive mix with the loved flavors.

I look at the recipes and sigh. Like my daughters when they ask for a favorite recipe, I remember how I tried to follow the detailed instructions of the dishes just to fall short, time and time again. All my efforts did not produce the exact texture, or smell, or taste. I know that it will not happen this time around either, but that I will give it my best try.

Ariela Zucker was born in Israel. She and her husband left sixteen years ago and now reside Ellsworth Maine where they run a Mom and Pop motel. She blogs at https://paperdragonme.wordpress.com/

March 9 – Want to Think Young? Mentor!

by Kali’ Rourke

I am sure I echo many members of my generation who express the feeling, “I don’t feel as old as I am!” 

We look in the mirror and see the inevitable downward slide of gravity and the toll it takes, the wrinkles or fine lines that our frolics in the sun have left us as souvenirs, and sometimes we see the fatigue that lingers in eyes that have seen pain, sadness, and struggle. But when we look away from that mirror and assess ourselves, we are often shocked by the mismatch between the image we have seen and the way we feel inside. I don’t know about you, but I am enjoying that immensely!

I have found the secret to the fountain of youth and it may be available to you wherever you are and whatever you are doing. It is thinking young.

How do we think young? We stay open, flexible to new things and new thoughts, and we move our bodies and our minds as much as we can. But the very easiest thing you can do to keep thinking young is to keep communicating with young people. That’s the secret!

I have been mentoring for a long time with the Seedling Mentoring program in Austin, Texas, and after four years with my first mentee (her family eventually moved away), I am now mentoring a kindergartener and I have to tell you, every Wednesday with LC is a revelation. Her mind is like a little hamster wheel tossing off observations, creative ideas, and 6-year-old wisdom. This is a picture she recently drew of me with a Super Cape and “lots of bling” on my crown. Awesome, huh?

How can you ever feel old when you know someone sees you like this?

But you don’t have to mentor a six-year-old. Young people of all ages are thirsty for the attention, experience, and wisdom you can bring into their lives. Check around and see where you might be able to plug-in!

I have mentored two young women who are early in their very successful careers through a program called YWA Connect. It is a smart outreach of Austin’s Young Women’s Alliance, and I have made new friends and gained great perspective by getting involved. The secret? (Believe me, I still work on it!) is to listen far more than you speak and to hold space for these young people to process all of the input they are constantly bombarded by each and every day. You can perform a great service and benefit personally at the same time. It’s a true win-win situation.

Mentor On!

 

Kali’ Rourke is a wife, mother, writer, singer, volunteer, philanthropist, and a proud Mentor. She is a finalist in the 2018 Austin Under 40 Mentor of the Year Awards. (the only award they give to nominees OVER 40!) She blogs at Kali’s Musings and A Burning Journey – One Woman’s Experience with Burning Mouth Syndrome.

March 3 – Assembly Required

by Carol Ziel

Image courtesy of Ambro at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

I tried to brush the vanilla icing from my lip. It stuck. Or rather “they” stuck: a small colony of coarse white hairs had gathered at the corner. This burgeoning village of whiskers had joined the unicorn hair that sprung from between my eyebrows, and the straggly chinny-chin-chin hairs that could easily be braided into a ZZ TOP kind of look if left unattended. I used to hang on the sink watching my father shave. Never in my childhood fantasies did I contemplate having similar Gillette moments.

Now, even before I begin to shave, I must find my glasses. I have two pairs: not the cute little reading half glasses in funky colors from Walgreens, but serious nerd glasses–one for reading and the computer, and one for distance. Then there is my somewhat new hearing aid.

Finally, the “pad of the day.” I used to have a collection of shoes. My current collection is adult incontinence supplies. I used to buy one Victoria’s secret push up bra or matching panty each pay period. They came in glorious jewel tones. Now my undie drawer is packed with Fruit of the Loom and black sports bras. It would take more than the color black to make a sports bra sexy. And my breasts are no longer even in alignment.

The breast situation at least had an interesting story. I had to crawl my 70-year-old body through my locked truck’s back window to retrieve a key. While my breasts were wedged on the console, my butt was hanging out under a perfect blue sky, bent in an unflattering penitent position. Although I did retrieve the key, backing out was a problem of mythical proportions. Embarrassment gave me momentum. With a pop that was startlingly like a champagne cork, I flopped out. True, the key was in hand, but one breast hung further south than at the beginning of the adventure. Apparently, ligaments are not what they used to be either.

I long to jump out of bed, pulsing with the promise of the day. I miss the time when my breasts were perky and pristine, bladder snuggly in place, my eyes piercing and hearing sharp and when the only cane I owned belonged to a sexy Halloween tap dancing costume. I miss 4-inch heels and disco clubbing. I miss the time when my mail was more than AARP catalogues, Medicare supplement notices, and life insurance advertisements.

But most of all I miss a time when assembly was not required to start my day.

Carol has been an SCN member for six years and is grateful to be nurtured by such wonderful women writers. She is also a gardener, grandmother, social worker, Quaker and Goddess-centered woman who primarily writes poetry but is branching out into more essay types of writing. More to be revealed.

March 1 – It’s Winter Now

by Linda Hoye

Gerbera Daisy image by Linda Hoye

It’s winter now. On some days the snow falls like feathers, on others it glistens like diamonds in the late-winter sun. Today, the sun shines bright, tricking me into thinking it’s warmer out there than it really is. From the sanctuary of my woman cave, where the hum of the heater and the clicking of my camera shutter are the only sounds, I look out over the back yard where fairy dust glistens in the frigid afternoon air.

I’m shooting Gerbera daisies. Life’s been busy since I brought them home a few days ago and they’re starting to fade; I haven’t had an opportunity to capture any photos of them yet. Today’s the day.

As I work, this blog is in the back of my mind. I’m remembering another day, eight years ago in a different season and a different country, when a different me sat swaying in a lawn swing on a sultry summer afternoon reading the stories of women’s lives and a vision for One Woman’s Day was conceived.

I shift position and change camera settings and imagine women going about their day not knowing that everything will change before the sun goes down; and others, who will come to the end of it filled with gratitude and peace and an expectation for what comes next. I wonder which way it will turn out for me. I wonder if someone will write a story about this very day.

Somewhere, a woman is sitting at a desk, or curled up under a quilt, or sitting on a beach, playing with words and crafting the sweet complexity of her story—a generous gift for another who will be touched by the telling in the future. That’s what One Woman’s Day is all about.

Satisfied that I’ve taken enough photos for now, I return to my desk and pop the camera card into the slot in my laptop. While the photos are downloading I glance over at my second screen where One Woman’s Day is up and reach for my mouse. I scroll down the list of contributor names and think about the women I’ve had the privilege of meeting in real life, and others I’ve met only through their words that have touched my heart.

Images of Gerbera daisies come up on my main screen and, for now, I turn my attention to the story I’m telling there.

# # #

What an honour it has been for me to coordinate this space all these years. These stories have touched me and reminded me of all that we have in common, regardless of how different our lives appear on the outside.

Today I hand the One Woman’s Day Coordinator baton to Kali’ Rourke: grateful for her willingness, knowing she will add her own unique flair to this space. Please join me in giving Kali’ the warmest of welcomes.

Linda Hoye is on the other side of a twenty-five-year corporate career. A writer, photographer, gardener, and somewhat-fanatical grandma, she lives in Kamloops, British Columbia with her husband and their doted-upon Yorkshire Terrier. Find her online, where she posts a few words and a photograph early every morning, at http://www.lindahoye.com.

February 27 – Daily Stuff

by Ariela Zucker

6:00 am. Like every morning, I stand in front of the big kitchen window and wait for the water to boil. It takes about five minutes for the electric glass kettle to hum, then gurgle, then big bubbles explode against the glass, then quiet. In the meantime, I look at the neighboring houses below. It is still dark, but on the horizon, the sky turns light blue, and beyond the tree-line, faint orange and pink line can be noticed. I pour the hot water over the coffee in my glass, my special morning one and prepare a second cup for my husband, still asleep. Over my head, I can hear the dog’s footsteps on the second floor. In a few moments, he will tiptoe down the stairs and ask to go out.

The house is ninety-eight years old, older than any house I ever lived in. Every time I think of it, it makes me shiver a little and at the same time feel warm and safe. It’s a strong house, built with wood beams that do not exist anymore, by skilled builders who wanted the homes that they built to last for a long time. I like it that the second floor has its own entrance, and I can sit up there, and no one can see me. I like how the basement is wide and the ceilings high. The electricity lines, water lines, old telephone lines that are no longer in use, resemble a functioning body. The heart, I imagine is the huge furnace, or perhaps the electricity board.

The basement, more than any other part of the house, can tell stories about the past. There is a set of stairs being blocked now by the kitchen floor. Most old houses, I read somewhere used to have two sets of stairs. An official, wood carved one for anyone to see and admire and a second, plain and narrow, for the daily functions.

I look at the cobwebs in the corners. In moments of quiet, I think I can hear the spiders weave them, as I imagine I can hear the bushes outside try to find hidden cracks in the foundation and send in a branch, or two, to investigate. The snow melts outside and water trickle along the walls. In the spring small puddles form in the corners, then sucked into the cement floor and disappear.

To me, who grew up in another country, in a tiny apartment on the third floor of a faceless building this old house is an enchanting castle. I love how every occasionally, I still encounter signs of the people who lived here before us.
I am not from here. I will probably never be. But for a few minutes every morning when I stand by the window and wait for the water to boil I feel tranquil and grounded.

Ariela Zucker was born in Israel. She and her husband  left sixteen years ago and now reside Ellsworth Maine where they run a Mom and Pop motel. She blogs at https://papredragon2017.blogspot.ca/

February 18 – The Spirit of Wild Horses

by V.J. Knutson

We’ve come to the bluffs in hopes of seeing the wild horses. The day is crystal blue without a cloud in the sky. My heart is heavy.

It’s been nearly a week since I’ve heard from my friend Nadine, and I fear what that means. Dini has been fighting an aggressive form of cancer for nearly a year now. It’s our habit to connect everyday, either by text or Facebook. The last message I received said she was “Going to sleep.”

There is little I can do so far from home.

Coon’s Bluff is a strip of land with mountains on one side and a drop overlooking the Salt River on the other. Spotting the horses at the top of the mountain, I head that way, while Ric is drawn to the water.

The horses are magnificent and it feels like such a privilege to be here surrounded by the reds of the mountain, the green of the mesquite with their almost black trunks, the greys and caramel of the rocks cascading down to the blue-green river. From every direction I hear birdsong and I ready my camera, but the motivation is lacking. Today, I am more interested in just communing with nature.

How Dini would love this place.

I push my walker across the uneven ground towards Ric, who signals me to stop and turn. A mare and foal are paces behind, so I move behind a bush to let them pass. They pause a moment, emanating such gentleness, and then head down the steep slope to the water.

A parade of horses follows, among them another mare and foal, and an old grey, and then a stallion that neighs and stomps in agitation. I take the cue and move further off the path. He picks up pace and passes.

We watch in awe as the group crosses the river and disappears into the far woods, and then startle to the sound of rapid hoof beats and a streak of chestnut flashing by.

Two eagles soar into view.

“It’s so beautiful!” I find myself repeating.

Ric finds a place to sit and I move further along the bluffs to where a tree hangs out over the drop. Two little birds chase each other over the water and back, and a small head bobs in under the rock crevices. A Rock squirrel watches from its hiding place and I can’t help but line up the shots.

I just want to stay in this moment forever.

“My wife was bedridden for over two years,” I hear Ric saying, and reflect on how far I have come, not just in miles, but also in healing. My disease, while debilitating at times, doesn’t carry the same threat as cancer. I have been the lucky one.

The horses are back at the water’s edge and watching them I feel as a deep sense of calm and peace.

Life is mystery. It is beauty and sorrow and unapologetic. It just is.

(Nadine died this day. I will remember her with the wild horses.)

V.J.Knutson is a former educator, avid blogger, and grandmother. She and her husband are currently travelling cross-country in a 40 foot motor home. Originally from Ontario, Canada, V.J. hopes this journey will provide healing for her ME/CFS, or at the very least, inspire further creativity. Find her online at https://onewomansquest.org/.