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GREEN TOMATO GARDEN SALSA by Belinda M. Stoto 2021
I carried the last of the tomatoes up from the garden this morning all while admiring my strength and weight loss from such physical activity of organic gardening. Part of my success is being physically fit enough to prepare the soil, plant the seeds, weed, and harvest the crops. Summertime is personally my best time. I need very little sleep due to extended daylight savings. I support a somewhat cute farmer’s tan. I feel great, even at my tender dreadful middle age.
My goal today is to finish the salsa. I have been making salsa for days. I want nothing to go to waste plus I have some customers waiting for the salsa. Because I lean on the milder side both in taste and in my personality, in my mind I will purposely come out of my comfort zone. This year my batches of salsa are going to be the best, the hottest, bitching, batches of salsa that I have made so far.
I started early this morning hand cutting the tomatoes both green and red. Both have a different flavor and texture with their own unique purpose. The red tomatoes give the salsa juice and a saucy appeal. The green tomatoes allow the salsa to be chunky with texture and do not breakdown as easily once placed in the boiling canning bath for twenty minutes.
The tomatoes are the only part of my recipe I cut by hand, the remaining ingredients like fresh garlic, onion, jalapeño peppers are cut with my Ali Skid Cutter . I once had a customer who presented me with the Ali Skid Cutter as a gift. What a gracious person she is. This Ali Skid Cutter saves me precious time. It prevents my hands and fingers from the burn of the pepper oils. The Ali Skid cuts perfect small square chunks that look professionally appealing in my salsa. While chopping through the jalapeños with my Ali Skid Cutter, I feel a sensation of choking in the back of my throat. These peppers are just what I want. They are hot and strongly flavored.
The herbs and spices are the most important ingredient. I use only fresh herbs such as parsley, basil, oregano and cilantro. All with minty, aniseed scents. It is the use of herbs and some other spices like cumin that you will taste in my salsa , no sugar or salt preservatives added. The scents and flavors are strong, stinging to your senses and very compatible together.
Making the salsa is keeping me focused especially this week. I must complete it for this summer season and shut down the garden for the fall. It is time to move on knowing I have a writing assignment due in two weeks for my present writing class. To my advantage during hours of preparing the salsa thoughts about what to write about would enter my mind. One thought after another. I stop to write those thoughts down on a note pad that I keep on my kitchen island. I write those thoughts down a little at a time. A sentence here, a sentence there in-between the fallen droplets of juice stains from fresh produce on my note pad. I prefer to build a story based on a collage method. This means the thoughts come somewhat like brainstorming. I write them down. I then construct my story. This works very well for me.
When I first decided to write, I was new at it. I did not know my own voice, my own style or how to construct a written piece of my own. I started with poetry. I signed up and paid for a few different classes with different instructors. I wanted to be good at it. All I knew i when I started to write is that I wanted to write about women and gardens. I wanted to include middle age women with their added wisdom plus some of their personal stages and experiences they encounter in life. I feel empathy and compassion toward women. I feel that most women, especially in my age range keep things hidden due to lack of confidence. Maybe due to certain skills that were never taught to them or maybe the confinements of marriage and children prevented them from learning.
While I am thinking about my writing, I am reminded about a conversation I had with a previous female instructor of mine. She disappointed me. I told her my ideas in an email. My ideas of what I want to write about. I will not mention her name.
She emailed this response back to me.
“You want to write about middle age women and gardens? Everyone wants to write about that and no one wants to read it.” The email read.
I never replied back to her . I thought to myself, I have two daughters older then you. What the fuck do you know? I hesitated in my writing for a while thinking more about her response. I decided not let her stop me or keep me from my writing.
Gladly to report that my current writing instructor is a fabulous teacher and writer himself. I have had him as an instructor for the last 18 weeks. I have regained my confidence, improving my writing skills every day along the way. I never have writer’s block.
While I am working canning and thinking hard on my writing impulses, my eighteen year old son passes by me in the kitchen.
“What’s there to eat Mom?” asked Thomas as he looked into the refrigerator.
Those are his famous words ever since he was eight years old.
As he was peering into the refrigerator, I thought that I would send some salsa to college with him Saturday. Saturday is drop off day at Fairfield University where he will be attending college. What a great idea I thought to myself. He will like that. A little remembrance of home and mom of course. I truly don’t want to be forgotten, especially by him.
“Thomas, I am going to pack up some salsa for you to share with your roommate,” I said happily.
“That’s nice Mom but your salsa is very chunky, most people don't want chunky salsa,” he said rather politely to not hurt my feelings.
“Really?” I replied.
“I find that hard to believe,” I continued, trying not to show that maybe my feelings were slightly hurt.
“Kids like salsa from Chipotle Mom,” said Thomas.
“Hey Mom, remember all our stops at Chipotle while I was in driving school?” he continued.
“Yes, I do. I gained a good five pounds during your driving school days stopping at Chipotle for dinner, ” I said.
I thought to myself how happy I was to have shared that time with him then and this present time now.
“Hey Mom” said Thomas.
“What?” I said.
“I really never knew you were afraid to drive on the highway when you took me driving, you never acted afraid or complained,” he said.
“I wasn’t driving, you were,” I said as I giggled to myself.
“Put on the gas Thomas, you own the road Thomas, don’t let anyone intimidate you Thomas, merge now, gun it! I remember hearing those words mom,” He said.
“But,… I never knew you were afraid?” he questioned looking at me.
“Fear is contagious Son, I didn’t want you to catch it,” I said as my tears dripped over the tomatoes that I eventually had to rewash.
“You did a great job, you were rather wild mom. I can drive anywhere now,” he snickered.
“I am a little nervous to go to college. i will remember what you told me when you taught me to drive,” he said.
“Ok, so, no salsa right?” I asked.
“No salsa” he answered.
I smiled to myself reminded of the ease of our relationship. I felt his grown man arms extend out into that all too familiar hug and goofy grin that he often shared with me along with his little tune he would sing to me when he knew i was tense.
“Everything is going to be ok,” he would sing very silly to his Mom.
He knows me so well.
The Window by Belinda M. Stoto 12/15/21
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Every morning I rise early usually greeted by the glow of a pale yellow sky in the eastern horizon. i saunter down my staircase half awake to start my day. The morning is my time and very routine as I begin with the grinding of organic coffee beans. The unmistakable sound of my grinder echoes softly thru the house soon to be followed by the rising scent of percolated dark rich coffee beans. I have been told that no one makes coffee quite like me.
While plugging in and waiting for the percolator to do its’ job, I peer out my kitchen window. This window is a box window located above my kitchen sink . It is fully outlined enclosed with designer glass tiles that I selected when renovating my kitchen. I love the shine of glass tiles. These particular tiles have a slight thin vein of warm accent red color that strings thru them. The tiles glisten on a sunny day as the light of the sun refracts off them.
Every day my morning routine of grinding the beans draws me to the window. I look out . On many occasions I may see something that sparks my full attention. Sometimes I can see my red barn in the distance even on a foggy morning. I may encounter the moon as it settles in behind the clouds of the new day. I may see a deer with her fawns grazing or adorable tuxedo kitty I nicknamed Kee Kee . The black and white feline is a great hunter. She sits very still on the fence of my garden waiting for the movement of mice. Today I look out and I see the lite Christmas tree lights strewn around my wild cedars along with my evergreen wreath with it’s big red wind blown bow. The wreath hangs off the fence post looking a little worn this morning because Kee Kee has decided to use it to help sharpen her long stretched out nails.
Soon, the shortest day of the year will be here bring winter with it. I especially love a New England snow fall at Christmas time. The first sign of snow as the flakes gently fall is a favorite view of mine from the window. The surprise of an unexpected snow fall is the best because it is not planned.
My delight is when I take a moment to notice the flakes of a the first snow fall while they gently line the bark of the branches of the trees. The snow gently lands on the edge of the window sill. I never tire of the peace and tranquility of it. I listen while the snow birds will sing as they flutter their wings at their feeder all while the white layer comforts and warms the ground below. The winterberry peeks through as a reminder that there is still time. The holly is still prickly and full of life. Nature, it keeps transitioning under any condition. There are those momental mornings when I look out the window that I wish the smooth delicate modulation of change would slow it self down or possibly halt temporarily waiting allowing me to catch up so I don’t miss a thing.
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The Quilting Nook by Belinda M. Stoto 01/05/22
I felt like I was in the scene of a comedy movie as I was packing my Janome 8200 into its’ roll along travel bag. Who brings a sewing machine with them when they travel? I do. I decided this sewing machine was going to accompany me though I was uncertain exactly how I was going to accomplish this and honestly I did question if it was worth my effort of doing so.
The travel bag was equipped with a wide velcro strap that secured the machine tightly to avoid the breakage of small parts if perhaps the machine were to rock back and forth or flip to one side in the car. The travel bag was conveniently designed with several zippers and compartments for supplies such as threads, seam rippers, scissors, bobbins, needles, pins, fabrics. It also had a handle that extended and wheels allowing me to pull along the weight of this heavy machine.
I had to answer the questions of why I wanted to do this? Well, to me it was very simple, production never ceases at B’s BARN, LLC. I can be mobile if I choose. Also, quilting in Vermont, how very cool is that.
When I arrived in no where land, Jamaica, Vermont, I quickly scanned my surroundings. I entered the old renovated Farmhouse that was the rental for the week. I entered the Farmhouse through an original old wooden door that caught my attention right away. There is so much beauty in old things. So much wonder that goes on as I imagine what this house was like and what went on way back when.
I rolled my quilter in and quickly realized there was no appropriate nook or set up for my machine on the first floor. I hesitated at the bottom of the center staircase. Most old farmhouses were designed similarly. They had kitchens and center staircases that lead to a few bedrooms upstairs with a shared bathroom.
The choice of rolling my machine had ended where I stood. I retracted the handle and lifted my heavy machine weighing well over 50 lbs bag to the second floor of the house. At the top of the stair case I opened the first closed door of a bedroom. In the corner there was an old flat antique desk and chair with space underneath. Upon the desk , was a tiffany light. Because of the light, I knew there was an outlet with a source of electricity near. In addition, there was an old wooden ladder leaning up against the wall that would come in handy to hang my fabrics.
I was pleasantly surprised and delighted that I had found the quilting nook. I decided this corner would work perfectly. I went over to the bedroom window and looked out at the view of the frozen pond in the middle of nowhere. I gently set down the heavy travel bag and decided to unload.
The Spirit Of A New Year by Belinda M. Stoto 1/15/22
If I were brave enough to get myself a tattoo it would be an abstract artistic expression of a large gentle white poinsettia or a cluster of the same. What I like about this particular bloom and its’ color is that it is plain and simplistic and at the same time so classic, classy and pure. Today, I lack bravery for allowing myself to get that specific tattoo. I also would have to decide where to put it so instead I will settle on that flower being the focus of the theme for my first quilt of this new year.
Most of us equate the white poinsettia with Christmas. The yearly flower grown in greenhouses in Connecticut during the holidays. Similar to meaningful tattoos , the focus of the white poinsettia is said to be a symbol of good cheer, success, it is full of wishes and reasons to celebrate. As I align my squares, I thought of reasons to celebrate my spiritedness of this new year not by making silly resolutions that I have had a hard time meeting in the past but celebrate the spirit of mindfulness as I move into the future.
There are so many integrations of mindfulness that can be practiced that they surely can not all be all done at once. In this moment of laying out the quilt top the integration will be subtle with a full view of many white poinsettias. I will lay each square down and trust in myself, my very own intuition and my talents.
My discovery of the “window effect” of this quilt is meant to greet you and tantalize by exciting your senses. Peer through the window and look at the beauty of the clusters of a new year. Some of the clusters of this new year will be in full bloom, some will not , others may start to wither, show signs of stress, curl. and drift off their long stems. Those can be beautiful too.
As part of the human experience we crave beauty. Flowers do just that. They provide beauty, enchantment along with excitement of the future. This is the theme and the gift this latest quilt has to offer. Peer through the window into your very own new year with all its’ wonder and promises it has just for you.
One of the most challenging things about writing is knowing when and how many times one should redraft. Below is a redraft piece I picked to submit to "Farm Ish" A publication that I submit to occasionally .
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The Spirit Of A New Year by Belinda M. Stoto
redrafted 1/27/22
If I were brave enough to get a tattoo it would be an abstract artistic expression of a large pale white poinsettia or a cluster of something similar. What I like about white blooms is simply the color of white. White is the ultimate color of a bloom though many times it is often ignored or blended with varieties of other blooming colors. I find the white petals to be beautifully plain. They are gently simplistic and allure my senses .
Also, the white blooms of a poinsettia are classic and let us not forget divinely pure. I lack bravery for allowing myself to get that tattoo that I have created in my mind. I also would have to decide where to put it on my body so instead I will settle on the white poinsettia flower being the focus and also the theme for my first quilt of this new year.
Most of us equate the white poinsettia with Christmas. The yearly flower grown in greenhouses around the country and especially in Connecticut during the holidays. Similar to meaningful tattoos , the focus of the white poinsettia is said to be a symbol of hope, good cheer, success, it is full of wishes and reasons to celebrate. As I aligned my squares of this quilt top, I thought of many reasons to celebrate my spiritedness of this new year. I decided not to make silly resolutions that I have had a hard time meeting in the past but instead celebrate the spirit of meaningful mindfulness as I slowly peak and peer into the future.
There are many integrations of mindfulness that can be practiced. They surely can not all be all done at once. In my moments of laying out the quilt top the process of integration of white petals was subtle. As I laid each square down, I purposely used mindfulness by trusting myself, trusting my very own intuition. I also felt grateful that I discovered my talents and purpose. We all really have purpose but it requires a willingness to find it.
By using right and straight angles in this quilt, I discovered that I could present a “window effect” in this quilt. It is meant to greet, to tantalize by exciting certain senses. It is meant to give hope while peering through the 3 D allusion of a window made of pure simple cotton cloth. With hope I can simply look ahead at the beauty of the clusters that a new year with bring. Some of the clusters of this new year will be in full bloom, some will not , others clusters may start to wither, showing signs of stress, possibly curl and drift off their long stems. Those withered white edges of those clusters can be beautiful too.
As part of the human experience it is beauty that we crave. Flowers do just that. They provide beauty and enchantment along the way of our travels carrying excitement and anticipation of the unforeseen future ahead of us. The spirit of a new year is the theme and gift this latest quilt has to offer. Peer through the window into your very own new year with all its’ wonder, hope and promises it has just for you.
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Protect Your Heart by Belinda M. Stoto 2/09/22
As I piece together the squares of this heart center of my current quilt, I think about the theme that came to my mind while working on this Folksy quilt top. I am reminded that we are very good at protecting our heart. It is the vulnerability that the heart holds deep inside that we fiercely guard for without protected armor we are exposed. This exposure can feel like one of weakness and defenselessness. Or is exposure just fear of rejection? We worry that if we do not protect our heart, it can break into many pieces. It may never be restored or put back together the same way again. As I view this cotton cloth heart, I am reminded that there are many ways to piece a cloth heart together. A cloth heart made of cotton squares and angels can be mended. I can change the pattern or design of this cloth heart at any time. If I want to rearrange it until I feel happy about it, it can be done. If this fabric heart gets wear and tear, if it gets torn with age ripping at the seams it can be fixed.
We question the strength of our own heart muscle. We question what this organ has to offer us and the capabilities it has. We question what it will endure and if it will hold up for any certain length of time. If this heart muscle gets pulled or tweaked or aches, are we able to mend that heart?
Opening the heart to others comes with risk but also it comes with trust. The risk of a broken heart can not be avoided for if there is love there is always risk. Love can break a heart but it also heals the broken hearted. With time and patience, most hearts can be pieced back together.
Opening one’s heart requires philautia. This noun is a thing called self love. Self love may sound or interpreted as selfish but on the contrary loving yourself makes loving another easier. Self love is necessary for your heart to work well , it is also a necessary component for any relationship to work . It is simple and natural to accept the love of another knowing you are worthy of love yourself and mostly you are worthy of the good things life has to offer.
May this quilt wrap around you ever so gently. I hope that it sends a message to you that your heart deserves love . Your heart is plenty capable of sharing and receiving love in its many unique languages. Love is no set pattern but one that evolves and changes Your heart is strong , it is confident, allowing it to keep on loving and doing its work no matter what the risk. Feel the thud of each beat knowing you are in charge of it, protecting it, caring for it and giving it permission to love with all the risk involved.Let it beat, let it fire rapidly, wildly, excitedly, escalating the opioid, the pain relief for a heart that keeps on loving.
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FREEDOM TO CHOOSE By Belinda Stoto 2/25/22
Abstract quilting is my favorite quilting technique because there are literally no rules that apply. This technique is encouraged for anyone that may want to learn to quilt. What is needed is imagination, knowledge of fabric, skill, bravery, freedom to make your own choices regarding fabrics and a personality that like a bit of adventure.
With abstract quilting i continue creating my own patterns that evolve into quilting blocks, squares and many times a focal point of interest Quilting the fabric sandwich consisting of the three layers of backing, batting and quilt top , gives the finished quilt a fun patchwork or art quilt touch.
Quilting is famous for the use of shapes, forms, colors and texture to create gesture or expression. I arrange and rearrange cloth pieces to my own liking and then embellish by hand or by machine with beautiful thread. The threads I use vary from a cottony rough finish to a very silky shine all depending how they are made, what they are made of, what color dye is used and if they are twisted or spun. Every thread works differently quilting machine.
Sometimes, i may choose to use a pattern from a publication but this is seldom. If I decide to use a pre selected pattern I will put as much thought into my fabric choices and choose certain colors or textures that align with the specific theme of my quilt.
The Freedom to Choose is the assigned theme to my red, white and blue quilt heart centered quilt. This quilt may remind one of the Love they have for their country or that their passion of patriotism is an individual design within one’s own heart.
Mostly for myself, this quilt is a statement that resides deep within my being. I hold respect and certain values that I gladly remember my country stands for. I have not forgotten the foundation of that and I hold it in my heart. Mostly, I am reminded of rights and freedoms that were fiercely fought for . I recognize that other people in other countries value the same. The are strong, sending messages to all that they are willing to fight to the end for their Freedom to Choose.
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Practice Your Peace by Belinda M. Stoto 3/16/22
Peace is a powerful tool we all can possess within ourselves. It is a choice to act or a choice not to act, a behavior that one can choose to practice. A behavior that is predictable rather than not. The practice of being peaceful, seeking peace, or displaying peacefulness is not automatic or innate. It does not happen on autopilot. It requires training.
I was a teen when I first discovered peace, I identified with it by wearing my favorite vest with fringe that hung and swung, white patent leather Go Go boots and a rather large leather peace symbol that went everywhere with me dangling from my neck. I knew I was cool when I wore it. I paraded Peace with my personal accessories not really knowing what practicing Peace meant. It was never discussed in my home growing up.
I began to discover Peace even more in my own fashion as a teenager. In those days to escape a somewhat hectic household, I would venture outside. The quietness of a blue landscape would calm me all while taking a deep inhale of a freshly lit cigarette. I would form smoke rings with my mouth and puff them into the air while exhaling watching the white smokey ring rise and dissolve, disappearing into the atmosphere. Yes, unfortunately many times that is where I found and felt my Peace.
The desire to feel and develop Peace for myself came to me in better much more healthy productive ways as I continued through my life. Peace is evolutional, it gradually develops and changes while you change. I replaced the cigarettes and eventually found peace by reading a chapter of a good book, listening to my favorite music or watching a movie, I would also find peace hiking a favorite trail, all while inhaling clean fresh air . I continued to strive to find peace. Sometimes as a young mom I found it in the organic scent of my newborn baby and recently discovered it again while holding or rocking my sleepy grandchildren. A few more of my favorite places to practice peace is during shavasana or corpse pose at the end of yoga practice, the surprising promise of the holy spirit, in the methodical slow stitching of a quilting applique.
I continue to be adventurous in my journey to discover ways to practice peace all while developing a writing voice. A customized voice that I want to flow smoothly, sometimes sounding lyrical like music exhibiting expressiveness and hopefully it will deliver peace to another.
I must admit, I have yet to find peace in my golf game. I will keep attempting that challenge hoping that one day I may be pleasantly surprised.
Peace begins with each one of us, starting with a strong desire to practice it so we can obtain it. It is well within our goals and our reach. It is a persona that surrounds you that people pick up on when you enter the room. It maintains our most meaningful relationships with a commitment of love, understanding, deep listening, safety and happiness for one another.
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Garden Season by Belinda M. Stoto
I take a step inside the cedar gate latching it tightly behind me. A simple old beaten straw hat placed on my head to shield my face from the sun and vainly used to protect my hair from the sun’s natural bleaching. Rubber polka dotted boots are pulled upon my feet. My worries slowly begin to dissolve, dissipate, evaporate into the air like fallen drops of dew, they become steamy rising from the warmth of the heat. Those worries, they are not allowed inside of the gate.
I wonder about this living thing called a garden. This garden of mine always comes alive with color every garden season. It is full of nutrients that I crave. A garden is a safe house or natural refuge for birds, butterflies, ladybugs and the cutest frogs. Oh, and I must not forget a safe space for myself.
After a spring till, the earth emits the discharge of microbes and leave me with a lush bumpy open canvas. I am eager to get started so I begin to sprinkle seeds.
As soon as the sun starts to warm the ground I am reminded of this favorite season of mine. It is not Winter, Spring, Summer, or Fall, it is a combination of all. A climatic time of the year that I call Garden Season. Shades of color evolve as the weeks pass by. These colors are vivid and pleasing to my eyes. Colors of yellow sunflowers waving hello and goodbye, green vines climbing reaching for their very own light, red hot peppers that contain oils that burn and sting your tongue, brown dirt that somehow creeps up between fingers and toes, fat bottom purple shapely eggplant, round faced orange pumpkins, ornamental bumpy blue Hubbard squash and an occasional black Arabian Night Dalia just for its’ own very dramatic effect. These are the colors of the garden season are very similar to a simple brand new box of eight Crayola crayons.
Leaning over I am drawn to the scent of the return of perennial English lavender. I finger the dried blossoms feeling dopey and drugged from the natural relaxant that is released by the friction I create rubbing them.
I am free here, free to be a dreamer, to design, maybe rest until my heart is content and my peace of mind returns. Nostalgic I am, memories of my youth surface similar to a worm exposed by the turning of damp soil crawling to the surface. I feel young again, I feel the spirit here, I feel cleansed and redeemed. I pleasingly think about the bigger picture. The grand creation of what is known as our earth, mother earth.
This one creation every garden season, that I work at is my own creation. It constantly changes and surprises me. I love surprises.
As the blooms arrive so do the swarm of pollinating bees. They arrive happily just like me, ready to work steadily. I am in awe of natures’ orchestra, natures’ art. I find on the days I feel a bit lost, I am more focused in that garden of mine. Probably similar to the honey bees, as I listen to the sounds of their intent humming.
There is no judgement beyond the cedar gate. No one expects one thing from me. There is no social media, friends, or family bickering or political agendas that separate one from another. There is no right or wrong. Only, freedom, freedom to roam on my canvas full of color. I think about the thoughts that are mine. I childishly and fully indulge in the what is called the Garden Season. My muscles enjoy the digging of dirt, the warmth of the sun on my shoulders. My lungs are exercised inhaling deeply for me as a slight breeze cools the sweat off my brow and gently turns the metal windmill.
THE DAY THE GLADIOLI BLOOM By Belinda M. Stoto
I am not sure you ever knew that she kept the baby because of you.
“Let’s keep the baby,” said Eva.
So she did.
I laid on your couch after you picked me up from school sick. I watched you sew. Did you know I wanted to sew like you?
The summer day when the gladioli decided to open we went to your garden behind the farm house. You loved those flowers, each and every shade.
I followed you all over, even up the front staircase of the farmhouse. That was the way to the attic. Our trips to the attic felt like adventures. Sometimes it was very cold way up there from the windy chill and sometimes it was so hot we had to take water with us.
I like old things, your stories that went along with your precious items. You would tell me about our history, mostly your life. The love you still in your heart for my Grandfather William, you called him Bill.
“History is to be shared because it is important to know facts and especially where you came from,” you said.
“I met Bill on the Merry Go Round at a local fair,” said Eva.
“He was German and loved music, “she went on.
History is now important to me too.
I knew you were not prejudice, you treated people fairly. It was by the example you set. You excepted all types of people and their skin colors with one condition, they had to work hard. If they were willing to work hard, you agreed to employ them.
I remember you would whisper to me to be quiet as we passed the rented quarters in the hallway that lead to the attic. The farm hands were fed a good breakfast in your kitchen before their day began. They retreated later to their rented rooms for rest after a full day of work in the heat and sun. I knew to be quiet as you put your finger up to your lips to hush me as we passed by their doors.
I hated when you made me work hard in my own mother’s garden. You thought you had to monitor my daily chores.
You made me cry when you took me to the hairdresser and cut off my uncontrolled hair because it was too long for your liking.
“It’s naturally curly, you need layers to lift it off your beautiful face, “Eva said sternly.
I was not about to argue. You were only trying to help me get thru a really dorky pre puberty stage of my life.
I loved to test the limits. I got caught smoking. You greeted me at the door, my suitcase in hand. I was sent to live with you for two weeks that summer. It felt like a vacation for me. You never mentioned why I was sent to live with you or that you were disappointed in me.
I am pretty sure I was unable to tell you how I felt about you. At the age of 12, I just assumed you knew. Something was very wrong the day you pulled into my mother’s driveway telling me you needed rest. You decided to leave for Florida, you thought that was best. I knew you would never leave me on purpose.
I still think of you on the day the gladioli bloom.
HOOTS OF TWO OWLS
I glanced at the clock, it read 3:00am. I am an early riser but this was too early even for me. I recognized in my sleepy state that the hazy light in my room was the light of a beautiful full autumn moon streaming thru the large palladian window dancing off my bed covers in my room. I favor that window so much for just that, I never miss a full moon. Faintly, I heard something that made me stir. I was unable to fall back to sleep. I put my hand to my ears to readjust my ear plugs. The funny weird foam ear plugs that most insomniacs use.
“Hoooot, Hoooot” cried an owl.
The Hoot had a long drawn out vowel. It sounded over and over.
Again, a bit annoyed, I adjusted my ear plugs and thought about putting a pillow over my head to help block out this lonely sound.
As I tossed and turned, I heard the call of the owl over and over again.
“Hoooot, Hoooot “cackled the owl.
When will this annoyance stop I thought?
The lonesomeness and repetitiveness of the calls of the owl grabbed at my attention and brought me to a wakened state.
“What is this, sleepless in Portland?” I mumbled to myself.
I looked at my alarm clock again noticing it was now 5:00am.
“Go perch yourself someplace else”. I hissed.
“Go catch some mice. Isn’t that what nocturnal species do at night?” I hissed again.
Literally, I was talking to an owl. How do you stop a hooting owl anyway?
Insomniacs do not like to be awaken by anything or anyone disturbing that precious sleep. Memories surfaced while listening in the owl coo into the night. Many times I remember as a child, similar to the owl, I would call out to my mother.
“I cannot sleep mom,” I called.
She would lovingly allow me to rest next to her on the couch and watch television with her until my lids started to become heavy. There were other times, she awoke to find me standing at her bedside. She knew I had a bad dream and could not sleep. She would turn over and make just enough room for me to snuggle in close to her. That eased my childhood fears and I would soon return to peaceful sleep.
After two or three days of the calling of this owl, the hoots started to be consistent and regular. They would always start around 3:00a.m. and end about dawn. This was a very habitual creature for sure.
The lonely hoots gradually turned into soothing sounds to me. My heart started to softened for this fellow. The nightly calling eventually turned into music. I removed my ear plugs and let the music lull me back to sleep.
Until, one night, I was awakened by another sound, something different. I heard another higher pitched hoot.
“Hoooot, Hoooot,” called my owl.
“Hoot, Hoot, Hoot,” was the reply in a somewhat flirtish tenor tone. I knew it was a different owl altogether.
Two owls cooing back and forth. I found that very interesting and the sound so soothing and happy.
I immediately felt at ease. Surprisingly, I clearly understood how the first owl needed a companion to ease his fears. After that night all the calling, cackling, hooting stopped.
As curious as I was about this experience. I did some research on the call of owls. There are many species of owls with different calling sounds and territorial rituals.
If you happen to hear two owls like I did there are several theories and spiritual meanings that entail two owls communicating together. A connection with two owls if heard by a human can mean there are expected changes in your life.
Ok, well that’s been the last few years in my life I thought.
There is also folklore along with American Indian beliefs that the hearing of two owls can mean that it is time to protect yourself. The owls are warning you, calling you to act. This folklore continues with beliefs that owls are known to be omens to some and the call of two owls simultaneously is a warning of instability in life such as war, pandemics, natural disasters.
Hmmmm, well we did experience a Pandemic recently and a few natural disasters.
Another more meaningful theory I read about and what a prefer to choose for myself involving the witnessing of two hooting owls is that hearing the two calls symbolizes maturity and wisdom within oneself. It is a reminder to keep an open heart and embrace all changes whether good or bad. The changes are there to teach you.
Happily, I decided this relates to me, constant changes and learning my entire life.
People write all kinds of stuff, some write truthful facts, some not. Mostly, putting all my google research aside, I choose to rely on my own instincts and thoughts to figure out the conclusion of the theory of two hooting owls. I put a little childish and romantic spin on my story.
It is said that nature is the greatest teacher if you are open to the experience it provides. I believe the owl was a lonesome owl calling out for a companion during the night. The owl needed another owl as a friend. This owl knew that life was better with a companion then without one. A companion could possibly be relied on for friendship, additional safety and security. This owl was brave and quite a wise owl. This owl did not quit or give up until the call for a companion was returned.
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POST CHRISTMAS SPIRIT
It is quite a few days after Christmas. I see the pretty plump red buds appearing on my Christmas cactus knowing that it will bloom once again this year. I think about the real Spirit of Christmas wishing it could continue and last more than just a few celebrated days. I want it to stay with me into the new year.
My inherited Christmas cactus is very ordinary in the botany world. It is ordinary and special. It has been with me for many years. It is dependable. It never ceases to bloom. This cactus belonged to a family member who has since passed. When it starts to bloom it reminds me that we all learn to live with and accept loss in our own way. I trimmed the prickly plant back this year and given the higher temps this December, I was able to still dig into dirt. I decided to replanted it with rich organic soil from my outside garden. I knew if I added fresh soil, it would give the plant a boost of good cheer for the new year. My method worked well. Plants are very similar to humans . They need a loving environment and some refreshing.
As I observe these luscious pink buds, I feel a sense of renewal. I am looking forward to a new year. This renewal is a feeling of excitement I experience every new year. This year I will call it the Post Christmas Spirit. I believe the Post Christmas Spirit can live on in each one of us but only if we are open to it and make a conscious decision to listen to ourselves. What also exists in each one of us is the ability to cherish certain memories and traditions of the past. We can also invite some new year change into our lives.
This feeling of renewal started with my same old traditional Christmas cookie list that I whipped out to use for baking. That list is old and crumpled and extremely stained and worn. I keep it amongst the pages of the oldest cookbook I have so I remember where it is when I go looking for it. This year I deliberately left out the recipe for a delicious Italian cookie also known as “Doody” cookies. The cookies are richly filled with chocolate, spices such as nutmeg, cloves, cinnamon and walnuts. The reason why I left this recipe out is simple. I wanted to try something new plus I am not Italian. As a tradition, I made these Italian cookies every year for other people’s traditions which in time turned into my traditions which is truly a nice sentiment. This Christmas season I decided to try something new and different. I found a Gingerbread cookie recipe on facebook call Starry Night Gingerbread cookies. Gingerbread history evolves from England and Germany just like myself. I did not have the Molasses the recipe called for so I improvised with pure maple syrup. The cookies turned out moist and delicious. I was intrigued by this recipe and happy that I decided to try it. I even purchased the special Starry Night cookie presses that were recommended.
This year for the candlelight service, I sat in my traditional Lutheran Church on Christmas Eve. I enjoyed it very much. It was warm, comforting, and the alter held beautiful red and white poinsettias. Again, I thought of some of my close relatives. Some are still alive and some are now gone. I felt a deep sense of peace. I was thankful for the family members that thought enough of me to hang in there, also to raise me believing. I realized I go to Christmas Eve service so I don’t forget the tradition of the old Lutheran Liturgy that I was raised with. German Lutheran Liturgy is full of weird sad music. What never changes is the old Christmas Carols that are sung usually accompanied by an amazing pipe organ. I enjoy this tradition of Christmas Carols sung on Christmas Eve. Again, I go to remember that tradition is important and necessary. It provides one with the sense of history, belonging, safety, security, but not necessarily growth.
I have now decided over the years that I am more spiritual then religious, I am happy to say I can sit in any pew of any denomination, take communion, feel the presence of the holy spirit wherever I plant myself because I know that I belong to something much bigger in life . I am so worthy of that. I am not elite or special in anyway because of a religious belief, I am ordinary but special just like my cactus. I believe the spirit finds you if you are open to it. It can be inside familiar walls with stained glass or it can be outside in the garden soil, at the sewing machine or in cold temperatures helping to warm and feed the unhoused. Traditions are a way to celebrate who we are and proof of this but there is so much more to experience and spirit is found in every new gift that is given or received. My Post Christmas Spirit can be described as any new adventure, a new quilt design or a new circumstance that may arise, good or bad, as we enter into another year of unknown. The unknown is scary. The Post Christmas Spirit is the offset of the unknown, it is about newness and the peace that can exist within each one of us.
I will definitely go back to baking those Italian doody cookies even though I took this year off from doing so. Those cookies will sit amongst the delightful spread that my family loves to eat and along with the Chocolate Italian Doody cookies they will see the Gingerbread Starry Night cookies . The recipe is now added to my crumpled old list.
I look forward to a new year and the new things that will come along with it. Those new things may look something like a new friendship that encourages vulnerability, picking up a new book to read that I never would have chosen in the past, listening to new music, reflecting on the power of forgiveness, planting a new flower and watching it bloom, taking on the challenge of learning a new yoga pose or mantra, carrying kindness and love forward even if relationships are uncomfortable or have changed. I know my Post Christmas Spirit has incredible power. It allows me the ability to do all of these things plus more. It also has the ability to help heal our very troubled world in incredible ways which may be unknown and eventually new to us. That is how this Post Christmas Spirit thing works .
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AMIDST GRIEF
Very few times did I recognize what it really was. I kept on going on to the next thing in life. That is what we do, we don’t want to let those uncomfortable feelings of grief rise to the surface to stop us. Why do we do this? I believe it is because of fear. Fear is the reason for stuffing feelings. Fear is the catalyst that helps to keep certain feelings descending until they are completely submerged somewhere safe below the surface. We think if we refuse to deal with those feelings or if we are lucky enough maybe those feelings will go away. Society insists that one must be ok, be perfect, be well, be happy, and snap do it quickly or something may be wrong with you!?
I opened the bag, filled with his clothes. I recognized my own familiar feelings of sorrow combined with my own memories while lifting his clothes out of the bag and gently laying them on my sewing room table. Grief is no stranger to me. The impact of grief lightens with time but the memories never completely fade. I knew that if I made this quilt, that the purpose for the quilt would eventually be part of someone’s healing process. It would provide the memories they will eventually look forward to and possibly need. A quilt is tangible. It can be held in one’s hands or wrapped around shoulders, maybe laid on a favorite chair or at the bottom of a bed. My own grief experiences are gently threaded throughout the hand cut t shirt squares that I will piece together and eventually bind into this bereavement quilt.
Each item was clean as I gently lifted them out of the bag. They were folded nicely and smelled as if they were freshly washed and preserved. I felt the love that existed in this bag of t shirts. I could tell the deceased was well cared for.
Some of the t shirts were hardly worn and others were thinning and rather tattered and stretched out. The tattered NY Yankee t shirts were the hardest to work with but very necessary. Those I knew were the favorites he wore over and over. The stretched t shirt knits were the ones that offered and exposed part of his personality with me. These worn knits were the ones he loved and wore so often that they were limp and could now be used as rags. I knew those were the ones that made him feel happy and comfortable.
Grief is strange. It is very personal. There is no instruction manual, no pattern to follow, or an accurate time limit on grief that can be googled or searched for on the internet. We do not know when it will be used up or complete. Grief is an unwanted guest that revisits and eventually resides within us transforming immense pain into memories. Those memories can be good or they can be bad. Grief can be described as love. Love that existed, love that was given freely or love that was held back. I found grief to be angry, ugly, anything but love but I was wrong, it was I who was angry and ugly. I let go of that but only when enough time allowed me to do that. Grief incorporates any loss that is significant not just in death but grief can be found in the mourning of a lost job, lost home, lost relationship, loss of purpose, loss of youth, loss of health, loss of identity.
As I think about the bereavement quilt design in my mind, I am reminded grief is real and lingers amidst the living daily. It is similar to an enemy or like an annoying friend that we wish would go away but eventually learn to live with. Grieving is suffering that can in turn over time and healing produce empathy and compassion. I myself have wanted to run from grief. No matter how fast or how far I ran, it always caught up with me and tagged me sooner or later. There is no way to escape or run around it but rather you have to run at your own pace and get through the ribbon at the finish line. I have had the good fortune of loving people that helped me through the processes of grief when I needed it. I in return feel the desire to do that for another through my hands by quilting. I may not personally know you but I do know you. The message is this…I have been there, I understand. You are no different than I, we are human and vulnerable and guess what, we need one another.
It is through the art of quilting that I find my personal bereavement journey continues and reaches another. This journey has ultimately for myself immersed as joy, fond memories, comfort, healing, and individually designed for one purpose… to love…to love another enough… to make that choice and say “yes, I do care” although the words may never be said out loud, they are released and known, they are felt by another.
The pieces of fabric or of self that are most tattered are the most challenging to put back together. Those delicate scattered pieces of our lives can be altered by securely sewing them back together. They are once again revived, similar to the one who I hope finds revival and comfort from my quilt.