Category: Blog: The Candle or the Mirror

I’m so honored to have a poem, The Last T-shirt in this book raising funds for independent bookstores in need during the pandemic. Check out the review in the The Washington Post.

https://www.washingtonpost.com/entertainment/books/ninety-writers-offer-their-thoughts-on-life-during-a-pandemic/2020/08/19/ede6effe-dfe3-11ea-8dd2-d07812bf00f7_story.html

My writing time, in recent months, has been working towards the publication of Original Voices, a book of writings by The Women of Mary’s Place, a day center in Seattle where I facilitate a weekly writing group. I hope you get a chance to read it and follow Original Voices on Facebook and Twitter.  My daughter, Elie, produced a beautiful video, where you can see the women reading some of their pieces.

Today I went to Seattle’s Listen to Your Mother. A dozen people read their funny and touching stories. What a treat. It inspired me to share a story I wrote about my mother and me. To mom with love.

Mornings with Mom

I’m not a morning person. My mom was an early riser, 5 AM. She claimed it was the only quiet time of her day. With nine kids, I’m sure it was. After two hours of peace and a pot of coffee, by 7 AM, Mom was raring to go. I, on the other hand, was always trying to get just a few more minutes of sleep, especially during those cruel trick-of-nature years when menopausal mothers and pubescent daughters shouldn’t be allowed to live together.

So the scene goes like this: The door opens. I wake to my mother’s sweet voice, “Julie.”

I put a pillow over my head. A few minutes later, Mom sings her “Oh what a beautiful morning…” song.

“All-right. All-right. I’m getting up.”

I hear her opening my lime-green, orange and hot pink flower power curtains. Through squinted eyes, I see her dinner plate eyes. She sits at the foot of my bed. I roll over, reach for the cassette player on my nightstand to turn on some music.

Even then, the words to Carole King’s Smackwater Jack weren’t lost on me; he wanted a shotgun, was in the mood for a little confrontation. If Mom left my room as soon as I put my feet on the floor, things went well. As I dressed, I even seemed like my mother’s daughter, though I wouldn’t have admitted it back then, singing along with Carole, “You’ve got to get up every morning with a smile on your face / And show the world all the love in your heart.”

But if my mother stayed and, well, talked, especially if she gave me a “to do” list, I wanted a shotgun. Not really. I loved my mother, knew she loved me, but we never said, “I love you.” And, I could be explosive.

No one talks to me during my first waking hour. No one. If Mom did, I covered my ears, yelled, “Mom, you don’t understand,” dressed quickly, ran down the stairs, slammed the front door, and sat on the front stoop until my ride to school came.

Years later, married with children, I put the cereal boxes out before I went to bed. When the kids woke they had to fend for themselves or talk to their dad. Most mornings, about all my kids ever heard from me was my hollering, “I love you,” as they ran to catch the school bus.

During my parenting years, Mom lived 750 miles away. She called me about once a week. Guess what time? 7 AM. Seriously. Maybe it was the best time for her. Maybe I never told her that my husband and I, after many morning fights, figured out my need for quiet time after waking. Certainly, I wasn’t the best phone chatter, but I never hung up. Always, we ended the call with an awkward “I love you.” At the time, saying those words to each other was new; neither of us grew up hearing them. A Bible banging stepmother raised my mom, and her father, a sea captain, was often out to sea.

During the last four-and-a-half years of Mom’s life she coped with a terminal illness. In between hospitalizations she tried to live fully, traveling and visiting all of her nine kids. One summer she asked me to take her to Daytona Beach. At our seaside timeshare, in the mornings before 7 AM, while Mom slept, I tiptoed out for a walk before the heat of the day. When I returned, I prepared coffee, breakfast and then pushed Mom to the beach in a plastic wheel chair; it looked like a Little Tikes riding toy. We soaked up the sun and the days together. Though neither of us said it that week, I imagine she, like me, thought: This could be our last time together. It was.

Months later, Mom was in the hospital. Again. Seven-hundred-and-fifty miles away. On my way to work I called her. Yep, around 7 AM. She was hooked up to all sorts of machines, couldn’t talk. I described what I was seeing: the vivid red, orange and yellow sunrise and sang her beautiful morning song. She died later that day.

A few months after Mom died, the phone rang at 7 AM. I was afraid to answer. After I don’t know how many rings, I picked up the receiver to hear, “Hello, is this Julie?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Sister Mary Jo, your mother’s spiritual advisor.”

I remembered meeting her at the funeral. “Yes, hi Sister.”

“Your mother asked me to check in on you. She said, ‘Make sure you call at 7 AM.’ I hope it’s not too early.”

“No, sister. It’s good to hear from you.”

“Your mom wanted you to know how much she loved and appreciated you, especially the way you accepted and loved her, even when she wasn’t so lovable.”

Through the tears, I told Sister Mary Jo I was doing fine, how I wasn’t a morning person, how my mother never figured that out.

She laughed, “You think she didn’t know?”

For #ManinTree

By Julie Gardner

After Barton Sutter’s The Snowman

This is a poem for #Man.

This is a poem for #ManInTree.

This is a poem for him,

For all of us out on a limb,

Wondering what we’re doing here.

This is a poem for us,

For all of us about to go up a tree.

The place of the poem is downtown Seattle.

The time of the poem is Tuesday through Wednesday morning,

Holy Week.

The year of the poem is two thousand and sixteen.

#ManInTree

Perched high in the sequoia tree,

Nearly eighty feet up in the air.

Once Seattle’s Christmas tree,

In ‘73, ’twas transplanted smack dab in the middle of an intersection,

4^th Avenue, Stewart Street and Olive Way to be precise.

Now, this poem is for #ManInTree, not for the tree

But think about it: Transplanted,

With bound up roots

In insufficient soil, it struggles to live with cement and car exhaust.

#ManInTree made the news, section B below the fold line.

Front page: “Terror attack in Brussels, Nightmare Comes True, MANHUNT IN BELGIUM AFTER ISLAMIC STATE GROUP’S BOMBINGS KILL DOZENS, HURT HUNDREDS; Clinton slams ‘leaders who incite more fear.’”

Now, this poem is for #ManInTree, not for terrorists or politicians

But think about it: FEAR SHOUTS,

While love waits

Whimpering in the wind between boughs.

#ManInTree donned a red stocking cap

Tossed apples, seed cones, small branches and swear words,

Refused to talk to rescuers,

Only asked for a Camel Crush.

He waved his middle finger

As birds flew by.

Now, this poem is for #ManInTree, not for the birds

But think about it: Flipping the bird, refusing to talk,

Up in the air with bombs bursting and politicians cursing

Who’s listening?

#ManInTree dressed in warm clothes, took snacks,

Didn’t need to cross the Aegean Sea

In a crowded deflating dinghy.

Now, this poem is for #ManInTree, not for Syrian refugees

But think about it: He had a beard,

Traveled to a place he’d never been before

Law enforcement and gawkers all around.

After about twenty-five hours the man was no longer

#ManInTree.

He descended

Became a man sitting in the grass looking up.

Police took him to Harborview for a medical evaluation.

Now, this poem is for #ManInTree, not for police

But think about it: Police didn’t shoot him.

No one (sic) was hurt (save the tree).

Now, this poem isn’t about #ManInTree.

It is for #ManInTree.

This poem is for him,

For all of us out on a limb,

Wondering what we’re doing here.

This is a poem for us,

For all of us about to go up a tree.

This is a poem for all of us,

Who, during this god awful Holy Week,

Find it hard to believe Easter is days away.

After this poem was written, the The Seattle Times reported that the man, named Cody Lee Miller, was charged with third degree assault (an officer received an injury from a thrown seed cone) and first degree malicious mischief.  Q13 Fox News says his mother, Lisa Gossett, wants the public to know that her son is much more than a hashtag. He is a reflection of our country’s failed mental health system. Her son suffers from paranoid schizophrenia and bipolar disorder. She, like me, would like to see him and others who are mentally ill get the help they need to live better lives.  

Anyone else besides me been known to write on napkins, java jackets, paper bags or other?

Recently Paper Bag Writers featured Drift Wood, a piece I wrote. Find the brown paper bag version at Paper Bag Writers.

Drift Wood

Look east from Lummi Island.

The seldom seen side of

Mount Baker winks white.

Look down.

Two feet cluthch the rocky shore.

Look to the pile of wood

cast beside you.

Find yourself

In the driftwood

torn from the land

you once called home.

For some time you rode and teased

the incoming, outgoing, high

low tides.

Standing upright on the earth

You, securely planted,

defied the waves

…almost.

The Great Water of Life

took you

against your will.

swept you

tossed you

washed you

onto shores you

never

imagined.

Cold and alone

you shivered.

Mother Water pulled you

into her arms

softened your protective bark,

washed away your rough shell,

caressed your smooth skin,

tossed you onto Lummi Island,

left you

without a net

in a pile

with others.
You are driftwood

no longer floating on salty waters

drowning in salty tears.

You have been cast ashore.

Bare, naked

You will begin anew.

Forget all that has come before.

Your loveliness is in your unpretentious

presence.

Some will want to take you home

place you on a shelf, in a box, on a mantel.

It will not matter.

All eight inches

content

to have landed

in unknown foreign

territory

are

light.

I was thrilled to be published today on the Tell Us a Story blog. Hope you enjoy.

The blog has been dead since fall. Some of what has kept me from posting includes: two surgeries, the loss of my mother-in-law, the joys of shared time with family and friends, working in my volunteer roles, and leading writing groups. And, to be honest, when I’m not living in Presence, I don’t share my writing with others because I wonder if my words matter. I’ve been writing poems, prayers, working on the memoir and even experimented with a humorous piece about the surgeries, but when I’m not living in Light and Love, I share less.

It’s the resurrection season, and thanks to Kellie Day, it’s time to resurrect the blog. She reminded me of how writing and sharing stories touches lives, how it brings light and love into my own life and the lives of others.  If you haven’t read Ollie Horne’s “I Simply, Smile” which I posted in the fall, please do before reading the rest of this post.

Kellie knew Ollie personally. She wrote, “Hello, I found your blog by accident, while looking for something very specific regarding Ollie Horne. Your blog posts reflects Ollie’s life principle perfectly, it’s how he really lived…..I know, because I know Ollie personally. I thought that you would want to know that Ollie left our earthly home yesterday morning, to be with the One who was the source of his light. That was why I was searching Ollie’s name….I was looking for his obituary. I am happy to have stumbled upon your post; I plan to share it with his family and friends. Thank you! Ollie will be deeply missed by his family, all of those who call him friend and even by those who were touched by his incredible LIFE.”

Today I send prayers to Ollie’s family and friends. Ollie lived full beyond containment. He will live on in the stories, memories and in all he planted. Today “I Simply, Smile” through the tears.   I am stepping back into the purpose of my life which was Ollie’s too, “My purpose in life is to show love to everyone and to encourage everyone to live a full life.” Writing is one way I do that. Ollie will be missed but his Spirit will live on!

 

 

 

And the rest of the story…

Ollie responded to my email. He said the Wharton quote really hit home with him.  He shared I Simply, Smile, a poem he wrote in February 2012 on his first night in the hospital after he was diagnosed with stage IV brain cancer. He had three brain surgeries, radiation and chemotherapy and was pronounced in remission. His adopted life motto is: Watch me live! (Don’t watch for me to die..watch how I live, abundantly!)

I Simply, Smile

Ollie thanked me for the encouragement. He said, “No matter what, I will reflect light!”  You see, on Tuesday Ollie started chemotherapy again. Another tumor has formed. He wrote, “My purpose in life is to show love to everyone and to encourage everyone to live a full life. I believe we can change the world by showing love to the world…that’s my ‘crazy idea.'”

I’m crazy about Ollie’s crazy idea idea of showing love to everyone.

Please join me in sending some healing love Ollie’s way.  I, like Ollie, simply smile. I have been touched and am filled with gratitude. Thank you Ollie for sharing your poem, light and love.

Where’d You Go, Bernadette, Maria Semple’s novel started off my summer reading list. Remember childhood summer reading programs, when we would read a set number of books to earn a prize and a certificate? Now, for me, reading is the reward. And yes I have been reading much: spiritual books like Seven Thousand Ways to Listen-Mark Nepo, Immortal Diamond-Richard Rohr, How the Light Gets In-Pat Schneider, a few memoirs like Pieces of Someday-Jan Vallone and Life after Death-Damien Echols, one of the West Memphis Three who was wrongly accused of murder and released after years on death row, which can’t be confused with another book I read, Proof of Heaven-Eben Alexander, a neurosurgeon’s near death experience. I rediscovered Jamaica Kincaid, author of “Girl,” which I happen to think is one of the finest examples of a single sentence, about 350 words of poetry and a complete story, at a public library reading from her new See Now Then: A Novel. And I have had the honor to read a dear friend’s complete memoir manuscript and poems, writings, blogs, book chapters and more written by writers in the two weekly and one biweekly writing groups that add much to my life. I can’t wait to read Terry Tempest William’s When Women Were Birds.

The other day, someone kindly asked about me and my blog, “Where did you go?” Hmmm…it’s July 20. There’s morning fog, so much fog that the white cloud is visibly pouring by my condo window. And I can’t see the red tip of Alexander Calder’s Eagle, six tons of marvelous twisted steel in the Olympic Sculpture Park, a place, actually my front yard, that keeps me grounded and uplifted. A good day to pause, reflect on “Where did I go?” and blog. Oh my! My life is so much more than reading and writing-so much more because of reading and writing.

Here’s the mid-summer report.

1. Memorial Day officially kicked off summer with a week-long memorable Gardner gathering in the Mt. Hood, Oregon area where all three of our children, two who happen to live on other continents, and their loved ones, and my husband’s two brother’s families were present. Twenty three of us celebrated family and honored my mother-in-law Chris. We hiked on the Salmon River, sort of did yoga led by our son’s girl friend who really leads real yoga, ate, played games, visited, soaked in the hot tub, but the vivid memories are the Peruvian Pachamanca celebration where our son-in-law and daughter prepared their first earthen meal for us which was followed by sharing poems, songs, stories, memories and even a “Grandma Chris Jeopardy Game.” We took the highlights to Grandma Chris who resides in a memory care facility in Sandy, Oregon on Saturday. With her diminishing memory and body, she seemed to enjoy our shared time. The blessing that we all received from her was that she seems peaceful like she’s in a Zen Buddhist kind of space. Maybe it’s disease, drugs or a state of just being before non-being, but what an everlasting gift the time was to us all.

2. I returned home to begin summer writing groups at Mary’s Place and a sizzling summer WritersGathering, really an amazing group of writers who hold each other and each other’s words beautifully. All June I worked on a memoir about my relationship with my mother-in-law. Our gathering gave me plenty of material.

3. Did I mention the hours I spent trying to get our fiscal house in order after someone was able to make charges from our checking account? Now closed.

4. Celebrated graduations. Bainbridge Graduate Institute’s graduation is the best. Amazing program and people who are changing and will change this world for the better. In full disclosure, my husband works for BGI. His work matters.

5. A June bike ride to the Ballard Locks for one of their every summer Saturday and Sunday afternoon free concerts introduced us to the Eastside Modern Jazz Orchestra.

6. Helped to celebrate by cocreating and acting in a “Curves skit” for a friend’s 70th birthday party. We all met at Curves, a place I still try to get to work out at three or four times a week.

7. Did I mention the toothache that turned into excruciating pain which was relieved with the application of some miraculous product used by my dentist? She said it may be just buying time before a root canal. So far so good.

8. Seattle is a great place to visit from mid-July through mid-September. Thanks to friends who feel the same, we get to be tourists in our own town. A friend from Missouri came at the beginning of July. We strolled along the waterfront to Pike Place Market, watched the Salmon joyfully leap in the salty waters of Puget Sound on the west side of Ballard Locks before they struggled up the ladders to get into Lake Union. Our visited culminated by celebrating the Fourth and our freedom with fireworks at Lake Union. A dear friend who lived well and battled cancer for years died early as the day began. Through colorful bombs bursting and tears, I remembered her, our brief friendship and shared writings, her life’s ending and freedom from pain and her new soulful adventure with life after bodily death. Did I mention that John and I have been working on our Last Will & Testaments? We haven’t decide what to do with our bodies after death and haven’t taken the document to be witnessed and notarized.

9. A month after seeing our children in Oregon, Elie and her husband Oscar, both photojournalists in Peru, continue to discuss the possibility of going to Jordan (they are already studying Arabic); John(ny), after some tough beginning days battling Lyme disease, is improving with antibiotics and plans to join his girlfriend’s family in Hawaii at the end of July; and our daughter and son-in-law who live in Lausanne, Switzerland are traveling the continent of Europe. I think Kate’s working on the Mediterranean Island of Ibiza, Spain today. If not, my question is “Where’d you go, Kate?”

10. Another little, really big, thing I love about Seattle is the giant red Popsicle sculpture on the southwest corner of Fourth and Blanchard which I make sure to include on as many of my daily walks as possible. It gives me joy even on cloudy days. Someday I may  stop and take more than a photo, maybe a lick. It’s that delicious.

11. On July 6, we headed to Oregon for the first grandniece’s or grandnephew’s (unidentified gender) baby shower. Nephew Zac and Erica are going to be awesome parents. It was held in the lovely garden apartment of Jesse and Tiffany, another loved nephew and wife. We are so lucky to have awesome nieces and nephews on both sides of the family who live close. Three nephews, two wives and a grandniece and grandnephew live in the Seattle area. After the shower we rested at Skamania Lodge on the Columbia River Gorge where we watched kite surfers, windsurfers and took a light hike.

10. Did I mention the perssitent sore throat and lymph glands and that I have spent more time dealing with another fiscal mess someone created for me to clean up, someone who made charges on our credit card? Card closed.

11. I spend too much time, almost daily, playing WORDSwithfriends, Scrabble and getting glimpses of moments in friend’s lives on Facebook thanks to the iPhone. And I’ve managed to squeeze in some walks, talks, coffees, lunches and dinners with friends in Seattle.

12. Friends from North Dakota came for a six day weekend last week. Took them to the quintessential Seattle places I went to with my friend from Missouri but added the Bill & Melinda Gate’s Foundation, Seattle Center, Museum of History and Industry to the itinerary and we attended Seattle Art Museum’s Summer at SAM kick off at the Olympic Sculpture Park. We enjoyed the bands Art of Jazz and Comfort Food and a violinist (or fiddler) and dancer on the roof of the summer installation of art, “Western Oracle: We Will Tear the Roof off the Mother.” Really, it was a tear the roof off kind of evening. Food trucks, a picnic, friends, sunshine and a sailboat regatta. Remember this is my front yard, home of the Eagle’s red tip which I can now see along with Bainbridge Island’s long green line across the waters of Elliot Bay and the Puget Sound. Fog lifting. No sun or Olympic Mountains visible-yet.

13. On Saturday we took the ferry from Anacortes through the San Juan Islands to Sidney, British Columbia and enjoyed a night stay at  a fully appointed and not too expensive hotel, The Oswego, in Victoria.  We sauntered around the harbor and city. On Sunday abundant and colorful flowers at Butchart Gardens exceeded my expectations. I swear the begonias were on steroids. Sunday evening we took the Coho Black Ball ferry across the wavy Strait of Juan de Fuca which induced mild motion sickness to spend the night in Port Angeles.  On our way home Monday we drove to Hurricane Ridge and Sequim spotting some lavender fields. That night, when I wrote with others in my awesome summer WritersGathering group, the black ravens flew into my writings as crows.

14. Did I mention that my energy is low and throat and lymph glands settled into another sinus infection and I had to go on antibiotics and steroids, again? The good news is that I don’t have mono.

15. My brother is holding is own after the loss of his father-in-law and a medical event; another brother celebrated his 50th with a big margarita, maybe more; another brother is enjoying his family, exploring ancestory.com with his son and anticipating a family mission trip to Guatemala; and one of my sisters is dealing with chronic pain; another has returned home to her small Kansas town after years of working in Washington, D.C. and seems to be in her bliss making pies; and another sister is weathering the wicked summer storms in New Mexico as she wickedly beats me in Scrabble. Where’d you go, Bob and Jackie?

16. On Thursday I had to cancel my day with friends on Vashon Island because the sinus, face and head pain made for a sleepless in Seattle night for me. Too bad it wasn’t the movie.

17. But last night, I rocked on with Sir Paul, as in the Paul McCartney, at Safeco Field’s first held concert. Three hours, 39 songs, complete with two LED screens and more projecting artists, instruments, the crowd and artful images accompanied music, lights, fireworks and smoke. Three Nirvana members joined the show towards the end for what a critic has called Sirvana. Wow! So many highs. “Blackbird” which was written by McCartney as a reaction to the USA’s escalating 1960’s racial tensions moved me to tears as he sang and played guitar solo while artful images of the moon, a blackbird on a wire above a rooftop on a mostly blue background were projected. The contrasting images and music illuminated the personal pain I am fighting and the shared pain we, in this country and throughout the world, are holding as we all struggle to be free or to live freely with the all of life.

18. On the nearly two and a half mile walk home with the moon nearly full and our hearts and souls full, which gave me the ability to ignore my waning body but not my need to pee, my husband and I stopped at a Taco del Mar in historic Pioneer Square. We ordered a bottle of water, a beer and chips and guacamole as we visited reliving the concert, McCartney’s life, the Beattle’s lives and ours.

19. On August 7, 2013, John and I will celebrate 37 years of marriage. Last night we remembered a July 19 Jesse Colin Young, The Beach Boys, and Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young concert we attended 39 years ago at Royals Stadium in Kansas City. It was so hot I fainted before the 1974 concert. I was in lust with John and beginning to learn about love. Oh my! After nearly 40 years, we are learning to love. “Something,” another song McCartney sang last moved me to tears last night, and thinking about it now is making for watery eyes, evoking feelings. But more than feelings.  As I held hands and shared stories and memories with the man who I have loved, sometimes not so well, since I was 15 years-old, I know the answer to the song’s question, “Will my love grow?”  There were hints in the song, “believe” and “stick around.” We’re doing that and our love keeps getting better. He’s scrubbing the toilet now. After going to bed at 1:00 AM and living fully for the first 55 days of this summer, it’s time for a midsummer night’s dream, the life I’m living.  Today, that means a day to rest, heal, pause, and write.

So, to answer the question “Where’d you go, Julie?”, I am here fully alive in the Pacific Northwest. I am currently reading John Wood’s Creating Room to Read A Story of Hope in the Battle for Global Literacy a man who did what an earlier book was titled, Leaving Microsoft to Change the World. All of the board members of VoiceFlame are reading and finding inspiration for our work empowering girls and women, right now in Malawi, through writing and creative expression. I envision us creating Room to Write, but why stop there when there is A World to Write?  I imagine a world where everyone’s voice and stories matter and are respected and honored by others. I want to live in that world. I must begin by fully inhabiting my life even if it’s in my bathrobe, reading and writing.  It’s 5:01 PM. I am living fully and happily with fatigue, pain, stories and healing.

20. The fog, my fog has lifted. The sun is parting the clouds. The world, the Olympic Mountains which I can now see, and the cruise boats departing for Alaska beg me to come out and play. I have not left my condo today. I write. I will rest and I will read which brings me back to me.

Epic summer making for an epic blog post breaking all the rules.  It will likely be the only blog post until September. I invite you to send me your writings and I will post them. Today, I begin a mid-summer at home retreat. I must rest. On the first day of August I’m off to California for a Napa anniversary with my husband, time with his cousin(maybe a San Francisco Bay sail), a week long writing class with Pat Schneider founder of the Amherst Writers & Artists method (the method I use in my writing groups after attending training in 2011), a reunion with the people I traveled to Malawi with and a VoiceFlame board meeting. Living, reading, writing, writing, reading and living fully. Gratefully. I am here. I wish a full life and reading and writing for everyone on this planet.

Today is Father’s Day and I want to honor my father Robert Edward Abare. I love the picture of my dad in his Marine uniform. I call it his “stud muffin” picture.  I never knew him when he looked like that. The Dad I knew had already suffered polio, was partially paralyzed on one side of his body, had a tracheotomy scar which he called a “war wound,” had lost most of his hair and drank a few too many screwdrivers.

The Dad I remember made sure we, all nine kids, were  sheltered and fed. He worked his entire career for the L.S Starrett company, a precision tool manufacturer since 1880, based in my Dad’s home town of Athol, Massachussets. Dad never graduated from high school, but he was an arm chair philosopher. As I reflect and honor my Dad today, this is the one of the biggest gifts he ever gave me.  My dad always had time to sip a cup of “joe” with me, to tell jokes or stories (often whoppers), and to indulge me in conversations or debates about the true color of the clouds and the sky. For years I tried to learn more about his military service, his polio days but he always stayed in the present.  Only now, I realize what a gift staying in the present is.  Then I felt like my dad was withholding, hiding his true self. Funny, he was there all along.  Dad had this uncanny ability to change the questions and the conversation in such a way that I was forced to examine myself-not others.

Today I am grateful for my Dad sitting at the table with a cup of “joe” or a vodka and orange screwdriver.  Once I gave my Dad a rock with these Satchel Paige words, “Sometimes I sits and thinks, and sometimes I just sits.” I wonder where the rock is today.  I will sits and thinks, and just sits today to honor him.  Though my Dad was not the type to push his faith on anyone, he often told me to “keep the faith.”  Khaled Bentounès, a Sufi Master, said, “Despite the materialism of our modern century and the infernal noise of its mechanical, industrial, nuclear and military power, there still exist a few representatives of that superior type of humanity who in silence inquire, meditate and pray.”  My mother showed me how to belong to a community of faith.  My father showed me, without words, how to sit in silence, inquire, meditate and pray.  Today I pray that both of my deceased parents can feel my delayed and overflowing gratitude.