I wait each winter for the unfurling of spring. The relentless heartiness of the crocus before it bursts through the ground, piercing the soil before unveiling its color in the sunshine and snow. Much the same one of the first tulips of spring brings me just as much joy.
I planted three bulbs in a small garden bed built by hand, a loving husband indeed, and these three bulbs planted over a decade ago have now brought forth thirty-two blooms this year. What a magical gift indeed. The little hashgacha pratit flowers are my divine providence from the earth itself. Staying winter, the fits of spring reveal themselves to us. There is something about a garden: no matter how grand or minuscule it may be, it is a gift of abundance with a mystery of life embedded underneath the soil.
As a child, I waited for the first buds on the Sitka rose bush to bloom. Once the snow melted, I checked them daily until they began to bud and bloom. They reminded me of staying the course in the darkest days. These plants are examples of change in our gardens, but their presence remains unyielding.
We must thank the gardeners of this planet, the tillers of the soil, the finders of renewable energy, and the ones who tend the gardens quietly and patiently, nurturing the blooms to bud.
My garden reflects my mental state. It is parched or overwatered, gently wedded and abundant in growth, and overgrown and ripe with fruits that spill from vines. Much like the ebb and flow of the seasons, I feel as they change and we continue to grow. What a blessing to be a witness and a tiller of the Earth.
With the abundance of spring in the Northern Hemisphere I draw my gaze back towards hope. I never lost it, but much like the unfurling of the buds on a tree, my spirit hearkens back to the fundaments of the hope I feel when I pay attention to what is around me. The physical world reminds me to truly see what is in front of me, what I can touch, smell, and taste every day. If I pay attention to what is around me, then I immerse myself within it.
What I have found blooming in these observations, is hope. Everything in life can be taken from you in an instant except for hope. Hope comes from the spiritual realm to believe in something so deeply that you know an outcome of love will come forth. Now, hope does not push for a narrative of toxic positivity, it just remains calm and steady amidst the waves that crash around it. Much like the storms of spring, hope comes forth like the knowledge of knowing that after the rain, the wind, the hail, the sleet, there will be a thaw, a reckoning and a calm that eases the natural world.
Tonight there is a new moon. Tomorrow a new month. In Hebrew it is called, Rosh Chodesh the celebration that the moon indeed exists. Much like the moon, we as a people continue to exist.
We are.
We are here.
We are everywhere.
A spirit.
A hope.
HaTikvah, the hope is that we are a people of hope who continue to thrive despite incredible odds. With the new moon upon us, I hope it brings forth lasting peace, a hope for much suffering to end, and for our hostages to be freed and reunited with their families.
Searching for blue skies in the last days of January in the P.N.W. is a novelty. My youngest child was doing just this on a recent drive.
“Mama, mama,” he exclaimed, “Look right there, see that? There’s the blue skies!” His anecdote reminded me of the famous song, “Blue Skies,” to which I promptly began singing the melody.
He asked me, “Who sang that song?” It got me thinking, I wonder who composed that song? I pulled up my application on my phone and clicked on an Irving Berlin recording available on YouTube playing, “Blue Skies.”
While digging a bit deeper at home, I discovered that my very same child who was named after the famous Jewish composer, Irving Berlin, had discovered, serendipitously, that his namesake also had written the song in 1926. This moment of spontaneity sparked so much joy on our recent drive. I love it when life brings forth these little coincidences. I read that people have started referring to them as, “glimmers.” For what it’s worth, I have always thought of them as sparkles…
Antisemitism has reached a fever pitch worldwide in the recent months because of the attack on Israel on October 7th, 2023 and the ensuing war. This date was marked for Jewish people world wide as the most deadly day for Jews since the Holocaust, since the expel of Jews from the Middle East, and it was transpired on hallowed ground.
There are little to no choices when it comes to identity. The world seems to decide how one can be identified once a box has been distinguished. Here me out though, I always felt and feel a sense of pride when I talk about my background and who I am. The people that came before me survived traumas all their own. They are now imprinted in my DNA, and in the DNA of my children. However, with that being said I work actively hard at igniting joy in my children around their identity. We distinguish how important it is that they are who they are. This rich culture of people who have survived and thrived. How their actions in the world can spark a flame of hope and kindness when they act in a way that focuses their energy positively.
When we leave this Earth, this realm of collective humanity, all we really have is the imprint from our interactions, from our work, from the collectiveness of being a human on this planet we all call home. What if, we looked for more blue skies? Perhaps looking up a bit more would shed some light upon the dark corners we find ourselves nestled within?
(Some favorite renditions of, “Blue Skies,” that my Irving and I listened to included: Ella Fitzgerald, Frank Sinatra, Irving Berlin, and Doris Day.)
There’s been someone on my mind on and off this past year. Through the ups and downs of this year my thoughts have gone back to my paternal Grandfather time and time again.
Raised in midwest of the United States a decade out from the turn of the century this man, like many of his time had similar afflictions to others. Although his faults and talents were diminished by emerging wars and the Great Depression he forged a pathway for his family paved by both sport and service. Perhaps it was because of these experiences that he turned inwards in the last two decades of his life. It was the man he decided to be that I grew to understand and love as a child.
The grandfather I knew trekked hundreds of miles to spend Thanksgiving with his eldest son and his family annually. The pride I felt as a five year old when he emerged from the crowd of family members in the hall of my elementary school was immeasurable. His tan cowboy hat, brown leather boots, and diamond willow cane made me beam with pride. My grandfather, the cowboy from Montana circa Missouri. Plucked from the skies as his airplane descended into the Northern Territory to visit for a week.
He was my first pen pal. He enclosed bits of spring time each year. Mailing leaves and petals, pussy willow buds, and kindness into those monthly letters. It was the days of long distance phone calls on weekends, and five hour flights to Alaska.
I felt seen and loved as a young Jewish child. He sent every card he could find, asked questions without judgement, and encouraged me from afar. He was front and center beaming with pride during my Bat Mitzvah. His shaky hand and video recording camera took in the scene in 1997 capturing my moment of entering the realm of adulthood. My commitment to my people, my culture, he embraced it with pride.
In these current days of turbulence and turmoil riddled by antisemitism, I often think of my touchstone. My grandfather’s love and support take on so much more meaning now, knowing that as a non-Jew he could show his commitment to family through his actions. I attribute much of my extension of love and tikkun olam to him. By extension of knowing I was supported, I could in turn do the same.
His birthday was December 25th. Every year I think of him and I wonder about what living in the last century felt like through each decade of change. Naturally I think of his life long partner my Grandmother Belva Pearl and I wonder if her work as an educator paved a similar pathway in my life. Her patience and calm amidst the chaos of raising six children helps me channel her qualities in the midst of raising our two children.
The tenacity and fortitude she had to help steer her family through two world wars and child rear are beyond me. What might I learn and apply from these abilities to survive and thrive. The strength and compassion it takes to persevere as a human on this planet is immense.
To know them was to love them. And love them I do. My holiday birthday Grandparents. Born the last of eleven grandchildren I am glad I met and knew them. Hopefully they know how much gratitude I hold for them today.
Woodrow Wilson HipsherBelva Pearl Rockhold Hipsher
Burning the midnight oil here, but when the spirit moves me, I try to honor the words and write. I had the joyful experience of taking a HIPHOP HITTS class with LaTosha Wilson. I had this moment during class when I realized how impactful it can be to connect with another person. Maybe the atoms collided to spark this, and my sister’s spirit moved through me, but I felt something truly move through me. There was a spark, and this idea came to mind, so here goes.
If I were to explain my life to a stranger, I would say it’s like woven fabric. A tapestry of the places I have walked, the people who have held me in so many ways, the lessons learned, and the moments that cast light through moments of darkness. The threads we weave each day are sewn in color. Our energies collectively create these dynamics that can be tangible if we pay attention. Sometimes when I truly get to know a person, I begin to see a color that resonates within my mind when I look at them. Maybe it’s a sense of learning someone’s aura or way of interacting with the world around them. What have you? It’s there. I felt this sensation of red, warmth, and fire in class.
One person can transform the energy of a room, and it is in these moments that I imprint a memory in time. I cannot explain how impactful dance was for me in my healing journey from losing my sister and having multiple pregnancy losses in succession. I told myself I would not let it define me; however, I now can see that it paved a much greater pathway in my life. It taught me the essence of gratitude, choice, and feeling the one thing no one can ever purchase but must earn: love.
What I felt tonight can be likened to a term coined by Emile Durkheim known as collective effervescence. The meaning of this phrase explains how a society or community of people who come together can work with one another to express and participate in the same thought or action. It reminds me of my experiences in singing with choirs and feeling the collective effervescence from the music we created.
This fabric is something I carry with me. I weave through it daily; I hold it, not as a load of burden but as a cloak that shifts and moves with me. My collective being remembers the moments that turned the fabric. This fabric holds the healing that transpired with each step of forward momentum. The bumpy textures of scars from my past experiences have become one with the material moving as a force to propel me forward. These chapters have become textures in my life. Like a quilt, I can cuddle up to and hold close. Feeling this sense of deep gratitude for the places I have been. I was filled with such an overwhelming sense of gratitude to be present, dance, and share in the energy in the room.
We all carry so much with us each day and every year, shaping and molding us into the human beings that walk this earth. What if each of our capes becomes more entwined and lifts one another up? Perhaps this is a utopic perspective or cliché, but with gratitude, acknowledgment, and hope, I can’t help but feel that my cloak has become my queen’s robe lifting me along as I walk forward.
There is a feeling unlike anything else that could be described, but more so felt in one’s depths.
Felt in a way that I know when I’m in synch with myself.
Radiance is something that can be witnessed, when you see it captured in eyes, a motion, the fluidity of an energy surging and flooding the space shared.
Similar to flashing light. It’s there. That spark within that can radiate out, unbeknownst to our own consciousness. These are the moments I revel in. Small moments I pocket for later when the gray can settle in.
When I see them running with abandon and reveling in the sunshine. The sound of a belly laugh rumbling from a human soul. Moving so freely and making eye contact for a fragment of a second and sharing that fleeting joy. The warmth of a heartbeat pressed close to my chest and holding fast to our beats as they synch. Small fingers curled around mine and the smallest of a squeeze to know that I’m still there. The morning dew rising from the fence and the sunshine sparkling the droplets, playing tricks on my eyes.
Life’s littlest moments are what truly make up my days. What about you?
Take up space, what a phrase, what a world, and what a time to be alive right now. Who knew that in the year 2022 we would still be fighting this fight to have rights over our own selves?
Women are powerful.
How scary, how terrifying to see someone own their own space, and feel in awe of their glow. I guess when light shines too brightly, those who seek the shadows latch on and pull until their tug gives way. Here’s the thing though, light, seeks light.
Someone can always try to knock you down, or make you feel less than, or unworthy, but that speaks more about them than it does about you.
I was recently chatting with a friend and the topic of confidence came up. Where did my confidence come from? As an introverted extrovert, I recharge in alone time, but I light up like the fire sign that I am when I can channel my energy positively with others. Cue dance music, lights, I’m in the zone, and l.o.v.i.n.g. i.t.
Where does the idea of confidence derive from?
I believe that nurture has way more to do with us than we would like to admit. Finding ways to come face to face with the experiences you were raised with or the paths you have traversed will help you heal deep wounds that could potentially hinder your opportunities later in life. Here is what I mean by that. Take, for instance, a compliment, if you say, “Thank you, I appreciate that,” versus “Oh this, no, I’m not …..” kicking yourself and thinking you’re less than. Truths seep out in everything we do. If we allow ourselves to believe the floodgates of thoughts that pass by daily, one could really be paralyzed, run, or fight with everything and everyone including themselves. Nurture, the very word makes me think of blankets, comfort, food, hugs, and family, but that’s because of my upbringing and where I come from.
I do believe that confidence is rooted in a kind of chutzpah, a sense of gumption, audacity, who does she think she is?! I grew up feeling firmly rooted in the knowledge that I was one human in a massive world; however, my life had meaning. I knew that I was loved, I felt that I was valued, and my abilities did not define me, my actions were of value, not the way that I looked, but how I treated others, how I used my words, how I could potentially impact the world. I think a large part of this comes from my family, and also my idea of what faith means. I felt a sense of community in knowing I came from somewhere and that I wanted to be a person who had a story to share. I walked with a sense of knowing, but also felt outside of myself in public spaces. The introvert in me allowed me to process deeply, take time, and tread cautiously, but the extrovert in me held hands with the introvert and spoke up when she needed to. She said, “No,” firmly, and never allowed someone to squelch her fire. There were many, many times when water was thrown on the fire, but still, it simmered. There is something to be said about feeling that connection of value and worth and carrying it on your shoulders.
Confidence comes from within, but I believe it takes practice to look at yourself and truly believe in it.
Confidence and value are sisters running through your mind and needing direction. Channeling them in daily practice helps reinforce when those traits take center stage throughout moments in your life. Having the confidence to speak up for yourself is the first step to helping others. It’s the same example as “put on your safety mask first.” If you don’t help yourself, then how can you be of help to others?
I remember sitting in a meeting, taking notes, and being told by the admin, “Look at me.” I set my pen down, looked them dead in the eyes, and said, “I am listening to you. I learn best when I write things down. That’s my learning style, and if I cannot meet my own needs in a meeting, then how can I be of service to my students?”
It’s the knowledge of knowing how to use your chutzpah, channel your tact, and spin your plates accordingly that make all the difference. Life is never easy, but if you lean into who you are, it becomes much less complicated.
So, what is the takeaway from this stream of consciousness? Perhaps it lies in the following words:
Take up space.
You are worthy
Take up space.
You are valued.
Take up space.
Your life has meaning.
Take up space.
Listen to your gut.
Take up space.
Embrace who you are.
Take up space.
Love yourself because you are your own longest relationship.
They say, “A smile is worth a thousand words…” What a genius *they* were. I chose the photo for a few reasons; one it is was a photograph by my oldest and closest friend. Two, I need an updated head shot post life and two children and the pandemic, but I had not been photographed professionally in over two years. Finally it reminded me of what I thought I had lost.
She said my name, I turned and laughed, click. In one click that moment in time was stilled to a screeching halt. If I close my eyes I can see it, I can see it all flash like lightening out the window in the heat of the storm. I see that moment, and I see her and I see me…
The news, the phone calls, the fourteen-hour time difference, the lab results, the surgery, their visit, the return, the results, cutting her hair and her curls falling, falling, falling. Her story, not your story, but still the fall while I was running, running, running. Flying to visit on my first solo trip abroad. The anxiety beating in my chest. Waking up vomiting. Her making me laugh saying, “It’s nice to hear the sound of someone else puking and it not being me.” God she was so funny. Why. Why. Why. Why are good people punished? Is that even something that is valid to ask? Screw it. I said it. It was, it is, and it sometimes still crosses my mind. The flight home and feeling like a chunk of my heart lay in Hong Kong receiving the drip, drip, drip, hoping the life force of chemo would somehow heal the broken body. The waiting, the wondering, and the waiting some more. Time halted with the call; they’re coming home. She’s coming home. Home. What is home for them? The last four and a half months, like a count down before me. The last time we watched a movie together. Choking down popcorn. Fucking cancer. The call from the stupid company thinking that if only they had her take more of their potions it would change things. Leave, my sister alone, for the love of God. That last show. The blood on her tissue. Thinking to myself I should go over and cuddle with her. Texting, calling, and waiting. Curling up in the corner of the hospital bed and holding her hand. Gently waking her to speak with the doctor. Talking, talking, talking, they’re talking at her and she’s not even awake. What the hell is going on? Surgery, for what? No more pain, no more needles, she said no more needles don’t touch her. Losing my mind in the hallway calling mom choking up on the phone. Yelling at, sigh, a priest when he offered me help. I’m not CATHOLIC I yelled. I’m JEWISH. Wow. So that happened. I just sat there taking turns holding her hand, taking turns, and crying and praying that her labored breathing would ease. My God. How selfish could I be, I asked God to make it stop, what is wrong with me? That last moment. I see her hands; I see the soft rounded half moons on her nails. The same hands that held mine. Hands that braided my hair. That took pictures together. That passed book pages. That shared chocolate. That cooled a forehead. That taught me to drive. Hands. Hearts. Hands intertwined. I missed her smile. The audience packed over three hundred souls in the room to honor her. I was numb. I just kept thinking, I can’t lose this one too, in the bathroom praying the blood not to come. Waiting, not feeling right. The blood tests. The ultrasound. Hearing, “I’m so sorry, please wait here.” The look on his face. God, make it stop. Here I go again. Calling out to God and where are… they? The hospital lights dimmed as the drugs smoothed the edges of my raw nerves. “How are you feeling?” she asked, I rolled my head over to her and smiled, “So good.” Hobbling to the bathroom and thanking the nurse for helping me. The blood, that’s to be expected. The color stained behind my eyes. Every month I saw it again and again, and again. The pulsing life force within me that kept me alive, and reminded me monthly I had more to give, I had more to live for, to grow for, I had to reframe my perspective, ‘cuz this ain’t it kid, this ain’t it. What did she tell me?
“Hineni,” Hebrew for, “Here I am.” That was it, here I am, and here I will stay. I am not my sister, and she was not me.
Click. Click. Click.
The rush of the moment. The train station walls illuminated as the dusky lights of night descended upon us. All in a moment, all was still, and the laugh subsided. We sat to take a rest after shooting in the park along the Willamette River. Shooting one another and covering her camera with what we lovingly referred to as the camera condom. The humor from middle school never seemed to disappear between us. Old habits die hard, “Was that a good one?” She chuckles, “Yeah I think I got it, you smiled!”
startwithsparkles 