Dear readers,

Hi!

One of my favorite analogies is that we are traveling up a spiral staircase on this journey we call life, always coming back around in a circle, and yet, we are never in the same place in which we started, always moving forward and upward until we reach the stained-glass dome at the top at the end of our life journeys. 

I also love the metaphors of the egg – ugly duckling – swan and cocoon-butterfly.    I used to think in terms of a time in life we are in a cocoon or an egg.  Then there is a crack-open time.  And our feathers begin to turn from gray to white or our wings begin to unfold.   A metamorphosis.  

More recently, I have begun to integrate my perspective of a spiral staircase with the seasonality of nature, in which year over year there is a hatching, and then a molting or a spreading of wings in flight.   As I observed many of these beautiful, winged monarchs together one evening, I began to think of the words of Margaret Wheatley in how she talks about our paths of contribution in this world.   How one of my paths of contribution I aspire to step is in the words of Elsie De Wolfe.  I’m going to make everything around me beautiful – that will be my life.  

Though I know life tests our abilities to always see beauty, somehow, with much gratefulness in my heart, I am glad my eyes always see the beauty that is.

May everything around you be beautiful.  

Wishing you a wonder-filled and wonderful two weeks.   Talk with you again soon.

-Christine

The Creases Now Speak

Edward

Edward was sitting in his chair when the night nurse made her rounds at 11:00 p.m. on the night Joshua translated the letter.  

Usually, Edward was sleeping when she did.   On the occasions he wasn’t, he pretended to be, his body lying still as he sensed a shadow standing at the doorway, matching his motionlessness with her stance at the door.   Edward wondered if she was watching for movements or listening for breathing.  

Once he thought about holding his breath to see which it might be.  But soon enough he would continually feel the sensation of held breath as the cancer began to fill more of his lungs.  Holding his breath now wasn’t going to put oxygen in reserve and there certainly wasn’t a need to practice what it was going to feel like when Edward would be certain someone was squeezing the life out of his chest.    

He already knew this feeling well.   Long before lung cancer.   

Edward didn’t hear the nurse’s nearing footsteps nor sense her silhouette at the doorway this night the creases spoke.   

After Joshua left, Edward’s mind took him back to the table at the coffee shop looking into those eyes that made him feel like he was at the creek of his childhood.  When his mind wandered further and he started to feel the sensation of bear hug arms circling around his chest and squeezing, he got out of bed.   He pulled a photo album from the stack that rested on an end table and began turning pages.  Rather mindlessly until he reached the page he couldn’t stop thinking about.    

It was that page about one third of the way into the album that the night nurse saw when she walked in to see if Edward wasn’t feeling well.  

“Edward, are you ok?  Can I help you with anything?”  

Edward looked up to read her name tag. “Sheila”.   He had never known her name.   When the same morning routine came every day, it was always either Audrey or Ben who greeted him with “Good Morning!  How are you today?”    Even the greeting itself was consistent like clockwork, like all the other routines that now comprised Edward’s days in this facility.   Edward wondered how either of them would respond if he stopped being consistent in his “I’m fine, thank you.”  

Edward never asked the nurses anything personal.   That had been Patricia’s gift.   She was good at connecting with people.  No matter the age, interests, personality, job.  Or Race.

Edward remembers the evening several years ago when he was being honored for excellence in international reporting.  As Patricia floated among the room full of strangers smiling so warmly and listening so intently at each small group she stopped at, Edward’s boss clapped him on the shoulder, a big grin on his face as he chuckled, remarking “you should take your wife on your trips, Edward.   She could get you more stories than you would have time to report.  You’re a lucky man!”

Edward laughed, thanked his boss for the kind words, and spent the rest of the evening seeing Patricia in a way he hadn’t seen her before.  He regrets he never told her how much he admired her ability to connect with people.  Genuinely.  Not at arm’s length, not superficially.  Not as facts to report on, but as human-interest stories.  

His daughter Laura inherited her mom’s gift for seeing people in a way he couldn’t.  Or had stopped doing.  Though Edward hadn’t talked to Laura in several years now, he knew through his grandson his youngest daughter was still a change agent for human justice and acceptance through her journalism.   His boss was right.   Patricia would have done his job much better.   Just like she did his job of parenting not only better.  She did it for him.   Laura never had a reason to severe ties with Patricia. 

Edward looks into the nurse’s eyes and shakes his head “no” as he looks back at the face staring at him.   A face without a smile.    There are four faces in the picture.   Three are smiling. Edward’s mom, his little brother Donnie Jr.  and Edward.   His dad, Donald senior, is serious.   Stern.   Edward used to tell himself it was a necessary look his dad wore as sergeant in the army during WWII.    A look leaders needed to exhibit when responsible for keeping men alive.   Conveying courage and strength for the sake of men who were afraid. 

Edward now ponders the fine line between strength and fragility, between stoic and sensitive, between unconquerable and penetrable.   Edward looks at the picture on his lap, remembering the day his father stood with his arms firmly at his side in front of Donnie Jr. at the bus station.  Donnie was about to get on the bus bound for basic training in Fort Lewis.  Donnie had enlisted when news of a war in Vietnam was first being heard.  

Edward recalls Donnie and his mom hugging.  Edward hugged Donnie next.   Donnie reached out his arms to hug their dad.  Edward’s dad responded by raising his right hand to his forehead, giving Donnie a stoic look, and then placing his arm back at his side as he told Donnie “Make me proud, son”. 

It would be the last time Edward’s dad had a choice to say, “I am proud of you” and hold his son in his arms.   

Edward was certain someone was crushing the air out of his lungs the day an unmarked black sedan pulled up to their house, and two men in uniform got out and started walking toward their front door.   Edward isn’t certain what he remembers the sound of more.  “On behalf of the United States Army, we regret to inform you that your son…killed in action.”  His mother’s wails.   Or his father’s words as he witnessed the jaw line grow tighter, the stern look grow deeper, when his father said, “May all Gooks go to hell”.  

Hello, hello!

In my many dances of grace between opposites, one of them is that I sometimes struggle to pay a compliment to someone when I am especially struck by their appearance.   Recently a friend had worn her hair down instead of her summertime pulled up to beat the heat style.  I think my friend is beautiful.  Period.   But at the moment of the now I saw her with her hair down, I couldn’t help telling her she was stunning.   Of course, I then told her she always looks amazing, but wow in that moment at hand, she had taken my breath away. 

I feel the same way about the fall season and if I think about it, nature in general.   As Albert Einstein said, we can live our lives as if nothing is a miracle or everything is.  I strive to look for the miraculous and as someone who loves the noticeable changing seasons here in the Midwest, I love bearing witness to the dormancy, new beginnings, steady tranquility, and shedding that takes place in nature, both on the land and with the inhabitants that roam, swim, and fly. 

Every day of the year the sky is beautiful.  Sure. Some days are cloudy, foggy, void of sun, and yet, this vast overarching space also holds shade, star gazing opportunities, and the playground for birds to swoop and soar even when its brilliant blues are hidden or asleep.  At a particular moment in late August, the sky took my breath away as I thought wow, stunning!  

I couldn’t help then being inspired to let the little girl within start to imagine.   Cotton balls.  Marshmallows.  A field of sheep.  Down stuffing for the world’s largest pillow.  A gigantic heart.   Oh, the possibilities limitless to the imagination.   

Speaking of imagination, possibilities, and not limiting, in a few moments you will be introduced to the next character who has introduced herself to me for The Creases Now Speak.  Part of me wishes to tell you she is the last main character.  The other part of me that knows this story and all the people part of it have found me is not able to know if another person will knock on the door of my heart and ask me to tell their story as well.   You and I, together, will be waiting to see.  

I am grateful to all of you who subscribe to receive the messages and stories I write.   Grateful for every one of you!   I wish to also offer an additional thank YOU to those of you who have been communicating to me individually of the joy you are having reading the fiction story that is finding its way to us all, me included.  

Some of you were at the start when this story first found me and are patiently waiting for the stories you haven’t previewed yet.  You were the first cheerleaders to inspire me to keep following this new joy.  Your loving encouragement is etched in my heart. 

Others of you are now waiting eagerly for each story that you are reading for the first time.  In your kind words to me, you are now the affirmation for me to keep going in this space that is new to me, but one in which I am having such a good time!  

You might laugh at my next sentence, but I am as excited as you to see how this story unfolds!  (smile, grin)  

So with that, let me introduce you to Laura.

Wishing all of you a peace-filled next couple of weeks.  Talk with you again September 24^th!  

-Christine

P.S.  Something tells me Edward will be joining all of us again the 24^th as well!  (smile, grin)

The Creases Now Speak

Laura

Laura remembers when she and Abby were first dating and going through all that get-to-know-each-other-chit-chat.    Of course, since it is what people seem to communicate first, Laura told Abby she was an investigative journalist. It wasn’t until their third or fourth date that they talked about their parents. 

Abby was raised by a single mom; her father had been killed in an automobile accident when Abby was six. When Laura told Abby her father, Edward, had been a news reporter, Abby exclaimed gleefully “How cool you are following in your father’s footsteps.”

“I am nothing like my father!”Laura vehemently responded, then immediately regretted the harsh bitterness in her tone when Abby’s smile faded and her eyes lost their glint. That glint! One of the first things that attracted Laura to Abby. The way her eyes lit up about, well, everything.

Over the years together, Laura discovered that Abby’s unwavering optimism was a perfect balance to the gloomy topics she investigated. Abby’s belief in the goodness of people kept Laura from completely encasing her heart in the certainty that humanity was motivated by unjust behavior. Abby’s loving heart offset Laura’s who wasn’t always certain if it was animosity or disdain that beat in her heart when it came to her father. 

Like clockwork, Laura could count on an email every Friday morning from her nephew Joshua. The same subject line every week. Grandpa Status. Sometimes Joshua started the email with “Hi Aunt Laura. How’s London?” Other times he began the message with Dear Aunt Laura. I hope this finds London is treating you well. Rarely did Joshua deviate from one of these two greetings before he then provided a written update on Edward’s health status and frame of mind. Joshua always signed emails. Love you Aunt Laura. Please come visit soon.   Always, your favorite nephew, J.

Ever since Joshua was born, Laura had referred to him as her favorite and had abbreviated his full name to a single letter. Her older sister, Stephanie, Joshua’s mom, laughed every time Laura referred to her son this way.  Laura could still see her sister’s amused wink and feel her arms wrap her into a big hug from behind. “Sis, you do know he is your only nephew, right?”

Stephanie died of leukemia when Laura was thirty years old.  Hell of a milestone birthday year to find herself alone navigating this screwed-up thing people called humankind. Where was the kind? Certainly not in the “ism” injustices that Laura investigated. Certainly not in Chicago suburbs where she grew up. Not under her father’s roof.

Those were his words to her when Laura told her parents that she was a lesbian.  “As long as you are under my roof, young lady, you will not engage in immoral behavior.”Laura moved out the next morning, crashing on a friend’s couch for a couple of weeks until the job offer with the Bureau of Investigative Journalism finished coming to fruition. Laura said goodbye to Stephanie and her favorite J, boarded a plane for the UK, and vowed to never step foot again near Ada Lane in the good ole Chicago suburb of Naperville.  

Laura has returned to the U.S. only twice in the eighteen years she has lived in London. Once, to say goodbye to Stephanie and a second time was to say goodbye to her mother, Patricia. If it hadn’t been for Abby, Laura wouldn’t have flown back when Joshua called letting her know the likelihood was nil her mother would survive.  Abby insisted Laura would regret it if she didn’t go back.

Abby didn’t get to say goodbye to her father before he was killed. Thirty-four years later, she still berated her six-year-old self for not yet having the wisdom to know that life changes in a second. Abby’s theory was to make sure to never leave words trapped inside the heart that needed to be spoken to those who needed to hear them.  Laura could count on Abby expressing her love and gratefulness for her and their relationship every time they were going to be apart.

A few months ago, Joshua called to say he was helping her father move into an assisted living center. A few weeks ago, one of those in-a-second changes happened when he let Laura know that Edward had been diagnosed with terminal cancer, and the doctor had said “anywhere from three to eight months.”

Abby kept insisting that Laura should return to the States one more time to see her father before he died, before words locked in both of their hearts were never released. Laura was certain the only things locked in her father’s heart were stones he would reach for to hurl at her. Laura believed he would find a way to lay claim to the assisted living center as his roof, too.

Laura imagined the look on Edwards face if she brought Abby with her, walked into her father’s room holding hands, and then saying “dad, meet your daughter-in-law, Abby.” If it weren’t for how deeply Laura’s conviction was he would break her wife’s tender heart, Laura would ask Abby to go to Chicago with her.   But it didn’t matter anyway.  Laura had no plans to return. She didn’t believe she would regret seeing her father’s eyes full of disgust, ashamed of his youngest daughter.     

On this particular Friday as Laura opened the email from her favorite nephew, she read Joshua’s opening sentence.

Aunt Laura, I just translated a letter that Grandpa kept in his wallet for fifty-two years from someone he met in Vietnam. A woman. When I read that she was coming to Chicago, Grandpa started crying. I think we need to find her, before it’s too late. Can you help me?

Laura’s finger clicked the mouse on the reply button, raised her hands over the keyboard, and began immediately typing, J, my favorite nephew.

Hello dear reader,

May this find your week is starting out well for you, this last week of one month and the doorway opening to the next.  

This week’s Blueprints for a Hope-Filled Life is the introduction of another character in the writings of The Creases Now Speak.  You’ve read Edward, Linh, Joshua, Patrica, and now I offer you Mỹ.  

But before you read what Mỹ would like to share, let me offer you a hello from the blue heron.  With its message of tranquility, may that be your experience over these next couple of weeks until the next Blueprints message.  May your 86,400 moments of each day be filled with the grace of calmness no matter how noisy and chaotic the external space around you.

Thank YOU, by the way.   

For what? 

Simply.

Thank YOU for being YOU.

Mỹ

Mỹ, or MEE as her name is pronounced, has always viewed life as temporary. Not in the sense of years to live. More from a perspective that nothing should be held on to; everything should be allowed to come and to go.

Mỹ remembers as a little girl the spring day she and her father, Bảo were walking from their home to the coffee shop her parents owned. Mỹ couldn’t take her eyes off the vibrant red blooms of the Phoenix flower they were passing by.   She stopped and her outstretched hand was about to pick one of the blooms when her father gently said Không, con yêu dấu của Mẹ, bây giờ là của chúng ta để lấy và làm của riêng chúng ta. No, my dear child, it is not ours to take and make our own.

Mỹ’s father explained that all living things are not to be held on to. All things take a form to provide what is needed for the whole. Trees, for example, provide oxygen and plants provide food and nourishment. Flowers provide an experience with appreciation. Bảo knelt to tenderly look Mỹ in the eyes. As he gently put his hands on her arms, he told her human beings provide love. 

Bảo’s expression became more serious as he went on tell Mỹ that human beings are teachers; they provide to the whole all the experiences needed for a well-lived life. It remains a well-lived life in how one chooses to be the student. Luôn luôn chọn tốt My yêu dấu của tôi .  Always choose well my beloved Mỹ.

Then with a melancholy tone, Bảo’ said, My Mỹ, if you let the flower remain, you will have love to hold always. If you take it with you, it may wilt and die, and then suffering will always be yours.

Mỹ was seventeen when a knock on the door reminded her of her father’s words. The knock was from two officers letting her mom, Linh, and Mỹ know that her father would no longer be her teacher. Nor anyone else’s. He had been killed in the war. Mỹ didn’t think the war represented people choosing well for the whole, but she also knew her father would tell her that this was the experience human beings had developed to teach her.  

How she chose to receive the experience would determine how well her life was lived. A life of love and joy. Or a life of bitterness and suffering. She could choose to keep in her mind and heart the goodness of her father’s well-lived life; in that she would always be holding onto love. Or she could hold onto how his life ended, and sorrow and anger would be her lived life.

Mỹ was twenty when a tall American gentleman with kind hazel eyes came into the coffee shop and asked for an Americano. It was only one of a few English words she knew. Over the next couple weeks, as this gentleman visited daily, Mỹ learned his name was Edward. 

He was patient with her when he taught her how to say his name in English. Slowly, softly, Mỹ said E-D-W-A-R-D. There was something about his smile after she spoke all the letters. His smile reminded Mỹ of her father’s when he knelt that day and told her human beings provide love.

One evening, a few weeks after meeting Edward, Mỹ and her mom had closed the coffees shop, finished their bowls of Pho for dinner, and were preparing to sit and read from A Rose for Your Pocket: An Appreciation for Motherhood by Thich Nhat Hahn. For as far back as Mỹ could remember, it was a nightly ritual for them as a family to read a passage from a book, sit in meditative silence for nine minutes, and then share one thing they were grateful to have received from this time they had just experienced.

Right after they learned of her father’s death, Mỹ expected her mom to adjust the nine-minute time. Linh was so distraught, Mỹ didn’t think her mom could bear any association with number nine’s power of strength, cycle of growth, completeness, and eternity.  Where Bảo had lived as all things temporary, Linh held on, willing permanence.

This evening Mỹ could hear her mom reaching for something during the nine minutes that was supposed to be still. When Linh gently hit the gong three times, its tone echoing time to return from their meditative state, Mỹ saw Linh holding an envelope. The envelope had stamps on it that Mỹ recognized right away as a letter from her uncle who had immigrated to the United States.

With a shaky tear-strained voice Mỹ had come to hear often in these past three years when Linh spoke, her mom let her know that Uncle Hien was offering they move to a city called Chicago to be with him. Linh didn’t wait for Mỹ to react as she continued telling Mỹ that she needed to write a note for the kind American letting him know that.  Mỹ didn’t understand why, but she also trusted her mom.  She knew her mom would never put her in a situation in which she would not be safe. She knew her mom would always keep Mỹ close to her side.

Mỹ found paper and a pen and wrote in Vietnamese:

Edward thân mến,

Chú tôi đã sắp xếp mẹ tôi và tôi đến Hoa Kỳ. Một thành phố tên là Chicago. Có lẽ một ngày nào đó tôi nhìn thấy bạn trong quán cà phê.

Yêu

Mỹ

Hello again! 

May this find the last couple of weeks have flowed downstream for you and that you haven’t felt like you are being swept up in currents, paddling like crazy upstream.  

As we begin June.   And as I continue to remain playful in exploring what wants to find its way to paper to you.

This week the next character in the story intertwined with Edward, Linh, and Joshua, has decided she would like to remain hidden a little bit longer.   (As a sneak peak, it will be Patricia. {smile})

This week I offer to you the story of PCT. 

I will close with this quote for you.  May it inspire your days ahead.   Life is a song — sing it. Life is a game — play it. Life is a challenge — meet it. Life is a dream — realize it. Life is a sacrifice — offer it. Life is love — enjoy it — Sathya Sai Baba

In gratitude for YOU,

-Christine

PCT

I was conceived in 1932.

My birth certificate states I was officially born in 1968.

As you think, “How is that possible?”  “Impossible!”   “Preposterous!”

Truth, none-the-less.

My actual arrival into this world was shortly after conception. Well, if you consider three years later short.

Again, true story.

I was wanted. Very much. My father and mother – Clarke and Catherine – dreamed of the day I would arrive. Catherine imagined my existence several years before Clarke yearned for me. Six years, to be exact.

Once I came to life, I was surrounded by numerous people eager to help me develop into who I am today. If you know the African proverb it takes a village to raise a child, that was me. Raised by a village.

Exactly how many have influenced my upbringing is unknown. I’m an adult now, fifty-six years old if you count my birthday on record.  Or eighty-nine if you count when life was first breathed into me. Either way, I continue to have hundreds persuading my aging process.

There are those who come to take care of me. Additional people call on me simply wishing to visit. Apparently for them I hold the wisdom they wish to learn from. Some stop by for a few hours. Others are my guests for a few days. Several I have even hosted for a few months. I like it when house guests are so pleased, they come back again. And again.

Most people who stop by share stories. Stories that inspire, invoke laughter, and arouse tears. Some are there to tell me about their transition between college to a professional career, including their angst at what that may actually be once they leave my home. Others narrate to me about a significant life change. The loss of a parent. A partner. A job. Entry into a new age decade. Some even share stories with me through singing!

I listen to memories. Of childhood. Favorite foods, friends, toys. Of teenage years. A first kiss, prom, favorite teacher. The winning home run they made. I also hear least favorite moments.  A pet dying, parents extremely busy with their professional careers, verbal words they struggle to unhear as an adult. The sports they wished they played, but never felt good enough to. The crush they had on someone who didn’t reciprocate.

I listen to adulting stories, too. The celebrations, sorrows, anxiety, and sometimes, depression. Concerns for what the future will look like. People don’t think I hear after they lower their voices as they state their concerns about my prolonged existence.   I long to reassure them I will remain. Like the velveteen rabbit whose hair starts to be “loved off” and gets “loose in the joints and very shabby,” it is in my DNA. Longevity. More so than it is in theirs.

Some small groups enter my home seeking my advice on teamwork. I enjoy the small gatherings when I learn how they are not only new visitors to my home. They are also newly forming their friendships with each other. I like knowing my home is conducive to budding life-long relationships. I pride myself on creating that kind of welcoming environment.

In a world growing in disconnection, it is important to me that those who enter my dwelling experience belonging. Even if someone enters my home alone without others surrounding them, I want them to feel they have found a place in which they fit in.

Others enter my home and are silent. I can see the stories they are holding inside themselves, but I believe those are the ones that come to me because they know I hold space for them unconditionally, without judgment.  Without expectations. I provide acceptance in my stillness I offer.

All who enter are always smitten with everything displayed around my home. And I do have a lot set out. Everywhere. Don’t worry.  I keep things organized well. I don’t like things lying around either.   I strive to create a home that is inviting and keeps people wanting to come back for more. If there is a mess, people won’t want to sit or stay.    It is important to me that people do. Stay, that is.

When guests enter, I see the way they take in my colorful displays of greens, blues, purples, reds, and yellows. I can hear their intake of breath, too. The way they find a certain awe in how I have arranged the shapes and hues for multi-dimensional views.

I don’t usually get visitors during the winter months.  Pretty much all who visit me prefer to do so between Spring, through Summer, into late Fall. I’m not exactly located where “snowbirds” flock to for escaping frozen ice and sub-zero temperatures.  Quite the opposite. I’m in the heart of a snow belt.  And I love it! I relish sunshine and warmth, too, don’t get me wrong.  But I welcome piles and piles of accumulated snowflakes as much as I savor hot rays of sunlight that melt the piles away in the summer.

I remember one of the first villagers who took an interest in my growth. His name was Martin. I was seventeen years old, based on actual born date, not the certificate’s stamped time.   He showed me what it means to be independent, fearless, determined, willful, respectful, appreciative of silence, reverent in introspection, resourceful, and how to be humble. He taught me how to appreciate beauty, and how to be left speechless by just how beautiful things can be. I also learned suffering from him, while Martin also taught me resilience, hope, and joy are equally present and available. We spent about five months together.

I can’t help thinking many of my house guests must have met Martin after he and I went our separate ways.   Most who visit me exhibit his teachings.

All because Clarke and Katherine once dreamed of the Pacific-Crest Trail.

And a Found Poem, too

Hello dear readers!

Let’s start out with something that matters most. 

How are YOU?  

I’m listening.  

I care about your answer.   Feel free to email me if you would like affirmation that I am.

Listening.

I continue to play with our Blueprints for a Hope-Filled Life.   Yes, our.   For Blueprints wouldn’t be what they are if it wasn’t for your interest, curiosity, time, and willingness to explore and experiment with me playing with what wants to find its way to paper with the intention of offering meaningfulness, inspiration, and at least a smile or two.   And perhaps encouragement for your own writing exploration and play. 

This week, once again, I offer words reframed. 

Another fiction character.  This time you will meet Joshua.

And this week I also offer a found poem.   I have a dear and treasured friend in my life that I am blessed to share in a weekly ritual of joyful writing together who writes exquisite, beautiful, inspiring, moving poems developed by putting together words read (or heard) from other poems, writings, speakings, etc.   I am an eager student learning from her! 

Before it feels a little daunting or overwhelming to have this much content, let me offer that you could read a little bit throughout the next couple of weeks until the next Blueprints.   I’ve held an aspiration to offer daily inspiration to readers, yet I don’t want to flood your inbox.  Think of this email as my heart’s way of wishing you a downstream flow great day, every day.  You get to decide which days to receive that wish based on reading this issue. 

May your day flow downstream with ease!

L  Letting

I   Internal

S  Speaking

T Transcend

E  External

N Noise

P  Possibilities

L  Limitless

A  As

Y  Youthful

F  Flow

U Unfolds

L  Laughter

N Nimble-ity

E  Eagerness

S  Silliness

S  Squee

Joshua  

Joshua knows his Thursdays are numbered. That he doesn’t have many more 4:00 p.m. dinner dates with his Grandpa Edward.  Edward’s physician told Joshua it could be anywhere from three months to eight months before the cancer would completely fill up his grandpa’s lungs.

Joshua doesn’t like to think of his grandpa struggling to breathe. Joshua also knows there will be no life-prolonging measures used to make his grandpa more comfortable. Watching his mom die of leukemia in hospice care taught Joshua and Edward the importance of this.

The price of loving someone with all your heart means you may have to let go when you don’t want to.

Joshua wasn’t ready to say goodbye to his grandpa, the male role model and father figure in his life.  Joshua’s mom didn’t really tell him much about his biological father. Only that they had met while in college, that Joshua had his smile, and that they had wanted different things in life, so his dad and mom each went their separate ways.

Joshua can’t help feeling that he would get along with his dad who wanted different things in life.

Joshua still hasn’t told Edward about Kaylen.  His wife. His beautiful, intelligent, successful, compassionate, physician wife with her deep brown eyes that remind him of perfect skipping stones found in the creek bottom his grandpa took him to when Joshua was six or seven years of age. His grandpa taught him how to hold the stone so that it would make the perfect skip.

Joshua closes his eyes often remembering.   He hears his grandpa say Ok, son, take this flat rock, here, like this.  Joshua feels the belief in his abilities and the acceptance in the way his grandpa coached the placement of his thumb on top of the rock, his middle finger underneath, his index finger along the edge.  Joshua still listens for his grandpa’s voice saying Good!  The sound of pride and love.   Hey, look at that skip! One. Two. Three. Great job son!   I’m proud of you!

Joshua had felt special that day. He also knew he never wanted to lose his grandpa’s admiration. Nor his love.

Which is why he still hasn’t told Edward about Kaylen.  He tells Kaylen he wants to protect her from rejection. Which is not untrue. He never wants her to hurt.

And she has certainly had more than her fair share. Racism is like that. It lavishes judgment and exclusion against those already in a minority. The judgment and exclusion heaps hurt on those who have already been hurt by centuries of discrimination and omission.

He is certain his grandpa would not accept Kaylen because of her skin color. Her glowing, silken, exquisite, Black skin. He has been in a vehicle with his grandpa one too many times hearing his grandpa mutter derogatory words about people who do not match his grandfather’s legacy WASP mindset.  Society’s definition is white, Anglo-Saxon protestant mentality; Joshua likes to think of it, What A Short-sighted Perspective.

Joshua has always pondered how his grandpa could travel the world, the front lines of so many meaningful endings like the fall of the Soviet Union in the 90’s, the Berlin Wall in the 80’s, the end of the Vietnam War in the 70’s, yet not embrace diversity.  

Joshua thinks back to that day his grandpa took him to the creek where Joshua learned to skip stones. The creek where his grandpa had spent much of his spare time as a child when he was Joshua’s age. Joshua remembers them sitting on the creek bank in silence, his grandpa staring into the water as if reminiscing about something. Or someone.

When Joshua asked if his grandpa’s dad had brought him to this creek and taught him to skip stones like Edward was doing with him, the reply was a simple “no, I came to the creek alone.”

His grandpa went on to say, “I once brought a friend to the creek. His name was Dakota, and he was Native American. I didn’t bring him here again.  After my dad forbade me to spend time with him. ‘We don’t mix with those not of our own kind,’ my dad told me after he hung his belt back up.

“Dakota was a nice kid. I liked hanging out with him.” And then with a slight laugh, his grandpa said, “but not as much as I liked that belt staying hung up on the hook.”

His Grandma Patricia met Kaylen a few weeks before she had her stroke. His grandma loved Kaylen instantly. Kaylen felt the same about his grandma.

They had met at a coffee shop near the clinic where Kaylen works. When Kaylen excused herself to go to the ladies’ room, Joshua asked his grandma when he should tell Edward. He can still feel her hand pat his as she looked at him tenderly, sympathetically. “Your grandpa is a good man, Joshua. Don’t forget that.  When the time is right to tell him, you will know.”

On this particular Thursday, when Joshua arrived, his grandpa was holding a folded letter. It looked well worn, maybe not even legible anymore. It was in Vietnamese.

“Someone I met at a coffee shop” was his grandpa’s reply when Joshua asked Edward who gave him the letter.

Joshua was frightened and curious at the same time when his grandpa began crying after Joshua translated the letter. He could only remember his grandpa crying twice. Once at Joshua’s mom’s bedside. The other was when Grandma passed away.

Who was this Mỹ, pronouced MEE? What was so special about her that grandpa carried her letter around with him for fifty-two years? Josh had so many questions.

And maybe one thing to tell Edward.  Soon.

Tip Toe, One Step at a Time

My toes are dictionaries

Do you need any words?

On my second little piggy

flowering of patience and steady perseverance

is

“vitality”

I’ll invite

Please someone

Live your way into this moment

and then teach your way out of this moment

our aliveness

our self-expression

our verve

a heart-centered revolution

live by love through our final breath

Inside my legs

real life walking

always, always arriving

I grow old

I am frayed

Yesterday faded

Yet

I am

pleased with my memories

Dazzled

by

the blues of every night

human connection

vulnerabilities;

a big part of what bonds us

unites us as human beings

Dazzled

by

tables filled with food and laughter

northern lights

Grown-ups

who

keep their feet on the ground

when they swing

May I always keep my feet raised

by the child within

me

Dazzled

by

Wait

Just think

—no one has ever seen

a bee

live in your shoe

What if you found your shoe

full of honey?

Maybe I will leave a shoe on the ground

when I swing

Tomorrow’s in BOLDFACE

cuddle

near

hear my whispers

to hold

to want

to

keep some child warm

Dazzled by

showing up every day

being human

So much love…it’s everywhere

the picture of the world is the experience of it

our sacred relations …

brother dolphin and sister humpback whale

sister gull

sister meadow and brother forest

our kinship with brother bald eagle

and sister box turtle,

sister song sparrow and

brother swallowtail butterfly

brother

sister

to people you don’t even know

deep water, too

From now on

I call you sister

Rose-breasted grosbeak

in the middle—

of our picture window

are you sister?

Or brother?

I think your fluttering wings

at the French door

whispered

be way thoughtful about how

I

show up

No matter how,

throw the word out

“can’t”

Change faces

Put

hands in the air

Fly

No apology

Be

a change agent

for

a truly just and life-centered world

even if we never see it come into existence

Even if

in the house

of Mother Earth

where we live now

is

loneliness

there’s a stopper

Return to the places where the stories begin

to challenge them

you are

a change agent

for someone in your life

Intentionality is everything   

Blue heron of tranquility

A friend shared that you also offer

“follow me”

As I navigate

the river

of life

I think I will call you

brother

from now on

I never want to minus

relationality

and how to make it graceful

Grace activates other values

like

fierce love

hope for a good outcome

hope of being good people

seeping through

What this decade will be

known for

One step into the unknown at a time

Isn’t that happiness?

Found Poem extracted from:

• Naomi Shihab Nye, “One Boy Told Me” from Fuel. Copyright © 1998 by Naomi  Shihab Nye. Reprinted by permission of BOA Editions, Ltd. http://www.boaeditions.org

Nikki Giovanni and her poems “Quilts” and “Cotton Candy on a Rainy Day”

Speakers of Wisdom 2.0 2024 event (Soren Gordhamer): Dr. Elizabeth Markle, Alanis Morisset, Deepok Chopra,  Tarana Burke, Jon Kabat-Zinn

Writers for Center for Action and Contemplation from week of May 13 – May 18: Richard Rohr, authors LaUra Schmidt and Aimee Lewis Reau, Brian McLaren, author Kaitlin Curtice