CHRISTmas Blessings ... and a pause

May the Song of the Season

warm your heart

and fill your soul with Love.

Christmas Blessings to

you and yours ...

I shall be away for a bit ~ a pause that refreshes ...

But please do have a comfortable cup of tea while I am gone.

Presenting this year's Baby Jesus ...

In my elementary teaching days, this time of year would be spent putting the final touches on the Christmas Play. Students from kindergarten through grade 8 would sing and tell and act out the journey of Mary and Joseph to Bethlehem for the birth of Jesus. When the time came for the baby to be born, Mary ~ played by an eighth grade girl ~ would be handed a real baby from behind. The role of Baby Jesus was sometimes played by a boy and sometimes played by a girl; it all depended on which student had the youngest brother or sister at the time!

I think Mijo would make a marvelous Baby Jesus this year:

waiting ...

"We live from peak event to peak event,

from brightness to brightness,

resisting the flat terrain of ordinary time ~

the in-between time.

Waiting is the in-between time.

It calls us to be in this moment ..."

from When the Heart Waits by Sue Monk Kidd

Advent 2008

Spirit of Illumination,

guide our path through this season of waiting ...

A Season of Thanks ...

Blessings to all in this week of Thanks ...

Another "Quilts" Giveaway!

OK, here's the deal! Dana over at Old Red Barn Co. is having a QUILT GIVEAWAY and it's free to enter! Just head over to her blog and leave a comment. She is one generous person from whom all of us could take a lesson.

Soulmaking ...

The art of soulmaking is taking our lives in our hands and – with all the love and discernment we can muster – gently whittling away the parts that don’t resemble the True Self. In spiritual whittling, though, we don’t discard the shavings. Transformation happens not by rejecting these parts of ourselves but by gathering them up and integrating them. Through this process we reach a new wholeness.

from When the Heart Waits by Sue Monk Kidd

The silent heart ...

The silent heart is a blessing heart Because it sees the Divine in all things The silent heart is a listening heart Because it seeks always to be increased The silent heart is a peaceful heart Because it has mastered the art of forgiveness The silent heart is a restful heart Because it has learned to be at home with itself The silent heart is a selfless heart Because it knows how to be truly grateful The silent heart is a timeless heart Because it lives in the moment,

ever in touch with the eternal The silent heart is a trusting heart Because it recognizes its sustenance as Providence The silent heart is a silent heart Because it has experienced the grace of contemplation

Mijo

Here's what's decorating the screen

of my computer lately!

ch-ch-ch-changes ...

All changes,

even the most longed for,

have their melancholy;

for what we leave behind us

is a part of our selves;

we must die to one life

before we can enter another. ~anatole france

There is a time for departure

even when there's no certain place to go.

~tennessee williams

The Beginning of a Spirituality ~ Part III

The Lilac Sanctuary

The walk to school every morning was purposeful and timed. If I left the house on time and walked without delay I could arrive with breath to spare and time to visit with my classmates, an integral exercise in what continues to be the most attended class of the newly blossomed adolescent years - socialization. But the walk home was different. Instead of a preoccupation of what was to come, which often filled my thoughts along the morning trek, my mind assumed a memory mode as it soared through the past events of the day. It was almost an effortless thinking, an effortless being. It just was and it mattered not what time I left school, for I was going home and need not worry about arriving before the bell.

On the way home I took a different path ~ a path that would take me past the huge brick house on the corner. It was not the house I liked, it was the bushes. The bushes filled with luscious green leaves that stroked my bare arms and legs like gentle kisses as I walked through their midst. The bushes filled with aromatic blooms of lilac, white and pink that towered well above my head and made me feel as if I had entered another space in time entirely. Each day I ventured in and through and out feeling full and filled, and for reasons I did not care that I did not understand, I emerged whole and fulfilled. I loved those bushes and their space and how they made me feel.

Once I grew and moved away from my place of origin, each visit home I would venture past those bushes – just to be sure. But one summer afternoon as I arrived in the city, something seemed odd and I began to feel an almost nauseating pain in the pit of my stomach. I thought it was the hot weather and the length of time I had traveled in an un-airconditioned car. But as I approached the huge brick house, I quickly forgot about the heat. The bushes were gone! My temple had been destroyed. And even though it has been gone several years now, I cannot help but venture past where it once stood each time I return home – just to be sure.

The Beginning of a Spirituality ~ Part II

Under Kelly’s Front Porch

I was 10 years old and loved gumball machines. At that time you could put in a penny and out would come 2 gumballs and, depending on the machine, a tiny trinket would accompany the colorful spheres. The tiny plastic object was no bigger than a thumbprint and usually possessed a ring at one end so as to be strung like a charm from a necklace or bracelet. For me, those trinkets were treasures, my most prized possessions. Perhaps because they were cute and colorful; perhaps because they were mine. They all meant something to me and I loved them for it. I kept them in a box my grandmother had given me and in it they were transported back and forth from my hideout. Actually, it was our hideout, Kelly’s and mine. Kelly was my friend and we used to take my trinkets underneath her front porch and set them up here and there. That’s all we did – we took them out and set them up, one by one, and then sat there looking at them and being with them – often in silence. If someone had asked I doubt we could have explained why; we just did and it was good and that was enough.

And then one day Kelly stopped coming to the hideout and so it became my hideout. I continued to enter the place, box in hand, alone from then on. Soon the summer ended and Kelly went back to her school and I went back to mine. The weather turned colder and I visited my little temple less and less.

Thirty-plus years later my temple is housed in a sacred corner of my bedroom and continues to contain trinkets which represent my life, my love, my connections. Reminiscent of the altarcitos of Hispanic popular religion (small places common in many homes where Holy images and objects of meaning are placed), a simple mission style bookcase serves as my altar’s base upon which currently rest the following items: a small weaving from the altiplano or high mountainous regions of Peru; a candle; prayer cards and service programs containing small photographs and prayers of eternal rest for two dear friends; a miniature earthenware container filled with pinches of dirt from 12 countries in which the Sisters of Mercy of the Americas minister and reside; a petite bottle of holy water from the shrine in Mexico decorated with a colorful image of Our Lady of Guadalupe; a little clay vessel given to me 26 years ago at my entrance ceremony; a piece of stone etched with the words Be still and know that I am God; the crude clay bird hand-fashioned during a retreat; a piece of weathered driftwood from the lake at Stillpoint; coral from the shores of Belize; and my drawing journal displaying a mandala I created for Mary. I try to visit my mestiza temple daily and sit in silent reflection amidst the visual fronteras of my soul.* Some people call it meditation, others call it contemplation. I learned a long time ago to call it prayer, even when it does not feel like it.

*With experiences and devotions in two distinct worlds and not comfortably fitting completely into either, my spirituality embraces mixed traditions; lives in the borderlands. From the poem “To live in the Borderlands means you” by Gloria Anzaldúa in Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza

The Beginning of a Spirituality ~ Part I

WAY UP HIGH, SERAPHIM ...

As a small child of no more than four, the Mass was mostly in Latin and very little made sense to my young ears. Except for one word - one word spoken one time within that hour of babble when I knew that I was being named specially among the crowd and recognized - the word was seraphim. And even though it was not Sarah, I knew it meant Sarah because after all, it wasn’t English anyway and that was just the other language’s way of saying Sarah.

A few years later the babble turned familiar and my curiosity waned until one Sunday I noticed what had been there always, hanging high above the altar. It was way up high, so high that if you sat too far up in the body of the church, you could not see what I oftentimes saw and oftentimes did not. It was rectangular in shape from the angle just below it, a box which hung by four chains made of what looked like wood and decorated on the bottom with colors of turquoise and cream and something of a darker hue from the perspective further back. There seemed to be no light attached to it and nothing hung from it to identify its purpose and so I would look at it and wonder “Why is this here?” and “What is that for?” And sometimes, because the box hung from chains and there was a rather large space between it and the ceiling, I saw it. It was a cross, but not a real cross, more like a shadow cross sitting between the box and the ceiling. But there was no real cross making the shadow cross so maybe it was some other kind of cross. Sometimes I would see it and look around at the other faces in the community gathered and wonder if they too could see it. Other times it was nowhere to be found and I would still look around at the other faces and wonder if they too could not see it. And even though I could not see it every time, I was sure of it; I knew it was still there even if I was the only one who knew about it. Somehow I think I was.

dear ann,

i'm aided to my feet and proudly stand alone ... i read your wisdom admire your honesty relate to your feelings love your wordsmithing appreciate your theology enjoy your life-pictures follow your bliss while i cannot find my own ... and then i stop want no more ... i envy your insight resent your vulnerability desire your approach begrudge your creativity covet your faith spite your gratitude despise your bliss while i cannot find my own ... until i fall once more and cannot rise alone ...

ann, it seems i have a love/hate relationship with reading your blog ... more accurately, i suspect, it reflects my relationship with myself ... sometimes a prayer; sometimes a swear ... what i would not give to share a comfortable cup of tea with you one day. blessings, sarah

Thank you, Kim

Remember Kim of hues of nature ~ the wonderful artist who designed and crafted the darling pixies which make up Three Friends? She has decided to offer Mary's Fairy in her Etsy Shop to aid ovarian cancer awareness, and will donate $5.00 from each doll she sells to Gilda's Club of Detroit.

She then put together a Treasury at Etsy entitled A Tribute to Mary ~ check it out here. Thank you, Kim ... you have been an angel of comfort amidst the pain of our loss.

Namaste.

Can Mijo come out to play?

"Mijo, guess who's coming to get you tomorrow?"

"Your Aunt!"

"No, not that one ~ your FAVORITE one."

"Yeah, that one, Aunt Sarah!"

... heart of my heart ...

can i tell you where i’ve been? what i’ve done and failed to do? can i tell you whom i have loved? the risks involved … the costs which have been paid … the shame and the ecstasy? can you sit with me awhile? can you hold me ‘til I can feel you? can you love me as I have loved another? can you teach me how to love you? can you rock me in your arms? can you satiate my desires? can you remind me who I have been? who I am and will become? can you take my hand in yours? guide me to a brand new day? tell me that you love me now more than yesterday? just as I am? no matter where I have been? because … right now … i cannot.

A Tribute To Mary

23 August 2008 Farmington Hills, Michigan My Dear Mary Helene, As Isaiah pronounced, “We do indeed sing this day for you. We observe this feast in your honor, as you march with your flute toward the mountain of the Lord.” What a glorious song your life has composed! Yet, even as I write these words I can hear you saying “I didn’t compose it, I just tried to sing the score God set before me.” In that case, Mary, you certainly have assembled a sizeable choir. It spans the generations … beginning with the young at IHM, “the merest children” as Matthew calls them, and ending with, well, the mature at McAuley. To young and old alike, the Master Teacher’s voice, resounding in your musical ear, was indeed revealed through you. Your harmony was exquisite; your ability, unending; and yet your robe remained simple ~ usually plain ~ and unassuming. I remember very vividly those first few weeks after entrance. While our three classmates strategized over who could get through candidacy the fastest, you and I retreated to the showers, questioning what we were doing with our lives, and singing our own rendition of Swing Lo in two-part harmony. Years later, when we found ourselves to be the only remaining members of the class of ’82, we smiled, continued to question what we were doing with our lives, and tried to figure out how to fit Swing Lo into a final vow Liturgy.

Music was a passion we shared. We could hum the Michigan fight song in every-other-note duet style, and play trios for the recorder with three instruments and two mouths. We played and sang together often, and talked about the beauty and creativity of the musical word, poetry in motion, and its vast capacity - to heal, to teach, to bring one to tears or to laughter, to leave one speechless with a musical experience. Perhaps the most powerful musical experience we shared happened in 2005. Amidst chemo treatments, fatigue and nausea, you managed to join me in San Antonio for a weekend of music and work. We scribbled and crossed out, and scribbled again on a pile of paper scraps, which eventually became musical scores and a lovely collection of songs on CD. Best of all, Mar, you finally met Anita face-to-face. And there you shared, two women Religious, teachers, musicians, highly educated and successful, battling the same illness with dignity and determination, comadres in this life, and now in the next. These past six years, Mary, have certainly been a most challenging rendition of Amazing Grace. You walked courageously and gracefully through many dangers, toils and snares, and in the end, Grace indeed led you quickly and gently home. If I had to choose just one song to describe your journey through this earthly life, I would choose the traditional Shaker tune, Simple Gifts. For amidst the numerous and prestigious accomplishments you made ~ many of which remain unknown to most ~ you never ceased to be Mary Helene: the fourth of five children, born into a Catholic, Italian (and Irish!) family, who proudly hailed from Motown. Daughter, sister, cousin, aunt, friend, student, musician, teacher … you never lost sight of who you were – ‘Twas your gift to be simple; or from where you had come – ‘Twas your gift to be free; and nothing and no one ever fell below you - To bow and to bend you shan't be ashamed. Spending this time with you, as you journeyed with and toward the Divine, has been nothing less than Sacred Grace; an enfleshed Eucharistic Moment of bread, blessed, broken, and shared. Your continued concern for the comfort of those around you often reminded me of the stories of the death of Catherine McAuley, foundress of our Mercy congregation. When she was close to death and the Sisters had traveled to gather around her bedside, she whispered “Make sure the Sisters have a comfortable cup of tea when I am gone.”

As I sat next to you these days, I found myself praying Catherine’s Suscipe over and over again. I’m not sure who I was praying for, Mar, you or me, but I figured it didn’t matter. So once more, Mary, I pray with you the Suscipe of Catherine McAuley: My God, I am yours for time and eternity.

Teach me to cast myself entirely

into the arms of your loving Providence

with a lively, unlimited confidence in your compassionate, tender pity.

Grant, O most merciful Redeemer,

that whatever you ordain or permit

may be acceptable to me. Take from my heart all painful anxiety; let nothing sadden me but sin, nothing delight me but the hope of coming

to the possession of You

my God and my all, in your everlasting kingdom. Amen. Until always, Mar … Sar, ttss

Three Friends

Kim made these darling little friends for me to give to my friend, Mary, who was struggling through the final days of her earthly life.* The first lil' pixie is Sarah. She is needle felted of hand painted roving. She carries a little nature journal in one hand and a tiny quill. In the other hand she carries a tiny piece of fabric to quilt, in Mary's blue, with tiny stars and pine cones, and has a needle felted little bird nest for a hat. Mary's fairy is in a beautiful forget-me-not blue roving with her slippers strapped to her side, a tiny yellow glass seed bead on each ~ she has taken them off now that she has begun to sprout wings. She carries a journal with three friends on the cover, along with her flute. She has a Swarovski crystal butterfly in her hair. Karen's lil' pixie has tiny green glasses to match her dress and shoes. The bottom of her dress is decorated with hand painted mohair locks and a needle felted heart is on the skirt. A little acorn cap adorns her head. She carries a wooden heart button and a miniature Harry Potter, The Goblet of Fire. Karen and Sarah have no wings and their shoes are still firmly in place. As such they can walk with Mary along her journey, but only until her wings take flight. Mary's wings did indeed take flight early this morning. The earth-angel of the little group has transitioned into the next life and is being deeply missed by Karen and Sarah.

*Unfortunately, the three friends did not arrive in time to meet Mary on this plane, so I will gift them to Karen in hopes that they might help to bring a smile to her face once more.

It's coming ... a new school year ...

and along with that ... fire drills!

fire drills

i hate them so

we have to line-up

in a row ...

it is so loud

it hurts my ears

please, don't let anyone

see my tears ...

they say it is fake

but i think it's real

and James Jerome

always steps on my heel ...

but that's o.k.

cuz then i can cry

and nobody ever

has to know why.

This is my grandneice ~ a future kindergardener!

"Within this barrio" ...

In January of 1996, I moved to Argentina to live and work with the Sisters of Mercy among the materially poor. The next 3 years proved to contain the most challenging and richest learning experiences I've ever received. The following is a journal entry written a couple of months after I arrived in the south of Argentina. Within this barrio [neighborhood] I am living and learning a life of which I have never experienced. Sweeping frogs from underneath the bed at sundown before retiring for the evening, and chasing cats from the kitchen at sun-up having entered through the window, looking for a bite to eat. Embracing children with lice-ridden heads, and filth encrusted noses and bodies from weeks without a bath. Houses with no running water and little more than bundled cardboard for walls and a ceiling; dusty, dirty, pebble and mud roads whose rising clouds of dry earth never seem to dissipate. Last evening Marcela and I went to visit a family of the parish living in the next barrio. There were 12 children ranging in age from 9 months to 20 years. The mother is 33 years old. The father works in the chakras [fruit orchards] collecting fruit, but has not been paid for three months. If he does not continue to work, he will lose his job to one of the men who line-up each morning hoping to replace an absent or ill worker from the prior day. So he continues to work each day without pay. The family lives in a two-room home, very crudely put together with a hard dirt-packed floor. We sat in the kitchen taking maté [a strong herbal tea drunk from a dried gourd and sucked from a metal straw] with 10 of the 12 children wide-eyed and hanging on every word. I spoke as much Spanish as I could possibly muster and drank enough maté, made from water taken from an old plastic bucket set on the floor beside the mother, until I thought my bladder would burst. I knew I could not ask to use the bathroom because there wasn’t one, and they would have been ashamed to show me the hole dug outside. I tried to pretend like I had been in houses like theirs all of my life; that the hoards of flies encircling the room and covering the sweetbread dough being fried and served us were of no bother to me whatsoever. I tried to maintain eye contact with the children instead of noticing the far from eye-pleasing physical conditions around me. I felt ashamed at my dis-ease and hoped it was not showing. Never had I experienced a poverty so cold and so obvious; nor had I ever experienced a welcome so warm and filled with such peace and gratitude. That evening I cried myself to sleep and prayed for a day when I would be able to notice the people so intensely that the physical surroundings would melt somewhere in the background of my unconsciousness.

Grace

Grace I spread my poncho wide And beckoned my soul take rest In a piercing gaze it held me Uneasy by the queer request Silently we remained in expectation Of that which neither one knew Like a work in patient progress Before its creator is through When slowly, cautiously my heart settled And courage made present its place The tear-stained words I uttered From shame transformed into grace A grace amazing and musical Its melody comforting and known Freely, in love unconditional I knew I’d finally come home

random act of kindness ... conscious act of ignorance

I was driving home after having breakfast with a good friend. It was mid-morning, one of those unusually hot and humid days in Detroit which become less and less unusual with each new season. I stopped at a red light and saw a woman across the street, waiting for a bus. She was seated on the sidewalk, several feet from the bus stop and out of the scorching rays of the sun. I drew a deep breath as I watched her fiddle with something in her hands.

I remember well waiting for buses in the summer sun … arriving at the bus stop sticky from the walk to get me there; searching for some small piece of unoccupied shade where I could plant myself for the wait; hoping that the next bus still had seats available so I could put myself back together before arriving at my final destination. The light turned green, I turned the corner passing the woman, still seated and I hoped enjoying a small bit of comfort from the cool cement.

I was in no hurry and enjoying the cooled-air of my comfortable car. How did I do it all those years without air conditioning? I wondered. I turned at the next corner, and the next, and two more after that until I was stopped directly in front of the woman, still seated on the sidewalk waiting for the bus. I rolled down my window and inquired, Would you like a ride? She could not hear me so she rose to her feet and started toward the car. Would you like a ride? I repeated. She looked at me with puzzled eyes, still grasping the cell phone she’d been playing with in her hands.

No, that’s ok. I’m going to Southfield was her response.
I’m going that way I offered again.
Still looking puzzled, more likely suspicious of my offer, I added It’s ok, really, I’m harmless.
OK, she replied, if you’re sure.

She got in the car and continued the texting correspondence she’d started on her phone while introducing herself to me as Georgia. In the 8 minutes it took to get to her destination, I found out she was the mother of 4, held 3 jobs, and had been called into work on her day off because the till was missing a considerable amount of money. It was her job to figure out who had depleted the till and call him/her to accountability. When we arrived at her place of employment, I wished her luck with her investigation. She thanked me for the ride and headed toward the door, still texting with her phone.

I was so glad I'd stopped and hoped she was, too. I would tell no one and save myself the lectures about picking-up strangers and the like ... Words that would turn my minute and randon act of kindness into an enormous and conscious act of ignorance.

health and happiness ...

One day this past week my good friend gave me a little magazine she picked up at her chiropractor's office. I found one of the articles most intriguing and have returned to read it over and over again. It's entitled Enjoy the Ride and contains a list of 40 things to health and happiness. Here are a few of my favorites:

Smile. It is the ultimate antidepressent.

Live with the 3 E's ~ Energy, Enthusiasm, and Empathy.

Dream while you are awake.

Try to make at least three people smile each day.

What other people think of you is none of your business.

Get rid of anything that isn't useful, beautiful or joyful.

Spend more time with people over the age of 70 and under the age of 6.

So ~

Look who I had dinner with last night ....

Mijo just keeps getting cuter and cuter and cuter!

Speaking of quilts ...

Speaking of quilts … Tipper of Blind Pig and The Acorn recently wrote about her love for the Appalachian quilts she’s been gifted with since childhood. She ended her post with the question “Do you have a favorite quilt?” which tugged at my heartstrings …

My Mamaw (called "Maw" by her northern grandchildren) worked at a shirt factory and brought home bags of scraps that my Great-Mamaw and Great-Aunts made into quilts.

This quilt was made for me by my great Aunt (who was also my Godmother) and was a Christmas present when I was a child. It has been used and washed and remade over the years a million times and is still my favorite. I still use it today, although one that I made now lives atop my bed.

This is a much older one made by my Great-Aunts that I was given after their deaths and it sits on a chair in my livingroom, along with a rag doll that I got when I was 6. She has a wind-up music box that still plays London Bridges. These are the things I would grab as I left the house if there ever was a fire.

Stillpoint

Stillpoint Place

.......at the stillpoint of the turning world,

neither flesh nor fleshless;

neither from nor towards;

at the stillpoint,

there the dance is

but neither arrest nor movement.

and do not call it fixity,

where past and future are gathered. neither movement

from nor towards

neither ascent nor decline.

except for the point, the stillpoint,

there could be no dance, and there is only dance.

i can only say, there we have been

but i cannot say where.

and i cannot say, how long,

for that is to place it in time.......

from T.S. Eliot's Four Quartets

This is how I'm spending my Birthday ...

Thinking outside of the box ...

“My Picture”

I drew myself a picture.
My teacher told me to.
But when I showed it to her,
she said it wouldn’t do!

“Ever seen black squash?” she asked.
“A purple kangaroo?”
Know what I asked my teacher?
“How come your hands are blue?”

She said her pen exploded
When she gave it a little click
“Well,” I said, “my kangaroo
just needs another bic!”

“You still don’t understand but I’ll try and help you to”…

Having spent two years in the middle 1990s living and working with the Sisters and people of the barrios of Argentina, I returned to the states with a yearning to continue the profoundly Spirit-filled relationship with which I had been gifted among the Latin American community; not to mention an additional desire to maintain the language I had so painstakingly acquired. Hence, I found myself once more settling into the barrio, this time in the southwest of the United States, where I would spend the next four years discovering and enlightening others about the heart matters of living in a multicultural world. And in the process, like with any endeavor toward further learning and hopefully growth, I had once more discovered that the more enlightened I became, the more I learned how unenlightened I actually was. One warm, spring day (which in south Texas is most difficult to identify from “any other” day of the year!), having recently completed a full day’s presentation on the perceptions of power and their affects on styles of communication, I decided to get a bit of fresh air with my co-presenter whom also had become a good friend. She needed to run an errand and I agreed to go along for the ride. We arrived at a major computer retail store where my friend was returning a pricey laptop she had purchased the week before. While she bargained with the salesclerk who was refusing to give her a cash refund because he claimed the store did not have that kind of cash on hand, I looked around at the numerous innovative technological inventions. After some 20 minutes or so, I returned to the counter where my friend had finally convinced the manager that she was not leaving the store without the deserved cash in hand. When the manager appeared from the back and saw me talking with his customer, he went to a nearby register and returned with a plethora of twenty-dollar bills and promptly placed them in my possession. As he apologized for the misunderstanding, I thanked him and meticulously counted the amount to be sure that all was accounted for. I asked if he might have an envelope with which to contain the tall stack of bills and when he produced one from behind the counter, I placed the money inside, handed the envelope to my friend, and turned to depart from the same door through which we had entered. “So, you want to get something to eat?” I asked my friend once we arrived at the car. I was pleased she was able to complete her errand and we still had more than an hour before our next presentation. She looked at me with a compassionately concerned expression - that half-grin-half-frown look that says “you still don’t understand but I’ll try and help you to” - and then she replied, “Do you know what just happened back there?” In all my educated ignorance I had to admit, I had not the slightest clue. And in the process of our conversation, like with any endeavor toward further learning and hopefully growth, I had once more discovered that the more enlightened I became, the more I learned how unenlightened I actually was. My friend was a dark-skinned Mexican-American female; the year was 2001; the city, an overwhelmingly Hispanic-populated San Antonio, Texas. Questions for reflection: · When might you have been involved in the blatant discrimination of another/others and been too ignorant to have recognized it? · Has anyone ever pointed out your involvement in a situation of discrimination, prejudice, or racism and, because you did not experience the situation as such, you denied it? · If you say something that offends another person but you do not mean it to be offensive, is it your responsibility to apologize or the other person’s responsibility to get beyond it? from A question and a cutie for your Friday Nothing is more loving than God and more hateful than the devil. Nothing is what the rich always want and the poor always have. Abuse nothing and you shall live; consume nothing and you shall die.

gram

Clearing out a house which has been full of life for 40+ years of yesterdays yields nearly forgotten treasures of family history. One of those treasures is a handmade prayerbook that belonged to my maternal Grandmother. It was made of a simple, vinyl 4"x6" binder that she filled with holy cards, and typed and handwritten prayers.

After suffering a debilitating stroke in the early 1960s which left the right side of her body paralyzed, Grandma learned to walk anew, as well as to write and eat with her left hand. She then lived between her two daughters, spending spring and summer with us in the north; fall and winter with my aunt in the south. In her last years when her health declined, Grandma remained with us until her death in 1981. When Grandma died, I wrote a poem about her life, aging and death as experienced through the eyes of her once little, then pre-teen and teen, now young adult grandaughter, in which her homemade prayerbook was well remembered.

gram

i remember oh so well,

saddled on your loved one's knee,

rocking and bouncing til his muscles ached

with pain and boney leg ceased

its satisfying movement.

i remember disappearing,

leaving you the role of seeker,

and being coddled in your arms

once my hideout was discovered.

i remember butterscotch and lemon drops

so generously shared with all

and the bag filled with bars of chocolate

placed strategically out of my reach.

i remember riding the elevator chair,

and walking crippled with your cane.

i remember helping you up

off that frowned-upon church chair

and turning the pages

of your homemade prayerbook.

i remember your angelic voice

becoming broken and unable to keep up.

i remember short conversations

becoming longer and so painful to endure.

i remember pushing you

through unwanted exercise,

and watching your eyes bellow with tears.

i remember feeding you

in infant-size spoonfuls,

when you simply wanted milkshakes

through a straw.

i remember your forlorned features,

as we told you you couldn't come home,

and your sigh of desperation

feeling trapped with no place to go.

i remember the day we left you,

and the next when you left us.

... kindergarten idioms ...

I recently read a blog that referred to the classic idiom "little pitchers have big ears" to which a reader commented:
The quote is "litte PICTURES have big ears"...not pitchers! too funny!
And yet another reader commented on the comment with:
YOU are the "funny" one. It IS INDEED PITCHERS. Do a little research before you accuse someone of being wrong: http://www.answers.com/topic/little-pitchers-have-big-ears

PHEW! Glad it wasn't my blog! I realized while teaching kindergarten that 5 and 6 year olds hadn't yet been adequately exposed to the oral learning of idioms and therefore had no idea what they were or meant. I took the opportunity ... you probably think I'm going to say "to teach them about idioms and their meanings" ... NOPE! I gave them the first part of a classic idiom, let them complete the sentence and draw a picture of their saying, and then I put them together in a little booklet that I use when I teach workshops on multiculturalism and diversity training. Here are a couple from my collection:

An apple a day makes apple juice. (That's a juicebox and an apple!)

A penny saved is in the water. (That's the bottom of a fountain!)

People who live in glass houses shouldn't kick their houses.

Where there's a will there's water and a bucket. (That is a wEll with water in the bottom, some bricks at the top ~ before the bricklayer got tired ~ and a bucket hanging from a rope!) Do you suppose this little one from the past could be the present adult who left the comment mentioned above about the pitcher being a picture?! :-]

A bird in the hand can't fly.

I hope you get as big a kick out of them as I do. And you must admit, my students were bright little people! I've MANY more where those came from. Maybe I'll share the rest in short increments.

A question and a cutie for your Friday

Can you answer the following riddle with ONE WORD:

It is more loving than God and more hateful than the devil.
It is what the rich always want and the poor always have.

Abuse it and you shall live; consume it and you shall die.

__________________?

And I just have to share a few recent pictures of Mijo.

Could you not just eat him up?