Comfort Zone

Lots of thoughts were running through my head on my walk this morning to the post office on Western. It's one the USPS is closing down at some yet to be determined point in the future. They have already closed up the convenient curb drop boxes and even the two in the parking lot. So one must actually walk in to post a letter.
I had decided my walk there would fulfill my daily, "Walk to End Lethargy" requirement. I walked down busy 3rd Street on my way there. It is such a different walk from my usual route going west on 4th Street. The neighborhood changes dramatically east of Wilton Ave. Which is also a very busy street going north and south. The parkways are narrower, the random trash increases and the apartments you pass are a bit run down.
On my return trip I crossed 3rd Street and walked south to 4th Street. Again I was east of Wilton and there are no single dwelling homes. It is all apartment buildings with varying degrees of upkeep. One very noticeable difference to a walker is that dog owners do not seem to care about picking up after their dogs. The problem decreases as you continue to walk west and there is more grass instead of small wastelands.
I'm always happy to see the front of our apartment building. It is a small oasis on the border of a very prosperous neighborhood. We have a wooden walkway bordered with a little man made stream ending with what I affectionately refer to as Regent Falls. There is a small waterfall beyond the entrance bridge. Lots of trees and vegetation surround all of this. Our apartment balcony is facing the tennis court and I love that we are 2nd story and surrounded by trees.
I am at the point in life where I need to see and experience quiet beauty. The beauty stands out all the more for having stepped outside my personal comfort zone. Daily gratitude seems the only appropriate response.

From childhood faith

The first two lines of this poem began forming while Mark and I were out for a walk this morning. The weather was perfect-what I expect it is like everyday in heaven.

From childhood faith
To teenage doubt
His love forever sure.
A young mother's need
Her heart's despair
His arms beneath are strong.
Love come late
Her heart awakes
To ever faithful songs.
As age advances
Faith more secure
His face a daily joy.
Oh come Lord Jesus
Take this heart
At times with worry laden.
And bring her to Your
Home so bright
An everlasting shining light.
A.R.L. 10/31/13

The Smallest World: "I have always liked little things." @ AMERICAN DIGEST

The Smallest World: "I have always liked little things." @ AMERICAN DIGEST

"Take Me Out to the Ballgame", but this is not about baseball ...

Lassie Lou's Dance Studio was just off Venice Blvd. in Culver City. Dad would drive me to lessons on Saturdays. The studio was on the left side of the street up a small hill. The entrance was up about 5 or 6 steps which seemed very big to a little girl of about 3 1/2 (do all my memories begin then?).
There was a huge hard wood floor and probably a mirror, but I don't remember a mirror. There were most certainly other children, but I have no memory of them either.
Lassie Lou had a kind face and short dark hair. Although I think I took lessons there for a few years I only remember one dance. It was a tap dance to,"Take Me Out to the Ballgame". It began with traveling steps of: slap, ball change, slap ball change, slap, ball change. If you've never taken tap dance lessons I can't help you. The "break" came at the words, "I don't care if they never get back" at which point you did a very intricate maneuver of jumping back on your heels...I forget the rest. I actually could do the dance for many years after. It was a featured number in a garage show in the circle we called, "The Great Spectacular". It was my only solo.
The reward for listening and following directions following my lesson was a stop at Foster's Freeze. It must have been on the way home. My standard order was a small vanilla chocolate dipped cone. That first bite of the hardened chocolate in a curl at the top was heaven. Of course you had to skillfully suck the vanilla ice cream (soft serve, what else?) through the initial hole. I'm not sure that ice cream has ever tasted better.

The Circle

Mother said she just had to have a house. After three years of living in one bedroom, with her husband and two young children in her parent's home, she needed a place for her growing family.They borrowed $500.00 from her father-in-law and bought a new three bedroom, one bath house in a pleasant cul-de-sac, in a new housing development in Culver City that was built around Lindberg Park. The house cost $11,000 dollars. It was 1951.
The front door was up two steps and across a long narrow cement porch that stretched across the front of the house. Stepping into the front door of 5175 Steven's Circle for the first time was momentous for my three 1/2 year old little feet. The shining hardwood floor, stretching down the entryway and into the living room and dining area, seemed endless. It looked vast because there was little furniture to clutter things up.  To the right of the entry there was a long narrow kitchen and a breakfast nook with a window that looked out across the circle. There were two doors to the right of the nook that enclosed a tiny laundry area. Past the living room and down a hallway to the left were the three bedrooms and a small bathroom.
There was a two car garage at the front of the house with an impossibly steep and short driveway. I don't remember a fence in the backyard (I think a cement block wall came later) but I do remember there was a cement incinerator for burning trash. There was a vacant lot, beyond our backyard and up an incline, that stretched out to meet Sepulveda Blvd.
Our home in Steven's Circle was a continually changing structure that provided the backdrop for my childhood. It became home again as an adult. The 43 years my parents lived there were filled with all the things that transform a house into a home. Home is not an easy thing to create. It requires a lifetime of love and "showing up". It then becomes a place we can always visit even if only in our memories.

Reflections on 9/11

As I drove to Cienega Elementary that morning the report coming from the radio didn't seem real. I remember thinking, "That can't be possible." After I parked and walked into the school they had taken a TV into the library. A few teachers and staff were watching in disbelief. As I joined them I couldn't wrap my brain around what I was seeing. We were all in a state of shock. Even though I couldn't help crying the Assistant Principal reminded me to be strong for the students. So I pulled myself together and continued with my day.
As a new Literacy Coach part of my job involved visiting classrooms and observing lessons. One of the things I thought we could do as a school was write cards and letters to a New York school near the site of the Twin Towers collapse. Students at P.S. 234 had to be evacuated and couldn't return to their school for a number of months. Our students drew beautiful pictures and cards and all were boxed up and sent to P.S. 234. Later in the year we received a thank you note with a video tape the students had made. It was a precious reminder of the unique gifts children are to all of us. They had written a song which they performed. The video made the rounds of all our classrooms. It was a meaningful way to link the students at one New York school to ours.
Today I had lunch with a dear friend and as I selected what to wear I knew red, white and blue would make an appearance. On my red shirt I pinned a rhinestone flag a gift from my sister-in law.  On my wrist I wore a red, white and blue crystal bracelet a teaching partner had made for me right after 9/11.
Let's face it, I'm a flag waver. I collected abandoned plastic flags after each 4th of July and did patriotic marches with my kindergarten students. I lead the march in the circle with my young daughters and nieces on the 4th with patriotic music blaring from our neighbors front lawn.
I am so thankful for the daily gifts of freedom we enjoy in our country. I pray that we will protect those freedoms and appreciate all those who have made it possible.
We are so blessed.

Grandma Mabel's Jewelry Boxes

The first three and a half years of my life were spent living with my mom, dad and brother Greg (four years older) in one bedroom of my Grandma Mabel and Grandpa Ace's home on Canfield Ave. very near Culver City. One of my earliest memories was when we moved into our new house in Steven's Circle in Culver City. I remember walking out of my grandparent's home carrying my metal dollhouse. Not many other memories before that so I'm not sure when I began exploring my grandmother's dresser. My guess is sometime between 3 and 5.
She had the kind of dresser with a long mirror in the middle and sets of three drawers on either side. Inside the drawers were a treasure trove of the most wonderful boxes. The boxes were different sizes and colors. Inside each one was a different piece of costume jewelry. Apparently she didn't mind my explorations. I don't remember a word of correction or, "Put those things away!" She was a most generous soul.
I would carefully take out each box, lift the lid in wonder and place the box on their bed (it was always made up). There were rhinestone pins, beads, pearls and bracelets. They were all different and wonderful. Then the ritual would reverse itself. I would carefully take the boxes off the bed and try to put them back in the same order. It was a quiet, reverent exercise for a young child. I don't ever remember trying any of the jewelry on.
It is probably no surprise that Grandma Mabel's granddaughter has a number of drawers where small boxes of jewelry live. If I am honest I would not be as generous if a small child wanted to explore all those boxes. Once in a while, as I go through those boxes, memories remind me of how blessed I've always been with true treasure.

Old Magazines

Many years ago I subscribed to the magazine, Country Living. As a little girl I dreamed of marrying a farmer so it fit into my fantasy world. Even though I was born and raised in the city Country Living helped me imagine rustic interiors for our home. At one point we had red gingham curtains in our apartment in Sepulveda. On the walls were what I thought appropriate for the "farm". The problem that presented itself throughout the years was what to do with the accumulating stacks of old magazines.
I remember my sweet mom having stacks of Family Circle or National Geographic and remarking that she wanted, "to go through them". Maybe it was genetic.
I've also subscribed to Martha Stewart Living, Smithsonian, National Geographic, Tea Time and others I'm sure I've forgotten. From time to time I've purchased British home magazines or the occasional Architectural Digest and Veranda. Each in turn have found their way to shelves, bags or cabinets. Many I have eventually thrown away, taken to school to share with other teachers or use with my students. Some have happily found their way to recycling where they will be transformed into other paper products.
The one magazine that,"ruled them all" however was Victoria. It began to be published in the early 1990's. I poured over every lovely, detailed page. I organized them in magazine holders in chronological order. No magazine has ever received such honor. They moved when I moved. My mourning was sincere when publishing was stopped. When I received a post card that publishing was to begin again I rejoiced. There would only be one every two months but I tried to bear up.
After a year of retirement I've had to accept the fact that downsizing is a practical necessity. What to do with my 5 magazine holders of Victoria? It was a dilemma.
A sympathetic soul from church happily carried them off last Sunday and the Sunday before. Bless her.
It was quite liberating. There are more magazines lurking in our apartment, but I feel empowered to let them go too.

Why, "Where does the Sky Begin?"

In one of my classes at Westmont (oh so long ago) a professor told a story that made great impression on my young mind. He said a father was tucking his young daughter in bed one night. She looked up and asked him, "Daddy, where does the sky begin?" He looked at her lovingly and replied, "Where your lungs do."
I liked the story so much that in a later art class, where we were making silk screen prints, I cut out capital block letters to fill the page with the question and answer. I used yellow paint for the background. Because it needed something I added a second color with thin blue lines forming a kind of triangle-vertical, horizontal and diagonal lines intersecting.
In a way it has to do with the first breath breathed into Adam by God Himself. We're all still taking one breath at a time until our last. We are surrounded by the daily miracle of a breathable atmosphere and we think nothing of it.
Where does the sky begin? The bright blue ever changing color that blesses us everyday of our brief lives. It indeed begins with our rising and falling lungs. "We are fearfully and wonderfully made."