As I sit in my kitchen, your rug under my feet, the sun gently glowing between the silhouetted tree tops; I hear the echoes of your calming voice as you proclaim, “Aye dis is schoen.”

How many sunrises did you miss as your eyes dimmed beneath the cataracts?  When you felt the warmth of the welcoming sun did you long to see the pastel peach, the soft hues of pink as they brushed through the sky like a feather releasing its swirling motion to the wind.

Birds begin tentative chirps, reminding me that a daybreak awakens all our senses. It surpasses the handicap of blinded vision delighting us with natures’ revelry as songbirds respond to morning’s hello.

Perhaps you greeted the morning overtures with amused attention to the tempo and rhythm of earnest twills as they conducted nature’s chorus.  Did you imagine the feathers beating, softly thrumming to the songbirds’ sweet tune? The feathery strokes of the sun may have eluded you, but the feathery chorus serenaded you, opening your soul to the newness of the day.

I seek your reassurance often. I long for the gentle brushes of your loving hand on my cheek.   A brush on the cheek so simply done, so simply spoken, so simply translated between the giver and the receiver.  To you it ignited your senses to recognize the texture and contours of our faces.  Mammie your hand on my cheek meant so much to me. I pass your brushes of love to my family, knowing the familiar gesture comes from my great-grandmother’s loving heart.

I rolled out your rug in my kitchen to grant me a small measure of your presence and to serve as a reminder of your creative spirit that persevered despite the obstacles in your life.  Mammie my creative spirit longs to weave as you did, to weave with words as you did with material scraps. You created your rugs in the second half of your life, after raising your children, following your desire to still contribute with purpose even though your body conspired to thwart you.  Surely I can model your passion to create, your discipline to overcome the challenges, your mischievous determination to accomplish your masterpieces your way, as only you could.

I feel the bumpy pattern of your rug loops, they poke into my toes as I trace over the scraps from a pink dress I remember wearing so long ago.  Pieces from a turquoise jumper I recall, bound neatly into the pink scraps, wound not with a hooking tool but your way with a crochet hook and an imagined idea.  Your vision, but not one you could see…your vision that led to this beautiful masterpiece gracing the floor of my kitchen.  And now the weaving of your fingers sparks my ideas, gives me inspiration to follow my desire to write, to become disciplined and devoted to this passion that began so early in my life.

Mammie, this morning, this sunrise, this new day, I promise to you, to the spirit of a great woman whom I only knew in childhood…I promise I will begin to create from the scraps of my life, from the pieces that have flung together in a pile in my soul and now need to burst forth in a pattern of words.  I promise, Mammie, I will continue the legacy you began.  I will weave in my own mischievous way. I will listen for the words to begin their overture even when I can’t see the lighted path.

I will seek to sense the earnest voice that will guide me to release my ideas into the words that will create inspiration to others… like a feather releasing its swirling motion to the wind, like a soft brush of a loving hand on the cheek of one she holds dear.

With all my love,

Your great-granddaughter,

Denise Marie

2 Timothy 1:7 For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind.

How do you let go?  When he teeters back and forth and finally goes sideways to the ground as he takes his first bike ride without training wheels.  When the blood gushes down from the kneecap to the sock below and you know that you don’t have a large enough Band-Aid to cover the gash.  When the dirty hand wipes away the tears he doesn’t want you to see, because he only wants to know, “Mom did you see me?”

How do you let go?  When the book bag is full and the bus-driver opens the door to greet the eager boy on the way to his first day of school.  When he gulps down the after school snacks, straps on his cowboy belt and bolts out the door.

How do you let go? When he runs into the waves on his own, bracing against the cold water as it devours him and tosses him about in the current.  When he regains his footing to try to outrun another incoming wave.

How do you let go?  When you sit with him in the emergency room following that major play on the field that left him injured, sidelined, and disheartened.  When you need to leave him alone in the hospital room, and he assures you, “Mom I’m going to be fine.”

How do you let go? When he drives down the driveway on his own for the very first time. When the curfew passes, the phone doesn’t ring and worry wraps around you with a choking hold.

How do you let go? When you pack up for the university departure checking off a detailed list as your head throbs from the anxiety arcing through your mind, and your throat aches from the sobs sticking in your throat.

How do you let go?  When he takes his girlfriend’s hand instead of yours.  When she breaks his heart and crushes his soul. When the look in his eyes and the dejection in his voice strike you with unbearable pain.

How do you let go? When he faces failure and it’s devastating, demoralizing, incomprehensible and unexpected.  When he rebounds with resiliency and inspires with passion and strength so that your pride in his perseverance knows no bounds.

How do you let go?  When maturity sometimes falters and mistakes occur.  When consequences overtake him and you cannot save him despite your readiness to step in.  When you wait for the realization of responsibility, for the insight of integrity, for the clarity of wisdom with experience to unveil its guidance and assurance.  When all you can provide is a listening ear, comfort without judgement, and unconditional love.

How do you let go?  When the bedroom empties of belongings, and the apartment fills with accumulated stuff.  When the new job promises possibilities, and the horizon suddenly expands with potential opportunities.

How do you let go?  When newfound love immerses his heart in an endless over-the-waterfall feeling, and you sense the rising joy, the uplifting spirit, the crescendo of hope.  When the fiancé becomes the treasured partner you prayed he would always find.

How do you let go? You turn your palms upwards in a giving gesture, acknowledging their emptiness, guiding them gently toward your heart.  You silently offer a prayer as you Let Go…

Then you place your trust, your hope, and your belief in a faith that has covered generations to generations.  Letting go, you know that God clasps him gently yet firmly in a grasp that will never, ever let go.

I ask, “Dusty what do you need?’’ Sometimes I know he’s hungry, or he requires a trip outside.  Sometimes he raises a paw, sticks out his little tongue, and throws a questioning look my way.  That means he wants to go for a walk with me.  He’ll follow my every move with encouraging looks that I interpret as “let’s go… open the door.”  Energy and excitement shine from his eyes as he prepares to follow my lead.

Sometimes during our day together he will surprise me by jumping on my lap, pawing at my face and gazing into my eyes.  “Do you need some loving?” I’ll ask him then.  I reassure him with gentle strokes on his back, as I lower my eyelids and he mimics with his.  Usually a deep sigh signals his contentment.  He has learned over and over again that when I ask him what he needs, I also plan to provide for him.  He has learned that I am always there for him.

Like Dusty I have someone who wants me to turn my eyes to him, to ask in my needy, messy state for his help.  He wants me to willingly walk with him wherever he leads. I am reminded of a lovely painting of Jesus that graces the front of the sanctuary in my childhood church. It features Jesus knocking at a door, as he looks with a piercing stare towards the worshippers.

Like Dusty, I often find that what I need most is calm reassurance.  I will slowly close my eyes, picturing Jesus knocking at my door.  Then I will hear him say, “What do you need?”  As I look into his eyes, I know that he will always be there for me.

When I try to recall the first time I enjoyed the easy flow of conversing on paper, I picture myself in the kitchen of my childhood home sitting on a counter stool, happily scribbling on purple lined paper.  My thoughts would tumble into stories about my daily activities, questions that needed to be answered, and funny captions of different people. I see myself smiling, giggling, but then shaking my head as a frown crinkles my face while I ponder over a troubling incident.  I poured my words into heart to heart chats, sharing worries, and concerns.  I sent letters as far away as Vietnam to one cousin serving as a nurse, and one serving in the Navy.  I mailed notes to friends as they travelled, and to strangers known as pen pals.

I partly enjoyed deciding which type of paper and pen to use to create my letters.  When sealing wax appeared on the shelves of the stationery store, I eagerly selected the stamp to grace the envelopes I mailed.  I treated each missive as a treasured tale on a journey to reach an important destination.  Even as a young girl I chose words that I hoped would impact the recipient in the way he or she required at the time.

The responses to my letters continually surprised me.  Often something I had shared prompted someone to write in similar fashion, confiding or laughing along in kind.   Looking back, that’s when I realized the true worth of letter writing.  Each time I selected the paper and began to write, I began a process of pausing to take the time to hold another person in my thoughts, to wonder what he or she needed to hear, and to believe that my presence conveyed in the words I was about to write would be the gift needed at that time.

For example, during my college years I wrote to my parents even though I lived in a dorm only 30 minutes away from home.  They in turn sent encouraging words to me.  However, the most memorable and cherished ones I ever received arrived as three short, separate notes.  Over the course of a week I received three envelopes from my Dad that briefly said everything I needed to hear that particular week.  In order I opened the first one: I.  Then the next one:  Love.  Followed by the final envelope:  You.

Despite e-mail, Facebook, and blogs, I still like to open my desk drawer to select the one letter to send to someone who needs to receive my written words.

Last night one of my worst fears came true.  I spilled red wine on my light grey carpet!!  It didn’t take long for those wonderful anti-oxidants to seep into the fibers, attacking the woven threads.  For a moment I imagined their anti-aging properties renewing my sixteen-year-old carpet, but as the splotches increased in size I quickly realized that only a rapid response would save the family room from unsightly stains.  Incredible how one wobbly wine glass could send its contents splashing to and fro, unsettling a calm and relaxing evening with my husband.

I immediately began a paper towel-patting brigade, while my husband enlisted the carpet cleaner, advancing and attacking in repeated assaults to annihilate the telltale signs of my accident.  Several sighs later, I noticed some stray drips slipping down the doors of the bookshelf from where the glass still wobbled on its side.  Wine silently slid over broken blue glass that had held it in its grasp moments ago.

The stem had taken the thrust of my mistaken nudge, lost its balancing stability and let the glass succumb to the inevitable power of gravity.  Toppling to its side, crashing to the shelf’s surface, rolling to the edge through the spilled wine; the stem remained intact, halted by a coaster, saved from a further fall to the floor.

Funny how we let fears project onto our own screens in our mind.  I know I had repeatedly thought I might spill red wine onto the carpet if I didn’t take precautions.  I usually stacked a raised coaster next to my wine glass to help prevent potential problems. Still the accident happened, the fear became a reality.

Today while Dusty and I walked I let my thoughts linger on the power of fears that might come true.  How often do I stack up obstacles to safeguard against what might or could happen?

For the past six months, I have lived in fear of sudden instability caused by periods of vertigo.  An acute inner ear virus quickly led to vestibular neuritis issues that continue to make me feel like the world spins around me without a center grounding point.  I fear being noticeably wobbly in public, or becoming frantic from an unexpected sound or motion nearby.  Sometimes I feel as if I’ve lost the contents of my very being because I no longer feel safe or sturdy by myself.  I am like a glass of red wine placed carefully on my bookshelf, ready to crash at the slightest nudge.

Despite careful stacks of medication and vestibular therapy, I cannot overcome the dizziness that dares to destroy me.

Some days I wish I could just let go.  Let my worst fear happen, let myself fall, crash, and break into pieces.  Then perhaps like the disappearing wine spots something would attack the vertigo with a vengeance designed to wipe it from existence.  Yes that is the screenplay in my mind, the trailer for my upcoming presentation: “Let Go: Let’s Spin, Let’s Dance.”

After all, when a fear presents itself, it initiates responses:  First protection and defense, when necessary attack and destruction.  Fear heightens the senses; it accelerates the adrenalin.  The center becomes off-balance; the repositioning requires risk-taking.   Fear strikes, wobbles occur, dizziness dances.

What’s the worst that could happen?  I could fall, but I know I will continue to get up, to keep on beginning, to keep on walking.  I might be spinning, but then again, it might look like a Dizzy Dee dance!

For instance, this blog appears on July 27.  As I look at my file of writing ideas, I keep hearing in my mind,“It’s two days until your 27th wedding anniversary. Say yes to that idea.”  Since this already makes me smile, why not?

A couple of weeks ago, my husband and I challenged each other to recreate our marriage proposal by popping the question in our own unique ways.  While I have a new file of possible ideas, I expect that my husband may still be building his.

When we first met I thought,  “An Engineer! How on earth will an idealistic student of English literature, match with an Engineer immersed in the world of technology?” Yet, by the time a week had gone by I knew in my heart that this was the man I was going to marry!

Still, I recall that although my heart jumped to this conclusion, I wondered how we would feel connected in everyday life. Soon I discovered that he could recite poetry, perhaps not by the poets of my literature studies, but entertaining, adventurous rhymes.  He sang and played his guitar for me; I sang and played the piano for him. He listened to all my dreams; I pictured each one of his ideas. We strove to discuss science and the arts, and to balance “he shoots, he scores” with musical theatre. Somewhere in the midst of words, music, science, and hockey, we settled into our common ground and began nurturing the roots that would establish our marriage.

By the way, we met on a cruise in February, he proposed in December, and we married in July. I still call him Captain Brad; he still calls me Lady Dee. He now enjoys my poetry; I strive to make sense of his technology.

Why propose to each other again, after all these years?  Because these words still define us.  We’ve learned to choose them carefully, gently, patiently, and honestly.  More often than not we use parts of that same proposal phrase, “Will you…” and sometimes each of us needs to focus on that all-important  “me” in our marriage.  However it’s what’s in the middle that counts.  It’s the “marry” in the middle, the common ground where we meet, when we take a moment to value each other.

(Did you guess my way of proposing?)

“Captain Brad, 
Will you marry me?  

Say Yes!!”

Instead I came to realize I wanted this website to signify that a step toward change has already happened.  I wanted to convey the idea that we all need to keep walking, whether we can do so physically or in our minds. I wanted to go walking with my friends and family, hoping that as we walk together, we will share insights that may encourage and uplift each other everyday.

Walking requires taking a step, to move toward a different place, to cause a beginning to occur.  Sometimes we can follow carefully worn paths in joyous abandon; sometimes we need to walk through the wilderness.  It doesn’t matter where, how, or with whom we walk… we just need to begin walking; that’s when we actually know we are going somewhere, when we know we have found our beginnings…

Last month our family welcomed my grandnephew to the fold.

Aided by the immediacy of the Internet, I was able to see a picture of baby Aaron shortly after his birth, showing his tiny hands pushing forth against the baby blanket meant to comfort him.

As I marveled at little Aaron so safely ensconced, I imagined his tiny fingers had flailed against cold air, curling and uncurling, grasping close tightly and popping open quickly in a reflexive effort to understand his new world.  So finely formed, already creased and wrinkled from movement in the womb, each little hand moving with energy prompted only by instinct.

Yet by now, I knew several larger sets of hands had tended and tucked, prodded and poked, jostled and juggled and finally cuddled and calmed baby Aaron.

As the day progressed I enjoyed scrolling through new sets of photos as they were posted to the Internet.  They attested to the ritual of passing the baby, hands to hands and heart to heart.

This cherished wonder that gives those gathered the opportunity to express the simple gestures of a time-honored routine, the offered hands receiving and welcoming new life, the circling arms holding and harboring new life.  Each one greeting the newborn, reaching, clasping, and pulling him close to the chest; comforting him with their warm hands and steady heartbeats.  Hands to hands and heart to heart.

It’s a blessing readily given, a laying on of love from my way of thinking.  It will continue for several months, as long as baby Aaron snuggles easily into eager outstretched hands.

Being at a distance, several months will pass before I will pull little Aaron against my heart or place my gentle hands beneath his tiny fingers, hoping for that reflexive newborn finger hug.  I continue to sigh at updated daily photos, each one unraveling more thoughts in my mind… hands to hands and heart to heart.

One photo in particular pulls at my heartstrings, as I see my Dad holding baby Aaron.

I wonder, does this little one sense the strength of his great-Pop-Pop’s hands?  Does baby Aaron feel the years these hands have endured?  Do a newborn’s inquisitive tiny fingers tremble in the presence of calloused and crackled hands?

Surely in these hands and against this heart, baby Aaron knows he is in the midst of a grand or rather great-grand laying on of love!!