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 |   Reflections and ruminations from a modern day Alice - Life is Wonderland |
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Reflections and ruminations from a modern day Alice - Life is Wonderland  Welcome to the place were I chronicle my own falls down dark holes and adventures chasing white rabbits! Come on In, Take a Bite, You Never Know What You May Find... "Curiouser and curiouser." Alice in Wonderland    |
| Once upon a time I wandered a bit farther than I should have from my hotel in Bogota, Colombia and found myself in a tiny makeshift shop of an old woman who worked with clay. I was instantly enchanted by her creations, the intricate details of her tiny donkeys and saints scattered across the folding table. The woman looked to be in her nineties, her fingers were terribly snarled and crooked with age. In my tentative Spanish I asked her if she made them all, gesturing to the figures strew about her. She nodded vigorously, then as if to prove it, she produced a tiny burro from her pocket. I could see the clay was still damp and dark. She began to carve and smooth it, holding it up to show me how she worked the clay with one of her thumbnails. She watched me looking over her wares as I tried to decide what I should take, calculating how many of the delicate pieces I could realistically cart back safety. I had a tiny donkey in each hand when I noticed the nativity behind her. I was immediately struck by the serene expressions on the faces of Mary and Joseph and on the tiny baby Jesus in his crib of straw. It was rustically beautiful. The lines of Mary’s flowing robes and the magical tilt of her face were peaceful and perfectly wrought. In her sweet face one could see all the wonder and mystery of her faith. The touches of white paint on the trim of her hood and the delicate features of her infant were almost magical in their artistry. It was at once both simple and intricate. This nativity had been clearly made, not just by an artist, but by a woman of deep faith and love. It moved me, touched something in spiritual inside me. I put down the donkeys and pointed to the nativity. The woman broke into toothy smile. Without thinking about how I would manage to get such a fragile thing home in one piece, I handed her a twenty dollar bill – almost twice the price she had told me. She produced a roll of bubble wrap and some crumpled newspaper and proceeded to wrap each of the figures with deliberate care. My holy family made it home with me unscathed. Every year since, I have gently unwrapped it and set it out during the Christmas season in a place of honor. Over the years, edges have chipped and some clay has crumbled in places. I am dismayed each year to find more clay dust in the wrappings whenever I unpack the figures. I am the only one who handles it and each year I try my very best to minimize any damage. It has become one of my most treasured heirlooms. It is one of the only things I own that is truly irreplaceable. That is why when I came home that first afternoon and saw the anguish on my mother-in-law’s sweet face, I knew. I knew she had broken something. As much as I silently prayed it wasn’t my beautiful nativity, in my broken heart I knew it was. She had accidently bumped the table and sent Joseph tumbling to the floor. He had been efficiently decapitated, the clay fragments turning to dust on the hardwood floor. She was devastated, asking me over and over if it had been expensive. I assured it that it hadn’t been valuable, and it hadn’t been, at least not in the monetary sense. My daughter’s eyes were like saucers having learned from a very early age that my nativity was never to be touched. She reached for Joseph’s tiny clay head, visibly preparing for the rage she expected was coming. I looked at my mother-in-law in tears and took one very long deep breathe before dismissing her apologies and telling her reassuringly that it was “no problem Mom.” After, I fled to the driveway to shed my private tears and call my husband. He listened, understanding at once the gravity of it all. I believe he must have instantly began combing the internet looking for a replacement sending me pic after pic of nativities that were nothing at all like mine. I told him that was pointless. I knew would never find another like it. I told him how awful she felt. We agreed that he would not to say anything more. The damage was done, it had been an accident and there was no sense in making her feel any worse. I reasoned that at least I still had my beautiful Mary and baby Jesus was still safely stowed away until Christmas Eve. I admitted that we could probably try to reattach Joseph’s head, sans his neck of course, and conceded that perhaps no one would notice his missing hands or nose in dim light. I reasoned, I reassured, I conceded…and I cried. Standing in the driveway in the bitter cold, tears running down my face, I managed to find a surprising element of humor in the event. Suddenly laughing, I told him that how nativity had survived the trek home from South America, three moves, nine years of being packed and unpacked, life with two dogs and a toddler and yet it could not make it through the first 24 hours of his mother’s visit. If that wasn’t ironic, I didn’t know what was. The laughter made my heart hurt less as laughter often does. By the time I went back inside, my mother-in-law and I had both recovered from our grief. I thought the most important thing was that my daughter had her grandmother here for the holidays. I thought about how much that meant and how much more meaningful that was than any Christmas decoration, regardless of how much it might have meant to me. I looked over to the solitary Mary in her corner and saw that the soft glow of the Christmas lights were casting bands of light and shadow over her serene features. She looked as peaceful as always. I love my mother-in-law. Sometimes she is a virtual tornado that knows no bounds…but…I love her. I love that she loves me and my daughter with the same fierceness that she loves her own children. She treats my daughter like the treasure she is and lives every moment of her life to better the lives of her children and grandchildren and asks nothing in return. I am completely and utterly certain this will not be the last thing she breaks, but regardless, I am blessed to call her mother and to share my home and life with her. I welcome the peace of forgiveness and the humility of realizing that in the end, things are still just things. It is our people and our moments with them that are irreplaceable. |
| "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. |
| "Blogging Circle of Friends " DAY 1845: December 4, 2017 Prompt: "Write about something you don't know. And don't be scared, ever." - Toni Morrison. What are your thoughts on this quote? A long time ago I was lucky enough to have taken a creative writing class with author Wally Lamb while he was still teaching at my local high school, before the commercial success of "She's Come Undone" and that life-changing call from Oprah. I remember there was one thing he told us that I still keep with me to this day...he told us to "write about what we know." I've have tried to do that, keeping a grain of truth and personal knowledge running through even my fictional pieces. Even if you are writing about the unknown, some lateral universe like the Upside down in Stranger Things...if you infuse it with details and elements that are familiar to you, of which you have some insight and knowledge, overall it will make your work read with more credibility. If you always come through with a bit of personal expertise or perspective, the readers will have a much easier time of accepting your worlds, your characters and plot lines. One of my favorite authors is James Lee Burke. He has written many novels set in different eras, not all of them ones he has personally experienced. There is enough of his impressions, enough of his experiences and details in those stories that one would think he might have time-traveled. His descriptions of the places and people are so enriched with his own experiences and insights, that they come alive. There is no doubt in my mind that someone could not write so profoundly about the sites and sounds of the such places without having listened to them, seen them, felt them on some molecular level. “The evening sky was streaked with purple, the color of torn plums, and a light rain had started to fall when I came to the end of the blacktop road that cut through twenty miles of thick, almost impenetrable scrub oak and pine and stopped at the front gate of Angola penitentiary.” The Neon Rain, by James Lee Burke "It was the year none of the seasons followed their own dictates. The days were warm and the air hard to breathe without a kerchief, and the nights cold and damp, the wet burlap we nailed over the windows stiff with grit that blew in clouds out of the west amid sounds like a train grinding across the prairie. The moon was orange, or sometimes brown, as big as a planet, the way it is at harvest time, and the sun never more than a smudge, like a lightbulb flickering in the socket or a lucifer match burning inside its own smoke. In better times, our family would have been sitting together on the porch, in wicker chairs or on the glider, with glasses of lemonade and bowls of peach ice cream." Wayfaring Stranger, James Lee Burke There is a fearlessness in Burke and in Lamb that inspire me. The ability to craft rich stories and lace such intimacies through them that we feel at once in step with their characters. These authors are giants in their talent in my humble opinion. I try to be fearless. I try to write without apology. I try to make sure I weave enough of me, enough of what I might know in the fabric of my stories. I don't know if I always succeed but it is one of the things I strive for. "Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise" DAY 1448-- December 4, 2017 Prompt: “The moon stared at me through sprinkled nighttime stardust and I alone smile.” ― Jay Long. On December 3 and 4 this year, we have the Super Moon. What kind of an effect has the full moon on you or some people you know or the characters you create? Given the use-inspiring absolute ripeness of the super moon, its a small wonder that one had never featured prominently in any of my work. As far as moon affecting people, there may be some truth to that. One has to wonder as fragile as human life can be, are we not at mercy to the pulls and tugs of celestial bodies moving in space? Who hasn't at one time or another blamed the irrational behavior of a co-worker, spouse or otherwise on the "full moon"? |
| "Blogging Circle of Friends " DAY 1841 November 30, 2017 I was told this evening happiness has a voice but despair has none. Do you agree or disagree? Can we really have one without the other? Happiness is the full and vibrant voice of a gospel choir. It is the sudden soft giggle of a toddler laughing during a midnight dream. Happiness is the full-throated warble of a 2nd classroom singing Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer. It is the whispered sweet-nothings that float between lovers and the tentative piano notes my daughter coaxes from the keys. Despair has no audible signatures. Despair has no vocalizations. It is creeping and silent. It drowns out all the joyful noises of a happy life. Those who suffer with depression so often do so in a deep, dark silence. "Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise" Day 1444 November 30, 2017 Prompt: There is no place more delightful then one's own fireplace. Write about your thoughts on this. I am a child of winter. My fireplace, though impractical, brings me immense seasonal joy. The first bite of flame makes me happy, that smell of crackling wood instantly calms me. I don't know of any moments more peaceful then the ones that are passed in front of a roaring fire with the heavy New England snow falling outside the darkening windows. i |
| It is a rare and darkening mood I find myself in these days. Usually during the holidays, in all those candied days between Thanksgiving and Christmas, I walk around in some kind of blissful euphoria, giving in to that pleasant anticipation of the warm and happy memory-making to come. These days however, I feel immune to the charms of what has always been my favorite time of year. I feel numb to it. Pedestrian. The initial blossom of joy I felt after setting up the tree and decorations has faded somehow. I try to keep up all the appearances for the sake of my daughter, who has embraced all things Christmas with the unbridled excitement of a second grader. She should not be denied all the wonder of the season, all the joy, all the "feels". It would be tragic if I let my perpetual shadow cast a pale over her holly jolly world. It is somehow fitting that the prompt, on the day I recommitted to blogging (in hopes it would help my slip and slide), would be one about the "Christmas Heart". Writing to prompts is always a challenge and it is through challenges that I have always improved my writing. So....onto today's challenge. "Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise" Day 1443 November 29, 2017 Prompt: "Let us remember that the Christmas heart is a giving heart, a wide open heart that thinks of others first." What are your thoughts on this? It is no secret that people feel naturally open to charity on the holidays. During Thanksgiving and Christmas, the very virtual of the holidays ask us to reflect on our blessings. In that time of reflection and gratitude, many of us are compelled to pay those blessings forward, to pass on the good fortune and help others. In the wake of Cyber Monday, we now have Giving Tuesday. Yesterday my Facebook feed erupted with friends and colleagues promoting causes - a wide array of charities worthy of donations and support. It is easy to have a Christmas heart during the holidays when we are surrounded by warmth and merriment, when we are moved by the spirit of giving. And that is truly wonderful...however, being charitable and openhearted shouldn't be just another part of the holiday season. When we take the tinsel down and put away the new gifts, shouldn't we still think about others? Shouldn't we still be present, be aware, be willing to pay it forward? Should the Christmas Heart just be stowed away in the back of the attic with the artificial tree? I think that for some that may be the case. Certainly it gets harder in this world to remember others when our own struggles become difficult. It is harder to keep that Christmas spirit once the carols fade and the curbs are covered in dirty snow. The challenge for us all as human beings is to maintain that giving and charitable heart all year round. It isn't just about donations either, its about kindness and acceptance. Its about thinking of others and understanding that we may never know the battles that people are fighting inside and so being kind should be our default setting. In this world today, we could all use more random acts of kindness, more year-round Christmas hearts. DAY 1840: November 29, 2017 Prompt: “One can never have enough socks," said Dumbledore. "Another Christmas has come and gone and I didn't get a single pair. People will insist on giving me books.” ― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone What can you never get enough of? Is this something that people don't give you as a gift on a birthday or other gift giving holiday? Over the years one of my favorite gifts to receive were books. I am a very tactile reader. I prefer the rigid bindings, the smell of the paper pages...the experience of crawling into bed with a good book. I have always shunned the e-readers and kindles. I dreamed of having one of those libraries that some mansions have with floor to ceiling shelves and one of those sliding ladders to pursue all the assembled titles. Reality has revealed the impracticality of such a dream. I don't have a room to spare for any such collection. Even the anthologies and magazines in which my own stories appear are relegated to one or two shelves in the closet of our spare room. And while I still love getting a good book for a gift, there is a necessity (and thankfully), a joy in passing it along to someone else to read and enjoy. Books aside, these days I think the one gift I can never get enough of may be time. As a working mom, I have such appreciation when someone tells me take some time for myself. When someone gifts you an hour or two of free time to "just do what you want to do"...its priceless. Having a few hours to myself to do something I want, like read a book, is the best possible gift. |
| "Blogging Circle of Friends " DAY 1785 October 5, 2017 I stumbled across an interesting poem this evening by Marge Piercy called The Moon is Always Female. I've included an excerpt and the link for your reading enjoyment. I'm interested in your reactions to this controversial poem by Marge Piercy The moon is always female and so am I although often in this vale of razorblades I have wished I could put on and take off my sex like a dress and why not? Do men always wear their sex always? The priest, the doctor, the teacher all tell us they come to their professions neuter as clams and the truth is when I work I am pure as an angel tiger and clear is my eye and hot my brain and silent all the whining grunting piglets of the appetites. Growing up I always heard the stories of the man in the moon, that winking charlitan in the night sky. How more fitting is it to believe the moon to be truly female instead? Who could dispute that the harvest moon, glowing with rich and fertile promise, is not ripe and feminine? The crescent moon, shaded and obscure can draw our gaze like that of a dancing, mysterious woman. The moon in all her stages, hangs above the world ever present and unwavering even as the sky shifts moods and violent weather paints the landscape. "Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise" Day 1299 October 5, 2017 Prompt: A man dressed in 18th Century clothes, driving a fancy, black carriage pulled by 4 beautiful black horses arrives at your door and says he is here to take you to see someone special. What happens next? Elsa raised her head from her book. Her tea had gone cold and the fire had burned down to just the faintly glowing embers. The story had been captivating and she had lost time in the tale. It was surprising because Elsa had never been a fan of period novels or films. She closed the book and drew the fleece blanket around her shoulders. Suddenly Barton raised his wide head began to growl, he heard something. Elsa did too. She pulled herself to her feet and went to the bay window, drawing back the lace curtain. She had a visitor, a very unexpected one at that. The black carriage was polished to a high gloss. It was drawn by four immense black Frisian horses. The man at the reins wore a burgundy tailed coat with elaborate gold brocading and his starched white wig was tied in a ribbon at the base of his neck. His gold silk trousers ended just above his knees. He wore striped stockings and delicate heeled shoes with blazing gold buckles on the arch. Elsa's first thought was this was someone's wedding chariot and he was horribly lost. She stepped out on her stoop as the horses pulled up short and the man swung himself down. He startled Elsa by dropping to one knee and bowing, his hands clasped behind his back. He stood up and extended his hand. "Are you ready?" He asked. Elsa stared at the black beauty mark on his right cheekbone and the heavy liner around his hazel eyes. He was handsome under all the pomp and fancy gobbledygook. "You must be lost, who is it you are looking for?" Elsa asked. "You, Elsa." He insisted. "You should have dressed a little warmer, the carriage is sturdy but a bit drafty I'm afraid." Stunned to silence, Elsa allowed herself to be lead inside the black carriage while Barton began to bark and toss himself against the bay window in protest. The interior of the carriage was lushly appointed in black and cherry velvet seats. Candles set inside gold lanterns cast everything in an amber glow. The wood floors below her slippers were polished to the same rich gloss of the carriage's exterior. With a jolt, the horses came to life and Elsa's mysterious journey began. |
| "Blogging Circle of Friends " DAY 1783 October 3, 2017 “A myth... is a metaphor for a mystery beyond human comprehension. It is a comparison that helps us understand, by analogy, some aspect of our mysterious selves. A myth, in this way of thinking, is not an untruth but a way of reaching a profound truth.” ~Christopher Vogler Do you agree or disagree? What's your favorite myth? The myths that I find most intriguing are those that pertain to things that are lost or undiscovered be they relics or mystical objects, monsters or cities. It is an exciting prospect to think that some of the greatest treasures and discovers are still out there, waiting to be revealed in all their mystical glory. It evokes a sense of adventure to think about pursuing quests like finding the Fountain of Youth, the treasure of the Knights Templar or the lost city of Atlantis. There are droves of people who take up the charge to discover if Bigfoot is hiding out in the great forests and mountains of the Northwest. Their belief and conviction can be contagious, even among the staunchest skeptics. Can Nessy really still be alive in that cold, deep Loch Ness? People clamber to the shores with their equipment and cameras to try to find out. And why not? What a fabulous notion that with all our technology and advancement, something fascinating and marvelous still eludes us? Who wouldn't welcome the discovery with a childish sense of wonder? To think that there are no great mysteries left in the world is a sad and tragic prospect. "Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise" DAY 1296--October 3, 2017 Prompt:What is your most memorable airplane or airport experience, and what do you think of air travel, in general? I work in the aviation industry. My exposure started from the time I was a child, toddling across hanger floors and airport ramps. Now, two decades later, the whine of jet engines and smell of MEK are the smells and sounds of my personal landscape. When I was an young and avid adventurer, I enjoyed flying. I loved the sensation of climbing above the clouds, the way my stomach bumped along with the air pockets. As I grew older, the prospect of flying appealed to be less and less. Perhaps it was walking past the aircraft in the shop in various states of disassembly and repair that began to weigh on my psych. It may have been the fall out from the tragedy of having lost two very good clients in terrible crashes that turned me into a reluctant flyer. Whatever the reasons, these days I fly very little, surprising in my line of work. I manage to keep my feet fairly grounded even as I celebrate our client's shiny new aircraft purchases. I can still revel in their passion and excitement, even if I myself can no longer fully relate to it. As far as the rest of it goes, I love this industry. I love being in the hanger after our techs have gone home and walking among the shadows of the silent fuselages - breathing in the scents of spent oil, adhesives and new leather. I love getting to work early, and watching the sun rise of the wide expanse of the ramp. Or, staying just late enough in the evening to have the outside lights buzz and blink to life around me. I love hearing the heavy thud, thud, thud of a helicopter starting up or the rumble as an old piston fires up. I love the sleek and sexy way the single engine turboprops stalk off and on the ramp all day long, their owners grinning behind the yoke. I don't have to fly to love flying nor do I have to be a pilot to appreciate man's desire to command the skies. This is the industry that is home to me. It runs in my blood. After more than twenty years, I can't imagine doing anything else. |
| "Blogging Circle of Friends " DAY 1775: September 25, 2017 Prompt: Write about a September sunset. The evening sky is dyed in heavenly shades of rose and tangerine. The colors ripen with the approaching twilight, leaking from the fluorescent sun and stretching across the horizon, painting the delicate strands of clouds in the celestial shades of autumn. September sunsets rarely disappoint. Coupled with the new evening chill and the crisp scent of Fall on the wind, it makes the New England nights magical, full of mystery and pumpkin-flavored promises of hayrides and grinning jack-o-lanterns. |
| This past weekend my father married his beautiful Joy during a brief stay on Block Island. It has been a few days and now that my routine has settled back into a familiar schedule, I find myself looking back on the entire event and reflecting on just how special of a weekend it truly was. Admittedly I had my reservations about how we were all going to survive under the same roof for more than two days. Harmonious family vacations were never our thing growing up. Our time together seemed to always be marred by aggressive sunburns, bickering, broken down campers, errant fireworks and copious amounts of strawberry yo-hoo vomit (I shudder with that particularly graphic memory) Nevertheless we packed our bags, boarded ferry and plane, and all headed out to the destination wedding on the island. I had known the ceremony would be beautiful and the scenery picturesque - what I hadn't anticipated was how many simply amazing moments we would share together, how much fun we would have and how blessed I would feel connecting with these people. As a family, we fell in love with Joy right in step with my father. For me, she was someone I understood loved my Dad for all the right reasons, loved him for exactly who he was - the smart and gentle man, the loving father and grandfather. My father had found a true companion in Joy and it was wonderful to see their natural fondness and affection shape their life together. Our family just absorbed Joy; her kindness, her generosity and her loving nature. In a remarkably short time, it was as if she had always been there pulling together feasts on the holidays, readily joining in our games, cheering our successes, adoring and doting on the grandkids and making all of us feel welcomed and loved. Knowing that both her and my Dad had gone through lengths and no small expense to get us all there together, meant the world to us. The intimacy of sharing their special day was very touching, something I know we will all treasure having been part of. The fallout from their lovely nuptials was that it brought our families together for a few days, isolated as we were in our temporary home. High in the hills of Block Island, my daughter had unfettered access to her cousins, her Aunts and Uncle and loving grandparents. The kids were amazing. I don't think anyone had to raise their voice or reprimand them all weekend. They chased, swam and played games until they ran out of steam and collapsed together on bean bag chairs and couches. They rallied at the wedding, getting dressed up and posing for all the pictures with wide smiles and no complaints. They were attentive and serious in their ceremonial duties. At the end of the ceremony, my father turned and scooped them up in an embrace, crushing them all together against his chest as they squirmed and giggled. Later, my Dad would chase them all over the house as they screamed with mock terror and delight - offering up each other up as a sacrifice to his mercilessly tickling fingers. After the boys had gone to bed, my Dad beckoned my sleepy daughter onto his lap where she curled up and cuddled against him, clearly relaxed and contented in the arms of one of the people she loves most in the world. Aside from the kids, the adults got to spend time enjoying the rarity of leisurely pursuits together. We started our cocktailing early, ate well and stayed up late laughing around the fire pit and dancing on the lawn. We poised for photos, drank too much, had loud sometimes inappropriate conversations and delighted in the opportunities to be fun and silly. We discovered my sister-in-law is something of a secret 80's hip hop connoisseur who loves to dance and that Joy's daughter Jess is willing and eager to join in on all our crazy ideas and obnoxiously staged photo shoots. I got to spend time with my sister, a beautiful thing since our lives rarely afford us many opportunities to just hang out and have fun together. She and my husband get along famously well and the brief excursions the three of us took the bluffs and to a remote sunset beach remains some of my most favorite times of the entire weekend. I write to preserve my most treasured memories in the best way I know how. This weekend was so full of wonderful memories it was hard to pick just a few to highlight in this blog. Certainly there were many I missed, like helping Joy get ready for the wedding or Jess's perfectly tailored ceremony or telling raunchy jokes with my one of my Dad's best friends and even catching a few moments to read in the sun while my daughter and husband slept in. I loved the way I always woke to find Dad in the kitchen churning out breakfast like a short order cook like he did when we were kids. Or the way the girls and I raced into action to when we thought the outside wedding plan might get washed away and the look on Joy's face when she realized we would do whatever it took to make things right for their wedding. Overall I found myself looking around at the faces of my family, those with whom I share blood and those that are more recent recruits - and thinking....I really love being with these people (even my brother who woke us all up too early and attended at least one meal in just his boxer briefs to my sister's abject horror). These people are my family and they are pretty damn great. They are my tribe and I do love them.  |
| "Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise" Day 1209 July 6, 2017 Prompt: "In language gentle as thine own: whispering in enamored tone sweet oracles of woods and dells and summer winds in sylvan cells." Percy Bysshe Shelly. Let this quote inspire your Blog Writing today. This quote immediately evokes the sensations I experienced as a child vacationing in coastal Maine. In the early years of my father's business, we spent several weeks visiting his business partner's family compound in the offshore community of Vinalhaven, Maine. We had to take a boat to get out to the island where the main house and cottage were situated. It seemed a very isolated and rare experience for me back then. The first morning there, I wandered away from the green expanse of the main house lawn and into the silent, coastal forest. I found myself in a place of enchantment. The pine woods smelled sweet and clean. The beds of moss covering the ground and rock were soft enough to sink to my ankles in. It was eerily quiet and the light filtered down from the canopy and pooled in golden patches of light. The forest seemed to swallow me, and I felt strangely at peace in its dark, dense folds. Years later, I lived for a time just outside Bar Harbor, Maine when my company purchased a business in Ellsworth, Maine. My commute each morning would take me past postcard scenery with lush rolling hills and glimpses of the deep blue water of Somes Sound. On my free days I would wander into Acadia national park. The loop rode delivered me to breathtaking vistas of the rustically beautiful Maine coast and beaches where the water was clear and still like a mirror. There was a special connection for me in all the places where the stoic pine trees met with rocky coastline. I would stand in the ankle deep tide pools, in water that was numbing cold, and just gaze out and the stunning landscape painted with the rich, warm light of the early morning sun. It isn't hard to believe that coastal Maine in the sweet months of summer is truly crafted by the hands of God.  |
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