Iris Ruth Pastor's Blog, page 33

A Convoluted Path to Releasing a Powerful Memory

No one seems very impressed with the picture I painted in my daily mixed media art class during my week stay at Chautauqua – except me.

At first the blank canvas terrified me – reminding me of my initial gaze at the dashboard options of my newly leased car after driving a stripped-down Volvo station wagon for a decade. At least in that case, the myriad of options was finite. To sit down with a blank canvas and to be told to draw something is paralyzing. I needn’t have worried.

“Close your eyes, breathe deeply and imagine your favorite space,” my art instructor begins. “Picture the door and window placement. Think about the room’s colors, the walls, the furniture arrangement. Picture the season of the year, the time of day, the textures of the fabric, the way the light spreads its glow. And think about something happy that happened there.”

I visibly relax. I let the images of my grandmother’s second story front porch wash over me. It’s summer. Early morning. Two place settings sit atop her wrought iron glass top table – one for me and one for her. A pitcher of orange juice, an oversized bottle of Karo Syrup and a ceramic vase of her homegrown bright pink roses completes the arrangement.

I picture myself restlessly squirming in my seat, skinny legs dangling, eagerly waiting for my grandmother to push the screen door open with her free hand. The screen door creaks as my grandmother emerges – carefully balancing a heaping platter of matzo meal pancakes stacked on a gleaming white china tray. She sets the tray down and rushes back into her tiny kitchen to fetch her scalding hot coffee – proceeding to heavily douse it with little white pellets of saccharine.

Our beloved Saturday morning ritual begins: Breakfast with my grandmother on her front porch.

My reverie is interrupted.

“Use your canvas to paint with the predominant colors you have just imagined,” I hear our funkily dressed art instructor chirp.

My grandmother’s boldly striped canvas awning covering the entire space of the porch pops into mind. And I began to squeeze out little puddles of green, red and yellow acrylic paint onto my blank sheet of paper – swirling my paint brush boldly.

“Use another piece of paper to paint things that illustrate the interior,” I hear my art teacher murmur. “Then cut and paste what you have drawn on that second piece of paper onto the first piece.”

Three hours fly by as we chat, paint, cut and paste.

The following day, stiff pieces of canvas are laid out at our places in the studio. “Use these to frame the piece you made yesterday,” our art teacher explains. She shows us how to measure for the opening, to use the inside part of the canvas to experiment with frame design ideas – and then cut them out and place beside picture. “Choose one design and then begin to paint the canvas frame,” she instructs clearly.

My grandmother died of pancreatic cancer sixty-four years ago. Her sewing box is tucked away on a shelf in my laundry room. Her Art Deco jewelry has a prominent spot in my armoire and a picture of her hangs close to my king size bed. But this painting captured – like nothing else clearly has – the sheer joy she brought into my life when I was a seven year-old little girl – adoring her unconditionally.

I don’t know where I will hang my picture.

I do know my picture has become one of my most prized possessions.

And I am deeply grateful to my lovely young art instructor (far left) for guiding me through the creative process – releasing that wispy, blurred recollection into something vivid, bold and enduring.

Starting at the top far left is an abstract representation of me, then a chair, and then a window. Below that, starting at the far left, is a ladder – representing a gateway to my future years without her – and a table with a vase of flowers. Clearly I’m not quite museum-ready but it’s a modest start!

Try your hand at something artistic. You, too, might be surprised what the process unleashes.

Keep Preserving Your Bloom,

Iris Ruth Pastor

Very Pleasant Surprises and One Not-So-Pleasant Surprise

So my friend Tawny and I decide to go to a place in western New York called Chautauqua. To me, it’s adult summer camp, but with air conditioning and private baths.

First dilemma: How many pairs of shoes to bring?

Six pairs of shoes for seven days is ridiculous. I pare down to four.

Second dilemma: What to bring to eat and drink?

Easily solved. Heavy on wine and sherry. The rest is ancillary.

Tawny and I talk non-stop from Cincinnati to Cleveland, failing to notice the gas gauge. When we do, it registers nine miles of gas left in the tank. Taking the very next exit sporting a gas symbol, we veer from the highway and easily find the gas station. Problem? Closed. Abandoned.

Getting back on the expressway, we frantically look for the next exit sporting a gas symbol, again veer off the highway and spot another filling station. Problem? Closed. Abandoned.

Our laughter dies. Our chatter ceases. We frantically google nearby gas stations and cluelessly cruise the back roads searching for fuel. With virtually an empty tank, we approach a fully functioning gas station like roving bands of thirsty nomads descending upon a water hole. We tank up.

Nothing can stop us now.

As we enter the gates of Chautauqua, we are dazzled by the array of musical eye candy.

“There is no place like it. No resort. No spa. Not anywhere else in the country or anywhere in the world – it is at once a summer encampment and a small town, a college campus, an arts colony, a music festival, a religious retreat and the village square – and there’s no place – no place with anything like its history,” so says David McCullough, historian and author.

Founded in 1874 as a training camp for Sunday School teachers, Chautauqua is located on the shores of Lake Chautauqua in southwestern New York state. It is a festival for the mind, body and spirit and is open every summer from June to mid-August attracting people from all over the world.

Trip Advisor shows 305 Excellent Reviews and 11 Terrible.

The Terrible: 

The place where fun went to die

     Don’t go there unless you’re like 100 years old

     Sentenced to a seniors‘ Club Med without decent dining options

The Pleasant Side:  

My morning yoga class is a mix of challenging, but not exhausting movements. Translation: I can still easily walk the following morning without visiting an Urgent Care and/or massive doses of Tylenol.

     A paper girl stands on street corners hawking the DAILY paper.

     And the mix of retail, food, galleries, post office and library bring forth memories of The Gilmore Girls’ town square – or as my friend Tawny observed: her old neighborhood in Cincinnati circa the 1950’s.

My daily three-hour art class each afternoon has three students – one of who is comedian George Carlin’s only child. She is a fifty-six year-old free spirited, brilliant woman who only can be described as authentic, courageous and constantly re-inventing herself. And she introduced me to the heretofore unbeknownst concept of “Soul Collage.” (More on that in another Friday chat.)

The first night at Chautauqua we are treated to two hours of non-stop dialogue hosted by Ira Glass –of This American Life, an hour-long weekly radio program broadcasted on numerous public radio stations across the world. He regaled us with anecdotes of his agonizing slow climb to competency, admitting that he expertly edited radio narratives from the get-go, but his writing was awkward and boring – far from the professionally polished pieces his idol, Nina Totenberg, was churning out. His message: Failure comes before something good.

Glass graciously took questions at the end of his presentation. A sixteen year-old male shyly walked to the microphone and lamented the fact that his parents were pressuring him about what colleges he would soon be applying to and what his major was going to be. “I’m completely clueless,” he admitted to Glass. “Do you have some advice for me?”

Ira Glass paused. And paused some more. “Yes,” he answered emphatically, “Just try stuff. It takes a lot of trying lots of stuff before you figure out what works for you and then it may only be a short fling. Just try stuff.”

One afternoon mid-week, I briskly walk to my afternoon art class located on the edge of the Chautauqua campus. Realizing that the multitude of water I am drinking is taking a toll on my bladder, I ask my art instructor to direct me to the nearest restroom.

 

I eagerly push the door open, barely registering that directly to the left of the one enclosed stall, there are two urinals. After I finish in the stall, I head for the sink – in clear view of both urinals. As I begin putting soap on my hands, the door flies open and in walks this random guy. Except he’s not really random – I just happen to know him from Yoga Class – he’s actually the only one in the yoga class I’ve even talked to.

Automatically, I assume he will wait a few seconds until I’m done washing my hands before heading to the urinal.

Wrong. He walks directly to the urinal. I fly out the door – fleeing to the Art Annex. I share my utterly bizarre experience with my fellow students. “Welcome to the ARTY end of  Chautauqua,” they answer. “Don’t you know the definition of ‘WHATEVER’? It’s inclusive.”

I guess I never looked at it that way. I’m not opposed to inclusiveness in any form. But I am opposed to crudeness.

To calm my frazzled nerves, I have an extra big glass of Sherry before dinner. As I serenely gaze at Lake Chautauqua shimmering in the late afternoon sun, I wonder about coming back next year.

     I think about the bag of intriguing used books I bought at the Chautauqua Library for a mere $5.

     I think about the reverend I heard preach on Sunday morning stressing the importance of first concentrating on repairing and improving our own little corner of the world.

     I think about the woman at the visual arts center who is actively encouraging me to develop a Chautauqua course for next summer incorporating my knitting and my Preserving Your Bloom theme. And my young Art instructor who spent a full hour with me brainstorming possible course segments.

I decide I will come back – with one minor adjustment: any restroom I use will never be one with the word “Whatever” below it unless it is a one-person restroom with a lock.

 

Just try stuff,

Iris Ruth Pastor

My Secret is a Secret No Longer

What happens when you have a demon that prevents you from enjoying life to the fullest? I had one and I managed to eradicate it from my life. Double click on this link to see how you too can “Preserve Your Bloom.”

Iris Ruth Pastor 

Today you are HEARING from me, NOT reading me

Ever pondered – as yet another birthday looms on your horizon – how to live more fully and joyfully? Last week, I had a radio interview with Shawn Perry from Senior Zone. And we tackled that topic. You can listen to the full radio clip HERE.

Keep Preserving Your Bloom,

Iris Ruth Pastor

Re-Paint the Canvas of Your Life

Ever had a secret desire to branch out and try something you’ve thought about doing? Dreamed about doing? Almost did? But didn’t?

Don’t think you have the time? The know-how? The energy?

My colleague Dan Blank has the perfect jump-start solution to begin creating meaningful experiences: Give yourself permission.

He advocates trying something new – something that requires punching out of your self-contained silo and tolerating a little risk. Doing something you may not feel quite qualified to do.

Tackle this new endeavor in bits. Dan suggests breaking it down: try doing what you are attempting to do for fifteen minutes a day. Ten minutes a day. Even just five minutes a day. But whatever time slot you choose, make your creative practice a priority.

I took Dan’s advice. I searched for a mixed media/collage class within driving distance to my house. And voila! It meets once a week in the afternoon – which does not interfere with my morning productive writing time. And if you must miss a class? You can make it up in the next session.

I immediately enroll. And on the morning of the first class, the caterpillars morphed into dancing butterflies in my tummy.

I’m definitely the least talented in the group and certainly the least experienced. And I have to write down every detail of every product used and technique taught lest I forget it by the time I get home.

In-between the weekly classes, I dabble in small increments of time throughout the day – with alcohol ink and blender on Yupo paper. With Nevr Dull that transforms magazine pictures into usable background for collages.

I have no firm goal. I’m just messing around. Experimenting. Puttering around. Letting my hand roam free. And my thoughts.

I’m literally and figuratively “repainting the canvas of my life.”

Just another way to….

Preserve Your Bloom,

Iris Ruth Pastor

Ripped Jeans: RIP?

I used to live in a house with a majestic staircase. One Sunday afternoon, I was bounding up the steps clad in a pair of ripped cut-off jeans and an embroidered top. I’d been out all afternoon – cheering on one of my sons at a soccer game, picking up a prescription at the drugstore and browsing a bit at the mall.

As I neared the top of the stairs, I found my husband staring down at me with a thoughtful expression. “You know, Iris,” he said with a regretful tone, “I think it’s time to retire the short-shorts.“

I was mortified. I glanced down ay my thighs. A little more dimpled? A little plumper? A little less firm? Perhaps.

“See,” I shot back, “this is why I need a daughter. A feisty critical 15 year-old daughter would have pointed this out months ago – sparing me the public humiliation of appearing in something so unflattering today.”

I haughtily swept past him, marching to our bedroom and slamming the door. 

That was over 30 years ago. And I never have worn thigh high cut-offs since.

But now I am confronted with a new dilemma: ripped blue jeans. 

I’m almost 72 years-old. Do I dare wear them?

Part of me says: “They’re so cool.”

Part of me says: “Iris, really? It’s enough already. Your 13-year-old granddaughter would be horrified to find you dressing like her!”

So I took a very unscientific, but highly enlightening, poll on my Facebook page asking this question:

Okay friends: like some feedback – out of curiosity, at what age would you stop wearing those trendy jeans with rips in the things and calf area?

In two days, I amassed almost 60 comments.

Here’s a sampling:

       I would never start.

       Seven years old.

       Stop at age 12.

       I agree – they are just so tacky!

       I’m thinking 30’s.

       I never wore them and I’m 36. Never found them practical. Even if your office has causal Fridays, usually they aren’t allowed. 

      I’m 38 and still rock them! Not planning on stopping any time soon – I think if you feel good – who cares?! People will ALWAYS find something negative to say – with or without ripped jeans on.

      I’m 50 and I wear them.

      I’m 53 and wear them. Age is just a number – if you are happy who cares?

      I stopped last year at age 70.

      Age 85.

      Never wear them – at any age – trendy is not necessarily attractive.

     As long as you want and feel good in them!

     Still wearing them.

     A loooong time ago I stopped.

And some additional commentary:

     Who needs more places to bulge?

     Wear what you like and have fun doing it.

     Just got a pair with pearls and rips and for the record they are a size 16 and I look and feel FAB in them. Don’t let anyone define you. 

     Baby boomers can wear anything they want.

     I say if you can, rock it. Wear it.

     I would wear them for as long as they are available in my size.

     They separate our generations, for sure.

     Let’s just say they weren’t intended for our generation. That would cover the subject.

     I’m done!

     It’s time!

     I will always wear whatever I feel comfortable in until I no longer feel comfortable in that style. Wear what makes you both comfortable and happy. 

     Hmmmm… I have shorts like that.

     If you have to ask….

     I see ALL ages wearing them. On some…they look great…on others …not so much.

     I don’t wear them.

     I don’t like them.

     As long as it bothers my dad, I’ll wear them!

     If and whenever you want.

     Cher still wears them.

     I still wear mine and so does my hubby (his, not mine!)

     Never wore them. Couldn’t rationalize spending money on clothes that look like rags.

     I’m too klutzy to wear them. I would constantly be getting hung up on stuff.

     At my age…I’m smarter… then wearing torn jeans in the summer!

     Until you stop feeling good in them. I have a pair, albeit, with very small discreet tears so my wrinkly skin doesn’t opt through. I’ve seen women (even) older than me looking great in them

     LOL. I’m wearing mine now. Age is just a number.

     I never wore them at any age. Ha Ha. But true, they are not my style. I think the age to stop it is when you feel “cheap” in them instead of old. The only rule I have is to “never look cheap.” No one will tell me how to dress at any age. Because dressing up is a part of joy and style – not age.

Conclusion?

Rest In Peace for ripped jeans? Hell no!

I’m heading to the mall to try on my first pair of jeans with rips. And gauge how I feel: silly or empowered? Then I’ll either whip out my credit card or walk away empty handed. Wanna come?

Keep Preserving Your Bloom,

Iris Ruth Pastor

PS: Hand-clapping to all voicing their point of view on my FB post.

First World Problems

Wednesday night I went to bed totally aggravated – completely ignoring my vow to rise above bothersome “first world” petty problems.

My husband and I had spent 45 minutes trying to change the filter on our Keurig coffee maker, to clean the K-cup Portion Pack utilizing a straightened paper clip, and de-scaling it with vinegar – which required a late-night run to Publix. We ultimately succeeded at all tasks aided by U Tube videos.

Buoyed by our efficacious (don’t panic, it’s merely a synonym for successful) persistence, I decided to tackle renewing my expired passport online. Goggling how to do just that, I actually found the process straight forward and simple. Two subsequent realizations destroyed that illusion: I had only completed Part 1 of the process AND I accidentally signed-up for a RUSH passport – which I don’t need and found quite unkind to my checking account.

Craving a break, and acting on friends’ recommendations, my husband and I then proceeded to TRY and watch the first season of “Outlanders” – the long-running series set in a fictional universe separated by a century. Season 1, Episode 1 froze in the first three minutes. As of this writing, it has not yet “thawed.”

After that final fiasco, I popped into bed – restlessly tossing and turning – totally aggravating my more mellow husband. How I yearned to be transported back in time too – preferably to the 1950’s – when our 1 black and white, wood encased television sported 3 channel choices, passports were for people far richer than my family and coffee pots were cleaned with hot soapy water daily by my mom – not me.

Bouncing out of bed Thursday morning, I followed my usual routine: checking my e mail inbox for any looming crisis demanding my immediate and full attention.

Hmmm.

Delta Airlines wants a review of my most recent flight: It was great except for the inebriated guy sitting next to me that talked to me loudly and incessantly for the last 20 minutes of the flight, beginning the moment I removed my earplugs. (Note to self – next time, keep them in til we land.)

CVS not only wants to know how I enjoyed my new purchase, but also to please share my thighs (Whoops. Weird auto correct – I meant to say share my thoughts) with other customers.

And oh yes, the Nordy Club- which I have no idea what that is – thinks it’s tantalizing me with blinking confetti – which actually is stirring up my vertigo. When my brain stops rattling from the plethora of overstimulation, I realize it’s Nordstrom’s offering me a 10 buck bonus. Not a great incentive when the stilettos I’m craving cost $625.

I almost miss it: an e mail conveying something professionally beneficial. A New Zealand publishing company is doing a project called “On Becoming 70” and asking my permission to reprint one of my Huffington post blogs. I go back and read my blog.  It’s actually got some pretty good ideas worth sharing.

Which I WILL share with you NEXT week. This week I’m just too busy.

Learning Drop Box – which just notified me I now have double the storage, world class sync technology and Drop Box rewind – whatever the hell that all means

    Cleaning up my passport application disaster

    “Unlocking the Best of Our Lowest Prices of the Season — Just for Being Awesome!” at Michaels

    Grabbing my 15% off Coupon & Transforming my space at Overstock

     And running to the post office for more stamps to mail more books to my readers because I still can’t figure out how to print postage from my computer.

Whew! Sometimes it’s very hard to keep Preserving Your Bloom,

Iris Ruth Pastor

Purging Perfectionism

Three things both struck me and stuck with me this past week.

The first thing: the “2019” sign hanging from the front porch of one of my neighbor’s homes

Once upon a time, I had a sign like this hanging from my front porch – signifying a child within its portals had reached the significant milestone of graduation.

The second thing: I was reminded of a poem I had written many years ago entitled “A Soccer Mom’s Sunday” – long before any of my sons had graduated.

A soccer mom’s Sunday

Is an awful lot like her Monday

It’s prying and vying and sighing and trying

To get everything done

That needs to be done.

It’s loading the dishes

And containing the wishes

Of husband and children

And her own unfulfilled dreams.

It’s picking up clutter

As you hear them all mutter

“Ma, you’re blocking the TV

Please move

So that we can see.”

It’s bringing order to chaos

And chaos to order

In a never-ending battle 

With tedium and fatigue.

It’s not realizing

Family and family relations

Are not always as neat and as tidy 

As we hope they would seem.

And that’s probably why

We pour out our angst and frustrations

In weekly therapy session

Where we unravel and scream. 

It’s scrounging for pennies, and nickels, and quarters

To add to school lunch money

While acting like it’s all 

Just a really fun game.

It’s wearing worn-out shoes

And outdated blouses

While imagining the neighbors whispers of

“It’s such a shame.”

And when the kids are so little

It’s wishing they’d grow up.

And when they are older

It’s wishing they’d just show up

To shed some magic glow

On our now-so-quiet routine.

It’s having a message

On our telephone answering machine

Announcing “You’ve called 

The happy home of the Pastors.”

Oh, they should only know 

All the past and present disasters

Colliding, residing, presiding and hiding

Within the walls

Of the very happy home

Of the very “perfect” Pastors.

Wow! Looking back, that was a pretty dark poem. Razor focused on raising perfect children in a perfectly run household demanded too much of myself. My high expectations didn’t energize me, but deflated me.

But now, my kids are grown and I have another chance at being content with “good enough.” I have another chance of achieving both balance and perspective. And ousting unrealistic visons of being flawless, impeccable and unflappable.

The third thing that struck me this week: A poem entitled “Dust If You Must” sent to me by my buddy, Lynne, written by Rose Milligan:

Dust if you must, but wouldn’t it be better

To paint a picture or write a letter

Bake a cake or plant a seed

Ponder the difference between want and need?

Dust if you must, but there’s not much time,

With rivers to swim and mountains to climb,

Music to hear and books to read, 

Friends to cherish and life to lead.

Dust if you must, but the worlds out there

With the sun in your eyes, the wind in your hair,

A flutter of snow, a shower of rain

This day will not come round again.

Dust if you must, but bear in mind, 

Old age will come and it’s not kind.

And when you go – and go you must –

You, yourself, will make more dust.

Seize the Day and Keep Preserving Your Bloom,

Iris Ruth Pastor

Regressing, Digressing and Facing the Future

I wrote this years ago when my son, Sam, who is now 37, was graduating from high school. It actually applies both to moms and dads and grandmas and grandpas who will soon watch a beloved child or grandchild reach one milestone, on the brink of another.

Sam, soon I will watch you walk down the aisle to receive your high school diploma.  We both will be surrounded by family and friends – many of them who have known you all or most of your life.

Immediately after taking my seat, whether it is in your high school’s auditorium – or weather permitting – in the outdoor courtyard, I will casually look around for something to count: bulbs in a chandelier, seats in the balcony, leaves on the nearest tree. I do this as a preventative measure. When the ceremony gets too heart wrenching and sobs threaten to tear forth torrentially, I will simply focus on something tangible and non-emotional to count until the moment passes. Counting calms my churning emotions.

I’m wondering if my parenting is ending, just beginning in earnest, or changing.

I know myself as a parent: Do I really know you?

Roger Kamenetz writes in his book Terra Infirma, about Michel de Montaigne. He says that if Montaigne titles a piece “On Coaches,” his subject is not coaches. Because Montaigne is constantly aware of his subject, he can then digress so freely.

That is how I feel about your graduation – an event etched in my consciousness since the first day you started your senior year. But at this critical juncture, like Montaigne, I find myself digressing too.

I thought of your graduation every time I parked on the street because our driveway was filled with your friends’ cars. I thought of it every time I looked out my kitchen window and saw you  intensely playing wiffle ball with friends and brothers.

I thought of your upcoming graduation many midnights when I pulled the pillows over my head to block out the noise of raucous male guffaws and more subdued female chatter emanating from the family room.

I thought of it when I hit a computer glitch, when I needed wardrobe advice or a quick course in world geography.  Each time, I called on you or one of your classmates.

Next year the house will be neater, quieter, more organized and emptier. And your youngest brother, Lou, and his friends will take over the family room and basement and backyard and driveway just the way you and your friends did when your older brother, Max, graduated.

Will you need me less, or more, or not at all?

Will I miss you some, a lot, or not at all?

Did I do a good job?

Is there still some time left to fine-tune the rough patches?

Do you know how much I love you? How proud of you I am?

Is it too late for advice?

I think of the sign I saw on an office wall recently: “When you blame others, you give up your power to change.” I shared it with you at breakfast. You’ll no longer be around to hear about my latest findings. Thank goodness for E-mail.

Graduation is here. Time is up for digressing. My ears pick up the first faint notes of Pomp and Circumstance.  I look around for something to count and I begin: 1, 2, 3…

Love,

Mom

Beware of Creeping Neglect

Mindfulness is in vogue – living in the moment – revering and reveling in the present. But what about awareness?

Awareness is knowledge or perception of a situation or fact – concern or well-informed interest – consciousness, recognition, and/or attention.

The opposite of awareness is disregard, ignorance, insensitivity, neglect, misunderstanding, unfamiliarity, and/or unconsciousness.

I’m finding that I’m pretty unaware.

For instance: my husband and I meet a cousin for dinner when we are visiting our hometown. She leans in close and excitedly relates that at age seventy-three, she is becoming a grandmother in July for the very first time. Of course, both my husband and I are thrilled for her and express our delight by hugging her tight and raising our wine glasses to toast the upcoming bundle of joy.

Truthfully, though my happiness for her is genuine, I would have probably forgotten all about it – either until I circuitously heard about the birth from other cousins or she whipped out pictures of her grandchild the next time we met. That to me is displaying disregard for my cousin’s news. So instead, when I got back home, I jotted a note in my calendar to touch-base with her in mid-July for an update. That is recognition of the importance of the event to her.

There is a lovely middle-aged woman who does day work in one of my son’s homes. I have known her for about five years. She has a cheerful disposition and consistently treats my grandchildren with kindness and consideration. We always talked about my son’s family, but I knew little about her. I asked her one day if she had any children. “Yes,” she replied, warmly, “a son, who is twenty-one years old.”

“Was he a handful to raise – like my kids were?” I jokingly inquired. A cloud of pain blew across her face. “I actually didn’t have the opportunity to raise him,” she confessed.

She was a US citizen, married to someone who was in our country on a work visa. She chose to give birth to their son in Guatemala so she could be near her husband’s family. Big mistake. Her son was not automatically granted US citizenship.

Her choices:

     She could stay in Guatemala and raise her son – recognizing her reduced wages would not enable her to be able to give her child a good standard of living.

She could leave her only child with her husband’s parents, return to the US to work and send money back to Guatemala to ensure her son got a good education.

She chose the latter.

“Afterwards, I was very depressed for a long time, but I talked to him daily, my in-laws always kept in close contact with me about his behavior and school progress and I believe I made the right decision,” she related to me.

Thirty minutes later, I knew the intimate details of her haunting tale – exacerbated by vague laws, ever-changing immigration statutes and bungling bureaucrats. I had been ignorant of her situation. I now have great appreciation for her challenges.

Recently we had an unveiling for my mother. In the Jewish religion, a year after the death of a loved one, close family members gather to uncover the stone monument and say some prayers and share thoughts. Quite a few of my friends texted me that morning to convey healing messages and warm thoughts – choosing not to neglectme on this solemn day and displaying understanding and attention.

When we raise our awareness,

When we listen to other people’s stories,

When we become a gatherer of information,

When we make the extra effort to tune-in and be present,

our own lives become richer, as do those whose lives intersect with our own.

Keep Persevering Your Bloom,

Iris Ruth Pastor