Tag: family

Serendipitous

Rachel Ann1 Comment

Chance meetings.

Blind dates.

Overseas adventures.

Moments of beshert.

The times when the small voice speaks to you and you lean towards it. That indistinguishable light, our neshama, a flame burning bright within never tarries or wavers regardless of how far one strays.

The truth of moments that were page-turners in our own book of life.

Unknown to the seeker, but revealed in due time.

How can one unravel these choices? Tightly braided instances that revealed hidden layers we had known would distinguish the character traits we hope to behold.

Now, standing on the other side of the mountain of grief I seemingly traversed in my mind, the view on the other side is something I never would have imagined. Hindsight is always twenty twenty. The changes that life unfolds are never truly felt until one lives them.

They were once merely ideas.

Now they are lived experiences.

I can sit comfortably and not say anything, but yet listen more intently.

The world continues to turn.

The day becomes night.

The night becomes day.

How lucky are we?

These sunrises and sunsets, years later reveal new colors, rainy days, splashes in puddles beneath our feet. Wet cheeks from rain or tears it does not really matter. The distinguishing of my own pathway, looking back and seeing that the other led to a wondrous and mighty oak still standing tall, but feeling miles behind my own.

Where might mine lead?

The days may reveal.

Onwards toward the unknown.

Seeking light filtered beneath the branches of other’s tree limbs. Some bare, others full of layered pine needles, whispered branches, and lightly brushed with the rings of time.

Continued travels on this spinning planet.

Feet firmly planted in the ground, here I stand for now enjoying the view. The mountain she asked to be laid beneath. The trees swaying, wishing she could enjoy the view with me. A breeze caresses my cheek as it sweeps the ocean breeze, and waves crash beneath our feet. A fleeting memory lives in the atmosphere. Plucked like a cloud from above. See? It says. I’m still here. I am grateful to the one who introduced my parents so they could marry on this same day. The winter solstice. The moment she left, she went onwards on a metaphysical journey alone. Time stood still as I blinked, and the moment passed. Sand and children beneath my feet.

Traversing still.

Onwards the journey, with miles to go before I sleep, said Whitman. That is so aptly put. And hineini, here I am still.

Wave upon the sand

Rachel Ann2 Comments

Starting with 2015 and continuing for almost a decade now, the ocean’s waves have become an analogy for my life’s seasons. Everything comes and goes.

I see Debbie and I holding hands in Hong Kong, walking down the sidewalk laughing.

The sound of the waves lapping at mine and my nephew’s toes as we spread her ashes in the ocean.

The coming and going of the tide.

Holding my firstborn’s tiny hand while he slept.

My eyes watching for the rise and fall of his breathing. The reassurance that he would come and go in each moment right before me.

The ocean waves playing through the sound machine beckoning us to sleep.

My first and second born holding hands and taking their first steps together.

Brothers.

Hand in hand.

Together.

Walking towards the ocean.

Turning around and looking back and laughing.

The push and pull of time.

The needs, the fulfillment and the letting go.

“How do you pin a wave upon the sand?” said Mother Abbess.

Their tiny foot falls echo in my mind even in an empty house this morning.

There were no tears shed this morning from either parent or babe. The ultimate gift as a parent is a silent one.

The brave confidence in seeing your child know themselves.

Seeing them stand true and proud.

Seeing them confident in their own autonomy.

Seeing them communicate for themselves.

Seeing them advocate for their own needs.

A whole human.

A single world held in this tiny body.

All the work.

All the time.

All the practice.

All our play time.

All the love.

Watching the wave slide away and become a part of a vast ocean.

Finding it’s way.

My feet are still on the beach.

The imprint of the little toes standing next to mine.

The imprint of a hand upon the heart.

He waved and signed, “I love you!”

Okay, maybe there are some tears now.

Double Delight

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There will be days filled with sun, and others with rain. Remembering this while standing in the rain can take away a bit of the severity as you roll with the punches.

I took my children to see the roses today. I realized that we had not visited yet and June has nearly closed her doors.

Winding our way through the beautiful rows of flowers I lead them to my favorite bunch, Double Delight and a memory struck me. My Aunt Betty had these same blooms outside of her home in Montana on a late August afternoon in 2000. It was then that she introduced me to my favorite flower. S

he passed away last week and I stood looking at the flowers, thinking of Betty, and all that she stood for and meant to me growing up.

People will not remember what you achieved, but rather how you made them feel. I felt loved, cared for, and filled with humor whenever I spent time with my aunt. May her memory be a blessing and live on through our hearts and our days.

Double Delight blooms 2024

Churning waves

Rachel Ann2 Comments

I have been at a loss for words over the last almost eight months.

Gulp.

There aren’t enough words in the English language to convey the amount of horror I have seen displayed across the world wide web, and in communities far and wide. The first few days after October seventh I felt like I was living in a stunned silence. I had been talking about the rise of antisemitism in small circles, and by and large through my blog for years, but since that October day, I find myself fully changed.

I had felt a resurgence of my ethnoreligious identity since late 2015. I full reconnected to practicing it in 2016 leaning into my faith to walk through life with multiple griefs for both my sister and my pregnancy losses. Here’s the thing, faith is personal, so is religion, but further more, it is also universal. To be a human on this planet, is to walk with faith whether it is in oneself, in a higher entity or with the calling within the natural world. The universality of humanity was something I had always leaned into. After October seventh, and the subsequent months since then, my humanity has been unwavering, but the churning whirlpools of my fellow humans severely concern me.

There have been days and weeks when I shut out the world—a privilege that I have, yes, and I go about my life with my family and friends. However, I want to say that in the back of my mind, I constantly feel in a state of hypervigilance.

Where would we run to?

What would we do?

What did my kindergartener talk about with friends today?
How do I lean into joy right here and right now?

Maintaining presence, be present Rachel, focus right here. Right now.

When will the hostages be released?
Did I read, “The Times of Israel?” today?

Refocus, Rachel, right here, right now, what can I do?

Mitzvot.

What actions can we channel today to pour more light into the world?

The clouds gather daily, but they dissipate when I focus on the light. The whirlpool of doubts are powerful none the less, but I have learned how to acknowledge the presence of them, and step aside to let them pass. Finding a way to seek a balance of information, pride in who I am, who my people are, and where I come from in the age of disinformation feeling like I am a part of a chronic act of tossing balls into the air and juggling.

Then I am reminded of something imperative.

Heineini.

I am here.

What a gift.

I am here for a reason.

I see my children before me.

I see the light reflected in their eyes.

What a gift.

What gratitude floods out from my heart.

May it be so that all of our hostages be released, now.

That all suffering worldwide be ended and hatred be put to rest.

The utopic principles of my heart are restitched whenever I see a reflection of light poured out from one hand reached out for another.

“Want to play with me?” I hear his little voice rise above the waves in my head.

Long quiet pause.

“That’s okay, I’ll be over here if you do.”

Watching his tiny and bold figure move to the other side of the sandbox.

Such acceptance and grace in such a tiny person.

What a mensch.

Humanity restored momentarily.

Familial

Rachel Ann7 Comments

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 Hipsher
Belva Pearl Rockhold Hipsher

Yahrtzeit: Six years passed.

Rachel Ann5 Comments

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.

I hope that he’s right.

xo,

Your little sister

RAB 2021.

Four Years Gone

Rachel Ann5 Comments

You know what the funny thing about death is? Nothing. (Cue the sound effects please. I’m completely aware of the first line’s seriousness.)

What is funny however, is how death can make everything illuminated after the fog has lifted. By fog I mean, your initial emotions, the pain, the constant reminders, it’s the sense that comes after a storm has ceased. I would liken the passing of a loved one to experiencing a fierce storm in your own body that takes time to progress and then begin to calm.

It has been four years, to the day, since Debbie passed away. If I stop and mediate on that day, what transpired, how I felt in those moments, I am taken back to those emotions quite rapidly. Even with the passage of time, nothing can erase how an experience made you feel. I remember saying to my husband, “Now I know why people drink and do drugs. The numbness is a medication to what they’re experiencing in life. This hurts.”

Everything in life is a lesson. Once I understood this, fully, I became more present and open to facing the choices I had every day, and really, in every moment.  Learning how to grieve, face pain, and move through life with it, was and still is a journey. There are times, days, and moments when I am hit severely with a wave of grief that washes over me. I try to recognize my triggers, sometimes it’s just something as simple as a word, or a song. I find it helpful to create a visual of a wave and allow it to wash over me and provide a salve of tears. Nothing and no one can replace a loss because it is an experience that is now a part of your very core. The loss becomes woven into your story. It becomes a part of the framework that trails along with you every day.

I guess what I am trying to say is this: I have learned that I am not my grief, it is a part of me. I lean heavily on the truthful, beautiful, harsh, and comical memories I shared with the amazing person that Debbie was. Carving out an allowance of grace for my emotions and journey is essential. Continuing to learn about how the human brain processes trauma, loss, and growth has helped me tremendously be more empathetic towards myself and others.

If I could tell my sister anything it would be this:

Dear Debbie,

Thank you for always loving me, even when I was hard to love. Even though you’re not here physically, you’re always near to me and in my heart, as cheesy as that sounds. I’m using my elephant memory that you said you’d rely on. You’re still teaching me so many things, thank you. You’d be so proud of your son. He’s grown tall, and handsome and he is still really sweet. He knows how to be kind and he can be humbled by life which is key. He’s so loved and he’s doing fine. He loves his cousin Leo, who holds your initials. You’d love your nephew too. He’s a spunky, book loving toddler who is obsessed, with your Declan. He calls him, “Yea-Yea,” and tries to talk to him with every phone call that comes in. We’re all ok. I love you more every day.

Love,

Your little Sister

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❤

 

7:04

Rachel Ann1 Comment

Time has a way of bringing significance to something that you never really considered in the moment. Seven hours and four minutes into the evening in 2018, our son was born. On July fourth, 7-04-2017 we found out we were expecting a child. Up until this moment, on our baby’s birthday, I had not realized the significance.

Life has a funny way of bringing things full circle. Here we are, numbers, moments and life at play later. These events roll past, the day moves by, and we look back over our shoulder at the impact these events have made in the tapestry of our lives.

I had not paid much attention to all of our little one’s numerology, but the idea behind the moment of his birth and the date we learned of his existence, is purely beshert.

Nothing can quite explain the feeling of hearing your child’s cry for the first time, and holding them close. I waited years for him to come. In the first moment he looked at me, and I at him, it felt as though time stood still, and spun around all at once. There are very few things in life that I am sure of, but one of those is the fact that I was always meant to be LDB’s mama. Thank you for choosing us as your parents little one.

L’Chaim!

First times in a year

Rachel Ann1 Comment

This past year I learned many a lesson as most of us do. I was propelled forward in a new pathway towards becoming a mother. I taught students, I learned what may come, and I healed, by releasing my fears.

Life is what you make of it, and in this year especially, I have learned what this truly means. It boils down to one word: Time.

Time is of the essence when you give birth to a little one. It seemingly ticks by slowly at first, but then suddenly two seasons have passed and your little one is literally crawling through life. It flashes, like bursts of light.

Flash, flash, my thoughts land on a memory…crystalized in my mind’s eye. Two eye lids, fluttering lashes, one tiny nose, and two small fists slowly uncurling along his mouth.

This memory helps me slide into the vault of best kept experiences this year. Most of them firsts, naturally, with the introduction of our first child. I sift through the pictures and suddenly these, “firsts,” come into view…

The first time I felt a complete baby roll in my tummy, the first time I could not get out of bed until I rolled sideways, the first time I identify with turtles, completely but in reverse shell to tummy placement, the first time I felt contractions hit and knew that life would never be the same again, the first time I heard my baby cry, the first time I held him close, the first time he nursed with me, the first diapers, the first daddy hugs, the first cries where panic set in but I did not relinquish to the fear in my tummy, the first time I saw my parents as grandparents to our child, the first time he looked at me, the first time he smiled, the first time he sat up, the first time he reached for me, the first giggles, the first time I left our babe for work, the first separation feels of mommy baby heart tugs, the first time he laughed with us, the first time he crowed for his fur sisters, the first time he clapped, the list is a long endless one of beauty and gifts from life.

There was never a time that I truly felt as raw, as out of control, and as completely content as I did this year. Surrendering to the unknown is utterly frightening and also comforting. The realized I did not have to feel in control any longer, and that there was no room for manipulation of choices with the time I am allotted. I learned to withdraw from the desire to control completely, focus on my breath, and see the scene with fresh eyes.

The gift of tomorrow sheds new light upon today. The sky has opened up, blueness poured forth and the light crept in whilst I typed. The babe stirred, and the dog yawned, time began to click again, slowly but surely, a steady rhythm always balancing out the the days and the light. Renewed opportunity lies ahead. Go forth and obtain your firsts. A bouquet full of them awaits.

 

Butterfly Heart

Rachel Ann1 Comment

Sometimes someone who knows you well says just what your heart needs to hear. “Don’t let yourself be hardened by the world Rachel. Don’t close yourself off from those feelings. Enjoy those times and keep your heart open.”

(Insert tears that spring forward.)

Something about this time of year is challenging for me, for a number of reasons. So I reflected and realized a few things.

Each school year I am reminded of the fresh opportunity I have to work with the next generation. I am so reminded and reminisce on how I would share with my sister our plans for the next school year. To say that miss her is an understatement, it is a yearning I feel in my soul and always will.

Everything changes in an instant, in a moment. The only constant is change, this I know. I have watched my baby boy growing like a weed over the last five months and it feels like just yesterday he was in the womb kicking me to let me know he was there. I look at him and I wonder who this little person will be. I watch him in wonderment as he observes the world.

Whenever I read a new book or see a, back to school book list, I stop and think about Debbie. Occasionally I still have a mind slip and think of telling her something. It’s like a small heart tug when that happens. A little pull each time I long for communication.

This school year I am excited for the new group of students to work with, the new and old book friends that I will get to share with them are inspirations from Debbie. I can’t wait to share with my students and continue to tell our son how this amazing librarian auntie of his still touches lives today.

We always read one of her favorite books to LDB each day, The Very Hungry Caterpillar 🐛. Much like in the book, I felt enveloped in a cocoon these past five months. I am ready to spread my wings and fly, but unfurling the wings and jumping off is always the hardest part. 🦋