Conversation With a Dragonfly

 Just look at you!

All dainty and glittering

like a bubble bath.

You look familiar...

Haven't I seen you somewhere?

Was it on the list of Insects People Like?

What they don't know

is what an unerring hunter you are,

such a voracious aerial predator are you.

There you go...

Plotting your course like the ancient mariner

able to snatch your target in midair

focused singly on your prey amid a cloud of fluttering fraternity

brothers

attacking your lone target from the chaotic swarm.

Glutton...

Wolfishly consuming, tearing up your kill and mashing it into a

single glob.

Munch, munch, munch...

a wad of snuff for your mouth.

Bantam creature

Bottomless appetite

Not one for much smelling or pheromonal flirtations.

Not you.

Who knew?

Gilled predator, you hatch from an egg;

Hydrojet through water in search of aquatic prey.

Until...

you are ready to spread your wings and take your hunt to the sky.

coffee in bed

 

he texts me from the kitchen, "coffee?"

i respond with an emphatic, "yes, please!"

lingering in bed, still groggy with sleep, i await my coffee delivery.

looking at photos, doomscrolling, playing wordle, reading the news, watching tv, it doesn't matter. those small shards of time idly spent are a luxurious avoidance of checking off items on the day's to-do list.

he began the ritual of bringing me coffee during Covid when virtual school began later than being in school and all my morning routines were topsy turvy.

now it's weekends only and his coffee service is reminiscent of the not so distant past.

so much has changed in the five years since the world shut down from the Pandemic.

morning coffee in bed is a steadfast symbol of love, our love. 

it gifts me with a few more moments of time, reminding me to be joyful, to appreciate kindness, and to give love.

Hours of fun!

 

I'm going to see my granddaughter today.

The toy I'm bringing will help her with fine motor skills and cause and effect. :)

It's a blessing that parents now have so much more awareness than when I was a mom.

It can also be a curse because at times, it's an information overload.

Nevertheless,

I hope her new toy brings her hours of fun.

I'm going to see my granddaughter today!

When Curiosity Taps You on The Shoulder...

Does this ever happen to you? You read something somewhere, more than likely on the internet,  probably a social platform that gives you pause? Do you mentally bookmark the thing so you can revisit the site to explore it further but then you can't find where you found it in the first place? Can you relate to frantically searching your history only to have the thing you're searching for become the first thing listed and then out of frustration you give up, resigning yourself to never finding the thing again?

This was me yesterday, and the thing I read was "choose curiosity over fear." I jotted it down in my notebook to perhaps use as a prompt for a future Slice. And for the life of me, I cannot remember the source! When I googled it, I found that it's attributable to Elizabeth Gilbert who authored Eat, Pray, Love. The book didn't resonate with me when I read it all those years ago, but this line struck a chord.

The message was that being curious leads to growth and creativity. There was a bit about curiosity vs passion and how being curious can be beneficial very differently than being passionate can.

And then it dawned on me as to why I was intrigued in the first place.

I am a passionate person who is somewhat lacking in passions. Turns out not having passions doesn't work out that well in retirement and leaves me feeling unproductive. It has me questioning whether or not I chose the right time to leave teaching. 

Maybe I should have had a well developed to-do list.

The reason I like the quote is because I am by nature a curious person, a lifelong learner if you will. So if I feel curious enough, I'll learn how to play canasta or bridge. If i want to take a refresher class in knitting, I will when I am curious about knitting. I'm just not passionate about those things right now and I think that's OK.

Curiosity does not require a deep commitment as passions do. 

Curiosity often taps me on the shoulder and welcomes me in.

I'm definitely curious about whether I can make a commitment to writing!

A love letter to Yoga

A Love Letter to Yoga 

We've been together for close to forty years, maybe more.

We met on the Upper West Side in a studio in a worn down apartment building, or was it an old hotel? I can't remember.

What I will always remember is the feeling of entering the sacred space, the quiet whispers of yogis waiting for class to begin, the gentle unrolling of the sticky mat, the anticipation of moving my body in new ways, and learning that these habits are profoundly universal anywhere you practice.

Knowing nothing about Yoga, the asanas, pranayama, or meditation I bravely entered into a new community that has existed for over five thousand years. I was curious and searching for something.

Yoga helps me to connect to the present moment, to move through the world with greater patience and gratitude. It opens the heart and reminds us to be kind not only to others but to ourselves.

I've learned that a daily yoga practice is a journey, that the greatest challenge is not in the poses but in the showing up.

It's a quiet ritual that awakens the body and nourishes my soul.

It has become my daily companion, my way of having an intimate conversation with myself; my time for self-care and self-discovery.

Namaste.

The Important Thing

Today's slice is inspired by Margaret Wise Brown's The Important Book.

 I share this with you on this drab and dreary Day 4:

The important thing about writing is that it lets you give out your emotions and tell the world how you feel.

Sometimes you feel sad and that's OK to write about.

Sometimes the person who reads your piece will feel sad too or maybe cheer you up!

Sometimes you write about your hopes and dreams.

Other times you write about a memory and bask in the comfort it provides.

And still others, you write about joy.

But the important thing about writing is that you write what is in your heart.

Motherhood and Daughterhood

Watching my daughter become a mother has been a journey that began long before my granddaughter was born. As she carried her child and prepared a world for her entrance, I witnessed the beauty of her transformation. I was able to see how nurturing a mother she would become as she questioned thoughtfully and purposefully.

In an instant, her world changed when she welcomed her baby girl. The quiet filled with newborn sounds.

Her patience, strength, and determination knows no bounds when it comes to giving her daughter the very best of her.

The love in my heart deepens with every moment, every glance, and every smile between them reminding me of how love evolves.

I realize how we, and the women who came before us are bonded in this understanding of sacrifice, joy, and privilege that is motherhood.

Knowing that life is unfolding into something richer and deeper than I ever could have imagined fills me with hope in these often hopeless times.

Finding Joy

 

she wakes

before dawn without waiting for the alarm to sound.

the dogs, dozing in semi-sleep until she is ready.

putting on her boots and jacket, they wait for her.

they know it's cold outside.

she walks to the end of the drive to fetch the newspaper.

she thinks of the woman she's never met who delivers that paper each and every morning on time, day after every day.

it's a quiet walk and the sun is slowly rising, wrapping the sky in pink pashmina.

thinking, who even gets their news delivered anymore?

setting the paper down, wipes the dogs' feet and sets about getting their breakfast.

listening to the quiet of the morning, the familiar creaks remind her of the many mornings lived in this house.

it's always been her favorite time of day, preparing for its reveal.

she grabs a pen from the cup, a green one today.

opening the paper, skims the arts section, reads the book review, begins the crossword.

distracted, she embraces her gratitude.

in the stillness, there is magic.

she is ready

The Beauty and Discomfort

"You don't have to know everything about the mountain in front of you to take the next step" 

~ Louie Giglio

Being retired means losing the daily connection with my students and colleagues. No planning for a lesson or my outfit each day. The morning rush to put the laundry away and empty the dishwasher becomes leisurely and mediative.  I linger with a second cup of coffee in a real mug.

The beauty and discomfort of this transition leave me with an abundance of time for my thoughts.

Why not write?

It's been a minute since I've written anything. Ok, maybe longer than a minute.

It's been four years since I've been a slicer. I retired from teaching last June and 

other than writing letters to some student penpals, notes in greeting cards, and emails 

I've pretty much written 

nothing.

And it seems that now, more than ever I have so much to say.

So grateful to the SOLC  community for welcoming me back. So looking forward to connecting with other writers.

Lacking the confidence that I I will (be able to) do it.

I just know that I want to.

Day #1 in the can. 

Yay me!

The bluest sky

It may be a little PTSD. 

I am truly stuck in a fog of Pandemic Fatigue.

Stuck in the muck and anxious for it, desperate for it to lift.

It will. . . especially when the bluest sky, the yellowest daffodil, and the barest tree begins to show off its 
green tempt me with hope.

I will write one word at a time, take off my winter coat, go for a walk, open my eyes, and feel.

But right now, I'm powerless. 

There are so many things that Covid brought to a halt without a proper warning.

I know I will not take them for granted when they return.

Hope

 

One year ago.

I would love to be able to write something profound

but I don't have the words.

The enormity of our world shutting down

one year ago today

 overwhelms.

I look for light in all the small places, 

spring arriving bringing another hour of sun.

And the not so small places,

the vaccine, our determination and perseverance,

learning lessons.

Hoping.

I am so over you

This was inspired by an especially long and snowy winter a few years ago when my class and I wrote poems called "Breaking Up With Winter." 

I am so over you, lockdown

We've gotta talk

I just can't do this anymore

I'm sick and tired of shouting "I can't hear you" through muffled masks

Dying to soften up my rough and chapped, hand washed and sanitized hands

I want to eat a meal in a restaurant,

be served, 

not to have to wash the dishes

I miss movies, shows, concerts, packing a suitcase

I need to dance at a party,

to celebrate a marriage, a birth, 

give a hug,

honor a life that has been lost

I can't pretend anymore

that this normal

Covid, I am so over you 

and have been for a long, long time.

I hate you

I hope you die

Those boots

I think I was eight when my obsession with clothes began. Maybe I inherited the gene (or jeans) from my mom and the women who came before her, or perhaps from her lifestyle.

Every August, before school began, my dad would drive me from the Brooklyn projects where we lived to meet my fabulous Aunt Florrie at her shop in Forest Hills. There, she would let me pick out anything, and I mean everything I wanted. If she thought my mom might disapprove, she'd let me have it anyway. They were best friends and they liked to poke at each other like that, for the fun of it.

The shop was called "The Village Set." Imagine sixties hippie meets urban cool.

\

At eight years old, my social life didn't call for such a wardrobe. And I certainly didn't need olive green suede boots. But I would die without them. I had to have those boots. And Aunt Florrie never said "no."

I loved the way the smooth nap changed its texture when I rubbed the suede. Putting them on made me feel special. I was obsessed with those boots.

On the day I wore them on my walk to the book mobile, major boot mishap. The book mobile that looked sort of like a trailer and sort of like a bus had a set of steps to get you in and let you out. I did my thing, picked my books, checked them out, and descended the stairs. What was this? Something felt terribly wrong. My legs felt weirdly uneven. Looking down at my feet, I saw that my heel had gotten free from the boot. 

I did the only thing I could do. There were no mobile phones to call mom to get me. I picked up the heel and hobbled home, feeling like Pippi Longstocking who walked with her one foot on the sidewalk and the other in the gutter.

Funny thing about those boots, I don't remember what happened to them. If the shoemaker repaired them or if they were retired to the bottom of my closet, or given away, I just don't know. But I will never forget them just as I'll never forget tottering home...as though it happened just the other day.

These I am

These I Am

A dog lover

A word writer

A yoga practicer

A coffee and tea drinker

A museum wanderer

A cozy couch sitter

A slipper wearer

A This Is Us watcher

A belly laugher

A lunch bringer

An herb garden planter

An audio book listener

A martini shaker

A music dancer

A sun worshipper

A puzzle unscrambler

A pool swimmer

A wave jumper

A poem ender.

Meditation in the kitchen

 

mix until just combined

bake until slightly puffed

batter should be liquidy

don't worry if the crust cracks

cook until more al dente than usual

let it mingle until the mixture gets increasingly saucy

don't be afraid to take it very there

If you feel intimidated by the above directions, you are not alone. And if you're like me, you have this tendency to look too far in and plunge deep into a state of overthink.

But if you're also like me, you love to create delicious food but can't do it without a recipe. And recipes can cause doubt and insecurity.

I've learned to trust the meditative nature of cooking and baking (there wasn't much else to do in those early months of lockdown). It's my way of letting go of what has happened before and avoid dwelling on what's coming next. In order to focus on cooking, I'm learning to be present.

The specificity of the directions is something I've grown to appreciate. 

Samantha Seneviratne's Chocolate-Peanut Butter Swirl Cookies

Stayed in bed all morning just to pass the time...

Is it Covid laziness or depression? This question popped into my inbox this morning. Quiz taker that I am, I was all over examining the 6 benchmarks that will determine my state of malaise.

Here goes..

You can't snap yourself out of it. (Baking cookies helps)🍪

You can't cheer yourself up. (My husband still can :)😜

You've lost interest in everything. (I'm here writing, aren't I?)📓

You can't function like you used to. ( I teach every day)🏫

Your laziness isn't triggered by anything. (There's no place to go but the grocery)🥫

Your laziness isn't a choice. (Bingo! We have a winner)

And here's how I sum it up.

pandemic fatigue

(a haiku)

pandemic fatigue

don't wanna get out of bed

and i'm cool with that

Dad, how come you never learned to ride a bike?

My parents were decades older than my friends' parents. I was unaware of their own ten year age difference for a long time. When I was growing up, there wasn't much age variety in parents. It was the late fifties, early sixties when men and women were doing pretty much the same thing at the same age. Getting married and having kids. The cool cats didn't start swinging until a few years later.

My mom was near thirty-five and my dad near forty-five when they had me. Five years later, my sister arrived. Of course, more women are doing things their own way now and the men, well they're a whole 'nuther story.

But my parents created their own timeline.

Milton was a NYC Firefighter and the second youngest of my widowed grandma's five children. He was living still at home, supporting his mom. Rosalind was having fun while she looked for my dad. She too lived at home with her mom. Her dad split years ago.

One summer evening in the ballroom of a Catskills hotel, she found him.

The rest is history.

Their history has now become mine. Although they lived to be 80 and 90 respectively, it is me who was too young when they passed, nine days apart leaving me too soon.

At forty-five, the exact age my dad was I was born, I lost both of my parents.

Some of my friends still have theirs. My husband's dad is living in Florida, suffering alone. Although I'm really glad mine aren't enduring the Covid Experience, I have so many questions which will be forever unanswered.

Dewy Fresh

I may be slightly obsessed but in the morning, I do love my products.  They come in gorgeous green bottles that are too pretty for serums and cremes but they make my skin feel healthy and beautiful. Ok, it's a full-on obsession. But let me tell you why...

Cruelty free and made from 100% natural, non-toxic and organic ingredients, they are exquisitely packed with promises of restoring youth. I know. You're wondering if the bottles are recyclable and YES they are.

I feel like I can smell the botanicals as I watch the tutorials show me how and in exactly which direction I should apply and blend them onto flawless skin. So grateful to Instagram! Great marketing tool, btw.

So, I begin. 

I exfoliate, spray my essence, apply my serum and the rest. Breathing in the essential oils calms me.

I'm feeling fresh and relaxed. My dewy skin feels fresh and relaxed too.

I look in the mirror. 

But I can't find me. The younger me as been replaced by the older me. 

Were my eye always that light? Are they fading? Is that even a thing?

Was the skin under my eyes always so ....tissue-like? What happened to supple? I take a closer look.

I see my mom. She didn't get old. She just got older.  

And so am I. 

And yes, I have earned every crease and wrinkle like each one of us, if we are lucky.

And no serum or moisturizer will bring back the young me, no matter how colorful the bottle or how great the marketing is. 

But the obsession feels so good.

 

Loverboy

 

We got Max to keep Leo company after Ralph passed. Well, actually we put Ralph down. That decision wasn't popular but that's another story.

Max is two years old. He weighs 46 pounds. He's handsome in a cute way. His white hair is soft and a little bit curly. He doesn't understand that mud makes him dirty but it doesn't matter to Max. He is a lover. He lets me know he wants my attention by batting my leg with his clunky left paw. He particularly wants my attention when I'm on my yoga mat. That's when his paw gets me in the face. I think he wants me to teach him to meditate.

He snuggles to lean in to my husband and sometimes he does that to Leo too. Maybe it's a guy thing in our house. Max loves bringing back the ball, playing with his toys, and is a member of the Clean Plate Club. He used to be interested in the trash from our bathroom trashcan until I replaced it with one that has a lid. Now, his diet consists only of dog food and the treats my husband gives Leo and Max each time they come when called back in from doing their business. They always come because they know they're going to get a cookie. Max takes it gently. Leo does too, but there's something so sweet about the way Max does it.

When he realizes I'm taking him in the car, he goes crazy and jumps up to kiss me on the cheek. He gets nervous and trickle-pees on the floor when it's Leo's turn to go without him.

During the day, Max checks off items on his to-do list from the dining room window. It's like his office. He regularly participates in choral barking with the neighbors' dogs in the mornings and afternoons. If there's a squirrel, bunny, or chipmunk in the yard within 5 feet of your house, he warns them to stay away.
(He will also chase them, but so far hasn't caught one, whew!) He always lets us know when Amazon makes a delivery which is a daily thing because you know, we're in a pandemic and who goes to the mall anymore?

When I was teaching remotely, I had time to observe Max's routines. He frequently made cameos in ZoomSchool. He'd never lie down on the rug next to me as Leo would but he checked in consistently and reminded me about lunchtime. The kids would spot him like a game of Where's Waldo. They liked that.

Max was just diagnosed with an autoimmune disorder. It's not life threatening, thank heavens. It's a disease that attacks his sebaceous glands and causes all kinds of havoc in his system. The latest upshot from his Sebaceous Adenitis is he's lost a lot of that pretty white fur of his. We're hopeful that with the treatments he's on, it will grow back. It's the kind of condition that requires lots of maintenance and lots of meds. Of course, Max doesn't show a single sign of any of this bothering him. That's because he's a lover and he's thrilled just being loved.

What is a pansy?

In winter, the pansy pushes her way through the snow defiantly, determined.

Heroically she gives us confidence.

Insisting she declares

that like her, we have power over the ties that bind.

But in spring, 

her elusive beauty

tricks us

into believing she is delicate,

that she is merely a showy bloom.

Today, a telltale sign of what is to come.

Her distinct ability to withstand cold-hearted days.

"Be strong, for spring will soon arrive," she cheers us on.