I painted this on the first day of the Iraqi war and named it “Peace Bubbles.” (I sold this painting and believe it is hanging on a wall in a yoga studio in NYC)
Whatever traditions you celebrate this season, I hope your life is filled with peace, acceptance, grace, hope, kindness, joy and LOVE.
All the best to you, my blogging buds! – Carolyn
I blogged many years back and stopped. Maybe I didn’t understand it or maybe I just didn’t care. But I came back into “your” fold this past August because I was on a mission. I had a goal and I haven’t done such a good job achieving it.
But, as I like to say, “there goes that universes again” — because blogging has taught me things I didn’t expect.
I have to tell you. A few people in my life, including an attorney friend of mine, worries that “exposing” myself to the cyber world could be unsafe. That “many of those bloggers are not true to who they really are.”
If that’s the case with any of you, back up, Jack, and hit the unfollow button.
(But I think I “know” you.)
Unless I’m traveling, my world is a bit of a bubble. You know, routines and such. Not that I’m complaining. For the most part, I like my sac of familiar air.
But now I have cyber friends like you, who come from all over the world, who tell me through words or photographs about their life, and interests. Many of you share the same thoughts and ideals as me. And the ones who differ, teach me.
You are writers, strugglers, rebels, photographers, dancers, chefs, visionaries, travelers, poets, doctors, animal lovers, readers, humorists. You are mothers, fathers, new adults, aging adults, “in-between” adults.
And, here is the common thread: You are all thinkers who ponder and share the world as you know it.
So what’s not to like?
It’s not you. It’s me. I’m not so good at promoting my novels to make a “difference” in sales while sitting at this particular table.
But I like this wooden table. There is plenty of room for everyone.
And it’s round.
(And yes, it’s an electronic cigarette)
Looking for my book of poetry, I found this instead. It is my portfolio of art from my early years of painting. Here’s the cover and, the first page, and one of my first paintings. “Life is a Caberet.”
I wrote this shortly after my father died in 2009. (Happy Birthday, Daddy)
Dear Dad,
I write. My eyes blur. I see a cowboy hat with a cowboy underneath it. You’d say, “This hat’s worth a lot more than what’s underneath it” . We knew better each time you said it. You are worth more to me than you’ll ever know.
When I was in the Brownies, we went to a father/daughter banquet at the middle school and your job was to identify my feet under the stage curtain. I sat behind that curtain for only a short time when I heard you say, “is that you Carolyn?”. “That’s me Daddy” I said. You found my feet before I knew where they were going to take me.
In Girl Scouts, you told me I had made a fabulous speech in front of a large audience when in fact, I had stood there, a frightened girl in uniform, with all my words stuck in my throat. I was silent and scared, staring into the crowd of strangers. You were the only one who heard my silent words, like they were loud and clear and perfect. You said I did just fine. You made me not hate myself that night.
You threw that football with me in the front yard and always encouraged me. You taught me how to drive. You said to never forget where my break was.
You taught me how to love my dogs, how they held our hearts and souls within them, in case we forgot where and who we were. Thru them and other things, you taught me that your heart was sensitive and kind.
You told me bedtime stories, like the three little bears. “AND THERE SHE IS”, you’d say and I’d laugh like it was the first time I’d ever heard it.
And you were the one who taught me how to pray.
Just a couple of weeks ago, I was at your house putting on my hands wraps for my boxing class. You wanted to know how fast I was so you speed-drilled me by putting your hand up. Your past boxing memories were still alive. You were always in my corner, pulling for me, taking care of me when I was hurt. My Dad, my cornerman.
On Father’s Day while you laid in bed, I brought you the painting I had done of a cowboy silhouette. You looked at it and said, “that’s me riding off on my last sunset.” We all knew you were ready for that ride.
I believed you when you told me you would always look after Pat and I after you had gone. You said, “I always take care of my babies”. And now I hear you say, like you’ve said a thousand times before, “if I tell you a rooster wears a pistol, look under it’s wing.”
You didn’t plan the first part of your life but you lived it, felt it, analyzed it and learned where you were going next. You wanted a life with stability, you met my mother and you lived the next 6o years on a level ground. And then? When it was time for you to die? Somehow you figured out how to put all your ducks in a row and be buried on your anniversary. So Dad, when I get sad I will know where you are, together again with my mother, exactly where you are supposed to be.
And as your grandpa, Ike, always said with his sarcastic grin, “ well, aren’t you smart.”
Dad on right with his grandfather
And <to my son and daughter>: Grandpa would want me to remind you of a few things.
1. trust yourself and learn first to be your own best friend.
2. whatever you choose to do in life, make sure you love it.
3. take care of your money
4. <Son>, it’s not time to go, it’s time to dance.
5. <Daughter>, stay away from hairy legged boys.
And as I was laying in the front room of your house, the night before you died, I realized that the times you hugged me from the outside to the in had ended. From this point on, your hugs will be from the inside to the out. And I will feel them always.
You put the “spirit” into my soul, Dad. You were my greatest teacher.
And as you always said, “the cream in the pitcher always rises to the top.”
And there, you are.
With a love that never ends,
Carolyn.
(No Hill for a Stepper is my father’s story about growing up in the Great Depression with an abusive father. My dad broke that chain of abuse)
I have your number in more ways than one. The tour company gave us this card before entry into your country in case of an emergency. I kept it, taped it to my Mac, the one you will probably hack.
Although my husband and I had to be caged during our tour of Moscow a year ago last summer (not allowed to roam around on our own without the Russian guide, who by the way, was more informative about you than you would have liked), we tasted some nice vodka.
But Russia and President Putin? Don’t puff up just yet.
Many buildings, except for some like this one —
were beautiful.
President Putin, below on the far left, was that you? Trying to mix in and identify with your peeps? Doubtful.
I said, was that you?
I think it was very kind of you, Russia and Mr. Putin, to post these signs of caution.
WATCH YOUR BELONGINGS, your sign said.
Oh, if you don’t hear from me again, I’m under Federal protection. I’ve heard the accommodations aren’t that bad, considering.
You know that state when you’re laying in bed? When you’re not asleep but not awake, and thoughts or images pop up from seemingly no where? Do you try to grab them before they slip away and make yourself remember?
I had one last night. But before I tell you this one, I’ll tell you one from the past.
During one– in particular– in-between, I caught a word, a name. “O. R. -something”, last name “Ryan.” So, of course, the next day, I made a search of O.R. Ryan. I kept looking until Orion appeared. Orion’s belt? I’d heard of it.
I didn’t know anything about stars except to look at them! Like I did that night before.
The next day, after telling my friend about what I found in my in-between, he said, “Yes, you can see Orion’s Belt clearly now from your backyard.”
I had been staring at Orion’s belt thinking about anything but the constellation.
But Orion had thought of me.
Last night, I saw an arched light blue wooden door. From my perspective, it appeared about five feet away from me. Like Mr. O. Ryan, there was no feeling attached to this door. Since I’m terribly interested in my in-between, I searched for a photo. It looked sort of like this, same color, same perspective, but without the ivy.
This door lives in Ireland, not the top of my bucket list of places to visit, nor the bottom.
So now I’m thinking. Did I write a poem, some analogy about a door? If I did, I’ll find it.
When you hear the whisper of magic in your in-between, grab it. It will tell you something. You just have to pay attention.
Truly, hoo, hoo, are you?
Tell me.
I want to know.
Seriously.
Talk to me.
I’m listening.
Yesterday, while looking for something else, I found a poem I had written to celebrate my new-old parlor grand Steinway. Today, serendipitously or not, I received a FB post from a friend who remembered the party and sent me this picture! The party was 16 years ago so I’m a few years older now. 🙂
left to right: two of our friends, me in center, my hubby, and Will, our fabulous pianist for the evening. He is also the one who rented the Rolls Royce for picture taking.
I found a treasure instead. My piano, “Three-Legged Dog”, a 1917 parlor-grand Steinway piano, helped me write this poem for her coming-out, coming home party in 2000.
We celebrated her arrival in 1920’s costume and music.
She was born in Chicago in 1917, went to New York, was renovated, and settled in my living room many decades later.
So, here she is, my Three-Legged Dog, sharing her poem.
(I would scan the original poem but, I’m happy to say, red wine stains cover some of the words. So I’ve retyped.)
Well, I’ve seen a lot of changes
many looks on many faces
But I’m wondering what you think of me tonight.
So I stand here in my glory
many years and many stories
And I hope to shed for you a little light.
So looking back, we’re sorting
we begin the process courting
of a kinship to discover varied pasts
And I hope that you will find me
just a little more enlightening
than the accumulation of years gone by too fast.
My insides renovated
many hands participated
in the making of this body – Parlor Grand
I’ve been sheltered, I’ve been trampled
left behind and gently sampled
But I’m balanced on these three legs where I stand.
Have you seen me at my low times
or my even just-for-show times?
Can you tell when I need company by sight?
Let me do some rearranging
’cause the times, they keep on changing
So I’m wondering what you think of me tonight.
In front of you I’m standing
so proud of parlor granding
and though it seems you haven’t known me very long
I’ll keep us entertaining
for the years that are remaining
’cause the bond I have with you is very strong.
So, I’ll be here ready for you
and I’ll try hard not to bore you
I’m lucky and I thank the stars above
And I’ll be open, you will hear me
it’s my fortune if you’re near me —
CD-W, 10-24-2000
(or is this me I’m really speaking of?)
We are all made up of jigsaw pieces – varied shapes of experiences that combine to make us a complete puzzle.
You don’t think you are complete? You think you are missing pieces?
Do you toss a few of your least wonky samples on the viewing table, the ones you’ve buffed and coated in high gloss? The pieces you think are less vulnerable to share?
Perhaps today you are a one-hundred piece puzzle. Or a five-hundred. With additional experiences comes greater awareness. Tomorrow, you might be made of a thousand pieces that all interlock perfectly. Tomorrow, maybe ten-thousand.
At this very second, this moment in time, you are perfect.
Celebrate who you are.
Carolyn Dennis-Willingham 