Taking a breath

I was terrified.  I knew no one.  The dark gray halls surrounding me matched my mood.  There were bumps to my left side, then elbows to my right- every time I turned towards the taunters I was met with down turned eyes in concealment.  I clutched my books tighter, hugging them into my  belly, and kept on walking.  There were many moving feet in front of me, perhaps as many behind- everyone scurrying like little mice through the maze of hallways before that next shrill bell sounded..  Back then, I didn't know how to assert myself, I was doomed as a relocated Freshman from an inner city big school to a small time hick farm school.  The country kids hated me and I let them.  That is until I met Mrs. Cardoni.

I was stuck in Spanish class, Spanish!  As if I'd ever cross the border...this was back in the 70's and America was tops- in our speech, our dress and in our vacation destinations.   If it wasn't bad enough being hated the moment you walked through entrance doors that were open but only in a very narrow way, it got even bleaker with  involuntary  enrollment in Spanish class.  And then to be made to sit in the front row.  Long legs, little desks, blushing easily- probably a little gassy too, nerves do that you know.  

"Hola Senorita!"  Cardoni was on it the minute I sat down.

I wanted to say to the teacher, "Please leave me alone, draw no attention to me- can't you see I'm a wounded animal here!  Caged with no where to run and everyone ready to pounce, oh please senorita hola someone else!!!"

Of course I didn't say that, hell I couldn't speak Spanish and I sure as heck wasn't getting much out in English either...I was terrified.  I did feel caged.  And now this little statured, tussled haired teacher was taunting me too.  I made eye contact, for just a split second- surely she could see the burn down in my soul.

"Hola Senorrri-ta!" she said again,  rolling her rr's off of her tongue like a dart and delivering the poison with ta.

I tried to open my mouth to speak then, I would just mimic her like a parrot- I did not want to die on top of everything else, surely later I might slither out of there, maybe not intact but still alive enough to crawl on my belly- like a reptile.

But then an unacceptable error was made, someone took up where Mrs. Cardoni left off-

"Hola Senorita!  What's wrong with you, you deaf?"  said a rather stupid guy.  Then the whole stupid class, well maybe not all of them- started to tease and taunt too.  They proved themselves even more stupid when Cardoni turned and gave them all an evil sweet look, thinking she was on their side they took it up a peg, with laughing and howling mixed in.
Wham!  A tiny hand from that smallish woman slammed down on my desk- I knew it had to hurt, but her face showed no suffering.  She had a look of complete resolve while her hand lay flat and still.  Not once did her voice raise but she  managed to put emphasis on NEVER IN MY CLASS IDIOTS by spitting and slamming that hand down again.
I really thought I was in trouble then,  I started all this...no slithering away for me, she must be ready to chop me up in a little pieces.  She faced the class, still with her fingers lightly touching my desk- as if a connection had been made and this was her charging station, she lifted up her other hand and pointed.
Cardoni's pointing tactic was much like the Wicked Witch of the West's way....remember how she squinted her eyes, and she stated more quietly though with utmost certainty-
 "Ill get you my pretty..."  
The kind of finger pointing that draws you into target range instead of leading your eyes to the safe distance away.
She sneered, orbiting the room with that finger while not saying another word.  She looked like a gypsy delivering quiet curses.  The kids knew that a spell had been cast and all were doomed, surely they hated me even more.  The bell went off but she was still pointing, leering and and no one knew whether to rise or fall.   Finally, she dropped her arm and everyone got up to leave.  Mrs. Cardoni was not through with me yet, she gently raised the same finger towards me and winked.
"Sit Senorita" she said.
After everyone had left the class, I sat there- silent and sick.  Cardoni traveled up towards her desk, twisted herself around so she was half leaning against it, with her short feisty legs extend fully in front of her and her arms folded serenely across her chest.
"Hola Senorita."  She said.
I thought I was going to cry if I opened my mouth, my lips must have trembled- although I was not going to allow myself to cry, I sincerely could not help it.  I made no sound  as a few silent tears trickled over and down my cheeks before I could swipe  them off.  My resolve must have showed too, Mrs. Cardoni caved and cared enough to give me a pep talk that turned the tide for me, the foreigner.   She became my first real friend that day.  It only took that secret wink from her to renew my spirit as I shuffled through my high school daze.
(Incidentally, she was my journalism teacher- the one subject I excelled at personally in school.  She gave us all great freedom in that class, though it could be revoked immediately if you did not appreciate it and act accordingly.)

I tell that story because it has so many similarities in relocating from one's home state to one's new home in a state that is erroneously  known for keeping outsiders outside.  I believed all that, even though I reasoned beforehand that it would be OK after all, because I love my solitude.  In time, I would make friends- I was not all that eager to do anything other than to just settle in, find some peace.  I needed peace.  I needed beauty.  I needed Maine because it offered all of that in it's very own natural way.  The Big Fish and I were already the best of friends and certainly acted upon it with our walks and drives, star gazing and lake cruising.  But shopping at grocery stores and local restaurants- I began to go back to my Freshman days, expecting cruelty, unkindness and in part, I received it.
I was in that maze again of  gray hallways, I didn't know my way and  held close to my chest- everything.  I reasoned that they'd never accept me, they're not friendly so I'd just stick close to me and mine, protecting my spirit once again by not asserting it.
I often struggle with being fearful.   It has taken me a very long time to let my spirit take control- when allowed to soar, the spirit's potential goes beyond measure.  Mrs. Cardoni taught me that, her's was a fierce and assertive spirit.  She never left it at the door like so many other teachers had- I believe that woman was all spirit in the classroom.  She was fully aware of  where her source of power came from.  The woman never lost her humanity, she connected by fingers on a desk, glares across the room- but always on the other side of those tactics was love.  She never let up, never backed down because she also realized the potential in each of us and never let us forget it.  It took me many years right on up to this point to realize her nature, to remember what she taught me.  It is fine and well and good to come to those realizations, but 30 years to count a forgotten blessing?  Life is short, this minute, this very second- the time is at hand to do better.  Here.  Now.
So....with all that said, I am not living up to my full potential here.  In Maine, in blogging, in anything really.  I am kind yes, I try to be the best possible human I can be, but at the cost of my spirit taking a back seat to where my head and heart want to drive.  I am where I am because I needed to be here...I don't know why, I truly don't know how- but on that day several years back, when I was struck alive by these very words-

."...it is a true wonder I breathe at all."

I still have that remarkable wonder, or it has me.  It is the way I want to live and/or be.  My spirit is authentic, my head and heart- not so much.   It is good to be alive, it is wondrous to take breath in, let it out.  Living, leafs, rain, seasons changing- all profound.
It is not enough to write about it, anyone can do that, say that.  To begin living it more fully with much work to do is on my plate and this blog will just have to take a back seat.  Once a week it seems I feel more of an obligation  in writing content than enjoying it as I use to.  Which is absolutely no reflection what so ever on the friends I have made through it- I will continue to read you as I can. I learn  and have learned so much from people I have never met yet who are openly and abundantly kind to all.

Life is school,  learn your lessons and then- graduate.  

Where I frequently find myself these days is out there- not in here.  In being still, first I remember then I give it up or over to what I am sensing, living in that moment.  And I can only assume that will bore the hell out of people...to say over and over "I am in awe".  Every day- awe.  At rest each night- thankful.

I will post from time to time, but according to no schedules.  I am coming up on three years of blogging- the true calling I found led me up to this point, in so many words and pictures.  I thank you for appreciating my take, I have invited guest writers here who have a deep yearning to share a bit of their lives and experiences.  I hope for every one's sake- they take me up on it.

Take care-

veers a little south...

I feel so blessed by the folks in my life...those I see, and those whom I'll never even meet. They stumble in, check my pulse by the words I write- I just want you to know that it means more than I can say, truly.

There is an old Bluegrass song that has always been one of my favorites

"I Want My Friends To Pray For Me".

I never gave it much thought the first time I heard it, the title seems a bit selfish, wanting a prayer said for you...but the song goes on to say how affirming it is to be able to hope, perhaps never truly asking- that someone might lift you up in prayer by speaking your name.

I think that just might be the beauty of blogging, perhaps it is the very thing that we all need, the net of amazing graces found here. Some vent, some wail, some seek, some find I suppose, a sympathetic ear...but I can't help but wonder if it is more than that. Perhaps it is like that old tin cup attached to a string that you ran from your garage as a kid, to your neighbors upstairs window and you spoke, "Hello!" The sound waves traveled through the string up and over and through the hedge to a listening ear that heard the voice or felt the vibe. It was exhilarating as a child to feel that- as if the wheel had just been invented by two knock-kneed kids with fruit cocktail cans held up to their ears.

"I hear you! I hear you!" And then we'd drop our cans and meet at the bushes and smile... beaming grins from ear to ear.

Hear I sit with my old rusty can, the string a bit tattered and worn, but...I hear you! I hear you!!!!

-how sweet the sound...

(Hoping upon hope that I get to bring Grandma home today, or- tomorrow. Home being the optimum word, she's in better spirits, accepting all and anything, took me a bit to get there. But, once again- she's taught me that some things might rob you, some things fulfill you and some things...just have to be. And some things, the best ...aren't really things at all.

She said (after all the indignity she has suffered, the pokes and guinea pig explorations),

"...you have to forget all that and just go on."

Oh grandma, I'm trying you-old-sweet-pain-in-the-rear-sometimes-always-grand-dame, I am trying.

(I may have to live as long as Grandma Mocko to get the lessons right...or wrong and "just go on", as she has advised. Darn it. She can come right out of the haziest fog, look me straight in the eye and be so damned righteous...ooohhhh, she goes right for my throat, veers a little south and pokes me in the heart.)

Mother's Day...tears and laughter, joy and pain-

this day will be the one that really brings it home...

What it means to be a mother,

to be mothered and to be... Grand.

The latch never fails

I just realized that I have been writing this blog for one year, as of December 2ND.

Do you know why I started writing a blog? Me either. I think it had something to do with someone whom I greatly admire encouraging me to write. But I remember feeling inadequate, how does one write if one has never taken the proper courses or educational opportunities? Is it possible to write without knowing how to write? There are many who write, the blog nation is heavily populated. Sometimes I check out the "Next Blog" prompt- many of those I have come upon are written in languages new to my eyes. Many blogs appear to be rants and are often ugly, hit and run bashings. The landfills are not the only public places full of garbage. But- to each his own.

The human spirit amazes me. How on earth do some people survive? Why don't they use their poor excuse for a life like so many others and just give up and spew more garbage?! Could it be they have found a most necessary element of living- being grateful? Why is it so hard for people to open their eyes to their blessings? Don't they know the past is locked in, there is no key to open that door, that the future is limitless but cannot be obtained now, no way no how? I know it may sound too simple and perhaps a bit Pollyanna-ish to say, but the moment to live is now, the time to be thankful is ever present, the breath you take at this very moment is a gift. Oh sure there are moments I wish I could race through, not feel them, get past them. There are people I encounter that I just want to shake. There are children in this household (some coming, some going...)that I wish would just wake up to their responsibilities- their potential. But the best I can do is have faith in them, love them all along and anyway. I'm the only one I can really change. My response to their actions requires a great deal of love, all that I can afford. I'm awful selfish in that department at times. I know it hurts them, though I don't often see that hurt until it is almost too late. But then again, it never truly is too late- every opportunity to begin again is always there. Once I get past my misgivings, my ego- I can relate again to them in a loving way. The only way. Being on the right path is difficult, and made so much more so because I think I know the way. I don't. But when I'm on it, I feel so intensely peaceful that things just seem to flow, fall into place. That's why I continued to write this blog- for a year. I was only going to do it for one full year. Find my voice, my authentic telling of the day- my perception. But that is not what happened.

All my ramblings were not so much my voice, but a voice. The perception did not come from me but from an inner voice that merely echoes timeless truths. The holy spirit is alive and well in me, the divine spark- whatever you want to call it- really shines. I'm not making this up. I wish I were, then I could go back and be my bumbling mumbling self. I could drink till I was dry of all torment for a time. I could shake my fist at the world with ugly words and say I deserve deliverance. Because I've been to hell and back and know the path well- but who hasn't? Everybody has a brick to carry, everyone bears a load. Everyone. No one on this good earth has got it easy. We all get waylaid sometimes, some have a whopper of a mess for a life, some truly- by no guilt of their own. Some parents were no parents at all, they were just biologically serving. And yet, their children found it within themselves to rise anyway. They did not use excuses, they used strength of spirit. Again, these kind of accomplishments amaze me- to no end.

So, as I can- I'll keep writing, bringing to light the stories that amaze me, the moments that inspire me, the hardships that bring me down to my knees. If I find a greater good in my day, I'll keep sharing it. If I find a bit of humor, well I'll try to bring that too. If I have a rant, just bear with me- I'll get through it somehow, usually by either finding the beauty, the absurdity or the oh well! in it.

Oh, by the way- the house is out from under construction. The new bathtub upstairs is serenity. The walls everywhere shine eggshell off white. The light over the stove(the one I've been waiting 18 years for...)is magnificent. And the new door off the back porch- actually closes on it's own, the latch never fails. If I say "just like love", you'll groan. So I won't say it, it's merely written here as a disclosure, a reminder. But it's true.

Take care-

minor miracle

Good morning! I have been busy though voiceless when it comes to blogging because I shorted out my keyboard...again! On Mother's Day I felt like cleaning, everything...and with a barely moistened cloth, I cleaned up all around the computer area. Apparently, some moisture got into the keypad and wa-lah! Fried again. This time, my new key board has a waterproof feature...thank goodness.

So, how have you all been? Busy? Sick of the rain and cold? Of politicians and high gas prices? Sure, all those things can make for dismal days, but have you noticed the changes, the longer days and the way- when the sun shines, it kind of evaporates all the melancholy?! Me too!!! There's a nest of birds above the porch swing, the guineas are sitting on eggs, the hens out in the coop are all pretty plucky, lettuce and onions and radishes are looking fine and spiffy. The spinach salads make me feel like Popeye, and I don't mind plucking a radish out of the ground, dirt and all and plopping it into my mouth. Love to graze in the garden. It won't be long before the sweet peas become my favorite snack. And when I mow (far too often...) I love to get as close as I can to the Honeysuckle and Lilacs...just to press my face in their branches and breathe in...ahhh! The sweetest thing these days though has to be for me, the Lily of the Valley- those little creamy white bells are as close to a promise as I have ever found. What faith have I in life and the creator...I only have to look upon or remember in days when the Lily's are not in bloom...the fragrance, fragility and fineness of my favorite flower. I have never seen anything in my life, including mountain ranges and oceans, works of art and sculptures- that speaks of beauty like the Lily of the Valley.
I hope you can hold something in your palm today, or in your gaze and find an everlasting hope in a minor miracle. Be well, take care-

*By all means, please...look over there at my other mentioned blogs and read pull up a chair, read about Rosa and Lucy. Just do it. I promise you will be filled with awe, admiration and an example of devotion and love beyond any dictation of what we might think we know about it...