workshop

Prompt – Joy

Standard

This was supposed to be posted on Friday, but with Prince’s unexpected death and the beginning of Passover, I delayed it until this morning. Future prompts will appear on Fridays.

Now that my writing class has started up again, I’m going to share our prompts with you and hopefully encourage you to do your own free writes. Remember that free writes are ten to fifteen minutes of stream of consciousness writing related to the prompt. I sometimes call it spewing. We all have our words for things.

The class is six weeks, but with homework this prompt exercise should go on for about twelve weeks.

Share your writings by linking them in the comments.

Our theme for these next few weeks is Emotions.

Today’s prompt begins with Joy.

Have fun!

Among Women – My Board

Standard

When I had included this as part of my reflection on the Gospel Women readings, I found that it just didn’t flow the way I wanted it to, and I realized that it was due in part because it really should have been more of a bullet point or list of what I chose and why I chose it. Looking at the original bowl of items and board to use for the collage, I am struck by how it went from nothing to something so magnificent. I really love the finished product. Despite being unfinished in some ways, adding more would take away from what it’s expressing.

In looking back at the process, I can safely say that I practically put it together in the order that I gathered the items. Not entirely, and in my “first draft”, I did move things around, although, again it is nearly identical to the original concept that I laid out before the adhesives.

1. Our board choices were very simple: white, black or reddish-brown. As you can see I took the reddish brown one. I thought that white was too stark and black was too dark, and I usually stay away from reds. I took that one to be a bit bolder than I usually am. This retreat house is where I do most of my artistic work, from the mandala weekend to an illuminated initial at the most recent weekend; it is where I always bring my sketchbook and colored pencils. I think the space is welcoming so that I feel that I can attempt art safely whereas I can write anywhere.

2. I wasn’t sure about the butterfly wings. They are real wings, taken from the Conservatory where the butterflies lived their whole lives. No butterflies were harmed in the collection of their wings. My mother used to love butterflies, and I would get her some sort of butterfly thing – pin, notebook, trinket box for her birthday, Christmas/Chanukah, and Mother’s Day. Consequently, when she died, I got her collection, and seeing butterflies makes me think of her, so I’m drawn to them. In the little plate, there were beautiful, bright blue ones that I believe come from the Karner Blue Butterfly, a local variety in the Albany Pine Bush. There was also a bright orange and black dotted one that I think was a Monarch. The one I chose was yellow with black. Everyone thinks bumble bee with those colors, but for me, they are Hufflepuff, my Harry Potter house. They speak to me of loyalty, and friendship, perseverance, and strength. They are courage and truth. They are also a visual reminder of my being brought back to writing and the internet community that held me, supported me, and welcomed me, and who continues to give me the gift of friendship and creativity. So much from such a little wing.

*One thing that struck me about my collage was that I am a very symmetrical person, and there is nothing in this grouping that is symmetrical. I chose one wing rather than two. In my mind, it seems odd, but looking at it, it is perfect.

3. I glanced at the pile (very large pile) of magazines and newspapers taking up a third of the table. The word travel caught my eye, and that was all I was going to take, but then the subtitle, 4 Life-Changing Journeys drew my eye. I was going to take travel and journeys, but then the whole phrase – 4 life-changing journeys – really grabbed me, not only as something I’ve been feeling this year and last, but also as a fantastic writing prompt to use in future days. What four life-changing journeys have I been on in recent years? What a perfect way to organize some thoughts, and so I took the whole thing. I tore the small rectangle out and put the magazine back in the pile. Before I could move off, I noticed another article about 50 tips to feel amazing. It had to do with getting healthy and avoiding chronic illnesses such as diabetes and high blood pressure, but it was the 50 that took me by the hand. I will be turning fifty at the end of the year, and one of my goals is to write weekly reflections. I’ve been somewhat neglectful, but the number, bold and in red, needed to come. I tore off the whole cover and thought to look at it more closely. It wasn’t until I was back at my seat that I noticed the tagline of the magazine: Real Possibilities. I cut out possibilities and I had all the words I thought I would need.

4. Wherever, whatever I’m doing, I’m attracted to my favorite color green, and the puzzle pieces had them in abundance. I didn’t look at the finished puzzle on the box cover, but I took a few pieces that might fit together; they probably wouldn’t but they only needed to look as if they might. I like puzzle pieces. They come apart easily, but also go back together just as easily. They connect, and if connected the right way, they create a path to a finished product. I took a few, and then went back for a couple more, having six in all. There was no meaning to having six, and one was more yellow than green or blue, but it was something I needed to have for my board.

**My board was supposed to be a reflection of the two Gospel women we’d thought about all week. I was drawn to a different suggestion by Sister Sue and that was how I was related to them, how I saw myself, and this became more of a vision board or a me board – things I am, things I want to be, things that can be, a positive meditation.

5. When I excitedly approached the Scrabble tiles, I was looking for a K, my first initial. When I got there, I began to touch the tiles, turning them over to see which letters were available. I stopped looking for the K, and began to think about the reflections and the readings, and I don’t know why but I wanted Writer. It wouldn’t let go. It wasn’t until I returned to my seat to lay out the board that I moved the R off to the side. The question arose in the design: Am I a writer? Is it more important to be a WRITER? Or is it more important to do the writing regardless of status? Being a writer is something important – being published, being liked, but the writing calls to me. It is always there; it has always been there.

6. The foam stars and circles were just fun. I definitely only wanted green and yellow. The foam is squishy, and somehow childlike. I am also reminded of the stars and the moon in the sky. I have a real affinity for the full moon shining down on me as I sleep.

*** Last summer I tried to do something like this with my two youngest kids. I picked out fabric and doodads. I had them pick some out as well. We did it on cork with pushpins. It was nice for about a day and a half, and then they all fell apart. After this experience, I may try and do it again with them using glue instead of the tacks. They enjoyed it, and it expressed who they are and their likes and dislikes.

7. Of course, I found some butterfly cutouts from a greeting card. The same as the wing, they are for my mother, and the nature of the butterfly. Their freedom, their color, their strength amidst their delicateness.

8. The fabrics. The blue bud surrounded by the green spidery leaves matched one of the butterflies on the card. I knew I only wanted two buds. I don’t know why. I usually take things in threes or fours. The green fabric had leaves and sticks crisscrossing each other. I began to cut out a pile of sticks in that crisscross, campfire pattern when I noticed that the sticks made a K. I had found my initial after all, so I cut it and placed it in the upper left hand corner. I toyed with the idea of outlining it in a green Sharpie, but I decided to simply leave it as is. I knew what it was. Most people would notice the letter K. I liked it’s surprise and it’s simplicity. I added one larger leave in the lower right hand corner from the same fabric.

****When I got home, there was a parcel waiting for me – my always keep fighting shirt. This one offers to love yourself first. Much like on an airplane when the oxygen mask comes down, you put it on yourself so you can help others. It’s also important to not forget that we are important. Me. I am important and I am valued, and deserve some time to take care of me. That is why I go on these retreats, these reflective workshops. I have also been reading Pope Francis’ The Joy of Love, his newest exhortation and in around the third or fourth chapter, he expresses this very thing – love yourself first. That isn’t to say be selfish, but be who you are and love that person.

9. To the fabric, I added the green feather. I’m often attracted to feathers. They fall off birds, they are added onto Native American garments and mean many things. I have some feathers on my dream catcher that my friend gifted me with. Feathers are also used as fletches for arrows and as a Sagittarius, I try to follow the bow. The arrow is also known for flying straight, finding its mark, and not leading us astray.

10. I don’t think there was a concrete reason for taking the green straw. I hadn’t realized how difficult it would be to glue down, but I wanted it. Maybe it is something of nest building. perhaps it is taking something that is not much of anything and turning it into something of beauty and reflected joy.I don’t know, but I also don’t think the the board would work without it.

****So much from so many littles.

image

Gospel Women – Week 3

Standard

Today is the third week of the retreat workshop/contemplation/art commune that I’ve been taking. We spend the week reading and thinking about the two women, and then after a short discussion, we art.

I’d like to share with you the readings for anyone that was interested in doing this at home.

The first woman of the Gospel is the woman caught in adultery. The reading can be found at John 8:1-11.

Our second woman is the woman who anoints Jesus in Bethany. That Scripture can be found at Mark 14:3-9.

Later this afternoon or tomorrow, I’ll share what  came about in today’s hands-on portion.

What Ihave found in the past two weeks and four readings thus far is that we can not only see ourselves in these Gospel women, but often we see the women around us, who encourage us to look at things a little differently and who love and support us. I can only hope to be one of those women to someone else.

Honoring Them

Standard

This began as my memoir workshop homework. It was my third attempt, but it seems as though the third time’s the charm. Our prompt was Uniform. I really had such a hard time, but then I realized that this past week had been unusually full of men in uniform, beginning seven days ago with Beau Biden.

Beau Biden is the son of the Vice President, and I’ve followed his family since my infant days as a political junkie. Joe Biden, then Senator wasn’t from my state, but I knew his name. He spoke his mind. Often. He was almost just as often ridiculed for it and mocked at his many slips – being honest has that effect – sometimes you put your foot in your mouth, and Joe Biden was kind of an expert at that, at least where the media was concerned. I still liked him. He said what he thought and he stood by that.

I found out later that between being elected (youngest in fact) and Christmas, his family was in a devastating car accident. They were hit by a tractor trailer, and his wife and daughter died. His two boys, Beau and Hunter were seriously injured. In fact, Joe took his oath of office in their hospital room.

He was a single father traveling between Washington and Wilmington daily so he could put his kids to bed and be there when they woke up. This was the example the Beau (and his brother) saw growing up.

When Beau Biden was Attorney General of Delaware he took a leave when his National Guard unit was called up to active duty for a tour in Iraq. Tour. They make it sound so pleasant, don’t they?

There’s a picture of when he returned of he and his father facing each other, standing eye to eye, and I get emotional every time I see it from that first moment. Beau is standing tall, military straight-backed as he looks at his father the Vice President with respect and his father looking at him with that same respect but the added pride of a father knowing that his son has done good. It’s hard to imagine that much emotion coming from a still picture.

He introduced me, through his work to the Darkness to Light Foundation which empowers people to prevent child sexual abuse.

He was 46, and the word was that he intended to run for governor of Delaware in 2016. He probably would have won; he was a fine man, a good and decent man. He would have made an excellent President one day.

Sadly, he died one week ago after his brain cancer recurred. Today was his funeral, a full military funeral. He had been ill for several weeks, but like his whole family, this was kept quiet from the media.His family was there with him, and he leaves behind a young family – a wife, and two children, ages 11 and 9, the ages of my two youngest kids.

As President Obama eulogized him, he called him a “consummate public servant.” That is a summation that I’m sure Beau would appreciate.

His family has asked in lieu of flowers that donations be made to The Beau Biden Foundation for the Protection of Children.

I could end this here, and it would be enough, but Beau Biden wasn’t the only Army serviceman in the news this week.

Later in the week, we had a 180 degree turn from our sadness for and with the Biden family. On Tuesday, men in uniform were uplifted to places of honor after being ignored for nearly one hundred years. Sgt. William Shemin, a Jewish serviceman from Syracuse, NY and Pvt. Henry Johnson, African-American from Albany, NY were posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor from President Obama. Both enlisted during World War I; both fought in France. Henry Johnson’s unit was assigned to the French government because white soldiers wouldn’t work alongside Black troops, even though they were all Americans.

Both continued fighting after they were wounded. Sgt. Shemin took command after all of the commanders and non-commissioned officers became casualties. Pvt. Johnson took on 20 Germans. The French government awarded him the Croix de Guerre, the first American to receive that with star and Gold Palm. He died in 1929 with no recognition from his own government. Finally, ,in 1996 and 2003, respectively, he was awarded the Purple Heart and the Distinguished Service Cross. His son, Herman was a Tuskegee Airman, and received the Distinguished Cross for his father.

His Medal of Honor was presented on Tuesday to a member of the New York National Guard while Sgt. Shemin’s was presented to his daughters, age 83 and 86.

Today we continue to talk about our troops, cheer at parades, offer a military discount here or there, but many of our troops come back broken, some in ways that can’t be seen, and they are fighting tooth and nail to get their needs taken care of, almost as much as they fought the enemy in the combat theatre.

They are not a group that tends to complain. They wait, but they are misdiagnosed and discharged from service with no resources or support for housing, food, or health care. Men (and women) with PTSD remain on waiting lists for therapy and service animals. They are directed to private organizations that cost money and have even longer waiting lists. They will forever be burdened with what they endured in combat. Flashbacks and nightmares are only the tip of a very large iceberg. Many of their families live in poverty, houses foreclosed on. Many are homeless. Many commit suicide. They need, and should be given as much support as they gave their country when it called them. Giving so much, they should not be on anybody’s waiting list.

Memoir

Standard

My weekly memoir workshop began yesterday. Eight weeks of free writes, homework prompts, feedback, new ideas, community, camaraderie, and so much more. I’ve been looking forward to this for weeks and our first class went beyond expectation.

For me this workshop is more than practice and writing. I joined this long standing group as newcomer back in 2012. I stumbled upon the notice at the library and I immediately signed up. I don’t even remember what I was doing at the library in the first place.

I had just been diagnosed with severe depression. In addition to that blindsiding me, there was anxiety creeping ever higher on the hit parade, and suicidal thoughts dominating many of my thoughts then. I needed distractions or at least motivation to continue on.

I had started attending talk therapy and went through a series of anti-depressants that took a bit to find the right combination. I lost two important supports, but found others. The only thing getting me out of bed in the morning was my newfound ritual – church, church, church, talk therapy for my depression, physical therapy for my knee, get through the weekend and start again.

This writing workshop was my lifeline.

One of the things I’ve learned in the ensuing three years is that there is no such thing as too much learning, too much information. When I talked about taking a memoir class people were surprised that I was writing my memoirs.

Of course I wasn’t. What in the world did I have to write about? I was nobody. But one of the other things I learned is that we’re all nobodies until we’re not. We all have our stories and they are each amazing in the scope of our families, of ourselves and in the overarching narrative of so many people in this country (and every other) who we pass on the street daily and read about in the history books.

The second thing I learned is that prompts are prompts. This class is focused on memoir, but memoir can be a jumping point to all other kinds of writing: fiction, history, picture books, cooking, travel, and more. And other writing topics are a springboard to all the other fields. I’ve recently taken a travel writing class that only supported the idea that all writing is related. The memoir class sparked everything and had made me a better blogger; taught me to find my focus and follow it. The travel class, as short as it was, gave me the impetus to take something on the sidelines for over five years and start it in a proper way that might be a magazine piece or a book. Either way, it will be something.

This class is still my lifeline even though my life is in a much better place than when I began. I’m thankful to say that while I’m still searching for myself, the suicidal tendencies have been tamped down. The class continues to be freeing and centering and only maintains all the ways I want to be and all the things I want to write and it lets me go anywhere. Whether a fictional ghost hunter or a memoir of my spiritual journey or a travel book of Wales, it is all there.

Our class theme this session is threads. Like the stuff theme before it, it sounds so little, so unobtrusive, but like the loose thread in a carpet that can unwind the whole thing, it can also reveal so much. From the bare floor to beneath the floor boards, children playing, dishes clattering, dogs scraping and scratching the wood. Is it a memory? Is it a fictional detective taking it all in tracking a killer, finding something else? Is it the floorboards of Thomas Jefferson’s first house?

Who knows?

But it’s all there for the finding, including finding yourself, a journey that never ends.

Blogging 101 – Assign 4 – Words in Space (Etheree Poetry)

Standard

Blogging 101 Assign 4: Write for your Dream Reader and use a different style.

I am in a writing workshop that meets once a month and this month’s topic is to write a poem in the Etheree style. It’s a series of syllables (1-10, then 10-1). Visually, if centered I think it forms a diamond; left alignment forms half a diamond.

I’ve been hearing and writing about quiet spaces and I thought that was a good place to start this new project.

I’ve titled it

Words in Space:

Space

Quiet

Quiet space

Belonging space

A page from a book

A solitary bench

Quiet in a noisy space

Can noisy spaces be quiet?

Thoughts in the quiet, thoughts making words

The pen scrapes the paper, the ink flows red

The blank space of the page is blank no more

Outside the writing can be quiet

Inside is raging and spinning

Words spewing out going fast

The mind is too fast for

The pen to keep up

Words are rushing

The quiet

Away

Now

Space

Quiet

Quiet space

Belonging space

A page from a book

A solitary bench

Quiet in a noisy space

Can noisy spaces be quiet?

Thoughts in the quiet, thoughts making words

The pen scrapes the paper, the ink flows red

The blank space of the page is blank no more

Outside the writing can be quiet

Inside is raging and spinning

Words spewing out going fast

The mind is too fast for

The pen to keep up

Words are rushing

The quiet

Away

Now

Death’s Door

Standard

I’m not a huge fan of death; never have been. Whenever I think of death, I think of my uncle Nathan. His was an open casket, and the only memories I have of him were of cigar smoke and that moment of seeing him in the coffin. I cringed at every funeral after that as a child and well into my adulthood.

I would say that while this is a memory from me as a young child, the two that stand out more abruptly are of both of my grandfathers. They both died when I was five or near about. My first grandfather, my dad’s father was from Canada, and I remember his family there more than I remember him.

The most enduring memory I have is standing in the hospital parking lot looking up to the roof where my grandfather stood. He was wearing a grey bathrobe and I think my grandmother stood next to him. He waved to me and possibly my brother, and we waved back. Well, I waved back because my brother would only have been one or so. I think my father stood with us in the parking lot.

This was 1970 or 1971 and children weren’t allowed in the hospital. It’s kind of like that now, but when my dad was in the hospital, we used to sneak my son in to see him and the nurses would ignore him just so long as he could get past the security guard.

We never would have thought to sneak in back then.

I remember this grandfather from photographs that blend into memory. There is me in a stroller wearing bunny ears, holding a Kodak film box, the recognizable yellow box of the Eastman Company. We are on a street in the Bronx outside of an apartment building. I don’t think this is their apartment building, but nearby there is an asphalt park surrounded by a chain link fence where the older boys played basketball and the girls jumped double-dutch. It was a noisy street with cars driving by, their engines noisy and their horns loud, interspersed with the bouncing of the basketball off the backboard and the handball off of the wall that divided the spaces.

My other grandfather, my Mother’s father died either later that year or early the next year. It was within months of each other. In fact, my grandfathers died within a year and my grandmothers did the same although they waited for many years after that. My parents also died within eighteen months of each other.

The only memory I have of this grandfather was his balding head, sitting with his back to the doorway at the kitchen table eating his dinner when he’d come home late from work. I’m not sure what we would have been doing there so late, but it is the one picture of him in my mind that is consistent.

My mother says that it isn’t true, but I have vivid memories of his death. He had a heart attack in the house, and I remember him lying on the carpet and the paramedics coming in with the stretcher from the ambulance. I would swear that I was there, and my mother would swear I was not, so I don’t know if this is an actual memory that she’s always tried to protect me from or if it is one of those planted memories from other people’s overheard conversations.

He did have a heart attack and died in the house and there are other details that it would seem strange for others to talk about around me, but I don’t know.

These are the three that still stand out to me as an adult, and form my ever fearful phobia of death and dying, although I have mellowed out in the abstract of faith and adulthood. I still occasionally have a recurrence of a childhood dream that I’ve often had of nothingness. If you can’t imagine it, it can’t be explained, but it is the abyss of nothing and it is palpable. It is the dark staring back at you and as much as I try to be calm and rational, the noiseless void can be too much to bear. All I can do is wait for it to pass, and it usually does.

Basement Refuge

Standard

Prompt – Was there a place you liked to sit and hide when you were a child?

 

My basement was my refuge. We had half of a green velvet couch down there tucked against the paneled box where the oil tank lived, so generally it was a warm, cozy place. It had one arm rest. It must have been a sectional sofa when it was in my grandparents’ apartment and I do vividly remember it there too. The arm faced the television on one of those wheeled stands complete with its rabbit ears and an Atari console. I remember lying down on it, my legs thrown over the arm, my head uncomfortably angled to watch the baseball game. I don’t recall if those years were as a Mets fan or a Yankees fan, Doug Flynn or Bucky Dent and I even spent a season as a Red Sox fan for Carl Yastrzemski. I think at this time Phil Rizzuto was a sportscaster and I thought watching the games so intently made me qualified to play one day despite my handicapping non-athleticism.

Also in the basement was a colloquial bar with many, many bottles of liquor: Johnny Walker, Chivas Regal, Dewar, others. It was very common to receive a bottle as a gift, not me, I was 11 or 12, but my parents even though they didn’t drink. I was, however allowed to bring one bottle to college if I remember correctly. The bottles were lined up nicely on the shelf and behind the bar counter was space for glasses and ice buckets. It even had its own light and switch.

On top of the bar was kept the stereo. Very large, very boxy with a clear plexiglass or plastic cover, it took up a third of the bar. Two large speakers stood on either side of it, although my huge headphones were usually plugged in. Here, I was a Beatle singing along to a box set long since warped in a basement flood. I sang loudly and of course, beautifully. They were all still alive and so in 1978 and ’79 there was that small chance that they would reunite. I think we still had an intense dislike for Yoko Ono although that somewhat mellowed after John died.

No one bothered me down there and I liked it like that. It was always my turn to choose the television programs and no one was ever in my seat.

Sylvia

Standard

Prompt – someone important in your life with whom you’ve lost touch with

 

Lost touch with seems to be an accidental or choice of losing touch, so I’ll stick to live people, although that doesn’t much narrow the list down. Faces assail my mind until one remains: Sylvia.

Oh, how I love Sylvia. Short and plump, coffee colored skin with a head of loose dark curls that she kept short-ish. She had a round face and a flat nose and the voice of angels. She had a way of moving as if she were floating on air or about to dance. Not just a skip in her step, but a hop and a pirouette too. Her voice soft and lilting, but more that brilliant combination of mother, sister, spiritual healer from New Orleans, Louisiana, a place that for me holds the mystical and mysteries and a longing place to try it just once.

Her husband was an NCO, a Staff Sargent, I think in the Marines. She had three kids who were about my age at the time or barely younger.

She used her softness to get her point across. We taught together for the US Navy’s child development program until she became the assistant director, one step down from where she truly belonged. She brought multi-cultural education to a place that should have had it all along considering the clientele. She taught me how to make the perfect sweet potato pie even though my own mother did not understand the concept of Dessert rather than side dish. As an aside, when I was recently in Virginia, McDonald’s had sweet potato pie instead of pumpkin. I’d consider moving south just for that.

Sylvia was encouraging and smart and strong and delicate. She was comfortable in her own skin with a bright smile. She wore loose, bright, colorful clothes and sandals with the most beautiful huge to my eye necklaces, bracelets and earrings. Her rings were simple to fit her small hands.

She inspired and awed me and the thought of her makes me smile.

In Hand

Standard

Write about something that feels comfortable in your hand

 

I have many of these things that I hold, touch, rub, play with, not as bad as a smoker fiddling with a cigarette, but relatively close. You’ve already met Bob and despite what looks like a bulky outside, he really does fit comfortably in the palm of my hand. I’ve held him on car rides through ice; I clutched him flying over the Atlantic, rubbed across the chips in his casing during an MRI and slept with him in my hand in a hotel room. I can always find him if I wake up in the middle of the night and he’s hopped away.

Until Bob, I hadn’t really thought about all of the other talismans that I’ve had over the years. In high school and college, I played Dungeons & Dragons (D&D) and would roll the dice around in my palm under the table while my other hand held a pen. Although roll around is a bit of an inaccuracy since most of the dice were an assortment of odd shapes.

During those games, I also held what was known at the time as a worry stone. It was a small oval polished rock like thing with an indentation for your thumb to rub over it, made to rest in your hand. The rubbing was supposed to be comforting during times of stress and I suppose it was. It was procured at Kmart on the other side of town, and is long since lost, but I have other stones with words of encouragement or comfort on them: Breathe, Balance, xoxo (although that one was more because of the color) and I thought I had one that said Thrive.

Also at college, when I had to do any kind of public speaking, I held my friend’s matchbox from RIT. That was the school he longed to go to, and as his good luck charm, it transferred to me. I still have one of those matchsticks somewhere in my boxes of memorabilia.

When I’m at my therapist, I almost always wear a scarf so I can play with the ends or the fringe.

I have a Welsh spoon key chain that I rub with my thumb when I’m driving sometimes and a smooth stone from a medieval Welsh castle that I hold occasionally.

Last Easter, at the church, they gave out a small metal cross for Lent. This year, it was a small ceramic heart. I often hold them in my hand and in the case of the cross, I found it very comforting during some very stressful times as my medication was being adjusted. Rosaries are still a bit foreign in my hand, but they are also more utilitarian, for prayer rather than comfortable for just being held.

I am definitely one for symbolism and assigning importance to objects. I believe that some of that is due to the material world we live in. I also know how much some people care for me, but I get anxious and worrisome and a bit paranoid, but re-reading a birthday card or a book inscription or even just holding something that they gave me for a moment or two reminds me of the love they have for me and I for them.

I do like to hold things and think of what they remind me of. Most of them are calming just by their presence, and some of them need a closed palm to keep the good feels inside and close. At church, after the Lord’s Prayer, if someone has held my hand, I keep my hand closed to keep the warmth of that touch with me a little longer, and in this last week, for that brief moment between receiving the Eucharist and placing it gently on my tongue, I close my palm around it.

My charm bracelet gives me this kind of feeling. The charms symbolize different feelings, wants and peoples and I move around the chain pressing my thumb and forefinger together as I stop at each charm like a mini-hug.

Those are a few of my favorite things that burst from my heart but still manage to fit in my hand.