Dona Nobis Pacem ~ Bathing In Persimmon Trees

Welcome to the 14th launch of BlogBlast For Peace aka Dona nobis pacem in the Blogosphere. 

Our theme this year is Change Your Climate. Many are choosing to write about global climate change. Others are choosing to write about the need to change their own personal climates in order to create peaceful spaces for themselves ( ie: eliminating stress, self-care). I have chosen the latter.  

Please sign the Mr. Linky at the end of this post so that others may visit you and see the beautiful peace globes throughout the Blogosphere. Remember to tag me on Facebook  or wherever you are on social media. Thank you for being a part of this community of peace bloggers. Your words are powerful and important to all of us. May we lift and encourage in our quest for a peaceful more sustainable planet earth.  Grant us peace!  

Bathing In Persimmon Trees

As she got older and more introspective, my mother would spontaneously start talking about random things from her faraway childhood. On this day, she began to weave invisible spinning yarn in the air in front of her. "There are these threads....you see....threads...." as her hands moved in and around them,  making sense of mysteries in her mind,  weaving and talking as she spun, connecting branch to branch to branch. Except she wasn't really sitting there with me. She was somewhere back in time playing dodgeball with the curse.
 "I can see them going back generations." "What kind of threads?" I asked.  "Poverty. Brokenness. Abuse. Depression. Alcoholism. Divorce. Conflict. Addiction.  Bad threads....don't you see them, Mimi?" Yes, mama, I've always seen them.
Like shadows on trees in a cemetery, cast long from eons of time and generation, I had always seen them. 

If you want to go mad,  cover them up.
If you want to break the curse,
stand in the Light.
Generational threads can tie together what desperately needs to be broken. They are inherently binding and strong.
Made of flax. Faith. Fiber. Custom. Tradition. Tribe. Toxicity. Untruth.
Even and especially love.
Whether they remain tied and woven into the next generation depends not on the strength of the cotton, but on the spinning of the pattern. Twisted legacies take whole life spans to unspin. It requires laser-sharp discernment and a willingness to plant a new field. To begin a better story. Harvesting new tribes is not for the faint-of-heart. My mother was anything but faint.

And that's when I began to remember...
warm water washing down my back.
I felt the heaviness of long tangled hair.
Soap.
And her hands in my hair.
Scrubbing and soothing at the same time.  Bare feet on a dark linoleum speckled floor, bent over the kitchen sink in the middle of a fifties wood frame in the heat of summer and the only running water in the house.  Daddy hadn't finished the bathroom yet. My mother stood untangling the mane that was always tangled and drying me off with a ragged towel. 
And then I started to cry 
Uncontrollably. Sobs from an eight-year-old that should never be heard by a mother.  She knew. I could see it in her eyes. She knew. From the covering of shame I felt underneath the thinness of fabric that could not cover could not cover could not cover the confusion and tremble of a skinny little girl who had just been reminded of more than innocent suds running down the back of a dark-haired freckle-faced me with grownup questions swirling in her mangled head. She looked straight into the dripping freckles and raised her eyes to meet mine.

It was my mother's greatest gift to me. 
Unwavering trust. Unquestioning acceptance. She believed what I was about to tell her before I said it. I can still taste the shampoo on my lips and see the horror in her eyes, the quiver in my voice. I remember the way my eyes wanted to only stare at the linoleum while she gathered herself.  Standing there dripping in a torn towel while she called someone to tell them what she'd seen in her daughter's eyes. I never had to see him again. She saw to it.
She sacrificed family and relationships to protect me.  Had she chosen to look the other way, I am sure without a shadow of an oak tree doubt,  I would have crumpled into a broken twig on the sudsy floor and never recovered. Instead, it was the moment that defined me. 

In the deepest part of me that day, she taught me to trust the sacred places that no one should touch.  I owned every nook and crevice again before she even finished with the tender drying  because my mother believed me  she gave me permission to trust myself She had no idea that she'd just given me my voice.

Of all the trials that came later - our arguments, her quirky temper, my stubbornness - our differences growing wider in the middle of our lives, then circling back to unconditional love, as happens with mothers and daughters  - I'm not sure she ever fully recovered from the sadness of that moment. 
Threads You see them, don't you Mimi?

I wanted so much to know her and understand her better and all that mysterious weaving in the spirit. Those strands had names. They had stories. But there wasn't time and she was gone.  What made her so unbreakable? What stopped her from untying the last piece of tangled life and freeing herself? What kind of woman knows by instinct and love how to run straight into battle for her daughter?  That's the indestructible mother I longed to fully know.

When I felt she had no faith in my endeavors or no understanding of my independence, in hindsight, now, I wonder if the moment under the towel defined the way she would forever try to keep me from straying too far into unfamiliar territory. As I spread my wings to fly away, perhaps her holding on was the only way of protecting me.  Perspective.

I went through some things this year that broke my heart. Multitudes of unkindness and wholly undignified days. But the more vile they became, the more grace I received. 
 My body is recalibrating. Balancing. Resetting. Changing my climate, my environment, is not just necessary for peace of mind, it's mandatory for my survival.  I am ready to put this decade behind me but not without the wisdom it contains.

Standing under the canopy of trees gives me courage and strengthens my vulnerability - that delicate balance between authenticity and prudence.   It resembles the act of protection and trust. Intimacy and connection.  You might not have a lifetime or even a decent swath of moments like these with the people you love. 

But it only takes one.  

Divine grace echoes on the walls of my heart. 

My mother's grace reverberates decades later.

And she is the reason that I can stand uncovered in a field of persimmon trees

without fear 

without shame

without scars


I finally learned to accept all our twisted roads and fallen places.  How she tried to exhume the genesis of those invisible threads in her hands, never quite finding where the first broken piece began and the last continued.    You see them, don't you Mimi?
She died before she could unravel all the threads But she deposited in me just enough spitfire to keep my end of the peace treaty intact: To leave the untelling on the kitchen floor  To live without hiding behind trees 
To forgive those who want to see me broken To be open and brave when your words need wording and to be loud in the most vulnerable of places
and that's why I need trees Had you told me a year ago that people can feel energy from trees, I would have silently patted you on the head and sent you on your way. And yet, since her death six months ago, I find myself running to the forest on my mountain, sitting for hours in the sanctuary of their branches. Breathing in oxygen. Absorbing life into the cells of my stress-laden body.  Finding the Mother trees. They shelter the young saplings and strategically branch out in directions that give them the most nourishment from the sun. Did you know there are mother trees?
We are made stronger when we understand where we came from when we uncover what is hurting us We discover which branches are strong and which need pruning. I am learning to be thankful for the miles of memories that created me all of them
Safety sometimes lies in being unseen but never in being unheard.

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Photo credit: Mimi Lenox

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Blog 4 Peace 2019 Participants

1. Sherry Blue Sky 2. Claudia Hall Christian 3. Cate Reddell 4. Mimi Lenox 5. Jamie White 6. Yamini MacLean 7. The Spoon Mage 8. Waiting For The Muse ~ Ann Tracy 9. Moments of Introspection 10. Athena Cat Goddess 11. The Gal Herself 12. The White Dog Diaries 13. Dawn 14. Wanda Dawn Gilbert 15. Scrappin With Life 16. Callie 17. Tinkerbell in the Netherlands 18. Animal Shelter Volunteer Life 19. Bonnie @ Bonnie's Books 20. Zoolatry 21. Mickeys Musings-Dona Nobis Pacem 22. Laurie @ Meditations in Motion 23. Linda Lee Lyberg 24. The Spoon Mage 25. Bertram's Blog 26. Stunning Keisha 27. Mama Pajama 28. Susie Clevenger 29. Speedyrabbit

30. Mike ZGolch 31. Mike Golch 32. Friends FurEver 33. 15 and Meowing 34. Louie's Chaos 35. Eileen Trainor 36. CyberCelt 37. The Island Cats 38. Canadian Cats 39. Sandra Hammel 40. Brian's Home Blog 41. Gemma Wiseman - Mornington Peninsula Daily 42. Sicily Scene A Welshwoman in Sicily 43. Sandra Hammel 44. Friends FurEver - BlogBlast4Peace 45. Sparkle Cat 46. Lone Star Cats 47. Waiting For The Muse ~ Ann Tracy 48. Kinley Westie 49. Kathy Duffy Thomas 50. The Matriarch's Corner 51. Karen Nichols 52. Mickey's Musings 53. Loristory 54. Charmed Chaos 55. Diane Hasz Blog4Peace DJ 56. Raven Wolf 57. Two Spoiled Cats 58. The Psychokitty Speaks Out

59. Just Ducky 60. The Cat on My Head 61. Forty Paws 62. Blog 4 Peace The Official Gallery 63. Little Binky and Granny 64. Marcia McLees Bogaert 65. Binding Ink ~ Michelle Culp 66. Clawdia @ Bonnie's Books 67. Kim Marie Moon 68. Thumper Thinks Out Loud 69. Diane Hasz 70. David Timothy Holdsworth 71. Deb Reslake 72. Amarillis Kroon 73. Diane Hasz 74. Ken Smith 75. The Cat Blogosphere 76. Catscue 77. Mark's Mews 78. Driller's Place 79. Spike William Pratt A Cheshire Cat 80. Julia Phillips Smith 81. Correna Grogan 82. Speedy The Cheeky House Bunny 83. Bluezy 84. Jessica Obsenschain 85. Sue Earle Glashofer 86. Sanni Jansen 87. Bud 88. Living with Loulou

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BlogBlast For Peace 2018 ~ Dona Nobis Pacem

Welcome to the 2018 launch of Blog4Peace. We are an international group of bloggers and social media gurus who promote the cause of peace on our blogs, websites and pages. Click one of the links above to get your own peace globe and join us. It's an amazing day on the Internet! Our theme this year is the power of words. Here's my peace post. I'll be by soon to read yours!
Words in Blue Kyanite
If there are stories to be told in heaven, let them be these. 

Let them be told as these have been told. Let verse and lyric rhyme as old saints do on the eve of great awakenings. Lean your ear toward what matters most and listen as spirits mutter sacred texts and beautiful songs. Stretched across the throne of the world from the top of heaven's doorstep, words can still reach earth.  Stretched across the world's doorstep in many homes and hovels today, words can still reach heaven. And you will say them again. And again. And again. That's what storytellers do.  That's what peace bloggers do.
For you see, words are not only powerful for the content and wisdom they bring to bear; they are powerful for the reason they came to bear.  There is no great catharsis, no sudden shift in the universe, no real progressive change in the world without storytellers. And you thought your chapter was over? Let me tell you something...it doesn't end until you tell it to end.  He had this twinkle you see....A spark of something that resided deep inside the brilliance of his mind. Something that glowed with kindness, documenting years on earth like centimeter markings on a ruler.  My Papa. He is the one who inspired me to write in the first place. He is the one who left me with an earth marble full of continents and rivers and mountains. He left me the whole world. 

And his hammer. Words are not the only tools we have.  He needed it to make things. I need it to smash my fingers. He understood hammers. I do not. 
  .
I've been asking him lately, in my dreams and in my mind, what story he wants to tell today on November 4th, because he always give me a nudge. And all I am hearing from him is that he wants me  - and you - to tell our stories. Now. Not his. Ours.  
 It is the most basic of human needs - the power and joy of connection. Of being heard. Of being heard!!!  Not because someone is shouting, anyone can start a movement if they're loud enough, but because purposeful intent behind mightily built well-chosen words is strong enough to make a whisper ripple across seven continents and twenty-five rivers and still be understood on the highest mountain peak a thousand miles away. That's what Papa's marble did for me.  That's what your words do for the world each and every year.
And while there was serendipity and more than a few God winks to get the ball rolling (so to speak), the discovery of the marble only served to help me understand that in this life there are no coincidences.  Every person you meet brings their energy, their intent, right smack-dab into your personal space...sometimes so close you want to (and should) run away and hide from it when things don't feel right. That is discernment. Others bring the healing you need when you didn't even know you needed to call a healer.

That is grace.
Which brings me to my friend.   It happened at the beginning of a new school year.   I bent over in agony when I heard the news, so unexpected it was, so cutting. It was a physical pain in the caverns of my body. I could hear the bones break in my brain.  I didn't expect to feel her loss so viscerally. Peacefully housed in pine she lay weeping and exhausted no more. She was free. I was not.

I was afraid. And angry Let's be real. My life was full of complaining. And whining. And posturing. And planning. And pondering. And procrastinating. And even whining to myself that complaining would do me in.  I was even tired of my own complaining! I've been tired and exhausted this year. Not.peaceful.at.all.
And there she was. Asleep forever in a cold pine box full of peace. Not even fifty years old. My heart broke for the losses and pain she endured on planet earth. 
I was at the crossroads between terror and panic. Would I be next? Would my body betray me as well? Can I live up to the example of courage she set?  Could I maintain this pace and keep my health intact? After all, she was the strongest person I knew. Heart-stopping, constricting air-depleting suffocation. Did I mention the fear?  Even so, I felt guilty for focusing on myself when it wasn't about me at all. 
What was her story? She spoke loudly from the pine box. The silence was maddening. Knock it off, Mimi, and listen up! I can't remember one single meeting, one single instance, one day or second or smile that was wasted on her. She made me better and sometimes made me mad doing it. Oh, but she didn't know it. And she had no patience for my histrionic nature. She didn't waste time worrying about how other people perceived her, whether or not she hurt your feelings, or how you arrived at any conclusion without her. She was too busy living strongly while she was dying slowly.
You knew you were in the presence of someone who knew what it meant to inhale and exhale with intent every single day. You knew, somehow you knew, that time spent with her were masterclasses in how to live fully.

Could there be a better time to shake up the world than on the day you decide to die? She shook up my world! Yes, I said decide. I know that I know that I know (as my grandmother would say) that some people decide it is their day to die. Ascended gurus manage to mark the hour quite regularly. When it's time for the body to give up its usefulness, it's time to give up the ghost and take up a new identity somewhere else. 
And so my friend became my catalyst for change in a year that began in fear. That happens when you see someone you just talked to reposing in a pine box too soon. 
**Excuse me, Miss Pencil Skirt, said the doctor...but I don't think you're breathing quite right** 
 Fear is a simply a jumping off place.  "What you do in this moment will determine everything," whispered the Voice of reason.
I decided to change my words.  Starting with my thinking
I wrote pages of self-talk: I will not tolerate pity. I will not tolerate blame. I will not tolerate complaining. I will not abide negativity. I will not entertain anger. I will not surrender to bitterness. I can breathe I can breathe I can breathe I can breathe.... 
"Gather your strength," whispered Spirit. "Gather strength for yourself."  I wanted to live well. I needed to love myself well enough to gather my strength and heal.  Those who live well, by default love well. 

Pyrophyllite

 I mean the kind of love that makes you sweat, requires your blood, makes you live in it, slog through it, talk about it, wade in it, fall down under the weight of it until you can't even breathe because that devastating love is so full of itself.  Have you ever come to a pivotal moment in your life when days were so dreary you'd rather feel something than nothing at all?  Your lungs are tight from holding back the light that so desperately wants to get in...but you can't exhale well enough to inhale?  Stress will do that to a person. At least that's what the doctor told me. What? What?? I can't breeeaaatheee?? 
"No, Miss Pencil Skirt, something seems to be affecting your lung capacity."  
This is not what you want to hear the day before you go to a funeral.
**raises hand** I think I need to call a healer.

I didn't understand the world until I was sixty-years-old. It was then that understanding became too soft a word for the depth of knowing residing in the bones of six decades on earth. It was more like burning lava cooled by the flames of tea leaves. 

I love leaves

When my Papa was in his early sixties, he fell on the kitchen floor and took his last breath. Just like that. Suddenly. Without premeditation or fanfare. His lungs collapsed and the poison inside caused a massive crumble of tissue and structure.  He was gone before his head hit the floor.  

Kyanite blue in pyrophyllite stone

I never knew he couldn't breathe. There was a ticking time bomb inside the man whose heart was overshadowed by a pair of lungs full of pyrophyllite dust. He never told me he couldn't breathe!  I always thought he'd die of arthritis. Or working too hard. Or loving too much. I never dreamt he'd fall in a heap of poisoned air and give up the ghost on the kitchen floor. 

Look familiar?

He was too busy living to die of sensible causes. 
All he did was love me.  In large loud bouts of contagious love.  His love was all I heard.  It. Was. All. He. Said.
Papa worked in a pyrophyllite plant (think talc) back in the day before it was safe to mine or breathe dust particles from the clay or work with the intensely heated kilns which were to used to mold particles for commodities like furniture. It caused fibrosis in some and unknown lung ailments in many. I didn't know Papa couldn't breathe. Apparently, neither did he.  He just kept living. And loving everyone around him. Until he decided to fall on the kitchen floor. 

Kyanite

That one blue marble in the center of the bowl - yes, that one - is Kyanite, infused with and altered by pyrophyllite. It is a metamorphic mineral found in sedimentary rocks within soapstone mines in the southern United States, Brazil, New South Wales, Australia, India and Kenya. It contains aluminum silicate (hence the silent poison).

Kyanite gets its name from the Greek words for fire and leaf. Tonight I have discovered that this same blue stone has crystal healing properties especially in the throat area near the bronchial tubes.  I know little to nothing about the realm of gemstone metaphysics, but I do respect the power of Earth and the ancient wisdom of chakra healing. 
**You can't breathe said the doctor You can't breathe said the doctor* I never knew I couldn't breathe until they told me I couldn't breathe!! Has this ever happened to you?
And what other silent gift did he pass on to us? Pyrophyllite is also known as "Pencil Stone" (said The Pencil Skirt) and has been used to enhance writing abilities, helps to speak one's truth with clarity and brings balance to all the Chakras.  So you see, that wonderful blue marble we've gazed at since 2006 might well be one of the reasons that peace bloggers feel compelled to write. On some deep spiritual level we feel it. 
It's alright if you don't believe that. I've just unearthed this myself (so to speak). But doesn't it make sense?  That blue stone became something beautifully rare and healing to all of us.  Papa's intent was good. Papa's intent became our words. Papa's destiny is still evolving.
I want mine to do the same.   Don't you?
It wasn't so much what he said throughout the years to his curly-headed, hardheaded granddaughter that made the cataclysmic shift in my DNA; it was the unspoken life of a simple man too busy living a simple life he loved to die conveniently proper.  I want to die inconveniently improper too. 

I think I just found my healer

 While Papa harvested dust and clay, he fashioned a symbol of the world for a granddaughter he couldn't have known would ever even exist. Harvesting and working in the dust of those stones eventually led to his death. For him to pass this treasure on to me - to us - is surely more than coincidence. It illustrates how every single act we do on planet earth has a consequence, often far-reaching and seismic in nature. 
 All I remember was that he loved me and that was enough
He didn't have to say a word That is the power of words laid carefully round in blue Kyanite   

Jamie White ~ Washington

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Welcome to Blog4Peace 2018
Please visit each other and feel the power of this amazing day.

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Blog 4 Peace 2018 Participants

1. Mimi Lenox 2. Animal Shelter Volunteer Life 3. Princesita Parungao 4. Marlene Borst 5. Shannon's Moments of Introspection 6. Cora van Leeuwen 7. Silvia Hoefnagels 8. Crow's Feet 9. Michelle Frost 10. Welshwoman in Sicily 11. Sherry Blue Sky 12. SpeedyRabbit 13. The Gal Herself 14. rose 15. Laurie @ Meditations in Motion 16. Ned Hamson 17. Jamie White 18. Max Thompson - Psychokitty 19. Karen A. Thompson 20. Stunning Keisha 21. Sweet Purrfections - Dona Nobis Pacem 22. Just Ducky 23. Louie 24. Zoolatry ~ Words Matter: Dona Nobis Pacem 25. Diane Hasz ~ Official DJ of Blog4Peace ~ Connecticut 26. Broken Teepee

27. Walk in The Woods ~ Rosemarie Roast 28. Grant Us Peace (Dona Nobis Pacem) #Blog4Peace "Words Are Powerful" 29. “Words Are Powerful” Grant Us Peace (Dona Nobis Pacem) #Blog4Peace 30. Pat Bertram 31. Bluezy's Virtual Dumpster Diver ~ Texas 32. Michael Golch 33. Golch Central's Rambling Stuff 34. Everyday Kindness with Claudia 35. TinkNL 36. Crow's Feet in Scotland 37. barbara 38. Susie Clevenger 39. Thorne's World 40. Sicily Scene 41. Tinkerbell in the Netherlands 42. teleportingweena 43. Coco, the Couture Cat 44. Bertram's Blog 45. Jackie D. Rockwell 46. Jan Spoon mage 47. Julia Phillips Smith 48. Kely, with One L 49. Jackie D. Rockwell 50. Curlz and Swirlz, Life with Cornish Rex Cats... 51. Diane Hasz 52. Of Living and Loving and Coping

53. Nanna Aldrich Murakami 54. White Dog Diary 55. The Ladiez of Beaglebratz Manor 56. Two Spoiled Cats 57. One Gal's Musings 58. Blue Country Magic 59. Julie Schultz 60. The Horoscope Junkie 61. The Cat on My Head 62. Speedy the Cheeky House Bunny 63. Brian's Home Blog 64. The Island Cats 65. Friends Furever with Allie, Raz and Noelle 66. Write with TLC 67. Susan Sehi-Smith 68. The White Dog Diaries 69. Bluezy's Virtual.Dumpster Dive 70. Little Binky and Granny 71. Mama Pajama 72. Jackie D Rockwell Instagram 73. butterflysue70 74. Terra Toby 75. Meditations in Motion 76. a spirit of simplicity 77. Living with Loulou

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Peace Globe #10,330 ~ The Matriarch's Corner

 

 The Matriarch's Corner

Kathy Duffy Thomas

Original Peace Blogger 
30 Days of Love Challenge

South Carolina, United States

 She writes, "Maybe if we pretend that the rest of the people in the world are ours, we will love them.  And maybe that will give us peace."

Thirty Days Of Love Challenge posts HERE and HERE

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Peace Globe #10,318 ~ Crow's Feet with Michelle Frost

 

 Crow's Feet

Michelle Frost 

Scotland

She writes,

"This is the greatest challenge humanity faces, as our planet hurtles towards and unknown and seemingly unsettled future. We need to teach our world's children how to be peaceful; how to love themselves and others."

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BlogBlast For Peace ~ The Tablecloth

Welcome to the tenth year of BlogBlast For Peace aka Blog4Peace. We speak Dona Nobis Pacem (Grant us Peace) all over the Blogosphere today.
 I hope you have a wonderful Blog4Peace. Please visit each other on your blogs and see all the beautiful new peace globes flying around. 
Don't forget to sign the Mr. Linky below! We want to read your posts!
This is my peace story for NOV 4.


The Tablecloth

I never know how the story will end once it begins.
I only know it begins.
I get one sentence at a time.

The muse said, "Get your grandmother's tablecloth, Mimi. It's time to set the table."

Set the table?

Yes, said the muse, set the table.

I never argue with the Muse.
 There was something in the way the cloth hit the table as soon as it was laid....

My Papa would come home everyday for lunch from the furniture plant.  We could hear the whistle blow and we'd have exactly five minutes to finish the biscuits in the oven. If my grandmother ever burned the bread (which wasn't often) she'd throw them away and start all over. I saw her do that once and remarked what a waste it was to throw food away. But I knew from the look on her face that perfectly cooked flaky biscuits for Papa with melted butter was more important than spilled flour in the trash can. I remember watching him walk in the door, down the little hall toward the kitchen and being so proud that the biscuits were steaming hot and perfect, brown milk gravy in the bowl, crispy fried chicken, cheese, black-eyed peas, cantaloupe and iced tea. Sometimes we'd have vinegar pie.

  

From Maya Angelou's kitchen

Do you see this serving spoon?

It belonged to Dr. Maya Angelou. A wordsmith capable of stirring up change in a young girl's heart and one of my heroes.  She dedicated her life to the magic and power of words. When I was a young girl she reeled me in with "I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings." I've hung on every word she said ever since. 
Sometime after she passed away, I had the privilege of being able to walk through her estate which was being sold at auction. Being in her home among her books, furniture, paintings and the many rooms and grounds in which she lived was an amazing glimpse into her life. I sat in her den in front of a small bust of Gandhi which was also for sale. A woman of  powerful words and influence whose possessions reflected what she valued most. Peace. Love. The power of words.

But it was her kitchen that drew me in. Opening cabinets (soft yellow paint) and being able to choose a few utensils she'd used on a daily basis was even more important to me than the hundreds of books in the downstairs library.
I chose the serving spoon, a pressed cut glass serving tray, and a whimsical green flower vase sitting on the kitchen island top.  I use the spoon every single day. Each time I use it I'm reminded of the power of words. Her words. My words. Our words.  I explored the greenhouse and found a beautiful tall fluted rose vase.

Outside the potting shed door underneath the garage I found a footed topaz fruit bowl from Poland. I have no idea why it was outside or who might have left it there. It now graces the coffee table in my den. A few other small Christmas items came home with me. I treasure them because they were hers and because her words resonate with me, in the same way I treasure my grandmother's cloth and her white porcelain dishes. Each piece laced with remembrance you see, and meant to be used, not stored away in a display cabinet. 

 My grandmother knew how to set a table. She cooked by instinct, not recipe. She would have the dishes washed before the last tea glass was poured.  She knew what it meant to serve her family. White linen laid lovingly for Papa's lunch. 
White linen laid boldly with love. 

My two favorite quotes of Dr. Angelou's reflect our theme.  She said, "Love recognizes no barriers. It jumps hurdles, leaps fences, penetrates walls to arrive at its destination full of hope."

 I would argue that peace follows.

Maybe it's the place I find myself at this stage of my life. I know I don't have time to waste being cautious to love; I only waste love being cautious.



The past year of my life has been interesting. I had to knock down some walls.
It started way back in the spring of the year. Something inside me wanted to clear things out and make open spaces. In the yard, in the house, in my soul. I raked. I cleaned. I sorted. I prayed. I threw out piles of regret. Cried over things and people one more time for the sole purpose of being done with the crying. It was a silent and fierce  rearranging of me.

Then the joy came.
 I threw open the shutters. I stood with my arms wide open and asked the Universe to notice. I no longer prayed that God would send the "right one" or even resurrect the wrong ones. I started to pray that He would grace me with love - wherever that love came from. That he would mend my relationships. That He would give me chances to settle my scores and dig deep into the reasons I'm still walking solo in a world full of couplings. That He would show me what it is I keep doing to keep it at bay, why I reserve a little corner for doubt and end up unconsciously sabotaging imperfect relationships for the sake of some high-end unattainable perfection. He knew I meant it this time.
And that's when the easiness came.

Some sure kind of surrender happened in me.   I wasn't even aware of the moment it came. But suddenly a long line of wrongs began to right, an unruly crowd of bygones begged one more reflection, and people I never thought I'd see or hear from again in this lifetime began to trip over my corner of the universe and demand my attention.
And Lo and Behold the most holy and unexpected peace swiftly followed.

When you choose to be vulnerable, you choose courage.  You stand in your truth and you own. Whatever that brings to my life is enough.  Enough!  Not good enough, not settled-for-enough, not hammered-out-and-negotiated enough, not just enough, but ENOUGH....as in twice-baked biscuits good.  
That good.

I'd been holding onto a whole batch of burnt biscuits you see...not wanting to waste what I'd put into them. I had my reasons. I thought if I held onto them long enough and stared at their imperfections, it would remind me that I didn't need them after all. They would serve as a warning that scorched manna is painful to the touch, therefore, I'd never want to make another batch. That's a nice safe way to live, isn't it?


 But love cannot abide in the same kitchen as fear. 
Fear will choke the life right out of every biscuit you try to make.


So I took Maya's things and put them side-by-side with my grandmother's dishes on my grandmother's tablecloth on my own imperfect table close to the heart of all I am. Beautiful things from a world-renowned poet beside everyday white porcelain tableware from a kitchen of brown chicken gravy stains  spilled on woven cloth that once bore perfectly delicate biscuits. My kitchen merged with Maya's kitchen merged with grandmother's kitchen and before I knew it we were cooking up a storm.

Dr. Angelou leaned into the batter bowl and said,
"Have enough courage to trust love one more time. And always one more time."

So go ahead...
Burn the biscuits, mess up the gravy, tousle your hair in a wild tangled love. Then start all over again.
Be brave in the unraveling and retelling of someone's truth. Be brave and bare in your own. Open yourself to hear forgiveness and then forgive. Because strong love can only rest mightily and sure in the arms of a vulnerable vessel. And don't we all want strong love?

 Walls are built for keeping out.
 Break
them
down.
And I don't mean brick by brick, year by year, tedious by tedious conversation.
Knock them down
all. at. once.

Then stand back and watch what comes to you.

Now serving in the kitchen of Bloggingham. 
A spoonful of peace

Are you hungry?

 
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