To Isaac Albeniz’s Asturias by Patricia Wellingham-Jones

The guitar’s deep voice
stroked and plucked into life
wings like a broad-feathered bird
over treetops, lifting, dipping,
darting to alight on a bowing
hemlock crest. Balanced, calm
the bird settles, feathers tucked.
He scans the skies, dips his yellow gaze
to creatures below. Dismisses
any that don’t look like food.
The music builds then soars,
fingers pluck the bird into magnificent flight.
Sailing high where blue melds into white
he rides the air currents,
spins out of sight.

About the Author: Patricia Wellingham-Jones

PatriciaWellingham-JonesPatricia 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.

Cultivation by Lisa Zaran

My father’s spirit, built of plank, flew
into the afterlife’s eye like a stone thrown.

Old bone, I’m sure he made its ledge,
narrowly escaping the turnstile of reincarnation.

In that calm of death where even moss can be discerned
growing against the rivers edge,

his soul, unbidden, lifted as his heart
blued inside his breast. Slender as a
sprig on a silver buttonwood.

Oh good earth, he was a decent man.

About the Author: Lisa Zaran

Lisa Zaran is the author of eight collections of poetry including Dear Bob Dylan, The Blondes Lay Content, If It We and the sometimes girl. She is founder and editor of Contemporary American Voices, on online poetry journal in its twelfth year of publication. Lisa lives in Arizona where she works full time for a Community Service Agency serving individuals with substance use and mental health disorders

Cultivate Possibilities: A Risk Capable of Turning A Tide by Ellen Weber

Copyright: <a href='https://www.123rf.com/profile_stockbroker'>stockbroker / 123RF Stock Photo</a>It happened in a grad leadership circle, but it could have been an intense exchange at my kitchen table, over green tea or a glass of wine. Everybody spoke at once, so we heard the last student’s sentence overlap with the next person’s question. Then suddenly our roundtable session fell silent for what seemed like minutes when Mohammed, a Palestinian, and Hahn, an Israeli, heated up our debate.

We’d told stories of leaders who lose employees to drugs, and employees who lose their cool over conflicts. So their interjection of middle-east peace possibilities didn’t seem tied into reality, much less our conversation.

“Ok, it’s nothing but chaos,” Hahn said as he held up his iPad and refreshed the screen to show a new protest in Gaza. “But that’s cause nobody’s ready to risk…”

“Risk what?” Mohammed asked.

“Imagine the peace we’d cultivate in the middle-east if just one Israeli leader acted through one Palestinian’s viewpoint, Mohammed said. And he added, … “and picture one Palestinian responding through an Israeli’s perspective.”

Silence again. You could almost taste the tension in the room.

“But think of the huge risk that would take,” a student suggested. Several others agreed that such a risk would be enormous in the current climate where people reach for chemical fixes before conflict resolutions. Nelson Mandela

“So where’d a person begin?” I asked, hoping to see what grad students think it would take to turn their own rough tides toward calmer shores. “What risks do you cultivate … if any?”

The notion of empathy suddenly came up and Margaret said her granddad’s favorite saying was, “Risk speaking to every human as if that person was wounded.”

The group gradually concluded that the right risk could turn a tide for yourself or somebody you know. And you don’t always have to move a mountain, or erase the entire opioid crisis at the same time.

Even in our current drug epidemic, where researcher Dr. Tara Gomes in Toronto, warns us that opioids account for one in five US deaths of those aged 25 to 34, grads insisted that one risk can turn the tide in a drug user’s favor.

I couldn’t help wondering, what if we looked at life through a depressed friend’s eyes? Or a lonely peer’s perspective?

A lifetime of brain research taught me that our brains both rejuvenate and refuel for risks and rewards with natural drugs such as dopamine. Stockpile dopamine by taking smaller risks on ordinary days, and it prepares you for a mental makeover when bigger challenges loom up. Dopamine needed, for example, to sky-dive may be far more than any risk-potion required to pull-off a belly-flop into your backyard swimming pool.

It’s clear that my grad students want more than survival in our current climate of emotional slumps, drug overdoses and increasing suicides. They accept that it depends on an ability to risk new approaches. They seem ready to reboot human possibilities rather than stall over social shortcomings.

They even spoke of starting small. “Even a walk along a new path to work builds more do-it-different-power,” one said. Madeleine L'Engle

“Sure, but how do you help older employees who refuse to try anything new?” one student asked.  Heads nodded.

“They criticize technology and won’t try to help us improve the boring routines that hold us all back,” another student complained.

I pulled up a research survey that supported the grads’ grumbles. When asked what one thing they regretted most in their lives, a group of senior citizens listed, above any other: “I regret the fact that I didn’t take more risks.”

The survey kindled a new discussion. How can two generations look to the future and support risks to progress together?

It may start by repairing a broken relationship at work so that both generations gain a new boost of confidence! Eleanor Roosevelt put it this way: “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.” She also said: “You have to accept whatever comes and the only important thing is that you meet it with the best you have to give.”

Before long the grads moved from stomping on seniors’ comfort zones to explaining the risks Madeleine L’Engle had in mind when she said: “The great thing about getting older is that you don’t lose all the other ages you’ve been.” Through reflection they began to hedge their bets, and reach together for better odds that they could make a difference.

“We have to reflect if we’re to risk and adjust,” one gal from the English department said. “I like to listen to music – go for a walk – read, or talk to a close friend,” another added.

One student referred us back to the regrets from seniors. “What if we took a minute at the next staff meeting to “write one sentence you’d enjoy posted on your gravestone”?

They discussed how to encourage workers to take one step toward making that gravestone dream a reality at work today.

As students clothed fantasy into facts and facts in fantasy, they plotted for ways to help older workers risk want to come on board.

“We could journal our feelings to get into sync so peers and seniors begin to bridge generational differences,” Margo suggested.

“Listen more? Ask co-workers to help fix a broken thing at work?” Mark added.  They discussed people that elicit thanks they might show to a peer or boss.

To capitalize on others’ talents is to step out, they agreed to step up and use more of their own potential, even take risks if older workers failed to recognize or use their potential.

Paul SimonThat suggestion brought the grads back down to earth like an air balloon without air. “Unfortunately, most established leaders where I work block renewal of any kind,” Mark said. Steph jumped in to agree.  “Comforts of tenure and secure leadership positions take precedence over risk-taking or learning from one another.”

I shared how I’d addressed leaders at an international conference the week earlier, on the topic of brain based risks for renewal. After my first talk, a young CEO asked, “Why do older leaders at work criticize or kill every innovation introduced?”  That question bothered me during my entire time overseas, partly because I’d heard similar laments from graduates, and partly because I’m “older myself.”

On the trip back, I discussed this with fellow leaders, and listened for cynicism. We spoke of enormously broken systems as well as a desire from many for the freedom to change. A desire to take risks to fuel that needed change, though? Not so much.

“Intimidation plays a bigger role than we realize,” I suggested to grads.

Look at how many people feel threatened by new ideas about brains. Some worry about watered down knowledge when we learn interactively, and then try to battle paradigms embraced by a system stuck in outmoded lectures.

One grad said, “It’s equal to mending methods of slavery, in past.”

Another student came back with, “Just as we had to rid society of slavery, we need to abolish stale systems before we can create changes based on how human minds operate.”

They concluded that without opportunity or motivation to cultivate a taste for risks and innovation, we create cynicism from roots upward.

As I thought about my recent leadership conference, I challenged the grads again, “Ever heard any stories of older masters of their trades?  Folks who let go of traditional turf for fresh renewal rivers that splash new life?”

Concerns were raised about walking the talk, “We preach renewal theory, but then support outmoded leaders only,” one grad said. Others jumped in, Excuses ranged from, “Renewal doesn’t fit,” to “There isn’t enough time.” In response, one person asked, “Time for what?” It became clear that to carry on as usual looked like time spent efficiently, where many of them worked.

No wonder research shows that very few people enjoy what they do all day at work.

“So why can’t social structures embrace new insights the way medicine experiences change with every new breakthrough in science?” I asked them Maya Angelou

“Not every brain breakthrough arrives fully developed,” one scientist argued. “Let’s build on what we know and test new hypothesis together,” another suggested.  

Discussions heated at times, but we typically came back again and again to the key question, “How can risk-taking cultivate more curiosity and build better possibilities?”

Renewed ideas crisscross our tables with risks much like mechanics take to adjust airplanes before each new successful flight.

The graduate students agreed that when a full range of intelligences is welcomed in any community, “harmony begins to replace exclusion and discrimination.” It made sense in our discussion, but they saw it as less possible where they worked.

“Sure, people find contentment when they use intellectual gifts and capabilities to conquer challenges they face,” Pete said. “But at work we often do whatever leads to acceptance from others. “

“The opposite is also true,” I pointed out as one gifted writer and teacher, Maya Angelou risked speaking up for change.

Angelou’s friends often tell you that she spoke up without fear whenever racial or sexist slurs slink into her circles. On several occasions Maya asked prominent people to leave her home abruptly, because in conversation they subtly slammed somebody else’s culture. Can you imagine asking an invited guest who arrived for the weekend to leave your home, as other guests unpack for the night?  In front of an entire circle of celebrity friends?  It makes me wonder where people like Maya find passion and purpose to slice silence and diffuse discord.  If honest, many of us have endured subtle slurs to other cultures with silent complicity if not with sanction for racism and sexism expressed as jokes.  New lyrics for harmony hummed by a few in my lifetime provide melodies that prevent cruel crashes some cultures feel on a regular basis.  As I have come to know Maya through her many books, I grew acquainted with a woman not only scarred by vicious slights and slurs, but also met a model scholar with rare sensibility to risk for all humanity.

“No wonder so many applaud her life and work,” one student said. “And she was old too.”  He then told us another story to drive home his point.

To cultivate possibilities for harmony does not require the same risk from everybody. Yet risks that lead to excellence and renewal melds humans together in benefits for more than any one age group.

And when either equity or excellence is sacrificed, unity calls for shattered silences the way Maya spoke out even when it means risk to her reputation.  In contrast, slavery slithered into even faith filled hearts through history. If we confront our grim reality today we trace its oppression. Light over darkness takes courage to pierce seething silences of discrimination.  Broken societies still scream from ghettos, unheard by many.

A grad student reminded us of words in “Sounds of Silence,” where Paul Simon expressed shock over John F. Kennedy’s death in 1964. Still today we talk without speaking, hear without listening, share small-minded jokes that seal lids on oppression of people steeped in silent bloodbaths of discrimination. Rather than risk shared journeys across cultures we stumble and stall in our own nemesis, again and again. Copyright: <a href='https://www.123rf.com/profile_rawpixel'>rawpixel / 123RF Stock Photo</a>

People like Angelou, traded popularity for silence shattered, and paid high fees for freedom. Nelson Mandela sat in prison a good part of his life to risk breaking a silence that slaughtered people like Martin Luther King and that still adds its stench today. Name after name came up of those who crossed over differences and risked cultivating peace.

As our roundtable ended, Hahn shared how Mark Mathabane escaped South African ghettos, by looking at possibilities through a wider lens. From his book, Kaffir Boy in America, Mark’s healing words challenged our group to risk speaking to one person in the coming week, as if that person was wounded. We fully expected to turn a tide or two by addressing a broken situation through another’s eyes.

About the author: Ellen Weber

Dr. Ellen Weber teaches a grad leadership class called, Lead Innovation with the Brain in Mind, in a New York MBA program. The author of several brain based books, Ellen recently retired from international work with leaders who wish t use more mental potential. She now hopes to inspire others through creative non-fiction, to live, learn and lead by unleashing newly discovered neural benefits into their efforts. Connect with Ellen through social media at Brain Leaders and Learners Blog, Mita Brain Center Facebook, Pinterest, Twitter, Instagram, Google+, and on LinkedIn.

Dark Noise by John Hulme

Photo by John Hulme

Sitting in the car again.

Night.

Summer night.

Warm and still.

 

Looking out on blackness,

the lapping of some gentle water –

 

nonchalant in the shimmer of streetlights.

 

Back on the main road, a gang of lads were acting like they owned the street.

 

It’s the thing you do. Yell out.  Fill the space with your noise.

 

“Oggie!”

 

What?

 

It’s just something you shout…

when you’re pissed…

and out with your mates…

and a fucktard.

 

Sorry.

Judgemental of me.

 

Far less judgemental to scare the shit out of anyone else on the street, shouting a word that means nothing, signalling you’re a fucktard over several blocks.

 

I’ll stick with quiet ripples.

 

There are enough people taking the street.

 

The streetlamps form an honour guard down the promenade.

 

It’s for people who need to see their way home.  But I’m not going that way.

About the author, John Hulme

John HulmeJohn Hulme is a British writer from the Wirral, a small peninsula near Liverpool in the North of England. Trained in journalism (in which he has a masters degree), John’s first love was storytelling, trying to make sense of the world around him using his offbeat imagination. Since the death of his mother in 2010, John’s work has grown increasingly personal, and has become heavily influenced by Christian mysticism. This has led to the publication of two poetry books, Fragments of the Awesome (2013) and The Wings of Reborn Eagles (2015). A mix of open mike performances, speaking engagements and local community radio appearances has opened up new avenues which John is now eager to pursue. He is hoping to go on a kind of busking road trip fairly soon, provisionally titled Writer seeks gig, being John.  Find out more about John on Facebook.

Grandmother’s House by A.M. Moscoso

Photo by A.M. Moscoso

“I have one very firm, very strict rule in my house ” Sunny Longyear’s Grandmother told her on the night she stayed at Grandma’s house for the first time. Sunny stood straight and looked up, seemingly up for miles to her Grandmother’s stern face. Sunny did not blink, she did not grin or fidget. “I will not tolerate you sneaking off to the kitchen in the middle of the night for snacks. Your mother did that and she left crumbs and greasy smudges all over the bed linens and the door frames and everywhere else sticky messy fingers could leave a mark. I hate messes always as much as I hate disobedient children.” Photo by A.M. Moscoso

“Yes, Grandmother.” Sunny said.

Her grandmother looked down at her. “Yes?”

“You hate disobedient children.”

“Indeed.”

“Do you know what I hate?” Sunny asked.

“I do not care.”

“I hate not having midnight snacks.”

Grandmother’s mouth twitched. “Go and put your things in your room.”

Sunny picked up her bags and she bounced – her long black pony tail swinging from side to side – down the hall and up the stairs to her very own bedroom that was on the top floor of her grandmother’s three story house which sat alone on a cobblestone road called Hideaway Hills.

Grandmother’s house was old. Very old. It was older then Grandmother, and it had been brought stone by stone, with all of it’s woodwork and doors and mantelpieces, from the place where the old woman had been born.

“Where was that?” her family had asked once, when she was in the kitchen making dinner

“None of your business ” she had answered. She’d had a knife in her hand at the time. She had been standing with her back towards them, and she had lifted it up to her face and used it to see their reflections over her shoulder. Her dark eyes had flared in the wide band of silver.

The question had never been brought up again.

Sunny and her grandmother had spent the afternoon in her grandmother’s garden where they tended her herbs and weeded her vegetable patch and took care of her bee hives.

“Can I have a snack?” Sunny asked, when they were done and they were headed back into the house through the kitchen door.

“Yes. There’s some things in the pantry you can choose from. Don’t forget to cover the food back up with the cheesecloth, and if you open any containers shut them.” Her grandmother lifted a key from the inside of the door and handed it to Sunny. “Lock it back up when you are done, and young lady, I mean it: do not take any food up to your room. That’s why we have a kitchen and dining room table.”

Sunny took the key and she trotted merrily off to get her snack.

Photo by A.M. Moscoso

* * *

Sunny, her Grandmother safely assumed that evening, was in bed and either reading a book or listening to music- either Mozart or Ravel. Those were the choices she had given the child,  and she had no reason to think that wasn’t what was happening in the bedroom she had specially decorated for her first and only grandchild. At least, she had no reason to think otherwise until she heard the thunder of footsteps racing up the stairs at the end of the hall.

Her breath slowed – dangerously slowed –  in her chest. She smoothed her covers carefully, and pushed them to her left. Then she swung her long legs over the side of her bed and stood up.

Grandmother heard the symphony coming from above her head – and it was most certainly not a symphony by Mozart. It was a symphony of feet.
There was a little thud and then she heard Sunny say, “Uh-Oh. That’s going to leave a stain.”

Grandmother reached for her robe.

Before she had become Grandmother, before she had even become Mother, she had been Saturnina Guillermo, the woman who had once ridden alone through a mountain pass with a murderous band of men and women on her tail, and nothing to protect her but her wits. And now? Now she was being played for a fool by her eight-year-old granddaughter, who was every inch the ill-mannered pup her mother had once been.

Saturnina opened her door and threw it  to the side. She didn’t run down the hall or up the stairs. She hit each step hard with her heel. Then, standing before her granddaughter’s bedroom, she took a moment to collect herself before pushing the child’s door wide open.

Sunny was standing beside her bed, her nightdress covered with Saturnina’s special marinade  – the one that smelled like cinnamon and a touch of basil. There were was more of it on her handmade quilt.

“I dropped it.” Sunny confessed.

“I can see that.”

Sunny pointed under her bed and hung her head.

Saturnina walked slowly towards her granddaughter. She hovered over her for a moment, and then she reached out and grabbed the girl by the front of her nightdrePhoto by A.M. Moscososs and threw her up and onto her bed. She leaned down, reached beneath the bed, and  and then Saturnina leaned over and reached under the bed to retrieve the child’s snack.

Still leaning over she looked up at Sunny, who giggled mischievously, and said, “My, Grandma, what big teeth you have.”

Saturnina’s teeth had grown more prominent, and her eyes were huge in her weathered face. She pulled her arm from under the bed, to reveal a hiker – a woman named Gilly Anne – being held in her huge, clawed hand.

“Get yourself cleaned up, and if you ever sneak a snack into this room again I will ground you until you’re as old as I am. Do you understand me?”
The old woman stood up, and with a skilled flick of her wrist snapped the hiker’s neck.

“I mean it young lady ” she said to Sunny, whose soft, black and white fur was beginning to sprout in downy poofs all over her face and arms and whose eyes  had also grown bigger – big enough to see easily in the moonlight streaming through the bedroom window. “March.”

 

About the Author: A.M. Moscoso

Anita Marie Moscoso Anita Marie Moscoso was nine years old when she decided to become a Writer/Pirate/Astronaut. She is now so far away from the age of nine that it’s comical, but it turns out that she did become a writer, and she’s told stories about Pirates and Astronauts. Anita has also worked in a funeral home, explored the cemeteries of New Orleans alone, and has a great dog named Hamish and had a cat named Wolfgang.

More about Anita (in parts) can be found at her blog: Enduring Bones.

 

 

 

 

Leila: Lost and Found by Mary Ellen Gambutti

M.E., Karen & Leila

On this September, 1994 morning flight from Pennsylvania to South Carolina I gaze out toward a new chapter. Soon I’ll reunite with the woman who gave me life. On the down escalator, I spot my welcoming party.  Karen, my half-sister, waves and calls to me in the drawl now familiar from our calls since my year-long search bore fruit.

*

“Momma, a lady called from up north. She said she might be your daughter,” Karen coaxed. “Not true!” But she yielded. Yes, she had given birth to a girl in St. Francis Hospital when Karen was two. She thought the nuns would take good care of the baby; find her a home.

*

I step off the escalator to broad smiles and greetings. My young adult daughter is the only genetic tie known to me prior to this search and reunion. I’ve pondered her thoughts on family–no one is more important to you than those who stand beside you, no matter what. A sense of unreality floods me, as I embark on the next stage of this journey to cultivate kinship.

Karen introduces her beautiful daughter, Barbara; Josh, her burly middle-schooler, and Daniel, her handsome elder son. I’m relieved and grateful for their warm hugs of acceptance. “This is Momma, Leila Grace.” Standing proud, she refused to greet me from her wheelchair. She’s smiling, this large woman, and Karen has looped her left arm under Momma’s right elbow to support her.

Leila. I learned her name this summer, and could never conjure her face. I heard her gospel songs from within her womb, heard her speak, her inflections. I felt her

laughter and heard her cry, maybe felt her tentative touch before I was swaddled and taken away by the sister. Maybe she held me briefly. Her face reveals the sadness of years. Moist, puffy eyes, face flushed with unknowable emotion. Flood of recollection or regret? Or pang of pride, or guilt, confusion, or the anxiety I’ve inherited?  I take charge of my feelings, and wrap my arms around her. “Hello, Momma! So good to see you!” She yields to my embrace–a murmur, perhaps meant for the gods—is she hurting or happy? What will this reunion bring to either of us? Has she dared dream the infant she left in the hospital would be happy and well, and would return to her one day?

At Karen’s double-wide trailer home, our family celebration continues. Can it be we haven’t yet spent a couple of hours together? Momma rests in the recliner. Her legs elevated, I see her left prosthesis below her pastel polyester pants. On her right upper arm is an angry scar from the dialysis shunt she’s had in place since she returned from Texas. Her short salt and pepper hair is tightly permed, but she’s more relaxed now, and chatters in a faint, high voice. Karen serves dinner at the kitchen table: fried chicken, biscuits and gravy, green beans and sweet tea. We peruse photos, many of Karen’s children, and only a few of Momma in her twenties and thirties. Karen wasn’t raised by Leila, either. She abandoned her to her parents and a difficult life. Another girl born to Leila, and raised by her, died at sixteen in a drowning accident. No mention of my father—maybe she’d recognize him in me—I hope there’s a secret photo stashed away.

*

Karen & LottieThe rented house in Texas had been neglected–diabetic needles, clothes, food and trash all around–when Karen arrived, summoned by the rehab hospital. Leila’s husband of thirty-two years had been dead for over a year when she was admitted for a foot infection that cost her a leg. Karen brought Leila back to South Carolina, and tried to make her comfortable in her small home. But Leila was ill-tempered with the boys, whom she had never met. Karen moved Momma to a State-managed senior-living apartment with basic possessions and minimal housekeeping skills. But for Karen’s kindness, we would not have connected.

*

Karen told me Momma would stare at daytime shows that featured adoption reunions, promoted by private investigators and TV producers. She fixated on birth mothers who emerged from behind the curtain in tears to hug their long ago relinquished sons or daughters on the studio stage. She never let Karen in on her secrets. It was left to fate that a twenty-six year old Leila would ever see her child again.

*

I returned to Greenville six times to visit, while Momma’s health continued to worsen. She died at sixty-nine, two years older than myself at this writing, and left behind her regrets and foggy memories. We two sisters were among the few at her funeral, a year after we reunited. Karen and I continued to be curious about more kin, but I focused on a DNA search for my father. Ancestral searches had become a successful tool for adoptees.

Valentine’s Day, 2015, Karen and I stumbled across a South Carolina internet message board post from 2007 by a woman searching for her mother, Leila Grace Cox. She had been abandoned to the care of her father and grandparents in Charleston when she was six weeks old, in 1954. If only Leila had been able to tell us, we would have located Lottie while our mother was alive.

Deep wounds of separation might have calloused over, but longing and fate intervened. She never learned to give, and lost more than she could bear. But, we sisters believed it possible to find Leila.

About the Author: Mary Ellen Gambutti

Mary Ellen writes about her life as an Air Force daughter, search and reunion with her birth family, gardening career, and survival of a stroke at mid-life. Her stories appear or are forthcoming in Gravel Magazine, Wildflower Muse, The Remembered Arts Journal, The Vignette Review, Modern Creative Life, Thousand and One Stories, Halcyon Days, Nature Writing, Post Card Shorts, Memoir Magazine, Haibun Today, Borrowed Solace, Book Ends Review, Storyland Literary Review, and SoftCartel Magazine. Her chapbook is Stroke Story, My Journey There and Back. https://ibisandhibiscusmelwrites.blogspot.com/

Rainy’s Paper by Patricia Wellingham-Jones

Photo by Giulia Bertelli on Unsplash

I write on a scrap of paper
you tucked into my book,
paper you made in your backyard studio
from pulp you shredded,
soaked, patted into frames to dry
with bits of weed stalks
adding texture to the mass.
At bottom left you pressed
a full-blown pansy, its little face
beaming as I write.
I’d like to wax brilliant
about the depth and worth
of my words on your art
but I know they’ll never mean
as much as this paper you made
and gave to me.

About the Author: Patricia Wellingham-Jones

PatriciaWellingham-JonesPatricia 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.

Letting Go of Expectations by Anna Oginsky

It’s been over eight years since my dad slipped away and took my life as I knew it along with him. Of course, I was devastated when he died, and I have found that no matter how much time passes, there is always a part of me that misses him. At the same time, I have come to appreciate the outcomes of his death that have shaped my life for the better. The gifts he left behind weren’t gifts of conventional value; instead, he left me with the opportunity to rethink the ways I was choosing to live up to the time of his passing. Like so many women, I had completely lost myself in the midst of mothering and in all the roles I had taken on through adulthood. It was in the space I created to grieve after my dad’s death that I rediscovered my long-lost love for creativity.

At first, as I began to share my writing and art, I heard people say things like, “Oh, I would love to ______ (write, paint, craft…), but I just don’t have time.” I completely understood. Before my dad’s death, I wouldn’t have thought that I had the time either. What I quickly discovered though, was that if I didn’t make the time to create, there were parts of me, essential parts, that would surely perish. It was vital to my own well-being that I make time to create. The same is true today.

In grieving places, we are often told that grief comes in waves. Those waves we ride in grief are actually an appropriate metaphor for describing the journeys we take with most matters of the heart. “Riding the waves” is a saying that aptly describes the ways in which I am required to navigate the ebb and flow as I work to cultivate and sustain a creative life.

I tend to shy away from writing about how to do things; but, sharing what has worked for me seems essential in the realm of creativity. As humans, we ourselves are creations and as such, we were made to create.

We are creative beings.

We are all artists and we do best when we give ourselves the gifts of creativity. I have found that what I do to nurture my creativity is less important than how I do it. Much of my work around creativity involved some aspect of redefining what it meant to me to make things.

My first task was to let go of expectations about what it meant to create a piece of art.

I was drawn to ways of creating that were focused on the process rather than a specific outcome. In my grieving space, I took numerous online art classes in intuitive painting and in collage and mixed media. My goal was never to replicate something I had seen before.

It was always to play and to explore.

Mixed media art allowed me to incorporate my love for color and texture and layers into my creations. I worked with multiple mediums, just playing, never knowing where I was headed or what my piece would look like when it was complete. Abstract art gives an artist a lot of space to play and explore and I revel in that space. With each piece of paper I cut and glue to my canvas, I am in some way piecing myself back together. In that time and space, I am fully present and fully me. Not someone’s mom or wife or daughter or sister, just me.

The creative process is a moving meditation where the thinking brain can rest and where we can give ourselves permission to simply be. It took very little time in my practice of the creative process for me to realize how powerful it is to create without expectations, and an even shorter amount of time to feel the positive impact of cultivating my creativity. That was the flow.

The more time that passed after the day of my dad’s death, and the more my children grew and needed me, the less time I had to devote to my creativity. I had to find ways to keep creating that didn’t require as much of my time.

This was the ebb. This was when I let go of my expectations about what art actually was. It wasn’t just a painting, it could be a page in an art journal or even just a few strokes of paint. It could be a meal, a planter filled with flowers, or a carefully selected filter on an Instagram photo. It didn’t need to be an entire blog post, it could be a mere caption.

As long as I was creating something, big or small, the act of that making had the effect of a potent medicine.

Depending on what is happening in other areas of my life and where my work is currently focused, I can be in the ebb, the flow, or somewhere in between with my creativity. Yes, I sometimes dream about having unlimited days and days to paint and play with words and papers, and sometimes I can actually make those days happen.

Mostly though, I am okay with a few minutes here and there to engage with the creative process. It is all art. At the very least, the lives we create for ourselves are our art. As artists, we are obligated to nurture our creativity. By letting go of any predetermined expectations we carry about what the creative process should look like or lead to, we create more space for flow.

About the Author: Anna Oginsky

annbioAnna Oginsky is the founder of Heart Connected, LLC, a small Michigan-based workshop and retreat business that creates opportunities for guests to tune in to their hearts and connect with the truth, wisdom, and power held there. Her work is inspired by connections made between spirituality, creativity, and community. Anna’s first book, My New Friend, Grief, came as a result of years of learning to tune in to her own heart after the sudden loss of her father. In addition to writing, Anna uses healing tools like yoga, meditation, and making art in her offerings and in her own personal practice. She lives in Brighton, Michigan with her husband, their three children, and Johnny, the big yellow dog. Connect with her on her website; Twitter; Facebook; or Instagram.

Cultivate the Why by Molly Totoro

I am a personality test junkie. I love learning a bit more about myself in the hopes of discovering why I operate the way I do. Most recently I took a test sponsored by Personality Factors. The test confirmed that I am a serious planner. That is, I scored near zero percent for “gregariousness” and near 100% for organization.

But the test also revealed an area of surprise. I scored near 100% for dutifulness.

Now responsibility and independence are two of my core values. I strive to be a woman of my word. I think for myself and refuse to ask someone else to do a job I can handle. My parents joked that “me do” were my first words.

I consider these traits positive attributes – they show strength of character.

Dutifulness, on the other hand, appears weak. It is an act of surrender rather than autonomy. It is allowing others to dictate my life rather than taking control myself. And we all know when a toddler does his “duty” it is a stinky, messy business.

Shortly after taking this test I went for my daily walk with the basset. Since he sniffs every tree and blade of grass, our leisurely walks give me time to ponder. As I mulled over the daily calendar, I discovered a pattern of thought. Every potential activity was prefaced with the phrase “I should…”

  • I’d like to go the library and write, but I should stay home and do laundry.
  • I’d like to finish reading our book club selection, but I should grade papers.
  • I’d like to try my hand at painting but I should do a “real” artist date and get out of the house.

When I realized I was “should-ing” how to do take a personal Artist Date, I knew I was in trouble. The adage, “Don’t should on yourself” seems rather appropriate for someone who is so immersed in duty.

I decided to embark on a little experiment: brainstorm the perfect ordinary day.

While I am fond of carpe diem, I also know chores need to be done. My goal was to see if I could replace duty with a bit of fun.

I began with my morning routine. I quickly outlined the daily tasks. But without premeditative thought, I also included a why statement to each activity.

  • I wake up before 6:00am because I don’t want to be rushed. I like taking my time and slowly greeting the day.
  • The first cup of coffee makes the early alarm bearable. While I only drink coffee in the morning, that first cup is pure delight.
  • Reading email and checking social media is a fun way for this shy reserved introvert to connect with others.
  • I look forward to morning pages and discovering the thoughts rattling inside my brain. Oftentimes I surprise myself.

I continued this exercise for various activities throughout the day. In the end, I discovered the secret to a joyful schedule: cultivate the why and weed out the should.

Rather than saying I should do laundry or I should go the store, I rephrase that thought. I say I want to do laundry so I have clean clothes to wear. Or… I want to go grocery shopping so I can have healthy food in the house.

Of course, there may be times when should is unavoidable. For example, I should grade final papers because the academic year is coming to a close. But I find if I think about the task rather than rely on auto-pilot, there is a more valid reason than duty. I like teaching and a part of teaching is grading papers. In essence, I choose to grade papers because I want to teach.

Old habits die hard. Retraining the brain after fifty years of “should” is not going to happen overnight. But I continue to tend the garden. I pluck the weeds on a regular basis – giving myself a bit of grace when they grow out of control. And I cultivate the why by giving myself permission to nurture the desires of my heart.

About the Author: Molly Totoro

Molly Totoro is a Connecticut Yankee currently residing in the Midwest with her husband and trusty basset. While Molly retired from full-time teaching in 2014 to pursue her writing dreams, she continues to work with students to achieve their writing potential. Molly recently published her first book, Journaling Toward Wholeness: A 28-Day Plan to Develop a Journaling Practice with the hope of inspiring others to experience the health benefits of writing their inner thoughts.

Connect with Molly at her blog, My Cozy Book Nook and on social media: FaceBookTwitterInstagramPinterest

Sunday Sensations – The Feeling of Safety Personified

I’ve always been afraid of the dark. The shadows, the shapes, the sounds—they all frighten me.

One person could always assuage that fear. No matter how long the night or how deep the darkness, I felt secure when I heard my father’s voice.

I remember nights when my dad worked late. I would make my mom promise that she’d send him in for a goodnight kiss. Then I would lie awake, darkness clawing at my imagination, waiting for him to come home. If sleep came, it was fretful and worried. I felt so small in those moments.

Then he’d come in. I’d hear his car, the rumble of his voice, the footsteps in the hall and instantly, I felt relief. It’s amazing how his simple presence would change the fear. I was in the same bed, the same room, the same home, but nothing felt safe without him.

My dad would smell of the earth then (he was working in construction with my grandfather). He’d look tired, but he was the best sight I’d ever seen. I would happily fall into a peaceful sleep after he left my room.

People can be lighthouses of safety. When I had surgery to remove my appendix when I was six, my mother stayed by my side through the entire thing. I remember waking up, groggy, and having her voice right there. Just that simple presence chased any fear away. Even now, I can feel that level of security and warmth.

Since the beginning of mankind, we’ve sought security and refuge from each other. There would be no great cities or countries if this wasn’t the case. From the U.N. to the family unit, we’re meant to live in a community. This gives us safety.

The sad fact of the matter is that as much as people can bring a feeling of safety—people can also be harbingers of danger. In today’s world, a larger spotlight is being placed on the men who abuse their power and position to abuse the women they are meant to love. I can’t imagine living in a situation where I’d dread hearing my father’s voice at night, but there are so many vulnerable children who do. All too often, the people who are meant to love us can be the ones to rip safety out the fastest.

This Father’s Day, I celebrate the men who are safety bringers to their family and those around them. If you didn’t (or don’t) have a great dad, know that there are some lighthouses out there for you if you know where to look. And, thanks to my dad for always being my safe lighthouse.

About the author: Tabitha Grace Challis

Tabitha Grace ChallisTabitha 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.