Tag: tribute (Page 6 of 8)

Life’s Toolbox

May 12, 2012 / jeanne / 0 Comments

TJTheGraduate

Dear TJ,

You’ve built a life for yourself at Woodward Academy over the past twelve years, and for the most part, this basic set of tools you’ve acquired will serve your well. As you go from here, however, you will encounter other situations that may require other tools. You’ll pick up and accumulate the other tools you need, acquiring them from all sorts of places. When in doubt about tool selection or if you need to acquire a tool you don’t have, ask advice and/or help from someone you trust, a wise person who has your best interest at heart more than their own personal agenda.

Be careful who you loan your tools to. If you loan your tools out and they are not returned, don’t hesitate to march right over and demand your tool back. Some people just won’t value your tools, and that’s okay. Sure, it can sting a bit, but that’s just the way it is. They can go get their own tools. Or not. Just don’t make it a habit to loan your tools to people who don’t value them.

People may tell you that for every job, there’s only one tool that will do. Pffffft. Don’t you ever be afraid to try different tools – you might find that they work just fine. Some things come with step-by-step instructions that are clearly written and easily understood, but many things you’ll just have to figure out yourself through good old-fashioned tenacity, open-mindedness, and hard work. The best things you will ever build are worth the effort, and though it may be messy and difficult and frustrating in the middle, if you stick to it, you’ll finish with a sense of satisfaction, memories of the fun you had, and a well of confidence you can draw from for the rest of your life.

If you take care of your tools, they will last a lifetime. Oil your tools and store them properly so they will not deteriorate from non-use. Sharpen your tools when needed, and remember that some tools need to be recharged periodically. Take care of your tools, and they will always be ready to take care of you.

These tools will help you deconstruct, build, and repair some things. For other things, rely on your heart, your bones, and the people you trust. Remember that sometimes things must be torn down and taken apart before you can begin, and that now – more than any other point in your life so far – YOU are the one responsible for the life you build.

I love you.

I am proud of you.

Now, go. Scoot. Build yourself a life you can be proud of.

And don’t you ever forget that I love you more than my cutest shoes,

Jeanne

i told you stupid things. thanks for not listening

May 10, 2012 / jeanne / 43 Comments

AlisonRedDress1

when you are young
i tell you to hold my hand
when crossing the street,
and you do.

i tell you to eat your vegetables
and you do.

i tell you to put your coat on
before going out in the snow
and you do.

i tell you not to run with a pencil
and you don’t.

you get older
and the lines blur.
things get more confusing,
less clear . . .

i tell you how to flirt,
but you’re not interested
in silly games
designed solely to capture the attention
of boys.

i tell you that you have to invite
everybody in your class,
but you don’t because
you don’t like everybody in your class.
you don’t want to spend time with them in class,
and you certainly don’t want to spend your life outside class with them.

i tell you to wear comfortable shoes,
but you wear those shoes with 3″ heels
because they make you smile.

i tell you not to run for political office,
but you run for state legislature
and wind up in a runoff with the
career politician
because you love this country
and want to make a difference.

i tell you that you can’t save every stray cat,
and you make cat food your american express –
never leaving home without it
because while you might not be able to
bring them all home,
you can at least feed them.

i tell you that when on a small budget,
keeping yourself in fresh flowers is an
extravagant and avoidable expense,
and you surround yourself with them anyway,
in pretty vases throughout the house
and scattered in every patch of sunshine
in your yard
because you find them beautiful.

i tell you nobody needs that many silk robes
even if it does cost $5 at the thrift shop,
and you get it anyway
because it feels good against your skin.

moxie . . .

for all the times i confused
keeping you small
with keeping you safe,
when what i really wanted to say is
take up as much room as you need.
for all the times i sounded for all the world
like i want you to be like everybody else
when what i really want more than anything
is for you to be you, regardless.
for all the times i said anything that implied
i want you to let other people define and determine your worthiness,
when all i ever wanted from day one is for you to listen
to your own bones and let them tell you every single day
in a myriad of languages
“you are talented
you are beautiful
you are worthy,”
i apologize.

over the years,
i told you these things (and more)
in a variety of ways
subtle and dramatic.
when i really meant to tell you
just the opposite.

the minute you were born
i became a mother
and a switch flipped
way down deep inside me,
routing my heart to be concerned
with your safety
and that safety became its own language
that sounds for all the world
like i want to keep you small,
like i want you to blend.

i guess i turned stupid because
i never wanted you to be hurt
(i still don’t)
and yet i know that i can’t protect you every minute of ever day.
and even if i could, i wouldn’t deny you the opportunity to be hurt
to learn who to trust and who not to trust,
to learn who to call
and who to never speak to again.
to learn at the hand of pain
just how strong and resilient
and beautiful and worthy
and powerful
you truly are.

for all the times i said stupid things
(even though they were said with the very best intentions),
thank you for not listening to me.
thank you for always dancing to your own internal orchestra
to dressing to the tune of your own internal stylist
to singing to the tune of your own internal mother who was,
so many times,
much, much wiser than i.

[::]

p.s. “all” is figurative, you understand.
for example, when i tell you to slow down when driving,
i still think you should listen to me.

p.s. 2 that woman, that “mental health professional” who once drew up a dress code for you?
i should’ve punched her lights out
instead of wasting my life trying to talk to her.
people like that one don’t understand ordinary language.

p.s. 3 again, thank you for holding onto your self
even through all my stupid.

p.s. 4 all these things are quite true,
but please
don’t make me regret saying them.

p.s. 5 in case it doesn’t come through:
i adore you.
i absolutely adore you
and am honored beyond description
to be your mother.

happy birthday, my precious daughter.

now let’s go shopping and spend that birthday money!

magic

April 25, 2012 / jeanne / 0 Comments

Stitches

stitching.
battening down,
i call it.

riding the thread
to places
unknown
and known but forgotten
and known . . . but maybe not really.

rhythm
soothing
surprising
and still
relaxing in its predictability.

up and down

space for pondering things like
being taken care of
and
self reliance
and
my children
and
my female ancestors
who spent a goodly
part of each day
stitching.
thinking
about fine lines
distinguishing
humility from self-deprecating humor,
for example
and how easy it is for us
to believe the worst in ourselves
instead of the best.
why is that, anyway?

back and forth

thinking backwards about what was,
forward about what if,
and right now
about what is.
or what i sense
is
is.

in and out

thoughts flying.
captured
then released.
remembered
then forgotten,
marked
then erased.

stitches
knots
woven
frayed.

her path

January 9, 2012 / jeanne / 9 Comments

Buddha1

when a friend
told her it was
something
practiced by
a foreign
religion,
she dropped
out of the
meditation class,
forfeiting
her registration fee
on account of
such short notice,
even though she’d
signed up for it
because it
sounded like something
she could do to
relax and
fall asleep easier
since the lavender-scented eye mask
and the hot milk
and the bubble bath
didn’t work
and the sheep
kept running around
the room,
hiding under the bed,
and jumping out the window,
refusing
to be counted.

and when she
learned that
the little bronze-ish
statue she liked
so much when she
first laid eyes on it
so many years ago
is actually
a buddha,
she gave it away
for fear she’d
been inadvertently worshipping
a false god
all these years.

scoff if you will,
chuckle if you can’t stop yourself,
but me?
i admire
her unwavering conviction,
her abiding allegiance,
her deep faith,
her commitment
to live what she
believes.

More about 365 Altars

gifts

December 25, 2011 / jeanne / 24 Comments

Legaseecloth

the call
(in the form of a poem by jan l. richardson that has captured my heart):

Wise women also came.
The fire burned
in their wombs
long before they saw
the flaming star
in the sky.
They walked in shadows,
trusting the path
would open
under the light of the moon.

Wise women also came,
seeking no directions,
no permission
from any king.
They came
by their own authority,
their own desire,
their own longing.
They came in quiet,
spreading no rumors,
sparkling no fears
to lead
to innocents’ slaughter,
to their sister Rachel’s
inconsolable lamentations.

Wise women also came,
and they brought useful gifts:
water for labor’s washing
fire for warm illumination,
a blanket for swaddling.

Wise women also came,
at least three of them,
holding Mary in the labor,
crying out with her in the birth pangs,
breathing ancient blessings
into her ear.

Wise women also came,
and they went,
as wise women always do,
home a different way.

///

and my response:
(in my humble, jumbled, stream-of-consciousness-cause-it’s-christmas-after-all way)

to all the wise women
who stoke the fires
who don’t wait for a star
to guide the way
who walk in the shadows
knowing there
are many paths,
all Right,
all leading home

to all the wise women
who revel in the moonlight
dance in the checkout line
spill music with their words

to all the wise women
who trust their own
internal navigation system,
helping another up
when she falls,
whispering walking sticks
or knitting balms of silence
until she feels restored

to all the wise women
who ask their questions
knowing that sometimes
the only answers
are more questions
and still more questions

to all the wise women
who know
that sometimes
bandages are bindings
and other times
bindings are bandages
and that whether
bandages or bindings,
bands of cloth
can be removed and
woven into something
magnificent

to all the wise women
who come into
and with
their own authority
who sing
their own songs of
praise
and lamentations
who put on socks
of pure, unadulterated
love
every single morning
and dance
for insight
and laughter
who inhale
the goodness that surrounds them
and exhale
gladness and gratitude
who touch
with gentleness, tenderness, confidence

to the wise women
whose hearts
open like colorful
beautiful
sassy
unstoppable
flowers
night after
day after
night
after day

even though you rarely
draw attention to yourself,
i see you
thank you
love you
celebrate you
cherish you,
you and your genuine genius and gorgeous glory.

hand-me-downs

December 2, 2011 / jeanne / 23 Comments

JeanneDaddy

eleven years ago today, my daddy died. every year i vow – and i try, i really try – to celebrate his birth date more than his date of death, but every year when 12/2 rolls around, i grow quiet and tuck myself into a day of extreme self-care, remembrance, reflection, tears, and love.

oh how i long to rest my head on his shoulder, to feel his arm squeeze around me and his lips peck my forehead. how i do long to put my hand in his pudgy, dry hand and feel his fingers close solidly around mine. how i do long to hear him tell me “everything’s gonna’ be all right, doll.”

doll. he called me doll.

i can’t tell you how badly i want to ask him things like what he’d most like me to know about this stage of my life and what is he most proud of and what did he write on the chalkboard in that dream i had about him so many years ago. i want to hear him tell me about how he and his brother gene built that house for my great-grandmother and about the time he got snookered by those thunder road-esque boys and hid from the police car by going up on the racks at the service station. i want to hear him tell me about the time i was driving nails into his daddy’s floor and how when he heard the racket and tried to get me to stop, granddaddy said calmly (and firmly) “junior,” (daddy hated being called that) “jeanne’s in my room now, so you just go on back to your part of the house and leave us be.” i’d give anything – anything, i tell you – to hear him tell me just one more time about the day i was born. about how it was snowing, about how he called his daddy at dark: thirty to say “we’ve got us a little valentine.”

do you have hand-me-down stories in your family? have you recorded them (and made backup copies)? if yes, fantastic. if not, what are you waiting for? go on now, scoot. you can thank me later.

honoring

November 11, 2011 / jeanne / 3 Comments

11 11 11a

today is not the day to
point fingers
at world leaders.

today is not the day to
vilify countries
because of the
differences in
cultural norms
or
religious beliefs
or even
crimes against humanity.

today is not the day to
debate
the pros and cons
of war.

today is the day
when we simply
say
“thank you.”

and to all the veterans
i know
and to all the veterans
i’ve never had
and will never have
the honor of meeting,
i do thank you.
deeply,
thoroughly,
sincerely.

happy, happy

October 17, 2011 / jeanne / 9 Comments

My friend, Angela, is one amazing woman, and if you don’t know her, you should. A voracious reader, a tenacious seeker, a sensitive, thoughtful woman who coined the term “theel” to bring together thinking and feeling as a way of being in the world, Angela is intensely loyal to her friends, her family, her causes. Having survived an abusive marriage, Angela is now putting the final spit polish on her memoir, and let me tell you: it is truthful and it is captivating. Thoroughly dedicated to ridding the world of domestic violence, Angela and her cohorts have just launched In Real Life, a web site dedicated to providing information, support, resources, and a safe place for vitally important discussion and equally important hope for those in abusive relationships. It’s the kind of thing she does, the kind of thing she puts her heart and whole self into.

Three weeks ago her beloved Gracie died, and Angela goes through grief as she goes through life: with grace and humility, and frankly, an inquisitiveness that is simultaneously admirable and touching. Like the ancient Greeks, Angela dedicates herself to becoming the best person she can be. Despite her advanced degrees, when it comes to learning, she’s a sponge. When it comes to living, she is fearless. When it comes to loving, she is indefatigable.

So here I am, using capital letters and squeaking in at the very last minute of her birthday 2011, mere minutes before I turn into a pumpkin to say:

Happy, birthday,

Acurtains1

Lclock

Atree

I love you, my friend.

he has a good heart

September 20, 2011 / jeanne / 14 Comments

blessings

it is his fourth
battery of tests
in less than a year,
there is no comfort in that.

they do not make eye contact
when we check in,
there is no comfort in that.

we are directed to go
across the hall
to sit and wait
in the waiting room
with taupe walls
and taupe baseboards
and taupe carpet.
with signs taped
to the wall
ordering us
to turn off cell phones
and demanding that we
ring the bell
only once.
there is no comfort in that.

we were not told
before our arrival
about all of the tests
to be run today.
that is not good
to hear,
but maybe,
just maybe,
not knowing
prevented much
anticipatory stress.

other patients
come and go
without so much as a
grunt about why he
is Back There
for hours
and hours.
there is no comfort in that.

finally the tests are done
and we are directed
to go to another waiting room.
this one as cold
as the other was
stuffy.
we wait
and we wait
and we wait,
more than
one-and-a-half hours
after the
appointment time
we’d agreed on
some eight months ago,
we wait.
there is no comfort in that.

eventually
we are escorted to
a taupe
exam room,
adorned with
a poster of a sailboat
in a cheap frame.
where the assistant
looks over his records
and seems quite
surprised
to hear that
his medications
changed over
six months ago.
there is no comfort in that.

finally
we are told
that he passed
all the tests –
every single one of them –
with flying colors.
blood pressure: excellent.
blood flow: excellent.
overall circulatory system: excellent.
and there’s great, huge,
tremendous
comfort in that.

a mosaic of updates and offerings

September 14, 2011 / jeanne / 5 Comments

Lotus

Well now I told you it’d be today or tomorrow, and the way it looks right now, if all goes according to plan, you’ll be back here tomorrow for my first Red Phone Story.

///

A Rhonda update: Rhonda continues to be silenced by a computer and talk-to-text software that refuses to play nicely. Her husband is tenaciously working on it, though, so stay tuned. And hey, thank y’all again for continuing to leave affirming comments for Rhonda.

///

You don’t want to miss these posts:

My friend and writing partner Julie Daley has written several thoughtful, elegant posts of late filled with beautiful, affirming, peaceful, healing words.

and

My friend Angela keeps us updated on her precious dogs while she pens her memoir behind the scenes. Whether you like dogs or not, you’ll want to visit and read about Max and Gracie.

///

And last but definitely not least, I want to be sure you know and help me spread the word about this:

Alana Sheeren and I met via the ethers a couple of years ago. She tweeted out a question about schooling young people, and being somewhat passionately opinionated about this, I tweeted a reply. We tweet-chatted a bit more, and a friendship was born. Since then, Alana has experienced the loss of a stillborn son named Benjamin, and she writes frankly and fearlessly about the unimaginable grief she’s lived in the past year at her blog, Life After Benjamin. Her words have fortified, comforted, assured, and amazed readers, and now she has more to offer those who are grieving their own particular loss.

Alana created a beautiful ebook called Picking up the Pieces. It’s filled with luminous stories of grief and growth penned by women you might know or have heard of. It is truly, as so many others have said, “a gift of musings and magic,” and I hope you’ll finish reading, then trot right on over and download a copy for yourself.

But that’s not all our Alana has been up to . . .

In her newest book, One Hundred Names for Love, Diane Ackerman writes:

“There is spread over everything a vague sense of wrongness, of something amiss.” Yes, that felt right. An atmosphere of wrongness. I was stirred by the power of Lewis’s grief. And yet, his experience, despite his referring to it as “mad midnight moments,” didn’t lead to madness. His was a mind that could cushion itself when faced with trauma, without becoming callous, neglectful, or numb to soften the pain. Despite not knowing if what he felt from moment to moment would pass or last forever, he entered fully into his shifting states of violent rage, self-pity, longing, heartbreak, cynicism, without losing the ability to think about what was happening to him. That took courage, I thought, living with the suffering in a mindful way, as an artifact of being, neither good nor bad.

Knowing firsthand that “vague sense of wrongness, of something amiss”, knowing firsthand about “living with the suffering in a mindful way,” Alana is hosting a Picking Up the Pieces Retreat Retreat in beautiful Ojai, California on September 25-29, 2011. She’s gathered an impressive group of resource folks, and a schedule to provide balm and healing for the bruised and grieving soul. If you are grieving, treat yourself to this special offering designed to support your body, mind, and spirit. If you know somebody who’s grieving, promise you’ll tell them about it and encourage them to go. If you have any questions or comments, if you’d like to contribute in some way, email AlanaSheeren (at) gmail (dot) com today.