I was so frustrated. Yesterday I wrote this piece for my blog and before I had a chance to hit post it disappeared into… cyberspace. So what happens when I spend all this time writing my thoughts and then it goes NO WHERE! Aghhh! By the time all my words went away, I had no choice but to close my laptop and go to sleep.

     So now I’m back to writing in a word document and then transferring my thoughts through the old cut and paste method into my blog.  I wish there was a way for my blog master to work on preventing this from happening. I’m sure I’m not the only one. In fact, I tried to post on someone’s blog and after a lengthy thought-provoking response, I was unable to post because I couldn’t read the hidden code so my response went away. No recovering that one. Another “aghhh” out there.

     I’ve decided that we live in a world of “sound bites.” No one listens to a complete anything.  All we hear are bits and pieces of a whole and based on that we make life changing decisions.  Wouldn’t it make more sense if we were able to take the time to listen to a complete anything and then be able to make our own decisions based on what we hear not on what someone tells us we should believe?  Our media news comes in “sound bites.” Our newspaper articles are written with highlights, never the complete story.  I worry that we are not taking the time to really understand what is happening in our world.

      I think that’s why I enjoy my work as much as a do. I have a chance to really listen and work to understand.  Besides we should tend our own gardens first to create the best of all possible worlds.

     I stare at the blank page and have no idea where my words will take me.  I discover that I have a lot to say but no time to translate that to paper.  I wonder when would be a good time to write. I need a space. Someplace where I can go to explore my thoughts and record my words. I've tried the office desk. It is too cluttered with "work." My bedroom has no writing space.  The Dining Room has a large table. I can see the mill pond through the sliding glass door, but the space is rather open and not conducive to writing. The Living Room is not set up for work. The stove is a focal point with the entertainment center dominating one wall.  That leaves the burgundy leather couch and loveseat to fill the center space. Once again no place to write.  The kitchen table faces the front of the house and the woods... that space doesn't work either. So my dilemma continues. 
     A writer's studio... or at least a writer's space.  I think tomorrow I'll set up on the dining room table and see what I can accomplish... if anything.  I need to write... to remember. There is so much I am afraid I will forget if I don't write it down.

     Stories.  Have you read The Mermaid's Chair? It's well worth the read. It's a story about traveling inside. I think that's what writing does for me. It lets me travel within.   I think I need to travel more.  

I caught up with an old friend the other day. It’s been, let me think, years, lots of years. I typed the email into the header. Moved my cursor down to the subject link and typed

It’s been a long time *sounds like SPAM*

Delete

Where have you been? *sounds like phishing*

Delete

Hi from NY *sounds so prosaic*

But I’m okay with that one. I moved my cursor to the body of the email and began to type.

Hi. How are you? It’s been a very long time and I thought I would track you down and see how you and the family are doing.  We are all doing well since moving back to New York.  RJ decided to retire and we bought an Inn in Mumford, not too far from the Genesee Country Village and Museum.

I stopped and reread what I wrote. How impersonal! Doesn’t even sound like we were ever friends.  Delete.

I’ve missed them and I can’t seem to compose an email to tell them.  I looked at the phone and back at my screen. Phone. Screen. Why don’t I just call?  I picked up the phone and dial the number I found on the web. The worse that will happen is… what? Nothing. The phone rang only twice and Jim’s voice comes over the line, “This is Jim. Can I help you?”

“You sure can.” I said. “It’s been a long time.”

“Who’s this?”

“Deborah.”

“I thought I recognized your voice. How are you doing, Doll?”

It was as though the years between us melted away. We talked about family, kids, and work and when we were in school.  I decided that we have to be in a certain place, at a certain time, doing certain things, in order for us to get where ever it is we have to be to achieve what ever it is we are suppose to do. 

We promised to stay in touch.

I suppose that is one of the reasons why I write about relationships. That is what is important today, those connections with people. They reflect back to us who we are. How can that be done through email, which are snippets of unrevealing conversation.  Worse yet it is text messaging. Through an intricate series of letters and symbols, the writer successfully communicates his message. Communicates – such a cold word. Conversation, on the other hand, implies a connection between two people. Letter writing is another form of communication that allows the writer to take the time to express their feelings or the message.  I think that is why letter writing is becoming a lost art form. It means people need to expose themselves, open themselves up to others, become vulnerable.

Do you remember the expression, “We only hurt the ones we love.” It’s true because we know how. We know them; therefore, we know how to hurt them. Every time we write something, anything, we reveal a bit of our soul – the who we are – and that makes us vulnerable. That is probably why I respect writers. They are risk takers. They risk ridicule, hurt, anger, isolation, love, and understanding. It is the understanding that causes to write. To explain. To be heard. That is the joy of writing.

So the relationships we develop through our forms of communications create bonds that will transcend time.

Make that call or write that letter to someone you need to connect with. Relationships need to be tended. Tend that relationship today.

2.12.08

      My favorite part of Christmas is baking big, golden brown, chocolate chip cookies. The person I think of is my mom.  She is very caring. She takes lots of time baking these soft and chewy cookies for my family and me.

      Usually my mom bakes a few days before Christmas. When she does, she bounds into the kitchen wearing jeans, a red and white sweatshirt, and wool socks.  She has a big smile on her face and says, “Let’s bake cookies.” Right away she moves toward the pantry and opens it.  There my mom pulls out two yellow containers and on small metal box, full of chocolate chips. She puts those ingredients onto the island of the kitchen. Then she turns around, opens the refrigerator, and looks for the butter, eyes, and vanilla. Then those are put on the island, too. She finds a bowl and puts the butter in it. She picks up the beige mixer with a black cord, turns it on, and blends the butter. After the butter is blended, she adds sugar from one of the yellow containers. Then my mom cracks a few eggs into the bowl and also puts in the vanilla.  Then she blends again.  Soon she stops blending, calls me over, and gives me a big wooden spoon.  Then she says, “Can you hand me that container over there, please.” I hand her a big, yellow container and she measures out three cups of flour. That gets poured into the bowl, so I put the spoon in and start mixing. After I can’t see the flour anymore, my mom puts in a lot of chocolate chips in, and I stir again. While I am stirring, my mom gets out a big, metal pan, and starts scooping up a little bit of batter.  She makes them into little balls, while I secretly eat the batter behind her back. My mom and I put them onto the cookie sheet. When they are done baking, we let them cool, and then we eat.

      My loving and caring mom likes to make cookies before Christmas day. Sometimes she is in a hurry and forgets about the cookies. When this happens, not very often, they get burnt. They are still very good, so I eat them anyway.

Jason Stankevich

December 1990

Reaction:  I was very pleased to read about Christmas through the eyes of my son. He, obviously, had captured an aspect of the holiday season. That means a lot to him. I particularly enjoyed the adjectives he used to describe me and my sometimes “burnt” cookies. He makes me realize how important the time is that I share with my family and for that I thank him.

Deborah M. Stankevich

      My Christmas cactus always blooms when the boys come home. It did not bloom this year. This year is different. It even feels different. Not everyone is home this time. Nor will they be here all together in any one place. It makes me feel sad. I get it now. I understand why as you get older, the holidays can be difficult. I fill mine with as much family and friends as I can, but something is not quite right. We have always had traditions that we follow. For some reason, this year those traditions are almost all “out the window.” I didn’t even make it to midnight Mass this year. That was always a given. No matter what, I made it to church. I know I will go in the morning, but it will be different.

      This evening we were at my sister-in-law’s with family for dinner. We had a wonderful time. It was so good to see my niece and her fiancé who were in from Florida for the holiday. My brother-in-law’s sister and husband were there, too. We told stories, laughed, and talked about Christmas’s long ago. We passed around old photos and shared with the kids stories about what it was like when we were kids. Somehow the 60’s never felt so long ago as they did today. We heard, “I remember when…” and “Do you recall…” as we looked at faces in faded pictures of people we remember vividly in our memories.

      I miss my family that can not be with us this Christmas. Sometimes it even makes my heart hurt.