Tongue in Cheek

Sharing Sacredness

Yesterday morning with lavender oil, soft music, a few French words, and a broken crystal, I went to my first rendez-vous. A session of sacred relaxation.

A friend of a friend, a man, who wanted to learn how to relax, to feel less stress.

Each step to his house I felt scared. Is it possible to give something I "feel," even though I don't have any professional training in this area? He and his wife were waiting in the garden. Their smiles reassured me.

The healing power of touch. The blessing to touch someone and feel their presence. Who gives? Who receives? It is a sharing, a prayer, a moment suspended in time.

A perfect place

the space

          in between

past and future,

the empty chair

that calls  our   

         name,

Be here now. 

one place 

or another

   

     we must take a seat

and

be happy

where we are.

French Twist

Sacha and I are at the hairdresser's. I am looking at a magazine. Sacha is checking out his surroundings. The women waiting, are admiring his curls and English vocabulary.

"Mommy do you know how to say, "haircut" in French?" Sacha has something up his sleeve, I can tell by that twinkle of mischief in his eye.

"Oh no, I don't!" I pretend.

"Do you want me to tell you how to say, haircut?"

"Yes, Sacha that would be helpful please tell me!"

He leans in closely, whispers in my ear, "Just say, rouge!"

-----------------------------

Rouge, means Red in French. Rouge, was the "in" color to dye ones hair. Red is still Sacha's favorite color. 1996

Somethings do not Change

When I lived in the monastery, our first words chanted at dawn were:

"Oh Lord,

open my lips

and my mouth shall proclaim

your praise!"

I was in love with life and spirituality! The monastery was in Pecos, New Mexico. The community was mixed: men and women, it was under the Rule of St. Benedict.

I was in my glory.

I wanted to be a priest.

Sometimes, things cannot be changed and acceptance is all that remains.

Many moons have passed since those days spent in monastic life.

Yet I have the most treasured memories dancing still within my soul.

And I still long to be a priest.

Joyeuses Pâques!

My brother and I, 1961. We had matching sailors outfits. I had a bonnet, gloves and a white patine purse. Easter meant new clothes for church, waking up early and running outside, searching for our Easter baskets in the garden, mine was by the purple irises. Easter meant hard-boiled eggs dyed in bright colors, (the colors I liked, the eggs I did not!)

Easter in France means the church bells ring and ring and ring, there isn't an Easter bunny here, it is the church bells that spread the chocolates far and wide! We live next to the church.

Easter, the golden egg, the celebration of life, the empty tomb, the hope of a new day, the singing of Alleluia!

Put on your Easter bonnet and join the parade!

Live your Gift

In Marseille, on a building is this large carved plaque. The paint is peeling and I can see that there is something underneath it..an image? ancient writing?...It has been covered with layers and layers of paint and dirt, years of days of time have covered whatever is there and I cannot make it out. Yet there are hints of something rich, valuable and worthy of discovery.

I took a photo of it. When I downloaded it on my computer it looked like a tombstone. Then I thought and my reflection was this, "The only thing that will remain is what I leave behind, am I giving it my best?" With that I typed it on the plaque...It seemed appropriate for this last day of the Lenten season.

Good Friday

My Grandparent's lives were

one of work and prayer.

They were farmers.

They lived by their hands;

large,

soft,

tender hands

perfectly carved

with time.

Their prayers

echo

within my soul,

calling me-

    strong

know who you are

and where you have come from.

Those hands that showed me,

that hold me...

Real Life

I always give up something for Lent, but didn't this year.

I am 48, married, have two children, live in France, grew up in Willows California, have gray hair, wrinkles and I am not tall. I lived a few years in a monastery. I had a serious illness, it confirmed my belief in miracles and prayers. I grew up in a big Portuguese family...with millions of cousins, four brothers and wonderful parents.

Roller coasters, dancing, cooking, exaggerating and antiquing (duh!) are some things I like to do. I have spare time.

Ironing, learning French, and politics I try to ignore.

Real life...forget-me-not...

Holy Communion

such truth is exposed

how busy we can be....

chasing after happiness.

running around in a circle and calling it living.

how often do you hear                   if only I had time.

as if being busy doing

means being who you are.

                          How often do you see  the  make-believing

that we have all the time in the world?

Where do you stand ...   where does you heart bleed  ...

where do you

hold the crown of life

you have been given?

poetry thursday

My Hero

My Dad is the best.

He is.

Even if today wasn't his 79th birthday I would proclaim him the best.

*The man and his bike, in the cow barn converted into a motorcycle shop. Here he is with his Harley. One of the many bikes that stand in the stalls.

Pretty cool huh? He is.

He is the Dad you dream about...When I was in the third grade and the teachers questioned if I was ever going to be a real student, my Father told me I had beautiful handwriting, more beautiful than his. I still cry when I think of this. Dad always believed in me.

When I was sweet 16 and rudely, blatantly, devastatingly, fired from my first job at Candy's Ice-cream Parlor, My Father went down to the shop and told the owner where he could stick his vulgar remarks. My broken, tender ego, found salvation in my Father's "No-man-is-going-to-talk-to-my-daughter-like-that," pride.

More than anything I have known love; have never doubted the power of that gift, which he has freely given to me.

*My Brother Mathew has added onto this post

The Man and His Bike!

Dad is cool. Motorcycling is my Dads passion not a passing fad he got into "one day". The barn you see in the picture is a regular gathering spot on Friday nights for anyone who wants to talk motorcycles, farming, politics, joke, drink beer and hang out with Uncle George among all the motorcycles. The motorcycle (just one of many he owns and has owned)in the picture has over a hundred thousand miles on it and they are all quality miles. Miles where my dad goes to think. Miles where he goes to be alone. Miles where he goes to dream. Miles where he goes to see. Miles where he goes to visit. Miles where he just goes like a bat outa hell. Dad can work on motorcyles too but he doesn't consider it work. I've watched him take a motorcyle completely apart and fix it on miles from home because "we just can't leave it here". I've seen him race motorcycles and win even when he would come in last. I've seen him ride a tiny 90cc motorcycle 400 miles in a weekend on remote dirt roads just to say it could be done. Many seek to ride with this man just to feel, taste and live his passion. Happy Birthday !