We were poor, only we didn’t feel that way when we were together. My daughter, then age three, and I were living in a tiny apartment above a shop on Main Street. It was all I could afford, as we two had left the comforts of our magical cottage in the woods, her father still living there. She and I still had each other, and Christmas was coming. He wouldn’t let me take any of my ornaments when we two left.
There, on the floor of our tiny apartment living room, stood the little, fake tree with lights her dad had purchased for her but no ornaments. I was appreciative of the tree, and he and I were determined that she never feel our animosity towards one another.
Still, that little tree needed ornaments. Enter, many colors of Playdoh and the cookie cutters I had purchased for $2 from the antique store right next to our building. She and I spent an entire afternoon rolling the Playdoh, cutting with the vintage cookie cutters, poking a hole at the top of each, and letting them dry.
Two days later, they became the most magical of ornaments as we hung them each lovingly with bent paperclips. Most of them have long since broken, but I still have five of them.
Each year, as I carefully unwrap each one, I am filled with the hope and possibility that she and I created that year.
Closing my eyes, a moment comes to mind from nearly 50 years ago - Having just graduated from high school, I embarked on a solo trip to Europe stopping first in Milan to stay with my father's brother and his family, whom I'd never met, only seen photographs. My uncle was meeting me at the central train station and I only had photo images of him to go on. Hordes of people coming and going. Finally as a train pulled out it revealed a tall, handsome man dressed as only Italians can, standing alone on the next over platform, seemingly looking for someone - sartorially impeccable and photoshoot ready (buttery cashmere overcoat, suit, soft leather shoes - you get the picture). Our eyes met and it was clear we recognized each other. He nearly jumped up with excitement and rather than walk all the way down the platform and around to me, because he couldn't wait that long, stepped down and through the tracks to come embrace me. Both my uncle and father are long gone but that moment will live with me forever.
Growing up, we had a book of Best Loved Poems. This one was in it. My mum loved this poem - yellow was her favorite color, and when she died, we had yellow flowers for her rather than all white. Not too many months after, I went to Scotland and the daffs were in bloom everywhere. A sweet memory. Thank you.
Suleika, I looked up your upcoming exhibit. I did not realize your mom would be showing her works there too. How exciting. I will try to figure how to Frenchtown, NJ without a car if I possibly can.
Yesterday my husband encouraged me to go on our usual walk/run in Prospect Park (he runs, I walk and we meet somewhere in the middle). I was reluctant to go because it was raining. It was raining the entire time, but luckily the torrential rain held off until the last fifteen minutes of our adventure.
I was one of the only people on the road and was able to imagine that the park was my own personal backyard. There were daffodils and crocuses popping up all over and the flowering trees were starting to blossom in my favorite colors of purple and pink. I am not familiar with very many tree names, but I saw cherry trees, dogwoods, magnolias and who knows what else. The fog and drops of rain on the flowers made them even more magical. It was not very cold and I was able to enjoy breathing in the green smells and the freshness of the rain. I started my walk feeling a bit grumpy and came home sopping wet, but invigorated.
My son Stephen, was a few months old and I was walking him in his carriage and talking to him and then I began making funny sounds rippling off my tongue. He began giggling and laughing and this was the first time for him. I kept walking him and making those crazy sounds just to hear his giggle and laughter. It touched me so in my heart, I could feel tears running down my cheeks.
This may be a selfish request, Suleika, but I hope you will share photographs of some of your reimagined paintings here at the Isolation Journals, especially for those who are unable to make the trip to see them “live”. The one I would love to see the most is your roseate spoonbill. I have been fascinated by both your painting and now the bird itself. Best wishes to you on your creative journey!
Week or so before Christmas. My mom would take me and each of my younger siblings, to Picadilly, a buffet restaurant in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, in the sixties. It was my turn to go. Wore a new dress, and the new shoes I got for Christmas. Just me and my mom. I could order whatever I wanted. Fried chicken, jello, mashed potatoes and pie. I felt so special. After dinner we would go Christmas shopping. I would buy my mom a set of handkerchiefs, which she would pay for at the counter. Come Christmas morning she would always look surprised and pleased with her gift. I carry that memory with me, and when things are scary or hard I take it out, and feel once again, the joy and love that was, once, mine.
he was a baby then; when we'd eat together, i'd slide his small body into a chair we'd attached to the wooden dining table, place his favorite books in front of him and finish preparing our breakfast. both of us barely awake, he'd be busy for several minutes, reading-but-really-turning-pages recalling how i'd last read the book to him. busy.
i think he knew. he knew his dad wasn't home all that much, he knew something was shifting, did he know before we did? i always wonder. it would be another year til it really happened, til he really left, til we made our deep lifetime of peace as separated beings.
and i, for the first time in many weeks, was relieved, peaceful; just my boy and me, breakfast.
Suleika - WOW. Sometimes you get exactly what you need. I am going to shorten it, “Don’t be afraid. Be brave.” This is beautiful and a lifeline. My art practice is suffering from a lack of confidence and a lack of reassurance from myself that it is worth my time. It feels self indulgent. I notice the familiar voice that has had years to develop that I am not good enough start to get louder. Good enough for who? For the same people who maybe told Jon not to play the melodica? To me, art is something that moves us and I think when we do that without fear it gives us the ability to move others ❤️ Also, I have not dived into the prompt, but I love it so much I might make it a daily journal entry.
Suleika, your courage to reimagine your paintings is inspirational to me. I also love your embracing of the irregular schedule, spoken by one who has had many 4 AM awakenings this week! Your prompt led me to a joyful this moment this week, when I unwittingly dropped the leash of my seven month old pup and all turned out well. The poem is called Unleashed, and while about the dog… It represents so much more!
When my children were young, we lived in a small town in a quiet, residential neighborhood. These were the days of children on bicycles, colored chalk drawings on sidewalks, neighbors visiting on porches. In the busyness of summer days, I remember a couple walking down my street, hand in hand. This man and this woman looked strong, equally built in stature. I’d always thought they must have been farmers at one point in their lives.
What struck me as beautiful was a sense of “oneness” about them. Something said to me, “ This is what Love looks like. Shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand, joyful with one another”.
All my adult life I’ve searched for that kind of love. A love that needs no words or grand gestures. A love that simply says “ Home”.
The world is full of headlines. Big and noteworthy moments. Yet, it is fuller yet of moments that take my breath away in their quiet beauty, their softly whispered hymns of praise.
Ah, this poem. Learned this in elementary school in a two room schoolhouse in Ireland! One of my very favorites, and the memory that sprung to mind just now is a beautiful scene I had the joy of witnessing. Some years ago, I hiked to Machu Picchu over 4 days. The Inca Trail route was sold out and so 14 of us hiked up thru a much more
remote path (Lares). Together with our guides, we only met about 10-15 other people in total over the course of that time. Villagers, and particularly, children, who came scampering over the hillsides as we trekked thru their valley towards sunset. We had been encouraged to bring some treats from the market at the start of the hike, lest we meet some locals. I gave two little plastic footballs and a hearty fresh pretzel and avocado to two 5-6 year olds.
As we continued onwards and I looked back, it was heart warming to just see the look of pure awe and delight in their faces.
A few years ago, in springtime, I entered a challenge here online - to write about spring NOT including any of the usual spring metaphors and tropes - daffodils included! I wrote a tongue-in-cheek prose-poem - and was lucky enough to win a much-treasured book of the writer's poems (there may have been only two or three entrants ☺️)
As an extreme morning person I love watching sunrise. Living very close to Lake Michigan, I lay out my clothes, including shoes and socks, any necessary jacket and scarf the night before. Then I dash out the door so I can capture photos of sunrise on my iPhone. I have dozens of sunrise photos. My favorite is someone paddle boarding on a very rare calm day on Lake Michigan. I’m currently trying to convert a selection of my photos into watercolors. A friend of mine who is an artist is instructing me in this process. She told me I could have them made into cards and sell them at our Makers Market (a part of the summer Farmer’ Market here). Then I would donate the proceeds to the Greater Chicago Food Depository. Walking along The Lake in the early morning is very important for my meditation practice and my mental health.
I was a lonely child. It would be years before I understood why that should be. But my family loved animals. When I was 11 yo, my grandmother brought us a tiny, nearly dead, baby raccoon who's mother had been killed on the road. We took it to the Vet who gave it liquids and antibiotics but who cautioned us that this 5 ounce baby would probably not survive even if we bottle fed it every two hours like it's mother would have. "Don't get your hopes up" my dad said as I volunteered to be the feeder night and day. So, this tiny bundle of matted fur slept in a towel in my pillow so I would be certain to wake at the tiniest sound. I set my alarm for every two hours and bottle fed it with powdered baby formula. At first, it had little energy to even suckle but as the hours turned to days, he began to suckle with all the energy of a creature who was choosing to live. Somewhere during those first days, his eyes opened and his fur began to fill in. By the end of a month, he was snuggling under my chin and in my hair at night. It was the moment I first heard his voice that I am remembering - it was a churring sound, soft and musical and a sound of deep pleasure. That raccoon lived with us until his death 15 years later. To this day, when I see or hear a raccoon, I feel it as family.
Tranquility… a quiet and peacefulness that takes time, experiences that do not factor highly enough into the calculus of our daily lives. I suppose I’m saying that I need and want more tranquility, more time for reflection, more creative practice.
I am grateful to this community for the stepping stones our weekly times together lay. 🙏🏼
We were poor, only we didn’t feel that way when we were together. My daughter, then age three, and I were living in a tiny apartment above a shop on Main Street. It was all I could afford, as we two had left the comforts of our magical cottage in the woods, her father still living there. She and I still had each other, and Christmas was coming. He wouldn’t let me take any of my ornaments when we two left.
There, on the floor of our tiny apartment living room, stood the little, fake tree with lights her dad had purchased for her but no ornaments. I was appreciative of the tree, and he and I were determined that she never feel our animosity towards one another.
Still, that little tree needed ornaments. Enter, many colors of Playdoh and the cookie cutters I had purchased for $2 from the antique store right next to our building. She and I spent an entire afternoon rolling the Playdoh, cutting with the vintage cookie cutters, poking a hole at the top of each, and letting them dry.
Two days later, they became the most magical of ornaments as we hung them each lovingly with bent paperclips. Most of them have long since broken, but I still have five of them.
Each year, as I carefully unwrap each one, I am filled with the hope and possibility that she and I created that year.
Closing my eyes, a moment comes to mind from nearly 50 years ago - Having just graduated from high school, I embarked on a solo trip to Europe stopping first in Milan to stay with my father's brother and his family, whom I'd never met, only seen photographs. My uncle was meeting me at the central train station and I only had photo images of him to go on. Hordes of people coming and going. Finally as a train pulled out it revealed a tall, handsome man dressed as only Italians can, standing alone on the next over platform, seemingly looking for someone - sartorially impeccable and photoshoot ready (buttery cashmere overcoat, suit, soft leather shoes - you get the picture). Our eyes met and it was clear we recognized each other. He nearly jumped up with excitement and rather than walk all the way down the platform and around to me, because he couldn't wait that long, stepped down and through the tracks to come embrace me. Both my uncle and father are long gone but that moment will live with me forever.
Growing up, we had a book of Best Loved Poems. This one was in it. My mum loved this poem - yellow was her favorite color, and when she died, we had yellow flowers for her rather than all white. Not too many months after, I went to Scotland and the daffs were in bloom everywhere. A sweet memory. Thank you.
Suleika, I looked up your upcoming exhibit. I did not realize your mom would be showing her works there too. How exciting. I will try to figure how to Frenchtown, NJ without a car if I possibly can.
Yesterday my husband encouraged me to go on our usual walk/run in Prospect Park (he runs, I walk and we meet somewhere in the middle). I was reluctant to go because it was raining. It was raining the entire time, but luckily the torrential rain held off until the last fifteen minutes of our adventure.
I was one of the only people on the road and was able to imagine that the park was my own personal backyard. There were daffodils and crocuses popping up all over and the flowering trees were starting to blossom in my favorite colors of purple and pink. I am not familiar with very many tree names, but I saw cherry trees, dogwoods, magnolias and who knows what else. The fog and drops of rain on the flowers made them even more magical. It was not very cold and I was able to enjoy breathing in the green smells and the freshness of the rain. I started my walk feeling a bit grumpy and came home sopping wet, but invigorated.
My son Stephen, was a few months old and I was walking him in his carriage and talking to him and then I began making funny sounds rippling off my tongue. He began giggling and laughing and this was the first time for him. I kept walking him and making those crazy sounds just to hear his giggle and laughter. It touched me so in my heart, I could feel tears running down my cheeks.
This may be a selfish request, Suleika, but I hope you will share photographs of some of your reimagined paintings here at the Isolation Journals, especially for those who are unable to make the trip to see them “live”. The one I would love to see the most is your roseate spoonbill. I have been fascinated by both your painting and now the bird itself. Best wishes to you on your creative journey!
Week or so before Christmas. My mom would take me and each of my younger siblings, to Picadilly, a buffet restaurant in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, in the sixties. It was my turn to go. Wore a new dress, and the new shoes I got for Christmas. Just me and my mom. I could order whatever I wanted. Fried chicken, jello, mashed potatoes and pie. I felt so special. After dinner we would go Christmas shopping. I would buy my mom a set of handkerchiefs, which she would pay for at the counter. Come Christmas morning she would always look surprised and pleased with her gift. I carry that memory with me, and when things are scary or hard I take it out, and feel once again, the joy and love that was, once, mine.
he was a baby then; when we'd eat together, i'd slide his small body into a chair we'd attached to the wooden dining table, place his favorite books in front of him and finish preparing our breakfast. both of us barely awake, he'd be busy for several minutes, reading-but-really-turning-pages recalling how i'd last read the book to him. busy.
i think he knew. he knew his dad wasn't home all that much, he knew something was shifting, did he know before we did? i always wonder. it would be another year til it really happened, til he really left, til we made our deep lifetime of peace as separated beings.
and i, for the first time in many weeks, was relieved, peaceful; just my boy and me, breakfast.
Suleika - WOW. Sometimes you get exactly what you need. I am going to shorten it, “Don’t be afraid. Be brave.” This is beautiful and a lifeline. My art practice is suffering from a lack of confidence and a lack of reassurance from myself that it is worth my time. It feels self indulgent. I notice the familiar voice that has had years to develop that I am not good enough start to get louder. Good enough for who? For the same people who maybe told Jon not to play the melodica? To me, art is something that moves us and I think when we do that without fear it gives us the ability to move others ❤️ Also, I have not dived into the prompt, but I love it so much I might make it a daily journal entry.
Suleika, your courage to reimagine your paintings is inspirational to me. I also love your embracing of the irregular schedule, spoken by one who has had many 4 AM awakenings this week! Your prompt led me to a joyful this moment this week, when I unwittingly dropped the leash of my seven month old pup and all turned out well. The poem is called Unleashed, and while about the dog… It represents so much more!
When my children were young, we lived in a small town in a quiet, residential neighborhood. These were the days of children on bicycles, colored chalk drawings on sidewalks, neighbors visiting on porches. In the busyness of summer days, I remember a couple walking down my street, hand in hand. This man and this woman looked strong, equally built in stature. I’d always thought they must have been farmers at one point in their lives.
What struck me as beautiful was a sense of “oneness” about them. Something said to me, “ This is what Love looks like. Shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand, joyful with one another”.
All my adult life I’ve searched for that kind of love. A love that needs no words or grand gestures. A love that simply says “ Home”.
The world is full of headlines. Big and noteworthy moments. Yet, it is fuller yet of moments that take my breath away in their quiet beauty, their softly whispered hymns of praise.
This was one of those moments.
Bless you all!
Ah, this poem. Learned this in elementary school in a two room schoolhouse in Ireland! One of my very favorites, and the memory that sprung to mind just now is a beautiful scene I had the joy of witnessing. Some years ago, I hiked to Machu Picchu over 4 days. The Inca Trail route was sold out and so 14 of us hiked up thru a much more
remote path (Lares). Together with our guides, we only met about 10-15 other people in total over the course of that time. Villagers, and particularly, children, who came scampering over the hillsides as we trekked thru their valley towards sunset. We had been encouraged to bring some treats from the market at the start of the hike, lest we meet some locals. I gave two little plastic footballs and a hearty fresh pretzel and avocado to two 5-6 year olds.
As we continued onwards and I looked back, it was heart warming to just see the look of pure awe and delight in their faces.
A few years ago, in springtime, I entered a challenge here online - to write about spring NOT including any of the usual spring metaphors and tropes - daffodils included! I wrote a tongue-in-cheek prose-poem - and was lucky enough to win a much-treasured book of the writer's poems (there may have been only two or three entrants ☺️)
As an extreme morning person I love watching sunrise. Living very close to Lake Michigan, I lay out my clothes, including shoes and socks, any necessary jacket and scarf the night before. Then I dash out the door so I can capture photos of sunrise on my iPhone. I have dozens of sunrise photos. My favorite is someone paddle boarding on a very rare calm day on Lake Michigan. I’m currently trying to convert a selection of my photos into watercolors. A friend of mine who is an artist is instructing me in this process. She told me I could have them made into cards and sell them at our Makers Market (a part of the summer Farmer’ Market here). Then I would donate the proceeds to the Greater Chicago Food Depository. Walking along The Lake in the early morning is very important for my meditation practice and my mental health.
I was a lonely child. It would be years before I understood why that should be. But my family loved animals. When I was 11 yo, my grandmother brought us a tiny, nearly dead, baby raccoon who's mother had been killed on the road. We took it to the Vet who gave it liquids and antibiotics but who cautioned us that this 5 ounce baby would probably not survive even if we bottle fed it every two hours like it's mother would have. "Don't get your hopes up" my dad said as I volunteered to be the feeder night and day. So, this tiny bundle of matted fur slept in a towel in my pillow so I would be certain to wake at the tiniest sound. I set my alarm for every two hours and bottle fed it with powdered baby formula. At first, it had little energy to even suckle but as the hours turned to days, he began to suckle with all the energy of a creature who was choosing to live. Somewhere during those first days, his eyes opened and his fur began to fill in. By the end of a month, he was snuggling under my chin and in my hair at night. It was the moment I first heard his voice that I am remembering - it was a churring sound, soft and musical and a sound of deep pleasure. That raccoon lived with us until his death 15 years later. To this day, when I see or hear a raccoon, I feel it as family.
Tranquility… a quiet and peacefulness that takes time, experiences that do not factor highly enough into the calculus of our daily lives. I suppose I’m saying that I need and want more tranquility, more time for reflection, more creative practice.
I am grateful to this community for the stepping stones our weekly times together lay. 🙏🏼