writing
Part of the human family
She’s a complete stranger, but I saw in her a kindred spirit–wholly absorbed in the moment, bathing in seawater and sunshine.
Rabbits, rabbits, rabbits!
Rabbits, rabbits, rabbits!
My Nana taught me to whisper those words, like a wish, before jumping out of bed on the first day of each month. It’s a longstanding British tradition, carried over into the New World.
Like most superstitions, it defies all logical explanations. Absent any backstory, we’re left to guess its original meaning. Wikipedia’s best guess is that it invokes images of “jumping into the future and moving ahead with life and happiness.” I’ll take it! Unbridled optimism: My Nana taught me that, too.
Rabbits, rabbits, rabbits! I don’t know how common it is anymore, but I still recall a moment of quiet validation, when I first came across that phrase in a book. (In the opening chapter of Trixie Beldon and the Secret of the Emeralds, Trixie says “rabbits, rabbits,” but who’s counting?) I can’t say that I remember to say it every month, but I’m not discounting the possibility that it brings good luck when I do.
Rabbits, rabbits, (rascally) rabbits! Here’s to a happy-go-lucky August, and to magic spells that never lose their charm.
Joy in the morning
Greeting the day like this hummingbird: leaning into the moment, shoulders relaxed, and basking in the light.
Joy in the morning. ?
A precious talisman, suffused with story
This medallion commemorates my mother-in-law’s first birthday, 100 years ago today. It’s just over 1/2″ in circumference, so tiny that I needed a macro lens to bring the image into focus.
It’s 18K gold, handcrafted, the likes of which you don’t often see. But none of that matters as much as its personal value, which comes of the stories it tells…and the secrets it keeps.
Even at first glance, I recognized it as a religious artifact. Based on my Protestant upbringing, I assumed it was Mary and the baby Jesus. Familiar figures. Their crowns had a Western European flair, though, and the shape reminded me of the Saint Christopher medal I got from a “boyfriend,” back in elementary school.
Because of the crowns alone, I surmised it was a gift from someone on her father’s side of the family — Elysée was French, after all. Her mother, Mercedes, was a Russian immigrant. They were Jewish, as was their Manhattan-born little girl. So…hmmm. Was it a gift from a family friend, or from relatives who chose to hide their lineage in a fraught time, and who later converted to Catholicism?
So many missing pieces, I doubt I’ll ever know the full story. But when I posted these images to Facebook, my friends quickly identified the embossed figures. Our Lady of Mount Carmel is on the left. The Christ Child is sitting on her lap, holding a scapular. According to Catholic tradition, young children are often given scapulars of their own, in remembrance of their Heavenly Mother. So maybe the medallion was a special gift to commemorate Feast Day, which falls on July 16–just a few days before Gabrielle’s first birthday.
Image via sistersofcarmel.com
When Gabrielle gave me the medallion several years ago, I asked her to share its personal history—what did it mean to her, and did she remember where it came from?
Gabrielle, age 2
But time is a thief, isn’t it? It steals some of our most cherished memories, and leaves us to wonder about the talismans it scatters in its wake. And still, a century later, Gabrielle’s medallion is as beautiful as ever. It’s a cherished gift, same as before, but it has taken on new meaning. It speaks to me of an unbroken circle: friends first, and then mother- and daughter-in-law. My own story, linked forever with hers.
And it’s a symbol of the little child in all of us, whose stories are worthy, and who are themselves more precious than gold.
Lesson from an incinerated garden: Soften your gaze
Last week, a fire-breathing dragon swooped into my backyard garden, wreaking havoc.
It scalded these Meyer Lemons, which were just about ripe.
It was a relentless, record-breaking heatwave that scorched everything in reach.
Healthy leaves curled in on themselves, and turned crispy brown. Rose petals got singed, and assumed grotesque shapes.
This week is all about digging up and pruning back, salvaging what I can and encouraging new growth. From here on, it’s a game of wait and see: a budding leaf, the subtle lift of a drooping plant. I’m optimistic, for the most part.
A rascally rabbit has joined my clean-up crew–comic relief! Butterflies drift through the yard, laying eggs that will eventually replace the caterpillars that didn’t make it.
The urge to reproduce is strong, isn’t it? The need to set things right. But dreams don’t often translate into reality overnight.
Lesson from an incinerated garden: Soften your gaze.
In the heat of summer
110 record-breaking degrees here today, whew!
Our backyard critters were unusually quiet, save for the Monarch butterflies that drifted through the milkweed, laying eggs, and the honeybees that swarmed the birdbath.
Hummingbirds performed aerial feats against a backdrop of shimmering palm fronds. But they eventually called it quits, and retreated to the leafy shade of our Brazilian Skyflower.
A lizard skittered across the blistering concrete, looking for a dark, cool place to nap.
It was unseasonably warm, and the afternoon breezes did little to cool things down. But the blazing sun is fading now, ever so slowly. A warm glow has fallen over the neighboring hillside, and temperatures are dropping.
Ahhhh, time for a long, cool drink of water!!
America The Beautiful, 2018
GHAZAL: AMERICA THE BEAUTIFUL
by Alicia Ostriker
Do you remember our earnestness our sincerity
In first grade when we learned to sing America
The Beautiful along with the Star-Spangled Banner
And say the Pledge of Allegiance to America
We put our hands over our first-grade hearts
We felt proud to be part of America
I said One Nation Invisible until corrected
Maybe I was right about America
School days school days dear old Golden Rule days
When we learned how to behave in America
What to wear how to smoke how to despise our parents
Who didn’t understand us or America
Only later understanding the Banner and the Beautiful
Lived on opposite sides of the street in America
Only later discovering this land is two lands
One triumphant bully one hopeful America
Sometimes I still put my hand tenderly on my heart
Somehow or other still carried away by America
Independence Day is a raucous celebration of American history, and the cherished ideals on which our nation was founded. We throw big parties, our hearts swelled with pride. Fireworks and campfires…hot dogs and hand-churned ice cream…and oh my stars and stripes, the patriotic songs we all know and love!
But from where I sit, this 4th of July seems a bit more subdued. Aside from the televised performances, that is. I’m wondering if it’s because some of us are a bit conflicted about what it actually means to be citizens of a country that’s increasingly divided, and isolated. We are a nation born of immigrants, forged in the crucible of diversity, but in this gloriously Imperfect Union, it’s become a real challenge to find common ground.
This, too, shall pass. We are a resourceful people, strong and resilient. I’m a realist, but I truly believe we can rise above our current circumstances and become, once again, that shining City Upon a Hill. It won’t be easy, but we’ve survived dark times before and can do it again.
To that end, I was really glad when my friend Jama Rattigan introduced me to Alicia Striker’s poem, earlier this morning. It reads, for me, like a lamentation and a psalm. Perfect for today, because while it holds up a mirror to some very hard truths, it also celebrates everything that’s great and good about this country of ours. We’re still America the Beautiful, even if we’re somewhat harder to recognize of late.