Return from Residency Life

Overlooking the Writers in the Heartland grounds

 What could be better than a room of your own for 7 days, spending time writing uninterrupted?

What could be better than sharing that experience with 3 other women who take writing as seriously as you do?

How about doing that and having the option of spa treatments? I know it sounds to good to be true but that's just what I have been doing over the past week.

 

The Heartland Writers, Oubria, Joanne, Karen and me

It's amazing to me how much work I got done, how much I bonded with the others and just how hard it has been to adjust back to real life. The great thing is that my husband is supportive, the kids behaved themselves and they all were very happy to see me. I did realize that I had been way overdue and plan on applying for more residency opportunities and more often. I have to thank my dearest Juliet again for telling me about this residency!(I owe you one)

Motivational Monday

Helen Haskell Remien in the Joy Center

I was so fortunate to spend Sunday with my husband at a self-guided retreat at the Joy Center, which is an amazing place of respite created by Helen Haskell Remien.  We spanned the morning through dinner time together writing, meditating and reading. We shared poems we found in the lending library and even got in a nap. The fact that we were able to spend this time together in itself is a miracle, as we have a very full family life and are both full time caregivers for two of our daughters with cerebral palsy.

I want to share with you a poem that was tucked inside another poetry book that my husband, Tim, found. Happy Monday! Happy Writing!

The Invitation

By Oriah Mountain Dreamer

It doesn't interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.

It doesn't interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain!I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it, or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own, if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, to be realistic, to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself; if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul; if you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see beauty even when it's not pretty, every day,and if you can source your own life from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, “Yes!”

It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up, after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done to feed the children.

It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you, from the inside, when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments. 

In Memory Monday

My father, Juan Papaleo with fellow servicemen in Vietnam

Today as you celebrate the official kick-off to summer take a moment to thank those who fought for this country. It's a day when political differences are left at the doorstep as you enter time with those you love and squeeze them a little tighter.

My Father, Juan Papaleo, age 18

I thank my father, a Vietnam veteran, an immigrant unable to speak English, who found a path to livelihood by joining the United States Airforce at 18. As an airplane mechanic he was educated and then stationed overseas. He fixed plane engines, wings and loaded them with Agent Orange. He now suffers from congestive heart failure directly linked to the chemicals he was exposed to. He rarely speaks of that time other than to tell me what plane models he worked on or a funny story about the laundry ladies.

I thank my father-in-law, also a Vietnam vet with several purple hearts and an arm that is disfigured from shrapnel and the removal of bullets. He is haunted by the things he experienced in Vietnam but proudly wears his love of this country.

I have to thank my grandfather, a WWII veteran who was wounded in France and awarded a purple heart. He was able to leave the battle memories across the sea. He was patient, so kind and loving. A fisherman and lover of nature who filled my childhood with joy.

I also have to thank my friend Mary Jo's sons, all three of which are in active duty, all Iraq, Saudi Arabia and Afghanistan  tour veterans.Three boys that I only know in pictures and the loving words of their mother who longs for them to return home.

So today remember and be thankful...

War Surplus

BY Louis Jenkins

Aisle after aisle of canvas and khaki, helmets and mess kits, duffle bags, pea
coats, gas masks… Somewhere there is a whole field of abandoned aircraft,
all kinds, P-38's, B-25's… All you have to do is wait until dark, climb over
the fence, pull the blocks from the wheels, climb in, start the engines and
taxi out to the strip. It's easy. You can fly without ever having had a lesson.

A beautiful woman dressed in black sits on a bench near a grave. A tall man
in dress uniform stands beside her and puts his hand on her shoulder. She
says, "I come here often, it is so peaceful." He says, "Before John died, he
asked me to look after you." They embrace. Behind them are many neat
rows of white crosses extending over a green hill where the flag is flying
proudly.

The engines make a deep drone; a comforting sound, and the light from the
instrument panel tells you everything is stable and right. Below are silver-
tufted clouds and tiny enemy towns, lovely toy towns, all lighted by the
bomber's moon.

My father, Juan, is #2