I wouldn’t trade one minute of my life’s twists and turns, shifts and sags, highs and lows – well, I wouldn’t trade one hour (I might trade a moment or two – or maybe tweak a few minutes here and there --- but not much more than that, mind you.) Sometimes early in the morning, just after the sun has come up, I’ll sit by my front window and stare out at the lake or simply settle back in my oversized chair with my feet propped up on my faded ottoman and look about the room in a place I call, “home” and think, “this is what I wanted as a little girl, she whose head was full of dreams forever spinning.” The little girl, who was told that rooms like mine, in a building like this, in a neighborhood like the one just outside my front door, was not meant for “us” – whoever “us” was, but of course, I always knew. Yet, there I'd sit, holding perfectly still, allowing my mind and eyes to work a light filled room that is my very own -- one little girl’s dream come true.
There are more times that I can count when I have joined with women, who I enjoy calling friends and sisters, to chat and laugh or maybe even cry over tea, over coffee, over glasses of red wine. Yet, I remember the bullying and running home from school from a group of wild headed girls so not to get my butt beat on some particular days after school when I inadvertently showed off. Of course, I didn’t know it was showing off at the time, but was reminded later in the day on my way home. I was a good runner, and it turns out, a pretty good fighter when I was in the thick of it, which always surprised me when pressed; I was a scrappy little thing.
Through the years, I’ve donned my share of evening gowns and designer jeans; today I gently pat the grey hairs into place with a knowing smile and sometimes a wink to “Her” looking back at me in the mirror. Fading photos have shown a less than secure, lovely young woman, who didn’t have a clue much of the time how much gold was in them there hills.
I balance a couple of accounts and pay bills every month while grumbling that there is not yet the amount I want for doing something daring and foolish (yet again), but there it is -- a tidy sum magically deposited and available each and every month for what I truly need, and yes, often, what I truly want. It was in the olden days, when as a young mother, I would sometime lay in bed with tears streaming down my cheeks, praying for just one -small- tidy sum while the tick of the clock beside me reminded me that is was late and morning was only an hour or two away, without knowing how in heaven’s name I was going to keep a roof over my baby’s head, which, of course, I did, just barely sometimes.
And now there are the overstuffed closets, shelves, drawers, and boxes that overflow so that "things" must be shared or discarded. As a small girl, I would leaf through old Vogue magazines at my grandmother’s while sitting cross-legged on her living room floor pouring through old issues thrown out by Mrs. Rosenthal; magazines and books that my grandmother brought home for us both to enjoy. Those old, worn pages were my first inkling that there was more out there to be gotten, riches even. I had thought so; the Saturday afternoon movies hinted as much, but those publications made it all so real and so possible, even for the imagination of my little me.
So now, I say, “thank you”, once again – but this time to the collective minds and talents of three marvelous and gifted women – writers all. We have a book, yes, a book to add to our journeys’ not yet worn-out-bustin-at-the-seams knapsack. You know! The one we were each given when first arrived through that narrow passageway into the here and now. It just keeps getting stronger and stronger for some of us. Heck! I’m living proof and testify as I step in between the spaces of the good, the best, and the better of my life’s journey. I am confident that there is only love left behind for much more of the same that is not too far up ahead, if only because I carry it in my heart and mind as I step in between and around the spaces of this splendid journey.
There are more times that I can count when I have joined with women, who I enjoy calling friends and sisters, to chat and laugh or maybe even cry over tea, over coffee, over glasses of red wine. Yet, I remember the bullying and running home from school from a group of wild headed girls so not to get my butt beat on some particular days after school when I inadvertently showed off. Of course, I didn’t know it was showing off at the time, but was reminded later in the day on my way home. I was a good runner, and it turns out, a pretty good fighter when I was in the thick of it, which always surprised me when pressed; I was a scrappy little thing.
Through the years, I’ve donned my share of evening gowns and designer jeans; today I gently pat the grey hairs into place with a knowing smile and sometimes a wink to “Her” looking back at me in the mirror. Fading photos have shown a less than secure, lovely young woman, who didn’t have a clue much of the time how much gold was in them there hills.
I balance a couple of accounts and pay bills every month while grumbling that there is not yet the amount I want for doing something daring and foolish (yet again), but there it is -- a tidy sum magically deposited and available each and every month for what I truly need, and yes, often, what I truly want. It was in the olden days, when as a young mother, I would sometime lay in bed with tears streaming down my cheeks, praying for just one -small- tidy sum while the tick of the clock beside me reminded me that is was late and morning was only an hour or two away, without knowing how in heaven’s name I was going to keep a roof over my baby’s head, which, of course, I did, just barely sometimes.
And now there are the overstuffed closets, shelves, drawers, and boxes that overflow so that "things" must be shared or discarded. As a small girl, I would leaf through old Vogue magazines at my grandmother’s while sitting cross-legged on her living room floor pouring through old issues thrown out by Mrs. Rosenthal; magazines and books that my grandmother brought home for us both to enjoy. Those old, worn pages were my first inkling that there was more out there to be gotten, riches even. I had thought so; the Saturday afternoon movies hinted as much, but those publications made it all so real and so possible, even for the imagination of my little me.
So now, I say, “thank you”, once again – but this time to the collective minds and talents of three marvelous and gifted women – writers all. We have a book, yes, a book to add to our journeys’ not yet worn-out-bustin-at-the-seams knapsack. You know! The one we were each given when first arrived through that narrow passageway into the here and now. It just keeps getting stronger and stronger for some of us. Heck! I’m living proof and testify as I step in between the spaces of the good, the best, and the better of my life’s journey. I am confident that there is only love left behind for much more of the same that is not too far up ahead, if only because I carry it in my heart and mind as I step in between and around the spaces of this splendid journey.
1 comment:
I enjoyed reading "A Splendid Journey" and will purchase the book. DiMari
Post a Comment