Where do you find your inspiration?

For me, it came from looking at a photo in my cell phone that I liked, and thinking about what words came to me as I looked at it.

The lotus was so still, while all the colors swirled around it……it was the still point at the center.

Finding your creative voice – whether it’s photography, poetry, singing, dancing….whatever it is…..is a sacred step on this path we call life. Because to engage in any creative expression means that you’re finding something that’s true for you and focusing on that. It brings you into the present moment, and into sacred relationship with Creation.

For me, this is one of the most immediate and rewarding way to de-stress. Try it, and let me know how it works for you!

This is for my long deceased mother….for all the things left unsaid. For all the ways we each tried, and failed, to reach each other…..and for those brief, but glorious moments when we did.

You once told me that the first time your mother – my “meema” – saw me, her first words were “Just like me!”

You were angry at that. I was your child – not hers! But didn’t her genetics flow through you, and eventually to me – with some major differences? Your closet was filled with beautiful clothes, still scented with Chanel No, 5….your shoes lined up neatly under your dresses. Your cigarettes and pearls, your polished nails and fur coat…your love of French, and your devotion to pronouncing the names of countries and cities the way the native speakers would: “We went to Chee-lay”, you would tell a neighbor who inquired about our recent trip to South America.

In my closet there were a few dresses and some skirts for school, but the moment I got home I shed them in favor of my jeans and tee shirts. “Put some shoes on!”, you would shout at me as I ran to the kitchen for the 3 Oreo cookies I was allowed.

You taught me how to walk like a model, and then raved at me when you suspected that I had had sex with my boyfriend. “Why don’t you go off and get married and get laid!“, you shouted at me as you shoved his letter into my hands. I ran, red-faced and crying, up to my bedroom.

You terrified me.

Was I like Meema? My sister’s friend told me that I always had strong ideas, even as a child. Did you see Meema in me? She died when I was 5 years old, so I have only a vague memory of her as being old and sick. But I know, from the stories of her, that she was a force of nature. Did I terrify you with my strong ideas, just as she did with hers?

And yet, one evening after you got done cleaning and bandaging Dad’s foot as I watched, we both retreated to my bedroom. I wordlessly handed you a tissue, took one myself, and we both just sat there and cried. His illness had been going on for years and showed no signs of slowing down. You were exhausted. You bandaged his foot twice a day, and the act of leaning over the bed to do this was beginning to strain your back. This man, who you loved with your heart and soul, was not getting better. The doctors were recommending amputation. 

And I, at 14 years of age, watched as my mom bravely bandaged my dad’s foot twice a day, and my dad got up every morning, showered, shaved, put a rosebud in the lapel of his suit and went off to work.

After about 5 minutes of crying we were both exhausted and stood up. We hugged, and you wordlessly left the room. I went back to doing my homework.

Many years later, after you and dad sold the home your children grew up in and moved to Florida, I came to visit. I was living with Bob then – the man who would eventually become my husband. Dad and I went to the beach together. We sat and talked for over an hour. He wanted to know why we weren’t married. I did my best to explain to him how I felt, and when I was done he simply said “Well, I don’t agree with you, but you’re my daughter and I love you.”

The only thing you asked me about was a description of the house we lived in. I drew out a floor plan of the house on a piece of paper. And that was it. Not one question about me, or my feelings. Just the floor plan of the house.

On my final day of that visit, when you and I were saying goodbye at the front door while the taxi waited, we hugged. Just as I was turning to walk to the taxi you said to me “I hope you find the dignity you deserve.” It was an Easter Sunday. I put my luggage into the trunk of the taxi and cried all the way to the airport.

After dad died, I came to visit you. We sat in the living room watching TV. I don’t remember what it was that you got mad at that time, but I decided to retreat to the bedroom. I said good night. “Bon soir”, you sang out as I left. I washed up, got into my nightgown, turned out the light and curled up under the covers. 

A few minutes later you opened the door. Standing there in your blue robe, silhouetted against the hall light, your chin slightly raised and your arms folded across your chest, you said “I don’t understand.”

I waited.

I don’t recall exactly what you said next, but I remember saying “You seem so angry, mom.”

“I am enraged!!!!” you shouted, almost turning purple, your fists clenched.

Without thinking, I got out of bed, walked over to you and put my arms around you. At first you stood there, rigid. Then you slowly lifted one arm and put it around my waist. And after a minute, you put the other one around me, and we stood there, holding each other and crying. 

That was the last time I remember you being angry with me. 

As you lay dying in the hospital bed in your living room, I held your hand, my fingertips lightly pressing on your wrist, feeling your pulse. I had been afraid of being there when it happened, not wanting to feel the finality of it. But as I held your hand, your pulse suddenly took off like a bird, flying away into a sky I couldn’t see….slowly, slowly disappearing into the early morning light. Good bye….good bye…..I love you…..Good bye…

This is for my long deceased mother….for all the things left unsaid. For all the ways we each tried, and failed, to reach each other…..and for those brief, but glorious moments when we did.

You once told me that the first time your mother – my “meema” – saw me, her first words were “Just like me!”

You were angry at that. I was your child – not hers! But didn’t her genetics flow through you, and eventually to me – with some major differences? Your closet was filled with beautiful clothes, still scented with Chanel No, 5….your shoes lined up neatly under your dresses. Your cigarettes and pearls, your polished nails and fur coat…your love of French, and your devotion to pronouncing the names of countries and cities the way the native speakers would: “We went to Chee-lay”, you would tell a neighbor who inquired about our recent trip to South America.

In my closet there were a few dresses and some skirts for school, but the moment I got home I shed them in favor of my jeans and tee shirts. “Put some shoes on!”, you would shout at me as I ran to the kitchen for the 3 Oreo cookies I was allowed.

You taught me how to walk like a model, and then raved at me when you suspected that I had had sex with my boyfriend. “Why don’t you go off and get married and get laid!“, you shouted at me as you shoved his letter into my hands. I ran, red-faced and crying, up to my bedroom.

You terrified me.

Was I like Meema? My sister’s friend told me that I always had strong ideas, even as a child. Did you see Meema in me? She died when I was 5 years old, so I have only a vague memory of her as being old and sick. But I know, from the stories of her, that she was a force of nature. Did I terrify you with my strong ideas, just as she did with hers?

And yet, one evening after you got done cleaning and bandaging Dad’s foot as I watched, we both retreated to my bedroom. I wordlessly handed you a tissue, took one myself, and we both just sat there and cried. His illness had been going on for years and showed no signs of slowing down. You were exhausted. You bandaged his foot twice a day, and the act of leaning over the bed to do this was beginning to strain your back. This man, who you loved with your heart and soul, was not getting better. The doctors were recommending amputation. 

And I, at 14 years of age, watched as my mom bravely bandaged my dad’s foot twice a day, and my dad got up every morning, showered, shaved, put a rosebud in the lapel of his suit and went off to work.

After about 5 minutes of crying we were both exhausted and stood up. We hugged, and you wordlessly left the room. I went back to doing my homework.

Many years later, after you and dad sold the home your children grew up in and moved to Florida, I came to visit. I was living with Bob then – the man who would eventually become my husband. Dad and I went to the beach together. We sat and talked for over an hour. He wanted to know why we weren’t married. I did my best to explain to him how I felt, and when I was done he simply said “Well, I don’t agree with you, but you’re my daughter and I love you.”

The only thing you asked me about was a description of the house we lived in. I drew out a floor plan of the house on a piece of paper. And that was it. Not one question about me, or my feelings. Just the floor plan of the house.

On my final day of that visit, when you and I were saying goodbye at the front door while the taxi waited, we hugged. Just as I was turning to walk to the taxi you said to me “I hope you find the dignity you deserve.” It was an Easter Sunday. I put my luggage into the trunk of the taxi and cried all the way to the airport.

After dad died, I came to visit you. We sat in the living room watching TV. I don’t remember what it was that you got mad at that time, but I decided to retreat to the bedroom. I said good night. “Bon soir”, you sang out as I left. I washed up, got into my nightgown, turned out the light and curled up under the covers. 

A few minutes later you opened the door. Standing there in your blue robe, silhouetted against the hall light, your chin slightly raised and your arms folded across your chest, you said “I don’t understand.”

I waited.

I don’t recall exactly what you said next, but I remember saying “You seem so angry, mom.”

“I am enraged!!!!” you shouted, almost turning purple, your fists clenched.

Without thinking, I got out of bed, walked over to you and put my arms around you. At first you stood there, rigid. Then you slowly lifted one arm and put it around my waist. And after a minute, you put the other one around me, and we stood there, holding each other and crying. 

That was the last time I remember you being angry with me. 

As you lay dying in the hospital bed in your living room, I held your hand, my fingertips lightly pressing on your wrist, feeling your pulse. I had been afraid of being there when it happened, not wanting to feel the finality of it. But as I held your hand, your pulse suddenly took off like a bird, flying away into a sky I couldn’t see….slowly, slowly disappearing into the early morning light. Good bye….good bye…..I love you…..Good bye…