This evening, I was working on a locket with my favorite “shabby” pearls and I pulled the usual plastic box out from under my equally shabby and well loved work table. With the opened box on my lap, I noticed something…I noticed the tangle of various white colored strings and the various stages of decay of the pearls…the different sizes and shades and shapes…and the history that was there in this little cosmos of luminescent orbs.
I imagined the dinner parties, the funerals, the birthday and retirement parties…strands and strands of pearls lost and then found again with relish…sighs of disbelief as broken strands poured from pale necks and bounced all over tile and marble floors. Pearls broken in tumbles of passion and in fits of rage….strands pulled gently, glowing by candlelight, from suitcases all the way from the shores of Europe and World War, to surprised eyes…and the ones bought with money dumped from piggy banks, saved from allowances and countless lawn mowings, from WoolWorths on a Sunday afternoon in May….
And finally, I ran my hands through the smooth tangles and mounds, and brought a large handful of pearls to my nose, it was the aroma of them that beckoned my pseudo memory…the scent of night musk and the sweetness of jasmine and White Shoulders and Chanel Number Five…and then the names of the wearers came to mind. Names like Mabel and Pearl and Ida and Rose, Sarah and Adelaide and Joy came to mind; filling my mind with phantom faces of the women that wore them and I wonder whose company they keep now and what their stories were and if their journey was memorable and full of song and hope and passionate living. I wondered if they were remembered with love, and how somehow, by chance, how it came to be that my life has been touched by their presence long after they were no longer a part of this world.
That is what I want my life to be….like a strand of pearls, broken all over the floor of the world…touching lives in ways I never knew I did, and regarded, by those that knew me, with love…memories of me wafting from minds and mouths like the incredible scent rising from this box of pearls in my lap…thoughts of me, smooth and lasting and glowing in the candlelight of love after the journey of my life comes to an end. Filled with laughter and the tangles of stories told again and again.
I think that is all anyone can truly hope for. Because, it is my understanding, that is really all there is…the pearls of ourselves we leave behind, and found later in the most unexpected places.
It has been years since I could listen to the oldies. That's all my father listened to during our times together. Today I decided to make a memory with my father that I always envisioned....today we danced. Oh yes, he was light on his feet when he was a part of this world. Who knew a hardened mechanic in his clunky work boots would be or could be such; but it is true. I would watch him dance with his wife on their parquet floor in effortless twirls and shuffles of his large feet..dark denim pants and snap down plaid western shirt. I remember his smile and I remember too, so embarrassed, dancing with him in the faint-wisp memories of my 19th year.
Today we danced, he and I, again...only this time we danced, his smiling photograph framed in fancy silver flourishes( he would not have approved of this frame). I held him to my heart as we twirled and twisted to the oldies but goodies. The same ones that wafted from his noisy garage that year. I can still smell the freshly cut wood and axle grease in the air...
His hands were huge and rough in mine today and he smiled at me lovingly as we danced, until all of the madness melted away, and the hurt was replaced by this memory of us two and all that there was between us was the
...she ran her hand noisily along the coolness of the chain link fence during her walk home from the shop until she arrived at her favorite spot. There at the edge of the fence, among the shreds of dirty paper and old faded wrappers, were tiny clusters of fragrant wild roses, like tiny scarlet bouquets that grew there just
She wore her favorite earrings she called "Little Suns", her first summer day back in Florida. It had been 10 years since she smelled the salt air of the Gulf Coast...so many ghosts were there. The faint shapes of all of her children, when they were so young, danced on the beach before her and she smiled to herself...thinking of their laughter and their delight as they romped in the clear blue-green water....bright, like little suns.......like little suns.
My 41st year seems to have begun with opening wide and wonderful and mysterious. I can't wait to tell you what is to come. I have allowed myself to dream largely for the first time in my life...opening myself up to possibilities beyond my imagining...telling myself that it is ok trust God's plan for me. I want to be an intrument through which spirit plays...to use my life and the things I create to change the world in little ways...because as Pavese said, "We do not remember days, we remember moments." It is those little moments that are woven into our lives, like bright blue scraps in a Robin's nest and regarded with wonder and awe for the making of it.
I spent the summer in Japan
beside you in the countryside
after the blossoms had faded
almost as quickly as they came.
And I noticed the way you looked
after our last kiss faded
into the firey sunset--
there was a faint chill in the air
but our summer in Japan
warm my heart and
stain my memory
like the blossoms pressed
under our bare feet.
Today I saw the sky open up
after the clouds rolled in,
and God shed tears
once more upon the Dogwood tree
that stood by itself in the Springtime
of the forest
because ol' John died before
he could plant any more;
and what I am trying to say
is that God was not crying for grief
but for the joy of John's liveliness
there in the heavens
and in gratitude for the Dogwood tree
he planted there so long ago in the woodland
with such adoration for the Earth
that every tree around it
flourished there because
of its beautiful branches
reaching out into the world...
This was very quick and imperfect late night poem, inspired by these earrings I created for my Etsy shop and by my foresty husband, Ken. John Morford, was otherwise known as "The Mushroom Man" in these parts, due to his extensive knowledge of the forest floor. I wish I had known him, but he lives on through his son, of whom he'd be so very proud of the branches he's spread into the world.
I made this locket with the thought that one could write one's intentions and place them inside...if you are at all like me, I often need a "hard copy" reminder of what I need in my life. I don't journal enough, nor blog enough, so my thought is that I could just write a little note to myself now and then and place it in something that I could not forget....and this is it. How could you look down at this beautiful creation and NOT think about what is inside?
This one is called "Passionate Kisses"...because I know that a lot of us are in desperate need of more passion in our lives.
Moments that are unforgettable....moments that steal your very breath and make your heart race and make you wonder where you've been hiding yourself all these years. These are the "notes to self" that need to be held here, among the sparkle of the deep red vintage rhinestones and blooms and leaves that symbolize growth and renewal and above all, HOPE.
Moments of passion are not beyond our reach. I think sometimes everyday life gets the best of us and we forget about passionate living. I know I do.
Manifest them on paper and wear them close to your heart...let's see what happens!
This locket is currently for sale in my Etsy Shop.