On a night like this

A rainy night and I find myself reminiscing. One of the things I appreciate about this time of the year is precisely the way it makes me stop and just be. It’s hard to concentrate when the sun is shining, the garden is bursting with color, the birds are singing love songs, and the moon hangs so low in the sky one can almost reach out and touch it. But, on a night like this the heart can fold itself, rest in a cozy nook, and dream at leisure of past days and those to come.

They say that the first five years in a person’s life are the most important, and while I am certainly no expert in the matter, I humbly disagree. Every single day is important, they are the pages of our own  Book of Life. We may not notice, we may dash about in a frenzy trying to get things done, we may fall into bed numb and unable to utter a word, but our brain, our mind and soul will have stored everything: the color of a leaf, the sound of footsteps on the pavement, muffled conversations, a tune, a certain face, a glimmering moonlight. Then those memories will come, they will surface unannounced, sometimes in quilted fragments, sometimes as a whole, and they will arouse glee or sorrow, relief or regret. Every day is important along with the rituals they hold: making the bed, watering a plant, brushing our child’s hair, choosing what to wear, stopping for bread. How lucky to be able to do all that! How lucky to have a home to come to at the end of the day and be greeted by a smile, how lucky to prepare a meal, sit on a comfy chair, enjoy a cup of tea. 


I am listening to the rain falling softly, mixed with tiny, glittering bits of ice and I am tempted to make a list of things I'd like to do. For example, learn to ride a bicycle (a subject better left for another post) join a gardening club, and so much more, but for now I believe I will just sit here, focus on all I have, and be thankful.


Photo by Weheartit.com

Beautiful solitude

I have a small family and a selected, small circle of friends. I’m not comfortable in large crowds. I prefer a lonely road to a busy street, birdsong to loud human voices. In spite of this, I don’t consider myself a loner. I do enjoy the company of friends and meeting new people just as much as I enjoy my precious hours alone.


We come into this world all by ourselves and we will leave this world in the same manner and yet to many, being alone is almost a punishment to be avoided at all cost. I’ve seen so many people ruin their lives by clinging on to unhealthy relationships just to avoid being alone. Beautiful, smart individuals unable to be at ease with themselves, unable to tell the difference between being alone and feeling lonely.


When my children were small and while I was teaching them to brush their teeth and tie their shoelaces, I also taught them to look for joy within themselves and that, as The Beatles once said, “the movement you need is on your shoulder.” I wanted to make sure that when they grew up they’d be able to go to the movies, to a restaurant, on a trip, alone, and that the ability to enjoy it all was simply within themselves and nowhere else. They are both grown up now and it fills me with joy to see they learned that lesson well.


Being alone and feeling lonely... I hope that you, my dear friends, are able to tell the difference and enjoy your own company and that beautiful solitude.


Photo by Weheartit.com

Walking with Joy

A leaf fluttered in through the window this morning, as if supported by the rays of the sun,

a bird settled on the fire escape,

joy in the task of coffee,

 joy accompanied me as I walked.

Poem by Anais Nin.
Photos by Weheartit.com and Bing Images

Without a home

Photo by Bing.com

Once in a while, during dark, snowy, cold Winter nights I think of them. As I snuggle safe in my bed surrounded by warmth and comfort I am visited by visions of those who are roaming the streets, seeking shelter under a bridge, with a newspaper for a blanket, in the company of despair. I am referring of course, to those we call “homeless.”

Perhaps because of my passionate love for my home, this particular issue strikes me quite hard. Fortunately, in the town where we live there are no homeless people. I only see them on the rare occasions when I visit New York City and this is one of the main reasons why I avoid going there. I feel guilty. I feel sad. I feel uncomfortable. I know it’s not my fault but as a person, as a human being, I can’t help but imagine myself or anyone I care for in that situation. The mere thought is horrifying. So, like most of us, I hurry past and avert my eyes. I don’t want to see their pain, whether “chosen” or caused by greater circumstances, but the visions stay with me and will surface at unexpected moments with startling clarity.

Last year during a trip to Northern Spain I was awoken by a sweet, haunting melody. I looked out my balcony and there he was. A young man, his flute, and his dogs. I was in awe of their beauty and their sad reality and I rushed through breakfast hoping to see him so I could give a donation, but by the time I left he had gone. I don’t have to look at the photograph I took to remember the scene. It just keeps coming back to me.

Spain 2009

Just the other day, while searching the web I discovered Kylyssa, a freelance writer/poet and former homeless person.  Kylyssa not only talks about her experiences, including her multiple rapes, but especially about those who helped her. It is because of these individuals that she never lost her faith in humanity. Her writings can be found at http://www.squidoo.com/inspire_by_homelessness

Kylyssa’s post reminded me of something I witnessed a couple of years ago while riding the subway in the City. It was a cold morning, the wagon was full and everyone had the closed guarded look of the typical city dwellers. I noticed a woman holding a backpack, she would open the zipper, peak inside and close it, she’d muttered to herself, then do it again. During one of the stops a young man walked in. His coat was shabby and dirty and he was very thin. He sat quietly, absorbed in deep thoughts. When it was time for the woman to alight and right before the doors opened, she approached the young man and handed him a dollar. I do believe that at that moment, time stopped briefly as he looked up surprised and uttered a muffled thank you. She just smiled and left. I held back tears, I knew in my heart I had witnessed something special. A rare moment when a perfect stranger shows the beauty of love and compassion.

Braided beauty

Long hair and braids...

Memories of innocence,

of long gone carefree days

Memories of yesteryear when I was a princess...

and my crown were the flowers in the garden.

Days when life was a bridge I longed to cross

and the wind, jealous of my joy, would untie those silk ribbons

and my hair escaped their braided prison making me feel adventurous and free.

I did cross that bridge and in the haste my braids were lost,

but I found them again when my daughter was born.

 

All photos by Weheartit.com and Bing Images

A Valentine's Wish

I wish you bluebirds in the Spring

to give your heart a song to sing

And then a kiss,

but more than this

I wish you love.

And in July a lemonade

to cool you in some leafy glade

I wish you health,

and more than wealth

I wish you love

I wish you shelter from the storm

a cozy fire to keep you warm

And most of all when snowflakes fall,

I wish you love.

Happy Valentine's Day.

Photo by Weheartit.com

"I wish you love" English version written by Albert A Beach