stumbling towards ecstasy

 

 i remember

that last frozen grey morning.

all my friends 

 waking to familiar belonging,

our hands and laughter

 all tied up in the patted roundness of

a single snowman.

beneath the enormity of night,

 morning waved stark white sheets in cold wind.

 they clapped like thunder

as life threw a dark ribbon of pavement 

before us. 

we were gone before 

the last star disappeared.  before

anyone woke with a pounding red thrill in their hearts 

to return to each other

and all that 

snow.

 

connecticut for california

in the half dark morning.

i leaned across the back seat to

watch life as i knew it,  grow smaller and smaller

retreating from the dark window like a silver necklace pulled from view.

strange how fast everything

we know can

disappear.

 

 

 tennesse.

look out mountain,

 pockets full of arrowheads

waiting in musky drawers. 

 old train tracks blowing past  

the textile mill grandfather managed

all of his working life, never missing a single day.

 my father rolled our car to a slow stop.

he looked so fondly up to the window of his youth.

 something filled his voice,  thickening it like honey in water.

words so golden with bright longing,

they formed stairs that took him back,

so perfectly back.

"we use to walk past these tracks after school

and stand right below 

that window where dad worked.

he always knew when we would go by and 

threw us coins...copper, that rained down to jangle and bounce

like a hard summer rain at our feet.

we scrambled for them and flew off waving goodbye 

for the soda fountain and penny candy".

grandmother.

 her never cut hair in a halo of braids round

and round the crown of her head.

her kitchen, enormous,

as were her meals.

 together at the round oak table

where all her now grown children once labored over homework,

celebrated birthdays,

and when times were lean,

hoped for the last piece of corn bread.

every christmas

an old round tin arrived from that

chattanooga kitchen all tangled up with the smell

of time, wrapped in brown paper,

tied with tired

twine.

 

for as long as she lived,

they arrived like the last chorus to an ancient song.

her handwriting on the brown paper

wore away the years

until it barely recognized itself.

fruitcake dense with the work of her hands,

pecans from her trees.

trees where my brother and i fed squirrels

kneeling together, quiet for the chance.

almost like a prayer,

beside the long covered porch on the edge of memory,

we had to leave too.

 

 endless road stops, the unfolding and refolding of maps,

sibling quarrels, car games,

 a sketchbook within reach to draw pictures

of what i was sure waited.....

 open windows without screens,

begging me to reach out and pick from the 

abundance of always blooming flowers.

warm night air whispering 

under the hem of stars.

 a new neighborhood 

to wake up in the 

company of

friends.

 

california.

sarah jane and her husband dan.

ancient, childless relatives on my mother's side.

we filled their san diego bungalow 

with the clamor of family life, as our house was built.

she filled my hands with needle and thread,

 the endless possibilities of imagination, cloth, and creation.

she filled my heart with the miracle of making,

the grace of sharing, the mercy of caring.

 

for one languid summer,

i lost myself in the sanctuary of their yard.

where abalone shells nested in the roots of fragrant trees

...that tossed their white flowers

spilling over me, over me...

the iridescent shell pools catching the warm air,

the tiny flowers...

the quiet voice of  solitary yesterdays.

where life held me suspended like a bookmark between chapters,

while sarah jane embossed my heart in the perfect art of being there.

before i dove once again, flat out into the gregarious life of growing up.

 

 

sarah jane

 i will never know

who needed the other more,

the childless wife or the friendless child.

but i  know this.

she was the open window, the warm air. she was the abundance

of always blooming flowers.

she was shelter and love that never left me,

kindness, mercy and compassion on

 my stumble to belonging.

***

i want to thank everyone whose hands are all tied up in the

making of my life.

 

 thanks too for the black and white photographs

that helped me share these memories.

i hope you will click on each one and marvel at the 

exquisite work of their hands and eyes. 

***

now, please tell me, where did your stumble take you?

 

Comments

[adrienne]

a plague has fallen upon our house. but i am here.

xo

[deb taylor]

Today I am stumbling towards the edge of the sea...Rebecca, this is such a beautiful post...I am going to read it again, and again!

[Miss Robyn]

oh this is ecstasy, divine, love.. beautiful

like Deb, I am going to read it again and again..
mine is up.. not sure if I am stumbling towards ecstasy but I am stumbling xo

[Cinda Rae Oliverio]

Pure ecstasy!!! A LOVE of an older woman, I have known this love many times, well let me see, there was Pearl, Annie, Kathleen,Nell (Alberta, Virginia, Garnet,these 3 being grandmothers who I adored!),Mary(my mother-in-law, whom I miss more than she would ever have imagined!), Violet, Margaret and I too, have a Jane! I am becoming that older woman! I HOPE I can have a sweet young girly like YOU, Rebecca in my life! I am glad we are in each other's lives!!! (((Rebecca)))) I will come back to read this post too!

[spadoman]

Dear Heart, You told me the details in these beautiful words. I can only hope I'm remembered by my kin as you remembered yours. Thank you for sharing your life with all of us.

Peace

[deb @ talk at the table]

oh, rebecca.

just . oh.

hugs to you beautiful woman.

[Laurie Zuckerman]

This is a most splendidly written piece, Rebecca. And beautiful, touching photos. You are such a master of the written word and the paintbrush, and the mosaic. Thank you for sharing yourself.

[Ms. Moon]

Lookout Mountain? Really? My mama and my daddy were born and raised there. You have a connection?

[jean]

oo my i must go back and treasure this gratitude again...so close to my own heart remembrances...thank you, miss rebecca

[Elizabeth]

How beautiful -- so many stories and beautiful words. I will come back to them and savor. And the photos, too -- thank you Rebecca!

[Fran aka Redondowriter]

So exquisitely recalled--your narrative is like a painting. Each of those black and white photos, when contemplated, pops up in amazing colors. Thank you. I hope you are feeling well this week, Rebecca, and thanks for visiting Sacred Ordinary.

[Molokai Girl]

Indeed. Exquisite. No other words can give it justice. Exquisite words. Exquisite images. Exquisite person.

[Sue fox]

Your gifts never cease to amaze thank you,
love Sue x

[joared]

You've written an emotionally stimulating and visually colorful word picture enhanced by the photos. Reminded me of a relocation move from Great Lakes midwest snow country to the west -- memories.

[Boonie]

You are so talented. This is great.

All the best, Boonie

[Leslie]

such precious memories... told with artful beauty.

[L Marsh]

Wonderful images and words. Thanks!

[rochambeau]

YOU are a beautiful girl~woman all sparkly* wonderful with morsels to share with the squirrels and people. The ones you love who have tied ribbons to your heart. They are attached to your soul, and have infused your fire earth water and air you possess. Love all who you are!
I thought of you yesterday, btw.

xox
Constance

[Magical Mystical Teacher]

As I child, I liked to eat the store-bought, factory-made fruitcakes that everyone seems to make fun of these days. If I had bitten into one of those homemade ones which you remember, I probably would have died on the spot--death by ecstasy!

[gemma]

I sit here stunned in a form of nostalgia for your memories