Making heart memories through a fairy garden.

Fairy Gardens

“Sometimes the briefest moments capture us, force us to take them in, and demand that we live the rest of our lives in reference to them.”    Lucy Grealy

My granddaughters have chosen to fill our fairy garden with delicate seashells, colored chunks of resin, step on grasses, and many fairies.  They rearrange the furniture and make new gifts for the fairies.  They may choose to leave a note or even give the fairies one of their precious drawings.  They live in anticipation of whether this will be the day the fairies drops a treasure in their “make do” gift holder.

When they arrive at the the front door, I hear, " Hi, Mimi" and then they run out the back door to check the fairy garden. They look in the empty gift box and seem a little disappointed, but then Ava announces, “Fairies don’t leave gifts every day.” 

“Look at me, Mimi, look at me,” calls Ellis, who is five. She climbs the fairy tree and looks down upon the treasured garden with miniature table and chairs, frogs, turtles, and fairies.  “I’m like God looking down at us.”  We all giggle at her observation.

“Mimi, I made a fairy garden at my house!” Ellis is so excited about her creation.  She asks for a few more seashells for her garden.  Those of you that follow me know that I have brought a ton of shells back from the ocean.  So, I have plenty to share.

I learn from the girls to expect but not be disappointed if this wasn’t the day to find fairy prizes. On those days, we sit together on the glider by the fairy garden and talk of beauty, flowers, cloud formations, and what kind of bird is on the nearby feeder.  I hope to create heart pictures within these precious girls.  I hope these fairy lessons may be the bridge to faith lessons.  The girls learn blessings come unexpected and in God's timing.  Perhaps these talks will create gratitude for all God’s creations.  Someday the scenes of today will be their  heart memories forever. Ellis has learned the joy of creating her own garden.  Ava has been moved to makeup new stories to add to our ongoing fairy sagas.  This is our little Garden of Eden for enjoying, learning, creating, and talking to each other. 

One Universal Song

            My intentions of visiting New Orleans were to reconnect with former students and faculty.  I wanted to interview them for my memoir.  I spent endless hours of research trying to find these people after Katrina had stolen their homes, their lives, and their phone lines.  My constant “people searches”  netted few results. 

            However, by the grace of God, one phone number had not changed.  It was Arthur McClain’s.  I left a couple of messages that went like this.

            “Hello, I am Mrs. Baron, your former Speech teacher at Carter G. Woodson.  I am coming to New Orleans and would like to meet with you.  If you are the Arthur I taught in 1967, please return this call.”

            I had left many such messages to several other numbers to no avail.  I was getting weary and asked God to intervene.  As I came in the door from my walk, I heard the phone ringing.  I hurried to answer it and the softest, Southern drawl said, “ Ms. Baron, this is Arthur McClain.  I can’t believe you still remember me.  I thought I would never see you again. “

            I squealed into the receiver, “ Arthur, Arthur, it is you.  I can’t believe I found you.  Oh, Arthur, I have the poem you wrote two days after Martin Luther King was killed, and I would like to return it to you personally.”

            At first there was silence.  “You mean you still have my poem.  Really?  I can’t wait to show it to my kids.”

            “Tell me about your kids, your life.  “

            “I was relocated by Katrina for a couple of years, but I am back in New Orleans now.  I have three kids.  One graduated from Tulane and my daughter is in college and her younger brother works here in the city.  I have changed since you knew me.  God is first and foremost the center of importance in my life.”

            All this information was found jewels.  I talked to him about loving Jesus and made an appointment to meet him the last week of January.

            I was ecstatic.  I called my writing friend, River.  I called my neighbor.  I called my sister.  He was my first contact from our teaching experience of being the token integrators for the city of New Orleans.  This black community had shaped Denny and me and I wanted to go back and thank them.    “ Thank you, Jesus,” I repeated at the thought of actually seeing and interviewing Arthur for my memoir.

            Finally, the time to see Arthur had come.  Denny and I sat on a bench waiting for him, and my heart was thumping and my mind trying to recollect what Arthur would look like as a fifty seven year old man.  My student, Arthur. It seemed surreal.

            Denny spotted a couple coming up the escalator.  It was them.  Arthur sported a sassy, straw hat.  His smile was contagious.  I grabbed him and hugged and hugged him.  I reached to hug his wife and then just stood back and looked at Arthur and then kissed him on each cheek.

            “Ms. Baron, you look just as I remember you.”

            “ Arthur , I was 23.  Now, I am 67.”

            “I don’t care, I would still know your smile and those blue eyes.”

            “Lets’s go to Acme and have some good Cajun food.”  Arthur suggested.

            He was amazing.  Arthur could remember stories that I would tell to keep the class’ attention.  He remembered the first day he came in his room and saw a white teacher.  He couldn’t believe his eyes.  He said all the kids were talking about the two new white teachers at Carter G. Woodson.  He laughed and reminisced about the first play I directed with such a large cast.  I admitted that I had written new dialogue into the play so everyone who tried out could get a part.  His wife was so grateful that  I cared enough to keep his poem and return it.  Our evening was filled with long conversations, Cajun food, and laughter and one song.  Arthur taught me no matter how we might separate into individual notes, we still are involved in one song.  Arthur and the faculty and students at Carter G. Woodson showed me I was a part of that uni(one)versal melody of hope , love, and  relationships.

HHH

            

Writing My Memoir

Writing My Memoir

Copyrighted art work by Betty Ann Fraley

I am writing a memoir.  It is a bumpy ride, but I must follow this road to fruition.  Part of the difficulty of this task is well stated by Lynne Sharon Swartz, who said,”There's nobody out there waiting for it, and nobody’s going to scold you if you don’t do it.”

I write because I have a burning desire to record stories that teach life lessons and the morals of the years I lived.  The critic within replies, “ Who cares about your stories?”

I respond, “ I do.”  I want my children and grandchildren to know that my writing represented the truths I discovered as I followed my journey.  I want others to read and relate with the stories and realize a universal truth, understand the plight of the poor, and the benefits of obstacles.  In my memoirs I embrace the stories I learned from my students, my new husband, and my emotional truths learned as a first year teacher integrating the New Orleans schools.  We found valuable relationships in this Black community.  We learned love and hate, sadness and joy, hope and despair.

My book pulls back the layers of our first year of marriage and reveals some harsh truths and some open laughter.  Our students gave us ten years of experience in our first year of teaching.  I have to be truthful.  Sometimes writing is more painful than I anticipated.  Sometimes it is freeing.  The process is tedious and sometimes lonely.  I may get discouraged, but the drive within continues to “push” me back to the computer to write, reveal, recollect, and recount  this experiences in 1967.  

“Writing a book is like driving a car at night.  You only see as far as your headlights go, but you can make the whole trip that way,”  E.L. Doctorow That is how I write.  I can see an event that revealed a truth and gave meaning to my life.  I work the event trying to describe the emotions and challenges of just that day.  Just one day of my year of teaching in the inner city or one day in learning to live with a “permanent” roommate or one day of coping with my students' life of poverty,  physical and emotional illness, street fights , and daily hunger. 

 One day at a time at my computer is all I can manage.  One day turns into a week of writing, editing, and rewriting.  If I just wrote one page a day, my book would be 365 pages long.  It is amazing what just working day by day can achieve in writing or discovering my own perseverance.  

My novel dictates my thoughts and my schedule.  I must leave dishes unwashed, my calendar blank by saying no to lunches, shopping dates, or even visits with friends.  I know this is a season.  As my book progresses, so will autumn and winter.  I am learning to deflect less important activities and not waste time.  When I try to watch mindless TV, the critic within reminds me I am wasting myself as well. 

My critic is the most strenuous boss I have known.  His praise is nil.  His criticism is loud and screaming.  It is strange how he guilts me into “keep writing”; yet, he doesn’t think my writing is valuable. Sometimes my critic discourages me, but he doesn’t stop me.  

I know I am writing  this story from my soul.  My soul is eternal, so it knows no time or space.  My heart reminds me why I must write. My head uses its creative source to get it on paper.  So, with my soul, heart , and head I must continue.    

Marriage, A Yoga Relationship

Yoga in Marriage

Today I had a wonderful experience. I did yoga on the Englewood Beach. The instructor urged us to breathe with the ocean waves. The fine mist in the air gently washed away my cares and concerns. Approximately 100 people stretched to the sky and recognized the sand as their turf. It was a gentle class. I expect the instructor recognized we were mostly senior snow birds.

I was invigorated after our hour session. It was about 70 degrees. Warm feels wonderful to an Indiana gal. As I was walking back to our rental, I thought about the next few days.

We planned to fly to Seattle to witness our son’s wedding. He is 35 and has waited a long time to marry. This wedding is their official church wedding. He and Annie decided to be married before they lived together because they had been reared to know God’s ordainment is necessary and morally right. I so appreciated them taking this extra step. In April they are having a destination wedding with tropical flowers, event days, and lots of celebration. We are all traveling to Cozumel to have a wedding in the sands of time.

I realize this is exceptional in this era where so many couples choose just to live together. They make a commitment to share the rent. Somehow, rent sharing and fixing up a domain are not the basis for marriage. It is the external parts, but it takes God’s blessing to create a permanent bond. Even then, it is a difficult task to have a successful marriage in today’s culture. I pray often for Annie and Adam. I ask God to unite them in such a way that they will be magnets to each other for all of their life’s journey,

They understand it will take much work, patience, and turning their heads when one of them acts really stupid. I used to wonder how long” stupid” would last. Usually, the state of disrepair lasted a few hours when we were first married. After forty-three years, our “stupid” only lasts a short time. It is not because we are mature marrieds. We just seem to give each other more grace because we can’t remember if we are really right or wrong. Our most vivid attack is, “ Somebody”. We say, “Somebody forgot to put the milk away, close the cupboard, or give me a charge receipt,” and other such essential functions and earth shattering matters in marriage.

I enter into an understanding when I see an older couple holding hands as they walk together. Gravity has played a cruel trick on their once cute bodies. Heartaches and worries have engraved etchings on their faces. Rearing and running children made permanent laugh lines around their eyes and upturned mouths. The hand in hand couple look within to find comfort, honor, and respect. These are the foundations of a lasting marriage. I see them laugh as they pull up and down their swim suits in a synchronized way trying to hide the bulges that make most clothes feel awkward. It just doesn’t matter. They are one in heart, soul, and body. They have earned the right to bulge and still feel love, passion, and admiration for each other. These are the condiments of an old marriage.

I pray that Annie and Adam will feel the rhythm of the waves that I heard this morning. I want them to be the cleansing air and soft mist for each other. I know they will stretch each other, but I pray they can stay in balance as I did in the tree position. If they lose that balance, may they refocus, realign, and recall how good it felt to be stable as one. Just as yoga takes years of practice to perfect; so does marriage. Like yoga, even the practice is enjoyable. A session can create enlightenment, renewal, or a new understanding. Each season of marriage does much the same if we relax and let it work within us and outside of us. Ahhh, stretch Annie and Adam. You are in for a delightful season. Blessings to you both in learning balance.