This Morning

"Every blade of grass has an angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'"
–The Talmud

This morning I'm in a quiet space.
I woke early,
soaked in the darkness of the early hour–
listened to the morning
hum itself into lightness.

I've been carrying this Talmud quote around in my mind lately. It makes me smile when I think of it and all the angels out there bending over each and every one of us. I came across the quote on a greeting card many years ago. I bought the greeting card and posted it to my bulletin board of inspiration; it's become a part of me.

This morning, I sit and find myself within the white space of the canvas...both literally and figuratively. I used markers to draw on the small canvas you see here. When I started coloring it in a week ago, I was certain that I would color every inch of space. Over the past few days, I've stared at this simple, but colorful series of lines and strokes and something inside of me says, I need that white space to stay. It's not meant to be all colored in. Sometimes, we need that white space amongst all the noise.

Tarot Card ~ Death

This morning felt like a good day to pick a Tarot card, to pick a card to provide some insight or inspiration in general, not necessarily for myself alone, but possibly for other wandering souls.

The card that showed up was Death - XIII Trumps

The essence of this card seems to be captured in the following introductory quote for this card from The Tarot Handbook: Practical Applications of Ancient Visual Symbols by Angeles Arrien. I use the Aleister Crowley Thoth Tarot deck.

"The Death/Rebirth symbol represents the universal principal of detachment and release. It is through letting go that we are able to give birth to new forms. Cutting through old binding patterns allows us to let go of the old and give birth to new or unexpressed parts of ourselves."

This is something that I would venture to say that most of us know to be true on some level, but why is it so difficult to put into practice?

I look to this card and can see where I may be in the process; and there, again, I see that even in writing about it, my words are tentative.

I find the card itself to be a source of light...

Death himself–a skeleton,
working his scythe, clearing the
way, making way for new growth–
transformation.

Unfold your wings and
Rise!

Never Too Old

I would never have imagined myself in a million years taking an early childhood education (ECE) class. Two classes ago we walked through the different day care rooms at night on the community college campus to get an idea of how the environments were set up. The infant room brought an instant calm to my being. There were soft toys, books, organization, neutral colors, and pictures up high to look at. As we walked through the different rooms, notebook in hand, I felt that I could see myself in a setting like this one day. I especially liked the pre-school room. There was so much to explore, inside and outside.

I have to admit that I've always been more of an animal person. Children brought up fears in me–with infants, there is a fear of how fragile they are. With the older children, there is the fear of how honest some of them may be, and how well brought up they are to know what's nice to say and not so nice.

On the flip side, that's what's so great about children: They are totally honest.

Somewhere in my early thirties I was in a Safeway and I've always had tendencies toward shyness and insecurity. On this one day I had stopped off at Safeway on my way home from work. I used to bike to work then. I had my bike helmet on my head. It was a hot day and my face was hot and sweaty. I walked by an older child sitting in the shopping cart. she must have been five years old or so. As I walked by she pointed at me and said, "she's ugly." I just kept walking. Her dad was near by and I think he walked over to her and who knows what he mumbled to her.

All I know is that I felt about one inch tall. Even though I didn't know this child, those simple words fed into an insecurity that I felt. From a rational perspective, I could talk myself around it or better yet ignore the comment. But emotionally, it planted a small seed–and not that I had considered working with children then–I think I told myself I never would.

I can tell that a shift has occurred in me, and at this stage in my life, my relationship toward children has changed–is changing in positive ways.

I've said it before, and I don't mind repeating that I believe we all learn and grow at our own pace. In looking back at my childhood, there are many instances where I've had to battle with self-esteem issues. It feels good that as I continue going through life, the layers continue shedding, being replaced by new ones–stronger ones.

We're never too old to learn and grow.

Last Wish

It’s been almost two years since I’ve visited with my brother, G., in person, email being our primary mode of sporadic communication. We both have our lives, and there was a period that I needed time away from his gregarious personality that was, at times, overwhelming for me. It had been a couple of months since we last communicated, until recently when we exchanged a few emails prompted by birthday wishes.

I visit my uncle at least once or twice a week. We all live within driving distance of each other. We have another brother, J. Both brothers are twenty years older than I am. The other brother and my brother were close and then life happened and they separated, and with their separation, my separation from the other brother. It’s the way it was. No hard feelings, just that one was the link to the other. The last time we were all in the same place together was at my abuelita’s (grandmother’s) funeral.

The last few times I’ve visited my uncle, who is in his eighties, he expressed a strong desire to get us all together. We talked it out and we didn’t think it would be possible. So much time had passed—at least two decades. There was still a wide gap between the brothers—difficult matters from the past. I always found it peculiar that each of us would speak to my uncle individually; my communications would extend to G., but not to J. We would all ask my uncle how the other was doing and that was the extent of our combined relations, our uncle as the remote hub.

I’m not religious, but I speak to God; sometimes I ask him for his guidance. God, to me, transcends any religion and I know that he listens and he understands me. I knew in my heart that if my uncle wanted to try to get us all together, I would have to help him. Even though time separates my brother G. and I, we have always been close and pick up right where we left off when we visit with each other. As long as he hasn’t had too many beers, were fine. If he’s drunk, I don’t want anything to do with him. He seems to have gotten that under control.

Since I hadn’t seen G. and I knew he hadn’t been visiting our uncle, I asked God for guidance—guidance on whether I should reach out, should I try to help my uncle, especially since he framed his wish as an event he wanted to see happen before he died. I felt a burden because I like my simple life, at a distance from my family. Selfish? Yes. I’ve had too much control exerted upon me from my childhood, both from mother, and from G. when he had to deal with my adolescent years. I realized that I was still under the childhood spell of all the feelings that I needed to get out from under.

I’ve wavered throughout the years, my mind being my worst enemy—wavered at having an overprotective brother, at times still feeling that overbearing tendency he demonstrated in spurts in my adulthood, because he would always view me as his little kid sister. When I gained my freedom, I realized that I had to be strong within myself, maintain my independence. I would not be controlled any longer the way my mother controlled me and I would not be an enabler.

This is probably where my rebellious nature came from: Death, freedom, and literally finding my voice. It started in junior high school sometime after my mother’s death. I was quiet and shy, but I had moments of something else, something I can’t put my finger on exactly: A firecracker. I mellowed with time, bad decisions, and lots of introspection. For a quiet observer, introspection came naturally and has not left my side. The only time my rebel is roused these days is when I feel those shackles of control being flung upon me. It can be work, my significant other, anyone. I’m aware of it, and at times I retreat, but it’s there. I don’t like being bullied and I speak up when the need arises. I am proud of myself because I’m still me, I don’t forget who I am, where I come from, and I speak up when necessary.

On my recent email exchange with G., he said he’d like to see me and I replied that yes, why don’t we meet at uncle M’s. I hadn’t told my uncle. I thought we would surprise him and just show up. I still continued to ask God for guidance before these emails, guidance on if I should make some effort. Last time I visited my uncle, I said to him, should I email G. and see if he wants to visit? He said, no, let him do it on his own.

I think that a part of my uncle meant those words, but my uncle is stubborn like the rest of us. He’s stubborn, has the rebel in him, and also has a big heart. He doesn’t show his feelings much, but when he talked about the four of us getting together, he got choked up, his eyes misted over. I listened to his actions and stored it away.

It was nice to visit with my brother G., and uncle together, and it was a refreshing surprise to hear my brother say that he enjoyed spending more quiet time at home, rather than going out and being in the middle of all the noise. It sounded as though he had grown up. How odd for a younger sister to say that, but it’s true. In listening to him talk, he seemed calmer, more open, more balanced. I told him that he was becoming more of an introvert in his older age. He agreed. 

I feel that in the recent string of emails with my brother, God, was guiding me. After we were done visiting, my brother got up to go and he said we should do this more often. I told him that actually uncle M. expressed that he would like for us to get together with J., all of us together. I said it’s Uncle’s wish before he dies. He turned his neck around as if he were rolling his eyes, but then said, yeah, sure, let’s do it. My uncle seemed pleased and had a big smile on his face.

My uncle is not on his deathbed. He has a lot of spunk in him yet. Even though my uncle’s the oldest, any of us could exit before the other.

I had known that my uncle expressed his desire to my other brother, J., a month ago. When he said to my uncle that he thought he could stand our brother for a few hours, I knew there was hope. There were many deaths in our family where there was not peace among family members before their departure. I know my abuelita (grandmother) would have liked to have seen the brothers reconcile before her death.

I could have easily just walked away from this, and I was ready to, but I spoke to God for days, during different times, telling him how I felt and asking for a sign. If not for the small nudges from up above, from a power higher than myself, I may not have done anything. This is the last of us. I don’t expect anything to come of it afterward, only a small slice of peace for my uncle in the present, so that he can have his one last wish—before its too late.

Now I must see it through.

Growth

Growth is a difficult process. The layers of a shell become polished along the way. Some layers, no longer needed, but so familiar they are clung too, tugged on. To step into the light of the ensuing layers or stay in the comfort of the incessant womb of safety. To realize with wide open eyes that the layers have been climbed, that the old is no longer needed to survive. To come into one’s own is a feeling indescribable, except to see a woman—this familiar woman that appears from time to time—a woman in white and the pink of shell, standing at the crown of the large conch shell, holding another conch shell to her lips and blowing the resonance into the world, into herself. She puts the shell down and realizes that she has arrived, that there is still work to do, but it is time to take the comforts of her flowing gown off, and step out naked, to go to the edge and jump into the ocean where she belongs and to know that she will not sink because she is of the elements, and they will pull her along, keep her afloat as she surrenders to the moment of layering, of being reborn and she knows that she will visit this space again and again, for she feels it in her bones and it fills her with...

Ode to Teachers: The Traditional, non-traditional, and everyone in between

When did I learn to fly?

They say that, “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.” I know that’s not true. These words ring in my ears. The words sting, bur into the soul, seep the life out of you. Yes, the words hurt. However, the words can also be turned into kindling, spark a light—to say in turn, “Your words are not true!” No, I am not stupid, Mrs. H. Just because I’m quiet, just because my classmate whom I’m partnered with also doesn’t understand this grammar crap, does not mean we are stupid. Shame on you, Mrs. H, to look me in the eyes, and with the coldest tone ask, “What…are you stupid?” But of course, this is high school—what seems now eons ago. I had other concerns, inner turmoil, and was too timid to stick up for myself.

It didn’t get much better. It was a long slow process. My first junior college course was a disaster. I remember you well, Mrs. M. When we met to discuss my paper during class and you said with a nonchalant air, “I don’t know…This essay—It sounds like you were on something.” I look at you in shock. Am I hearing you right? True that I didn’t follow the assignment exactly. I was exploring myself. I was writing about my experience, my feelings, inspired by my explorations of the Eastern traditions. “Ah…,”you say, “now I understand. My sister’s into that and I can never understand her letters to me. But this is really off topic, and it’s all over the place. It’s a “D” but I gave you a “C.” I suggest you drop the class.

Why didn’t I quit? No one really encouraged me. I don’t know exactly, but I didn’t give up. There were more discouraging words at different times, but I kept on. I knew it wasn’t all their fault. I knew I wasn’t up to par. Grammar was still a chore and I wasn’t writing complete or organized thoughts. I kept enrolling in English courses and studying on my own, determined to succeed. And at the same time, I dropped many courses when I couldn’t handle the anxiety of speaking in class. It made the road that much longer. But I have no regrets.

When I first felt like I was flying, it was in Mr. Gustavson’s English writing development course for folks like me who still needed help with writing college level papers. We kept journals. “Write everything, don’t hold back,” he told us. I wrote every bloody thing down, but this time, I wrote about my days, about the mundane. I didn’t hold back. I surprised myself. I remember one day he was standing up in front of the class reading examples anonymously. I was listening intently and then I heard familiar musings. He’s reading my journal. I felt the heat rise on my face. I was startled to hear my words flow out of his mouth and when he finished he said, “Now does it sound like she’s having trouble getting her words out?” I can’t even describe how good it made me feel to hear myself up there through him, to actually hear something positive instead of the usual unconstructive criticism. It was a small moment and one that I cherish. It felt like I was getting there.

And then I continued flying in Mr. Hurley’s Freshman English class. Looking back, He was one of the biggest inspirations on my road—for the love of language, writing, reading. He was a kind teacher, very passionate about teaching itself and passionate about the students. In addition to the comments he made on our papers, he would attach a little grid of the different elements of the essay and he would put a check mark next to where our writing fell in that grid, and if need be, he’d add a few more comments. I loved this. I could really see where I needed to focus my attention. I was still on my way, making the small climb. I got a “C” in his class, but more important, I felt like I was in a constructive and supportive environment. I even had to interview someone for one of my papers, which was very scary for me at the time. During an exercise where Mr. Hurley had us pick a few quotes that really stood out for us to discuss. This is one from Susan Faludi that has remained with me: “My barracuda blurbs belie my timorous demeanor.” The cadence and potency of these words—they have become a sort of mantra for me.

I began improving steadily and could not get enough English courses. One last fond flight is from a journalism course on writing the feature story. The instructor started us out with reading two articles about teaching and then she wanted us to write a comparison/contrast reaction. She posted all of the student’s responses without names and wanted us to comment on what we liked and didn’t like. There were a few students who left comments under my paper that said, “I’d like to write like this.” I was in utter amazement and felt such joy. I do remember being absorbed in the assignment, being passionate, letting go, and finally editing and cleaning it up best I could. Even though this wasn’t graded and was just a warm up, I still wanted to do my best in my way, and that’s probably what the students reacted to. However, little did we know this was an exercise in how not to write a feature. After all the students had reacted to our essays, the instructor chimed in and said that while most of these essays were fine in their own right, they were not acceptable for feature writing and she proceeded to tell us why. And so the class began. It was a valuable course, and at times I felt like quitting because it was a different style of writing for me, but I relished in the challenge.

There are so many more positive experiences I’ve had since Mrs. H and Mrs. M. that put the hurtful ones into perspective. And quite honestly, if I didn’t have the negative experiences, I don’t know if I would be here today: Appreciative; both humbled and lifted; passionate about language and expressing myself in a way that is sometimes messy and sometimes neat, but always with passion.

No, I did not forget, but I forgive the hurtful words. I’m still flying, though, still trying to figure out exactly why God put me here. I’m still trying to find new ways to come out of my comfort zone, while respecting my introverted nature. I dream of one day inspiring and encouraging on a large scale, which in my world, will be a small scale. I’d like to provide a safe place, to provide a nurturing and supportive environment that allows for self-exploration, builds self-esteem and helps people find the confidence within themselves to keep turning the sometimes hurtful outer and inner words into gold.