I wait each winter for the unfurling of spring. The relentless heartiness of the crocus before it bursts through the ground, piercing the soil before unveiling its color in the sunshine and snow. Much the same one of the first tulips of spring brings me just as much joy.
I planted three bulbs in a small garden bed built by hand, a loving husband indeed, and these three bulbs planted over a decade ago have now brought forth thirty-two blooms this year. What a magical gift indeed. The little hashgacha pratit flowers are my divine providence from the earth itself. Staying winter, the fits of spring reveal themselves to us. There is something about a garden: no matter how grand or minuscule it may be, it is a gift of abundance with a mystery of life embedded underneath the soil.
As a child, I waited for the first buds on the Sitka rose bush to bloom. Once the snow melted, I checked them daily until they began to bud and bloom. They reminded me of staying the course in the darkest days. These plants are examples of change in our gardens, but their presence remains unyielding.
We must thank the gardeners of this planet, the tillers of the soil, the finders of renewable energy, and the ones who tend the gardens quietly and patiently, nurturing the blooms to bud.
My garden reflects my mental state. It is parched or overwatered, gently wedded and abundant in growth, and overgrown and ripe with fruits that spill from vines. Much like the ebb and flow of the seasons, I feel as they change and we continue to grow. What a blessing to be a witness and a tiller of the Earth.
With the abundance of spring in the Northern Hemisphere I draw my gaze back towards hope. I never lost it, but much like the unfurling of the buds on a tree, my spirit hearkens back to the fundaments of the hope I feel when I pay attention to what is around me. The physical world reminds me to truly see what is in front of me, what I can touch, smell, and taste every day. If I pay attention to what is around me, then I immerse myself within it.
What I have found blooming in these observations, is hope. Everything in life can be taken from you in an instant except for hope. Hope comes from the spiritual realm to believe in something so deeply that you know an outcome of love will come forth. Now, hope does not push for a narrative of toxic positivity, it just remains calm and steady amidst the waves that crash around it. Much like the storms of spring, hope comes forth like the knowledge of knowing that after the rain, the wind, the hail, the sleet, there will be a thaw, a reckoning and a calm that eases the natural world.
Tonight there is a new moon. Tomorrow a new month. In Hebrew it is called, Rosh Chodesh the celebration that the moon indeed exists. Much like the moon, we as a people continue to exist.
We are.
We are here.
We are everywhere.
A spirit.
A hope.
HaTikvah, the hope is that we are a people of hope who continue to thrive despite incredible odds. With the new moon upon us, I hope it brings forth lasting peace, a hope for much suffering to end, and for our hostages to be freed and reunited with their families.
Searching for blue skies in the last days of January in the P.N.W. is a novelty. My youngest child was doing just this on a recent drive.
“Mama, mama,” he exclaimed, “Look right there, see that? There’s the blue skies!” His anecdote reminded me of the famous song, “Blue Skies,” to which I promptly began singing the melody.
He asked me, “Who sang that song?” It got me thinking, I wonder who composed that song? I pulled up my application on my phone and clicked on an Irving Berlin recording available on YouTube playing, “Blue Skies.”
While digging a bit deeper at home, I discovered that my very same child who was named after the famous Jewish composer, Irving Berlin, had discovered, serendipitously, that his namesake also had written the song in 1926. This moment of spontaneity sparked so much joy on our recent drive. I love it when life brings forth these little coincidences. I read that people have started referring to them as, “glimmers.” For what it’s worth, I have always thought of them as sparkles…
Antisemitism has reached a fever pitch worldwide in the recent months because of the attack on Israel on October 7th, 2023 and the ensuing war. This date was marked for Jewish people world wide as the most deadly day for Jews since the Holocaust, since the expel of Jews from the Middle East, and it was transpired on hallowed ground.
There are little to no choices when it comes to identity. The world seems to decide how one can be identified once a box has been distinguished. Here me out though, I always felt and feel a sense of pride when I talk about my background and who I am. The people that came before me survived traumas all their own. They are now imprinted in my DNA, and in the DNA of my children. However, with that being said I work actively hard at igniting joy in my children around their identity. We distinguish how important it is that they are who they are. This rich culture of people who have survived and thrived. How their actions in the world can spark a flame of hope and kindness when they act in a way that focuses their energy positively.
When we leave this Earth, this realm of collective humanity, all we really have is the imprint from our interactions, from our work, from the collectiveness of being a human on this planet we all call home. What if, we looked for more blue skies? Perhaps looking up a bit more would shed some light upon the dark corners we find ourselves nestled within?
(Some favorite renditions of, “Blue Skies,” that my Irving and I listened to included: Ella Fitzgerald, Frank Sinatra, Irving Berlin, and Doris Day.)
There’s been someone on my mind on and off this past year. Through the ups and downs of this year my thoughts have gone back to my paternal Grandfather time and time again.
Raised in midwest of the United States a decade out from the turn of the century this man, like many of his time had similar afflictions to others. Although his faults and talents were diminished by emerging wars and the Great Depression he forged a pathway for his family paved by both sport and service. Perhaps it was because of these experiences that he turned inwards in the last two decades of his life. It was the man he decided to be that I grew to understand and love as a child.
The grandfather I knew trekked hundreds of miles to spend Thanksgiving with his eldest son and his family annually. The pride I felt as a five year old when he emerged from the crowd of family members in the hall of my elementary school was immeasurable. His tan cowboy hat, brown leather boots, and diamond willow cane made me beam with pride. My grandfather, the cowboy from Montana circa Missouri. Plucked from the skies as his airplane descended into the Northern Territory to visit for a week.
He was my first pen pal. He enclosed bits of spring time each year. Mailing leaves and petals, pussy willow buds, and kindness into those monthly letters. It was the days of long distance phone calls on weekends, and five hour flights to Alaska.
I felt seen and loved as a young Jewish child. He sent every card he could find, asked questions without judgement, and encouraged me from afar. He was front and center beaming with pride during my Bat Mitzvah. His shaky hand and video recording camera took in the scene in 1997 capturing my moment of entering the realm of adulthood. My commitment to my people, my culture, he embraced it with pride.
In these current days of turbulence and turmoil riddled by antisemitism, I often think of my touchstone. My grandfather’s love and support take on so much more meaning now, knowing that as a non-Jew he could show his commitment to family through his actions. I attribute much of my extension of love and tikkun olam to him. By extension of knowing I was supported, I could in turn do the same.
His birthday was December 25th. Every year I think of him and I wonder about what living in the last century felt like through each decade of change. Naturally I think of his life long partner my Grandmother Belva Pearl and I wonder if her work as an educator paved a similar pathway in my life. Her patience and calm amidst the chaos of raising six children helps me channel her qualities in the midst of raising our two children.
The tenacity and fortitude she had to help steer her family through two world wars and child rear are beyond me. What might I learn and apply from these abilities to survive and thrive. The strength and compassion it takes to persevere as a human on this planet is immense.
To know them was to love them. And love them I do. My holiday birthday Grandparents. Born the last of eleven grandchildren I am glad I met and knew them. Hopefully they know how much gratitude I hold for them today.
Woodrow Wilson HipsherBelva Pearl Rockhold Hipsher
There is a feeling unlike anything else that could be described, but more so felt in one’s depths.
Felt in a way that I know when I’m in synch with myself.
Radiance is something that can be witnessed, when you see it captured in eyes, a motion, the fluidity of an energy surging and flooding the space shared.
Similar to flashing light. It’s there. That spark within that can radiate out, unbeknownst to our own consciousness. These are the moments I revel in. Small moments I pocket for later when the gray can settle in.
When I see them running with abandon and reveling in the sunshine. The sound of a belly laugh rumbling from a human soul. Moving so freely and making eye contact for a fragment of a second and sharing that fleeting joy. The warmth of a heartbeat pressed close to my chest and holding fast to our beats as they synch. Small fingers curled around mine and the smallest of a squeeze to know that I’m still there. The morning dew rising from the fence and the sunshine sparkling the droplets, playing tricks on my eyes.
Life’s littlest moments are what truly make up my days. What about you?
They say, “A smile is worth a thousand words…” What a genius *they* were. I chose the photo for a few reasons; one it is was a photograph by my oldest and closest friend. Two, I need an updated head shot post life and two children and the pandemic, but I had not been photographed professionally in over two years. Finally it reminded me of what I thought I had lost.
She said my name, I turned and laughed, click. In one click that moment in time was stilled to a screeching halt. If I close my eyes I can see it, I can see it all flash like lightening out the window in the heat of the storm. I see that moment, and I see her and I see me…
The news, the phone calls, the fourteen-hour time difference, the lab results, the surgery, their visit, the return, the results, cutting her hair and her curls falling, falling, falling. Her story, not your story, but still the fall while I was running, running, running. Flying to visit on my first solo trip abroad. The anxiety beating in my chest. Waking up vomiting. Her making me laugh saying, “It’s nice to hear the sound of someone else puking and it not being me.” God she was so funny. Why. Why. Why. Why are good people punished? Is that even something that is valid to ask? Screw it. I said it. It was, it is, and it sometimes still crosses my mind. The flight home and feeling like a chunk of my heart lay in Hong Kong receiving the drip, drip, drip, hoping the life force of chemo would somehow heal the broken body. The waiting, the wondering, and the waiting some more. Time halted with the call; they’re coming home. She’s coming home. Home. What is home for them? The last four and a half months, like a count down before me. The last time we watched a movie together. Choking down popcorn. Fucking cancer. The call from the stupid company thinking that if only they had her take more of their potions it would change things. Leave, my sister alone, for the love of God. That last show. The blood on her tissue. Thinking to myself I should go over and cuddle with her. Texting, calling, and waiting. Curling up in the corner of the hospital bed and holding her hand. Gently waking her to speak with the doctor. Talking, talking, talking, they’re talking at her and she’s not even awake. What the hell is going on? Surgery, for what? No more pain, no more needles, she said no more needles don’t touch her. Losing my mind in the hallway calling mom choking up on the phone. Yelling at, sigh, a priest when he offered me help. I’m not CATHOLIC I yelled. I’m JEWISH. Wow. So that happened. I just sat there taking turns holding her hand, taking turns, and crying and praying that her labored breathing would ease. My God. How selfish could I be, I asked God to make it stop, what is wrong with me? That last moment. I see her hands; I see the soft rounded half moons on her nails. The same hands that held mine. Hands that braided my hair. That took pictures together. That passed book pages. That shared chocolate. That cooled a forehead. That taught me to drive. Hands. Hearts. Hands intertwined. I missed her smile. The audience packed over three hundred souls in the room to honor her. I was numb. I just kept thinking, I can’t lose this one too, in the bathroom praying the blood not to come. Waiting, not feeling right. The blood tests. The ultrasound. Hearing, “I’m so sorry, please wait here.” The look on his face. God, make it stop. Here I go again. Calling out to God and where are… they? The hospital lights dimmed as the drugs smoothed the edges of my raw nerves. “How are you feeling?” she asked, I rolled my head over to her and smiled, “So good.” Hobbling to the bathroom and thanking the nurse for helping me. The blood, that’s to be expected. The color stained behind my eyes. Every month I saw it again and again, and again. The pulsing life force within me that kept me alive, and reminded me monthly I had more to give, I had more to live for, to grow for, I had to reframe my perspective, ‘cuz this ain’t it kid, this ain’t it. What did she tell me?
“Hineni,” Hebrew for, “Here I am.” That was it, here I am, and here I will stay. I am not my sister, and she was not me.
Click. Click. Click.
The rush of the moment. The train station walls illuminated as the dusky lights of night descended upon us. All in a moment, all was still, and the laugh subsided. We sat to take a rest after shooting in the park along the Willamette River. Shooting one another and covering her camera with what we lovingly referred to as the camera condom. The humor from middle school never seemed to disappear between us. Old habits die hard, “Was that a good one?” She chuckles, “Yeah I think I got it, you smiled!”
There are days that feel so heavy to be a human. I felt those all weighing down on me when I woke up today. Each passing year feels so different.
Some years (pauses), God, I just wrote years, as in plural. As I shake my head at the realization of the length of time, I visualized something. The distance of days, turned months, turned years feels like more and more time built between the two of us. Maybe I need to talk that one out… Regardless, unpacking my thoughts and feelings is a daily task these days.
Back to my thought: the heaviness. Sometimes humanity weighs heavy in the heart. Maybe it’s the turning of the season today, the official beginning of the hibernation period, the winter solstice begins. Maybe it’s the remembrance of what we all lost when you left this Earth? Maybe it’s the fact that so much humanity is ever changing? The world still feels frozen, but why? Maybe it’s the fact that I’m feeling all of the things I allowed to become numb?
Maybe it’s all of it.
It is all of it.
All at once.
The crashing waves. The water washed over me, and I just let it all flow. In ways, like these words. I always turn to here. Let it all out in writing. Maybe that’s why I hadn’t blogged in so long. What do we say when we have too much to say? Or if we find ourselves without the words to fully express our feelings, where do we begin?
I turned a lot to podcasts this year. Unpacking, and repacking what I’m experiencing, listening to, mulling over, and chewing on in my head.
Often I take the feelings, and I weave them into an armor of something in my mind. The fabric of this life. The frayed edges worn with time. Here I stand alas, holding onto that scarf and hoping it still warms me, even after the years have unraveled it’s thread.
Golly, I’m at a loss. I hate that. I don’t like not understanding, or not knowing. That is definitely the type A coming through…
My patience runs very thin these days, it reminds me of ice. Cracking and refreezing, and the water still moving beneath the surface. What is it like to full submerge, and feel that sting? I remember all too well that frigid cold feeling in 2015, of knowing the inevitable was coming, and I was incapable of stopping it. That’s it. Right there. That knowingness of watching the inevitable unfurl. That was the submerge, the slow spiral, and the waking up knowing.
Sometimes I turn, and I think that I see your reflection in the mirror. I hear the same sound in my voice, that I once heard in yours, and the ice cracks. Perhaps it’s knowing that all things have changed, and so many remain the same.
Humanity keeps spinning in it’s web. The universe is still shifting, and yet in the quiet hours of the morning, in the repeated numbers on the clock I have seen the: 222, the 444, and the 555’s, I think of you. The buzzing of a picture frame on my birthday. The song titles you loved, as recent discoveries of unknown artists sing. These are universal signs. The dragonflies that passed us by in Fall. The shooting star that Andy saw last week. The birds that stop, and meet my eye. All of these are natures way of saying, keep going dear heart, I see you there. These reminders repair the frays. I turn my head and the breeze gently sways. New winds begin to blow.
I cried more today, than I can remember in the last 365 days. Maybe it’s because I feel you more, and I feel you less, all at once in the caverns of my heart. Maybe it’s because the fleeting feeling of time ticking becomes ever present with the growth of these two babes. There’s nothing quite like being needed to remind you of what’s important. I heard a new song by Ashley Monroe titled, Gold, and I thought about you. Her voice reminds me of Alison Krauss. These little things help reweave the threads hanging loose.
I don’t know if I believe the phrase, time heals all wounds, is accurate any longer. Maybe it’s more like this: time cloaks the wounds, and your heart grows less heavy. Regardless, here I am. I broke a few stress cycles with the tears today. You would probably say, “Look at you, healing, and stuff, haha, and be healthy you. I’m proud of you.” I’ll go hug the babes, and take a walk now.
I’ll leave you with this Big sis:
Your son’s doing well.
He’s nearing six feet.
He’s driving now too.
Imagine that.
We all love and miss you.
The books you should see coming out in 2021, ahh, I hope you do see.
I saw a hedgehog on google today.
I chuckled aloud, and thought you’re so funny.
Leo said you wink at us when the stars twinkle bright.
They say age is like wine, it gets better with time.
I’m not sure who they are, but I couldn’t agree more. Life’s bit bittersweet with a flaky exterior. If I were to define age it would be the conscious knowledge of a number, and yet the fleeting feeling of freedom. When I was a child, I would wonder who I would be one day. What does it even mean to be? In the Spanish language it conforms to: ser, to be….
To be or not to be, that’s always the question, isn’t it? I have been an official adult for twenty years now. I am not sure of everything I have learned and how I could possibly put it into words. I think the description would need to be written as multiple stories instead.
All I truly feel is: gratitude. This gratitude for just being, going back in time to my writing of the Hebrew phrase: hineni: here I am.
Being here.
Being still.
Being in motion.
Being.
How lucky am I? I think I am similar, and also very much changed. I don’t make room for as many things anymore. I shed them like a cloak each year that I realize the lack of importance they held. Take for instance, doubt.
If I had given into doubt, I wouldn’t be here, writing, this, sharing it on the ethers of the internet.
If I had given into doubt, I wouldn’t have the memory of us holding hands in a foreign land and comforting her in the largest trial of time.
If I had doubted my gut instinct and not held his hand that one day, I wouldn’t be here with my family today.
If I had doubted my abilities, I wouldn’t have sung in that room with a panel of music faculty members judging my every move, and been awarded a scholarship.
If I had doubted my kindness, I would not have made my lifelong friend again and passed her paper in study hall.
If I had doubted my hope I would not have believed in rainbows after the storm and held both of my babies close to my heart.
If I had doubted my self-worth I wouldn’t face my fears and discuss them monthly with a trained professional therapist.
If I had given into my doubt I wouldn’t submit and submit, and revise, and edit, and resubmit my stories again and again.
If I had given into my doubt, I wouldn’t have crossed the 13.1 finish line and completed a half marathon three years after taking my first steps as a runner.
If I had given into doubt, I wouldn’t have made countless friends and spent hours at a dance studio I called my second home.
If I had given into fear I wouldn’t have a fifteen minute birth story and a beautiful human to care for.
Doubt is like your shadow. It tags along for the ride, trying to pull you back, or pull you down. But at some point, you must know how to embrace it. Remember that first time you discovered her? The shadow friend waved back, didn’t she? Sometimes doubt, and fear can high five you, just to see how far you have come, and give you a nudge to keep going.
Life is like that too. All the shadow friends fall behind, as you turn and face the light. It’s better if you look up most days. Take a power stance, and find the light of the sun, or the moon, and allow its shine to lift you up towards the sky.
Cheers to 38, the strong years, and all the ones that came before. They made me into this human form that helps me charge forth with passion and integrity.
What does spirituality mean to you as an individual? I was recently listening to a podcast on, “Unlocking Us,” with the Nelson family. They were discussing what spirituality meant to them in their family and I connected to something I hadn’t thought of in a while. There are always these thoughts that linger just below the surface before emerging with impeccable timing. Call it God, call it the universe, call it what you like, but it released something I had been holding onto.
The idea of how spiritual I feel, and have felt when playing music revived itself. They say, “don’t lose yourself,” when you’re mothering. I understand how true that can be. I have worked hard to continue to be myself and evolve with each pregnancy and birth I have been blessed to experience. With each one, I have become a new version of myself.
Is it not amazing to be alive and experience all of the highs and lows of being a human? Over the last eighteen months we have all had a collective experience, and yet an individualized one at the same time. How unique it is that as a whole, the entire earth has bared witness to this pandemic and continued to revitalize and find ways to connect? Albeit connection without touching, at times, but connection none the less. However, I do think that in some ways it has come at a cost and for myself, I have realized how much I have to break away from the technological connectivity I had grown accustomed to…
I often sit on my bed and gaze out the window when I am writing. There is a beautiful cherry tree that continues to grow each day. This tree and I have seen many stages of life together over the past decade. When sitting down to write today I realized something, I am so grateful for this view. The leaves now delicately quiver in the winter wind. They dangle on bare branches reminding me of how much I can dangle on the precipice when I feel at my most raw and exposed. There is something to be said about the seasons and how much it can invoke these instinctual feelings within me.
I often analyze and over think ideas. It is something I have grown aware of with age, and also grown to appreciate about myself. This characteristic, not flaw, allows me to have the ability to be a natural researcher, thinker, and empath. I am constantly considering what I think the other being might feel or be going through. I also weigh choices heavily, and I have learned to release my worries quickly.
The act of mindfulness has been a slow process I have been cultivating over the last few years. It has recently blossomed with my commitment to meditation. Through the act and practice of exercise with a friend’s partnership on social media, I committed myself for four months to a daily ritual. It helped me realize that I can do the same with my mindfulness and take it to another level with meditation. Ultimately this practice helps me two fold: be a more present human being, and be a steadier rock in the turbulence of my children’s springs. I will be the first to admit that their waves of emotion can greatly affect me. As an empath it is extremely challenging for me to not become washed away with their tides, but I am holding firmer ground and breathing deeper now.
Where am I going with all of these collective thoughts? I’m rooting them here, in this virtual ether captured by a moment in time. It had been a while since I sat down and wrote a flow of thoughts without trying to conform the ideas or control the output.
I realized that sometimes we all just need to let things go. Let go and let God. The only thing to fear, is fear itself. What takes up your mental space can consume you, carefully tread my friends and find those spaces that bring you back to what truly matters. This time of year brings back many memories of collective effervescence for me. The act of being together, the act of singing together, and feeling that spiritual moment that you cannot explain. It may look different for me now, but the emotions still rise the same. May this season bring forth a renewed energy filled with hope and light. May we all be taken to, “church,” and find that moment where our souls ring and feel lightened by the load of what being a human means.
startwithsparkles 