I am not comfortable with this eyewitness account rather I am so deeply a part of it, that the totality of my five senses has been redefined.
And we begin…
Knowing that the day trip would be once in a lifetime, my daughter and I boarded the train from Cardiff to Salisbury, Wales in anticipation of a spiritual connection. We were going to Stonehenge. The scenery passing was familiar; countryside, pastures groomed by the thousands of sheep. Village church steeples defined each pocket of row housing with the occasional farmhouse, well kept and manicured on the in-between spots. There were community gardens where you wouldn't expect them and natural hedges overgrowing the attempts at fencing.
The two-hour journey landed us at the station where we connected with our tour bus. The prerecorded audio guide highlighted the history of the city of Salisbury as our bus headed to the second pick up point in the town centre. Learned about the commerce industry and of course the brutality of public executions (all too common a theme though out the United Kingdom). For me, personally, they could have left that part out.
Stonehenge is not visible from the road. Signage is minimal and all efforts to film the approach were thwarted by the sudden appearance of the car park and visitor's center building. There's nothing but fenced pasture for acres upon acres in all directions. City life has encroached the perimeter and hikers with burdensome backpacks and staffs traversed the fields without care as to the neolithic stones nearby.
We waited on the bus while the driver submitted paperwork to the staff of the National Trust and soon we were on our way. There were options, walk the mile path or take the shuttle. Option 2, please.
Up a short incline, cameras at the ready, we stood at the world heritage site in a non-ceremonious manner. Most visitors were busy selfie documenting their arrival or taking advantage of a stranger's help to photograph themselves there. Some just stood. We did a little of both. Sometime in the seventies, direct access to the stones had been stopped. Special requests by guided astrologists to visit at dawn are still viable.
We circled the path and headed back to the shuttle queue which was well orchestrated by staff who counted heads and directed lines to each awaiting vehicle.
The shuttle back was much quieter.
Time for snack or memento shopping. Snacks please. Fifteen pounds for muffin, hot chocolate and juice. We spotted seating at the counter along the outer edge. Found two seats and sat and then I found myself up and asking a person in costume why they were dressed that way and what they were doing.
Initially, I thought "a theatrical troupe"; maybe a monologue or a guided tour of the sacred places.
I was up for it.
My life changed, right then. . . at THAT moment. She said, "I am the Shaman."
Without revealing the intimacy of our encounter, I will say that I've never been on a journey of that caliber ; solely of the mind and heart. I learned how to redefine the universe and it's not what I learned in school.
Once in every lifetime, the opportunity comes to step outside of your personal comfort zone; to open your mind to possibilities. I am not who I was and I am grateful.
Seeking for answers lead to an unplanned reveal. I didn't know it, the universe did. It has been confirmed since my return, by persons who study the metaphysical, that my journey there was not by chance. It was not just another day trip in a two-week itinerary across two countries. It was my destiny.
How I go forward and live out my remaining years, months, days or hours has validation. I understand
that the intricacies of my daily existence are not mundane. They are amazing gifts to share.
My life changed when I least expected it; 4,000 miles from my front door. I will revisit this place; this mecca for those who are seeking truth beyond all understanding. In the meantime, I will ponder
the teachings and begin to connect with my Archangel Ariel who revealed herself to me in the person of the Shaman of Stonehenge.
Thursday, July 28, 2016
And the sign said...
Nothing. Absolutely nothing. It happens more frequently than you might expect; especially given that the sign is owned by the catholic church in my neighborhood.
Seems the Almighty has no message for the faithful or the occasional person stuck in traffic along the highway where the sign can be viewed. After all the expense of its installation and the removal of its outdated predecessor, I would think that this larger than life message board would be more productive; at least announce weekly sermon topics.
I am an inquisitive woman and just might wander up the street and into the church office in an attempt to solve this mystery.
There are several possibilities for the lack of advertisement. You may come up with your own, but here are my top guesses: Lazy priest. Lazier office staff. No authorization from the Dioceses which governs the church. Possibly the faithful have been overly dutiful in their obligatory visits, that they are not in need of direction or inspiration. Or perhaps…
The messages no longer apply.
Actually, they never have. My separation from organized religion came just recently. I am no longer relegated to weekly chastisements or annual celebratory routines.
My connection with the universe is without boundaries. I now live without fear of repercussion from one who believes himself or herself in charge of my soul. How do others live completely and freely through the narrow restraints of religion? My quest is open-ended. There is no "reward" for a life lived
purposefully and lovingly. There shouldn't be a reward, just the conclusion of the experience.
I am seeking. I have time now. At least I think I have the time. Contradictions abound for I have been sent the message that I will teach and heal. I missed that sign along the way.
Signage may be as old as recorded history and for the most part, the human has come to rely on it.
I suppose the directional variety was born out of necessity. The advertisements and inspirational
group came later. They're a fact of life, almost global now, multilingual and multicultural.
Still, the church sign remains blank, message-less. A small victory for me and the thousands of would-be readers who have better things to do. With the limitlessness of the internet, the parishioners could opt for messaging: text, twitter, facebook, email, talking watches, etc. For the generation which prefers
snail mail, there's that choice as well.
I understand the need for advertising, it's basically survival. Even the places of worship
are competing for business. That's not news; but is it a necessity?
I do not need reminders that my soul is in jeopardy. It's not. Never has been. My journey is continuous.
The signs I choose to read are not the ones brightly lit, blinking and invasive. They're not the ones
vying for my attention. They are the ones revealed in the quietness of my life, concurrent with the
path I am destined to follow.
Seems the Almighty has no message for the faithful or the occasional person stuck in traffic along the highway where the sign can be viewed. After all the expense of its installation and the removal of its outdated predecessor, I would think that this larger than life message board would be more productive; at least announce weekly sermon topics.
I am an inquisitive woman and just might wander up the street and into the church office in an attempt to solve this mystery.
There are several possibilities for the lack of advertisement. You may come up with your own, but here are my top guesses: Lazy priest. Lazier office staff. No authorization from the Dioceses which governs the church. Possibly the faithful have been overly dutiful in their obligatory visits, that they are not in need of direction or inspiration. Or perhaps…
The messages no longer apply.
Actually, they never have. My separation from organized religion came just recently. I am no longer relegated to weekly chastisements or annual celebratory routines.
My connection with the universe is without boundaries. I now live without fear of repercussion from one who believes himself or herself in charge of my soul. How do others live completely and freely through the narrow restraints of religion? My quest is open-ended. There is no "reward" for a life lived
purposefully and lovingly. There shouldn't be a reward, just the conclusion of the experience.
I am seeking. I have time now. At least I think I have the time. Contradictions abound for I have been sent the message that I will teach and heal. I missed that sign along the way.
Signage may be as old as recorded history and for the most part, the human has come to rely on it.
I suppose the directional variety was born out of necessity. The advertisements and inspirational
group came later. They're a fact of life, almost global now, multilingual and multicultural.
Still, the church sign remains blank, message-less. A small victory for me and the thousands of would-be readers who have better things to do. With the limitlessness of the internet, the parishioners could opt for messaging: text, twitter, facebook, email, talking watches, etc. For the generation which prefers
snail mail, there's that choice as well.
I understand the need for advertising, it's basically survival. Even the places of worship
are competing for business. That's not news; but is it a necessity?
I do not need reminders that my soul is in jeopardy. It's not. Never has been. My journey is continuous.
The signs I choose to read are not the ones brightly lit, blinking and invasive. They're not the ones
vying for my attention. They are the ones revealed in the quietness of my life, concurrent with the
path I am destined to follow.
A Moment in Time
She remains unchanged; forever 23, red hair, deep green eyes, still and timeless. The portrait of my mother speaks to me of another time when dreams were still possible. My grandmother commissioned it the year before Mom married Dad. Wish I could have known her then.
I barely remember if she told me the details of her life at that time. I have scrapbooks and photo albums which leave the questions unanswered. It's not fair.
In six year's time, I will be the age she was when she died. Those details are forever in my heart. I won't tell you, other than it was awful and unnatural and chaotic and merciful.
We may be alike; I have an appreciation for music and fine art. I love color in my home and garden.
My house will always have at least one dog and there is nothing more perfect than chocolate.
She knew the importance of friendship and secrets. I have a handful of "besties" with whom I am completely devoid of judgment.
I am missing her. Hoping she will come to me in my dreams, I talk to her portrait. When I am home at her gravesite, the conversation is always fraught with sadness, but my mood as I gaze at her likeness is light and joyful. Thankful? Maybe.
Or perhaps it is guilt. Her dreams vanished when I came along. She self sacrificed out of respect for Dad. Perhaps it was the proper thing or maybe the expected lifestyle. In 1956, 2.8 children were the norm. In 1959, we had reached 2.0 and I don't know how to explain the omission of the eight-tenths of a child. Maybe that's where the family dog(s) came in.
She was not happy parenting; she didn't know how. Dr. Spock was her go-to reference and if the pages in that book couldn't address the crisis, Grandma was right next door. Once my brother was adopted (as it had been with me), that sage advice didn't apply as frequently as Mom had been an only child.
Nature vs. nurture... .an uncomfortable internal dialogue. I could argue either side. Upbringing certainly helped to mold me. Nature, on the other hand, eludes all current quests. Although,
on this point, I have had recent insight by way of messages from beyond, but that's another story.
If you follow my blogs, you will conclude that I am in flux. The spirituality which flows from those who channel my connectivity from the universe to my soul has me disquieted. Don't misunderstand me.
I am not questioning. I am seeking validation…that which defines me as having purpose.
Where is the logic behind my being the daughter to this particular woman? Whose decision was it?
Did the decision lay within the wisdom of the universe? Was it predestined?
The answers will not be forthcoming. It is unimportant.
Her portrait honors the woman she wanted to be. I see it in her eyes. I see it in the shyness of her smile and the softness of her shoulders. She aspired, she hoped, she dreamed. Her "fork in the road" came abruptly. Her purpose was redefined. Her dreams vanquished.
The next time I pause to gaze upon it, I will whisper "Thank you. It is because of you, that I still have time to realize mine."
I barely remember if she told me the details of her life at that time. I have scrapbooks and photo albums which leave the questions unanswered. It's not fair.
In six year's time, I will be the age she was when she died. Those details are forever in my heart. I won't tell you, other than it was awful and unnatural and chaotic and merciful.
We may be alike; I have an appreciation for music and fine art. I love color in my home and garden.
My house will always have at least one dog and there is nothing more perfect than chocolate.
She knew the importance of friendship and secrets. I have a handful of "besties" with whom I am completely devoid of judgment.
I am missing her. Hoping she will come to me in my dreams, I talk to her portrait. When I am home at her gravesite, the conversation is always fraught with sadness, but my mood as I gaze at her likeness is light and joyful. Thankful? Maybe.
Or perhaps it is guilt. Her dreams vanished when I came along. She self sacrificed out of respect for Dad. Perhaps it was the proper thing or maybe the expected lifestyle. In 1956, 2.8 children were the norm. In 1959, we had reached 2.0 and I don't know how to explain the omission of the eight-tenths of a child. Maybe that's where the family dog(s) came in.
She was not happy parenting; she didn't know how. Dr. Spock was her go-to reference and if the pages in that book couldn't address the crisis, Grandma was right next door. Once my brother was adopted (as it had been with me), that sage advice didn't apply as frequently as Mom had been an only child.
Nature vs. nurture... .an uncomfortable internal dialogue. I could argue either side. Upbringing certainly helped to mold me. Nature, on the other hand, eludes all current quests. Although,
on this point, I have had recent insight by way of messages from beyond, but that's another story.
If you follow my blogs, you will conclude that I am in flux. The spirituality which flows from those who channel my connectivity from the universe to my soul has me disquieted. Don't misunderstand me.
I am not questioning. I am seeking validation…that which defines me as having purpose.
Where is the logic behind my being the daughter to this particular woman? Whose decision was it?
Did the decision lay within the wisdom of the universe? Was it predestined?
The answers will not be forthcoming. It is unimportant.
Her portrait honors the woman she wanted to be. I see it in her eyes. I see it in the shyness of her smile and the softness of her shoulders. She aspired, she hoped, she dreamed. Her "fork in the road" came abruptly. Her purpose was redefined. Her dreams vanquished.
The next time I pause to gaze upon it, I will whisper "Thank you. It is because of you, that I still have time to realize mine."
Sunday, May 29, 2016
Far From Home
That's me. I feel misplaced. Wrong place, right time. The familiar is on the other side of the planet, but how could that be? I am disheveled, untethered, free-floating and it's unraveled my core. I am because I exist, but the identity I have been given is false. I know this.
I'm so tired of the infomercials which interrupt my occasional television viewing. "Just click on the leaf and blah, blah, blah".
So where do the rest of us "click"? I am thinking. Same feeling washes over me seeing those programs which document the lives of persons searching for biological relations; birth parents, birth children and such. It's a constant message: One is defined by family. Really?
I was filling the need of someone else. That last statement is my truth as explained by my intuitive guide. My soul in suspended animation until it was called to complete the lives of others. How did it turn out? Sill determining the results even tho my "parents" are long dead.
Where do I go from here, now that I am no longer part of the original scheme?
I think England.
For years upon decades, people have commented that I am too formal. My grammar is a dead giveaway that I ain't from around here (here being America's Gulf Coast). Even when I lived in the midwest, I would elicit uninvited criticisms on my choices of words.
There's no available research as to genetic predisposition and I can testify that my adoptive parents did not encourage this formality within the child they were raising.
The journey will commence in seven weeks. I am going with my kid. She's formal, too. She has a great interest in all things Celtic. This passion has not been purposely nurtured; it just exists. She is going- to discover. I am going to-reunite; with what or whom is yet to be uncovered.
Now that my life is so unfocused and seemingly fraying at the seams, the timing is paramount. Maybe new vitality will surface to give my life purpose. It's rather tiring to just exist in a shell of comfort and predictability.
Knowing that my identity may collide with the unfamiliar is rather invigorating. The planning is in process and I am getting that uncomfortable feeling, in my gut, that my efforts will not be in vain and that all the planning and detail work will be met with enlightenment. I'm too old to get butterflies in my stomach but they're there!
I wonder if I am coexisting with another self; string theory on a very personal level. How do I separate the reality from perception? How do I shed the labels and falsehoods of living a borrowed life without the risk of losing the memories which sustain me? Who do I think I am? I think I am someone else.
I could subject my pride to a saliva test and be glad that I already knew my genetic makeup. I know from whence my people originated. I just have no way of finding out who my people were. Go back far enough and I know I was one in a troupe of apes at the beginning of a long evolutionary process.
Don't need to travel that segment of my timeline. I just want to know how I got to be who others assume me to be. Why is my true identity undiscoverable? Court records are sealed, borrowed relations are dead and the story stops.
And then maybe it doesn't. The real me could be just on the wrong side of the pond.
I'm so tired of the infomercials which interrupt my occasional television viewing. "Just click on the leaf and blah, blah, blah".
So where do the rest of us "click"? I am thinking. Same feeling washes over me seeing those programs which document the lives of persons searching for biological relations; birth parents, birth children and such. It's a constant message: One is defined by family. Really?
I was filling the need of someone else. That last statement is my truth as explained by my intuitive guide. My soul in suspended animation until it was called to complete the lives of others. How did it turn out? Sill determining the results even tho my "parents" are long dead.
Where do I go from here, now that I am no longer part of the original scheme?
I think England.
For years upon decades, people have commented that I am too formal. My grammar is a dead giveaway that I ain't from around here (here being America's Gulf Coast). Even when I lived in the midwest, I would elicit uninvited criticisms on my choices of words.
There's no available research as to genetic predisposition and I can testify that my adoptive parents did not encourage this formality within the child they were raising.
The journey will commence in seven weeks. I am going with my kid. She's formal, too. She has a great interest in all things Celtic. This passion has not been purposely nurtured; it just exists. She is going- to discover. I am going to-reunite; with what or whom is yet to be uncovered.
Now that my life is so unfocused and seemingly fraying at the seams, the timing is paramount. Maybe new vitality will surface to give my life purpose. It's rather tiring to just exist in a shell of comfort and predictability.
Knowing that my identity may collide with the unfamiliar is rather invigorating. The planning is in process and I am getting that uncomfortable feeling, in my gut, that my efforts will not be in vain and that all the planning and detail work will be met with enlightenment. I'm too old to get butterflies in my stomach but they're there!
I wonder if I am coexisting with another self; string theory on a very personal level. How do I separate the reality from perception? How do I shed the labels and falsehoods of living a borrowed life without the risk of losing the memories which sustain me? Who do I think I am? I think I am someone else.
I could subject my pride to a saliva test and be glad that I already knew my genetic makeup. I know from whence my people originated. I just have no way of finding out who my people were. Go back far enough and I know I was one in a troupe of apes at the beginning of a long evolutionary process.
Don't need to travel that segment of my timeline. I just want to know how I got to be who others assume me to be. Why is my true identity undiscoverable? Court records are sealed, borrowed relations are dead and the story stops.
And then maybe it doesn't. The real me could be just on the wrong side of the pond.
Leaving
The quote is partial as it was the concluding sentence in my recent horoscope. Apparently, my immediate goal is to explore the metaphysical. Actually, I have been on this quest for several years now, but not inspired enough to quiet myself and listen to the universe. Maybe it's time."Happiness doesn't reside in possessions; it resides in the soul."
Sometimes wisdom can be found in the obscure place. This sporadic influence and reality check enters my life more as a curiosity than a dogma. I am of the "what's your sign" generation and still find comfort in the knowledge that I a part of a much bigger picture. Now that Steven Hawking has defined the black hole as a portal and his vision suggests that whomsoever enters one will find their way through although completely unrecognizable on the other side. To one who relies on the general premise of proof and will not under any circumstance allow a belief system to provide answers, Mr. Hawking is my hero.
How do I continue to that plane of the metaphysical which parallels my life? On and off again research, coupled with the advice of those already in sync with the universe, I would be wise to learn to meditate. I have a confession, I find that scenario difficult.
I don't think I could learn to quiet my thoughts, exist in the moment and allay all that gives momentum to my existence. I've seen the movie "Eat, Pray, Love" numerous times and know that the Julia Roberts character is eerily familiar.
I need discipline and I need to remove myself from the familiar me. So, this is my plan.
I will seek me from a different perspective. I will connect with the universal energy which sustains me.
Then…
I will stop asking why.
From there…
I will learn to breathe and let the dusting go for another day.
Eventually, I will find my center and with no apologies, redirect my energies to experience joy on all its levels. I may leave you for a while.
And in my absence, your life's path will come upon a fork in the road. Choose the path which will bring you peace. Proceed with wild abandon and if you find yourself in memory of us together, I will be there.
Thursday, January 28, 2016
To Paraphrase...
Just did some research on a favorite phrase of mine only to find out that I inadvertently shortened it. I was only following whom so ever quoted it before me.
Before I reveal it to you, let it be known that I'm not prone to using popular lingo. I was born an old soul and my language comfort zone is conservative, Merriam-Webster vernacular. It really pisses people off around here that my choice of words are difficult to interpret and I have to really dig into my 3rd grade primer to make my self understood. In other words, I have to dumb down to talk to some folks. That's a sad, sad commentary on the current educational system in these United States. I have a tee shirt which espouses this fact. It states "I am right 97 percent of the time, who cares bout the other 4 percent."
My dad was an extreme college professor. There was no mistaking him for anyone other than a scholar.
He lived it, he spoke it, he raised his children to honor and respect every word that came out of his mouth. I did until the day I left for college and then suddenly, there was no evidence that we had ever been related. My admiration for educators was challenged and I became disillusioned, dropped out and made my own way in the company of a very liberal, free thinking crowd. That relationship lasted for more than a decade. Glad to report, that I was not emotionally scarred and those memories gave me deeper insight and appreciation for the good in common man than any lecture involuntarily given me by him.
My education, except for a single semester post college, was attained west of the Mississippi, east of the Pacific Ocean, south of the Canadian border and cradled in the bosom of the vast Rocky Mountains along the 42nd parallel. Elementary school was reading, writing and arithmetic plus Spanish, physical education, art and music. Junior high school was an elevated addition of the previous with emphasis in the sciences and home economics. My high school experience must have been moderately interesting as I graduated in the middle percentile of a fairly large class of over one thousand. College was hit and MISS as far as academics but heavy into the social scene. Could have really gone far with a major in music, but the professor had no tolerance for skipping class, so…
Well that's enough back story. Anyway, my choices of expression are pretty much maxed out and are reflective of the successes and failures as mentioned above. My current challenge has nothing to do with what I learned but where I currently reside. Geography and genealogy are great predictors of both the spoken and written word. I blame both currently for my sporadic inability to communicate. Having traveled here and beyond and appreciating the challenges of cultural exchange, I am constantly amazed at the limitless opportunities to mis understand another. Sometimes I wonder, who is doing the mis understanding. So far, compromise and resolution have been my guide.
But as I enter my twilight years, I think I will resolve to just wear the tee shirt which best describes me on a particular day and let the world figure it out. After all, there's little time remaining to argue a point, better to just be a visible representation of my thought processes.
My current fav tee shirt is black with white lettering. It's printed on the front only, has a small graphic of a penguin outline and states "KEEP CALM AND WADDLE ON". That about says it. Time for the younger generation to figure it all out.
Oh, and the phrase which started it all used to be: "Been there, done that, have the tee shirt". But that's not the whole quote. Sometime in 2007, thanks to a posting in "www.alt.music.pinkfloyd.usernet/newsgroup" it continues "…wore a hole in it and now use it as a duster".
Now that's just the right sentiment. It's a mouth full. Don't know if the entire sentence will fit on the front side of the shirt; may need to up size. Need to get that one in several colors. Could come in handy.
Before I reveal it to you, let it be known that I'm not prone to using popular lingo. I was born an old soul and my language comfort zone is conservative, Merriam-Webster vernacular. It really pisses people off around here that my choice of words are difficult to interpret and I have to really dig into my 3rd grade primer to make my self understood. In other words, I have to dumb down to talk to some folks. That's a sad, sad commentary on the current educational system in these United States. I have a tee shirt which espouses this fact. It states "I am right 97 percent of the time, who cares bout the other 4 percent."
My dad was an extreme college professor. There was no mistaking him for anyone other than a scholar.
He lived it, he spoke it, he raised his children to honor and respect every word that came out of his mouth. I did until the day I left for college and then suddenly, there was no evidence that we had ever been related. My admiration for educators was challenged and I became disillusioned, dropped out and made my own way in the company of a very liberal, free thinking crowd. That relationship lasted for more than a decade. Glad to report, that I was not emotionally scarred and those memories gave me deeper insight and appreciation for the good in common man than any lecture involuntarily given me by him.
My education, except for a single semester post college, was attained west of the Mississippi, east of the Pacific Ocean, south of the Canadian border and cradled in the bosom of the vast Rocky Mountains along the 42nd parallel. Elementary school was reading, writing and arithmetic plus Spanish, physical education, art and music. Junior high school was an elevated addition of the previous with emphasis in the sciences and home economics. My high school experience must have been moderately interesting as I graduated in the middle percentile of a fairly large class of over one thousand. College was hit and MISS as far as academics but heavy into the social scene. Could have really gone far with a major in music, but the professor had no tolerance for skipping class, so…
Well that's enough back story. Anyway, my choices of expression are pretty much maxed out and are reflective of the successes and failures as mentioned above. My current challenge has nothing to do with what I learned but where I currently reside. Geography and genealogy are great predictors of both the spoken and written word. I blame both currently for my sporadic inability to communicate. Having traveled here and beyond and appreciating the challenges of cultural exchange, I am constantly amazed at the limitless opportunities to mis understand another. Sometimes I wonder, who is doing the mis understanding. So far, compromise and resolution have been my guide.
But as I enter my twilight years, I think I will resolve to just wear the tee shirt which best describes me on a particular day and let the world figure it out. After all, there's little time remaining to argue a point, better to just be a visible representation of my thought processes.
My current fav tee shirt is black with white lettering. It's printed on the front only, has a small graphic of a penguin outline and states "KEEP CALM AND WADDLE ON". That about says it. Time for the younger generation to figure it all out.
Oh, and the phrase which started it all used to be: "Been there, done that, have the tee shirt". But that's not the whole quote. Sometime in 2007, thanks to a posting in "www.alt.music.pinkfloyd.usernet/newsgroup" it continues "…wore a hole in it and now use it as a duster".
Now that's just the right sentiment. It's a mouth full. Don't know if the entire sentence will fit on the front side of the shirt; may need to up size. Need to get that one in several colors. Could come in handy.
Friday, November 27, 2015
Santa's Cookies
Family traditions. Surely you have some. I know I did. The proof is in the attic and on the very top shelf of my pantry.
It's late November and my head and heart are in conflict. It's an annual battle and the deciding vote has (until recently) been cast by my children. That vote being to decorate or not.
For a family where religion is an option, traditional celebrations must remain flexible to accommodate
and validate each person. For years, we opted out of the religious component and it was a good fit. We had a collective spiritual connection within our familial group. We served the community without the constraints of belonging to one belief or purposely limiting our service to others in a pre selected location or physical building.
Thanksgiving and Christmas ran together; sometimes spilling into the new year. In our family, the tree was erected after turkey dinner and my husband stayed out way after dark to finalize stringing the lights. We had live trees and artificial ones on alternating years. We mixed previous year's ornaments with new. The ornaments bought when our children were born were hung at eye level; each year a little higher to compliment the height of each growing child.
The few fragile ornaments passed down to me remained high on the mantle, out of harms reach. The lights were blinking some years. Order and themed decor gave way to an eclectic mixing of favorites. It didn't matter if nothing matched because everyone helped.
And then the day came when it all stopped. The anticipation of the holidays became overwhelming and I know that this came about at the same time I began my own business. The days were long and unpredictable and the last thing I needed was to be uncomfortable in my own home. Everything was "house beautiful" and unlivable. It was like living in some one else's doll house. The chairs were not where chairs should be, the table tops and piano top were covered with red and green, elves and reindeer. Someone had to be home all the time to ensure the tree remained erect and not become the latest chew toy for the dogs or scratching post for the cats.
So everything was put into boxes and stored in the attic. Everything but a very old serving platter in the shape of Santa's face. That special plate was stored with old dog dishes and paper towels on the top shelf of the pantry.
I found it yesterday and finally realized it's purpose.
It's the only tangible item I have from my childhood and it didn't really belong to me until I was 40 years old.
It belonged to my mother's friend, Alice. Alice was my parent's next door neighbor. She was their neighbor when home was a furnished apartment in someone else's garage somewhere in Seattle. When they were newly married and expecting their first child through adoption, Alice was the one who bought all the necessary items to furnish a nursery and surprised them by placing the items in the apartment before we came home. As the story was told to me, the agency called to say that they were going to be parents one day and I came home the next. No time to go shopping, no time to get ready. Who knew the seven year wait would end in such a whirlwind?
Our family of three moved to the midwest and correspondence with Alice came by letter and a single visit one summer. I received birthday gifts for many years from Alice and as she got older she sent me "unbirthday" gifts because she couldn't remember the date anymore. I lost track of her somewhere in my high school years.
When I turned 40, our military life had us living in western Washington. For some unknown reason, I needed to know if Alice was still living. I wanted to meet her again and share that Mom had died and ask questions that only she would be able to answer. I found her excited that I tried to find her and she invited me for a visit.
On a crisp January day, my birthday present to myself was that long afternoon with Alice. Questions were asked and answered, tea and cookies were served for a post lunch snack. She baked the cookies herself stating that cookies baked with love and for a loved one were so much better than store bought. She was absolutely right. She shared pages from treasured photo albums which helped me put the pieces of my life's puzzle together.
Time with her passed much too quickly and it was time for my long drive back. She was fussing about the house, remarking that I must take something; something to remind me how I spent my birthday. Something to remind me of her, after all she was my Auntie Alice.
Her demeanor sweetened and she said "Just a minute, I know the perfect remembrance". She handed me the Santa platter; freshly washed and wrapped in newspaper because she didn't have any gift wrap on hand.
We embraced, and knew that it was the final visit. I cried most the way home. The dish sat on the passenger seat as a constant reminder of the unconditional love which had spanned decades. That love was genuine.
The paint on that beloved platter is beginning to crack and there maybe a chip on Santa's nose, but it's the only cookie plate I will ever use.
As for the holidays, perhaps it's time to bring out the elves and reindeer again and this year, the angel on the top of the tree will have a name - Alice.
It's late November and my head and heart are in conflict. It's an annual battle and the deciding vote has (until recently) been cast by my children. That vote being to decorate or not.
For a family where religion is an option, traditional celebrations must remain flexible to accommodate
and validate each person. For years, we opted out of the religious component and it was a good fit. We had a collective spiritual connection within our familial group. We served the community without the constraints of belonging to one belief or purposely limiting our service to others in a pre selected location or physical building.
Thanksgiving and Christmas ran together; sometimes spilling into the new year. In our family, the tree was erected after turkey dinner and my husband stayed out way after dark to finalize stringing the lights. We had live trees and artificial ones on alternating years. We mixed previous year's ornaments with new. The ornaments bought when our children were born were hung at eye level; each year a little higher to compliment the height of each growing child.
The few fragile ornaments passed down to me remained high on the mantle, out of harms reach. The lights were blinking some years. Order and themed decor gave way to an eclectic mixing of favorites. It didn't matter if nothing matched because everyone helped.
And then the day came when it all stopped. The anticipation of the holidays became overwhelming and I know that this came about at the same time I began my own business. The days were long and unpredictable and the last thing I needed was to be uncomfortable in my own home. Everything was "house beautiful" and unlivable. It was like living in some one else's doll house. The chairs were not where chairs should be, the table tops and piano top were covered with red and green, elves and reindeer. Someone had to be home all the time to ensure the tree remained erect and not become the latest chew toy for the dogs or scratching post for the cats.
So everything was put into boxes and stored in the attic. Everything but a very old serving platter in the shape of Santa's face. That special plate was stored with old dog dishes and paper towels on the top shelf of the pantry.
I found it yesterday and finally realized it's purpose.
It's the only tangible item I have from my childhood and it didn't really belong to me until I was 40 years old.
It belonged to my mother's friend, Alice. Alice was my parent's next door neighbor. She was their neighbor when home was a furnished apartment in someone else's garage somewhere in Seattle. When they were newly married and expecting their first child through adoption, Alice was the one who bought all the necessary items to furnish a nursery and surprised them by placing the items in the apartment before we came home. As the story was told to me, the agency called to say that they were going to be parents one day and I came home the next. No time to go shopping, no time to get ready. Who knew the seven year wait would end in such a whirlwind?
Our family of three moved to the midwest and correspondence with Alice came by letter and a single visit one summer. I received birthday gifts for many years from Alice and as she got older she sent me "unbirthday" gifts because she couldn't remember the date anymore. I lost track of her somewhere in my high school years.
When I turned 40, our military life had us living in western Washington. For some unknown reason, I needed to know if Alice was still living. I wanted to meet her again and share that Mom had died and ask questions that only she would be able to answer. I found her excited that I tried to find her and she invited me for a visit.
On a crisp January day, my birthday present to myself was that long afternoon with Alice. Questions were asked and answered, tea and cookies were served for a post lunch snack. She baked the cookies herself stating that cookies baked with love and for a loved one were so much better than store bought. She was absolutely right. She shared pages from treasured photo albums which helped me put the pieces of my life's puzzle together.
Time with her passed much too quickly and it was time for my long drive back. She was fussing about the house, remarking that I must take something; something to remind me how I spent my birthday. Something to remind me of her, after all she was my Auntie Alice.
Her demeanor sweetened and she said "Just a minute, I know the perfect remembrance". She handed me the Santa platter; freshly washed and wrapped in newspaper because she didn't have any gift wrap on hand.
We embraced, and knew that it was the final visit. I cried most the way home. The dish sat on the passenger seat as a constant reminder of the unconditional love which had spanned decades. That love was genuine.
The paint on that beloved platter is beginning to crack and there maybe a chip on Santa's nose, but it's the only cookie plate I will ever use.
As for the holidays, perhaps it's time to bring out the elves and reindeer again and this year, the angel on the top of the tree will have a name - Alice.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)