Our True Heritage
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Hi OneTo Six fans. Happy Father’s Day! Brad (my original co-collaborator and founder of this blog) sent me beautiful pictures of him enjoying the day with his child and I thought, this happiness should be shared to the world. On that note. please find below poems, pictures and most importantly, a virtual hug sent from me to you. . .
“There are no goodbyes for us. Wherever you are, you will always be in our hearts.” ~Mahatma Ghandi
“It doesn’t matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was.” ~Anne Sexton
“There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are messengers of overwhelming grief…and of unspeakable love.” ~Washington Irving
“I’ve had a hard life, but my hardships are nothing against the hardships that my father went through in order to get me to where I started.” ~Bartrand Hubbard
“I may not get to feel your warm hug or hear your loud laughter.
I may not able to hand this personally to you.
But deep inside my heart, I want to say I love you.
I really do. I also miss you so much.
Happy fathers’ day from thousand miles apart!” ~Unknown
What Is A Dad?
A dad is someone who
wants to catch you before you fall
but instead picks you up,
brushes you off,
and lets you try again.
A dad is someone who
wants to keep you from making mistakes
but instead lets you find your own way,
even though his heart breaks in silence
when you get hurt.
A dad is someone who
holds you when you cry,
scolds you when you break the rules,
shines with pride when you succeed,
and has faith in you even when you fail…
Hope you all enjoyed. Ironically, holidays annoy my father. But I’ll call him anyway. He’ll wonder why and brush me off, and I’ll smile thinking, oy, what a grudge! But I love him and I’ll think of the quote, “A son is a son till he takes him a wife, a daughter is a daughter all of her life” ~Nora
And of course, last but certainly not least, for My Michael:
When A Friend Bids Goodbye
close your eyes…
hold my hand,
and hear me whisper…For the times I was lost,
you were there to look for me.
Will you believe me when I say I love you more than you’ll ever know.
Will you trust me when I say …this time you have to let me go.
My dear friend, I must leave.
The world no longer needs me.
It’s my time to be gone, until we meet again someday.
Don’t you cry now, I know I’ll be okay.
Trust that I’ll never forget you.
Don’t be sad now, just close your eyes until it’s through.
Hold my hand, don’t open your eyes yet…
wait when I no longer whisper..
My dear friend, you’ll be fine.
I’ll be up there watching over you.
For the times I’ll be gone, don’t ever forget
the words I whispered to you.
God calls on my name… and I have to let go of your hand now…
Please don’t cry… and smile for me..
because I’m with the one who made us friends.
Remember, I’ll always love you.
so come, wave me goodbye…
It’ll be painful but we have to…
Hug me, hug me tight, feel the words I can no longer say.
My dear friend, I’m going to miss you.
just pray because I’ll always listen.
and one day, when it’s your time,
I’ll be there for you…
Just like the way I used to.
…I love you…
Well written and thought provoking. Kudos to your efforts on advocacy and social justice.
Originally posted on Eyes Through The Glass - A Blog About Asperger's:
I wish to warn readers in advance that this is going to be a very heavy post. Dealing with the tragedy of Sandy Hook properly requires an acknowledgment of its seriousness as well as its lasting impact.
The reason I haven’t written about it earlier is that I felt as if everything had already been said. Of course, as I dug around more these things began to change. I believe that this calls attention to some deeper cultural issues, especially revolving around Asperger’s and Autism.
I see you in your stops and starts, your fears and resistances. I see you in your glorious unfoldings and creative inventions. I see you think you’re not enough, and then see you leap to the next spot, laughing. I see you write yourself in and out of memory and dream, smoke and shadow. I see your new writings taking flight. I see you refusing to quit for long, I see you willing to sob on the floor, I see you showing up to the page, over and over , over and over again- even when it’s boring, messy, not your favorite. I see you celebrating, creating, making your writing REAL and sharing your life’s purpose. I see you allowing the splendid imperfections and glaring omissions and inescapable truths and uncertainties. I see you, I know you, I love you unconditionally- completely and forever. Call on me constantly. I’m right here, right now, right always. I adore you.
With loving support,
Inner Wise Self
(Shayna Schachtman, thank you-you’re beautiful.)
- Loving Yourself Unconditionally (returningtohouse.wordpress.com)
- Imperfection (webbfarm.wordpress.com)
- Loving Yourself Unconditionally (findinghealthafterillness.wordpress.com)
After a while you learn the subtle difference
Between holding a hand and chaining a soul,
And you learn that love doesn’t mean leaning
And company doesn’t mean security.
And you begin to learn that kisses aren’t contracts
And presents aren’t promises,
And you begin to accept your defeats
With your head up and your eyes open
With the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child,
And you learn to build all your roads on today
Because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans
And futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight.
After a while you learn…
That even sunshine burns if you get too much.
So you plant your garden and decorate your own soul,
Instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.
And you learn that you really can endure…
That you really are strong
And you really do have worth…
And you learn and learn…
With every good-bye you learn.
~Jorge Luis Borges
- Reflections on Readings #3 – Jorge Luis Borges (cleanboard.wordpress.com)
- Book of a lifetime: Ficciones, By Jorge Luis Borges (independent.co.uk)
- Borges on Love and Loss (theatlantic.com)
Hug Your Mom Tight For Me by Cindy Adams
I have reprised this column every Mother’s Day since springtime of 2000. That’s when I lost my own mom. It was akin to losing my whole world. Each year this special weekend is my only way of touching her.
I’m a mother lover. I print this annual tribute because I never loved any creature, big or small, man or woman, old or young, human or animal, the way I loved my mother. And not in this life nor in those the Spirits say I may pass through, will I ever love anyone more.
My grandmother, who came over from the old country, Russia, was a janitress in the New World. Cleaned stoops. Took in boarders. Made chicken soup so thick you broke your wrist lifting the spoon. And once washed my mom’s only party dress — pretend satin, trimmed with fake fur — then stuck it on a radiator to dry. The thing turned stiff. Grandpa never made a living. He was a tailor but couldn’t save mom’s only party dress.
They had five children. My mother Jessica, the baby, was born in Liverpool. Mother married a dentist but liked nothing about him including his teeth. She divorced him after I was born. An executive secretary, she was a single parent.
I was always sickly. But, no matter what, she was always there. She’d pawn things because we needed other things. She then married a dear man who loved me and sold insurance. Mostly I remember that she was always, always there for me.
She dug up my birth father when I was 12 so we could meet because he’d never once seen nor supported me. We met. I was distinctly ungood-looking at 12. He continued to not care to see me again. Years later as life changed for me, he then reached out. Mom and I both then told him what he could do with his reach.
Mother was beautiful. I was not. She had my nose fixed. Improved my hair line. Made me diet. Fed me little green Feosol tablets because I was always anemic. Gave me speech, posture and acting lessons. Took me to a modeling agent and announced: “My daughter is going to become somebody.” Underwhelmed, they said, “Maybe, but not here.”
At age 8, my class had a May 1 Maypole Dance in the park. We each bobbed and weaved, over and under, braiding our streamers into the Maypole. It was a chilly morning. Only my mother alone came bearing a sweater. I was mortified. Was I not a grown-up? No other mothers were babying their children. I hissed at her, “Go away.” She blinked at me. She went away. But there were tears in her eyes.
That happened civilizations ago, but I still cannot wipe that image from my mind.
Yearly readers request I reprise this Mother’s Day Valentine. Last week, again, a copy of 2007’s column was sent to me as a reminder. I think this is the part they want:
I can’t believe my mother is gone. Even in my heart the word is capitalized. Every winter she was in Palm Beach with an army of aides. Every summer in the Hamptons. Even when she lay unfocussed and unspeaking in the hospital bed in the country home I provided for her, she was in my life.
Even in those years when she didn’t know who I was, I knew who she was. I knew somewhere inside that shell was the stunning, bright, sassy, verbal, vibrant, witty, dynamic, fun-loving, killer lady who had forever been my everything, the core of my being.
The last time I hugged her an icy stab of fear sliced through me. I sensed an increased fragility. I wanted to crawl into that bed alongside her, but there was no way. No room. Besides, I was terrified I’d frighten her or, worse, the bed would collapse.
And so I pressed up close, my body flat against the protective side bars. All I could do was stroke that small head. And place against the cold steel railings of the hospital bed a stuffed teddy bear so those curled fingers might touch something soft.
I remember that gorgeous head when it was full of information. When it ruled worlds. When it was big and strong and knowledgeable and featured that powerful mane of thick red hair. It seemed tiny now. The hair white. Sparse. Shiny.
I was an only child. I married in my teens. So we were four. Then dad went, and we were three. Next, my husband, who was the same age as my mother. And then we were two. And now I’m one. And my only family are two yappy Yorkshire terriers — but at least they come from England as she did.
It’s tough. Tough to lose your mother. It is now a dozen years since I’ve lost my mother. It’s still tough. I’d give up everything to give her a gentle, easy, slow-moving hug today. Just one. One that wouldn’t alarm her. One that couldn’t be returned. Or even understood.
I’m aware that each Mother’s Day, for whatever reasons, families become aware there are wide gaps between many a mother and child. Not for me to sit in judgment.
It’s just that — if it’s within your ability — call. Buy flowers. Send a gift. Write a note. Tell your mother you love her.
I wish I could.
I can’t anymore.