Ghosts Of Christmas Past

I remember long ago...staring at the starry night sky in wide-eyed wonder... waiting for a Santa sighting. My little sister curled beside me. We listened intently for the sound of reindeer hooves on our rooftop or the jingle of distant sleigh bells. Time inched forward on those endless Christmas Eves.

Always by 4:00 a.m. - My sister's squeals would wake me. (And sometimes, I'm not ashamed to say, I woke her.) I remember the patter of our feet on the wooden floor as we raced to our parent's bedside. Momma and Daddy tried to stifle our frantic breathless whispers... our pleas for quick action to the tree... There magical gifts of all shapes and sizes awaited our presence.

As children, we never failed to be entranced by Christmas mornings. The surprises, the joy, the explosion of wrapping paper and bows.

I remember long ago... the holiday gatherings at my Grandmother's house. The air thick with wonderful smells and the kitchen bustling with busy hands. We crowded around the ancient dining table, bright eyes and smiles. I took for granted back then that we would always be together... I never thought life would separate us with a thousand miles or that death would snatch away any of my loved ones.

Shiny tinsel, blinking lights, and the pungent odor of real pine trees. Eggnog and fudge and cornbread dressing. Red velvet cake and ambrosia salad. Candy canes carefully hung on the small silver tree in my Grandmother's living room. My Grandfather's red flannel Christmas shirt and green bowtie and mistletoe over the doorways. Silent Night and Jingle Bells and Away In A Manger. Sweet Baby Jesus always a mystery.

Sparkling memories litter my mind and call me back to a distant time gone by. Sweet ghosts of Christmas past.

Learning To Heal

I was set on a path to healing
by a licensed stranger.

Analyzing bits and pieces
of myself
While peeling apart the layers of terror
and naming
each finger of Fear.

He listened intently
to my rambling thoughts,
pausing occasionally
to offer tissues
and soft words of encouragement.

I trembled
with the desire
to be understood
and repaired.

My words falling
from quivering lips...
absorbed into the space between us,
his chair and my couch.

I was given assignments
to help find the pieces
of myself
scattered so randomly
by the hurricane winds
of Fear.

I searched frantically
for the parts of me
I once knew
and thought would always be.

In the long, still nights
I armored myself
with the words of David
and promises from God.
I rebuked the Fear outloud
and called her by name.

We danced a new waltz
and sometimes I led...
and sometimes Fear led me.
... But not as often.

I learned to breathe
and sort the rocking chaos
of my mind.

On shaking legs
I walked into bustling stores
and crowded malls.

I sat alone
in empty silence
and learned to be content.

I placed myself
in rooms full of people,
memorizing exits and doorways
... and quick escapes.

Often Fear soared
to a fevered pitch
but I swallowed her down
and buried her
deep behind my desire to heal.

I endured whenever I could
and claimed each victory
over Fear...
no matter how small.

Often I walked blindly,
my hands and arms outstretched before me
grasping for Hope.

I gathered the remainder
of my broken pieces
and like a child
re-assembled the puzzle
from memory...
of what I use to be.

Bonded into a new pattern,
made to fit again...
I am held together
by Hope Eternal.

Break Down

Fear found me
on a sunny spring day...

I was caught by surprise
as her bony fingers snaked
around my neck.

We wrestled
for control of my mind
and thoughts...
and the independence
I had once known.

In a strangle-hold
my knees grew weak
and the Self
I use to be
withered
and slowly began to die.

The world spins differently
and tilts
at odd angles
when Fear is in control.

Breathing is too hard
to bear...
my heart races a rhythm
I cannot slow.

Sleep escapes me,
floating just beyond
my grasp.

I hear echoes
in the silence
of the endless nights...
Whispers of doubt and panic
plague the edges
of my slippery
sanity.

I sweat and freeze
simultaneously.

I am at a loss
to save myself
from the darkness
that surrounds me.

I am a trapeze artist
without a safety net
swinging wildly
from perch to perch.

My body forsakes me
at all hours
with tears and trembling
and thoughts of doom
that paralyze me.

I am held hostage
by an unseen enemy.
My husband, my family,
my friends...
unable to find
the ransom
for my soul.

Echoes

A large, dusty plastic storage bin is wedged into the corner of our spare closet. It rests in the company of old prom dresses, a cardboard box collection, and stuffed teddy bears. To the casual observer, it may seem quite unimportant and disposable. To me, it is a storehouse of precious memories.

Inside this unglamorous container, there sits an old antique pair of eyeglasses. They belonged to my grandmother and I can't recall a time that she wasn't wearing them. Although she has been gone for many years, her memory remains alive and strong.

Beside the glasses, there lies a plaque. My oldest daughter made it for me in preschool. Her small handprint is embedded in the center. The glittery gold paint is somewhat less shiny than it use to be. I had to hold out my hands and close my eyes - without peeking - to receive this gift. The plaque reminds me that in all of her adult ways, my daughter will always be that child to me.

Tossed inside the bin is a plastic sandwich bag. It contains the first lock of hair cut from the curly head of my youngest daughter. The texture is baby fine and the color has remained strawberry blonde. I still see the tiny face and bright blue eyes that she had back then. I remember her puckered lips and the way her small hands reached for me as that first piece of hair was trimmed from her bowed head.

A frayed black and white photo is taped to the lid of my storage bin. It's only subject is an eight year old girl with red hair and freckles. She seems to have burst into a radiant smile as her picture was taken. Even now, I can still see glimpses of this little girl whenever I look at my mother. She is aged and frail now. Her hair is no longer fiery red but her smile is the same. I owe a lot to the child in this picture....

There is an old, faded Bible in this box. The name on the front is engraved in gold and the pages are yellowed and torn. The first page is inscribed with this message: "A Good and Dear Book for a Good and Dear Boy. May you always seek it's Divine Guidance." The date recorded inside is Christmas 1946. The boy is my father and the book belongs to me now. It helps me to remember that my big, tall Papa was once a child... once upon a time.

Littering the bottom of the bin are countless trophies from my husband's little league days - promises that anything can be. I also have his very first pair of eyeglasses. They were possibly worn twice before he conveniently "lost" them. There is a candle he made in sixth grade and a chain necklace he gave to me when we were kids - long before we suspected growing old together.

Also hidden in my storage box is a picture of a little boy who is perhaps four at the time the photo was taken. He is dressed in a sailor suit and his hair has been carefully combed and his tiny shoes shine. His legs are crossed and he wears a heartbreaking smile on an angelic round face. My husband would burn this picture if it were discovered among my treasures. Our youngest daughter inherited the same smile.

There are layers of childhood snapshots and black and white memories. Faces that remain forever captured on film; their poses ageless. Wide smiles and dimpled toddler grins, beehive hairstyles and greased pompadours. Our grandparents as teenagers standing beside classic cars dressed in high school jackets. Our parents - long before my husband and I were even dreamed of - in poodle skirts and penny loafers, football jerseys and bobby socks.

All these echoes of the past are stolen pieces of time. They hold memories of where we come from, who we once were, and the lives we have grown from.

A Letter To Heaven...

When I was fifteen years old, my beloved grandmother passed away. During her years on earth, she fiercely loved us all and was the matriarch of our family. Grandma held us all together and made us better and stronger. She talked to God like he was her friend and prayed for me all of my life. I could not imagine a world without her in it. As Grandma slowly slipped away, my mother and aunt held her and comforted her and hovered by her bedside. I watched in horror as the reality of death stole her from us. I wrote this piece after Grandma died... imagining the sorrow of a daughter burying her mother.

******************************************************

When you left here, Mother,
did you feel my hand on yours?

Were you afraid to leave us?
Or was there warm light waiting for you?

Did you see God's face when you arrived... and...
were you escorted by angels
on the journey from our world to His?

Have you seen your loved ones, Mother?
Are they there with you?
Is the pain gone... and ...
are there tears there in Heaven?

Do you see us?
Can you know how we miss you still?

What is it like there, Mother?
Does it ever rain?
Are there rainbows?

Is the sun always shining?
Is there ever darkness?

Can you talk with Jesus face to face?
Can you touch His hands?

Is there music in Heaven, Mother?
What do souls look like?

Do you have wings... and ...
are there really pearly gates?

Have you seen the Book of Life?
Are there children in Heaven?

May you stand
before the throne
of Almighty God?

When you heard Him call your name,
did you pause to glance our way
one last time?
... Or, did you go swiftly ahead, Mother,
reaching for the Eternal Light,
the Maker whom you knew so well?

Papa

Did you know that we waited for you when it rained...our noses pressed firmly against the front window?

We watched for your car and listened for your footsteps, the booming voice that calmed the lightening and made us safe.

Did you know that small hands traced the pattern of your hair, etched into the worn leather headrest of your favorite chair?

Miniature feet practiced walking in your shoes...and we carefully placed them back afterwards, into the darkness of your closet.

Did you know back then, that your anger crushed us and that the cool smoothness of your belt on our skin made our throats taste bitter and hot? We cowered in the wake of your disppointment.

You were our very first dance partner... our feet carefully placed on top of your toes as we circled the living room... our eyes watching your every move.

Do you recall the feel of our hands in yours as we led you to early morning Christmas gifts, and small helpless winged birds, and crowns of dandelions?

Your arms held us high above the ground... safe from harm, and skinned knees, and bee stings. Your shoulders cushioned our sleeping heads.

Do you recall the moment, the day, the year.. when you walked beneath the weight of a load we did not understand and that you could no longer bear?

Sister Of Mine

My sister was born twenty three months after me.

She made her entrance into my life as a small, screaming bundle - presented to me with a smile by my parents. My earliest memory is seeing this baby nursing at my mother's chest and immediately sensing that my territory was in serious jeapordy.

For the next seventeen years of my life, that same baby girl would be my cross to bear. She was frustrating in her "little sister" ways and stuck to me like glue. We were the best of friends, we were the worst of enemies.

During our childhood, she made a good playmate - this sister of mine. We played house and baby dolls and all sorts of little girl games. We found mischief together. We climbed the tall trees in our front yard and pretended to be gymnists as we hung from its branches. We performed skits and magic shows for our parents.

She was my partner in a childhood full of memories.

We visited Florida's sunshine and coastline for the first time when she was four years old. The beach was like nothing we had ever known. An unfriendly flock of seagulls visited us there and stole my sister's socks. She was left screaming, ankle deep in salty water, beneath their winged escape. We collected small sand crabs in our water buckets and kept them overnight in the hotel bathtub. My sister and I woke during the night to hear the scraping, clawing sounds of crabs on porcelain. We spent the night holding hands in the darkness.

We shared many years of magical Christmases. We watched the dark, starry nights together - waiting for Santa's sleigh - listening for sounds of reindeer hooves. We endured the slow crawl to daylight for the moment when we could wake our parents and open the gifts beneath our tree.

We dyed Easter eggs, side by side, and then hunted them in the shade of our grandparents' back yard. We wore matching Easter dresses with oversized bows in our hair and smiled for family pictures.

We ate Thanksgiving turkey and played with our cousins as generations grew into the next.

Throughout all of my memories, I see my little sister. The child made up of my same blood - yet so different from me. She was pitifully thin, dark skinned, and loved being outdoors in the humid heat. I was a pale, chubby child - content with reading books and playing with baby dolls. She was hyper and fidgity. I was calm and quiet. We fought like cats and dogs.

She was, in those early days, a constant torment in my life. In every way, my sister's shadow followed me - from elementary school to my teenage years. She was there, always asking to play, always asking to follow, always wanting to participate. My sister never tired of tagging along.

I shared a bedroom with my sister until I was a teenager. Eternally, and by day, she was my forced playmate and often enemy. Occasionally at night, in the quiet of our room, her presence comforted me. Many times our late night giggles and squeals would bring our father to our room, his face set in grim determination to silence us. We were - sometimes - partners in crime...this sister of mine.

In my haste to lose her, I never quite realized when the echo of her footsteps disappeard from mine. They have been gone a long time.

Now, years after sisterly fights and shouting matches have ended, we are living on opposite sides of the country. A span of a thousand miles stretches between us and yet her image is as close as my next heartbeat.

Today we are connected through long distance phone calls, and cell phone pictures, and facebook. Several times a year we are inseperable. There are slumber parties and shopping binges, all night talks and endless stories of "remember when". We are together for what passes like an instant.

My sister and I have shared a lifetime of secrets and tragedies, triumphs and bitter failures. Together we have witnessed the miracle of life and the mystery of death. We have felt the touch of human tenderness and the brush of fate.

This sister of mine... Our lives were forever entwined, long before I knew how much I loved her...and before I knew that my story could never be written without her.

Letting Go...

As a mother, there is so much "letting go" to do... Some I have been ready for... eagerly anticipating... Other times, the "letting go" has felt like a scab being slowly torn away from a large wound.

I remember "letting go" when my oldest daughter started kindergarten. For weeks we had encouraged her, described the classroom, ensured her that the teacher would be kind and would help her to learn many things. We bought fat crayons and safety scissors and a Barbie lunch box. We picked out her first outfit a week in advance. "Big sisters go to school. You will have so much fun", we told her.

I tried to remember all of the reasons why kindergarten is important. I wanted to recall the necessity of such an act but simply could not on that first day of school. Holding her tiny hand in mine, we walked down the large white hallway together. It smelled faintly of wooden pencils and chalk and Play Doh. The echo of laughter and "show and tell" activity bubbled around us.

We entered the classroom and were greeted with welcoming smiles and an eager young teacher. Pretty Miss Clark led my daughter away to hang her backpack. Her blonde ringlets and bright blue eyes faded into a sea of children. As I retreated down the cheery corrider - alone, an enormous lump found its way into my throat and the walls began to close in. I made it to the safety of my car before I broke down. Hot tears scorched my cheeks all the way home.

Now, so many years later... "letting go" still takes me back to that day. Her new classroom is her own life in a far away city. I still hold her hand until departure time. She humors me by letting me have that action. More for me now - than for her. She often pats me and tries to comfort me by telling ME not to cry. (Which I seem to always do in the circle of her arms during our last embrace.)

Even now, when I watch her leave, my heart lurches in my chest. Her curls and bright blue eyes are often enveloped by a busy airport or a departing vehicle. The sound of her laughter still echoes in the air - long after she is gone. There is no pretty, young teacher to keep her safe until she returns to us. Just a promise that she has told me many times over... "Mom, I am exactly where I am suppose to be...living my life and learning so many things about myself."

This particular letting go has not come easy to me yet...

Happy Anniversary, Baby.... Got You On My Mind!

Tomorrow, unbelievably, I will celebrate twenty six years of marriage with my husband. A man I have known since I was eleven years old. We have survived the blur of our teen years, the knock of hard times, scraping rock bottom, hidden joys, tremendous blessings, and the parenting of two grown children.

Where did all that time go? The sand in our hourglass. The moments racing by at lightening speed. Just yesterday we were young together... no worries, we had our youth, our life sprawled before us and we were... invincable. I don't recall much of my world before he was in it. If I close my eyes, it all comes back... the girl I use to be... and the boy who shares my story....

Every once in a while I can even catch a glimpse of that boy I use to know... He hides behind a few handsome laugh lines and sexy gray hair... and occasionally behind a pair of very distinguished-looking reading glasses. He stares back at me sometimes in the moonlight from our bedroom window and across Sunday dinners. I've seen him in darkened theatres and on Christmas mornings.

In fleeting moments, that remind me of all we are and all we have become, I get to see images of the boy I once knew. In deep sleep, his face peaceful, he surfaces. In the tilt of his head while playing guitar, his mouth set in grim concentration, the boy appears. He arrives at odd hours, in the middle of snowball fights and Wii games, in the heat of summer afternoons, and over bonfires late at night.

I see him... that boy... and I remember.

He was wild and fearless... and experienced in all the right things. He made me laugh, and made me shiver, and taught me to play frisbee. We sang songs and drank beer and he taught me how to smoke. (Me... the girl in the shadows... holding a cigarette between trembling fingers.) We slow-danced with no music, his touch burned my skin, and he gathered all my secret dreams and knotted them with his own.

The boy easily stole my heart... and, now, so many lifetimes later, we celebrate.

For first loves and old friends, from high school to middle age and beyond, for all the promises we've kept, and for all the struggles... For choosing each other over everything else... for believing that together is our only way to stand and for making a lifetime of memories.

Here's to forever and always!

Pieces Of Me...

I love music. Almost any kind... from gospel to country and everything in between. Music moves me and touches my soul. I have felt the stir of God in the beat of my music.

I love to read. I feel that something is missing in my life if I don't have at least four or five books waiting for me to pick them up. Books transcend space and time for me. I can lose myself in the words of an author.

I love to write. I always thought that I would write a novel someday. Something deeply personal and heartfelt, written under a pseudonym - just to be safe - in case people hated it. I've found, over the years, that I don't have the patience or the heart to author a novel - at least not yet. My mind and my words are better served in short bursts.

I am a self-proclaimed "purse-a-holic"... I crave handbags of all shapes, mostly in the color black. I am a sucker for fine leather or rich cloth on the outside, well-lined interiors, and silver hardware accents. Everywhere I go, in any city, or on any trip - I am drawn to the handbag department of every store, each mall, or shopping entity. It is a sickness. My reputation for this weakness is well-known by all who know anything about me.

I have a love affair with briefcases/work bags, Vera Bradley tote bags, and journals. (Apply words from above paragraph.)

I am a journal junkie. I carry one with me at all times. I can spend hours analyzing the benefits and drawbacks of journaling possibilities. I love my moleskines but I have a fondness for Fiorentina paper with leather covers. I need thick cream colored or ivory paper but it must be sturdy - preferably lined but squared may also work. I am always in search of the next greatest journal for my expanding collection.

I absolutely love office supplies, paper supplies, and writing supplies. I can spend hours looking at them, testing them, and pondering the purchase of them. I anguish over the perfect pen but it must always be red ink - broad point, please. (1.4 or 1.6 mm tip seems the best for me)

I love children and young adult books. I have a collection from when my girls were small. We read together until the pages of their favorite stories were withered and yellowed. These are now my treasures. Someday I will read them to my grandchildren.

Housework and laundry beckons now... More pieces another time.

Fri-Daze

It's 6:30 on Friday night and I just got home from the work day that almost never ended. My head hurts, my neck and shoulders are tight, and I have just breathed my first sigh of relief.

It started as a usual week day... hitting the snooze button for twenty minutes, struggling up from the warm embrace of my bed and the feel of deep peace. Prying my eyes open, I stepped in the shower and the day went immediately downhill. My razor broke, the water turned cold, and I was running late. (Have you ever tried to shave your legs with goose-bumps on them? Not a pleasant experience!) Somewhere between my clothes not fitting right (when did they shrink?) and my hair having its own agenda, I began to realize that today might not be all I had hoped for.
As I headed out the front door - some twenty minutes later than I should have - I caught a brief survey of my house. Dishes piled high, crumbs all over the counter, shoes scattered across the living room floor. Adding insult to injury, I realized that one of the dogs had eaten a pair of my hose AND left a gift by the back door. Could it get any better???

Let's try bumper to bumper traffic, lots of red lights, and stupid slow people who obviously had nowhere to go today!!!! (And, I am NOT on my period!)

Work did NOTHING to improve my disposition. Fearing that the entire day would be a wash, I half-heartedly made a promise to myself to "make this day better"... I forced a smile on my face while walking down my office hallway. (I pretended not to notice the pudgy image of myself in the window glass.) I paid no attention to annoying co-workers - in fact, I hummed quietly to myself, blocking out negative thoughts. I thought I might actually have a chance to overcome the bad start to my beloved Friday...

It was not to be. Crushing deadlines, staffing emergencies, grumpy bosses, and countless headache-inducing conversations later... I realized that I had no choice but to endure and count down the hours until it ended. The afternoon stretched into one long strip of frustration. Relief and happiness eluded me until 6:30...

Now, I'm home.

New Kid On The Block

For the first time in my life, I am blogging. Not sure of all the ins and outs yet - still learning. A long lost friend told me about it and here I am. Feels like being the new kid at school... Very unsure of myself with everyone watching. Wow - what pressure!