When you wake there will be sun: there is always sunshine somewhere, even if we cannot see it above us

 

When you wake in the morning there will be sun, and you will forget. Rod McKuen inspired me many years ago when I read that phrase in a poem, which I believe I “stole” and paraphrased (since I cannot find the poem anywhere now, only my own version of it), memories have a way of doing that; they are not exactly as we remember. I think we sugar-coat and remember things to be more golden than they were – or opposite to that, maybe worse than we remember. That is our choice; we are meaning makers, and we must remember our own truths. Regardless of the validity of that maybe line from Rod McKuen, I started reading his poetry when I was young, via my mother. Mom loved him, and at first, I did just because she did, but then he became my savior and poetic role model in many ways. I loved pouring over the books mom had read and loved; I still do. It is like consuming comfort food in a way. I loved holding the books she held which had meaning to her. I was not sure why that was, and I am still not, but it kept me reading and learning and trying to comprehend life through her older, wiser eyes. When I came across certain lines and phrases in books she had underlined, I found myself lost in thought about what she was thinking when she read that line and why it stood out enough to underline words or passages. That is part of the thrill of reading older books to me; pre-read, pre-used, previewed. It is a continual inspiration passed on to me from my mother; and I suspect, passed on to her from her mother.

There was sun streaming in my window when I woke this morning. I think that is what triggered those memories of poetry lines in me. It is rare I wake after the sun has risen. It is not late; just 7:23 am right now, and I wandered through the house opening blinds, taking morning medicines, making coffee, feeding the kitties. I started my computer to jog down those thoughts. It is not late at all, but it is a rare treat to wake after the sun comes up. In fairness, I did get up earlier, pre-dawn, and washed my face and brushed my teeth, but it was chilly, and it is Saturday, and I snuggled back into bed telling myself it’s ok, Kim. It is not the death penalty to sleep a little longer. When I was a teen, I was not allowed to laze around in bed till noon, like so many of my friends. It was wasteful to start the day half-gone. It became a habit, and then after many, many years of leaving my house before 6 am it has ingrained in me the habit of waking early each day, even when I stay up late (last night, midnight) and it is the weekend, without the need to rise early. It’s just a quirky oddity of mine. Or maybe it’s not, it’s just part of who I am.

There were times when my life first blew apart that I would wake as always, glad to be waking to another day of love and life. I would see the sun starting to glow around the cracks of the drawn blinds, and momentarily, the world was right and gorgeous. I would stretch langourously and smile into the morning, and then in the next instant, life and memory would hit me like a hammer and my body would become tense, and fear would slide back into me as I faced the day - the rest of my life - alone. For that glorious split second upon first waking, it would all be beautiful and glowing like the rising sun, then it all become shuttered and would rock my world in such an oppressive, sad way. That happened a lot over many years. That bleakness would fill me that the sun was rising on me alone in the house built with so much love. How to fill those days and even longer nights. I worked. I kept busy; I rarely stopped moving – which is a detriment to me now; habits ingrained over such a long period of time that I can barely remember how to truly relax and let go. I cried a lot. But I stepped forward each day because there was no other true choice. Poetry helped me then. Reading it and writing it; some beautiful still, some, not so great. Reading Rod McKuen again and again. I couldn’t listen to music for a long time; the lyrics slayed me for a time - the poetry of them and how they sounded in my ears and touched my heart. Reading and writing poetry was ok because it was read in my own head and my own inside voice; not heard in the plaintive sound of someone else’s voice filled with love and pain and joy. I also couldn’t watch television or movies for the longest time. I am slightly better at it now, but not really. Years of habit create other new habits.

Today there is mostly sunshine in my heart each time I wake, even when there is darkness outside and all around. Each day is hopeful, even in these turbulent times. This morning’s sun was a pleasantry I did not consider last night when I fell asleep.

The first night we spent in this house was in early February. We tacked up blankets to the front windows and left the back wide open (which opens to the prairie and empty acreage even now, all these years later), and we were thrilled. The wider-than-normal 10-foot sliding glass door on the back opens to the porch and faces southeast, and the front windows which are double, open to the northwest. There is light in this house always, and it is a bit like living in a fishbowl, especially at night. We had accomplished so much together, and the new house was a true joy to us both. We were proud of our accomplishments, and we were happy, although there were shadows already there which neither of us saw coming. After the sadness we had lived through, though, with losing our longed-for baby, knowing that no more would come to us; it was still hard to not look forward into the sunshine of a new chapter of life together. As always, I woke very early. Steve slept - our mattress was on the floor, the pieces of the bed piled all around the room. The house was much the same - still fairly empty as we slowly moved our lives from the old house in the front of the property to the new house 75 feet behind the old. Friends were coming to help us load and haul our belongings over. It was shiny, brand new and so filled with sunshine on that early February morning; sunshine for new beginnings and sunshine filling the actual day itself. But for that emblazoned moment in time, it was just me, in a sunshine filled house, wandering, watching the sun create gorgeous patterns on the walls, the cabinets, the boxes and things piled around. I made note of it, mentally. It was one of those truly magical, perfect moments and I never wanted to forget. It was February 6th. An interesting date to commemorate; that date is ingrained in my soul as a glorious memory from a previous sunshine filled morning while I was in college; a story for another day. Each time February 6th rolls around after another trip around the sun, I cannot help but think of sunshine, hope, promise - the future. Today is March 8th, but the slant of the sun coming in the sliding glass door and the dancing shadows it creates cannot help but remind me of happiness and hope.

Bad things happen. Good things happen. It is all about the balance of life. I knew, early in life, that is how it would be. Good and bad. Sunshine and rain. Happiness, sorrow. All of us experience it at different times in different ways. One of the biggest lessons I learned from living my life the best I can over the years is that we must appreciate those little moments of joy. No one can take away those moments if we believe in them, and although it is hard to dredge up the sunshine when there’s rain, it does help. This morning is filled with sunshine, and I am so grateful for the reminder to look forward to it. Yes, bad things are happening in our world, and in our country. There is a lack of hope and promise especially here in America – regardless of which side of the fence you stand on. The only thing I can personally control is myself. I can choose to shine my own light on each day, in each moment I can. In the morning when you wake there will be sun, and you will forget. Time passes. My great-grandmother used to say, honey, in twenty years you will not remember this moment. Life will have moved on. None of us have crystal balls and can see or predict the future. We can only live in this moment, then the next, and the next shining our lights as long and often as we can.

Librarianship today- defunding public education

When I was a little girl my mom and her best friend discussed the future they saw for their children. I have no memory of this, but mom and Donna both repeatedly told me many times that they always saw me becoming a librarian. I, of course, said ew - no! Librarians wear ugly shoes, they have stodgy hair and they “shush” people! Of course, eventually, it turned out they were right, but I had to sow a lot of oats to see that they were. Sadly, neither of them lived to see their prophecy come true.
Donna died first in 1999, then we lost mom in 2005. I often think of at the two of them up in heaven, wherever that might be, laughing their breathy laughs, smoking their cigarettes, drinking cup after cup of coffee reminding each other, that yes, of course they were right; Kim is a librarian. When mom died, I floundered; what to do with my life? I was fairly new at being single but I persevered, and despite the struggle, I allowed myself to finish college and I earned a BA in Humanities. I worked at Barnes and Noble during that time, but really did not see that as being the be-all-end-all of career moves (in all honesty, B&N was one of my favorite ever jobs, and I worked for them at three locations over a period of 16 years in total, from part-time bookseller, to department manager, to Children’s manager, then back to part time). But what to actually DO with that BA? About 6 months after mom died it hit me like a lightening bolt - I should go back to school to seek a Masters degree in Library Science. BN offered me a lateral promotion to a pilot managerial program as Children’s Department Manager, and they paid a certain amount of my college tuition; for that I will always be grateful. Because my BA was in Humanities I thought I would pursue a career at a museum in some library capacity. Just on a whim I decided to take a course in children’s literature, and then another. My professor said that I was a true children’s librarian, and I scoffed - nope; never gonna work in a school, no way, no how. She insisted, and then it so happened that another BN windfall came my way and a friend at another store recommended me to a private school in Tampa…and before I knew it I was hired with four classes left to obtain my degree. That was not something I ever planned to do or be. Librarian - let alone a children’s librarian in an actual school! It’s funny how life happens sometimes, and it turns out I am pretty ok as a children’s librarian. The job at the private school did eventually play out after six years; the school decided to go another route with their library, and I was not qualified to teach reading, so I moved on to the public school sector. I moved on from a private school setting to a Title 1 high needs school. I never really looked back. I loved the kids in the private school; a lot of them were readers, and they had so much loving support from their families; reading to them, sharing books with them, supporting them was easy. Their parents were lovely to me and it was a wonderful adventure. The public school was a different sort of adventure. The children did not have all their basic needs met. Many of them lived below poverty level, some were homeless, many did not have power or running water, or safe places to live. They were a completely diverse group with a variety of stories that were often so heart-wrenching. I discovered that my capacity to truly love and care for them invested my heart and soul to them. It was never easy, and could often be frustrating. Truthfully, meeting their reading and education needs often looked and felt more like supporting and encouraging them in an environment that they could feel safe in. As a librarian, exposing them to stories and books was always my goal, but sometimes a hug or a word of encouragement and letting them know I cared was all I could accomplish. I’d like to think that I made a difference in their lives, but as an educator, you cannot always see what seeds you have sown.
That school closed this past year. It wrenched my heart. Of course, I worried about myself, but, I am a highly educated adult with a solid career path behind me. Mostly, I was devastated for the kids. What would happen to them? Our school was their home, their safety net. We loved and supported them in every single way possible - which is another whole story all in itself. The children ended up being bused to other schools a few miles from their little neighborhood school. Many think, oh, they’ll be fine; they’ll still be offered an education. But, truthfully, school is not just a brick and mortar place of learning. I was fortunate enough to have grown up in a small village in central upstate New York. I learned that school is about reading, writing, learning math, yes, but it is also about learning how to become a member of a community, becoming a part of society. It is about learning how to behave, watching others for clues, knowing that you are supported, even if not at home, by educators who love you above all else, and truly care what happens to you. If you do not always have access to those things at home, school is a place where you can find out how to fit in, how to be. Because the students at my former (inner city) school are bused now, it cuts back on their ability to participate in the school community for athletics or family events, all those things which help a student become a more well-rounded individual. Most of the parents don’t have cars; they would walk their children to school, or, if bused, the bus ride was a short distance from their homes. I try so hard not to dwell on the future of those kiddos, but honestly, I do still think of them often and wonder how so-and-so is holding up. How are they doing in this current political environment as we all deal with the fall-out being handed down to us. I worry daily for their futures. I was invested in them and what will become of them.
A public school education is the only answer for so many children in America today. I am a product of a public school education, and I am proud of that fact. Even as I type this there are people up in Washington working very hard to defund public education and to throw away all those services the students at my old school relied on so heavily, and truthfully, not just Title 1 schools but ALL schools. School is so much more than just brick and mortar locations; this is the only hope some of these kids will have to do better in their lives than what has been handed to them. People who have never worked in education say, enh, so what? It will be in the hands of the state; teachers complain too much. Parents can put them in charter schools, or public schools or magnet schools. It is not that easy, and it is not what is best for them in any way, shape or form. Parents do not all have equal knowledge of the options before them.
What started this train of thought was an encounter with some fourth graders today. My new school is lovely. It is a mixture of families, many like I had in my private school setting, but, because it is now an “older” Tampa neighborhood (still in “new” Tampa), the population has shifted, as happens as communities expand and grow outward. More affordable housing has been built, and families who do want better for their kids move in the this A-school neighborhood. Today a fourth grader I made a connection with earlier in the school year returned after being gone a few months. He was so excited to come to the library and hugged me twice! Now - he is taller than me! His joy made me happy and I was glad to see him. He reminds me of some of the students I had in past years. Always eager to please, yet still testing the waters of life. He has a look-alike in this same class, and the two stood side by side and it made me smile. The kids were all gathering close to the door; it was time to line up to leave, and the others were gathering their things and chattering excitedly about lots of things. Someone pointed out a few new books I had on display for Black History month; biographies on Kamala Harris and Barack Obama. (Yes, I have a book representing Donald Trump, but it is in the biography section and not on this particular display). One of the boys said Ms. Fields….do you think Kamala would be a good president? Now. As a librarian, as an educator I am not going to put my own opinions on display; my job is to present facts and information and let the kids make their own decisions, and not tell them how to think or feel. I said to him, a better question might be, do YOU think Kamala would be a good president? He told me no. He said that his reasons were that she was greedy and only wanted power and money. And I replied, ok, then there is your answer, and you very much made up your own mind on that. He was pleased, and I was pleased for him feeling safe and able to say what he thought. A few other boys were close by; I am not sure if they heard him or were voicing their own opinions to his question, but they all said in agreement with each other that they think she would have been a good president because Trump is a racist. And then they were all out the door. Oh. Wow. Now race does not pertain, yet, it truly does in this case; all five of these boys in this discussion are black. Kids are kids. They parrot their parents. They make their own opinions; they see what they see and pretty much say it as they see it. I thought of this all day long. Just the difference of opinion, how one sees it one way and another yet a different way. They both stated their thoughts without interference from me or from their classroom teacher. That is the country I was raised in. To be able to state what you think, and to listen to what others think. My job as a librarian is to have materials on hand for the kids, to not interject my own thoughts and opinions, and to make them feel safe. If public education is defunded and if state’s become the holders of the entire purse-string of education, states like Florida will flounder in so many of these policies and children like my boys today will not feel so safe in their learning environments. Public education in states who make more of an investment in educating students in a free democracy will be far safer at producing more well-rounded children. It really gives me a lot of food for thought

Standing up for what we deem is right; Harold Lauder was misled

 I do not want my Substack or blog to become a political outlet. I want to keep it safe for stories, anecdotes and things which are on my mind as I continue on through my life, whichever version of myself I am up to now. But I have to say, today my mind is full of political chatter and it’s hard to stay quiet during a time we need to stand up for what we believe in and take charge of our lives. I feel justice is not being fairly or kindly served. So for today I will take a small stand and say what is on my mind.

My favorite fiction book has long been Stephen King’s The Stand. In both the movie and book, the character of Harold Lauder is a major antagonist. He is young when the plague hits, and he and Fran are left alone in their hometown seeking others to commune with. Harold realizes that they cannot stay put, and need to seek the company of others. He is clever and inventive, almost fearless, but, he is also pompous and pretentious. All he really wants is for Fran to love and cherish him. Harold has a chance to do well in the new society that is formed whenever the survivors gather in Boulder, but Randall Flagg, the main antagonist of the story, recognizes Harold’s weakness for Fran and a desire for power, and he plays upon Harold’s basic desires of the heart. Harold, along with help from Nadine Cross, Flagg’s intended bride, creates a bomb to destroy the leaders of the new community. When Harold and Nadine flee Boulder after the detonation, Harold meets with a devastating accident which leaves him alive but in a state of which he will not survive; he served his purpose and Flagg wants him gone. Too late, Harold realizes he could have been an important leader in the new community and could have been someone special if he had not let his jealousies and insecurities take over his emotions. Before he commits suicide, he writes a note seeking forgiveness. He writes “And when the end comes, and when, it is as horrible as good men always knew it would be, there is only one thing to say as all those good men approach the Throne of Judgement: I was misled.”

I have been thinking of Harold Lauder since last night when I read about the happenings in our country this weekend; the purposeful ruination and antagonism of trade alliances with our two closest neighbors. I’ve been picturing some of these major players showing remorse one day and saying you know what; I was wrong - I was misled. I’ve been thinking of how the control of the finances of our government has been handed over to a non-elected, non-government official and several college students with no experience or training in having such access to the veins of the country. Today I am thinking of students not coming to school because of raids of ICE preying upon their illegal status. These are children who are innocent; children who deserve a future, and whose parents sought out a better life here in America. The majority of immigrants are not criminals doing harm to others. They just want to make a life in America. They should be safe here and they are not. It should be enough that they just want a better life and are working hard to obtain it. So many Americans are not safe today; if they identify as a different gender from which they were born, if they love someone of the same sex as they, if their skin and pedigree are not “white” enough. Even those of us born as women - our rights are being stripped away by a political force who consider the general American people “not enough” on any playing field; none of us who are not white males are safe right now. Government employees are threatened with dismissal if they are not loyal enough to a misogynistic, racist, bigoted tyrant. I am not one to call names, and I do not believe in it. I have not stooped to that in my past nor will I in my future. I believe these labels are not name calling. It is stating obvious facts. Those who dominant right now tell us it is going to get rough before it gets better. But I can promise that those who are saying that it will get rougher are not going to experience what the majority of Americans will face as hardship going forward; skyrocketing food prices, rent, mortgages, insurance; the cost of living; these have little significance or impact on those who are majorly wealthy already. The wealthy stand to gain even more wealth if the trajectory of things continues as it is. The wealthy become wealthier and the division between financial security and poverty increases dramatically.

To paraphrase Stephen King and Harold Lauder - so many of us are being misled. What is happening in our country is not being supported or approved of by many citizens of our country. We are being thrown into chaos, and no one is able to keep any of it straight anymore. America is supposed to be the home of the free and the brave. We are supposed to embrace diversity, equity, and justice for all. It seems to me that a witch hunt is happening all around us, and those of us who are not white enough, not of cookie cutter religiosity, who are not “straight” enough are being condemned just by existing. I am truly terrified for the America in which I grew up; I am terrified to see the writing on the wall and the fear in which so many of us live right now.

I believe in hope. I believe in always trying to see the rainbow through torrential rain. I believe in kindness and love and honesty. I will not change myself through this metamorphosis we are living through. I believe life is a pendulum and what goes up truly has to come down. That is the cycle of life. I saw a meme the other day of Ruth Bader Ginsberg saying almost this identical thing. Maya Angelou once quoted a country song and said that every storm runs out of rain, and it is true. It is hard to watch, hard to stay hopeful, hard to believe the rain will stop, but I believe we have to. Personally, I can change nothing in this world except myself. Mel Robbins coined “Let Them”. Let them do as they will; I cannot change them or anyone else. I can be patient, kind and honest but I cannot be silent because the time for sitting in silence is beyond us now. What I think and feel has no impact on anyone but myself, and I refuse to stoop to a level where I cannot be kind, yet I also believe in standing up and using my voice the best I can. To be silent and say nothing is to allow others to change me, and my choice is to say what I believe to be true.

Grandma Willow; Trees hold the secrets to our lives

When I was very young, we took many small day trips, to places like Santa’s Workshop and the Enchanted Forest in the Adirondacks. I remember going to Wellesley Island, which is technically still in New York state, but on the St Lawrence right on the Canadian border. I remember seeing the river in all its majesty – crossing the 1000 Island bridge entrance to the island just before the border crossing. The river was huge in my young eyes, and in fact, it really IS huge and beautiful; it is truly a sight to behold. I remember riding in my mom’s station wagon, windows down, music playing, the wind rushing in smelling of the river and fresh air and sunshine. I think what cements that memory the most is the memory of being stung by a bee. A bee just innocently flying by got sucked into the crosswinds of the car, landed on me and stung my ear – like a piercing. I shrieked, my mom got mad because I scared her – then was empathetic and pulled over to be sure I was ok. I remember going to Panther Lake, where my aunt and uncle had a camp, going to Hyde Lake every year with a group of my parents’ friends in the fire department. And always, Black Lake. My aunt Leona had an old camp up there that she bought in the 1950’s. It was 2 hours northeast of Phoenix, where I grew up, and as a kid the ride seemed so much longer than when I could drive myself there later on in my teens. My mom would pack us up when we were little, drive north and we would sleep in old surplus army tents set up close to the lake. We used an old outhouse, and we bathed in the lake with Prell shampoo and bars of floating Ivory Soap. To this day the smell of old canvas, campfires and Ivory soap take me back to those days, and I now and then buy Prell shampoo to bring back the memories. My cousins and I would pile all together at night in the tents like puppies to sleep and our moms would drink their cocktails around the campfire. It was rustic and glorious. After my parents’ divorce, we still went to Hyde Lake, and we still visited Black Lake, and my dad and Carole ended up buying our camp off Mitchell Rd (always and forever known to us as The Lake). For all my youth and teenaged years summers at Black Lake were truly magical. We could swim, fish (but, if we caught them and kept them, we had to clean them, and my aunt would freeze them for poor-man’s-shrimp when enough of those tiny fish were gathered, so, the older we got the less we fished there were more important ways to spend our days!). We would at first row around our little cove, until we were gifted small outboard motors which allowed us the freedom to be kids on a lake, exploring every nook and cranny we felt like exploring. We would roam the dusty old unpaved roads, venturing off into the woods and exploring the rocky surfaces scratched out and left behind by ancient glaciers. At first, we lived in a travel trailer, upgraded to a single wide trailer, and then it evolved into a double wide. The Lake is still a glorious place to me; it is my safe-haven, my slowing-down place. It is home and it is in my heart and my soul.

One of the best parts of Black Lake is the old willow down at the water’s edge. Years ago, a swing with a heavy chain was installed and it is one of the first places I go when I get back to the lake and I can kick off my shoes and drift down barefoot, connecting to the earth again. It makes my soul smile. The ancient, huge willow at the water’s edge – I call her Grandma Willow, has seen well over a century of seasons. We know she dates to pre-Civil War; when we first began clearing the property one of my family members discovered documents near her base that date back to those days; I have no idea where those documents are now, but it is a true family legend that they exist, and that Grandma Willow is very old. Imagine if she could tell stories, what she could tell?

I love laying on the ground under her branches and looking up to the sky. She spreads her arms like a giant hug hovering over me, and she brings me comfort and joy. I imagine myself sinking into the ground under her, sinking down into her roots where she clings to life in the cold earth where the bedrock meets the water and her tentacles of life stretching far and wide under me like a superhighway filled with nutrients to heal and help her continue to grow. She has lost some large limbs over the years; branches folded and cracked under the extreme cold and snow of the northern tier of New York state just a few miles from the Canadian border. She sheds small limbs often, yet every year she puts out new limbs and leaves, persistently clinging to life. She is magical, consistent, constant in an ever changing, fast-paced world.

“I like trees because they seem more resigned to the way they have to live than other things do. I feel as if this tree knows everything I ever think of when I sit here. When I come back to it, I never have to remind it of anything; I begin just where I left off.”

― Willa Cather, O Pioneers!

I recently came across this anonymous quote – “Accept what is, let go of what was, and have faith in what will be.” It seems to me that there is comfort in Grandma Willow knowing everything I think, as she holds space for me. In a constantly changing fast-paced world it is perfection to sit a bit under Grandma Willow’s branches and accept what is and to let go of what was. Grandma Willow brings me comfort and hope. Last time I was home I gathered a few pieces of bark she had shed. It is here in my home, on my small devotional altar. She continues to bring me joy, wisdom and comfort and helps me cope with this world, until I can be in her living presence again.

Anniversaries - Moments Meant to Be

 

June 15, 2024

There are days to be commemorated. June 14 is one of them in my world. It marks, for me, the day my life turned in this direction to the here and the now - 43 years ago, We roll along in our lives never really knowing we are changing course. Is it changing course, or just really going in the direction we are meant to be in? Rarely do we know in a moment that yes, this is huge; this will send me in the right direction; exactly where I am meant to be.

When I was seven years old I had my first true epiphany. It was a moment of awakening, of pure consciousness. I have memories, or flashes of them, really, of moments prior to this seven year old awakening, but this was my first real conscious memory of being alive. I remember sitting at my desk in school; 2nd grade. At that moment as I sat, I remember the feeling of knowing. Of sitting there, feeling my legs dangling off the hard desk chair, hands clasped in front of me (I was such a good girl; a rule follower, especially back then). I knew without doubt that I was alive. It sounds crazy, perhaps. But it was as if the switch of life got turned on in my mind. I knew without a doubt that it was huge, I knew in every fiber of myself that at that moment I was truly alive, that I had a consciousness and it was awake. I knew the feel of the tights on my legs, the bend of my knees and the feel of the chair beneath my knees and under my bottom. I remember a deep knowing that I would always remember that moment of awakening, and I have. A lightbulb moment. I’ve thought of it so often throughout all the years since, and I imagine I have written about it, too. It was significant, though at the time I had no idea really what it all meant. There have been a lot of moments in time that have remained for me. The awful moment when my mother’s husband touched me the first time and I knew it was wrong. I remember a photo moment with Steve that first summer taken under a tree in my aunt’s front yard. I remember the feel of my favorite coral terry cloth one piece outfit, the warmth and hardness of his arm draped across my shoulders - our feet bare, the sun on our skin, love, youth and beauty on our faces. I remember the feeling of facing him on our wedding day, wiping a tear from his cheek and having absolutely no doubts. I remember the exact moment I realized I was pregnant; that hot intense joy and incredulity. And, I remember the moment, later on, when I knew I was losing our baby. I remember the moment I knew I had a choice to get up off the couch after I lost Steve and to move, or to remain on that couch and wither and die; to get lost in the mourning.

I had to step away for a while to compose myself again. I am so grateful for all the moments of joy and sorrow, yet reliving them sometimes can be overwhelming.

Memories and moments. They shape our lives whether we are conscious of them or not. I had no idea 43 years ago - the first time Steve and I were together - that it would shape my life as it has. Monumental. I wonder sometimes what life would have been life if I had not come to Florida, not met him, not ventured out as I did. For me, it is the Road Less Traveled. The paths were equally available, yet I took the one less traveled and it has indeed made all the difference. I was 18, learning how to navigate life, uncertain, unthinking, just doing, really. I remember that day in snapshots. The fan circulating the heavy air (no AC in that old cracker house, not for the next 15 years). I remember the gauzy curtains blowing gently, between what little air came in through the jalousie windows and the fan stirring them. The dim, but sunshiny room. His arm around me. The radio was playing Phil Collins In the Air Tonight, a song special to me even before that day in one of those beautiful prior imprinted memories which I did not know would impact my life as it did (a story for another day, but that song has been so vital in my life moments). I didn’t know how much my life would change at that moment; we never do until we look back. I was young, gorgeous, strong, healthy, and on an adventure. I was not in love that day, but I felt safe and valued. The love would come later; like a lightening bolt. Or not, maybe it was just gradual until I felt the trust come and I believed it was real. It was real. I still, despite all that transpired over the course of 21 years believe in that love. Because it ended makes it any less real years later. Regardless, it’s a beautiful day to remember with joy. I am so grateful to have it in my heart always.

I am grateful to have June 14 in my memory bank of moments which formed me. All of the moments of life bring us to where we are meant to be; we just are not always awake to know they matter. I’ve had a life full of blessings. Intermixed with the joys have been sorrows - incredible sorrows. Loss of grandparents throughout childhood, loss of friends, loss of a child and a husband. Loss of my mothers, both of them. Not getting stuck in those sadness’s is what truly matters. Recognizing we need the bad alongside the good; those are our lived experiences, and they help us become who we are meant to be; they help us learn and grow. I was fated to come to visit Florida, to meet Steve four days after I got here. To fall in love, to move here; to live our life together. I was fated to learn to live on my own, to grow into the me I am now, to have the experiences I have had since. As a child I did not have a perfect life, although it was pretty darn good. We were taught to be curious, to explore, to be inquisitive (to READ!), to blossom where ever we were. There was loss all along - there has to be. I have been on this planet nearly 62 years and I have lived through a lot of joy and sorrow. I have had love, heart ache, heartbreak, joys, fears, elation, beautiful, pride-filled moments, and I have been equally deflated, scared, frightened. All of that has led me to this moment of now. Mary Oliver asks “What will you do with your one wild and precious life?” I am not done finding out, and we shall see what the future brings.