Bookstore

Someday I would like to own a bookstore near this patisserie near Borough Market in London. People would stop by after shopping and sit and browse and peruse the latest selections. I wouldn't care so much if the weather wasn't sweet because of the books. All my favorites, and especially, ones that I have always wanted to read but didn't get around to opening. Perhaps we would have "tea of the day" and people could sip tiny cups of the hot potion while they decided which books to take home. I would pretend I was living in "Black Books" without being as rude as Bernard. In the meantime I am content to be where I am, providing massage services and speaking for children in the child protection system. It's a roller coaster and I used to self medicate with pastries such as these. Then I reached my limit. So I backed off the carbs, the caffeine and sugar. And fat, my best friend. And Surly Bender.  I didn't think it was possible and I was wrong. And not for the first time did I realize I was mistaken. Tango class was on the schedule tonight and yet when I had an opportunity to work, I decided to do it. Now I am too tired to go to class. C'est la vie. One minute you are planning an inexpensive bookcase project and then, whoops, the whole wall needs to be re-wired! One minute you are planning to live in a brick house with a fireplace in Linden Hills and then, wham! You find yourself living in a tiny apartment right off the freeway juggling childcare with a man who beats you up after he leaves your two year old alone, asleep in the car, parked on the street, in the winter. And then he tells you your 6 year old daughter was watching the baby from the window. It was never my plan to live with a man who hit me across the face in front of our kids. But it happens.

Margarita Weds

Fans of alliteration and tequila, such as myself, will try to find a tequila drink which starts with "W." They might end up here wondering about the benefits of mixing kahlua and tequila. And they might wonder about floating the whipped cream left over from a chocolate roulade. Sounds elegant to me, festive, a great way to dress up the Sauza for the winter. It could be garnished with chocolate shavings. Hey, you might even serve it with slices of the chocolate roulade garnished with more whipped cream and fresh berries. Reality is: I am sticking to the famous fabulous lemon fast. And I feel better, cleaner, lighter and more willing to look at some of my eating patterns. I do comfort and reward myself with sugar and fat, washing it down with jasmine tea. I look forward to the caffine rush, and many of my activites are centered around eating, snacking really. Not cooking healthy meals for myself, sitting down and then being finished with it, but grazing, nearly constantly and using food to mask my emotions. I tend to identify anxiety as hunger, which seems silly now that I am looking into it's deep dark eyes. And now I have a chance to sit still and look for the source of my anxiety.

Hibiscus

After I brought it inside my hibiscus put out two more flowers as if to say "where am I?" It's a question I ask myself each day, more than once. When the drama is gone, I notice it's absence. It's like being in a bar with ear drum splitting rock music and then stepping out into the winter snow falling quietly, drifting down with something like reverence. I look at the empty space where the grand piano used lived with stacks of mail, music scores, half eaten snacks and presents from groupies desperate to ingratiate themselves with their instructor. Like many cult leaders he did not hesitate to use his position of authority to his own advantage. I do not wish for that scenario to return, but I did notice that it was gone. 

Gone, like our dog left too long on his own, out of a crate, entertaining himself. While living alone, working 60 hours a week, I realized I could no longer manage our family dog as I had while living with a husband, available for his many ever  growing demands. 

My landscape changed again when I accepted a position at a chiropractic clinic. The work was grueling and satisfying at the same time. Mainly deep tissue work to repair auto injuries I would leave each evening to soak my throbbing hands in hot salty water before applying ice packs. And then it would start all over the next day. Gradually I learned to avoid injury while using techniques which were effective in releasing dense injured tissues. Seeking a position with opportunities to collaborate as partners in integrative modalities, I began offering in-hospital services for postpartum parents. And each day I come back to the question "where am I?" After working in hospitals all over the metro area, they are starting to look alike. 

For over 22 years I lived in an identity that no longer seems to exist. The definition of family has altered drastically for my children and me. And while it has been a relief, it has also been an unending (at least to this point) process of grief and recovery. Mostly wondering "where am I?" I trust my journey, just like I trust that you have to drive through Winnemucca to get to Tahoe on interstate 80. But you don't have to spend a lot of time there unless the freeway is closed. Some days I feel like the freeway has closed and I am stranded in a hotel with nothing much to do, but wait. So I write, or sleep, or watch silly TV shows like "The Big Bang Theory."

I am chipping away at the remodeling of my house. Bookshelves are in process even as I type. My precarious finances offer another opportunity to trust my journey. And I try to remember to stay present to my fears and shattered dreams. I build new ones with people who have a little more insight and interest in collaboration. Client consultations are important to me. and the possibility of building those kinds of relationships motivate me to make the effort.  I am here, even not knowing where I am, I can be here. Over and over, moment by moment I can be here. Without knowing where I will be next, I can be right here, right now, as present as I am capable of being, for as long as I can manage. 

Bowling for birthdays

It is good to get an early start when it comes to building large motor skills. Some of my earliest memories are of the bowling alley in the rural farming community of my youth.  tbc...

Rock Camp for Dads

Handprints

My daughter doesn't miss much. She is a champion at games where you compare two pictures and list what is different from the first to the second. So I wasn't surprised when she asked about the hand prints even before she was in the kitchen. Noticing them from the dining room she used a one word question, "Hands?" At first I wasn't sure what she meant, it had been two weeks since I had come back from the deathbed of my GAL child. And the drama that followed as the biological mom bullied her way into the directors office and demanded his body be embalmed and released to her rather than the foster mom distracted me from the memory of the child himself. After numerous phone calls and e-mails I was told there was a meeting set up for December 21st to find out how this happened. My daughter works in a school that this child may have attended, had he been returned to his biological mom. I described the nurses making the hand prints, watching them manipulate his hands, one by one, with the tubes and restraints, onto the ink pad and then to the paper. After repeating the process several times. The nurse kindly asked if I would like one. As she handed it across the table, I glanced at the form on the bed. In a few minutes the doctors would come in with the respiratory therapist and remove the tube that had kept him alive for the past two weeks. The last time I had attended a death I was struck by the simplicity of the process. It was just as Sogyal Rinpoche described: you exhale. And you don't inhale again. The biological mom keeps declaring her love for this child to anyone who is willing to listen. Yet over and over I see people so caught in their addictions and compulsions that love, if this is love beyond ownership, is not enough to keep their kids safe and healthy. I watch my daughter plan her wedding, pursue her teaching license, become a dog owner. With gratitude I listen to her in my kitchen near the bookshelf which holds my various mementos, including the hand prints of a dead child, a child I feel I may have failed. But for the moment, even in face of my possible failure, I feel complete.

Adopt Minnesota

My friend D walks dogs waiting for adoption. It appears to be a noble activity and takes the place of stair master at the Y. Her dogs have passed and it fills the gap created by their new lives in another world. As I read her posts I remind myself to contact the foster kids I speak for as a Guardian ad Litem. It's an interesting relationship, something like the dog walking. I have to be careful not to get too involved in their lives as my time in their lives is temporary. I try to stay detached, and I avoid spending excessive money on them. But the truth is I think about them, I wish the best for them and when they succeed in their endeavors, I celebrate. I have know K for 3 years and he is a charming kid, bright, funny, creative. And he is on the website, but is still waiting for a "forever family". This is his second time in the waiting stage. He lost his mother when he was young, then lost his adopted dad about a year after I met him. I have learned so much about resiliency from him, he has become quite a master as he has been in three different schools since we first met. He loves movies and chocolate chip cookies. He likes animals and would love to walk a dogs for fun, like my friend D. I wonder about the dogs that end up euthanized, do they get to walk or do they go right to death row and then sit there? How long do they wait? I had another child, J, and he was waiting for adoption, too. But he was extremely ill. He got worse. And then he was gone. 

Make Over

During my younger years I would never have left the house without make up. At the very least I would wear mascara and concealer for the circles under my eyes. And my contact lenses. And my hair, my hair had to be good! Then all my attention went into my kids and I didn't even bother to put on earrings. Sometimes I didn't even floss! Time passed, my kids got older, and one of them agreed to marry her sweetheart. In a real, although non-traditional, wedding. She asked me about make up. Having been a devoted Clinique user I led her through the story to the cosmetic area. As we passed the Este Lauder counter we stopped to see if anyone there had time for a makeover with the wedding in mind. It was Labor day weekend around 5 pm and the store was almost empty. We leisurely learned about the product and the history of Este Lauder as my daughter became a woman under the brushes of a woman who had devoted much of her life to the line. I want only the best for both my children and there was no question in my soul as I purchase her first real makeup that I wanted to contribute to her celebration, her evolution in this way. After I dropped her at her apartment with her selections, including 3 wedding dresses from which she would make her final selection I was filled with gratitude.  I remembered lying on the bathroom floor when she was 11 months old with a ruptured ectopic pregnancy determined to stay in her life. Fighting to recover so I might share this day with her. I drove home, looked in the mirror and started laughing. I had bought nothing for myself. In fact, I realized I didn't own one item of Este Lauder product. And that the closest I had even come was my aged collection of Clinique, owned by Este Lauder Co. This is how co-dependency manifests: we put others needs and wants before our own. And then we ignore ourselves, we live "without". And we don't question it. A few weeks later we went to look at wedding shoes. I left her trying on shoes and made my way to the Este Lauder counter to try on and purchase a modest selection of items. She met me there after finishing her selection in the shoe department. Beaming as she watched the transformation happen in front of her eyes, and curious, and empowered by watching someone else exercise her options. We can live a life of denial and scarcity, or we can bloom, open and trusting that the universe is smiling on us and is betting on our joy, our success, and our gratitude.

Perfect day...

What is a perfect day? Sometimes it's getting together with a long-time friend and colleague to eat doughnuts. Not just any old doughnuts-from-the-gas-station-on-the-corner, but doughnuts to celebrate. rare and fresh, and lovely to behold; Look for these doughnuts at Mojo Monkey. Pictured here are the apple dumpling, red velvet, traditional buttermilk and creme brulee filled with vanilla creme.

The boy born from a peach

Momotaro-san says "love me"

Warrior 1 ala Blooma

Chair massage: a great opportunity to share a few quality moments with people who can't see any reason to get on a massage table unless they are in excruciating pain and want to avoid their doctors at all cost. Blooma is 4 years old and it was a pleasure to participate in the celebration. Lake Harriet brewery had an offering on draft and there were face-painters and cute clothes vendors in the mix. Many of us were set up outside, hoping the sun would continue to shine and the winds would keep it down to intermittent activity. The cakes covered all possibilities of taste: chocolate with white frosting, white with chocolate frosting, marble cake with white frosting and white with white frosting. On the same planet there are many living without cake or frosting, or face paints, or artisan beer, or prenatal yoga for that matter. And those who have that privilege, who exercise that option, also have the option of recognizing our incredible fortune. When we hit the bottom, and begin to drown in despair we still have our US citizenship, and our health care. We have a choice of hospitals to come to our aid in emergencies. I still remember traveling to France and being told how unbelievably lucky I was because stores were open on Sundays in the States. This photo was taken before kids came into the room and grabbed handfuls of cake and frosting, not even waiting to be handed a piece. Others just grabbed the yoga figure, licked off the frosting and stuck them back on the cake. Those precious little darlings, entitled to take whatever struck their fancy and use it as they wished and then dispose of it however they wished...It is always an ironic juxtaposition with the kids I see in the child protection system. 

Ponder this:

What is it about migraines that just throws you off base? Makes you feel crazy, depressed, suicidal? Is it the  subtle sensation of impending doom which has a space for feeling like maybe it wont be that bad, that somehow it will pass over your house if you leave blood over the door. Or that if you could just eat the right thing, or take a solid nap, or stretch your neck in a particular way that you might avert the oncoming attack. Hot shower? Comfortable boots and warm sweater...Ibuprophen, sugar, coffee, chocolate... And then you are in the middle of it and there isno turning back, it is simply a matter of riding it out, and not knowing how long the ride will last. You aren't really sick, as in contagious, but you also aren't feeling great, so it's difficult to be around anyone even if they are your favorite person in the whole world. Or if you are doing your favorite thing in the whole world. Hopelessness sets in, and there is no escape, no permanent relief. All you can do it watch the clock, try to anticipate triggers, and relax. Look at the trees, listen to the birds, lay on the floor and be grateful you are not in some war-torn country struggling to find clean water.

Grape harvest

Not exactly enough to make wine, but perfect for eating with cheese and some artisan bread. Maybe a few Haralsons on the side would complete the meal. It has been unusually dry. I finally broke down and turned on the hose, soaking the roses, the red maple and the surrounding plants. This past week has been an incredible gift of sunshine and warm temperatures. People have used their air conditioners, perhaps for the last time before it snows. It has been a slow descent into the passing of summer and fall has dragged its heels, stretching us into the coming cold season. I am working on painting the garage hoping to finish before it is just too cold. This week would have been perfect but I was occupied with a killer migraine for six days in a row. I finally gave up and went in for craniosacral work. It took a long time to release probably 3 times the usual amount of time and effort, and once it did break, I was dizzy and disorientated for the rest of the day. Luckily I don't have the frequency I experienced in the past, and I have discovered the effects of CST making it all that much more likely that I will finish painting before the snow flies!

plum jelly and brioche

Rustica is too far for me to be a regular supporter. But, on occasion, I find myself driving through their neighborhood and pulling into the parking lot. And the brioche is always a motivating attraction. I hadn't had this particular shape before and it was irresistible to say the least.  I let myself believe that brioche is actually a full meal deal because of the extra eggs and dairy in the dough. And I happened to have a jar of artisan plum jelly from a vendor at the Kingfield Market in my refrigerator. It was the perfect combination of sweet, chewy, crunchy and rich. When I move to Paris I will eat brioche everyday with chocolate and I will read and write and reflect. I will walk alot and never rush to get places faster and I will teach English to students and business persons. It will be so relaxed, just like my life now, but in Paris. I might even have a dog, but I will not have another cat after my Valerie passes on. I will be relatively free of responsibilities after a life of mandatory care taking. I will listen to music and explore the city, riding the metro, visiting friends in Brussels. Next year would be nice. I'm not sure how many more winters I can handle, and I'm not sure how much longer I want to take care of a house. Since my college trip to Europe I have dreamed of living in France. I thought it would happen after I graduated but I took a detour via marriage and dance to the west coast. My husband had no interest in Europe, and his interest in dance morphed into something much different: trees. Perhaps he would have been happier performing Butoh in and amongst the redwood forests. I imagine him somewhere along the Russian River not terribly far from Goat Rock Beach. 

Waiting behind the finish line...

We made a plan and I stuck to it. But the best laid plans are fated to be altered, often through no intent of our own. We arrived at the finish line at 4:30. My son transported my massage table to the Elite tent before walking to the buses outside Kelly Inn which would take him to the start line. He said he felt good and believed he could finish the race in under 3 hours. So did I, after all he had run Grandma's in a personal record, just over 3 hours. He had trained with devotion and had a good night sleep. So I stood here and waited while the elite runners recovered and waited for a massage therapist. Mostly we worked without a break, and this was the first time I had been so brazen to walk out for 10 minutes while the line grew restless. I was raised to be a compulsive caretaker, and the full ten minutes I waited was colored by an uneasy sense of shame. In spite of the fact I was a volunteer, in spite of the fact that I was exhausted and this was my first break. After 10 minutes I headed back to the tent where I resumed my position in the line of 8 massage tables.m I missed seeing him cross the finish at Grandma's and I missed him last year at TC, but I saw him at the start and at the finish of Phoenix and May Mpls, so not all is lost. Maybe next year...

Find your happy place

Rarely photographed??

The thing about doughnuts is that they have to be fresh. Super fresh. Obviously, I am fond of the brown butter version. I can resist the berry version most days. But the nutella filled doughnut is my Waterloo. Difficult to share, I was tempted to go back and buy them out. Instead, I just added Kingfield Farmer's market to my ical. Most doughnuts are not fresh enough for me, I have been blessed with Fat Tuesdays rose filled doughnuts in Krakow, hot from the fryer with a thin glaze dripping down my fingers. I wandered from bakery to bakery with my 2 children eating the amazing puffs of fluffy sweetness. At the time, 1987,  certain meats and chocolate were still rationed. The shock of martial law had eased, but the economic situation had not improved significantly. Living with my kids grandparents was a window into a lifestyle I could not have imagined. Yet, there was something so seductive about the slower pace of their difficult lifestyle. And there were the paczki, fresh everyday except Sunday. The first time I ate them my daughter was 18 months and it was our first trip to Krakow. We had flown to Frankfurt and then taken the train across West Germany, through East Germany and then into Wojciech Jaruzelski's Poland.  Jet lagged, relaxing in the the garden with her Polish relatives we sipped tea and ate hot paczki as she splashed in a basin on water.  I felt I had been transported to another planet. A place where my American dollars opened a world of endless treasure in the midst of common scarcity. What a relief that on Sunday mornings I can, again, simply walk down the street, to the Bogart Loves Bakery stand, and eat my fill of warm, sweet doughnuts. And without carrying my passport, or struggling with my embarrassingly unimpressive Polish language skills. And there is no homeland security, no customs declaration. My mantra: go early, buy as many as you can afford. 

Get out of the way!

There are days I wonder if it is worth it to get out of bed. I lay there listening to the birds and looking at the sunlight coming through the lace curtains, forming lovely patterns on my wall. I have a copy of Nadine Gordimer's "None to Accompany Me" and a cup of hot Jasmine tea within reaching distance. These are the moments it is easy to stretch out, yawn, turn over and return to my dreams. So, I guess that makes me normal. However, yesterday, I did get out of bed at 6 am, with the intention of walking a 5k race. Appropriate clothing waited on a chair near my bed, a cup of tea and a hot shower. My son registered for the Naked Foot 5k invited me to participate. I had trained for a total of 4 days and felt unprepared but willing to go along with it up to the point the announcement: runners to the starting line. At that point I realized I wasn't ready and stepped back to catch my son on video. Am I a quitter? Is that a bad thing? Is it important to know when to quit and when to push harder? As I stepped back there was a shift in my attention and the focus changed to my son and the other runners. Suddenly I wasn't worried about myself, my performance and I was more in tune with the emotions of the others who had really come to race, to place, to win. And I was okay with myself. I felt okay about letting myself off the hook. If I been more diligent in my training, I would feel differently. But there will be other 5ks and perhaps I will cross those starting lines. Until then I rejoice in the enthusiasm of my son, who finished 3rd and under 20 minutes. He has trained hard and will continue to train with devotion for all the upcoming events he can afford. I will be there to cheer him across the finish line and take him to brunch at Lowbrow!

Lost in Cyberspace

Yesterday I wrote a lovely piece about the good old days (1974) when I lived in Calistoga, California and drank a lot of Sauza tequila. I described my divorce recovery program which included significant amounts of Sauza, Stolichnaya, and Glenlivit. Of course they were,  used moderately, responsibly and not all on the same day. I shared how I eventually moved back to Minneapolis, became pregnant and started to eliminated anything that might compromise my health. Those 300 words were probably the best thing I have ever written anywhere, or ever will produce. It was such an incredibly sweet piece, and I reread it with more than a little satisfaction, eager to hit "post". Then it disappeared somewhere into cyberspace and I could not recover it. I was too shocked to cry and too tired to remember the exact words I had typed. I decided to just give you all the photo and forget about the narrative. There was a bit about my ectopic pregnancy, which turned into a near death experience with lights and an angel and waking up on the cold bathroom floor in a pool of blood. I included a poignant part about eschewing all alcoholic and caffinated beverages due to chronic killer migraines which eventually disappeared with my beloved, violent husband. The piece finished with friends sitting around my gorgeous kitchen, laughing, eating amazing multi-grain bread from Patisserie 46 and homegrown heirloom tomatoes from the Kingfield Farmer's Market while sipping grapefruit margaritas, wishing they were watermelon or cantaloupe. And then the screen was blank, except for the photo and the half full blender container in my freezer waiting to console me. Oh, and the part about the time I jumped out of a birthday cake, that was in there someplace, too.

Watermelon Margarita

Tuesday Cucumber & Key Lime Margarita

This will make you want to dance! I wasn't sure how cucumber margaritas would taste so, I made a very small batch. And I regret it as I gaze at the empty blender in the sink. The skins could have been bitter (they weren't) the flesh could have been full of seeds (it wasn't) and it might have just tasted too healthy or too green or too something. In any case, I just didn't want to make a full batch and then end up pouring it all down the garbage disposal. Tonight was a time when I was so happy that I  was so wrong. Something about the newborn size of the cukes and their freshly picked status gave them an intense, cooling sensation, which would have been wonderful anytime. But today, with the heat index at 115, it was like the most incredibly insightful gift our beloved Mother Earth could bestow on her children. The tartness of the key lime, the fragrant jasmine flowers mixed with green tea and a sweet touch of raw honey were the perfect companions for those newly picked cukes. Some fresh mint, leftover from Mondays' creation, were next to the cukes in the refrigerator. I tossed that in at the end, right before I added the heavy whipping cream to adjust the glycemic index. Garnished with a slice of cucumber and flowering oregano, this is the perfect foil for a day like today. And if it weren't so blooming hot I would never have tried to concoct something with cooling properties like this treat. As I sipped the liquid cucumbers through the sea salt on the rim I was reminded of the cold soups of summer I have eaten over the past 50+ years. Which led me back to the cucumber fields of you youth. My father insisted we plant acres of the darling and sell them to Gedney to make a fortune. My siblings and I were not nearly as compliant, or as enthusiastic, as he had hoped. 95% of his babies grew as big, and as orange, as small pumpkins before we managed to harvest them. By that point we couldn't even give them to Gedney and they ended up in the pig trough.  We loaded a few bushel baskets, mostly full,  in the dusty  Ford family station wagon and drove them to Winthrop. Arriving at the drop off site for Gedney we emptied the baskets into the sorting machine and the attendant turned it on. As the bed of slats rocked back and forth the smaller cukes fell through the openings onto the conveyor belt. But the larger, orange ones stayed right were they fell until they were swept off and fell into the large barrel with the other rejects, on their way to the pigs. We were only paid for the smaller cukes and it was just about enough to cover us at the Dairy Queen if we got the cheapest things on the menu: dilly bars or single dipped cones. Luckily, I had money from my babysitting business and we also stopped at the Lyle's Cafe for pie. We sat at the counter so we could see the pie lady, Mina Peterson. I loved watching her roll out the crust, studying her technique and imagining how wonderful it would be to spend all day making pies. No one was in a hurry to get back to the hot and humid cucumber patch. As far as we workers were concerned the grasshoppers, crickets and spiders were welcome to claim the produce, we had better things to do: swimming, reading, drinking cherry cokes. On the drive home with tummies full of blueberry pie, cherry pie and Dairy Queen treats, we joked about our Dad's "get rich quick" scheme and plotted how to avoid his pickle patch picking plans. By the end of our "pickle summer" of 1970 he realized his expensive mistake. He told us that we were ungrateful, and spoiled rotten, just like the soft orange cucumbers left on the ground. He said he bought the tractor and planted those seeds for us, so his kids could make some money, be independent and have something to do over our summer vacation. And then, after telling us we didn't deserve the opportunity he had provided, he solemnly vowed it would be a long, long time, if ever, that he would try to do something like that for us kids again. And, so far, thank you, Jesus, he's kept his word.

Monday Mango Margarita

Oh, yes, it's a heat wave. After sweating it out all day it is so time for some thing salty, icy and full of beta carotene, with just a hint of fresh mint. Something that says, "I love this life-no matter what!" When pressed for time I go for the frozen mango's that you can find in oh-so-many freezer cases in oh-so-many stores. I would rather pick them off my own tree, like I did with the sour cherries, or buy them from a local grower but that just isn't happening until I move to the tropics. I like drinking my margaritas out of a martini glass which some people will find offensive. But I honestly haven't found any margarita glasses that feel right in my hand. They are either too big, too thick or too ugly. I almost passed on these striped glasses but once I actually picked them up, held them in my hand, and closed my eyes I was sold on them. That and the fact that it was the 4th of July week, a week of fireworks and streamers. They are festive and I want a stronger sense of celebration in my life. This recipe is an original combination of fresh lime, lemon, calcium added orange juice concentrate and frozen mango cubes. I love using frozen fruit rather than ice as it is just plain more flavorful. I was generous with the sea salt around the rim, as I felt I needed to replace the electrolytes I lost during the sauna-like weather today. My secret ingredient: extra strong jasmine tea. I made enough of this batch so that I have some left-over. Tomorrow morning I will add Greek yogurt and drink it for breakfast. Or pour it on top of granola and enjoy the complex flavors which will develop during the night. On an increasingly rare occasion such as an engagement party, wedding or job promotion I might add a shot of tequila or dark spiced rum. But the sugar rush and the caffeine are my drugs of choice.  As I placed the half full blender in the refrigerator I noticed a hand-full of lovely fresh cucumbers from yesterday's trip to the Kingfield Farmer's Market. Consequently, I am leaning toward cucumber/lime margaritas tomorrow, which means chopping the cukes and freezing them tonight. Check back here for the results. 

Brioche with plum jam

There is a common human habit of noticing what's wrong with our lives, the painful things that suggest we're bad people, or maybe just plain stupid, undeserving. The world is misperceived as an unfriendly place filled with all kinds of dangers we need to avoid. We start to think that with enough planning and plenty of caution we can prevent painful things from happening. Yet there is plenty of evidence to the contrary, if we are willing to look clearly at everything that is around us. From the fragrant, flowering plants along our paths to the fluffy clouds overhead, we are surrounded by the living manifestation of lovingness. The relaxed ease granted to us during these warm summer months is just such a blessing. I personally get caught worrying about my financial instability and hope that it is a temporary situation for me. Trying not to worry, I set out for a morning run. Then, as I pass Patisserie 46, the little bakery on 46th and Grand, I notice an older Chevy camper and it abruptly interrupts my "worry pattern." I realize that, if necessary, I could sell or rent my house and live in something like that vehicle. I could travel, write and be very inspired. I became so absorbed in imagining my new writing life in the back of a vanagon that I forgot about monthly revenues, assets, and profit and loss reports. I started to select which campsite I would use when I got to Wright's beach on the Sonoma coast. By the time I reined in my imagination my cells were flooded with dopamine and other "feel good" hormones. I realized that my financial status is a small part of my life, necessary, but more of a puzzle than a curse. As I turned back toward home I stopped at the bakery to purchase one of their signature baguettes. Entering the tiny space I was enveloped by the aroma of freshly baked bread and pastries. I was reminded of LaDuree and the time I spent in their London location. The image of an unforgettable, cold and rainy afternoon eating pastries with my daughter and her boyfriend popped into my memory. But there are a fair amount of people living in Minneapolis who never think about LaDuree. There are probably some people who even think LaDuree is over-rated and pretentious, not worth the trip or the effort. And, considering my current financial resources, I am happy to find myself carrying baguette and an unplanned brioche with creme fraiche back to my kitchen. I eat the Brioche with sweet butter from Hope Creamery,  home-made plum jam and Mrs. Kelly's hot Jasmine tea. And I remember that everything in life is amazing, sometimes painful, but undeniably blessed.

Queen of Trailer-land

When my mother sold her trailer she gave up a garden she had spent many years creating. There were hedges of bridal wreath, every kind of spring bulb, day lilies, peonies, ferns, magnificent prehistoric looking hosta and unusual iris. But the queen of this paradise of the trailer park was this golden lady slipper, gleaned from the boggy woods near her son's lake "place." It thrived in her tiny lot and was the envy of the area. She had planted it close to the trailer so that it was protected from the winds and uninvited eyes. It seemed uncommonly happy even though the soil was primarily clay. Plant thieves were known to visit the park where her trailer was situated. As she looked for new homes for her treasures the lady came to me. I replanted it in a somewhat shady area in my back yard and marked it so I would know where it was and avoid mistaking it for  a weed. Sometimes plants rest for a time in their new homes, sort of recharging their batteries and adjusting to the different combinations of moisture and sunlight, at a new time of the day. In any case, when I looked for it in late April, it had not appeared. May came and went without a trace of my mother's favorite. Her pink and white trillium flourished, as did her hostas and mock orange. I grieved the silence, the disappearance of that beauty and calculate the odds it may reappear next spring.

sour cherry margarita

My friend D lives in Margarita-ville. I want to visit her there, but I don't drink, which means that I actually live in Slurpee-ville, or Smoothie-ville, or maybe just Icee-ville, depending on your childhood tradition. I pretend it's a margarita or a daiquiri, and with that sudden rush of sugar, I feel like I'm bouncing off the walls. I tried adding whipping cream to slow the sugar rush, but that was simply too decadent. Now I'm back to straight fruit juices in a blender, occasionally adding a scoop of protein powder or a little tofu. Not very romantic, but I am "overdrawn" at the romance store. It did not serve my purposes in the long run. Like worrying, romance is over-rated. And seriously,  it's not something which will pay my mortgage. When push comes to shove, we call it domestic violence. How do we learn to recognize the various and subtle forms of domestic violence? For me, it was only by wading out into the middle of the pool.  And the deeper it got, the more I tried to ignore it, until I was drowning. Lucky for me, someone threw me a line and pulled me back to shore. Now I sit on the deck, overlooking my backyard, sipping my wanna-be Margarita and smile. It is quiet except for the sound of the wind in my cherry tree. The flowers are reaching for the sky. Summer is in full bloom and will be over before I'm ready to say good-bye. Nearly the middle of July, I wonder if it is too late in the season to get a bike. Many of my clients are on vacation, nearly all of them at the same time, leaving me with a lot of time on my hands and no impending deadlines. The trial for my latest GAL case has finished and we are waiting for the Judge's decision. I feel like I am at an intersection, wondering which path to try next. I ponder the options: which direction will be the most interesting,  and the least unpleasant? The sun shifts and I move my chair ever so slightly, following the shade. In another hour the mosquitoes will take over my back yard. I will be forced inside to preserve my blood supply. Thinking about dinner I try to remember what I saw in the refrigerator. It is too hot to cook anything so I focus my attention on the selection of eateries in the immediate neighborhood. I am fortunate to have a generous selection of options with a variety of price ranges. I decide on Singapore Noodles and call it in for "pick up". I'll treat myself to a new color of nail polish and those blue foamy things to hold your toes apart while the polish dries.  Last week at this time all I could think about was the trial. Following this family for over 13 months, I made myself ridiculously available to the Mom, hoping she would be able to organize herself so that her child could be returned to her safely.  But it never happened, and now,  I had to testify, leaving my opinion on a public record for eternity as to the best interests of her child. I didn't look forward to being on the witness stand, and had lay awake at night, going over the information in my reports to the court. I wondered if I had missed something. My compulsive perfectionism reared it's head with sharp, poisonous teeth. There are few guarantees in this world, and people make mistakes, but to continue to make the same mistakes, hoping the results would be different is madness. It could cost this child his life. The Rescuer appears, yet isn't clear regarding who is actually being rescued from whom. Now it is out of my hands, and I am relieved that the trial is over for me. The boy's case isn't closed until he's re-united or adopted, and I will stay with him until then, learning everything I can from his situation. Obviously, I intend to accept another assignment in the future, but this time I will not rush. I will wait until I am recovered, both emotionally and financially. This case has me well over budget on both levels. I have learned how easy it is to be drawn into someone else's panic while developing some skill in staying present to someone else's panic without mistaking it for my own. I have learned not to over-react, getting absorbed, over-identified really, by the adrenaline present in the situation. And there is no other way to figure that out than by wading in, and standing in the middle of it, watching and listening, for as long as it takes.

thorns

Roses the color of the cardinals grace my garden. My peonies and mock orange are finished allowing space for the roses to move into the spotlight. These are not expensive, fancy roses with a guarantee. These are simple roses for the working class, purchased from bulk bins where they are stacked willy-nilly in their plastic bags. I found them on my front porch one clear, sunny Mother's Day as a tribute to my devoted mothering. I opened the card to discover they were from the "celebrity" husband-who-cheated-on-me, to cover his adulterous sexual activities. After I discovered his duplicity, I was tempted to burn the three offending bushes or chop them into little pieces and dump them in his gas tank. But mainly I hated myself for believing his seductive lies of contrition and his vow to stay with me, as long as it took for us to reconcile, working through our differences "even if it were ten years." It only occurred to me recently that believing his lies was not an indication that something was wrong with me. He has seduced more people than could be counted with his deceptions and half truths. It is more about him than it is about me. The compassionate, wise words of a friend convinced me to put the plants in the ground, water them, and to love them into life and abundance. My earliest childhood memories are of roses, and I have always loved them, especially the yellow varieties. I planted expensive bushes of Peace roses when each of my children were born. Each year I tend these bushes reminded of the bittersweet nature of our meeting. Like the darkest chocolate I savor their lesson without forgetting the circumstances of our first encounter. They bloom for all to see. Without judgement or demands, my roses provide inspiration for me and hiding places for birds, squirrels, slugs and worms until the day they drop their petals and sleep.

Goodwill: Duluth

  

It was so cold in Duluth and we hadn't packed for the rain. So as we passed the Goodwill for the fourth or fifth time, I pulled into the parking lot, as close to the front door as possible. We ran to the front door through the rain shivering, looking for warm sweaters and sweat pants. But the first item my eyes fell on was a sugar bowl matching the Noritake China my mother gave me so many years ago.  It was elegant and lovely without a flaw or chip. I held it delicately as my memory moved back to my child hood. We rarely used that china. It was reserved for special occasions which never arrived. Graduations, funerals, marriages, births all passed without the special china gracing the table. When she passed it on to me I was determined it would not be hidden away. I had a special display case built with glass doors and spot lights so I could catch a glimpse of it every time I passed. And we used it often, holidays, Sundays, birthdays, special teas, children's accomplishments. new friends for dinner. And at one point a guest recognized the dishes, turned over a plate to verify it's origin and then insisted I reset the table with something more ordinary. I pointed out that they were dishes first and forever, and that we were celebrating our new friendship, but she wasn't convinced.  When I read her obituary, detailing her long, slow dance with ovarian cancer, I took out one of the paper thin porcelain Noritake cups and a matching saucer, filled it with jasmine tea and drank it slowly, thinking only of my friend and celebrating her life.

http://www.noritakechina.com/

http://www.goodwillduluth.org/shop-locations.htm

a recovering life

What I'm really interested in is recovery. How do women move on after a violent marriage crumbles? How do we learn to trust, to love, to allow myself to be vulnerable again after the man to whom I devoted my life and my dreams disappears? I  remind myself, over and over, that I can trust myself and my life and m journey. I didn't deliberately, consciously choose someone who would beat me up, and leave my son locked in the car during the winter. It wasn't on his CV and those kinds of questions never occurred to me during courtship. Even if I had asked them he wouldn't have been able to answer honestly. And, like all his other women, I was swept up in the romance of the moment. The possibility of happily ever after, seduced me, still does. We all grew up on that fantasy and it simply never dies. And I loved him. I believed in him. And I believed the stories he told me of our future together. I always said yes, until the cold winter day he left my son in the car. First time I said "no" to him. And it nearly cost me my life. It did cost me life as I knew it. Were there hints of his violent nature? Red flags? Hindsight is so interesting and memory plays tricks with us...I saw how he treated other people, but I thought I was different, and that he would never treat me with that cold arrogance. His unshaken sense of entitlement, he allowed himself to behave inappropriately no matter who would be hurt, even his 2 year old child. It was difficult to live with him, but it was even more difficult to break the spell woven by my desire to believe his words. I looked at his actions with disappointment yet magical thinking convinced me that it was just a matter of time and that we were a work in progress, learning how to communicate. I waited, at first patiently, and then my patience wore thin. One day he began screaming at me, slamming chairs around the room.  I was grateful that it wasn't our kids he was throwing against the wall, as he had in the past. And I still had hope, even when I requested that he live somewhere else, temporarily, while he sorted out his issues. I said "anger issues" because I had learned that the term "domestic violence" was a trigger for him. Insane, but not a deal breaker, yet. In fact the whole time we were separated I continued to believe he was in outpatient treatment and working hard on his program, his case plan. And I had a copy of "Assessing Risk to Children From Batterers". The July 2006 Newsletter of the Commission on Domestic Violence. I was still more concerned about the effects on my kids than myself. And I used the check list: assessing change in batterers. There are 8 points on the list, none of which ever changed as far as my observation was concerned. 

empty bench

Either he was lying then or he is lying now and either way he ends up a liar, and living a lie for the convenience of not having to be uncomfortable or grow up and look at his dark side. On the other hand I end up living in the dark, the secret that must not be explored. The first time his fist hit my face my glasses went flying across the room. Suddenly I couldn't see and I felt indescribably vulnerable. I tried to cover my face and upper body, to tuck my chin so the following blows would land on my head rather than my face.  He advanced as I tried to back away and avoid the impact of his fists. Tripping, and catching myself, I looked down at the floor. Our 2 year old son had managed to get between his Dad and I. He was pushing against his Dad's thighs as if he could stop the assault. His Dad didn't even notice that his son and daughter were in the room. His total concentration was on my face. I dropped to my knees and grabbed my son. It was enough of a surprise to give me an opportunity to run out of the room with my children and shut the bedroom door, locking it in shock. I felt numb except for my throbbing head. I had no idea where my glasses were and with out them I was nearly blind like many with nearsighted vision. How had this happened? I reached for my daughter and son. She was shaking with silent sobs wrapped around my waist like a python. Younger, not much smaller than his sister, my son was sitting on my lap wrapped around my neck. I rocked them, sitting on the edge of their bed. There was no sound from the next rooms as I tried to comfort and reassure them. I had no idea what had just happened, but I had watched my parents violent struggles enough to imagine how my children felt. I was shocked as the truth sunk into my awareness: I was living with a man I couldn't trust. I had left my children alone with him all day while I was at work. And he had left our 2 year old son alone, restrained by his car seat, in the car, in the Minnesota winter, indefinitely. Visions of child protection danced in my head as I took their shoes off and laid down in bed with one child on either side of me. They were exhausted, it was very late and as I quietly sang their favorite lullabyes they fell asleep. I waited until they were soundly asleep before creeping out of the bed, I covered them as usual, as if it had all been a bad dream. When I had watched my parents struggle, I vowed I would never stay with a man who hit me. It was a no brainer as far as my younger self was concerned. But I was totally unprepared for what had just happened. I had spent the past two years traveling with a newborn and a 3 year old to follow my husband's dream of artistic success and celebrity. I was unemployed, isolated from my friends and estranged from my family. I didn't know where to turn. My world had become a black tunnel with no sign of light at the far end. Nothing was broken beyond my trust as I shut the bedroom door behind me. He was in the other bedroom, the one we had shared until tonight

Ladies Tea

When you don't get out of bed, here's the kind of opportunity you miss: a high tea fundraiser for Community Emergency Services. Of course, you can always just send them a check, but you'll miss an opportunity to savour goodies provided by the ladies of Bethlehem Lutheran Church. The lavender cream scones were rich and flavorful. You could eat them alone or slather them with whipped cream and strawberry jam. The cranberry scones were a different texture, moist and sandy with a crunchy sugared top, also perfect for cream and jam. But, of course, we started with the sandwiches: cucumber topped with a large prawn and dill, or cucumber with a creamy garlic hummus, chicken salad on white triangles, and a cream puff filled with ham salad just like the ones my Mom made for my graduation reception ever so many years ago! There was the traditional sandwich loaf and last, but my favorite, olive rolls. We were encouraged to take be generous with ourselves, and most of us followed the suggestion. It is so easy to be a little more brutal than necessary with ourselves and it was liberating to be supported in our attempts to be more gentle, more loving to the one we see in the mirror every morning. The poppy seed bread was the perfect balance of sweetness, the lemon curd tarts were the kind that puckered your lips for a second, and the flakey pecan tarts were filled with chewy caramel and nuts. Brownies melted in your mouth. Fresh strawberries were dipped in milk chocolate. Cherry filled cheesecakes,  more selections than I could fit on my plate. Many women had dressed in vintage dresses and accessories with hats and white gloves. We looked like a flower garden of colors and textures. We had a special black tea flavored with black currant to accompany our meal and a musical backdrop. People took turns with a portrait photographer to remember the day, we all left the tables with smiles on our faces and happiness in our bellies. 

yellow robe

She woke to the sound of dripping water and smiled. There was a chance it was inside the house, but it was more possible that the ice dams on the roof were finally melting. Winter, her least favorite time of the year, appeared to be winding down. But today, when her Mom's name came up on the caller “identicus,” She assumed the worst: cardiac arrest, broken hip, probably not a car accident unless she had been hit while walking. Not that her Mom walked outside much in the Winter: too darn cold for her old bones. It was surprising to hear her voice. Her mother called rarely, she couldn't remember the last time, and was rarely in a friendly mood. Expecting to hear the voice of a nurse or EMT, her mother's voice bubbled into her ears like a pleasant brook in springtime, full of melting snow. In fact, it was her opening remark, “Is your ice melting?” Neither woman was fond of Winter. They agreed it was better than nothing, but it certainly wasn't as enjoyable as Spring, or Early summer. They were both avid gardeners although neither had all the time and inclination once at their fingertips. Each gardened more in their fantasies, and a few small containers, enjoying other people's efforts, as much as they had one time enjoyed their own. Their relationship had never been easy, her mother preferred her sons. She had grown up with the message-on-a-loop that her brothers came first, that they could do no wrong, and they were exempt from certain responsibilities. Yet her older brother grew up to be a single Dad and could cook, clean and sew with the best of her sisters. Yes, their relationship had always been turbulent as long as she could remember. Maybe they were just too much alike, consequently her mother tried to prevent her daughter from repeating her mistakes. But the mistakes had made her who she was: courageous and fiercely protective of her children. And Jill had lived much of her life wondering what was wrong with herself. Not realizing that the turbulence, the disagreements were evidence that something was very right with her. She was right on track, exactly where she needed to be to become the person she was meant to be since the day she was conceived. Their relationship had brought every out-dated, useless belief they shared into question and at the same time provided a foundation for pushing away from each other. A platform to launch themselves into this next stage of their lives. Now Jill was sitting on the lower stairs as they chatted, about 5 feet away from her new piano. Her new, used piano was a “hand-me-down” from her singing teacher. Now, they could meet for lessons away from her teacher's eccentric, hyper-active bulldog. Her mother had been J's first piano teacher. And she had lobbied the high school choir director to take Jill back into the group after she had stopped showing up for rehearsals. Her mother encouraged her singing; even insisted that she sing. When she wanted to buy a guitar, after saving her babysitting money for weeks, her mother supported her. Her mother was an accomplished pianist, organist for the Catholic Church and choir director. She had grown up in a small town in North Dakota, a few miles from the Canadian border and played piano from childhood. Her mother had given all her children piano lessons. A little heavy handed at first, but by the sixth child, a boy, she had mellowed. And when they didn't want to take lessons from her, she paid teachers for the ones who agreed to practice. She started playing simply for herself, her own enjoyment the main concern. There was a long period of time when they didn't have contact, didn't speak at all. Her mother was silent, disapproving perhaps judgmental. And maybe just down right scared. There was a time Jill was convinced something horrible was wrong with herself. Not just that she lacked significant value, enough to justify her existence, but that she actually had some sort of negative value, as if her assets could never measure up to the expense. One of her earliest memories was of a delicate yellow bathrobe, trimmed with lace, satin ribbons, and pearl buttons. As the oldest daughter she got new clothes, the other girls frequently received her clothes second hand, and many times, before she was done with them. The pain of handing her favorite dresses over to her younger sisters, and watching them spill, stain, and tear was difficult to bear. And she cherished the yellow robe, feeling like a princess when ever she wore it. She was tempted to save it for special occasions, so it would stay crisp and clean. But she had already tried that clever plan. she grew out of the special item, and had to hand it over to the next sister in line before she was ready, simply because it was too small for her. After she started buying her own clothes, she was allowed to wear them until they fell apart. Her flannel shirts and denim jeans were soft form many washings, in the days before pre-washed was available. Perhaps the yellow robe sticks in her memory because she was wearing it the night her older brother called Grandma and Grandpa to stop their parent's fight. Their Mom and Dad were downstairs screaming. She could hear the sounds of hitting, slapping, and punching even though she was all the way upstairs with the door partially closed. Her sister was in the next bed, silent, but definitely not asleep. Then her Mother was standing at the bottom of the stairs, screaming for her brother to run to the telephone, behind our Dad and call Grandma Mary. He was fast, and did it without hesitation, without thinking. Then he flew back upstairs into bedroom his sisters shared. He was shaking, and appeared terrified. Crying, he begged his sisters to come into his room, to his bed, a place he normally guarded as unquestioningly off limits to girls. His explanation for this unusual request convinced Jill, the older sister with the beautiful golden bathrobe. He was afraid their Dad would attack him for making the call for help. And he knew he was safe hiding behind his sisters. His Dad never hit his daughters. So, there was the big brother with one sister on each side, crying, scared, confused. And Jill, wrapped in her precious robe, as if it would protect her from harm. Eventually they heard sounds of their Dad's parents' voices drifting up the stairwell. Both Grandma and Grandpa had come to break up the fight. Then all three kids were crying in nervous relief, as if they had woken from a very unpleasant dream. Jill called out loudly for the comfort of her Grandma, the woman who brought them fresh hot home-baked carmel rolls every Sunday when her Mom was playing organ for the early service in church. But tonight Grandma was occupied with her violent son, and their more reserved Grandpa appeared in her place. He took the sisters back to their own room, quietly, calmly assured them they were safe and tucked them into their beds. Exhausted, they fell asleep.

Migraine

Her migraine woke her up. She lay in bed wondering at the intensity of the attack. Her migraines had steadily declined and disappeared since she had left her violent husband. Yet here it was, back with pain beyond her memory. She was convinced it must be a brain tumor. Judging buy the location it must be in her frontal cortex. There was nothing in the occipital area or perhaps it was simply less intense and consequently less noticeable. The old feeling of “I-wish-I-was-dead-so-the-pain-would-stop” came back to visit. She lay there trying not to move, trying to will it away, trying to relax and release. All the new age articles she had ever read came back to her as she tried to figure it out: where it came from, and how to prevent it from happening again. Slowly it dawned on her that she could stop wasting time blaming herself, telling herself that she was a bad person with a million things wrong and get an ice pack, eat some yogurt and take half a vicodin. Every muscle in her body hurt and her skin itched as she lowered her feet to the floor. That wasn't so bad, she decided. Slowly she made her way to the stairs. Descending step by step, trying not to jar her head, she noticed the waves of nausea reminding her of the Japanese tsunami she had watched before falling asleep last night. Could they be connected? It didn't matter, she still had to deal with the pain. Opening the refrigerator, the sun streaming through the eastern windows, she grabbed the non fat greek yogurt. She held the first spoonful in her mouth until it seemed safe to swallow. The last thing she wanted was to start barfing on an empty stomach. It was staying down. She tried another spoonful of the creamy, thick goo. How do they get it to taste so good without fat? It was staying down, so she cautiously swallowed the vicodin left over from her car accident two months ago. Remembering the ice, she selected a bag of frozen peas from the freezer and wrapped it in a tea towel. In slow motion she carefully flopped down on the kitchen window seat just for a moment, with frozen peas draped across the top of her head, hoping to feel the vicodin to kick in. 10 minutes and no relief yet. She shifted the pea pack slightly to avoid frostbite. She made her way back upstairs and rubbed peppermint oil on the worst, most excruciatingly painful areas. Reaching for her phone she canceled her plans for the day. What if she had to cancel the whole week? What if she had to cancel her trip to the West Coast?! Although, if it were a brain tumor, maybe this would be her last chance to do something like travel with her daughter. Convincing herself that the migraine was indeed symptom of a brain tumor, or worse, perhaps an aneurism, she planned how she would use her remaining time. She really didn't want to pass during the Winter, that was just too depressing. Late summer would be good, as there would be all kinds of fresh produce available for parties and gatherings. Her daughter would have a break before the school year started and she went back to work. Her son would be available as he was working part time in August. As she fell asleep, thanks to the vicodin she reminded herself not to give attention to dying least she created it as reality. Images of her grandchildren's birthday parties flowed through her dreams. She saw herself in her BMW convertible driving them to the lake for swimming and the roller garden for skating, packing snacks and sipping tea outside Turtle Bread Shop. When she woke, a few hours later, the pain was gone. The heaviness was still there between her ears, but she was pretty sure it was NOT a brain tumor. Listening closely she could hear her son downstairs, probably doing his laundry. An avid ultra-marathoner, he worked just enough to allow himself ample time to train. This left no money to wash clothes in the laundromat under his apartment, so he spent Sunday evenings using her washer, dryer, soap and water. At 23, she reminded herself he was a man. His Dad was married with a baby at that age! She cautiously made her way downstairs where he was sprawled in the dining room. In a great mood, full of self esteem, he had run 15 miles and was treating himself to a pizza. Drinking a glass of water and listening to his description of his morning run she was relieve that the migraine seemed to have disappeared. Her schedule for the week could remain intact. She might even eat some pizza, and drink hot tea. The day was mostly gone, but it was the first day of daylight savings so the sky was sunny and inviting. The snow had melted around the edges, and cardinals were clustered around the feeding tray. The pain was gone, but not forgotten. They went to pick up her taxes, she asked him to drive as she was still feeling dizzy from the vicodin. It was silly to take chances when she was pretty sure she didn't have a brain tumor, or even an aneurism.

Krakow

She was in the next room, nursing their baby when she heard him hitting his mother. And she realized he wasn't the man she assumed he was: gentle, loving, devoted to his beloved mother, incapable of such an act of violence. She heard her mother-in-law's door wrenched open and then slammed shut. He burst into their room, face flushed, breathing heavily. She hesitated to speak, the baby had been nearly asleep, but was now anxiously sucking, wide awake with round eyes darting around his mother's face. Their 4 year old daughter was playing with her favorite dolls in the safety of her brother's play pen. At 9 months he was a skilled crawler and clever at figuring out how to get his sister's interesting toys and books. Consequently, the play pen was a place she could safely entertain herself with worrying about his intrusion. She had stopped dressing the dolls and was sitting quietly, while listening to her beloved Babcias's quiet sobbing from the next room. No one spoke.

"Did you hit your mother?"

"She wouldn't stop talking," he defended himself.

"It's her fault, she was asking for it. I told her to be quiet but she wouldn't. She got what she deserved."

The woman was shocked at his lack of regret, and his conviction that he had done the right thing. He busied himself at the piano, shuffling through papers without noticing their daughter

watching him. She was nearly motionless, simply listening as if invisible. Her mother caught her eye and held her gaze. How many times had the girl been told not to hit her brother, even when he tore the heads off her dolls. Even when he grabbed her toys and destroyed her doll house. Wasn't that why she had set up her things in the play pen, originally bought to contain the male toddler.

"I'm not convinced that hitting your Mum was your best option."

"She's not hurt. She probably didn't even feel it through all her layers of fat. All she had to do was stop talking. She was asking for it."

The woman spoke softly, gently, hoping he would calm down, and notice the child listening intently.

"An apology seems like a good idea."

I'm not sorry!" he snapped slamming musical scores down on the piano. "And it wasn't my fault: I warned her to stop talking."

"It will be a long time before she talks to you again."

He looked up, directly into his wife's eyes, "Good, then I've accomplished my goal."

Silence.

He left the room.

The little girl with blond ringlets crawled out of the play pen, away from the dolls and her mother scooped her up with her free arm. The baby was drowsy, nearly asleep in spite of the drama unfolding around him. These two children were her whole world. Homeless, living in Krakow with her mother in law. Confused by the language and the customs, her children were her refuge, her precious jewels, her chance to confirm the value of her existence. Until they entered her life she had passions, dreams mixed with self doubt and more than a little self hatred. When she first held her daughter, all her self doubt melted away, leaving only love and devotion. This amazing creature enchanted her, made her want to be a better person, more gentle and kind. She was determined to be my conscious about parenting than her own parents had been with their opportunity to parent. She shifted the sleeping baby to the old sofa and took the girl on her lap, enclosing her in her arms. She was shaking. Sensitive from birth, she appeared to be able to read her mother's mind. Rocking her tenderly, the girl gradually relaxed and closed her eyes.

The faint hum of the coffee grinder came from the kitchen, followed by the fragrance of freshly ground coffee. The whistle of the tea kettle sounded next. The late afternoon sunlight faded and she quietly sang her children's favorite lullaby, wondering, and praying they were safe.