April 2018 – Modern Creative Life

April 29, 2018

Sunday Salon: Lives of the Poets

April is National Poetry Month, and although I’m not a poet myself, I have a deep appreciation for the way poets use syntax and imagery to examine their subject matter from a completely different vantage point than one would do in prose. Here in the Sunday Salon, I like to think about the intersection between life and art, and poetry seems to be one of the finest examples.

This month I returned to the poetry of Jane Kenyon and Donald Hall, two poets who happen to be married to one another and who, for me at least, really embody this intersection of life and art. I return to Hall’s memoir, The Best Day the Worst Day, his memoir about life with Kenyon and her death from leukemia at age 47. I return to Kenyon’s book of collected essays, A Hundred White Daffodils, where she often writes about life in the small New Hampshire town where she and Hall moved in the late 1970’s. I return to Bill Moyers Emmy winning documentary about the couple, A Life Together.

In short, I immerse myself in the lives of these poets. I become something of a poetry nerd, searching out poems that reflect life events both large and small.

I’m not disappointed. Early in their marriage, Kenyon writes of moving into Hall’s boyhood home.

You always belonged here.

You were theirs, certain as a rock.

I’m the one who worries if I fit in with the furniture

and the landscape.

Hall writes so often of their daily routine it becomes sacred in it’s assuring sameness.

In the bliss of routine

-coffee, love, pond afternoons, poems –

we feel we will live

forever, until we know we feel it.

When illness strikes one and then the other, they work out their reactions and experiences in poem after poem, reminding us of the way life can upend itself, rearrange itself, and come to rest as something completely changed. One of Kenyon’s most well known poems, Otherwise, describes this uncertainty with such grace.

I got out of bed

on two strong legs.

It might have been

otherwise. I ate

cereal, sweet

milk, ripe, flawless

peach. It might have been otherwise.

I took the dog uphill

to the birch wood.

All morning I did

the work I love.

***

At noon I lay down

with my mate. It might

have been otherwise.

We ate dinner together

at a table with silver

candlesticks. It might

have been otherwise.

I slept in a bed

in a room with paintings

on the walls, and

planned another day

just like this day.

But one day, I know,

it will be otherwise.

In Her Long Illness, Hall describes the days of vigil at Kenyon’s bedside, a feeling familiar to anyone who has nursed a loved one.

Daybreak until nightfall.

he sat by his wife at the hospital

while chemotherapy dripped

through the catheter into her heart.

He drank coffee and read

the Globe. He paced; he worked

on poems; he rubbed her back

and read aloud. Overcome with dread,

they wept and affirmed

their love for each other, witlessly,

over and over again.

Hall writes that “Poetry embodies the complexity of feelings at their most entangled.” It offers us company in joy and sorrow, invites us to examine emotions, nature, all of life in a unique way. Poetry parses the stuff of life and untangles the snares of emotions that trap us in grief, loneliness, or confusion. It glorifies the particular beauty in nature and living things and reminds us of their value. In a few carefully selected and crafted phrases, a poet creates a new way of seeing, and also reaches a hand to the reader, inviting them to meet at this juncture of art and life.

Just because I don’t write poetry doesn’t mean I can’t look at life with a poet’s eye. Reading and studying the lives of the poets, observing the way they view their experiences through that unique poetic lens encourages me to do the same. Poets lift up the smallest details to a level of near holiness, something we might all benefit from doing. If, as the saying goes, life is in the details, the poet can teach us to examine the particular details of our own lives, appreciate and even exalt them in ways that can change us forever.

About the Author: Becca Rowan

becca_rowan_bio_may2016 Becca Rowan lives in Northville, Michigan with her husband. She is the author of Life in General, and Life Goes On, collections of personal and inspirational essays about the ways women navigate the passage into midlife. She is also a musician, and performs as a pianist and as a member of Classical Bells, a professional handbell ensemble. If she’s not writing or playing music you’ll likely find her out walking or curled up on the couch reading with a cup of coffee (or glass of wine) close at hand. She loves to connect with readers at her blog, or on Facebook, Twitter, or Goodreads.

April 26, 2018

Meaningless No More by Patricia Wellingham-Jones

Two friends and I looked at our empty lives
and echoing caverns of our houses,
decided we would no longer mope
after mourning our losses.

So we drove to the animal shelter.

One came home with a senior cat
perfectly suited to her age and apartment.
Another, brave mad woman she is,
got a kitten and rambunctious puppy.

I filled my vacant space
with a tuxedo kitten and young orange cat.
The house rings with their galloping feet,
tinkle of bells, the catnip mice.

Now I tell tales of their silly antics,
friends come to visit the kits.
I scoop out the litter boxes,
laugh at them both. They cuddle with me.

About the Author: Patricia Wellingham-Jones

Patricia Wellingham-Jones is a widely published former psychology researcher and writer/editor. She has a special interest in healing writing, with poems recently in The Widow’s Handbook (Kent State University Press). Chapbooks include Don’t Turn Away: poems about breast cancer, End-Cycle: poems about caregiving, Apple Blossoms at Eye Level, Voices on the Land and Hormone Stew.

April 24, 2018

Instrumental: That’s What Friends Are For by Bernie Brown

You can find them online. You can find them offline. In the grocery store. Or living next door. In a singing club, or a quilting class, or a PTA meeting.

I’m talking about friends. The places they are found are as varied as the friends themselves, who differ in size, color, and adornment like sea shells on the beach. Different as they are, they all have qualities that make you cherish them and grow a little larger in their company.

Friends make you laugh. They may be great joke tellers, chances are they aren’t, but you both see the world through the same crazy pair of glasses. You both thought feng shui was a kind of sushi. And neither of you really get The Onion. You can admit you have liked Barry Manilow all along, and though they might not share your taste, they still like uncool you.

When success comes to you in small or large ways – you lost three pounds or your story won a writing contest—a friend cheers you on. And their good fortune doesn’t diminish yours. With a friend, joy is doubled, and troubles are halved.

They’ve seen you cry and put their arms around you while you dampened the shoulder of their brand new designer sweater. They don’t try to fix whatever is bringing on the water works, they don’t even have to understand why the bad thing is so bad. They are sad because you are. They don’t tell you to “get over it,” they just hang around until you feel better.

Griping! Venting! Sounding off! A friend will let you curse your boss, the government, the traffic. They will let you say the F word and make your ugliest face. And agree, agree, agree. The jerk! The collective stupidity! Insane drivers rule the roadways. They don’t try to get you to see reason.

You can tell a friend your dreams—a year in Paris or visit to the space station— and they won’t laugh at you. You can tell them your most unreasonable fears, and they will tell you theirs.

But sadly, sometimes friendships wither away. There is no animosity, you just grow in different directions. She wants to run for political office, you want to train to be a yoga instructor. Calls and lunches become less frequent and after awhile, yoga classes fill your days and you’ve made a host of new buds.

At sadder times, a friendship goes bad. You realize this person is trying to hold you back, to undermine your goals. They don’t have your best interests at heart. Worse still, they make you feel bad about yourself with barely concealed remarks, “Oh, you’ll probably never go back to school. It’s just a passing whim. You’d be older than all the others, anyway.” When going back for your master’s is a dream you have always had.

Or you may feel this person is manipulating you. She joins a committee at school and then somehow you find yourself going along because she “needs a friend” and you really, truly hate committee work.

Some friendships just never get off the ground because you discover early on you aren’t going to click. The person is a whiner and whining gets old fast. Or they are a hypochondriac and bring you down. Or they constantly reschedule, throwing your calendar in an uproar and you begin to know they can’t be counted on. Save yourself further pain, and don’t encourage more contact.

But more times than not when you find yourself sitting over coffee, hot chocolate, or a glass of wine, and three hours have passed laughing, confiding, and setting straight the world, and you still have more to say, you are with a friend. You may have to go home and do laundry, but the laughs keep you smiling while you fold towels, the confidences have lightened your secret burdens, and the discussion has broadened your understanding of the world and yourself.

After all, that’s what friends are for.

About the Author: Bernie Brown

I live in Raleigh, NC where I write, read, and watch birds. My stories have appeared in several magazines, most recently Better After 50, Modern Creative Life, Indiana Voice Journal, and Watching Backyard Birds. My story “The Same Old Casserole” was nominated for a Pushcart Prize by Modern Creative Life. I am a Writer in Residence at the Weymouth Center, which is the perfect spot to work on my novel-in-progress. .

April 22, 2018

Sunday Sensations: The Power of Relationships

Before I was born my mother and father were sitting in a church service listening to a message about my namesake — Tabitha (Acts 9 if you want to look it up). Tabitha was one of the rare people in the Bible where you meet her after she’s already died. Peter, one of the apostles, goes to a house full of mourning. It seems Tabitha was much loved because she made clothes for widows and orphans. Peter, struck by her compassion and the grief of the people, raises her back to life.

My parents were struck by her story and decided their first female child would be named Tabitha.

In some sense, I’ve always tried to live up to her legacy. This legacy of leaving behind people who love you and who you’ve helped. And, for me, it all starts with cultivating relationships.

I was, like many nerdy kids, pretty lonely growing up. I longed for friends. Thankfully, I had a younger sister who was my constant companion, but I wanted more. I dreamt of friendships like the books I was obsessed with reading. I ached for someone who’d tell me stories and secrets. I was consistently dumbfounded when other people didn’t like me.

Then, when I was 12, I discovered the internet.

You have to understand that the internet to me will always be this Narnia of a place. Here I could type in things I loved (mystery novels) and find people who liked the same things as I did. It was magical. Suddenly, the world was open for me to find people who liked me for who I was — not because they were in the same age group at church.

I met my first internet friend at age 16 (with my parents). I remember buzzing with happiness for days after that. Someone who loved what I loved wanted to spend time with me. I was overwhelmed.

Over the years, I’ve met so many people through the power of social media and the internet. Bounds have formed that have lasted over a decade. The number of close friends I have would boggle the younger version of myself. The internet gave me a tool to find my tribe. To click when I felt anything but clickable.

There’s an energy that happens when you meet someone you can connect with — I call it “soul buzz.” There’s just something secret sauce about the right temperament, mood, mutual loves and energy that connect in a way that proves that human beings are infinitely complex. When you find “the one” — your skin seems to dance with a level of awareness. Yes, yes! I am not alone in my weirdness — this is someone like me.

It’s the main reason I attend comic cons.

While my father is the start of all that is good and geeky in my life, growing up I was still vaguely aware that being bookish and geeky was not “normal.” Nothing drove the point home like the last summer before high school when a table of kids laughed at me for using a four syllable word. I burned with shame.

For most of my life I’m unabashedly geeky, but going to comic cons reminds me that I am not alone. There’s a group of people — many of them professional, amazing, talented, functional people, who love the same things I do and learn the same things I learn through our fandoms.

As I reflect on how happy I am and realize again that relationships are the backbone of life. My husband, my kid, my family, these friends — all of them contribute to my life being wonderful or terrible. As I build this tribe, people who follow and love me no matter what, I realize that was what Tabitha must have been doing — making relationships.

I hope she’d be proud.

About the author: Tabitha Grace Challis

Tabitha is a social media strategist, writer, blogger, and professional geek. Among her published works are the children’s books Jack the Kitten is Very Brave and Machu the Cat is Very Hungry, both published under the name Tabitha Grace Smith. A California girl (always and forever) she now lives in Maryland with her husband, son, and a collection of cats, dogs, and chickens. Find out more about her on her Amazon author page or follow her on Twitter: @Tabz.

April 20, 2018

In Shadows and Sunbeams by Æverett

I used to just lay in bed for hours listening to music and just daydream.
I miss that.

No, really. That’s how much of my life pre-anxiety happened. Lying still, with all that sound, staring up at the ceiling or my own hands, and thinking.
About everything.
Sometimes, I’d think of nothing and just observe the lines on my palms or the shapes my fingers would make.
More than once, I sat listening for hours and literally watched the sun move across my floor.
And most often I spent those long hours wrapped in the escapist embrace of characters I loved. Walking them through arguments and battles and romances that would never canonically be.

Whole afternoons dedicated to watching the sun move across my floor.

I think these observational stretches made me a more empathetic person. I asked questions of the Universe. I watched Time and learned what pores look like.
It made me a better writer.
Seeing the pace of Time taught me how to stretch it with words. It taught me the impact it can have.
It taught me how to use silence — a lack of dialogue — to an advantage.

There’s profound beauty in stillness, in silence and forgoance of voice. In the sun moving at a slow constant across a wood floor. In gazing up at the ceiling and wondering at the workings of the Universe, of god, of Being.
It teaches listening.
It teaches patience.
It teaches Being.

I see, in those memories, part of myself that has become forgotten and tired and sorely neglected. I have shunned it for doing, for noise, for The Scroll. I have forgotten it’s perfect majesty and pure truth.
And I have suffered for it.
I have burned out and struggled, and I have found chaos where there should be none.

Silence cultivated my creativity into what it Became.
Stillness gave me Myself.
And watching the sun walk across the Sky gave me Time.

Photo by Dmitry Bayer on Unsplash

About the Author: Æverett

Æverett lives in the northern hemisphere and enjoys Rammstein and Star Trek. He writes both poetry and fiction and dabbles in gardening and soap making. She has two wonderfully old cats, and a dearly beloved dog. He also plays in linguistics, studying German, Norwegian, Russian, Arabic, a bit of Elvish, and developing Cardassian. Language is fascinating, enlightening, and inspirational. She’s happily married to her work with which she shares delusions of demon hunters, detectives, starships, androids, and a home on the outskirts of a small northern town. He’s enjoyed writing since childhood and the process can be downright therapeutic when it’s not making him pull his hair out. It’s really about the work and words and seeing without preconceptions.

April 19, 2018

Instrumental: Am I Going to Die Alone? by Melissa Cynova

One of the questions that I get most often as a tarot reader is, “Am I going to die alone?” Usually they work up to it, but sometimes it’s right out there.

“Am I going to die alone?”
“Are my cats going to eat me when I die?”
“Did I miss my chance?”
“Is my Person behind me instead of in front of me?”

I used to just answer that question. It’s pretty straightforward. Yes or no? If it was no, don’t worry about it. It’ll happen when it happens. If it was yes, well… I would start asking the person why companionship was the most important thing. They would say a variation of “I just want to be happy.”

And then I would get to the heart of the matter.

“Why do you think that you need someone to be happy?”

Why, indeed.

Next year will be my 30^th year playing around with these cards, and I think the most important thing that I’ve learned is to listen for the question under the question. To use the conversation around the question to cultivate (see what I did there?) the conversation and get to the true worry that they’re carrying around.

If we look at ‘Am I going to die alone?”, there a few layers to this.

Am I going to die alone?
Why do I think I need someone to be happy?
Why aren’t I happy right now?
Am I afraid?
Am I going to be ok?

Nearly every reading that I do can be condensed down to that last question. Am I going to be ok?

What this means is that my job as a tarot reader is to be so gentle with my clients. The world is a scary place, sometimes. What this means for my clients is this – ask yourself why you’re asking the question.

Is that the real question, or the surface part?

And as a reminder: you can divine this for yourself by using a pen and your journal. Give it a try by asking each question of and allowing the words to flow from your heart.Allow yourself to go beyond the surface and discover your own real question.

Whatever is pushing it to the surface is your true concern, and the faster you figure out what that is, the faster you can answer it.

About the Author: Melissa Cynova

Melissa Cynova is owner of Little Fox Tarot, and has been reading tarot cards and teaching classes since 1989. She can be found in the St. Louis area, and is available for personal readings, parties and beginner and advanced tarot classes. You can Look for her first book, Kitchen Table Tarot, from Llewellyn Publishing.

Melissa lives in St. Louis with her kiddos, her partner, Joe, and two cats, two dogs and her tortoise, Phil.

She is on Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram. Go ahead and schedule a reading – she already knows you want one.

April 17, 2018

Step Garden by John Grey

The slope is steep but cultivated:
olive and racemose carob trees,
primrose cyclamen nodding at their feet;
at the bottom, lemon trees
sipping tartness from the sea;
farther up, Spanish chestnuts,
fruit rattling in the breeze,
limbs swishing like horse tails.
A narrow trail snakes its way
through thick shadow
to low cut brush
where light bursts large.
My breath scores lemon
and salt and oil and legume.
I walk the length and back again
with you beside me,
like we’re hiking a scented
soft moment in ourselves.
With nervous lips,
I place a hungry garden
on your mouth’s sweet slopes,
for you to prune,
to fertilize.

About the Author: John Grey

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, South Carolina Review, Gargoyle and Big Muddy Review with work upcoming in Louisiana Review, Cape Rock and Spoon River Poetry Review.

April 15, 2018

Welcome to Issue #10: Cultivate

Among the many definitions of “cultivate” offered by Webster’s Dictionary are, “to develop or improve by education or training; train; refine,” “to promote the growth or development of (an art, science, etc.),” “to devote oneself to (an art, science, etc.),” and “to seek to promote or foster (friendship, love, etc.).”

Clearly, cultivation is a versatile concept, one that goes far beyond getting our hands dirty by planting seeds in soil and caring for the resultant sprouts, watching as they grow into flowers, trees, fruit, or vegetables.

And yet, that first, most basic association is no less valid than the abstract uses of the word. We cultivate our arts and sciences in much the same way that we cultivate soil. We foster the growth of our friendships (or, we should) with every bit as much care as we give to plants. We constantly reach, grow, hone, refine, perfect, and protect every aspect of our lives and ourselves.

Welcome to Issue #10 of Modern Creative Life: “Cultivate”

“Solitude is the soil in which genius is planted, creativity grows, and legends bloom; faith in oneself is the rain that cultivates a hero to endure the storm, and bare the genesis of a new world, a new forest.” ― Mike Norton, White Mountain

When we were discussing this year’s themes, we all got excited about the choice of “cultivate” for our spring quarter. After all, most of us do some gardening, and all of us try to keep our artistic selves in a state of growth and tender care.

What could be more perfect, we thought, then to celebrate the many ways we cultivate the various aspects of our lives?

“By looking for the unexpected and discerning the surreptitious features in the scenery within us, we apprehend our personality, find out our identity and learn how to cultivate it. Taking care of our fingerprints will be an enduring endeavor. ( “Looking for the unexpected” )” ― Erik Pevernagie

What does “cultivate” mean to each of us? What does it mean to you? Can we apply the work we do in backyard gardens or front porch flower pots to art, writing, and music? Can we foster spiritual growth and nurture our bodies the same way we cultivate friendships and enhance our romantic relationships?

Is it possible that a life which is too carefully cultivated can end up being as soggy as an over-watered garden or as parched as desert sands?

Don’t we need to find balance in our cultivation, as we do in all things?

These are the concepts we are exploring in this issue, and we invite you to join us in the experience.

In this issue, you’ll get a peek into the daily lives of other creative folk in our Studio Tours and Typical Tuesday series, and meet people walking fascinating creative pathways in Conversations Over Coffee. With photos and fiction, poetry and essays, as well as all kind of enlightenment, help each of us find a deeper understanding into all the ways in which you create.

As always, our mission at Modern Creative Life is to honor the pursuit and practice of joyful creativity. We believe that the creative arts enrich our everyday living, enhance our environment, create lasting connections, and sustain our souls. Please join us as we look to other creatives for ways in which they nurture and tend their own creative life so that they regularly find their process – and lives – feeling nourished instead of parched.

As we share the stories of other makers, use their experiences to illuminate your path into your own Modern Creative Life.

“Cultivate your craft. Water it daily, pour some tender loving care into it, and watch it grow. Remember that a plant doesn’t sprout immediately. Be patient, and know that in life you will reap what you sow.” ― J.B. McGee

What stories might you have to share with the world? Share the results of your cultivation with us! Don’t be afraid to dig deeply into the fertile soil of experience, memory, and imagination as way, not only to tell your story, but to help others learn from your mental, spiritual, and physical adventures.

We are open to single contributions as well as new regular contributors. Email us at moderncreativelife@gmail.com.

—Melissa A. Bartell, Editor at Large

April 13, 2018

The Great Escape by Jeanette McGurk

In our house we live with a certain level of spontaneity. This is partially because of my personality type. “What? Leave now to see a band 3 hours from us? Hell yes!” And partially because of my husband’s job. We joke that he is the cleaner; the guy they bring in when everything else fails. Right now we are in Germany for 5 weeks because of a project that has gone off the rails. Riding off the rails was easier to manage when the kids were little.

As they get older, roots and responsibilities stretch themselves around our lives so that we can’t put home on pause anymore. If we leave, arrangements must be made for Moxie, our fat little tootsie roll of a dog and Mr Farkus, the king of grumpy geriatric cats.

I am a Girl Scout leader. A few Girl Scout meetings must be managed so 6th graders who are already losing some interest do not lose all interest. And then there is the bit about school. It is totally frowned upon for 4th and 6th graders to go gallivanting about Germany focused on schnitzel and sledding rather than the common core standard. In fact, it is easy to justify all the reasons why the girls and I should not be here.

It is expensive, impractical, disruptive, and a bit decadent to put every day life on hold to spend a month hanging out in one of my favorite cities. On the other side of the argument, my husband is here. He has been for weeks and weeks.

Not only is it important to rescue him before he goes completely feral, it is better for us as a family to be together.

When John is gone the kids sleep in my bed. He fusses that I have no boundaries but at 10 and 12, I figure at any moment they will be be over me. So, I forgo binge watching Black Mirror for Liv and Maddie. I start off with strict orders of no cookies in bed, only to succumb to cookies in bed which means crumbs in bed. Next it’s Moxie. She looks at us with her big brown eyes, and another rule flies out the window, it is now me, the kids, and a 25lb dog with a stink and snore problem.

All that is left to fill the ark is one very old, mean cat who hates the dog, but calls a truce. Farkus would never allow the dog to one up him. To be honest, when John travels I suspect he becomes more civilized and we are the ones who go feral.

So after some finagling with school and schedules, the kids and I wrap things up and head for Munich. One would think that 10 and 12 would be a great age to travel with children. They are older, wiser and can manage their stuff. All of this is true.

They have also fine tuned their skills on how to annoy one another, and more importantly, me. Before we even make it through security they are being surly and have started flinging insults. I am extra crabby because I have discovered the billions of miles and status my husband has on American does not apply to us. We only get to check 1 bag each. So, we are each carrying our normal bag plus 3 large duffels, two of which I have been kicking through the security line for 15 minutes. What I thought had been a lot of time has somehow dwindled down to less than an hour.

The security guy is adamant that my 12 year old remove her hat and clear her hair out of her face so he can compare her passport photo to real her. She shoots daggers at him from her narrowed eyes. “Yes,” I want to say, “that cute, sweet, looking girl in that photo is the same child a year ago. Welcome to the tween years.”

We finally make it through security. Next on the agenda; food. This is not our first rodeo. With 11 hours of flying ahead of us, we are going to get hungry. In fact, we are already hungry. We had left the fridge as empty as possible before leaving home for 5 weeks and had eaten some stale crackers, cheese and a lone apple before loading into the cab.

As much as we want to like the plane meal three hours from now, it will make our snack look gourmet. My first inclination is towards the Cantina Laredo 10 steps from our gate. The girls grimace. I have been burning them out on Mexican food for the last two weeks. It is the only thing I miss when we are in Europe, well, that and my mammoth washing machine and dryer. I try to go into Cantina Laredo when the Hostess stops me. “Sorry, we are not seating anyone, our computers are down.” I blink at her stunned. “Super” I say. The kids cheer.

I know what this means, pizza. Parenthood has given me an appreciation for wine and a loathing for pizza. Every class party, birthday party, Friday night, Saturday afternoon, seems to involve pizza. I don’t know how my kids can burn out on Mexican food and yet never tire of pizza.

It is one of life’s great mysteries.

We eat our pizza and despite my lack of enthusiasm, it actually hits the spot. With the hangrys dealt with, we are all much more pleasant.

Boarding starts almost immediately after arriving at the gate. Whatever I have forgotten to do, we are now committed. The door closes, the safety info starts and all the over-commitments, under commitments, concerns and stresses fade away. There is something about being on a plane, the lack of control that I find comforting.

I am fully aware how weird this is. Perhaps it is because I am so naturally disorganized.

I spend the two days before travel like a chicken with my head chopped off. Running around, accomplishing nothing. So when I sit down on the plane, I have at least managed myself and the kids to this point. The passports obviously weren’t left. Apparently no one tried to board with a multi-tool. The large threatening toothpaste had to hit the trash but the crackers Lauren apparently packed herself in my best tupperware were allowed through.

Yes the flight will be cramped and uncomfortable but someone else has to drive. I can sit, read, watch movies, all while being served tea, cokes or wine if I am so inclined. Whatever happens, I am not in charge and therefor, I can relax. It is the time where I transition my brain. This trip is both escape and homecoming. It isn’t that I don’t love being at home, I do. But the chance to explore other places is so delicious.

And to explore as a family is even better.

We skip from Heathrow to Munich. We snake through the lines to where the customs agent stands. “How long will you be in Munich?” “About a month.” “What brings you here?” “My husband is here working.” “Is he in the military?” “No.” He asks where he works. I give more answers. He looks at the kids, their bears. “Have a good trip.” “We will, we love Munich.”

He stamps our passports. Thunk thunk. Thunk thunk. Thunk thunk. There is the last formality of getting our luggage, which the girls manage all of. I smile, happy they are showing solid travel legs.

We round the corner and see the tall pale guy we are looking for. The one smiling at us through the sea of all the other tall pale guys. There are hugs and cheers and jumping. My kids are jumpers. We pile into the tiny European version of an SUV. Somehow all of us and all our stuff just manages to fit. We look out at the end of the day and the start of our visit.

Halloo Munchen, we are glad to be here.

About the Author: Jeanette McGurk

Jeanette McGurk is a Graphic Designer who entered the world of writing through advertising. She discovered writing a lot of truth with a little fluff is a lot more fun than the other way round. Now that she is no longer spending time making air conditioners, tile floors, IT and Botox sound sexy, she writes about the unglamorous yet wonderful moments of life for people like herself; in other words, anyone looking for interesting ways to put off cleaning and doing laundry.

She is a curmudgeon and doesn’t Twit or Instagram. She has heard the blog is dead but since she has finally figured out how to do it, that is the museum where you can locate her writings. http://jmcpb.blogspot.com/.

April 12, 2018

The Basket by Emma Gazley

Today while the ground was damp
The sky dry
A woman with a red face
Hair in gold strands
Wearing a heavy down coat
Approached me at the store

Asking, Do you have a basket?
She said It is for my flowers
I brought her one and said
If this works for you

Without prelude
Her words unfolded like chairs on a beach

My mother
she said
I consider her a true Christian
She is a different religion than I am now
But she taught me
You must never steal,
Yet it is not stealing
to take a flower
What do we do to make the flowers grow?
We have a seed, but do we grow the root?

No.

My mother said
You must thank the flower and take it
It’s the same with the ocean, you know
Her eyes widened.
You have to thank it before you
She put her hand out, as if to pluck a
Tender pink shell from the sand
Take it

So
She put her bundle of flowers together
I made this bouquet this morning
This is my gift to you.

To me? I said, a hand to my heart
Why me?

Because

You look like a flower.

About the Author: Emma Gazley

Emma Gazley is an artist, musician, writer, adventurer and teacher. Born to two adventurous parents, Emma was destined to be an explorer of the world, and from her earliest moments displayed signs of creativity and curiosity. She has spent time in Europe, Asia, Canada, and currently resides in the U.S. She began her journey of discovering her identity as an artist in 2012, after encountering critical health problems that caused her to lose her job and the ability to do most everyday activities. Many of her projects have, as a result of this event and others, a twinge of the painful and tragic aspects of life.

Emma is interested in learning about grief and how to cope with it, as well as passionate about finding joy in the day to day.