A Tisket, a Tasket, We All Fall Down!

A tisket, a tasket, we all fall down…

This seemed to be the mantra going through my head when I took my young son skating for the first time last week. You see, although I was once pretty graceful on wheels, it has been nearly two decades since I strapped any to my feet. I could only cross my fingers and hope it would be just like riding a bike. And that if I did fall, it wouldn’t be too bad.

The fear of falling…kids don’t even have this, really. They climb to the top of trees, jump out of swings, hang by one arm from the monkey bars. When they do fall, they typically bounce right back up like it never even happened. I remember skating as a child, how the fear of falling never even entered my mind as I whirled around the rinks. And yet now it is all I can think about as I strap my foot into the wheeled shoe and begin a slow, clunky ‘walk’ to the rink floor, my son leaving me in the dust, propelling himself forward like a rocket, falling and getting back up maybe a dozen times in the process. He hits the rink full speed ahead, despite the fact he’s never been on skates before today, while I step slowly out onto the floor, holding the wall, feeling pretty good about the fact that I’ve managed to stay upright for 5 consecutive minutes on the skates.

The thing about skating, however, is that the only way to really do it, the only way to really enjoy it, is to lose completely that fear of falling that makes you hug the wall or move at a turtle’s pace along the rails. The only way to feel the rush of air against your face, to feel the gliding motions, the graceful movements, is to take the risk that yes, it is entirely within the realm of possibility that you…might…fall.

We’re all afraid of falling. It’s embarrassing, it hurts, and sometimes, it breaks something in us. This fear keeps us clunking along on the sidelines, wanting to join in the skating, but hugging the wall instead. It is, after all, wise to be cautious. No one wants to be embarrassed, hurt, or broken. And even though we’d recover from all of these things, our minds wrap themselves up in how horrible it would be to lose our balance. Fear plants itself firmly in our psyche, and eventually, we don’t even take the chance that maybe, just maybe, we won’t fall down.

But falling down and getting up again are as much a part of life as they are of skating. We all fall, somehow or another. We all trust, and sometimes, we have that trust shattered. We all take gambles that sometimes don’t pay off. We’ve all, at some point, been gliding along confidently, feeling on top of the world, when suddenly our front foot goes in one direction, and the back foot goes another, and we only have a second or two to process what is happening before the world turns upside down…and there we are, flat on our backs. Fallen.

I envy the way children bounce back up from a fall like it never even happened. Adults linger in their falls. We stay down for a long, long time, often only rising back up when someone has come along to help us. But the thing is, no matter how long we lie there, eventually we do rise back up. As Robert Frost once said, ‘This is the thing about life…it goes on.’
Before confronting any new situation, I often stop and ask myself, what is the worst that could happen? And if the worst happens, can I survive it? The answer is usually yes. It might be embarrassing. It might hurt. But more often than not, we’ll survive the worst if it does happen.

What is the worst thing that could happen if I let go of my fear and actually began to skate with my son? That I’d fall. That it would hurt. Maybe I’d break a wrist or an arm. Would I survive it? Of course. And so I did let go of that wall, and I skated for hours without falling. But I was only able to skate after accepting the risk that the worst could happen, that yes, I could fall.

Writing poetry is like this. Putting words down onto paper can be such a liberating experience that it feels like letting go of the wall and pushing yourself out into the rink, especially if you choose to share what you write with others. Everything in life is a risk, after all. But when writing poetry, what is the worst that can happen, really? That someone may have a different opinion of your poems than you do? I think we can all survive that. Think instead about the best thing that could happen - that writing can bring peace, clarity and a sense of purpose to your life. That even if you write only for yourself, if can become a way of healing, of empowerment, of release. It can become a path to joy. So why hold back?

Happy Writing!

Poem for the New Year

The promised snow
falls now

I see it in the glow
of lights. It
almost rushes
from the sky
to the ground
melting immediately.

I have felt myself falling
these past few days
as a dream dies inside of me.

I cast it out
and like the snow
it rushes to the ground
but it doesn’t melt,
oh no…

It rises up
coiled like a copperhead
and strikes,
knocking me down.

I lie there for a long, long time
My tears melting into the ground.
I wish I could melt into it, too.

But I don’t.
Instead, I rise
and brush the snow off my coat.

I go inside, where it is warm
I leave the dream outside.
where,
on the cold ground
it slowly freezes.
Fitting, I suppose
since everything else is frozen
in that far away place
where the dream began.

But I’ve been struck
by copperheads
before.
And I know
that being knocked down is
not the worst thing that can happen
to a soul.

Freezing, I think
is a far more terrible
fate.

Letting of 2010...

Tom Hanks, or should I say, Forrest Gump, coined one of the most popular catch phrases of the 90s when he sat down on a park bench in Savannah and slowly droned out to the lady beside him, “Life is like a box of chocolates…you never know what you’re gonna get.” People loved this, because we can all relate so easily to it. Life is unpredictable, in ways that are sometimes good, and other times, devastating. But while getting the yummy cream-filled chocolate is always wonderful, one has not truly lived until they’ve reached into the box and gotten the icky hard jelly thing, too. It’s a yin and a yang, a balance of sorts, but one we usually would just as soon do without.

I come closer to thinking that life is like a Chronicles of Narnia Movie. You’re just sitting around, doing the same old thing, when suddenly you open a wardrobe, expecting nothing out of the ordinary, and find yourself in a place you never even dreamed could exist. You get caught up in an adventure that’s so amazing, so magical, that you can’t even believe it is happening to you.

And then, wham, suddenly it’s all over. You’re right back where you were before, like the door had never been opened at all, wondering what, if any of it, was even real.

Love can be this way. To love another person fully and completely can be an amazing, magical adventure that you can’t even believe is happening to you. When you are loved in return, it is like standing in the sunlight. You have this other being whose soul connects directly to yours; who cares about you just as much as you care about them; who would move heaven and earth just to spend a moment with you. Nothing on earth is better.

But life is as unpredictable as reaching into a box of chocolates. You can be standing in the sunlight one moment, so warm and happy that you think you just might burst, and then, in the blink of an eye, a cloud passes over, and everything changes. You can’t see the sun at all anymore, and the world is suddenly a very cold place. You’re left alone to fight the chill, and you feel so lost that all you can do is stand before the wardrobe door, opening and closing it, hoping against hope for some sign of light…but days pass, and still all you see inside are coats and shadows. And your heart breaks over and over again, like delicate glass being shattered upon stone. Just as there is no feeling on earth greater than having love, there is equally no feeling on earth worse than losing it.

So you do the only thing you can… you close your eyes, take a deep breath, and you stop opening the door, because you know now there isn’t going to be anything on the other side. And it takes a tremendous will to do this, more strength than you have ever had to call upon yourself to have, because there’s nothing you want more than to keep looking for some sign of hope. To keep believing that the next time you open the door, you’ll be back to that magical place, back to the love, back to the sun shining on your face. But there is a part of you inside that knows you deserve much more than being left alone to wait and wonder. You know you don’t deserve the coldness that you’re being dealt. And this knowledge steels you, gives you strength to let go.

Letting go is excruciating. It’s like a birthing process, or a rebirthing process, I should say. There are tears and pain, yes, but in the end, you find your own sun, which isn’t dependent upon the affections of another person. You find that you can be your own source of light, and that no one can keep you in a dark, cold place unless you allow it.

Life is like a box of chocolates, and often we find ourselves holding the icky jelly one while every one else seems to be enjoying the good stuff. But this is all part of the journey of being human. We can build walls around our hearts that are impenetrable, yes, and that will keep us from hurting…but it will also keep us from living fully and completely. It will keep out the magic that makes life beautiful. And it will keep us from believing in, or achieving, the extraordinary lives that we are meant to have.

When we find ourselves back in that same place we were before our wonderful adventure, it’s quite an awful feeling. It doesn’t hold the same appeal as it did before, and it could never compare to where we’ve been. And so we make the obvious choice. We move forward, away from both places. That is the only way.

Don’t try to go back to where you were, and for Goodness sake, don’t stand in front of the wardrobe door forever, waiting on someone else to decide that you are or aren’t worth the effort. Embrace a new path. Embrace the knowledge that you already have, that anything truly is possible. You’ve known this all along. If someone else does not believe, if they can easily cast you aside because they are afraid or unwilling to put forth what it takes to have an amazing, magical adventure, then it is them, not you, who has slammed shut the wardrobe door. But they are really only shutting themselves out of Narnia. You’ve never stopped believing, which means, in time, you will find yourself in the midst of magic again.

Extraordinary things only happen to extraordinary people, and the extraordinary can’t exist without the belief first that it should. Most people don’t believe they deserve the extraordinary, and that is why most people lead typical, regular lives, dreaming of a Narnian adventure, but in the end, lacking the guts to actually pass through the wardrobe door when it opens. But magic is real. The extraordinary is possible. And the power to create it is here, among us, within us. It exists in the sense that we either believe in it…or we don’t.

The year’s end is a symbolic, powerful time for letting go of hurt, for beginning again, for following new paths, for dreaming and believing that yes, anything is possible. And writing is a powerful tool for capturing a little magic with words, for in the end, we create what is possible with first our thoughts, then our words, and then our actions.

As one year comes to a close and another begins, don’t mourn for what you’ve lost. Celebrate what you still have. Celebrate it with a poem, a painting, a journal entry, a song or a ceremony if you wish. But celebrate it all the same. There are other wardrobes, other adventures waiting, possibly even greater magic than what you’ve already known.
So as 2010 comes to a close, let go of those who so easily have let go of you, and you will find your own sunshine. Let 2011 be the best year you’ve created yet, and celebrate, celebrate, celebrate, because you are worth it. And what you will come to realize, in the end, is that the loss isn’t yours at all. Because it isn’t you who is closing the door on what is possible. Your doors are just beginning to open, because you still believe in magic. :-)

Hope

There is always hope. Hope that even the worst of times can spawn the greatest awakenings of human spirit.
We’ve been plodding along our current trails so long the destination has become a blurred spot on the map. We’re equating making money with making a life, and with the economy spiraling downward we’re turning, ever so slowly, and making our way back to our centers, to our source. We’re jumping of the treadmill that keeps us running but takes us nowhere, and coming back to what really matters. Family. Home. Nourishment. Love. Laughter. Creating. What our ancestors knew. What so-called third-world countries around the world still know. After all, economic changes rarely affect those who live simply to begin with. I remember my own Grandmother laughing because her family never even realized there was a Great Depression. They were simple people. For them, little changed during those difficult times.
In order to survive, we must come back to what matters most. We must realize that a happy community might be a worthier goal than a global economy. We must realize that our homes are sacred spaces, our children more treasured than any possession. We must realize the value of nurturing those who love and depend on us. We must realize that less stuff can make for an easier life, and that there are greater goals to focus on than the material-driven ideals of the last two decades. Children are the future, and it truly takes a village to raise them. And village is synonymous with community, a lost concept in our current age. But all around the world, women still harbor this ancient knowledge. We still know. We still get excited over births and baby pictures. We still see promise in the swell of a belly, the smile of an expectant mother.
We haven’t lost our ancient knowledge. It’s just been dormant for a very long time. As the economy changes and we’re forced, sometimes reluctantly, to change our lifestyles and our expectations, around the world, we are remembering what others have not forgotten.
As women and especially as mothers, we must realize that we have to come together as a community to make it through. We have to listen to the soul of the earth the way our ancestors did, to know the cycle of nature, to remember that food doesn’t come from a grocery shelf, but from the soil beneath our feet. We have to remember those who lived before us, and those who will come after us. We must remember the wisdom that our grandmothers were taught, and pass it on to our own grandchildren. And we will. No matter how the great circle of life spins, for the sake of our children and those we love, we will come together and when we do, we just might see that this is where we were headed all along.
Back to center, to source.
Back to community. Back to family. Back to nourishment, love, and creation.
Back to what really matters. Back to looking into the eyes of our children and seeing the children that are still to come.
And remembering.

*I wrote this essay to accompany an art piece submitted to a show with the theme, "The Current Economy." Thank you Cassie for encouraging me to look beyond the obvious!

The Sound of Silence

For many years I have craved an occasion of silence. Simple, profound silence. I have read books about monks who go for days without speaking, and studied temples dedicated to silence, sacred places where no human sound had ever been uttered. I have sought silence in the workplace, in the wilderness and within my own home. Now, as the mother of an exceptionally verbose five year old, silence usually eludes me until the quiet hours when my son is resting peacefully in bed. However, even this silence is interrupted by the sounds of modern life: telephones ring; cars race down the road; appliances hum, shake and rattle.
Some interruptions I don’t mind: the low calls of the Barred Owls; the rushing of wind through the leaves; the glugs of bullfrogs splashing in the creek. I even consider these to be a part of the silence I desire, which has lead me to consider what it is I am actually seeking in my pursuit of quiet time.
As a young adult, I discovered that silence could actually be found in a distinct place when a friend and I visited another friend in Alaska. Driving down a remote and winding road, headed nowhere in particular, we stopped for some sightseeing along a clearing. Miles outside of the town we’d passed through several hours before, the three of us were completely alone, and as we walked, our idle chattered died away as the awesome natural beauty of the rugged mountains came into view. Pretty soon, we were all standing quietly, wind whipping through our light jackets, in a speechless state that only the beauty of nature could invoke.
There were no outside sounds, no modern buzzes, beeps, or hums. Occasionally water from a small lake lapped along the banks with the wind. A twig snapped under a foot. Somewhere far off, a Bald Eagle cried to its mate. The mate responded with a more distant cry, and I realized that this was the quiet that my ancestors knew. This was what listening was like in the years before groaning car motors and sirens became etched onto our psyches.
That little nameless stretch of Alaska wild still feeds the hunger that stirs in my soul whenever I see a deer run across the road or hear a hawk’s cry. Some buried part of me wants to run with the deer, feel the wind beneath my own wings. I want to break away from this world and, even if it’s just for a moment, be a part of something wild. I want to spend a day hearing only what my ancestors heard.
When I see the news headlines about violent rampages and the price of gas climbing and how cell phone usage is destroying bee populations across the globe, I want to shake the shoulders of the first person I see and say “What are we doing?” But I don’t. Instead I quit reading newspaper, walk instead of drive whenever I can, and put my cell phone down, reminding myself that it was for emergencies only. And I make time for silence.
What I’m seeking isn’t actual silence, per se. It isn’t even the remoteness of a wild area. It’s something deeper ~ primordial, if you please, and something my ancestors felt each day. It’s the connection to this life-giving earth and all of its sacred beings. But maybe it’s more than that, too.
I won’t lie, I would rather suffer the hum of the rinse cycle than spend a day bent over the washboard, but just how much do the sounds of modern life buffer us from the natural world? And how is it that people can tolerate all manner of electronic whirs, beeps, and whistles at any given time, but let a cricket slip in the house and every family member in residence is launched on a death mission to stop the annoying sound? Meanwhile televisions blare, appliances rock and phones rings incessantly.
In the wilds of Alaska I was over a decade younger. I had yet to delve into any mysteries of the soul, or ponder such things as eco-footprints. But even in my youth, I knew that something stirred deep within me in that quiet place. Something awakened. This something is where I find my peace, whether listening to the sound of baby birds in the holly tree or drifting off to sleep to the sound of rain echoing outside the window. It is the connection to nature that I seek in quests for silence, that feeling of true oneness with the earth that my ancestors knew.
To lose your connection to the natural world is to lose part of the soul. We may wonder what is lacking, why we feel unfulfilled, and why a fistful of black dirt from our patio garden feels so good in our hands, but we already know the answer, because each of us is born with a connection to nature that is as prevalent as our umbilical cords. If not nurtured, however, this connection will recede away into the deep recesses of the soul, stirring on rare occasions, but never realized. And we’ll find ourselves lost and hungry, craving a silence that taunts us like the cry of a hawk.

The Absence of Anyone Else Chapter One

The Absence of Anyone Else Chapter One

Copyright 2009 JAR Publishing

The nursery school is filled with toddlers who have trendy

names like Jalynn, Cheyenne, and Ryder. Their mothers are young,

bulging out of pre-pregnancy jeans, driving away in shiny compact

cars with Mardi Gras beads dangling from rearview mirrors.

They’re always in a hurry, it seems. They never notice me, the

woman with a toddler in one hand and basket full of books, paper,

and paint in the other, struggling make it inside. They pay

extra each week to have me come here, yet never take the time to

hold the door. Go figure.

I come to share the gift of art with their children, to offer

their young minds a creative form of expression … ideally. In

reality, I come to give the nursery school teachers a thirty minute

break so that they can sit down outside on the terrace, have a

secret smoke, and gossip about everyone else. They get this every

Wednesday in their schedules; I get forty dollars every Wednesday

in my pocket. Not much, but extra money always helps, especially

in the summer, when I am on vacation from my teaching

job and always seem to overspend.

I deposit my two-year-old son Samson into a playgroup with

four other youngsters and head for the three- and four-year-olds.

I read the group a story about colorful fish, then guide them as

they play with paints and brushes in an attempt to recreate the

story’s characters on paper. They giggle and squeal with delight as

they explore the sensation of paint between their fingers, little

round faces full of so much enthusiasm I can’t help but smile. It

reminds me why I chose art education as my college major all

those years ago. This is joy, I think. These children know genuine

joy in this moment. I laugh with them as they rally around me,

and I am not even upset by the fact that I have green and blue

handprints smeared across the brand new secondhand jeans I found

for three bucks yesterday at my favorite thrift store. Oh well, they’ll

be paint jeans now, I think, smiling at the little color streaked

faces around me. So what if they were designer brand and fit just

right?

As I am packing my supplies and preparing to leave, my cell

phone rings, and I know it’s Daniel by the Mariachi band ring

tone he assigned himself weeks ago. I don’t answer because Sherry,

the director of the nursery school, is talking to me about teaching

an extra session next week. Instantly it rings again, the sound only

mildly mortifying. Daniel is nothing if not persistent, so I slip my

hand inside my bag and turn the phone off.

Sherry and I agree on the extra session and say goodbye. I

collect Samson, who is sitting quietly in the toddler room looking

at a big board book. He’s not especially happy about leaving this

colorful place and squirms and fusses in my arms. On the way

out, I notice a large collection of small paper hands, all different

colors, arranged in the shape of one large hand on the window of

Sherry’s office. I pause for a minute to take it in. It’s oddly uplifting

and I try to keep a mental picture of it in my mind as I load

Samson into his car seat and jump behind the wheel of my station

wagon, silently praying, as always, that it will start.

Despite rails of protest over leaving, Samson is now singing in

his car seat, his mood shifting in that speed of light way only

toddlers seem to master. I sing with him as we head across town to

visit my grandmother, Nan, for lunch. Nan’s home is within easy

walking distance of my own, but the heat of a June afternoon in

Calvary, South Carolina, makes a midday stroll out of the ques-

tion. As we pull up in front of the shockingly purple Victorian,

Samson cries “Eat, eat,” a little mantra he always begins as soon as

he realizes where we are. We have spent every Wednesday having

lunch with Nan since summer vacation began, and she’s definitely

the most interesting thing this town has to offer on a sweltering

summer day.

“Ah, hello, my loves!” She smiles as she answers the door with

an exaggerated bow, taking Samson from my arms and swaying

down the hall as though he were her partner in a ballroom. He

laughs at first but then reaches back for me. He’s already sleepy so

we decide to eat right away.

“You’re in for a treat today,” she says to me as I settle Samson

into a booster seat. “Just wait until you try my latest dish! Had to

go all the way to Greenville to get the right sauce but this old bird

needs to fly the coop sometimes, right Sammy?” She winks at

Samson, who is pulling on his ears. He grins.

“Oh I hope it’s something he will eat,” I say as I scan the room

for a glimpse of what’s to come. Dining with Nan is always an

adventure because she thrives on the exotic. As she begins to lay

out the meal, I am shocked and delighted to see yogurt with cucumbers,

pita chips, falafel sandwiches and hummus. I have not

eaten this type of food in years, but once it was my favorite meal.

“Did you make all this?” I ask, more than a little overwhelmed

by the idea of someone being so versatile in the kitchen. After all, it

certainly isn’t the standard Southern fare of fried chicken, collard

greens, biscuits and peas that line her table for holiday dinners.

“I certainly did!” She smiles as she sits down, tousling my

son’s hair. He smiles at her and his grey eyes are momentarily lost

behind chubby cheeks. I watch as she carefully unfolds a linen

napkin and smoothes it onto her lap. It’s a simple yet elegant gesture

that I try to imitate, but Samson immediately grabs the cloth

from my lap and throws it onto the floor.

“So what’s the inspiration?” I ask as I retrieve my napkin and

place it far from his reach.

“Well,” she begins, “I was poking around on the internet, just

seeing what I could find, when I came across these recipes from

the Middle East. You know most of their dishes are vegetarian,

and I’ve been trying to go that route for years but could never

stick with it. Now I think I’ve finally found food I can give up

meat for!”

We laugh and I am pleased to discover that Samson enjoys

the meal as well. While Nan tidies up, I rock him to sleep in the

same chair my grandmother once used to rock her children, then

her grandchildren and now her great-grandchildren to sleep in. Nan

doesn’t believe in throwing anything away that is still reasonably

useful, even if it is battered, worn, and frighteningly rickety. “Sometimes

it’s the old worn out thing that works the best,” she’ll say.

“Shiny and new might be prettier, but prettier ain’t always better.”

I have always called my grandmother Nan, not Nana like my

sister and cousin do. I do not know why, but to me, Nan just

seems to fit better. I hope that when I reach her age, I have a

fraction of her eclectic style.

She has never cut her hair, preferring instead to wear it in a

long silver braid wrapped around her head like a halo each morning.

She dresses in flowing shifts and scarves, old copper and silver

bracelets—gifts my grandfather, a railroad man, picked up

out West—dangling along her thin wrists. He died before I was

born, but when Nan talks about him, she will finger the heavy

silver locket around her neck and say, “Your Grandfather, he was

perfection.” Inside the locket is a faded picture of a handsome

young man of about twenty, and even now, some thirty years after

his death, her blue eyes will sparkle when she talks about the man

with whom she shared three decades.

I like to think that I take after her, not only in appearance—

for I also have long hair and blue eyes—but also because in this

town, she is like a bird of paradise lost in a flock of sparrows, and

I think of myself the same way. I also thrive on the exotic, not too

readily available here in Calvary.

Nan’s large home is decorated with a mixture of family photos

and random assortments of quirky ethnic statues and masks that

she collects. They are not from travels but from a lifetime of perusing

garage sales and thrift shops, other people’s discarded souvenirs

becoming our family’s heirlooms. As I settle a sleeping Samson

onto the large black couch, I notice an unusual wood carving of a

hand with an eye cut into the center. I ask Nan about this newest

artifact as we sit at the kitchen table, coffee cups in hand.

“Isn’t it just wonderful?” She says. “I was told it represents the

Hand of Fatima.”

I look closely at the small sculpture, which looks like an exaggerated

Iris blossom. A hand, palm facing front, middle three fingers

raised, thumb and little finger bent down in arcs. In the

middle, a large eye stares dully forward.

“I love the Hand of Fatima,” I say. “I remember studying it in

art history. My professor said it’s used in the Middle East to mean

different things. It’s really beautiful.” I can’t stand it any longer. I

cross the room on tip toe as not to wake Samson, and pick up the

hand. It’s surprisingly light. Up close I can see that the carving is

rather crude, as though it were one of many simple sculptures

carved in a single day by some unknown craftsman, a world away,

his wares spread out before him on a colorful blanket at a festive

bazaar.

“Can you believe I only paid a dollar for it?” Nan’s voice is

almost a whisper.

“The Market?” I ask, and she nods, slowly stirring another

cube of sugar into her cup. “You just never know what you’ll find

there. It’s like an adventure.” She sets the cup down, bracelets

jangling. I painted her once as a gypsy, complete with a colorful

turban, layers of shawls and an upside-down fish bowl doubling

as a crystal ball. Hokey, sure, but it had been fun. Nan seemed

genuinely sorry when I no longer needed her to pose.

She has two great loves: the Internet, on which she spends

hours perusing random topics; and The Market, a large mish

mash assortment of yard sales that folks set up on Saturday mornings

in an old parking lot off Highway 25. Occasionally, when I

can rouse myself from bed early enough, Samson and I accompany

her. For nickels and dimes he can add to his ever growing

collection of small cars, and I occasionally find sweet bargains on

clothes that I could never afford to pay retail prices for. I make a

mental note to try and go there with her as my meager wardrobe

flashes before my eyes. I should really update it before school resumes.

I notice Nan’s silver earrings are also shaped like hands, with

little copper hearts and a small stone the middle of the palm. They

have a slight tarnish, obviously vintage, and I am smitten with

them at once.

“I love those earrings! Another market find?” I pour one last

cup of coffee, my only vice.

“No, these came from New Orleans, years and years ago.”

“You went to New Orleans? When?”

“Oh, gosh, let me think,” she chuckles lightly, as though she

almost can’t believe it. “Nineteen forty-four, maybe forty-five.”

It seems unreal to me that someone can have memories from

almost sixty years back, and I pause for a minute, wondering what

I will be reflecting on decades into my own future. Will I be wearing

a pair of earrings that I own now, discussing life over coffee

with some yet to be born child of Samson’s?

I come back to the present. “What were you doing there? Visiting?”

I ask, wondering why I seem to be surrounded by images

of hands today. I glance down at Nan’s for a moment, gnarled

from arthritis and leathery from years spent outdoors tending

her overflowing gardens. They seem almost holy to me, these

hands that have cared for so much and tended so many, from her

children and grandchildren to the delicate blossoms in her backyard.

“You might say that,” she answers rather cryptically, then rises

and walks over to her sink, gazing out the window as she rinses

her cup and places it on the wooden rack. “I was fifteen years old,

can you believe that? Hard to imagine that I was once that young.”

I am about to respond “No” when suddenly there is a rapping

at the door that awakens Samson with a howl. I collect him from

the couch as Nan opens the door for my uncle Johnny. He strolls

in, tool box in tow.

Johnny is a handyman, known around town for his ability to

fix anything in the world that could possibly break. He’s also an

aging hippie, forever clad in his lifelong uniform of a t-shirt and

faded denim cut-offs, long blonde pony-tail trailing down his back.

If you look through our family albums, you’d think he hadn’t

changed clothes in twenty years. He’s not a man of many words,

but a good man who raised my cousin Johnna alone after her

mother went out for cigarettes and never came back. He has something

of Nan’s spirit, just as I do. That he could actually be my

conservative mother’s brother amazes me.

“Grace,” he nods as he enters.

“Hey Johnny. Nan putting you to work today?”

“Somebody’s got to.”

Nan shakes her head. “That leaky tap again. I don’t know

why that thing won’t stay fixed.”

“Cause it’s older than you are, Ma.” Johnny winks at me and

smiles at Samson, who snuggles against my shoulder. “Hey

Sambo,” he tweaks my son’s cheek affectionately.

The clock in the hall chimes four. The hour is coming when

the heat will ease a little and being outdoors will be possible, even

pleasant if we’re lucky enough for a breeze. I say goodbye to Nan

and Johnny as Samson and I head back to our small townhouse.

After playing for a while on the terrace, we step out for a lazy

stroll through the nearby park. Pushing Samson along in his stroller,

I point out birds and butterflies and various other things, and he

eagerly searches for each of them, his eyes wide with wonder. At

the park we see several of my students playing and lounging about,

and they run up to us, alone and in pairs, curious about Samson

and smiling at me. I ask them all the usual “Are you having a good

summer?” questions and they all nod and say “Yes Ma’am.” Most

of the children in Calvary attend Calvary Elementary School, and

because I teach art to all grades there, I know every little face in

this town. Samson watches a few boys throw a ball back and forth,

which thrills him for about a minute, and then we head home for

our evening routine: Dinner, baths, bedtime for Samson, studio

time for me. After a full day, I can’t wait to spend a few hours

alone with my brushes.

My mind is on painting as our home comes into view. Lost in

my thoughts, I do not notice Daniel sitting on the hood of his car

until he raises his hand and waves. I remember the earlier phone

calls and that I completely forgot to call him back, so I smile as he

slides off the car and trots over to us. Samson, who is crazy about

him, squeals with delight, pointing and cooing as he gets closer.

“I was about to give up on you guys,” he says. “I figured you

were out for a walk when I didn’t see the stroller in back.” He

nods towards the station wagon, where I keep Samson’s stroller

when we aren’t using it.

“Stalker,” I tease.

Daniel rolls his eyes, leans over and lifts Samson out of the

stroller. “Hey, Sammy boy,” he says, tossing him high into the air,

a little game of theirs that gives me shivers. Samson screams in

delight.

“Stop it!” I say to Daniel, kicking his shin less than gently.

“You know I hate when you do that!”

“But I like it, and Sammy likes it,” he says, tossing Samson up

again, only not so high this time. “So you’re outnumbered Big

Mama.” He smiles as he puts Samson down, holding his hand

while I unlock the door.

Like what you read? The Absence of Anyone Else is a 5-Star Award winning novel available anywhere that sells fine books, and also as a KINDLE E BOOK via Amazon.com

The Absence of Anyone Else

BOOKSIGNING ON NOVEMBER 28TH, WALDENBOOKS, GREENWOOD MALL 2-5pm

Grace Pruitt, struggling artist and single mother, paints into the wee hours of the night, hoping to numb the pain she's felt since fleeing her beloved Asheville, North Carolina, home three years before. Now back in Calvary, South Carolina, the fading textile town where she was raised, she aches for the exciting life she once led in the heart of the Great Smokies and wonders what, if anything, her future holds. When the terminally-ill estranged father of her son reaches out from the past, she finds herself in the midst of an emotional turmoil that is further complicated by the ever-growing stir of feelings towards her lifelong friend Daniel, a dashingly handsome graphic artist who seems unable to express his true feelings for Grace, despite having confessed to love her years before. Just when her plate of drama seems full, Grace gets a glimpse into the life she has only dreamed of when Cristofer Stanley, successful artist and gallery owner, expresses an interest in representing her art. Fueled by a steady stream of coffee, sage advice (and just a few secrets) from her eclectic Grandmother Nan, and the passionate desire to do what is right for both herself and her son, Grace finally finds the courage to let go of the life she thought she wanted and embrace the life ~ and love ~ she was meant to have.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Small town native Amy Loftis Alley is an artist, art educator, writer, mother, free spirit and tree-hugging lover of nature who resides in Upstate South Carolina. The Absence of Anyone Else is her first novel.
Link to order book: http://www.rockpublishing.com/AbsenceOfAnyoneElse.htm

Motherhood takes many turns...

Driving down I-20, on my way home from a Columbia workshop, I’m searching the dark for something familiar. It’s almost 10pm and I’ve realized that somewhere along the way, I’ve missed a turn…or taken a wrong turn. While I’m somewhat certain that I’m still heading in the right direction, there is no physical evidence to assure me of it. Nothing but a starless night sky and endless miles of highway that may or may not take me where I need to go.

Ahead I see an exit for Hwy. 178, a familiar road. I come to a crossroad, where signs point right and left to towns I’ve never heard of. While I know the road is correct, I’m completely lost as to which direction to take. Which will lead me home, and which will lead me farther from the place that, at this moment, I most long to be?

And then, an oasis in the night, a lone beacon shining. To the right is a service station with a light-flooded parking lot and bars on the windows. While the bars are a little unnerving, signifying the need for high security in this place, the well-lit parking lot makes me feel safe amidst this darkness. Inside, a woman is busy mopping the floor. It’s almost closing time, but she stops and listens to my tale of woe, then pats my shoulder and leads me over to a map on the wall. I listen as she kindly shows me the way that will lead me home, and assures me that I’m not really off course at all. I graciously thank this lady whose polite nonchalance gives the impression that I am not the first wayward traveler who has sought her guidance in the darkness. I try to express my gratitude, the joy I feel for her being there, but she shrugs off my thanks and returns to mopping. It is, after all, near closing time and she, too, longs to be home.

Wouldn’t it be nice if, on the long, winding, and often dark roads that carry us along on our journey of motherhood, we encountered people like this gas station attendant: stranger-sages who could reassure us, with a smile and map, that we are headed in the right direction. That the paths we are taking with our children are, in fact, leading us to the exact place we’re hoping we’ll end up? However, what I have experienced more often than not is just the opposite: People quick to point out my child’s faults, my faults, and that how everything would be better if I would take the same roads that they had taken with their own children. Quick to imply that what worked for their children will work for all children, and would certainly work better for my child than what I am doing, they become like mucky places in the road, bogging us down, preventing us from moving forward. And so we sit, spinning our wheels, wondering if where we’re hoping to go is, indeed, the right place for us.

However, in the words of one of history's most famous sages, we must remember to ‘Forgive them, for they know not what they do.’ They don’t mean to pull us down. They don’t mean to waylay us on our journey. They are simply giving us the wrong directions.

Because I felt lost that night on I-20, I would have taken whatever advice the lady at the gas station suggested. Mothers often feel this way, especially when our children are doing or saying things that we don’t understand. Things that aren’t what we want them to do. When this happens, we often go looking for direction…we seek the wisdom of others because we feel lost. We feel we’re not headed where we want to go. And we listen to advice, nod our heads, and go home with the intention of forcing on our children what worked for the children of others, as if they are lumps of cookie dough and we’re the cutters. Even if we’re not sure it’s the right thing. But we’ve never been down these roads before. Nothing is familiar. And so we find ourselves taking whatever advice is offered, even if it is sending us down a road we don’t want to travel.
However, I’ve come to discover that, just like that night on I-20, even when I feel lost, I still have an instinct inside that is guiding me in the right direction. Maybe I still go a little out of the way at times, but the journey is filled with twists and turns, and I always find myself back on the right path. Now, whenever some well-meaning soul imparts their wisdom on me, I nod and smile – I’ve found that simple act can get one through a lot in life – and I continue down the road I’m on, in the direction I know is right for my son and I. Every child is unique. Every parent/child relationship is unique. And thank goodness one does not create human beings in the same repetitive manner of stamping cookies from a lump of dough.

I know there will be many more times along this road of parenting when I will feel lost, confused. Afraid of taking a wrong turn or missing an exit. Not paying enough attention to the road. But luckily, there will always be friends, family, and even stranger-sages, willing to offer direction. Some will be wrong. Some will point out all my wrong turns, all my missed exits. They will tell me I should go the same direction they headed when they were taking this journey. They will bog me down so that I can’t move…if I listen. But I won’t. I’ll smile and nod and remember that there are also those who are like beacons in the night, shining their wisdom, always happy to reassure a lonely traveler that yes, you are heading in the right direction, you’ve just veered a little off course. They’ll seek no praise and take no pride in their words. They’ll simply reassure me that, even though I am heading off into the darkness down a road I’ve never traveled, that I am on the right parenting path for my son and I. I’ll thank them profusely, or at least try to, but they’ll simply shrug and return to their mopping, or whatever duty they are performing, because they have their own journeys they are thinking of. And I’ll head out once more into the unknown, on a path that, while unfamiliar, my mother-heart knows is right.