Today, I woke early, full of joy and gratitude for life, for all!
Fifty-five years ago I was the fifth child of nine born to Marion and Robert Abare. I never learned about the horse chestnut or the Buckeye State. I was just a sleeping baby when my family moved from the place I was born, Cleveland, Ohio. In my treasure box I keep a buckeye to keep me grounded in where I come from: creation, stars, my parents, and Ohio.
The ocean and the California Poppy helped me to have faith when the skinned and scabbed knees from roller skating and heart break moments of my childhood introduced me to doubt. Once in a moment of anger, my mother, a peaceful spirit-filled women, threw a glass of ice tea at my dad uttering words we were forbidden to say. I can still hear the glass breaking against the wall and see the brown splash and stain.
One night my dad came home drunk, tripped over my brother’s bike. I woke up to see my brother being flung from the bunk bed above me into the closet while my dad hollered, “This will teach you to park your bike in the garage.” I didn’t sleep the rest of that night. I can still hear the thud of my brother’s body up against the wall. Once, when I was sad after visiting people, including children my own age, at the State Hospital, I was told, “You’re too emotional.” And, when my first poem, “Camp” was published in the Orange County Daily Pilot, I imagine I must have been filled with 11-year-old joy and possibly pride when I likely taunted my siblings with my prize Kennedy half dollar. What I remember was being told, “Get off your high horse.” I dismounted. It has taken me years to put my feet back into the stirrups, to write the poem. I no longer have the 50 cents or the taunt; I still have the poem. I still have the poem.
he loves me not
Like most beings, I set out to heal my wounds, wounds not yet visible to me. I wanted to love and be loved and married my high school sweetheart when I was 18. After 33 years of marriage, I am no longer madly in love. Each day I say, “I do.” I love my husband John madly and joyfully. And, he adores me. He loves me differently than I love him or I love me. Yes, finally, after all these years, I love me. I have learned until we love ourselves, we can’t really love others well, but in trying to love others well we learn to love ourselves. It’s a great heart mystery I’m no longer trying to solve, just trying to live and love fully into.
Perhaps our sole purpose on this earth is to learn to love and to love to learn, in that order. For years, I did it all in my head. I do think and believe in my heart that world peace could be achieved if we all learned to bring our heads beneath our hearts, bowing to each other and the earth. I still love the beauty of a single daisy, but I have outgrown the myth, the story and game of picking the petals saying, “He loves me, he loves me not.” We are loved into being, made visible by love, even messy love.
“…It is the secret in the seeds, in the smile of the rich soil, eager to welcome the silent, daughter of hope, hidden in little nasturtium seeds.” These words from Joyce Rupp brought me home to my soul. She moved me to share some of my life secrets: the faith and doubt planted in my childhood; the love, imperfect but infinitely perfectible, I’ve given and received; and the silent hope that can no longer remain silent. I am a fully blooming flower with a voice. I look forward to sharing our stories, our gifts, our faith and love to touch each other’s lives and the lives of others. It gives me so much hope. I am awake and grateful for life and life-giving words. You are invited to share your stories.