Sunday Sabbath November 22 2015  MY FAVORITE TIME TO WRITE

I so love sitting here in the sunroom looking over the snow covered ground with the sun dipping below the tree line.  I am on the second story level looking out over the back of the house and the yard slopes down so it gives me an even higher perspective.  I never tire of looking out these windows.  The scape is never the same from day to day.  Actually it is never the same from hour to hour.  As I look out in the quickening twilight there is movement and change taking place even as I write.  Cotton puffs of snow cascade to the ground as wind ripples through the branches.  Squirrels turning in for the evening hasten to their nests.  An occasional deer will lope across an open space, only to be totally hidden from view a few seconds later as it camouflages itself in the darkening woods.  The sky changes from vibrant deep blue as it softens to pastel shades with hints of pink and violet.  It’s as if God is orchestrating my own personal video in true life reality.  And I think He is really doing it just for me.  I sit here and think that no one else in the whole world is seeing what I see now.  It is just for me.  And I love it.  It is my favorite time to write.

My formative years as a child, ages six through twelve, was lived in a little California bay town, population about 3,000 at the time.  We lived in a government owned housing project.  My father was an illiterate laborer, my mother stayed home watching over five daughters.  The projects were called Bayo Vista, which were located in a hilly area situated directly across from a 76 oil refinery.  The buildings we lived in had been built as government housing during World War II.  Needless to say we often had foul orders and heavy black smoke billowing into our living area.  The smokiest times were when the oil tanks exploded, which resulted in billowing, noxious, black smoke which lasted for days and sometimes weeks.  The school I attended was even higher up the hillsides.  We had to close all the windows (the schools were not airconditioned) until the fires burned out.  The school has since been closed and torn down due to the toxicity of the refinery (which has far greater emission standards in recent years than were in place when I was young).  Even the trees in the entire school yard were destroyed.  The area is now a brown field and enclosed with high razor wire fencing.  I found out a number of years later that it was reported that many people suffered serious health issues which were caused from the exposure to the refinery emissions and smoke.  Fortunately for me, I was six when we moved in so was not affected as greatly as my baby sister was.  She lived her first six years there and has been sickly with lung problems and other illnesses that very well may have been directly caused by being exposed to the toxicity at such a vulnerable age.

Now, I said all that I said above to just set the stage as to what I am going to say next.  In all the hills of Bayo Vista there were no trees.  Not one tree to drop its leaves.  Exploring with friends we found there were some evergreen trees just beyond the chain link fence that separated Bayo Vista from the refinery.  We would scoot under the fence and go exploring on the government land and play under the trees.  There was always a fear and a mystery of what would happen if we were caught trespassing.  I was more afraid of my mother’s wrath than what the government would do to me.  Once we came close to being caught but we all got back under the fence and the man chasing us was too big to fit through.  I never went there again.  You might say he put the fear into me!  But anyway, back to my topic of having no trees anywhere around the apartments.  I missed trees.  I longed for trees.  I loved trees.  I actually felt a loneliness in my soul for lack of trees and beauty.  It was a very stark place to live.

When I was in the second grade and we had been given an assignment to bring a leaf to school from a tree in our yard.  Wherever my mother lived, even in the projects, she planted seeds.  That year she had planted a nasturtium plant and the vines curled up a little fence she had put behind our apartment.  She later had to take it down because we were not allowed to grow anything around the apartments.  But, for that assignment I had some nasturtium leaves to choose from.  After all, it was a leaf and that was what I was supposed to bring.  And, it was from “my yard”.  I remember picking the fragile, vibrant green leaf before running off to school, pleased as punch that I had a leaf.  I didn’t suppose the teacher would have a clue as to what kind of trees all the leaves came from so I was pretty safe in taking this leaf.  I was a little unsure, but I didn’t want to go empty handed.  Several of the other children had no leaves and all those who lived in the houses surrounding the school all had their token leaf.  The teacher looked down at me and asked if I got this from the tree in my yard.  I looked up at her, held my chin up high, looked her in the eye and said “yes”.  She looked at me, frowned a bit, looked at me again and smiled.  She then said, “This is a very nice leaf”.  I knew then that she knew the truth and yet she chose not to embarrass me.  I have loved Mrs. Higgins from that day forth.  She must have had her eyes opened at that moment to the bareness of the world in which the project children lived.  She chose not to disgrace a little eight year old girl in front of all her classmates.  A lot of what happened that day I didn’t understand totally until years later when I looked back.  But for some reason that memory has never left me.  I even remember the little blue dress I wore that day.  It was one of those moments in my life when life seemed to stand still.  And I have always loved the nasturtium plant to this day along with Mrs. Higgens.

And now I will fast forward to a time thirty plus years later.  I will never forget the first morning after we moved into the house we live in now.  The house was 26 years old, had been residence to six boys and two girls, had its original carpeting, a ramshackle kitchen, worn out linoleum, psychedelic foil wall paper in the bathrooms and kitchen, a putrid no color paint on all the walls, and the windows desperately needing to be replaced.  But we loved the location so we bought the big empty monstrosity of a house.  I was up early the day after our furniture arrived.  I remember walking to the large picture window in the formal dining room and looking out over the view that I can also see from my sunroom.  I stood there with tears in my eyes as I thanked God for all the trees in our woods that He had taken care of during all the years I lived in Bayo Vista.  He had cared for them for just for this very moment.  I thought back over the stark years of childhood knowing these beautiful woods had been growing just for me, for this very day.  I tear up even now as I think about the graciousness of God for fulfilling a desire of my heart that had lingered for close to 40 years.  Yes, I had experienced living a few places during those years where I had always planted trees, lots of trees, too many trees!  But they never really seemed like they were mine or that I was theirs.  We left many trees planted in the yards of the three previous homes we owned before buying this one.  I left the trees behind without looking back.  It wasn’t until moving here that I truly knew I was home.  Just as I have a love affair with beauty, I also have a love affair with a tree.  Not just any old tree but a very special, very, very, old tree.  I used my real camera equipment to take the photos of “my” tree so I do not have any available at present to share on this blog.  I shall retrieve a few from my files so I can share them with you at a later time.  There is a story that goes with “my” tree (which lives on someone else’s property). I will share the story with you at a later date.  I’ll need to do a pictorial story so it may take a little time for me to work it up.

And now it is dark.  I cannot see my woods any longer so I might as well end this diatribe without further ado.  This was just a little story of my life that somehow wheedled its way out of me.

THE HEART OF A CHILD

By Kathleen Martens

November 22, 2015

The heart of a child

Is such a fragile place.

And as adults,

We forget that space.

Perhaps we should take time

To reflect on the child,

That still lives inside

Tucked away, neatly filed.

Remember what it’s like

To be seven or eight.

So young and carefree,

Not imagining your fate.

Think of the times

When your voice was not heard,

Even when you spoke

So many words.

Summon up the confusion

Of being misunderstood,

Not being allowed to do things,

When you thought you could.

Recall the feelings

That you felt deep inside

And it seemed you had no one

In whom to confide.

And then look at the children

Who inhabit your world,

Do you do unto them

What on you was unfurled?

Do you take time to listen

To hear their small voice?

To validate who they are,

And to give them choice?

Do you respect them

Though they are so young?

Or do you play over

Your song that was sung?

Show them compassion

When it is needed.

Let them know they are special

When their words are heeded.

Teach them about life

And allow them to be heard.

It is sometimes the young,

Who speak wisdom in word.

Thank you for listening to the reminiscing of my heart.  I write as my words come, and sometimes do a bit of meandering in telling my stories.  My goal this past week was to write about aging but it seems a bit of the past reared its head instead. 

Very briefly I will tell you something about last evening.  As I mentioned yesterday it was John’s 70^th birthday so we joined them with a few others to celebrate.  When we returned back to his home after dining out I asked the others the question I asked Virginia and Joe earlier this week, “What surprise did aging bring to you that you were not expecting”?  I believe I received an answer from each one and if I can hear them on my voice recorder I plan to share them in the next few days.  No space or time to do so tonight.  I think they are worthy to be shared.  The diversity of answers was quite interesting.  I also found out that I am just a “baby” in the aging department.  More on that later.  At least I am learning!

Good night and God bless you.  I pray that every moment, of every day, is special for you.  Remember, it is not what happens to you that counts, but rather, its how you take it that counts.