Today’s Oracle

My software angels choose this oracle quote for you today:

185) Necessity may be the mother of invention, but play is certainly the father. –Roger von Oech

You can use my Potent Quotes Oracle page whenever you need help.  Hold a question in your heart, and see what quote comes up for you when you scroll down.

Get the Wizard’s Handbook on Oracle Creation and have fun with oracles.

The Power of Memoir

Children want to know their parents stories. They need those stories.

I know there were stories my parents, aunts and uncles could have told me that I would have valued. I didn’t get them, and I feel loss for the ones I didn’t hear.

So, writing the stories can be a gift for your family.

Secondly, the stories help you to integrate your life. I find that writing helps me to make sense of things.  Ties events together and weaves wholeness into my life.

Both Suzanne and I are writing some of those stories for our girls.

Each of the books I write helps me to tie my thoughts together, to explore topics. Additionally, each book can be thought of as a snapshot of where I am at a particular time in life.  I don’t think my girls have read much of my writing, but it’s there for them when they want it.

After my father died, a very short biography of his life, Otto Wittmann: Museum man for all seasons, was published in time for his memorial service.  I was unaware of most of the material.  I feel the loss.

You can read my most poignant memoirs in God, Death, and Poetry: A Magically Sacred Way to Make Your Life Rich, Deep, and Whole.  Most are less than a page.

Consider writing memoir it’s good for you and for your loved ones.

A colleague, Desirée Shafman, wrote the following. It’s a gem.  Enjoy it.

The Swing Set

It was early September. The moist, hot air was lingering heavy on the surface ofmy skin. Indian Summer…those few extra weeks of unbearable Jersey temperatures. It was in this particular place in time that I can recall one of my earliest memories.

The neighborhood was quiet. I could feel an occasional bead of sweat make its way down from the crown of my head, slide over my temple and down my neck, slowly making it’s way to the collar of my shirt. Most of the kids, the “bigger kids” had started school. There was no one to play with and I was bored with my usual diversions, not to mention annoyed with the mounting heat.

I am lying in the grass in my yard, the side yard behind the garden where no one really went. The grass there was taller, more silky and the tops of the blades were just long enough to catch the fine mist from the sprinkler. There I would lie, watching the clouds…waiting, waiting, and waiting in sweet anticipation for the beads of mist to gather and merge until the grass could no longer bear its weight. Silk emerald blades touching downwards, drop, drop, drop softly, tenderly cooling my skin.

I don’t think anyone ever knew I was there. I liked that. Just being somewhere alone, somewhere safe, somewhere quiet. I could hear where everyone else was and what they were doing as they moved about. Sometimes I would imagine that I could sink down into the earth and grow as a tree, taller and stronger than anyone I knew. Everyone would love and respect me then because I was a tree, beautiful to behold, a comforting shelter of quivering green overhead, children playing on my roots…I allowed my mind to wander deeply into this thought until I had exhausted all avenues of my imagination.

Such as it is with all good havens, there is a time when one must surrender to the thought of other conquests. So it was that I turned my attentions to lunch. I was beginning to sense savory smells wafting from Mema’s kitchen window, making their way justly to my attentive nose. I knew it was not “time” yet and rules were rules, so I remained outside until called. In compensation, I decided to follow the advice of my grumbling stomach and at least lessen the distance between me and my future meal.

It was nearly noon and most of the yard was in full sun. I was heading to the only other timely refuge I knew of, the swing set. Placed just off the driveway and facing our windows, it was tucked up close to the neighbors who’s house I found strange and oppressive. Though it provided shelter from the sun, I did not like it very much. Too tall, too square with flat stucco walls and not enough windows. It didn’t quite fit in with the rest of the neighborhood. None the less, placing the swings there was a thoughtful idea.

As I turned the corner of the house from the back yard, I was contemplating which of the two swings I would choose to sit on. The seats were made of hard white plastic and I knew that my legs would stick in the heat, not a welcome reality but I could deal with the vexation for a bit of time. The swings were identical except for the fact that one’s chains were set at a height for a younger me. It was lower and my feet touched if I forgot to tuck them tightly under me. I liked it though because of the rut I had made in the ground from diligently scuffing myself to a stop in previous summers. One could also go higher on it and higher meant that I could put an unreachable dollop of dirt on the neighbors pristine stucco wall that was before me. One beautiful but forbidden splotch on all that white was thrilling to think about. I would certainly feel like an Olympic champion when my friends came over and saw what I was up to while they were sitting in school. Yes, I had decided my course.

My mind was running wild with thoughts of how pleasurable this will be…the coveted “Highest Dirt Mark on Nevin’s Wall” is finally and quite literally within my reach. What greater badge of honor was there to be obtained? The only one I could bring to mind was being brave enough to go as high as you could on the swings in the park and jump off to see how far one could fly through the air before landing in the sand. I knew quite certainly that little kids like me simply did not fly as far as my older, heavier comrades so that was not even in the running of possibilities.

 

Sometimes I think so loudly that I am unaware of other sounds and so it was that day. I should have known she was sitting in the window, she liked it there, quietly watching my childhood musings. “She” was my grandfather’s mother, my Nauna. I can only remember her in a wheelchair but to me she looked like she would have been tall, very tall, if she stood up. She spoke little English, and I zero Italian. We got along marvelously. Sometimes I would give her a drawing. She would smile and point and laugh rambling on and on and on, her words making no sense. I was captivated by the melody, the intonations, her intentions, her body gestures, the thoughts in her eyes.

At this point of my tale telling I should like to share a word about the wall… absolutely, under no circumstances, was anyone to ever, ever, ever put a dollop of dirt on the wall by any means imaginable. Doing so would result in a painstaking day of washing the wall, the entire wall, not just the spot. This was often followed by being grounded to one’s room for a designated period of time. The worst of it was knowing that you disrespected your family’s reputation and they were sure to let you know how disappointed they were. In my neighborhood this was a line you thought hard about before you crossed it. Not that we were expected to be perfectly behaved, but rather the importance was on choosing a cause worthy of rebellion.

Casting my fate to the wind, I found myself climbing on the swing with my back to Nauna not noticing she was there. Shall I run and jump neatly through the chains and land on the seat to get me started? No, this requires much more refinement and smarter use of energy. I will get on the swing and push back until I am on my tip toes. At just the right moment I will give my hardest push back while pulling the chains as hard as I could. One or two more ground push offs on a swing by and the chains were singing sweetly. I threw my entire body into the task. Back with my arms, forward with my chest, legs pumping, stomach crunching, hair flying.

If you have ever ridden a swing in such a manner, you know what I mean when I say that there comes a time when you realize that you have maxed out the height the swing will allow you to go. There is a funny pause in your momentum, ever so slightly felt as you reach your limit. This ultra brief moment, this stopping of time, threw me into immediate action. I would catch my breath knowing this was the moment to lean back as far as I dare go, point my toes as straight as one could manage in canvas high tops, stretch my legs long and then longer than imaginable, grab tight to the chains and lift my body off the seat, eyes closed waiting for the soft thump of contact.

Every kid in the neighborhood studied the wall and knew exactly who each mark belonged to. Where did my mark fall? As I slowed down I saw it. Fresh, chocolate brown Jersey dirt. A noble attempt but not the Gold. No matter, that was only a warm up I told myself. The next one will be better. I figured I had about three good attempts before I became too exhausted for it to be possible to achieve.

I could feel my hair pulling, caught in the chain. Yet another avenue of rebellion I preferred to wear it long and loose, and please don’t come near me with that brush. Unfortunately this was the price I paid for my stubbornness. As I slowed to deal with my entanglement, the squeak of the chains became softer, more spaced apart. It was then that I regained my sense of hearing. Oh crap, crap, crap, it was Nauna. Had she seen me? I could not tell. She is saying something but she doesn’t sound mad. As loving, gentle and kind as she was, there was also a side that meant business. She was never unfair but she did have her expectations of me.

With as much nonchalance as I could muster up, I turned myself around so we were facing each other. I saw her smile and wave her hand. Could my luck be so? I would hate to be grounded and not even have the highest mark. I began to sing as I swung gently back and forth still trying to assess the situation. She smiled. I smiled. I made funny faces. She smiled. I sang a song. She nodded her head. This was our routine. When we became bored, we would enter into a staring contest. She was the Queen at this as she could hold you in her gaze like a hawk. Of the times I “won” I felt it was because of her kindness in letting me. I had intense focus for a youngster, but well, I was a youngster.

Lunch was on the brink of being served. From the kitchen I could hear plates being placed, glasses being filled with water, pots, pans and a call to the garden, “Happy, everything is ready.” My grandfather had been weeding all morning. I knew his shoes would be muddy and that he would want to change them before he sat to eat. I also know that no one so much as picked up a fork until everyone was at the table. It was the respectful thing to do. For me, this was a good thing as our eyes remained locked in a test of patience and focus. One slight glance away and I would forfeit victory.

From the corner of my eye I could see the figure of my grandfather rounding the corner of the house. As he came up the sidewalk I was aware of him looking in my direction. As he reached just below the window where Nauna sat he slowed down. I could see that his face went from hers to mine and back again. I was struggling not to break my gaze when I heard him speak my name. It was over, I looked.

Happy, my grandfather, the gentle blue eyed giant, was standing stock still, frozen, with an expression on his face that I had never seen before.

“What are you doing?”

“Swinging.”

“What are you staring at?”

“Nauna.”

“Why?”

“It’s a game we play. Who looks the longest wins.”

We both looked to the window and sure enough she was still winning. This was not adding up to be my day. First the dirt now the staring contest. He headed towards the kitchen door. Half way up the stairs he stopped, asked if I were hungry.

“Yes.” I replied to his haunting expression. I cannot to this day put words to it. All I can share is that it made me feel funny in a way I had never felt before. I didn’t know how to read it and that was unsettling as I tended to rely on his ever steady, warm presence.

“Would you like to have a picnic? We could eat outside at the picnic table, ok?”

“Sure” I said, ‘That would be fun.”

“Mema and I will bring lunch out soon.”

As I watched him open the screen door and disappear into the house, I noticed he still wore his gardening shoes covered in dirt. Unusual.

I can hear him call my grandmother’s name. Once, twice, and again. I can hear them speaking. I knew it was not English which meant that I was not privy to the conversation. Not unusual.

My swinging had toned down to a slight rocking as it was just too hot for anything more. I continued to watch as he appeared behind Nauna, turned her wheelchair and rolled her from the window. Rattling about in the kitchen, more talking, I could hear the phone being dialed and then he appeared, lunch in hand. Again the expression and he felt different as we walked side by side but why I could not say.

The umbrella was already up as we sat down to eat. It was colorful and I liked how the sun came thru it casting a tint on the table. I gazed over at my morning sanctuary. The grass where I had been still matted down like a doe’s resting spot. I wondered if he knew I was there before. Probably, he knew everything. He probably even knew that I didn’t want him to know and so left me to myself. He was aware like that.

“How is lunch?”

“Good PopPop”

“How is your day today, are you having a nice day?”

“Yeeees, but am I in trouble?” (nearly spilling the beans of my aspirations).

His eyes lit up and he chuckled, “No, No, Desiree, why would you think that you were in trouble?”

“I don’t know, cuz your face I guess.”

“My face…” he repeated thoughtfully.

“Yes and you feel different. I think a different size. Maybe not smaller but, well, sort of like that.”

We sat quietly and ate for a bit listening to the birds, each in our own thoughts. I watched to see if his eyes went to my hiding spot. If he knew, he certainly was not going to reveal it. This was part of what made him so much fun to be around. He was both playful and mysterious.

“ Nauna wanted me to tell you that you won the staring contest today. She said you didn’t notice her look away once. She thought maybe you were blinking. She wanted me to tell you that.”

“Ok,” I giggled, “I think sometimes she lets me win on purpose.”

“That is because she loves you and wants you to keep playing with her. It makes her happy to see you win…I wonder if you and I could play sometimes. I wonder, do you think you could beat me?”

A challenge! Oh boy would I try! He laughed and dared, “Ok then, let’s start right now!”

We sat together, eyed locked. He had inherited her hawk-like gaze for sure! this was not going to be easy. I squirmed under the pressure of wanting to win, eating and giggling as the ambulance arrived to carry her body away.

Desirée is a Life Coach specializing in using the creative process to help clients work through grief and life transition. 

Website: www.soulshine-lifecoaching.com 

You can reach her for phone or in person consults at: 206 499 5350.

Walk in beauty,

William

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