A Tribute

The County-Jerry and Rex (year unknown)

Travelinma is 10 years old today.  Ten years ago, my friend Jeff Kirlin encouraged me to begin a photoblog.  He had started one and was having lots of fun.  Having just returned to Maine following my first trip to Costa Rica, I had a slew of really great shots. Exotic location plus perfect lighting equals engaging photography, right?  So, on May 7, 2007 I posted a guest photo of a questzal taken with my camera (Panasonic-pocket type) by Ricardo the guide that led us into the Rain Forest on a search for the bird and other creatures that showed up like a sloth.

I had thought of myself as a writer until sometime in high school when the
English teacher marred by piece with a red pen. He offered little encouragement and frankly, I was a bit angry and discouraged. My image of myself as a writer was tentative. In college, my professor Jay Hoar who was a Civil War buff and writer helped me as we wrote volumes and read and read. When my twins were two, Jerry supported me in applying to Stonecoast Writing Retreat.  Lasting a week or two, that experience changed my life.  At that point, I hadn't done much writing beyond professional pieces like IEP and Assessment Reports as part of my teaching job until my youngest brood could fend for themselves.  Again encouragement from a friend Lynn Bonsey led me to the Maine Writer's and Publishers Alliance and my mentor, Susan Hand-Shetterly.  Without nudges, Travelinma would not exist as it is today.

For a long time, I continued to photograph my life, but the desire to marry image and words gnawed at they thirst to express myself in ways beyond photography.  Travelinma chronicles family-in good times and in challenging moments.  Travelinma seeks answers.  Travelinma shows the evolution of a woman who rediscovers herself with every new day.  Travelinma supports those dealing with loss.  Travelinma shows the frailty and the uncertainty of life, as well as the possibilities.  Travelinma records love.

Travelinma is likely to outlive me. Just think of that! Depending upon the technological format that my grandchildren will encounter, it is possible that they will learn about their grandparents and their aunts and uncles living during this time.  On that day in May a decade ago, never did I imagine that a blog, my blog would mean so much.

Happy 10th birthday to my creation, Travelinma.

Forgive Me

Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak whispers the o'erfraught heart, and bids it break.-Shakespeare

Forgive me,
I chatter about my
husband incessantly,
much like new parents
talk about first teeth
and first steps,
gratefully
I don't dwell on lasts
much,
because through
the grace of God,
I did not know they
were lasts.
However, I remember
our
last
dance,
he took my hand
in his
and led me
to the dance floor
our friends near,
he held me close,
we moved in sync
to each other
and the music,
his face pinched
in pain,
I urged him to sit-
No, he said,
I know you 
like to dance.

The Importance of Being

"How do we know about those around us?...Sit close to someone you love and implore that person to tell and tell and tell their story. " -Thanhha Lai


Everyone holds stories that reveal bits of themselves. If we only take the time to connect and listen.

After losing the big love of my life, I find I crave connection. Now, I sit for hours and visit with friends and family. It reminiscent of college days when I would sit in the dorm and talk and talk until the wee hours of the morning. Life seemed to stretch out ahead of us, unending; we thought we had all the time in the world, and nothing was more important than those connections.

Settled into the comfort of married life, if invited out, we would often decline. Instead we would stretch out on either end of the couch reading or go for a long walks holding hands. (This was not only romantic, but an attempt to moderate my husband's long strides.) I didn't want for more. We had each other.

Now, my heart yearns to reach out to others. I collect stories. I collect them over dinner. I collect while grabbing handfuls of homemade popcorn seasoned with brewer's yeast and dill and lament the tini-ness of Tiny Houses, swoon in the rich sound of my Yamaha guitar and talk fermented foods. I listen to the dreams of my daughter, the nursing student or the training of a soldier, my son. I connect while sipping herbal tea, listen to travel plans, and spiritual matters. Jerry stories are a constant.

Empathy is about finding echoes of another person in yourself.-Mohsin Hamid
As I connect with others, gather collective stories and share and listen to Jerry stories, I am discovering myself and beginning to build my future alone.

Each day is a gift. In the face of death, my husband chose to thank God for each day. Through this journey we both rediscovered of the importance of connecting with others and practicing love. I choose to connect with my heart. I want to know about those around me. In knowing others, I begin to understand myself and all that is possible.

WHAT MY CHILDHOOD TASTED LIKE

             

                               

Sea-salty steamed clams,                                
I remember the first time I ate them
dripping with melted butter                          
at Wormwood's Restaurant in Camp Ellis,
I think my mother cut me off,
I ate too many.

On hands and knees
in a vast field,
 I picked until my fingers were stained
red,
Little tart, sweet jewels
Wild strawberries.

My Gram pressed coins
into my hand
sending me to Reilly's Bakery
for eclairs,
the custard oozed
when bitten or the pastry was held too tight,
we indulged, just the two of us.

Peppermint stick ice cream
dripped down my hand,
down my arm to my elbow,
a melted flow,
my mother yelled, 'Lick!"
the napkin stuck to the sugar cone.

Root beer barrels, two for a penny,
I sat on the scratchy beach blanket
the candy rolling inside my mouth,
when I grew tired of root beer
I counted the licks to the center of a
cherry tootsie pop, until my tongue grew
tired.

  (This post is inspired by Amy Krouse Rosenthal.)            

Want to Shake Up Your World?

Able to juggle the schedule of a household of nine to ten people, plus hold the responsibilities of teaching full time, I was always thankful for my memory, an ability to move herds of people and capable of finding tools to keep me organized.  (I use the label organized loosely, however, but that is another posting.) I have found that my brain is not functioning optimally these days, but it is getting better.

My knowledge of grief began in college and is based upon Kubler-Ross' work studying terminal patients. Since Kubler-Ross broke the silence on the subject of grief, for years her stages of grief were utilized for grieving survivors as well as patients.  Grief is not a linear path, nor is it the same for each person. When my parents died almost fifteen years ago, I thought that one day I would get over it.  And now in the aftermath of my husband's death, for me I am discovering that it is not something I can muscle through, but that I will be forever changed and will continue to evolve and adjust no longer as a couple, but as an individual, capable of joy and gratitude. I can continue to dance and learn to do it with a limp.

I like Anne Lamotte's take on grief:

“You will lose someone you can’t live without,and your heart will be badly broken, and the bad news is that you never completely get over the loss of your beloved. But this is also the good news. They live forever in your broken heart that doesn’t seal back up. And you come through. It’s like having a broken leg that never heals perfectly—that still hurts when the weather gets cold, but you learn to dance with the limp.”

With grief comes self-discovery.  For the first few months, I could barely converse, losing memory of what I was trying to say mid-sentence.  I was understandably preoccupied.  The problem I found, there was so much to be done and it seems that everything is time sensitive and high stakes.  Undertakers, lawyers, insurance companies,  and are all categorized as important, BIG deals.  I needed my head on straight to make the best decisions for me and my family.

Yes, prayer helps.  Physical activity helps as does getting enough rest.  Family, friends and the community at large rallied around us.  All of this helped me get through each day, but I needed a 

peripheral brain.  Here enters the Bullet Journal; life changing for me.  

I cannot say enough about how it has helped me break down big tasks and beat back waves of feeling overwhelmed.  If offers the chance to write down monthly, weekly and daily goals and appointments. For fun, I keep track of birds I have observed and the weather.  My favorite musical artists are listed as are movies to watch, books to read and a diary of what I eat.  Extensive financial pages include a budget, an expense journal and a savings plan. It is my everything journal. The beauty of the Bullet Journal is that it can become whatever is useful for you, it is adaptable. For me the Bullet Journal frees my brain from storing everything I need to remember.

If you want to learn more about Bullet Journals, I highly recommend you start here. There are plenty of ideas on Pinterest and Bullet Journal groups on Face Book.  Let me know what you think.  It just might shake up your world.

A Short Selfie

A few pounds and born early

Make for a "hopeless case."

My mother prayed to St. Jude.

I lived.

As a kid I got car sick, 

Preferring the shade of forest trees,

Splashing in the salty sea or

Alone in a field

Fingers pink with wild berries-

I ate them as I picked.

I sing with the radio

Often the wrong words.

Baking pies is not my thing,

Picnics are.

I have slept

Floating in the middle of a lake,

Watching the stars fall.

War scares me.

I am not afraid of the dark.

Reading five books at once

Makes me nuts.

I like naps

And I consider myself 

Among the few 

Lucky enough to have found

True Love.

(Inspired by and Adapted from: A Short Collective Biography-Amy Krouse Rosenthal found in Textbook)

He Loves Me

Every birthday for the last 35, he would wake me gently, his lips pressing upon my ear, caressing. "I love you, gorgeous. I love you beautiful.  Happy Birthday." It was the first sweet greeting of another new year. 

Today is my birthday.  It is 2 am.  I can't sleep.  My mind wanders to the fact that this year Jerry will not whisper his love on my birthday.  The tears well up in the outer corner of my eyes, but don't flow.  My heart feels crushed.  It aches. Tears then run freely.

I lay in the darkness.  The dog near.  One cat on the extra pillow near my head.  Another nestled at my side.  I try to breathe, slow deep breaths to clear my head and inflate my heart.  I lay on my back, staring at the fluorescent stars on the ceiling of my son's former room, now mine.  "Come...in a dream.  Come please. Just come...it's my birthday..." My words desperate.  It would be my fix for the day. The perfect "gift."

Then, I think how Jerry had a mind of his own.  Once he had something in his head, there was no stopping him or convincing him of another course.   He would wander off and not tell me where he was for hours, despite my worry.  An independent, free spirit when he had something he wanted to do, he did it. He jumped out of a plane, waiting until I was on the west coast, and far away to do it. And he told me about it after he had done it. He knew I would worry and try to stop him. When we were trying to cut down on meat, he would come home now and again with a big slap of beef, the size my mother would feed to our entire family. He would sit down and eat it himself with butter melted on top.  My look of disgust, resulted in a remark, between bites, "I know what I like."

I am laughing out loud.  Alone.  I remember just how stubborn he was. 'Bet he still is, I ponder.

Then I realize, that despite my begging, he may come to me in a dream or maybe he won't. My mind desperate to find resolution and peace, wanders. I think of a pile of daisy petals fluttering to the ground.  He loves me.  He loves me, not. I know with certainty, he loves me and always will.

Rex with his nose nestled into his front paws is sleeping. I hear his breathing. Julie purrs, kneading the blankets until she finds a spot to curl.  I slip into a bed exhausted with the crazy ride of emotions and the fact that it is nearly 4 am. I feel so much better remembering I am blessed; I am loved.

Minutes

                                  This is how I chose to spend my precious moments this morning.

“You’re gonna be old in a shake of a lamb’s tail,” my oldest joked just last night. Maybe, he half joked.  My husband just reached the big 6-0 and I am not far behind. Young by today’s standards. I’m not whining, just coming to terms with the fact that time is precious, but I still spend time frivolously.

Not long ago, I was walking to St. Mary’s School early mornings and visiting my grandmother in the afternoons. She was always there waiting in the yellow apartment house with the long stretch of brick walkway shaded by the “claimed to be” oldest tree in Biddeford.  It was a chestnut that threw prickly seed pods.  

It seems not long ago, I spent days at the beach with my mother from the cool of early morning, through the hot hours and into the late afternoon when the beach was covered in shadow. We would trudge back to the car, our hair dripping and our skin tight and sandy from the sea and sand.  Not long ago, I hunched on the couch, my father and I yelling at the TV, urging the Red Sox to pull through in the ninth.  Not long ago.

Those were times of certainty.  I hadn’t a care that the minutes were being used up, I was  young with years before me.  I was certain that my grandmother would always meet me at her door with chocolate chip cookies and stories of her cross country trip or the 1964 World Fair in New York City. I was certain that my mother would always float with me in the salty Atlantic and barefooted walk the  beach that seemed to stretch on forever.  And one day, my father would surely witness the Red Sox busting through the curse that was said to withhold them from the glory of a World Series.  I was certain.

Precious minutes are not certain. They are gifts.  Spend them well.

A Stranger?

I am home.  I am home.  And I daresay that I am mighty nostalgic about it all.  Everywhere I look, from the grate in a sidewalk where my grandmother warned me never to walk to a storefront glittered with trophies where I took baton lessons, I am filled with the wonder of memories.  They come at me from all sides. 

I am sitting in a cafe-writing.  Tucked in a stuffed chair, I face the sidewalk.  A mother and her daughter, arms loaded with books walk passed, their step light despite their weighty load.  They just came from the same library where I sat on the floor and opened book after book and smelled that library smell.  Where all whispers echo within the chambers of the MacArthur Library.

Strangers file by.  They are all strangers.  I recognize no one.  This city holds my memories among strangers.  Surely a comfort, but am I now the stranger?

Happy Belated Travelinma!

This image was among the first in a series I posted to Travelinma on May 7, 2007.  Happy Belated Birthday Travelinma. Incidentally this is Post 1231!
                                                                                    Costa Rica-Travelinma Photo (2007

Paradise

The appearance of the cruise ships in Frenchman's Bay marks the beginning of summer.  (That and the black flies. Reports are that they are thick.) This morning we shared the shore path with a few tourists who stopped now and again to take photos.  I wondered if after all these years if I still viewed this place like a wide-eyed tourist.  Most days I think I do. Sometimes I stop walking and just gawk. Struck by the ever-changing beauty.

My adult children have moved away at one point in their lives, but have all returned home; to this. They are drawn to the diverse beauty-the sea, islands, mountains and lakes.  We have it all. Paradise.

mother earth

Come to think of it, when I was a child I spent much of my time close to the ground or in the trees. Alone. The draw for me in my neighborhood was an expanse of land referred to as Shaw's Hill.  At the edge  was a big estate lined with a thick stand of lilacs that created a natural boundary between the two properties; one manicured and the other wild, overgrown fields and hills leading to the creek and forest.  I spent days on the wild side attempting to fly kites, picking wild berries or sliding down the hill on waxed cardboard or toboggans. Summer days my mother would send me out to pick huckleberries or wild strawberries.  Once my cup was filled, I would lie on my back and watch the cloud formation; lost in the promise that the clouds would move and change. Other times I would just walk randomly through the field and when it felt right, lie on my back. With time I would shift to my side and open my eyes to ants and other creatures as I peered through the tall grass.

The sandy beaches near my home provided another place to connect.  Here the weight of my body was supported by the tiny grains. Comfort was gained from the soft breeze and constant shift of the sea. I was always at peace near the sea with sand between my toes.  It seems that when I was young, instinctually knew what I needed; drifting off to Shaw's Hill or the beach when I needed quiet renewal.

Now, I walk through fields and into the woods and crouch low under the tree branches.  Here I find a soft bed of pine needles and I rest looking up into the blackness of bare branches that nearly obstruct the sky.  I share this space with deer and other creatures. I am surrounded by sea here on this beloved island and I seek refuge taking long walks as the sea collides with the land or is calm and still. Clearly, I am drawn to the earth, the sea and the sky. Mother Earth provides.

Growing Accustomed

I am recording everything I eat.  Years ago I lugged food diaries in my pocketbook for easy access.  Today I just use an application on my iphone. Remarkably it can save individual items that I eat and provides a bank of foods that I can choose for future meals. It tracks water intake and exercise too.  Already I feel more in control of my health and that is a good thing.  

 

Here's a view from many of the walks I have taken recently. And why wouldn't I walk?  I live in one of the most beautiful places on the planet. This photo was taken with my iphone that was slipped into my pocket.  

Some of my best little poems or thoughts were written on my iphone.  What would I do without it? I have grown accustomed to the ease of organizing a crazy busy life through technology and having fun doing it.

Facing the Changes

Lowering my head into the gusts of wind and driving rain, I cradle the stack of books in front of me; tightly pulling my jacket around them to protect from the elements.  Instinctively, I looked at my feet as prepare for the stairs. My protruding front is all I can see. Not quite trusting my footing because I can’t see my feet I gingerly make my way down the granite steps.   Suddenly, I remember times that I waddled here and there not being able to tie my shoes nor see my feet. Now instead of carrying the weight of a baby, I swaddle books; huge stacks of books from the library, from bookstores and borrowed from friends.  They are all through the house.  Books.  My children are mostly 

grown now, while the others are finding their way in the world through athletics and friends.  Meanwhile, I sit and contemplate how quickly all this change seems to have transpired.  The house is quiet.   There is a big chicken roasting and turkey soup simmering. This rain makes a perfect day for slowing down and savoring the quiet.  My books are stacked beside me, ready for devouring during the quiet serene; that is now often my life.

First Sighting

I stopped mid-sentence, leaving my daughter on the sidewalk as I walked on the grass inching closer and closer.  Bending my head this way and that I wanted to get the optimal view with the blue behind for the perfect image.  My first forsythia sighting is a big deal.  They don't stick around long enough for my liking, yet it is a sure sign of spring.

Go Girl!

“I’m a runner.” my youngest announces to everyone at the table.  I had all I could do at that very moment, not to swipe the table clean and shock the family with a dance, but I had to play it cool.  

Today she ran in her first official 5K placing 8th in her age division (20 and under) and running 43rd overall among over 300 participants.  

“There’s over 200 runners,” I told her in nearly a whisper, not wanting to freak her out.

“No big deal.  I’ve done that before.” she replied confidently.  She led the crowd of runners up the hill.  That girl has determination and is not afraid of hard work.

Go girl go! A mother couldn’t be prouder.

Coming Back

It has been a long long winter.  Too much time spent in my head.  Thinking.  My brain has been stretched and manipulated to a degree that it is worn out. Tired like an old rubber band fraying around the edges.  

The woods beckon me to venture into the dark where the moss come alive, emerald green. A path leads to high ground where  the blueberry barrens begin to buzz.  Life comes back slowly.  A pace all its’ own.  This is where I begin to unfurl. Life comes back slowly. Of this I am certain.

Blessings of the Earth

Thick clouds cast a gray shadow over the daylight hours.

Nonetheless, I am drawn to sipping my coffee outside on the deck. Expecting to sit in quiet, I am witness to frenzy. Birds fly overhead this way and that and a chorus from every direction competes for sound space. I stand; my eyes scan the ink black tree tops. Everything is a shadow.  The squawky jays do not escape my ear. The smaller birds perhaps sparrows flit from tree to tree.  My untrained ear is of no use.   I lean against the side of the house in wait.  Uncertain of what I am waiting for I close my eyes and just listen.  I am drawn to the outside and realize just how blessed I am on this Earth Day.

the risk

                                                                                           Copyright: Travelinma


Is it possible to feel too deeply?
A heart that aches incessantly,
Holds room for joy too.
Cannot sorrow and joy inhabit the same chambers?

For what is a life without the highs and lows?
The fullness of heart is preferred,
Over hollow.
Is it not worth the risk?

Stones

Tumbling like stones

In an angry sea,

Sharp edged

Becoming smooth,

Polished,

Reflecting a truth:

One must be tested

To reveal

Authentic 
Beauty.