Traditions

  • Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

    Traditions

    Rebecca Olivia Jones

    Grandma used flashing colorful lights and handfuls of tinsel like a grotesque costume on her Christmas tree. I loved its tacky design. I watched it before I fell asleep on the couch the night before our Boxing Day. My brother chose to sleep on the floor to be nearer the presents waiting under and all around the tree. Grandma was very democratic in her gift giving to all her younger grandchildren. Five of us were one year apart; Pam 10, Becky 9, Patrick 8, Byron 7, and Danny 6. We each received a large box filled with a bunch of recycled smaller boxes. Grandma would even re-use Tampax boxes for the smallest gifts.

    Pam and I were thrilled to receive, for example, a doll, a rhinestone necklace, fuzzy slippers and a box of shortbread. The boys received a Tonka truck, a baseball, a shirt and a bag of sour gummie treats. We played for hours sitting on the living room rug, the Christmas tree like a glamorous babysitter. Grandma always made rhubarb pie and pumpkin pie and her favorite—mincemeat pie, which I still don’t get. Who ever thought of baking a raisin and meat pie and then calling it mincemeat? My favorite treat was her fruit cocktail cake. She made it with canned fruit, butter, sugar and condensed milk. No wonder I have a sweet tooth! I no longer  touch any of that but it was manna as a child.

    Mommy insisted that we dress for Christmas dinner. We were like her trophies—aren’t my children beautiful? My Christmas dress was always itchy at the waist and I always spilled cake on the velveteen.  My poor little brother was costumed in a mini suit, his shirt tail hanging out from wrestling with his cousins.

    As the years passed and our elders died, the traditions changed and now, we have no family traditions. There are no elders to honor or to whom to feel obligated and my brother and my daughter live far away. Gone are the shoulds and the pressure to perform as hostess or appropriate guest; to cook a huge banquet; to clean hundreds of plates, glasses, a gravy tureen (for heaven’s sake,) or polish great-grandma’s silverware. All that kind of tradition for Christmas is no longer a necessity. I live with a man who grew up Jewish and he could care less about a Christmas tree or a Hanukkah menorah.

    My needs are simple. I consider every day and every meal a celebration—grateful to be alive, to be safe, to be comfortable. I create my own rituals around daily spiritual practices, taking time to write, read and cook with my partner. My writing workshops are my church and temple. The garden is my Eden. At Christmas, for a sense of continuum for being raised in a Protestant family, I send presents to my grandchildren, string little lights in the bedroom for a cheery mood, hang a few old favorite ornaments that signify peace, love and hope and attend a Christmas Eve service to sing Christmas carols. I even set up a small menorah to honor my partner’s people and the traditions that have led us to who we have become together.

    Rebecca Olivia Jones is a playwright, singer, dancer, composer, choreographer, director, always a poet, in 2021, Rebecca collected her poetry and lyrics, accompanied by beautiful photography into a memoir, “Beachsight,” available on blurb.com. Rebecca has a B.A. in Creative Writing from New College of California. Also, a mother, grandmother, sister, and a seeker, she lives in San Rafael with her long-time boyfriend and their cat; teaching singing lessons via zoom; enjoying hiking, gardening, cooking, reading, and writing. She is an advocate for the Alzheimer’s Association.

    #amwriting #iamawriter #creative writing

  • Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

    Traditions

    Rebecca Olivia Jones

    Grandma used flashing colorful lights and handfuls of tinsel like a grotesque costume on her Christmas tree. I loved its tacky design. I watched it before I fell asleep on the couch the night before our Boxing Day. My brother chose to sleep on the floor to be nearer the presents waiting under and all around the tree. Grandma was very democratic in her gift giving to all her younger grandchildren. Five of us were one year apart; Pam 10, Becky 9, Patrick 8, Byron 7, and Danny 6. We each received a large box filled with a bunch of recycled smaller boxes. Grandma would even re-use Tampax boxes for the smallest gifts.

    Pam and I were thrilled to receive, for example, a doll, a rhinestone necklace, fuzzy slippers and a box of shortbread. The boys received a Tonka truck, a baseball, a shirt and a bag of sour gummie treats. We played for hours sitting on the living room rug, the Christmas tree like a glamorous babysitter. Grandma always made rhubarb pie and pumpkin pie and her favorite—mincemeat pie, which I still don’t get. Who ever thought of baking a raisin and meat pie and then calling it mincemeat? My favorite treat was her fruit cocktail cake. She made it with canned fruit, butter, sugar and condensed milk. No wonder I have a sweet tooth! I no longer  touch any of that but it was manna as a child.

    Mommy insisted that we dress for Christmas dinner. We were like her trophies—aren’t my children beautiful? My Christmas dress was always itchy at the waist and I always spilled cake on the velveteen.  My poor little brother was costumed in a mini suit, his shirt tail hanging out from wrestling with his cousins.

    As the years passed and our elders died, the traditions changed and now, we have no family traditions. There are no elders to honor or to whom to feel obligated and my brother and my daughter live far away. Gone are the shoulds and the pressure to perform as hostess or appropriate guest; to cook a huge banquet; to clean hundreds of plates, glasses, a gravy tureen (for heaven’s sake,) or polish great-grandma’s silverware. All that kind of tradition for Christmas is no longer a necessity. I live with a man who grew up Jewish and he could care less about a Christmas tree or a Hanukkah menorah.

    My needs are simple. I consider every day and every meal a celebration—grateful to be alive, to be safe, to be comfortable. I create my own rituals around daily spiritual practices, taking time to write, read and cook with my partner. My writing workshops are my church and temple. The garden is my Eden. At Christmas, for a sense of continuum for being raised in a Protestant family, I send presents to my grandchildren, string little lights in the bedroom for a cheery mood, hang a few old favorite ornaments that signify peace, love and hope and attend a Christmas Eve service to sing Christmas carols. I even set up a small menorah to honor my partner’s people and the traditions that have led us to who we have become together.

    Rebecca Olivia Jones is a playwright, singer, dancer, composer, choreographer, director, always a poet, in 2021, Rebecca collected her poetry and lyrics, accompanied by beautiful photography into a memoir, “Beachsight,” available on blurb.com. Rebecca has a B.A. in Creative Writing from New College of California. Also, a mother, grandmother, sister, and a seeker, she lives in San Rafael with her long-time boyfriend and their cat; teaching singing lessons via zoom; enjoying hiking, gardening, cooking, reading, and writing. She is an advocate for the Alzheimer’s Association.

    #amwriting #iamawriter #creative writing

  • Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

    Winter Solstice 2021

    By M.A. Dooley

    This blessed day when the light returns,

    I stand on the mountain of my home 

    Grounded at 7:59 AM and look up. 

    The round moon wanes floating over 

    Saucer clouds docked in the west. 

    A soft haze hangs between me and my Shire,

    Layered hillocks of veiled emerald, 

    Taste wet and lush as if the drought is over. 

    The sun rises behind a filter of grey

    Cotton balls connected at fluffy centers like 

    Fat caterpillars in the sky. 

    When the time rings for a celestial split, 

    A tear in the cotton,

    A thin sliver of blue blinks open 

    And the sun sears my eyes 

    Carving the womb of awakening.

    I am the field of green softened by one ray,

    I am the strong back of the moon, 

    Light as the wind that whips my tassels

    Reverent as a child witnessing a miracle

    I welcome life and light this Solstice sunrise.

    M.A. Dooley is an architect and writer from the Santa Cruz Mountains, Sonoma County, and the Sierra Nevadas. Dooley has been published in “The Write Spot: Musings and Ravings in a Pandemic Year” and in “Poems of a Modern Day Architect,” Archhive Books, 2020.

    #amwriting #justwrite #poetry #iamawriter

  • Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

    A Little Louder, Please

    Susan Zahl Bono

    Christmas 2005

    I must be going deaf. It’s the season when yuletide TV ads are louder and brighter than the shows they’re interrupting, but I don’t seem to be hearing their message. December is swinging into its second week and I haven’t bought any presents. Last weekend, my husband wrestled the fake tree into the living room and wrapped it with lights, but if that’s as far as we get, I’m not going to be heartbroken about it. At night with those little lights glowing, I can almost forget the ornaments are missing.

    These are my dark ages. My kids are too old to believe in Santa and too young to make grandchildren. They stopped caring about trees and holiday trappings about the time we gave in to their dad’s allergies and went artificial. As far as their gifts are concerned, there are only so many ways you can wrap money. My husband likes to order his own gifts, and all I really want are my closets emptied and my left eyelid to stop sagging enough to let me see out of it in the morning. I’m not inspired to do much baking. Everyone my age knows about the dangers of letting Christmas cookies into the house.

    A few days ago, a three-year-old took me to lunch. Her mother drove, but the little queen was obviously in charge. Giuliana, dressed like a Victorian monarch in a flouncy skirt and short velvet cape, issued orders from her crash-tested throne in the back seat.

    “A little louder, please,” she said, indicating the car stereo. The queen’s mum, like any good mother, pretended to comply by touching the volume knob.

    “A little louder, please,” our sovereign commanded, with only a trace of irritation in her voice. Soon, such seasonal favorites as “All I want for Christmas is My Two Front Teeth” and “Frosty the Snowman” engulfed us.

    I suspect Giuliana’s mother was afraid I would condemn her daughter’s musical tastes as well as her own lack of parental control. On the contrary. The sappy rendition of “Jingle Bells” took me back to yuletides past when my own kids demanded the volume cranked on Dr. Demento’s Christmas Novelties, payback for having tortured my own parents. As a child, my favorite holiday album featured Jack Benny’s halting violin and someone loudly lisping, “I thaw Mommy kith-ing Thanta Cloth.” Little ones really do know what Christmas is all about.

    “A little louder, please,” the Good Queen said again, this time for our benefit. She was having no trouble singing along with a relentlessly cheery “Deck the Halls,” and she wanted to make sure we heard the music, too. Any fool could see that her mom and I were so busy dissecting the past and worrying about the future we were completely missing out on the fa la la la la.

    A wiser woman would have joined in on a couple of verses of “The Twelve Days of Christmas” or “Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” I’m sorry, Giuliana. I wasn’t ready to listen.  But it’s not too late. Sadly, my own collection of holiday music is heavy on a cappella versions of “The Holly and the Ivy,” “O, Come, O, Come, Emmanuel” and carols played on antique German music boxes. But maybe if I play them loudly enough, I’ll start to remember what the fuss is all about.

    Susan Zahl Bono is a California-born mother, teacher, writer, and editor who’s lived more than half her life with the same man in the same house in Petaluma. She published Tiny Lights: A Journal of Personal Narrative for twenty years. She facilitates writing workshops, including Jumpstart with Marlene Cullen. Her own work has appeared online, on stage, in anthologies, newspapers, on the radio, and in several Write Spot anthologies. Her book, “What Have We Here: Essays about Keeping House and Finding Home” was published in 2014. 

    #amwriting #justwrite #creativewriting #iamawriter

  • Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

    Silence For The Soul

    By Sarah Horton

    Silence for the Soul  is our tradition, created to welcome us into the deeper doorways to the heart. It is timed around the changing of the seasons. We gather in silence for a variety of meditation practices as individual as the people who come:  sitting, walking the labyrinth, indoors, outdoors, eyes open, eyes shut, journaling, more sitting. We start with intention and breathing together. We end by coming together in a circle for the breaking of bread, homemade soup, and soft sharing.  

    I have been doing this on a regular basis with two other friends of the heart since the “2012 ending-of-the-world” or simply an ending. This was our new-beginning-offering and continues as one. There will be anywhere from the three-of-us regulars to fifteen other souls to hold the circle of magic and light for transformation and healing. Gentle in our ways of remembering the solstice seasons as they may change; or a lunar or solar eclipse that may occur; or other celestial event calling to us. Diligent in holding the simple structure of silence and care of the spirits that show up at the metaphorical doorways of change, we are all in our own ways sweet and welcoming, sincere and loving, renewed and refreshed at the closing bell.

    We don’t talk about IT much, we just seem to come together at the right times of the year bringing snippets of knowledge and current feelings for what is needed. Our box of candles and signs sits on a shelf in the dark closet awaiting the top to be opened to the light, the candles set around and lit, and the signs strategically placed to welcome all to enter and remain in silence for their time with us in the stillness. 

    Then the soup is served and the breaking of the bread is done quietly; we slowly eat together returning to peaceful sharing with others. There is no rush to put our box back into the closet or bring our newly polished hearts of gold out into the world. And so it is.

    Sarah Horton is an artist living in “the Lost Sierras” with Chris, her beloved, and Lulu, the master Bichon Frise. Sarah is an adventurer into the wilderness of the heart as well as the natural world. She dabbles with paints on large canvases and memoir writings that the nature spirits nearby seem to appear in. Published in several books, paintings shown in galleries, and when called, travels to mystical places in this beautiful world. 

    I’m working on a series of short memoir stories to put in a Box of Memories for my daughter, her friends, our family, and future friends yet to be met. Similar to finding a box of old photographs with scribbled handwritten notes on the back; our memoir stories of people, places, events of celebration and transformations that are written in the personal may impart timely universal wisdom. Stories that may make a difference, lend support, or sooth a difficult or healing situation in our human family. —Sarah Horton

  • Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

    Dinner Lines

    By M.A. Dooley

    Empty lines without a script,

    Two old lovers sit stiff like bricks

     

    Empty lines planked blue wood top,

    Inviting ages of warmth and weight.

     

    Warmth and weight, young bricks cool,

    Purpose wanted held at bay.

     

    Warmth and weight, mason’s hands

    Stack staggered bonds, build a wall.

     

    Build a wall, the server piles

    Flowers, wine, the table splits.

     

    Build a wall to be broken down

    With drink, pleasure, taste and texture.

     

    Taste and texture laughter blooms,

    Edges soften like molten stone.

     

    Taste and texture spills red wine

    Dripping, seeping fills empty lines.

     

    Empty lines, hushed hands held,

    Old lovers’ warmth and weight meld. 

    M.A. Dooley is an architect and writer from the Santa Cruz Mountains, Sonoma County, and the Sierra Nevadas. Dooley has been published in The Write Spot: Musings and Ravings in a Pandemic Year and Poems of a Modern Day Architect, Archhive Books, 2020.

  • Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

    Dust to Dust

    By Brenda Bellinger

    This post happens to fall on what would have been my mother’s 86th birthday if she were still with us. She passed away thirteen years ago, yet I often feel her presence. Recently, I was dusting a small antique genie lamp that belonged to her mother, my grandmother. Made of white china, its glaze bears the spiderwebbing of many tiny cracks. Miraculously, the hurricane glass and original brown paper shade, though faded, are both still intact. As I carefully pushed a corner of the dust cloth through the curled handle, I thought of all the times this had been done before. Both my mother and grandmother were fastidious housekeepers. Myself? Not so much.

    I wonder at what point this lamp will cease to hold its significance. A time will come when the sleeping genie will no longer be woken by the caress of a dust cloth and the lamp will find its way to the land of the unwanted and unneeded.

    In the 1950s, the Lane Company of East Providence, Rhode Island gave graduating students at the local Catholic school for girls, a miniature hope chest. Mom gave hers to me many years ago and I use it for odd bits of costume jewelry. Amazingly, the cedar scent is still present. As I mentioned in my last post, times have changed. The idea of a hope chest today, though quaint, seems so horse-and-buggy.

    When she and my father first married, they struggled financially for a while as many young couples do, trying to get their footing. One Christmas, he bought her a bottle of Joy perfume by Jean Patou. She so treasured this bottle that she rarely used it. I remember how it sat regally in the center of a mirrored tray on her dresser. I have it now. One more thing to dust. It’s still about two-thirds full, the perfume having aged a deep amber color. Writing this, I paused for a moment to go open it; something I’ve never done before. As you might have guessed, it turned a corner a very long time ago. I’m not sure why, but I’ll keep it a bit longer.

    Memories. Something else to be thankful for when we gather around the table.

    Brenda Bellinger

    Born in Rhode Island, I spent the first eight years of my life in New England. I can still remember the delight of summer thunderstorms and the fragrance of fall in the air as leaves crunched underfoot. My parents moved to San Francisco and eventually settled in the North Bay Area.

    In 1992, a friend asked me to sign up for a writing class with her. I agreed, never anticipating that class would open a new door for me. At that time, my husband and I were raising four boys and I was working as a courtroom clerk. Writing provided a creative outlet I didn’t know I needed..

    For the month of November 2009, I cleared my calendar of all commitments other than work and Thanksgiving Day to participate in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) – a challenge to write 50,000 words in thirty days. Fueled by good coffee and dark chocolate covered espresso beans, I zipped past the goal and completed the first (extremely rough) draft of what would eventually become my debut novel, “Taking Root.”

    My work has appeared in Small Farmer’s Journal, Mom Egg Review, Persimmon Tree, THEMA, the California Writers Club Literary Review, and in various anthologies, including The Write Spot: Reflections, and The Write Spot: Musings and Ravings From a Pandemic Year.

    Note from Marlene: Brenda’s Blog is a collection of thoughtful and entertaining reflections on what matters.

    “Dust to Dust” originally posted on Brenda’s Blog, November 16, 2021.

  • Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

    Eye Feast

    By Julie Wilder-Sherman

    How I love the ritual of the famliest day of the year. My favorite month and favorite day. So much planning. So much work. So much expense. All of it welcomed enthusiastically by me.

    The long folding table is taken out of the garage, locked into balance and steadiness, then cleaned. The fall-themed table cloth scattered with a pattern of dark green, yellow and brown leaves on a tan background with acorns and pinecones around the edges is spread out on the long table. Napkin rings, the only time I use them, encase the small thick linen face towels of red and yellow, placed in the center of each plate which sits upon gold-colored chargers I bought on sale at Kohl’s. 

    The gravy boat and fancy dishes not used in a year are removed from the cupboards, washed carefully and dried by hand. Wine glasses received at our wedding more than 30 years ago are lifted from the china shelf, now mismatched with pieces gone still make an impressive display.

    The center of the table is dotted with small live sunflowers in short vases, making sure they are low enough for family to see each other across the table. Tiny amber-colored lights weave in and out among the vases traveling down the center of the table. At dusk, when we sit, the lights give off a magical glow around the flickering maroon taper candles nestled into the gold candlestick holders.

    All that remains is the food.  Let’s eat.

    Julie Wilder-Sherman began reading books at an early age, encouraged by her mother who would allow her to take books to bed when she was as young as two years old. Raised in a family of readers, writers, performers, musicians, and political activists, Julie followed her dream of singing professionally and met her husband, bassist Jeff Sherman, while singing on The Love Boat. Together they enjoy cooking, eating, reading, and traveling to all corners of the world. Julie remains politically active and helps to manage the Petaluma Postcard Pod supporting democratic candidates, issues, and policies. 

    #amwriting #justwrite #creativewriting @iamawriter

  • Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

    Eye Feast

    By Julie Wilder-Sherman

    How I love the ritual of the famliest day of the year. My favorite month and favorite day. So much planning. So much work. So much expense. All of it welcomed enthusiastically by me.

    The long folding table is taken out of the garage, locked into balance and steadiness, then cleaned. The fall-themed table cloth scattered with a pattern of dark green, yellow and brown leaves on a tan background with acorns and pinecones around the edges is spread out on the long table. Napkin rings, the only time I use them, encase the small thick linen face towels of red and yellow, placed in the center of each plate which sits upon gold-colored chargers I bought on sale at Kohl’s. 

    The gravy boat and fancy dishes not used in a year are removed from the cupboards, washed carefully and dried by hand. Wine glasses received at our wedding more than 30 years ago are lifted from the china shelf, now mismatched with pieces gone still make an impressive display.

    The center of the table is dotted with small live sunflowers in short vases, making sure they are low enough for family to see each other across the table. Tiny amber-colored lights weave in and out among the vases traveling down the center of the table. At dusk, when we sit, the lights give off a magical glow around the flickering maroon taper candles nestled into the gold candlestick holders.

    All that remains is the food.  Let’s eat.

    Julie Wilder-Sherman began reading books at an early age, encouraged by her mother who would allow her to take books to bed when she was as young as two years old. Raised in a family of readers, writers, performers, musicians, and political activists, Julie followed her dream of singing professionally and met her husband, bassist Jeff Sherman, while singing on The Love Boat. Together they enjoy cooking, eating, reading, and traveling to all corners of the world. Julie remains politically active and helps to manage the Petaluma Postcard Pod supporting democratic candidates, issues, and policies. 

    #amwriting #justwrite #creativewriting @iamawriter