Category: Uncategorized

The Tortoise and The Hare

Rachel AnnLeave a comment

The original story was told by Aesop. I can recall listening to my parents read it to me at around age seven or eight. If I close my eyes and concentrate I can see the shiny red dust jacket of the book, the gold embossed lettering on the paper that reflects the reading lamp. Here I am four decades later and I’m still thinking about this tale. That is why we so lovingly refer to it as a classic. 

When you read this title, what does it make you think of? The slow and steady tortoise, or the zippy zany hare racing across a meadow? I would say that in life, I have been a combination of these two characters; even at times now, well into adulthood. I find myself connecting situations to the dilemma that these two protagonists face. Parenthood has forced me to lean into my art as the tortoise. I have relearned how to move in my body, stand, sit, walk, roll from side to side with the growth, birth, postpartum experiences I was graced to carry for four years. Life is not a race kid, get in line and keep going. My father spoke wise words to me when he would repeat the following phrases, “Half of life is showing up, so show up and see what happens kiddo.” “I’ve learned that most people fall into two categories, those that do the work, and those that take the credit, line up for work one kiddo, it’s always shorter.”

For the last six years I have slowly plugged away as a writer. I don’t want to write that I was a “part time writer,” for a little over two years, because when is anyone working as part time anything? But, I digress. I enjoyed writing for two companies, one more than the other. The research component was mainly my favorite, the editing part was laborious and taught me a lot about being succinct and thoughtful when choosing the language in which I delivered information. My background as an educator for thirteen years led me to focus on writing article submissions for children’s magazines. I will admit that out of countless applications I received one potential second interview and a silly rhyming story. Invariably I received a decline and polite thank you for my submission. Here’s the thing though, I still get in line for work. I don’t focus solely on placing my eggs into one basket though. Instead, I created my own baskets. In 2021 I wrote bits and pieces of a story that would slowly unfurl like the leaves on the trees we watch transform in spring. A middle grade fantasy novel emerged from countless hours of walking around the neighborhood with a baby strapped to my chest and a toddler on a balance bike at my feet. Tread on, keep going I whispered to myself. The tortoise pace was difficult for me to settle into, but I got up and tried each day. 

After a twelve week journey with Julia Cameron’s book, The Artists Way, I set forth in 2023 to write a novel. After a very special trip to New York to see friends and family I found inspiration in the city. I told myself that if I wrote 500-1000 words per day, I could get a novel completed in roughly one year’s time. I can honestly write and say that I achieved that goal. The editing process did not come any easier with rereading that manuscript. At the end of the year I had a few more ideas, but I felt my creativity begin to wither. It took a couple seasons of Earth’s rotations before I was ready to commit to a new novel idea. This time I veered away from historical fiction and decided to venture into contemporary romance. Is the process still tortoise certified? Absolutely. I am about half way through this newest writing endeavor and every day it is equally challenging and rewarding to show up and be the scribe for the characters in my imagination. 

Why do I write all of this? 

Today I received an email that sparked a thread of hope for sharing my voice, my writing, and this journey that began as a seed when I was a child, and began to grow with each piece I was brave enough to write. Putting pen to paper, typing the words, and just getting it out as imperfectly as possible has been the constant reminder that I repeat to myself. If you’d like to continue to read my work, please consider re-sharing it on Facebook or sending it to your friends to read and share, and “subscribing,” without any payment necessary on my substack here:

https://substack.com/@singrah02

I will continue to share my writing here for a time, but I will be moving over to substack within the next year.

Thank you.

Turning the page

Rachel AnnLeave a comment

Turning the pages had become a sacred time for me, it was my form of reclaiming my time while a tiny human sustained life at my breast. I’d never really considered reading my “me” time until I was grappling at finding myself again after four straight years of growing, birthing, feeding, and recovering from two pregnancies I had fought for. 

Turning the pages of a book I found my way back to myself. I had lost the tethered rope I had once had to literature after I watched my sister, the gorgeous librarian slip away at the end of 2015 from a long battle with cancer. I went through a few years where I’d pick up a book, and I’d start crying. I couldn’t read and enjoy a book any longer in the way that I had before her death. Who did I have to share this with? Who would blog about the lovely end pages, the feeling of turning a page and knowing that a book world was on the other side of the page. I would begin books and stop fifteen pages in, tread my way through ones for work, and build stacks on my night stand set on a permanent to be read status. 

That was until, 2018, something clicked, while holding a nursing infant, I rekindled my love for literature. A reader and a baby were born at once on that rainy March day. I would quietly turn the pages, watching my son’s eye lashes flicker, tiny fists of fingers twitching as a book binding creaked. We found our way book by book, and page by page together. We covered picture books, nonfiction, novels, and poetry. I began a silent ritual of cracking open any book, be it for a child, or an adult by examining the copyright information first. I’d sit and ponder, “Did she read this one?” if I found a gem written before 2016 I’d be left with a crack of light spilling into my heart. I’d spin a web of questions I’d share with her, did you recommend this one in your blog? Did you know the author? What did you think of their work? What about the story arc? Did the characters meet your expectations? The questions would flood in, and I’d find myself talking to a ghost who lived in my mind. Never before had the copyright page felt like such a force field to be reckoned with. Now, ten years have spanned between losing my sister and the pages of a book feel more like a welcome friend I can turn to again and again instead of a proverbial question mark, inked with everything I desired to share.

I multiplied my parental experience by two after the birth of my second child amidst a global pandemic, coinciding with my “one year leave” from my thirteen years as an educator. My career pause turned into six years of leave and here I am today. I’m holding a new book, the pages are blank awaiting the voices of my future students I’ll soon meet, waiting for their stories, their hills to be climbed, their triumphs and their laughter to fill the pages on this next chapter. One quote from 2012 that sticks with me to this day remains unmatched by the ten year old voice who gasped, “You know Ms. B, sweat is just your fat crying.” A true gem of a human, a rough hewn edge of a tough outer shell that when broken open reveals a crystallized wonder. If only magic could be stored in a bottle. I guess that is why we write and read, isn’t it?

At times it has felt as though I could close my eyes and wave to the woman I was in 2019. This version of myself that had decided to turn away from teaching for what she thought would be a one year pause. The books that had been my leaning tower of unread TBR’s slowly but surely became my connection point to the world. One book at a time I found myself tying the knot of connection to the reader I had been and the woman I was becoming. Each page turned provided a rekindling between the written world and my open wound.

I once saw a visual image of what grief could look like if visualized, a tiny figure standing by a boulder, cut to the next spread where the boulder was now a large rock being held in their hand, next to it was a rock fit into the palm of their hand, and last, a pebble that was slid into the pocket of their jeans. I couldn’t have described it any better if I had tried. There was something about the image of holding onto the pebble of my grief and turning the pages of a book that slowly nurtured my soul. 

I’ve found myself, between the pages of many books, and here I am again. The summer of 2026 on the precipice of beginning teacher life again and where do I turn to? My classroom books of course! All ten boxes of them, stored on the high rafter shelves of my garage. My kind husband teeters on the ladder handing down each one with care as we laugh about how many times we moved these same boxes throughout my career. I rekindled my relationships with my books once again. Relationship? Perhaps that sounds bizarre, but it is what it is. I reopened each box, reviewed their contents, checked copyright dates, organized, piled, and reboxed until I had neat stacks. My books are ready for reading. They are ready for smaller hands to hold them. Turn their pages. Discuss their contents, wrestle with the characters, and debate about their viewpoints. Willing and excited to be between chapters in my own story. Here I am, on the flip side of life’s decisions, a smattering of writing work over the years, two humans grown into children, and a door re-opening on an education career. The lyrics from Natasha Bedingfield’s song play on repeat in my mind these days, “The rest is still unwritten.”

HaTikvah

Rachel Ann2 Comments

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.

HaTikvah.

Remains

Rachel Ann3 Comments

What lies before us in time is not what we thought would endure.

What remains of us are the pieces of the skeleton that do not disintegrate.

The elements of all we left behind.

Small seeds planted into those we loved and leave here on Earth.

Moments of growth spring up in seasons we once knew.

Their blooms are the treasures of our remains.

Peter Iredale shipwreck.
Beautiful bloom who fell to Earth after magnificent growth.

Bionic

Rachel Ann1 Comment

Body.

It’s the image that you, “see” when you look into the mirror. However, what are you really seeing? Is it a true reflection or a perception of what you think you see?

After carrying and delivering two nine plus pound babies, my, “body,” has been fully transformed. It’s a work in progress. Truly. It always has been. The first time I can recall comparing myself to another human, I was eight years old. Second time I was lost in comparison was when I was twelve years old. Life’s too short for comparison, that’s what I would tell my eight year old self. That’s what I’m telling my thirty six year old self as well, to who I thought I was a year, two years, or even three years ago. 

The word bionic came to me during my yoga practice today. 

They say to shut off technology, shut out the negative self talk, shut out the doubt and fear, and the fluidity of your true self comes forth. Genius right? Easy to do? No. Especially for a left brained perfectionist tendency driven human. 

I am constantly redefining the way I perceive and “see” things in life. I redefined my day to day purpose last September when I switched from full time teacher mode to mom/teacher at home mode. I have to constantly shift and change my perspective throughout the day in order to keep up with the tides of a toddler and newborn. My attitude is everything. I love the saying, “An attitude of gratitude.” I repeat this over and over until I shift my mindset, it always brings me back to the core of what is essential: love, appreciation, and dedication for care.

I am not perfect. I am not my body. I am not my perceptions. Say that or read it again, now say that to yourself in the mirror. What flows forth? Feelings? Tears? Smiles? Gratitude to release yourself from what you previously perceived?

I think that Christina Aguilera had something right when she aptly named her album after giving birth to her son, “Bionic.” 

I am choosing that word as the new descriptor for my perception of my body. I’m tired of my frustrated attitude and ungratefulness in the throws of postpartum with how I perceive this vessel. I grew two human beings eyelashes, fingers, hearts, and bodies. My body literally pushed those beings out of me, one, without any medicinal support. So. I am now calling myself: bionic. I am ever changing. Ever growing, and ever shifting. 

The next time you look at yourself in the mirror, think about what you’re seeing. Are you seeing your spirit, your core, or are you zooming in with the ego’s eye? Try bionic as a descriptor. You’re capable of so much more than what your perception of self, “sees.” 

Morning Glory

Rachel Ann4 Comments

If you had asked me ten years ago if I would be a morning person someday, I probably would have scoffed at you. I have always, and by nature will be a night owl. However, with small children, the early, wee hours of the morning have become my sacred space. I am an introvert and as such, crave and need alone time. Don’t get me wrong, I am completely grateful for my family and companionship, as human beings we all require this for healthy development, but I fill my tank sans other humans, aka solo. 

When you care for small, young human beings, it takes patience, consistency, and care. When I am depleted, one of those tasks does not function at full capacity and the deficit shows in my child’s behavior in response to mine. In turn, I have learned that if I power through and think about how I will feel, later on, I will get moving sooner. I will skip the extra hour of snooze time which, invariably may lead to grogginess or a headache, for my quiet, hooded, writing/reading/meditation time in the sunrise hours. 

The first person I can think of that was a morning person was my grandpa. Grandpa Woody would get moving at dawn, I could smell his aftershave and coffee in the hallway as I padded down our carpeted stairs to the kitchen. He would greet me with a hug and a whiskered kiss. I can still feel his scruff, see his lips, and sense the texture of his short sleeved button down shirt. One early morning together, on his visit to the land up north, I looked at his forearm and said, “What’s that?” What, I was unaware of, was my grandfather’s tattoo he had chosen during his time in the CCC camps, working as a cook. “That,” he replied, “Is a mistake of my youth,” and he promptly unrolled his dress shirt sleeve and buttoned the white button around his wrist. This interaction became a story that I have gone back to in my head from time to time. I thought of it when I was younger and contemplating large, permanent decisions for myself. Those early mornings with Grandpa are still as vivid to me as my first home of childhood. It’s funny how something can stick with you like gum, glued to my brain, forever a part of my minds eye. The Hipsher side of my heart is a morning glory, and the Cohen side is a night owl. Two birds of a different feather, so to speak. 

As I write these words, I can see the light from the sunshine streaming through my Ikea curtains. The tree branches in the wetland behind our home forming a backdrop for the sun’s rays. The early hours provide for me, a semblance of solitude, a feeling of ‘what if,’ time to reflect and create with the fluidity of thought. I think that, in essence, is what I find challenging as a parent, as well as, when I was teaching.

I need quiet to think clearly, I have to pause and reflect. It’s just part of my core, and I communicate it, most of the time, to my family. If I am in the midst of one task, I need to pause, physically and mentally before moving to the next one. I function at a high level, don’t get me wrong, I am the queen of multi-tasking, but, when an idea needs thorough consideration, I have to set aside the distractors before truly considering and communicating. 

I taught my son how to, “Take a break,” and he will verbalize this in his own play time that he narrates so articulately, all. day. long. <Insert laugh and heart bubbles here.> He often says mid play, “Take a break mommy, take a break,” and he will pause, sit, or stop his motion for a few seconds before resuming full speed and charge ahead.

If a little person can realize the power of this and put it into practice, I wonder if more adults could? Perhaps that is the secret silver lining of the quarantine time we find ourselves still living in. Take time to reflect before: acting, saying, and doing. Consider what is in front of you before you decide to do, say, be, or go somewhere. If we all better understood what our tanks or hearts are desiring, perhaps there would be less reaction and better action. So the next time you find yourself at the cross roads of a decision, take a break. STOP your body, your mind, your tongue and: Think, about the option, reflect about the choice, and then move forward. No one else can make a decision for you about how you feel and if you feel better, positive, hopeful, grateful, loving, then your feelings will melt into your interactions which shed light or darkness in our world. 

Blooms

Rachel AnnLeave a comment

Spring came upon us in the midst of the crisis that lingers world wide today. Our world is blooming while we seemingly are distancing. What can all of this mean? Perhaps an analogy of spring itself is one way to consider the current situation human beings find themselves in.

A small bud rises forth from the growth of leaves that surround it. It is this bud that brings color, hope, and joy to the viewer. Mother nature herself has been flourishing while we wait and give space to ourselves and others. Consider the following: Color has now returned in waters unseen for decades, foliage is beginning to grow where earth was once scorched, wildlife is returning to waters uncharted by creatures for years, because of human activity being ceased. Perhaps all of this brings forth a deeper meaning: when we are able to still our minds, still our activities, and focus inwards growth does transpire. I ask myself, what truly can grow with a bit of nurture each day?

Ask yourself, when was the last time you watched a plant grow? I formed the habit with my son to stop and talk to our plants and flowers every day. As silly as it sounds, after a year of doing this he will now go up to plants and say hello on his own. I chose to make this a priority in our home and environment because what better way to foster an appreciation for what helps you as a to human bloom? Our plants are the providers of  oxygen, beauty, and food. Here are some recent photographs of nature in our midst from our morning and a song of beauty to inspire your inner and outer day.

Photographs taken by, Rachel A. Becker.

Link to youtube of Yo Yo Ma and Mr. Rogers playing and singing, “Tree, Tree, Tree.”

Flourish

Rachel Ann1 Comment

“Flourish, even in the hard places.”

I watch a variety of content delivered online and one woman’s channel has moved me a lot over the years. Her name is: Michele Ana.

Our faiths are different, but our abiding love for the journey in life is the same. I always find inspiration and joy whenever I read her blog or watch her videos. She recently talked about the importance of remaining faithful even through grief, adversity, and question. In our current world, everything is spinning. Seemingly perplexing and filled with fear. Yet, if you can numb your ears to the fear, lean into faith, in your beliefs, in whatever divine or otherwise spiritual elements that bring you peace, a sense of calm will settle. I learned this sense of peace after the passing of my sister, which I have written a lot about. It helps me to know that I don’t need to know all of the answers. I don’t need to lean into fear. I do not give pause to the constant bombardment of seeming information that is readily available to my eyes and ears. I really take caution in what I am feeding my mind and my heart. I use my breath as a meditation to reset when I become frustrated and less than loving in my responses. I know that I always have a choice in life, and that is in how I respond. So, with that being said: Flourish, even in the hard places life provides us.

Bloom
and you shall grow.