P is for Every Picture Tells a Story

Hello Friends,
Today’s post is a bit personal. Please be kind.
Love,
S

 

Every Picture Tells a Story

Peaches have grown in California since settlers brought them to the region over dry creek beds, vast mountain ranges, and roaring rivers. With names like Arctic Supreme, Fay Elberta, Forty Niner, Redwing, and Somerset, the dreams and joys of many people are wrapped up in the notion of a peach. Sweet, sticky, juicy and maybe most important of all, fleeting; the peach can transport, enrich, and deepen one’s experience of summer.

The peach is a member of the rose family. Peaches and roses. With all things sweet, there are thorns and trade offs. I learned about trade offs in the summer of my seventh year. My mother had just moved us back to California. We were living in Auburn as if it was a way station, a stop along the way, after her heroine addict husband died in a car wreck in Wyoming during a snowstorm. Now that he was gone she could get my two young brothers back from the foster home she had put them in shortly after marrying him.

Auburn was a place where we regrouped and learned again to be a family. I shared a bedroom with my two brothers for many years after that. I may have said from time to time that I wanted my own bedroom but sleeping in the same room with them felt safe. I could listen to them breathe, deep sleepy breaths, labored at times over some bad dream, but other dreams would take their place and restore that soft breathing which reminded me that we were all together and safe.

Anne Marie looked like Shirley Temple in the movie Bright Eyes and she was my best friend. Because she was my best and only friend, she held a preeminent place in my life. Her mother, Marta, was good friends with my mother and so there were many opportunities for us to get together and play. We created imaginative lives full of rich stories of redemption and reward. Every story featured a heroine who was wronged at first but in the end always ended up with all the riches both symbolic and tangible.

One day we were left with a teenage boy to be looked after while our mothers picked up their welfare checks and took care of errands. The house they dropped us at had many windows and a little dog. As the dog yipped and snapped at our ankles our mothers drove away in someone’s borrowed car. The boy let us go through his music albums and we chose what we wanted to listen to. The sun streamed in through large many paned windows across the floral couch and sparkling glass-topped table. We lay on the cream-colored plush rug digging our toes into the long soft fibers with our long tangled hair splayed out around us like one of those drawings of the sun with many long rays spilling out all around, listening to Rod Stewart wail about Maggie May. We listened to the song over and over, singing along as the morning lazily turned to early afternoon.

He made us lunch and we sat at a small table in what can only be described as a breakfast room. Surrounded on three sides by floor to ceiling windows, a delicately woven floral rug covered the blond wood floor underneath our feet. He placed before us a cheese and bologna sandwich and a peach. As I ate my sandwich I could smell the juicy, almost cloyingly sweet peach. The colors of the peach were only heightened by light pouring through the windows. I don’t know if I had ever had a peach before, but this peach was like no other; juice dripping down my wrists and chin. Soft and tender flesh tinged rose with summer kissed color. Sweet, rich with flavor; this peach was a song and a summer day all wrapped up in one luscious bite.

You lured me away from home cause you didn’t want to be alone
You stole my heart I couldn’t leave you if I tried

As we listened to Rod explain to us what grown up life was like, as we sang along while finishing this amazing peach; I had a new awareness of my place in the world. I knew in that moment that I would never, ever, have another peach like that one. That very peach I was greedily devouring was the best peach of all. A sunny day with my best friend in a beautiful home where we could lounge on clean floors listening to a boy sing about his broken heart I knew this was one of those moments. Those moments when time stops and you see yourself experiencing something profound and fleeting.

About six months later, by the side of the freeway, Anne Marie was held for the last time in her mother’s sobbing arms as the last drops of life drained out of her. When the car crossed the median and crashed into another vehicle traveling south Anne Marie was flung through the windshield to land far off on the bank of the freeway.

By that time my mother had moved us to an old miner’s log cabin in the Sierras. We moved in with her nineteen year old boyfriend who had found this new home for us. We brought with us twelve baby chicks all of whom died within a week of moving there. The winters are cold and the drafts that swept under the doors and through the cracked windows were inhospitable to most life.

N is for New Experiences

Hello Friends,

Have you tried something new lately? Have you stepped out of your comfort zone and tried a new food? A new vacation spot? A new date? Hell, a new kind of face lotion? I struggle with trying new things and as I get older I am finding it a bit harder. Not in the way one might think though.

I think I have gotten more open to new ideas, but I am exposed to fewer opportunities to jump in. Does that make sense? As one gets older it seems one’s sphere can also narrow. Not a good thing.

So, I have decided to update my life list with this:

EXPAND MY WORLD.

How do you expand your world? How do you find new opportunities to do new things?
I would love to hear your thoughts on this, really.

Love,
S

L is for Loss

Hello Friends,

Choosing loss as my topic for this post was easy. Sitting down to write about loss is a wholly uncomfortable prospect. I sit here, looking out my window watching the gold finches and American blue birds flit through our oak trees, landing in the bird bath to splash water all over the baby tears growing beneath and I cry my own tears.

Loss.

Who amongst us has not experienced loss? Who has not felt that punch to the gut, to the heart, to the soul that loss delivers to us no holds barred?

Loss.

I don’t even need to think about it to know what losses are there. Loss is a catalog of pain and heartbreak. We all have a list written in invisible ink on a scrap of paper we carry around in our chest pockets. The slightest little whiff of memory can send tears down on that scrap exposing our list of losses. Exposing for all to see that we are brought low in pain with our loss.

Loss leaves us heavy on the floor. Deeply connected to the earth. I can feel my connection in the world, to the world, to the earth and all its inhabitants through my loss. No one is immune. No one gets out of jail free around here.

Loss.

I had a brother. He was fifteen when he hung himself in my mother’s garage on a snowy morning just three days away from Valentine’s Day.

Loss.

I was twenty-one at the time with a newborn baby. At the funeral my family was trying to keep it together. We were stoic. Waspy as ever. Standing tall in our going-to-church clothes. I held my newborn baby girl in my arms. I could bury my face in her blanket as I hid my tears. It was embarrassing to cry in public and it certainly was not the thing to do.
The church was filled with family and friends. Many of whom were friends with my brother. It felt like everyone’s eyes were on us and it was hard to stay controlled.

As the service began, my sweet baby girl, Chloe, started crying. Her fussiness led to wails. I tried to calm her, but she would not calm. I tried to soothe her, but she would not be soothed. My discomfort, my sorrow, my inability to soothe my baby or myself was becoming overwhelming when my step-father leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Let her cry Sara. Let her cry.”

She wailed. She cried. She sobbed.

Her little lungs filled with the sad air all around us and she spoke for all of us with each wail. What we could not share publicly, she did for us. Chloe was our talisman. Our mouthpiece. As she sobbed and wailed, we all silently sobbed and wailed with her.

Loss.

Love,

S

Effort is its Own Reward

Hello Friends,

Here is something to ponder:

Jonathan Litchfield

via Mystic Mamma

“Effort is its own reward.

We are here to do.

And through doing to learn;

and through learning to know;

and through knowing to experience wonder;

and through wonder to attain wisdom;

and through wisdom to find simplicity;

and through simplicity to give attention;

and through attention

to see what needs to be done…”

~Ben Hei Hei Pirke Avot 5:27

I got this from a website called, Mystic Mamma. Please visit if you are so inclined.

Effort is for its own reward, don’t you think? I know that I struggle all the time to make the effort. We all want the pay off. We all want the results, but that isn’t how it works. It isn’t about the destination, it is about the journey. It is about all the stops along the way of our life. It is all about the road and yes, where it takes us. But it is also totally about how we get there.

I have travailed so much glorious territory to get here.

Here.

Now.

It may not always look like effort in hindsight. But honestly, I think it is. I think we all move ourselves in directions we need to go. And sometimes that direction is unclear, in the moment. But then, later, looking back it is crystal clear. Ah yes. That is why I am here.

Here is where I need to be.

Love,

S

 

Writer

Hello Friends,

So the word this week over at Lisa Jo Baker is WRITER. So here goes.

I think it is funny how much power the word writer had for me just a few short months ago. For years I have wanted to be a writer. I have stories floating around in my head that I need to write or they need to be written. I feel like a vehicle or a surrogate mother for these stories. But I struggle with labeling myself a writer. I fought these stories for years. Put them out of my head. Set them aside. Downplayed and dismissed them. For over thirty ears I have wanted to write and I have done everything I can to avoid it thinking that I am not a writer. How could I possibly write when I am not a writer.

Then a few months ago I came across a book I must have bought over two decades ago back when I was earning my bachelor’s degree. It was a book about being a writer. In this book the author explains the difference between a writer and an author. That was my aha! moment. I may not be an author yet, but I can certainly call myself a writer.

So, now I call myself a writer and in just the naming of the thing. Guess what? I write now. I write and write and write and I have never been so clear. The stories are there somehow and they are starting to take shape and form  paragraphs and moments and places and people and dialogue and action.

I am a writer.

Love,

S

Lisa Jo Baker has an interesting task every Friday. She calls it Five Minute Friday and it is a writing exercise posited around a particular prompt. You write to the prompt for a total of five minutes, uninterrupted, unedited, and then you link your writing to her site. As well, you go back and read two entries and comment on them.
She has, in effect, created a writer’s workshop. I love this and find it fun to participate in whether or not I had a blog. It is about the writing after all.

Mighty

Hello Friends,

Mighty.

I want to be mighty.

I want to be mighty with my love.

I want love to be my sword, love to be my shield, love to be my strength.

I am not a religious person in the typical sense. I do not currently go to church. I do not pray. But I do believe. I believe in the mighty power of love. When we do anything, with love, we are where we need to be.

When I operate from a place of love, even when negotiating a deal or teaching middle school kids, or making dinner, or paying bills, I am creating greatness and goodness in this place we walk through. To be mighty is to be merciful. To be merciful is to use love. I want to be merciful in all the things I do. I want to be merciful with all I come across. I want to be merciful.

So I choose love as my cape. I choose love as my ammunition and with it I am mighty. For it is in the moments of mercy that I am my strongest. I am my mightiest when I operate with compassion and love and mercy.

Mighty.

Lisa Jo Baker has an interesting task every Friday. She calls it Five Minute Friday and it is a writing exercise posited around a particular prompt. You write to the prompt for a total of five minutes, uninterrupted, unedited, and then you link your writing to her site. As well, you go back and read two entries and comment on them.
She has, in effect, created a writer’s workshop. I love this and find it fun to participate in whether or not I had a blog. It is about the writing after all.

 

Love,

S