Legacy of Words & Finding Hope

"Blogging Circle of Friends "
DAY 2097 August 16, 2018
size:5}" “Everyone must leave something behind when he dies, my grandfather said. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you're there." ~ Ray Bradbury
Do you agree or disagree? If so what will you leave behind?

Without question, I will leave my daughter my words.

I have, it seems, always been writing in my life but the moment my daughter became the seed in my soul, she also became my muse. I have written about the joy of expecting her delivery, the trials of being a new mother and struggling to find balance as a working mom. I have written about the incredibly vulnerability you feel bringing a life into the world and of the fierce and all-consuming love that makes you both terribly afraid and immeasurably happy all at once. I have written about my daughter's growth, about her amazing milestones, our battles and all those sweet moments that made my heart melt.

I continue to write about her, marking her years with all the insights I can about who she is and what she is like at her various stages and ages. Her aggravating love of slime is forever immortalized in my my blogs, as is the lovely character of her laughter and the summer she fell in love with horses. I try to capture all her burgeoning beauty, grace and personality that seems to come at a rapid fire pacing I feel I can barely keep up with. My hope is that one day she can read through all my entries, all my stories and blogs and see how I saw her at age 3, age 7, age 18...and that this might tell her something about herself, about the woman she has become and most importantly, about how she was the absolute world to the woman who raised her.

"Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise"
Day 1703 August 16, 2018
Prompt: Hope.
I had hope. It wasn't much hope but it was a little. Then it turned out to have a thousand pieces, Scattering it in all directions. Hope for the best, expect the worst. When is the last time you felt all hope was lost but things got better?

There have been many moments when I have felt hope scattered around me like so much broken glass. There were times when the darkness was so close to pulling me down that it seemed I could not draw enough breathe into my lungs to live another second for myself. Even in those moments, I must still have held onto hope because I did breathe. I did find a way to get back on my feet. I think I wanted so badly to know a different life, I wanted to be a different woman. I did not want to cower forever or live a life when I could not tell the difference between passion and violence. I wanted to love in another color besides red. I think I had hope even then, when a weak man's rage had me curled into a frightened ball at the base of my stairs, that this would not be my life and that it would get better...that I would love better and find someone in turn who did the same. I remember staring at my bloody fingertips and thinking, "someday it will be me or him, and I will have to chose me". Those words seemed so impossibly loud in my head and thinking them gave me hope, and that hope eventually gave me the strength to do exactly that.

Hope is this amazing thing that resides in our souls...quietly waiting until it is needed the most. In those dark times, it can be the light by which we find our way out.

"Hope is a thing with feathers that perches in the soul and sings the tune without words and never stops at all" Emily Dickinson

Ella's Lion

"Blogging Circle of Friends "
DAY 2056 July 6, 2018
Use these words somehow in your writing- enchanted, twilight, fireflies, rose, carousel, lion, and tinman.

The old porch fan rattled and buzzed each time it completed it's wide arch rotation, an offending interruption to the otherwise soft summer evening soundtrack. Ella quickly padded across the porch in her bare feet and switched it off. She returned to her swing and curled her long fingers around her still steaming mug of rose tea. She watched the fireflies painting brief and brilliant patterns of light all across the wide open field. The haystacks stood like silent sentinels against the darkening twilight.

Ella sat back, feeling for just a moment, a bite of pain in her stomach that took her breathe away. It was fleeting spark but she knew it would be back. Soon Ella knew she would need to swallow more of the little white pills to keep the pain from radiating through her guts, stretching its cruel fingers through her joints and delicate organs. The pain was getting harder and harder to contain, certainly an unwelcome but not wholly unexpected side effect of the cancer. Ella tried not to think about the pain now. She focused on the sweet chirping of the peep frogs and the gentle rustle of the tall grasses as the night breeze picked up and raced across the fields. Ella leaned her head back and closed her eyes. She soon slipped into her memories...

A much younger Ella raced through the gates of the tri-county agriculture fair. As she ran, her long dark tresses flowed out behind her, the only feminine thing about the rail-thin girl in the dirty overalls and duck boots. She was immediately assaulted by the smell of cinnamon sweet fried dough and fresh spun cotton candy, her favorite treats. She barreled past the tempting vendors all the same, heading to the carousel. They always set it up dead center of the fair and there was always a line. She heard the carousel's rousing tune before she saw it, rising up like an mirage from the dust and grime of the fairgrounds.

Ella was enchanted by the carousel. It was an antique marvel of engineering and art. Instead of horses, the carousel was made up of wild animals imported directly from the plains of Africa. The animals were beautifully crafted, the mahogany creatures painted and polished to a high glossy sheen. The elephants had tusks that looked like real ivory and the giraffes gazed at you with deeply soulful eyes. The hippos were comically wide, their wide mouths open revealing fat pink tongues. Nothing could have been more exotic to a farm girl from the Midwest and she would ride it several times, every day the fair was running. Ella's favorite though was the African lion. There was only one of those, a big male with a russet colored mane and broad back and massive paws. He looked so alive, the incarnation of all the power and might one would expect from a king. She loved the lion and there was little that came close to the joy she felt slipping onto his smooth back and wrapping her fingers around the leather halter looped at the beast's neck.

Ella reached the spindly gate of the carousel, alarmed to see she was pretty far back from the front of the line. She watched the other children hand their tickets to the attendant and gleefully charge up over the sides and clamoring for their animal of choice. Several children began to bicker over the camel and Ella saw one little girl struggling to climb the lion's flank. Disappointed, she stepped aside when she reached the front of the line explaining to the stoic attendant that she would wait for the next ride. He looked down at her and shrugged with a tin man's indifference, and left to check that the riders were all properly seated before putting the carousel into motion with a palm punch to a large red button.

Ella rode the carousel that day a record sixteen times before her parents made her go home. It would be the last year the carousel came to the fair, having been replaced the very next fair by a shoddy operation with dully painted horses sporting wide eyes and gaping mouths that Ella thought looked macabre. These new horses bounced under the riders who reached for tiny gold rings and they swirled past. She never rode that carousel. Oddly, it held no magic for her.

The rising pain brought Ella to the the surface, trailing her fading memories like a gossamer wake. She opened her eyes and found her tea was cold and the night had fallen like an inky curtain. She slowly sat up, the pain now a hot cinder in her side. Ella pulled herself to her feet, gritting her teeth against the agony. It made her light-headed and her vision blurred. She rubbed at her eyes and her knuckles came away with a coating of hot tears. Then, off in the distance, she caught of glimpse of something through the veil of water in her eyes.

She limped down off the porch and into the yard, straining to get a better look at the thing that was impossibly perched on the edge of the farthest field. Ella's heart rallied even as her brain told her in no uncertain terms, that the thing was absolutely not that magnificent carousel from her youth. But, as Ella drew closer, she saw that somehow, indeed it was the very same one. Her ears began to pick out that familiar lilting tune and there, yes, right there as he'd always been, was the lion. Her lion.

Ella barely registered the pain now, it was as if it was fading, giving her space to breath again.

With an energy that surprised her, Ella rushed the last few yards to the gate. She swung it open and stood, looking at the beautiful beast with his flaming mane and soft eyes. Without a moment's hesitation, Ella swung herself up, onto his broad back. She pressed her cheek against his cool smoothness, closed her eyes and felt the carousel begin to slowly move.



"Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise"
Day 1662 July 6, 2018
You've met three people on your way to do an errand. They're all talking about something they overheard but are positive you're the reason it's happening. Are they right or wrong? Weave us a tale about the three people and yourself and whatever is happen

Christina felt the frown forming despite her best efforts to keep it at bay. She knew the three women were talking about her. Not for the first time that day, Christina cursed the small town with its limited resources and its one and only, tiny pharmacy. It was hard to avoid people in a town this size, the very reason she had left for the big city with its legions of bustling strangers. There had been an absolute certainty she was going to run into someone she knew on the brief dash into town but here she was, annoyed to find it had happened after all. Despite her mother being a bit of a recluse, she had been well-known in town and the rumor mill was incredibly small but efficient here.

One of the women had clearly been appointed as emissary. She made her way toward Christina, rearranging her features into a mask of sympathy.

"We were all so sorry to hear about your Mother. She was such a nice lady. You look just like her!"

Christina bit back an acidic response and only nodded, allowing the woman to rub her bicep awkwardly for a few moments before she spun back to her troops. The pharmacist called her name and Christina rushed up and snatched the bag and dashed out of the store.

What could she have expected? Of course her mother's death would be fodder for the people she lived, or mostly, lived among. Though Ella has been private, most people had known about the cancer diagnosis and of her stubborn refusal of treatment. They had all known she preferred to live out her days in the farmhouse among the fallow fields her family once tended, despite the doctor's advice and Christina's agonized pleading.

Two nights ago, Christina had gotten the call she had long dreaded. Her mother had been found, inexplicably at the far edges of the family property, just lying in the field. She had passed away sometime in the night and by all accounts it had been a peaceful passing, even though given the late stage of her disease, she must have been suffering in considerable pain. The man who found her told Christina she had looked like she was sleeping, dreaming the most wonderful of dreams. Her plain face rendered beautiful in death by an oddly childish smile.

Age 3 in Retrospect

Occasionally I make it a habit to clear out my writing folder on my desktop, discarding pieces or re-organizing them into my writing portfolio if they have some legs. Sometimes I find a piece or two that never made it to a formal blog – these are usually rambling, micro observations on my life at a point in time.  Today I found this one…obviously written at the height of epic year long struggle with my then three year old Jaden, and it gave me the opportunity to look back.  This was the year I decided, simultaneously, that my daughter was a force of nature and that I was destined to be a one-child mommy.  By far, age 3 was the roughest year to date – but one that, even dominated by struggles and challenges, provided me those amazing moments of serenity, grace and beauty that come with raising a child. I remain, humbled and grateful by the amazing blessing that is my daughter.   

Most mornings with my three year old are dominated by defiant stances in pink polka-dotted tights, barely eaten breakfasts and dramatic screams during hair-combing and styling sessions.  Most mornings my little girl wakes with only one true desire…to challenge me at every turn. I battle over clothes, shoes, what can and can’t accompany her to school.  She makes demands and launches sabotage attacks to delay our departure while I anxiously watch the clock.  Somehow we manage to stubble out the door, both of us a little worse for wear than we should be.  Most mornings.

Oh… but then there comes that rare, blue moon of a morning where every moment seems as saturated by joy and mirth as any before.  Jaden wakes up with smiles and kisses.  She makes her own way to the potty. She does not throw open my shower door but just waves at me through the glass, a blurry, happy vision in pink princess pajamas.  She helps me feed the dogs. She cleans up her books and toys, before I trip over them.  She gladly accepts whatever outfit I have and dresses quickly instead of diving back beneath the covers to avoid me. She leans lovingly against me as I slip on her shoes. She even takes her drink cup downstairs and puts it in the sink for me.  I make breakfast and she eats it.  We sit side by side, munching and talking contentedly.  

Writing to Remember and the Rush of Discovery

"Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise"
Prompt: DAY 1449-- December 5, 2017
Prompt: “To write things as they happened means to enslave oneself to memory, which is only a minor element in the creative process.”
Aharon Appelfeld answering a question by Philip Roth
Do you agree with this statement and, as far as creativity goes, is writing fiction more creative than writing only stark personal experiences?

I began, in the early days of my pregnancy, to do something I had never done previously, I began writing for someone other than myself. I wanted to be certain my daughter would be left with a testimony on how it had felt to be her mother. From the ramblings of an anxious expectant mom to the joy of marking her milestones, I wrote with as much candor and emotion. There are many entries in this blog that I have earmarked for to be included in a book for her one day, a book only for her. I have continued to do that over these last few years and I am happy to have "enslaved myself" to the memories. There is a special joy in the gift of being able to read over something I've written about her as a toddler, or as a budding little girl that takes me back to the specific and lovely moments of raising her. While this type of writing may not be as creative as penning a story I felt like it some of the most important writing I have done. If I want to reach back to her at any age, I can find something in my words that evokes those feelings, those insights and they are not lost to the passage of time or the frailness of memory. For her, she can one day read my words and know that I was there - fully engaged and that I "saw her", every beautiful detail in her journey - even , the screaming fits and fights, the tears and the triumphs. These days I feel so acutely that time is fleeting. My daughter is a few short months from turning 8 and she is exploding with personality and ideas. I am running to keep up. She is strong and fierce, surprising us with her affinity for physical obstacles and fitness. I swear she grew three inches this summer and her slim, leggy frame hints at a adolescence that may well mirror more her father's lanky teenage years than mine. She loves reading, playing school with her dolls and lavishing affection on our aging Min Pin. Ultimately though, I see evidence that she is lonely. I am frequently plagued by the guilt of not have given her a sibling at the same time I know it will enable us to put all our resources into her. I have made a commitment to encourage and provide play dates as often as I can and I delight in watching her make the most of those opportunities. I know she is a good friend. She has made some wonderful friends and she adores them, dotes on them. Most of all at this age, my daughter has a kind heart as evidenced by her friendships and her perceptions of the world around her. She is a world of change, an amazing kaleidoscope of shifting likes and dislikes, interests and passions. Her eyes still speak volumes and her mona lisa smiles are still my most favorite expression to grace her beautiful face. I hope that one day, she will read about herself at age almost 8 and know how exceptionally proud we were of her and how clearly we could see her special spark.

"Blogging Circle of Friends "
DAY 1846 December 5th, 2017
On this day in 1848 US President Polk triggers Gold Rush of 1849 by confirming gold discovery in California.
What type of physical commodity (not something found on the internet) do you think would trigger that kind of reaction in today's world? Would you be tempted to join the masses and go for it or would you be a bystander?

If any commodity today were to trigger the same effect as the Gold Rush did, it would have to be especially rare and elusive. With the technology and resources today it would ignite a race of very different proportions. It would have to be something like physical proof of an alien civilization - moon rocks and alien technology that could be mined from the core of our own planet. Or, perhaps evidence of a celestial presence living among us, the hunt for the physical traces of angels and demons? Much I wouldn't have expected to run off to the wilds of California with my gold pan and waders, I doubt I would join the masses in such any such quest for the new "gold". I would be more apt to be a bystander, observing and recording. It is not that I am opposed to the thrill of the adventure, it is more that I hate that crowd mentality.

Looking Back

"Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise"
DAY 908 September 2, 2016
16 is the hot topic for WDC. Let's talk about the number...where were you, 16 minutes, 16 hours ago, 16 days ago, 16 months ago, 16 years ago? Are there any similarities?

Where was I back...16 minutes ago?

It would have been just before 8am this morning. I was standing in the first and second grade wing of my daughter's school talking with her new first grade teacher about her first day. I was feeling positive and happy, proud of my little girl and fully engaged with her new and exciting journey.


Where was I back...16 hours ago?

I was sleeping, only to have woken up just after 1am for the third or fourth night in a row. I loathe this trend. It leaves me feeling drained in the morning, robbed of something essential I really need to make the most out of my day.

Where was I back 16 days ago?

My daughter and I have established a yearly tradition of taking a trip to Southwick Zoo each year. Sixteen days ago we were feeding baby pygmy goats and shy deer, smacking up ice cream and riding the zoo train through the beautiful elk forest. It is a fun day where we get to just be together, experiencing one of our favorite places. I loved watching her feeding the deer, her hand timidly outstretched toward graceful animals who were just as timid and shy around her. We rode the skyline together, watching the animals moving below our hanging toes. The ride is basically modeled on a ski lift chair ride, molded to fit the terrain of the little zoo. She liked the way it suddenly would speed up as it banked around a turn or appeared to narrowly miss the tree tops as it climbed up. For one harrowing moment, we stalled over the alligator pit and she giggled and pointed to large green beast waiting below our dangling legs. We ate our lunch all the while dogging chip-stealing sparrows and overly curious wandering peacocks. It was a nice day.

Where was I back 16 months ago?

It gets harder to recall where I was on any specific day but sixteen months ago, we would have been in the beginning of May. That would have marked the last full month of kindergarten for my daughter. It had been a remarkable year with a new school, a new uniform, a new routine. She had done very well in her subjects as well as socially. She had made wonderful new friends and she had developed a love of academics, math in particular. The year was rapidly coming to an end on us and we were all looking forward to summer.

Where was I back 16 years ago?

Sixteen years ago I would have been in my mid-20's. It is so difficult for me to think back to who and what I was then. I had moved back from from college, which had been one of the most defining times in my life to date. I had been through a personally traumatic experience that I had gone through without the knowledge of my friends or my family. I think I was still struggling with the aftermath. I was involved in an unhealthy relationship that had escalated to the level of abusive and I was dealing with the fear and shame of where my life was heading. It would be several more years before I pulled myself from that wreckage. I'm glad to look back over the time leap above and find myself a wholly different person today than I was all those years ago.


"Blogging Circle of Friends "
16 is the hot topic for WDC. Let's talk about your AHA moment when you were 16, 32, 48, or 64? Were there any parallels that come to mind? Inquiring minds want to know.

It is odd to spend so much time focused on looking back this morning, particularly when I am so preoccupied with how quickly time is moving forward as evidenced by my daughter already starting the first grade. I feel that I can't possibly have a six year old already. How could she have grown so much just this summer alone?

I'm not yet 48, and 64 seems light years away to me today. I'm certain there will be many AHA moments as I stumbled my way to and through those particular milestones. Today though, I can look back to age 16 and 32 with some clarity.

Looking back to age sixteen, I see now that I was living a bit dangerously ahead of my years. I was smart about it but I was mixing with things that I should have had no business with at that age. I can see now that I was taxing the limits of my maturity with my boyfriend but also exposing myself to emotions and experiences I would have been better holding off a year or two. The 16 year old me was so egocentric about life. I could only see the world on one level, I wasn't very good at reading the messages around me, heading the warnings. I was a little slow on the uptake. As a result, I found myself in situations that were potentially harmful. If I had to pick one AHA moment it would have to be that I often underestimated my ability to affect others by my behavior and while it could have ended badly, thankfully it did not. I told myself I was mature enough to handle things but looking back now, I see how dangerous that attitude could have been. Luckily my boyfriend was a good person, a kind person. He blew the whistle on a situation I could not clearly see for myself.

My early thirties seemed a lot like one long, dark AHA moment. At 32 I felt like I was just surfacing from a shit storm of trauma and grief. I was just starting to consider the possibilities that life could be more than loss and broken promises. I knew I was a survivor but I feared I was also a loner and I would have to make peace with that. I was trying to have faith. I was rebuilding my solitary life and finding strength in reclaiming my home and my path. I was dating, but not seriously. I was filling my needs in the ways that seemed safest for me at the time and looking for love hadn't seemed safe or realistic. Then, somewhat reluctantly, I went on a date with someone I had already deemed was "so not my type". At my grandmother's urging, I drove to the local car park to meet him, completely devoid of expectations. What followed would prove to be the best date of my life. That date would lead to our marriage two years later. My AHA moment at age 32 was realizing that sometimes you can only really be open to finding love when you stop looking for it. Most importantly, despite everything I had gone through I always kept hope alive in my heart and my life today feels very much like the reward for never having allowed myself to lose faith in that hope.

The Agony of Certainty

"Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise"
Day 883 August 8th, 2016
Prompt: What do you think about this feeling of “I should have done better!” in any area? Can it be a positive or negative motivator in some way?


This prompt feels dangerous to me today because despite all my knowledge and effort, the doubts have been hovering just outside my thoughts lately, insidious and seeping. I see him, stumbling across the road, swaying on his feet, the effort to keep himself upright painfully obvious. I see him in my dreams, and all day long as I try to get my work done. I see him and I think, could I have saved him? Can I still? I ask myself the questions and doubt bites raw, bleeding ribbons into my guts.

I think back to the all the chances, to all the opportunities I watched him burn through. I think back to how so many tried to help him. There have been many kind people who have stepped up, who have extended their hearts over the years. I've seen the progress he's made under the right care, promises of a hopeless path digressed and a life renewed. I've been there when he's walked away, back into the darkness again. It is beyond tormenting.

"Should I have done better?" I don't know. I did the best I could the first time I lost someone to the black pit of addiction. I had given so much away, I nearly offered up my own life in the process of trying to save his. I knew it was not something I could bear ever again. No human on Earth should have to suffer through the pain and agony of addiction and loss more than once. It rips out your soul at the roots and breaks your heart in a way that it can never fully heal again. Its a endless wound and scar tissue burns hot with every reminder, with every memory thrust upon you. You never forget and when you see it again, that toxin demon in another, your entire system engages everything it can to protect you from getting sucked down again. For each moment that you search familiar eyes and see the light fading behind the irises, the certainty rises inside you like some terrible tide. And so I ask myself, "should I have done better?" And there is both a terrible doubt and an absolute certainty at the same time and the dichotomy is pure agony.



"Blogging Circle of Friends "
DAY 1363: August 8, 2016
Prompt: Each time the wind blew, she could hear the flowers talking to her. Tell me what the flowers said to her.

The brittle branches above her head bob heavily with the fat, fragrant blooms. She reaches up and traps one in her palm, burying her nose in the tiny purple flowers, breathing deep their perfume. Its a familiar scent that evokes memories of her childhood. She remembers cutting and arranging the lilacs into thick bouquets with her grandmother. She remembers bouncing on her toes under the blooms, tapping the rain from the blossoms with a thin branch and squealing when the water hit her bare shoulders and back. Each year the lilacs bushes would bloom at the edge of her grandmother's property, healthy and full, the higher boughs reaching into the skies three of four feet higher than her head. They had all but died out now, thinned to where they had to be cleared out. She had loved those flowers and when she had driven past the wide wall of lilacs, she hadn't been able to resist going back. She had wanted to touch them, breath in their sweetness. She wanted to reconnect with a part of her past that was simple, fragrant and full of promise.

Misery and Faith

I've been writing/blogging now for many years. I've had at least one blog running for over ten years and its served as a rather rare and consistent snapshot of my life through some of the most substantial moments of the journey.  I find its been a good habit to randomly select a page and revisit that entry, it helps me reconnect with where I've been and most important, who I've been in the past. I has been a revealing practice that has given me a lot of insight to the person I am today and the choices I continually make in my life. 

Here is one from April 12th, 2007 that I entitled: Misery and Faith

The rain outside is pelting my office window. Certainly today's gloom factor weighs in somewhere are 9 on the 1-10 scale of such things. My little dog is sleeping in front of the space heater by my feet. I reach down to pet his soft head occasionally, as if to assure myself he is still there and that the good and gentle elements of my life are still alive and breathing. Not bearing to wade into the pile of stress-producing work on my desk, I've busied myself with seemingly more trivial tasks; looking up the addresses of long lost relatives, reorganizing my purse, filling out the health questionnaire for my new doctor. Its been a difficult morning. I woke up this morning cocooned around myself. I drove the sleep off with a hotter than advisable shower and loaded the dog and the latest bills into the car. I put more gas in...again. On the drive to work I was suddenly assaulted by a memory I can scarcely recall now. Driving to work under the pelting rain though, it was clear and bright. It was the memory of walking along the sandy path that curled around the Avery Point college campus. It had to be Spring, because though the sun was out and warm against my back, the trees were just beginning to bud and the air was still crisp with a winter not to recently forgotten. I was barefoot and he was dilligent in pointing out the little green land mines of goose poop so I could avoid stepping in one. He was walking beside me, as he often did, his lumbering gait keeping him just ahead of me. It was a memory so vivid but so fleeting it left me floundering about, my mind trying to re-access all the elements but coming up empty. It was from the time before all the darkness, when our lives were still comfortably linked by common threads of friendship, work and an appreciation of the sea and this beautiful, open place. Was it a message? A unexplicable communication from the beyond? And if it was, what was it meant to convey? I am more a daughter of science and matter than one of spirit and faith, but if I were to suspend that instinctual need to have all explained for a moment and just listen to my heart, I think I'd find a message. I think it was a reminder from my dear friend that life is full of small, contented moments and not to lose myself too far in the low and darker ones. The rain will stop and the sun will come out. The grass will get greener and the sea will beckon me again and there will be sweet afternoon walks when all I have to worry about is dodging piles of goose poop and breathing deeply of the ocean air.