Open Floor: Join Us For Happy Hour

Calling all readers! Yes you, if you want. Tell me about a moment when you were happy, so happy you could hardly see straight. You couldn’t have been happier if you’d won the Lottery.

A few months into the blogging last year, I realized truth and beauty were what I was drawn to exploring on this blog. We looked at some hard truths this year. Of race, culture, boundaries, loneliness, guilt. I’d like to turn our attention to beauty. No matter the size of your blog or whether you even have one, you are welcome to submit up to 50 words in answer to my prompt. That’s just a few sentences. Those who’ve featured here are welcome back. I will post my favorite responses with a link back if you’re a blogger. Remember, what strikes me will depend on the other answers that come in. If you find yourself spilling over the word limit, you can take it up as a challenge to save spit.

Send your snippet to holisticwayfarer@gmail.com with HAPPY in the subject and a link to your blog. If you don’t end up on the grand list you can always run with it and share your memory on your own blog. =) I’m working on the guilt fixation. I refuse to feel bad for the stories I can’t take. No one wants to read a list 100 items long. If you’re serious about stepping up on this platform please send me your best draft.

The window for submissions closes 11:59 pm PST this Sunday, September 28. Please give me a week to get back to you. Comments are disabled because you will write me or you won’t.

Love,
HW

Once Upon a Ballroom

Once upon a ballroom
they noticed one another
in furtive glance of boy and girl

“May I have this dance?” he asked
permission to step into her
space and take her hand

She followed him out
circled her hips
swiveled and he smiled.

1-2-3-and-4, 5-6-7-and-8
He knew there’d be more ands
to the eight count and the turns

East had met West, Mars wooed Venus
but she was a cautious goddess
He eased into rhythm while
she tried to study her feet

They triple-stepped to Bobby Darin’s
Sunday in New York where she was from

Who knew eight months would bring
them back to that room in tux and satin ivory
to laugh and Sugar Push and spin?
For better or for worse.

Though she never did get the Shag and Balboa
now he, he says she made him ambitious

Over the years He learned
to stand tall, say No
She’s come around, to say Yes

And still he does not ask for much.
If he listens he’ll make out her
Thank You in the prosaic
music of the day-to-day

They’ve tripped,
loved     off  key
shouted for a different song

They’ve forgotten steps but the moment
she asks he will jump
to dance again.


The Color of Make-Believe

What color is make-believe, you ask?
It is the color of time that never runs out,
the sun streaming over a land where
children are kings and queens,
It is the heart of Middle-earth

The color of Cinderella’s tears,
the color of beauty who loved the beast
Pinocchio’s lies and the virtue of knights,
the spell of witches and hope in the
Wizard of Oz, a magic carpet ride

It is the color of your cape.

What color is make-believe, you ask?
It is the color of Mom’s laughter unbridled
with burden, the color of ache
she buries in loving memory,
It is her morning song

It is the color of her wildest
dreams come true.

Words Between Mom and Boy, Part 2

At Six
First bite into food. Mmmmmm. Life is good.

At Six-and-a-half
How many odd numbers are there? Are there more odd than even?

Mom, how many people are there in the world?

Mom, how old is Count Dooku? Yoda? Darth Vader?

What is three minus four? What is 13-15? What is negative zero?

Mommy, I know what 1000 minus 300 is. 700.
“HOW did you figure that out??”
By thinking. I thought hard.

“Tennyson, you’re talking back to Mom.”
No, I’m not.
*30 minutes later*
“Tennyson, you’re talking back to Mom.”
No, I’m not. OH — Yes, I am.

It was one of those days. He was just one bottomless appetite. I told him not to eat the boiled egg we were experimenting with for science.
The egg vanished.
He came over and whispered in my ear: Mom, I ate my homework.

At Seven
Umma, how much is 100%?
“All of it. No leftovers.”
How much is 300%?
*
How to explain??*

Vocalizing his pleasure over the meal at the restaurant (yums and groans and all): Umma, I’m an expert at eating.

Umma, What makes God laugh?

Mom, is anything bigger than God? How many suns fit inside Him?

Aug 4, A barrage of questions ~
What colors do you mix to get white?

What color is make-believe?

Is there make-believe in outerspace?

Daddy: “Yeah, it’s called Star Wars.”

Aug 19
Boy: When you walked away [after yelling at me] my face got red as raspberries and I wanted to scare you [when you came back out of the room].
Mom: Oh, you wanted to startle me when I’ve asked you not to do that.
Boy: (Nod) Uh huh. I wanted to put my white sheet over my head and scare you like a ghost.

Confessions: Mismatching Socks and My Deepest Longing

She doesn’t look for her keys before leaving the house. When you meet her as planned, she’s on time. Out of the car bounds an active kid, shirt ironed, as his mother materializes with a rock of a baby in an easy arm. Of course Mom’s groomed. When did she have time to paint those nails? She greets you with eyes and a smile that say she pulled off a restful night and she’s good to go.

And then there’s me.

Last month on the way out to the park, I realized my socks didn’t match. I had grabbed the white one and the checkered brown from separate piles off the tired path out of bed. I didn’t want to go back upstairs so I shrugged and drove off. The disinterest in the impression I make in public is an offshoot of my young, willful self. I was known for the different-colored socks in junior high – usually one red, the other purple. didn’t see why they had to match. So the asymmetry this time wasn’t so crazy of me, only I am thirty years older. I plainly looked more off than like a trendsetter. The women I know match – even purse to outfit.

And here I am, one of those days. My plans, my body, my emotions don’t seem to…work. I’m a Hyundai from the 70s. Dang ignition’s sluggish and the car gets temperamental when she’s finally on the road. Why the overcast view of the week ahead, the brooding storm clouds in my spirit? My son’s laughter makes its way to me through a thick wall of emotional static. I want to really see him but need to clear my circuits. I pry loose the helpless confession. Discontent and fear. Not sure which wins out but there they are, wreaking havoc. I wish this were different, wish that came easier – and I fear they won’t. I redesign my life in my head.

The nerve. How many people wouldn’t jump for this life? But hold on. Can we say this? Can we compare lives like we do houses? We don’t know all the stuff that goes on in a home, in human hearts. We all have closets we keep shut, some locked. Apparently Superman wasn’t so special – some of us have x-ray vision too. Last week someone who had been very kind and friendly to my family decided I was too imperfect for her and her circle. The ax fell from nowhere. I’d had no inkling I had been under scrutiny, especially because I had not seen her at all this year until a week before she wielded her hatchet. I had never uttered a bad word about her or anyone we knew. In any case, I somehow wasn’t good enough for her. Well Super Woman, here’s some more ammunition for you. Days like this, I in fact do remember my textbook Christian answers. I’ve taught the Bible. I know who I am and Whose I am. And I still feel like a failure, precisely because I know better. It’s not low self-esteem. I believe we are all full of ego. Why is compassion something we have to work on? “Love your neighbor as yourself” is one commandment, not two. We are told to love others as seriously as we take our own needs. If only I were more grateful, really grateful for all I have and for those who love and need me. I could disable the discontent. I am responsible for the perspective I take and how I respond when life seems to move against the grain of my hopes. I ache in my fallenness.

I’ve thought hard, blogging the past year, about what keeps us shuffling forward on the journey. Hope. Without it, tomorrow is nothing and closes in on today. I disagree that love is man’s greatest longing. Unless you’re Daddy Warbucks, all your love for me won’t keep food on my table and put my son through college. Hope is the picture you paint in your head of yourself and those you cherish in a better place. Ironically, hope is what drives you in your plans to kill yourself. Yes, I dare say because I was there as a teen. Bottomed out, you are so miserable you trust that anything will be better than where you are. What gets us through our daily fears is the hope of a good living, a happy family, improved health. You keep on through another round of chemo, holding on to the brighter picture ahead. But it’s a deeper kind of hope we nurse. Assurance of redemption, that our sighs and disappointments will not merely lead out to fresh air that makes the vault of our past feel like a bad dream. But that we will one day see – whether in this life or the next – the storyline to our suffering. We want to see the writing on the walls of our despair, know that we haven’t lived senseless years. We pray God or whatever we trust in will make right the wrongs, show mercy for our transgressions and vindicate us where we suffer. I hate waste, of time especially, and remind myself of the truth that’s found its way as a popular aphorism. I don’t want to waste my sufferings. I listen for the lessons they have for me. Onward and upward? My God makes this possible because He wastes nothing.

Why I Run

You might run for the thrill. You sail into the zone, keep on like you’re under a spell. I wish it came so naturally to me, wish these limbs would move with knowing.

I run because I was terrible at it. And I’m less terrible the more I do it. I run to silence the aspiration for what’s easy. To teach my body to endure, hold on just a little longer. I run to meet my weaker self head on – conquer her on strong legs Treadmill2so I limp less under my load. I sprint for the fullness of being alive because I often forget how to live. I remember the power of simplicity. I jog to find my pace and cadence. I run to take ownership of myself and to stretch my reserve. I run to claim every day that is mine.

I run because good enough isn’t good enough.

 

See me wrestle? Why I Sweat

 

Carry You In The Rain

Your toe broke through the sole of your shoe. I didn’t want you stepping on the cold, wet ground. I put you on my back – my boy almost seven – and had trouble walking. A friend of mine was with us and we peeped our head into some restaurants, more like run-down bars, for a new shoe. We left the row of shops and stood on a threshold under the eaves, facing the pavement. I cradled you.

I would carry you in the rain.

You grew a few years smaller in my arms. As I asked my friend to cover your face with your blue jacket, you slipped into bed with me, pulling me out into the fresh, dry morning. The first thing you asked was what I’d dreamt.

Last week you mused, “I wonder what’s inside the sun, Umma. I want to see.” You expressed this so imploringly. Should I not have told you that you will burn? Should I have left you to dream impossible dreams? Did I kill your wondering?

The other day you took car tracks bereft of car and remote, and turned them into a runway for your plane. The delight on your face when that plane took off. And Daddy and I had wanted to get rid of the tracks. You blow me away. Life blows you away.

I forget why I keep you close, teach you at home. To free you to stand on your slab of questions and ingenuity, ready to run into the sun. I know that this side of dreams, there’ll be no carrying you in the rain.

 

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