That infamous Hallmark holiday has come and gone once again. I must say that our 30th Valentine celebration was much different than what I had envisioned. I innocently imagined dinner and a movie... a big juicy steak... and possibly even a new Coach bag.
Instead, we spent the entire day in bed... and not in a romantic display of affection.
Rather pitifully, we declared our love on this day in hoarse voices as we wheezed and coughed and battled phlegm. We sneezed and blew our noses and consumed more liquid that what should be humanly possible. My valentine and I stared at each other longingly over steaming bowls of chicken noodle soup. We watched endless hours of t.v. - everything from Overhaulin' to Clean Sweep, to Diner, Drive-Ins, and Dives. Buried deep under blankets and pillows and layers of loose clothing, we curled into fetal positions and endured our aches and pains together.
My lingerie of choice was well-worn pajama pants and an old Fruit Of The Loom t-shirt. I wore not an ounce of makeup that normally transforms me into a presentable state. My hair was secured in a messy, knotted ponytail... the result of a day spent bouncing between chills and bouts of sweating.
How is it that my husband could still look so handsome with bed head and a five o'clock shadow? Comfy boxers and an old t-shirt were carefully paired with sport socks and his trusty Adidas flip flops. Pale and wearing dark under-eye circles, my true love was still endearing to me. (I can only hope he looks back and thinks the same of me.)
There was no dark theater this Valentine's Day - no buttery tub of popcorn. No decadent treats, sexy bubble baths, or sensuous massages. I could no more tempt my husband with physical rewards than I could go out in the garage and lift our truck above my head!
Instead, we settled for a day at home. A memorable blend of mumbled "I love you's", rattling chests, and mugs of hot chocolate. Hooray for true love - that conquers all... even viral bronchitis... in double doses!!!!!!
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Monday, December 28, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, December 4, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
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.
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?
******************************************************
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?
Monday, October 26, 2009
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?
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?
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