what’s the first thing you consciously see? don’t move, except to turn your head. don’t move to another spot. just stay where you are and tell me what you see.
bonus points: turn it into an altar.
Tag: 365altars (Page 6 of 7)
the lovely julie daley, my writing partner and friend kept me company (via phone) on my drive today, and she fanned my flames (i love her for that) (and much, much more) . . .
she came while he was out cavorting with the radiologists. ordinarily, i would’ve left so i wouldn’t be in the way as she cleaned, but my wise woman self said “stay” so i did. from vietnam, she worked and saved and lived beneath her means to put not one, not two, not three, but all four of her sons through medical school.
///
she works the midnight shift taking care of grown women (some of whom are older than she is) who can’t take care of themselves. she throws the ladies birthday parties, inviting the families, making sure the brother (whose birthday is the very next day) has a cake, too. a separate cake because nobody should have to share a cake on their birthday.
///
she sells jelly at a little farmer’s market, the prices handwritten on signs made from torn-off box flaps. she’s there on the weekends, making a little pin money to help with the kids and grandkids. the jelly she sells, the wisdom she gives away freely.
///
she came in to clean our hotel room, and on my way out (i did get out
of her way) i spied the request for privacy door hanger, gold with one word: peace. i stopped and asked for one to send to my friend who’d just broken up with me. “i just want to stick it in an envelope with a note that says ‘this is what i wish for you,'” i told betty, the housekeeper. who then told me about a lifelong friend she’d recently lost, and as she gently placed seven (yes, seven) door hangers in my hand, she clasped both her hands around mine, and looked deeply into my eyes and smiled at me through tears of kinship.
///
at the age of one, her grandson was stricken with polio. her daughter said there was nothing they could do because they had no money. and when the daughter refused to call that one telephone number in search of help for the boy, the grandmother took in ironing and baked cakes to sell to raise enough money for the long distance phone calls and the bus tickets needed to get her to her grandson, then get both of them to the Shriner’s hospital where the boy underwent five bouts of surgery. and afterwards, he walked just fine till he died at age sixty-eight.
///
if you think that one person is more important because of the clothes they wear, or the car they drive, or the job title that’s on their business cards, well, you just get on outta’ here and go peddle that somewhere else cause i’m here to tell you: that dog won’t hunt.
(which for those of you not fluent in southern means that garbage just flat-out don’t play here.)
never has,
never will.
///
today’s altar is dedicated to, well, i ‘spect you’ve figured that out by now.
my head is in the clouds today.
this is no metaphor.
but it is
an altar
to
moving more slowly
than usual.
of connecting with
like-minded
women
in the ethers,
hatching
big things
and small,
dreaming
with magic wands
not letting
our brains
get in our way
as we
unapologetically
and
notoriously
step
into our
Knowing.
it may be a ceramic skillet
she keeps out
because she loves cooking
and she loves the way
food tastes when
cooked in this skillet.
it may be flowers she
picks from her yard
and arranges in a container
using the glass frog
she’s had all my life,
setting them on a tablecloth
she embroidered
as a young woman.
it may be four small, colorful glass ducks,
lined up on her desk,
replicas of the ducks at
the peabody in memphis, tennessee.
it may be a poem i wrote her
so many years ago
to dress up some
crazy, inexpensive gift
i bought her,
and a postcard i sent her
from a trip we were on,
written, stamped, and mailed while she was
standing right beside me.
it may be a piece of granite
she decorated
at the quarry in
barre, vermont,
an impromptu side trip
on one of the best
trips we ever took
together,
and it may be
the inexpensive plaque
about family
i gave her
when we moved away
last march.
she calls them
“centerpieces”
or
“arrangements,”
my mother.
i call them
altars.
~~ :: ~~
spent the day stitching and searching for something to bar the cats’ access to the downstairs guest quarters. something that doesn’t make me angry every time i see it, but makes me smile instead. something that doesn’t block the light, making a dark house darker (and consequently harder on my emotions and attitude). something that looks creative, not contrived.
as we poked around my favorite shop in asheville in search of Just The Right Thing, i felt perched on the verge. felt like if i could get rid of all these dreaded paperwork projects, reports, tax forms, printouts, filing, scanning – that kind of thing – i’d burst through and tickle myself with the fresh perspective and rollicking ideas creativity brings. but rightly or wrongly, all this paperwork feels like an anchor, and it doesn’t dampen my creativity, it drowns it.
so i’m honoring my self by hanging the Be Back Soon sign on my altar, taking a few days off to wrap things up. if all goes according to plan, i’ll be back thursday, 1/19, and when i get back, i’ll have a few new threads to weave into the fabric we call #365 Altars. in the meantime, maybe you want to go visit other folks who are participating in #365 Altars, make some new friends, see the amazing ways women are honoring their deepest sumptuous selves. roam a bit, drop some comments, send out some tweets and notes on facebook. and be sure to add your blog to the list and use the hashtag #365Altars on twitter and tag 365 Altars in your entries so they’ll appear on the 365 Altars facebook page.
i’ll see you thursday.
if not before.
at first glance,
this rock that sits perched
is small,
colorful,
pretty,
of a non-descript shape.
but
upon closer inspection,
well,
just look:
when we take the time
to get close,
when we slow down
and take a good look,
this stone
is more colorful
than we imagined.
its surface
is filled with
bumps
and crevices.
outer crusts
are breaking,
falling away
to reveal
even more
color
and complexity
and beauty
and
there’s even
a bit of sparkle
to boot.
this one-of-a-kind stone sits perched
behind my kitchen sink
where i see it several
times every day.
and each time i gaze upon it,
i think of you,
my beautiful friends,
my brave friends,
my creative friends
i think of you,
my friends
who are strong
enough to be vulnerable,
willing
to reveal
more and more
of your
deepest
sumptuous
selves
every day,
bridging
the chasm
between
your inner self
and
your outer self.
i see all of you,
who are
learning to
speak up
and dig in,
to soar
and rest,
to trust yourself,
and, most important of all,
to cherish yourself,
and i sing.
loudly.
and with gusto.
and hey, lest you
take offense
to being
represented
by a rock,
one word:
bedrock.
tonight i am angry.
deeply
fiercely
hugely
angry.
as close as i’ve ever come
to being
consumed
by anger.
and you know,
it feels
pretty damn
good.
so
i’m laying
it
on my altar
tonight
without avoidance
or
apology.
without giving
a rat’s ass
if it’s
ladylike
or not
to be
angry.
without
wasting one
nanosecond
wondering
if i’ll still
love myself
in the morning.
How we feel about events, respond to them, transform them and judge them, is a matter of the shape of our spirit, the corrugation of the feathers in our wings. And this, the shape of our spirit, our way of reflecting the world, is something we must work to create and tend, day after day after day.
~~ Kathleen Dean Moore ~~
How did you shape your spirit today?
Reflect the world?
Create and tend?
Regale me.
Right here
right now,
regale me.
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.
my grandmother
was smart in ways
they don’t teach you in school.
she knew things like
red rock ginger ale
is the best thing
on earth
for a stomach
that’s acting up,
and she knew
that the second day
after any injury
is when you experience
the worst pain.
after that,
the hurt begins
to subside.
women can be
so supportive of each other
and
women can be
so hurtful to each other.
today,
the second day after,
i lay my tender bruises
on the altar,
amid all the old junk
that rises
and the familiar patterns
that beckon,
and i grieve.
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integrity
This work by Jeanne Hewell-Chambers is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work at http://www.TheBarefootHeart.com.
here ‘n there