tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26269847358126204422024-03-12T19:04:27.288-07:00Eating Life Raw.Leah Griffithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10424758000036417506noreply@blogger.comBlogger198125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2626984735812620442.post-956651692272073042016-02-13T04:19:00.000-08:002016-02-13T04:19:19.232-08:00Painting Your Soul Red<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgTBOaVky06GEMSOcpStSEWcNN5WAZGex-PF2QGfaFapdR70Tf8jlSST6wl47ACbgXzbp76iZss6EhCipZkS9L6SLAuWjBABQYWG-gurOdFAKjJp2di7eN1vwR2XMiNxR3sElaqiIfuaR-/s1600/otherstuff.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgTBOaVky06GEMSOcpStSEWcNN5WAZGex-PF2QGfaFapdR70Tf8jlSST6wl47ACbgXzbp76iZss6EhCipZkS9L6SLAuWjBABQYWG-gurOdFAKjJp2di7eN1vwR2XMiNxR3sElaqiIfuaR-/s400/otherstuff.jpg" /></a></div><center>Art by Leah</center> <p>Cupid, whose aim is often askew, uniting the most unlikely sorts, and making me question his credibility altogether; I must say that I continue to be a fan of love and still retain the infectious wounds inflicted from his arrows. Yes, I said wounds, for having dated many; my heart has been pierced more than once. <br /><br />Love is a messy thing, interrupting lives and overthrowing hearts before the unsuspecting pair has a chance to gird their tender loins. Of course not all loins are tender, and love need not be reserved for the young, for love has long arms and reaches far into the future, holding dear the subject of adoration well past the time of noticing skunky streaks whitening the temples and creases brought on by life’s bloody combats… and welcomed comedies. <br /><br />Fair maidens become fair ladies, well versed in the art of love and irony, and lads become lords with heavy feet and aching backs from life’s long ride. The love itself knows no difference between maiden and lady, or lad and lord, for love stands tall within the soul that sought the love and carried it thus far.<br /><br />If you were struck blind, how then would you measure your lover’s fairness? <br />For beauty and eyes both fade, but love abides in the timeless heart.<br />Youth’s brief kiss will soon be forgotten. <br />And what then?<br />Fret not, for you need only close your eyes to see that fairest love whose familiar heart calls you to the center of their universe, where one’s eyes measure nothing, and love, that steamy art, paints your soul red.
<p>HAPPY VALENTINES DAY, LOVERS!Leah Griffithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10424758000036417506noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2626984735812620442.post-5102601053558663032015-06-21T05:18:00.000-07:002015-06-21T05:18:02.918-07:00A Romantic Rumor<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEincTmkbGESmsS5qSbwTUPlfs_RDMWx2gQdmTmvO12S23k_zXNgmpfc3eWF5XX_CVYFrscOwDEVATcv8wol-OKGLy2PFo0OjEmqFQ8SxCFvEjR0Py_oq1qnKc4tsTNq5kI_Np6zKR2fKZey/s1600/dad+hand.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEincTmkbGESmsS5qSbwTUPlfs_RDMWx2gQdmTmvO12S23k_zXNgmpfc3eWF5XX_CVYFrscOwDEVATcv8wol-OKGLy2PFo0OjEmqFQ8SxCFvEjR0Py_oq1qnKc4tsTNq5kI_Np6zKR2fKZey/s320/dad+hand.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5619746757452970834" /></a><br /> I grew up with a diaphanous father who floated above me like a caption bubble saying, “?”. <br /><br />He was a romantic rumor, a previous chapter in my mother’s book of life, leaving behind no photos for his three little girls to frame and fawn over. There would be no frame hugging in this family. No searching his dark eyes for our own, or comparing the curve of our noses to his; no joy of discovering a trace of ourselves in his image, thus… answering our desperate curiosity. The only evidence of his existence was our existence. <br /><br />My dad was an old movie reel flickering in my mind, with imaginary memories, conjured by a credulous child, intoxicated with prime time fathers, and aching for paternal adoration. <br /><br />I was always comparing my invisible father to the other girls’ dads, which never worked out well for me. I suffered like an amputee with an inflamed phantom limb… finding no possible way to soothe it. <br /><br />I felt that I had been gypped by life; everybody that I knew had two parents, but I only had one. I assumed that I was somehow to blame for my father’s absence, after all I was little girl number three, and in my little girl mind I thought that he was tired of daughters. I envisioned him throwing his arms up in defeat when I was born, and tromping off to find another family where he could have his very own little boy. Of course all of this was nonsense, but the actual reasons for him leaving were incredibly complicated; certainly nothing a mere child could possibly comprehend. <br /><br />Father’s Day continues to be a holiday that I view from afar, like witnessing the customs of a foreign country. There is still an empty seat at the head of my childhood table, and a little girl waiting wistfully by the darkened window. She knows that he isn’t returning, but she’s found nothing else that could take his place.<br /><br />Appreciate every moment that you have with your dad. Hug him, tell him you love him, and do nice things for him, for there are many children, both old and young, who have never experienced a fathers’ love and the joy and security that it offers. <br /><br />For those of you who have known the void of a fatherless childhood, my message to you is this: Accept the vacancy in your heart as part of yourself; offer it honor and appreciation. You are the incredible person that you are, because of that vacuum. You have had to find your identity independent of a father’s influence. You have had to be brave and resilient during hard times, when a strong hand wasn’t there to guide you…or hold you. <br /><br />Be proud of who you are, and of the family that you have…that coalition of love that worked doubly hard in order to fill in the gap left by your father. And remember, love is love, whether it comes from a male or a female, it doesn't matter because it comes from one source and will never leave you or be depleted. Love holds all things together.<br /><br /><br /><iframe width="425" height="344" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/Hacf-bkPWYo?fs=1" frameborder="0" allowFullScreen=""></iframe>
This is a re-run of an old post, dedicated to those who never got to celebrate this day.Leah Griffithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10424758000036417506noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2626984735812620442.post-57423208084786399122015-05-31T08:26:00.001-07:002015-05-31T08:26:36.356-07:00The Good Omen<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDKCjZ8PFwsjxFvS5eb5HOTsWahn6O4Cnp-Too22LAU7BAn5k7S4tBR8u7OCIIpO2lThfurWKI1BFq2KcC8ZaVpoYCzAIwm0172PSer35E74NlShqsPxxJe_UhnDY8Qx2omtGsbDo-0v8r/s1600/cardinal2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDKCjZ8PFwsjxFvS5eb5HOTsWahn6O4Cnp-Too22LAU7BAn5k7S4tBR8u7OCIIpO2lThfurWKI1BFq2KcC8ZaVpoYCzAIwm0172PSer35E74NlShqsPxxJe_UhnDY8Qx2omtGsbDo-0v8r/s400/cardinal2.jpg" /></a></div><p>I’ve always considered seeing a cardinal to be a good omen. When I watch one blaze across the sky in holy flames I feel I’ve been chosen to view the sacred. They were also my mom’s favorite bird, which endears them to me forever. I remember her calling the females, Lucy Lipstick, because of their bright orange beaks, which still makes me giggle. Since her passing, 17 years ago, I always think of, Ma when I see a cardinal.<p>
This week my aunt needed to head north due to a death in the family and asked me to dog/house sit while she was away. Death has a way of equalizing life, causing priorities to slip effortlessly into place. I quickly packed up and headed out to the car. Once there, Jack, a feral cat that we feed, stopped by for his daily meal. My husband, Mike unlocked the car for me and then headed back to the trailer for some cat food. I waited in the hot car, leaving the door open to allow some air flow. <p>
In spite of the sad occasion, I was looking forward to my stay at aunties; after all, there would be space, something severely lacking in the trailer, plus I’d have a pool, privacy, and two of my favorite dog people to keep me company. I was lost in thought when a dreadful thud called me back to the car. It was one of those moments when my head and my eyes couldn’t agree on what they were seeing. There was a rusty fluttering of helplessness, and then a shiver. It was Lucy. Soaring through our driveway she had hit my car window. Jack appeared from the bush, keen-eyed and crouching. I turned away, unable to wrap my head around the situation. Injured Lucy was no match for Jack. <p>
I carried the heavy of this scene around in my belly all day, trying to grasp its meaning…but it was useless. So I self-medicated with brie and cherries, as I moved into auntie’s house. <p>
About 7:00 pm the phone rang. It was a man’s voice, sounding as far away as Mozambique, and very official.<br>
“I’m looking for a, Leah Griffith. Is this she?”<br>
I usually host a mini version of 20 questions before admitting who I am, but after the cardinal killing I was totally off my game. <p>“Yes. This is she.”<p>
“My name is Sgt D. Hall with the San Francisco Bay police dept. Do you know Eric G.?”<p>
“Yes. I just spoke to him Sunday. Has something happened? Is he alright?”<p>
“I have some very bad news ma’am, Mr. G. was found dead in his apartment this afternoon. He was sitting at the kitchen table slumped over a bowl of soup. I suspect it was a heart attack. I’m still here with him now waiting for the medical examiner and it doesn’t appear that there was any struggle. I doubt he suffered.”<p>
Eric?<p>
Dead? <p>
Soup? <p>
Not our Eric…<p>
the genteel giant, and dignified Baltimorean, with Clint Eastwood grit and a Mr. French accent.
<p>the story teller whose hearty laugh was as irresistible as a chocolate bar.<p>
the meticulous journalist who kept a daily account of his life from the age of 18 on, noting the little things with the same reverence as the monumental.<p>
Eric… a sixty something bachelor who offered love, sought kindness, and whose high IQ, and awkward social skills, set him apart from most of humanity, often repelling the very thing he craved the most...female companionship.<p>
Uncle Eric had been a member of our tribe since 94, when he spent three years living with our family, witnessing the reality TV insanity of our lives as we raised teenagers.<p>
I remember he phoned me late one morning, and with his hoity-toity accent, he stated, “I’ve been incarcerated.” It was a silly seat-belt ticket that he had ignored. Being a big man he found seat-belts suffocating and he refused to wear one. Bailing him out was an honor…and hilarious.<p>
Eric loved us all<p>
just as we were.<p>
People willing to do that are rare.<p>
I feel like a bite has been taken out of my soul<p>
because I know<p>
I shall never find another, Eric.<p>
I hung up the phone <p>fighting for air. <p>
I ‘m still not sure how to wrap my heart around any of this.<p>
I certainly can’t erase it.<p>
Sometimes life whispers<p>
sometimes it sings<p>
And sometimes life simply breaks your heart.<p>
Leah Griffithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10424758000036417506noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2626984735812620442.post-44494650541468125812015-04-30T17:08:00.001-07:002015-05-01T12:11:29.225-07:00Abandoning The Box
I wake to the quiet—a split of time held in smoky purity …but then a thought imposes--a heavy tsk-tsk that makes my head bow and my stomach curl. It’s a call to suffering, a shift towards fear…<br> <i>”you’re too old to change." <br>"You’ve wasted your life."</i> <p>
Such were my thoughts while living in the box.<br> It was a tight and toxic environment,<br> where tainted truths were dished out in little doses. <p>
And why did I ingest all the lies? <br>Because I was told to,<br> and I wanted to please them,<br> and it wasn’t their fault,<br>or mine,<br> or who knows whose,<br> because the road to every hood and home has been paved with lies since man's first thought. <p>
I kept imagining what it was like outside of the box—maybe peek and catch a glimpse of something new, but the fear that there might be something better out there kept me from looking. After all, what would I do? Nearly everyone I loved lived in the box so I couldn't leave. <p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN9MXhjPCuzlrChkwq6jUeZXP94RxAPe5g8PSIYpKFvFavbVPgeuQLL4OrYWqVQjX5KssOudc2__Kr8Ga2K13Ca4A9nkqw56_OVPwk9hyphenhyphenEFnYe7h06f8JXqDDLgFehesIoN9rSXZEllzkf/s1600/geesealone3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN9MXhjPCuzlrChkwq6jUeZXP94RxAPe5g8PSIYpKFvFavbVPgeuQLL4OrYWqVQjX5KssOudc2__Kr8Ga2K13Ca4A9nkqw56_OVPwk9hyphenhyphenEFnYe7h06f8JXqDDLgFehesIoN9rSXZEllzkf/s400/geesealone3.jpg" /></a></div><p>
I stayed in the box in my twenties, when youth beckoned me “explore”. <p>
I stayed in the box in my thirties, preaching with grave conviction on the apocalyptic consequences awaiting all who abandoned their boxes. <p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi74R4RKm2wG3X7_JEhk3_SfUBrTfZ_vSig6SWfvOdQucVRlmKN3UokOR7AGCs7-_u-XbNEXFmpdFNupHny7RZrMYd6CSIx096c-PWMbzJIwGQGwkhX5MhtKrX0kYXr98SnssPZzmQxtaGp/s1600/hellfire3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi74R4RKm2wG3X7_JEhk3_SfUBrTfZ_vSig6SWfvOdQucVRlmKN3UokOR7AGCs7-_u-XbNEXFmpdFNupHny7RZrMYd6CSIx096c-PWMbzJIwGQGwkhX5MhtKrX0kYXr98SnssPZzmQxtaGp/s400/hellfire3.jpg" /></a></div><p>
I stayed in the box in my forties, when the days turned stale and life became as unproductive as a dry heave. <p>
Then I turned 50, and I said to myself, “Enough! My life is more than half over and all I’ve seen is the inside of this box.” <p>
In that instant five decades worth of boxy convictions toppled, inspiring me to
peek outside of the box. <p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbxbcvBcXbYC9pBeW8z4PMaZznrGKMlOiKUstdnX723UD8YRsLfIujgA_0qPZZEJdxOdKy04eu-oY_rF6hR3nmwkADYYLNfWNVvX8oWHhda3LnLyIk8RuDz25DMIGBRaWp4MekWL2S-uFz/s1600/peek3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbxbcvBcXbYC9pBeW8z4PMaZznrGKMlOiKUstdnX723UD8YRsLfIujgA_0qPZZEJdxOdKy04eu-oY_rF6hR3nmwkADYYLNfWNVvX8oWHhda3LnLyIk8RuDz25DMIGBRaWp4MekWL2S-uFz/s320/peek3.jpg" /></a></div>
<p>
Yes, I did. <p>
And what did I see? <p>
I saw myself smiling<br>
right back at me. <p>
So I lifted my skirt <br>
and climbed on outside, <br>
where the sun in its brightness <br>
shone as my guide. <p>
I saw paintings and theaters, <br>
dancers and drunks, <br>
buildings and alleyways <br>
sprayed on by punks. <p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhixpSehyphenhyphen9Yi64us7FXKUKDltOffhE7sjqGPvzAQI-KBf3nxZg5LLt2-Cd_Oe8JehOybbQ__rTGyNcgqUunNyl2FYQX38nSKcaxoVDp6Lw93uMZlKIAUA5Mec_rL4_GIBYQqXPEJA4rV56V/s1600/city4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhixpSehyphenhyphen9Yi64us7FXKUKDltOffhE7sjqGPvzAQI-KBf3nxZg5LLt2-Cd_Oe8JehOybbQ__rTGyNcgqUunNyl2FYQX38nSKcaxoVDp6Lw93uMZlKIAUA5Mec_rL4_GIBYQqXPEJA4rV56V/s640/city4.jpg" /></a></div><p>
Some things were so frightening, <br>
I wanted to run <br>
straight back to the box <br>
and hide from the sun, <p>
but I knew in my heart <br>
I had something to do, <br>
so I thought till a thought <br>
bubbled up from true-blue. <p>
I could write a book. <br>
I could <br>
and I did. <br>
I wrote one about<br>
my life as a kid.<p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZe521bZGlaPt-YUFhGGdsyBZbuCWg4kxGrSWPfLGiKxZCKm9XJET8v2lZzfiE6k8uIbbnhhd-G5ICfuaFr08vxOcZAH_oEEUjU6T-B9lZvbBTzB7bddrjsxxyVTaneyN9W8mTCwlvGElW/s1600/wagoning3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZe521bZGlaPt-YUFhGGdsyBZbuCWg4kxGrSWPfLGiKxZCKm9XJET8v2lZzfiE6k8uIbbnhhd-G5ICfuaFr08vxOcZAH_oEEUjU6T-B9lZvbBTzB7bddrjsxxyVTaneyN9W8mTCwlvGElW/s320/wagoning3.jpg" /></a></div><p>
It took all my breath<br>
to say stuff out loud, <br>
to recycle myself <br>
back into the crowd. <p>
But now I’m connected<br>
to me and to you<br>
to all of the people<br>
in search of true-blue.<p>
And life is much bigger <br>
than <br>
me <br>
me<br>
me <br>
me<br>
for it’s being lived<br>
by someone who’s free!<p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdkR3hyphenhyphenmQl59AeD3EFDhtDZRA45h0RVC1AQXi5atpphrej_nKr4CQ1T2pPDgRcarlHpxNHsXVJ3snqgV45AcAU8KGusZXs9HiJalAcqGwA2Xz6I1hhWQmUvDqOSYHHXmVqoQVc_d6U-5JQ/s1600/field2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdkR3hyphenhyphenmQl59AeD3EFDhtDZRA45h0RVC1AQXi5atpphrej_nKr4CQ1T2pPDgRcarlHpxNHsXVJ3snqgV45AcAU8KGusZXs9HiJalAcqGwA2Xz6I1hhWQmUvDqOSYHHXmVqoQVc_d6U-5JQ/s400/field2.jpg" /></a></div><p>
Listen to life. <br>
It is wise. <br>
It is generous.<br>It is speaking. <br>
Leah Griffithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10424758000036417506noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2626984735812620442.post-63613442150012247642015-04-05T05:21:00.000-07:002015-04-05T05:21:46.073-07:00Temple's Spire <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0IA_4L1omm1J0T_d4TW14yA_PJb25KuFOimfGHZ0hDZ_GQDjztPdQRgewDqncbFZHDb2PDRu1KcFcgmo0WuA-GvTZ7bLACKWyPxHX7Af2l1nF9gWrhezsNNKnM6wxZVXieMotrXuMn8tl/s1600/templespire.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0IA_4L1omm1J0T_d4TW14yA_PJb25KuFOimfGHZ0hDZ_GQDjztPdQRgewDqncbFZHDb2PDRu1KcFcgmo0WuA-GvTZ7bLACKWyPxHX7Af2l1nF9gWrhezsNNKnM6wxZVXieMotrXuMn8tl/s400/templespire.jpg" /></a></div><p><center> Temple's Spire<br>Leah Griffith</center><p>
I thought I’d live a bigger life <br>
of sweeping landscapes speeding by, <br>
and neon wonders twinkling bright <br>
against a starless urban sky.<p>
An up-close view of all that is <br>
a searching of the sea and more, <br>
each grain of sand, <br>
each polished shell, <br>
whose chambers whisper to the shore.<p>
I thought I'd climb a castle’s tower, <br>
and punctuate through guarded clouds, <br>
favored with the highest views,<br>
through secret doors concealed from crowds.<p>
All this I’d hoped and much much more, <br>
for words cannot justice give, <br>
the longings of a woman’s heart, <br>
where limits part and hope begins.<p>
Three score and ten—little more,<br>
the gods have counted out our days, <br>
pursued by dragons spewing fire, <br>
and warmed by love’s contented blaze.<p>
The best of years now lag behind, <br>
when muscles answered each demand, <br>
and clear minds snapped with fresh ideas, <br>
ready with a perfect hand.<p>
But now the needle’s eye has closed, <br>
the hand unsteady takes its time,<br>
The castle on the hill afar,<br>
stands flawless in my shrouded mind.<p>
And what remains<br>
is mine to own, <br>
the gold, the dross, the love, the dire; <br>
the journey inward has outrun, <br>
the swiftest feet to temple’s spire.<p>Leah Griffithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10424758000036417506noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2626984735812620442.post-60306340673900498612015-03-19T06:50:00.000-07:002015-03-19T06:51:23.451-07:00An Enlightening Interview <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcmkC68hjre3Iy3x3LVWL-jrBc8mNp4fVXHzu32bvFWDmz-ovZSxOwByPw-SgW3dkWc7BlpZmAs9EZSWYxmfJpBA5INzCEbcT4h3wZLi4M8Zj2fsN5nbvlrDlzpj2zSlu_GchzQ9vx4lxE/s1600/wagoning3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcmkC68hjre3Iy3x3LVWL-jrBc8mNp4fVXHzu32bvFWDmz-ovZSxOwByPw-SgW3dkWc7BlpZmAs9EZSWYxmfJpBA5INzCEbcT4h3wZLi4M8Zj2fsN5nbvlrDlzpj2zSlu_GchzQ9vx4lxE/s400/wagoning3.jpg" /></a></div><br><center> Art by Leah Griffith </center><p> Laine Cunningham, author, professional editor, and winner of five international awards for fiction and nonfiction, took the time to interview me about the writing of my novel, Cosette's Tribe. It turned out to be an experience I thoroughly enjoyed. Thanks so much for making me feel so at home, Laine.<p> Please find the interview below. I hope you enjoy the exchange.<p>
LC: Leah Griffith is the award-winning author of Cosette’s Tribe (review <a href="http://www.writersresourceblog.com/2015/03/16/book-review-cosettes-tribe-by-leah-griffith/" target="_blank">here)</a>. She joins us today for a few questions about her writing process, her books, and her inspiration.<p>
LC: When did you begin writing?<br>
LG: I was in my late teens when I began writing. I felt a push within, something deep and soulful trying to find a mode of expression. In the early years my writing took on more of a spiritual nature. This type of writing has always helped me to remember how to breathe. In my twenties I began writing short stories and essays. <p>
My mother was an avid reader, and shared her love for great literature with us children. When she was carrying me, she was reading Victor Hugo’s Les Miserable`s, and fell in love with young Cosette. Consequently she chose that as my middle name. As a kid I hated the name but after reading Les Miserable`s myself, I became proud to have the name and delighted to name my protagonist Cosette. <p>
LC: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Cosettes-Tribe-Leah-Griffith-ebook/dp/B008DINHRY/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1417479513&sr=8-2&keywords=leah+griffith" target="_blank">Cosette's Tribe</a> is somewhat autobiographical. What drew you to writing about certain times in your life?<br>
LG: I’ve always felt the urge to write about my life in hopes that I could recycle my pain and use it to help others. This sort of powerful exchange helps me to remain a victor rather than a victim.<p>
My life so far can be divided into three parts. Early childhood, ages 1-4: these were the magical years before the first sexual assault took place. During that phase I felt connected to unconditional love, and still possessed the lighthearted twirl of being a little girl.
Ages 4-14 were a belly crawl through impossible situations. These were the years of abuse, where shame kept me isolated from “…everything nice.”<p>
And 12 through today: these have been the messy years…and the best of years. It has been a time of getting up and getting up and getting up again, and feeling the generous healing power of my fall downs. These have been the years of sunny ah-has and moody reflections, illuminating all that I believe in and discovering that my little girl dreams could still be found optimistically tucked between bravery and forgiveness.<p>
LC: Tell us about the second book you’re working on. <br>
LG: My latest novel is a continuation of Cosette’s Tribe. In book two, we find 14 year-old Cosette still living at home with her mother and sexually abusive stepfather Ken. Although Cosette was able to put an end to Ken’s advances a couple of years before, she now faces his vindictive side where Ken’s main form of entertainment is how to make Cosette suffer for rejecting him. Cosette continues to search for purpose as she follows a pale stream of hope into the future.<p>
Cosette’s mother remains clueless about the past sexual abuse and spends most of her time playing referee between Cosette and Ken. But Cosette has more sinister foes to face; enemies of her own making, for the escape route she chooses from her unhappy childhood could shatter her young life in an instant.<p>
I’m aiming for a launch of book two (still untitled) in the spring of 2016.<p>
LC: Meanwhile, you can read more from Leah at her blog <a href="http://truthfromthebooth.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Truth From The Booth</a> or her other blog <a href="http://eatingliferaw.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Eating Life Raw</a>.<p>
LC: What do you hope readers experience while reading your books? What do you hope they take away?<br>
LG: It took me years to find the courage to write Cosette’s Tribe because of the personal nature of the story. Presenting my novel as a work of fiction created a cushion for me, providing just enough space between myself and the story, which was sorely needed. My hope was that my words would inspire readers to get back up after they’ve been knocked down, no matter what their struggles are. I want to encourage readers to trust life and embrace their own stories, perhaps discovering that it takes a certain amount of light to cast a shadow, and ironically, it’s that light which moves us beyond our pain. <p>
As a woman I found creating this work incredibly empowering. It helped to move me from the space of a silent victim into the place of a vocal victor. It’s a mighty feeling to take part in one’s own redemption…to be your own hero. <p>
LC: Connect with Leah on <a href="https://www.facebook.com/cosettestribe" target="_blank">Facebook</a>.<p>
LC: Tell us about any awards or honors you’ve received as an author. What did those honors mean to you as an artist?<br>
LG: Cosette’s Tribe is a self-published work, which means that it’s up to me to market and sell my precious story. Although I’m a bit shy and I should probably push a lot harder with the marketing of my novel, Cosette’s Tribe is not without awards and honors.
Cosette’s Tribe was the first place winner of the 2011 Laine Cunningham, New Novel Award present by The Blotter Magazine. As a new author this was thrilling for me. After all, this wasn’t family and friends praising me, it was my peers, and it meant the world to me, as did the fat check and prizes they gave me. <p>
Cosette’s Tribe took first place for both Best Novel and Mainstream Fiction in the 2013 eFestival of Words Best of the Independent eBooks Awards. Cosette’s Tribe was also chosen by Florida Weekly’s book reviewer Phil Jason as one of his favorites for 2012.
Of course my biggest reward has been the overwhelmingly positive response from my readers. <p>
LC: Find Leah’s book trailer and website at www.leahgriffith.com. <p>
LC: Cosette is told from an intimate viewpoint of a young girl. How did this present challenges to your prose? How did you overcome those challenges?<br>
LG: The language I chose to use while writing Cosette’s Tribe was a challenge. I had to “Be the kid” in order to write the kid. I kept things simple using the pure language of childhood when creating metaphors and expressions. Sometimes it became very difficult when describing scenes of a sexual nature, requiring me to enter and feel the darkness of a situation anew. <p>
Writing Cosette’s Tribe was a work of bravery requiring me to look at my childhood with both eyes open. This is how I discovered the light in my childhood, which was there all along. I just never noticed it because of the trauma I endured. It was the surprise of seeing this happy light that kept me writing, and it is this same generous light that I hope to share with my readers. <p>
LC: Describe your writing space.<br>
LG: My writing space is wherever I can open my laptop and type. I wrote most of Cosette’s Tribe on an ancient IBM laptop facing a blank wall at work. Today, I write from half a tiny booth in my kitchen. My husband Mike uses the other half to run his online business. Our booth is the only working space in the 350 square-foot trailer that we share with Duchess, our tiny dog. I also do my artwork from the booth. Virginia Woolfe would be appalled. <p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWEjc0J02di6P5iNo5L-szCGWn3gBJQC20fO7xpHYIZ04M7I78OJ4Pa8SouwacxZGCYsvQm50EZk-947W7KU0QBeS0RO06gvVJHI4xlhC5HaVQjt9UdX6wrQEumMr1FU_uwnZxMxaExIOy/s1600/booth1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWEjc0J02di6P5iNo5L-szCGWn3gBJQC20fO7xpHYIZ04M7I78OJ4Pa8SouwacxZGCYsvQm50EZk-947W7KU0QBeS0RO06gvVJHI4xlhC5HaVQjt9UdX6wrQEumMr1FU_uwnZxMxaExIOy/s400/booth1.JPG" /></a></div><br><center> The Booth </center><p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8yBpE1xbnefZe_3OgqnFEndw5ljR9PKA49RYde97mcgEOs6BEzfzh40im0lEg1n6ODu5bQ_tObV335KJMHc98tdtGvaS9G0hyBudAoGtmHOJFiiEF7W17QsiGQrbmxynectnbHkqV3eRK/s1600/dogpaint2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8yBpE1xbnefZe_3OgqnFEndw5ljR9PKA49RYde97mcgEOs6BEzfzh40im0lEg1n6ODu5bQ_tObV335KJMHc98tdtGvaS9G0hyBudAoGtmHOJFiiEF7W17QsiGQrbmxynectnbHkqV3eRK/s400/dogpaint2.jpg" /></a></div><center> Little Dog </center>Leah Griffithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10424758000036417506noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2626984735812620442.post-72435991865706969042015-02-13T05:51:00.001-08:002015-02-13T05:51:35.363-08:00Cursing Louder Than a Northern Gale<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwz5E-4A2ucpIEnMnKYj74qMEI_R70J_tJdOSU_3jhy3XGNXupDdSxLX5wxkq8H8T4_Y5RDO4HG2EmgxYHZ9USpF7fF-_NRzDuJaOn0nCjVvgIojfToKF1lsH66zGMZvOkjPXpHYPxXBGR/s1600/valentine2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwz5E-4A2ucpIEnMnKYj74qMEI_R70J_tJdOSU_3jhy3XGNXupDdSxLX5wxkq8H8T4_Y5RDO4HG2EmgxYHZ9USpF7fF-_NRzDuJaOn0nCjVvgIojfToKF1lsH66zGMZvOkjPXpHYPxXBGR/s400/valentine2.jpg" /></a></div><p>I was directed to write a love letter to myself by my wildly loving friend, J Clement Wall. My initial thought was “how romantic, a love letter to Leah”. But then I felt the unction of resistance, that inner speed bump, which slows down forward motion, and I knew that I wouldn’t write the letter because it required a generous portion of bigness toward one’s self that I was pretty sure I didn’t possess. So I put off the assignment indefinitely. <p>
As it turns out, I have a stack of untouched assignments issued by homespun sages, and as much as I admire these gentle troubadours, I sometimes feel a bit of intimidation by their bright-eyed bullet lists containing the secrets of life from the lates and the greats. I’m cynical of their pastel outlooks, such Monet hearts, and then there’s mine, mucked up and muddy from all my fall downs, tramping along with my broken toe cursing louder than a northern gale, measuring myself against all that isn’t me and feeling the small of it. <p>
It’s the familiar cycle of self abandonment <p>
that I move in and out of<p>
and it hurts more than the toe, or the stretch and yawn into each long day, because I’m not really here. I’m not anywhere. I’m tucked away within the folds of forgetfulness, waiting for the courage to fly back to myself. <p>
So, I’ve decided to go ahead and write that love letter because I could really use one right now, and with Valentine’s Day nearing I figured what a perfect set up for me-mance. <p>
Yes, this is for me. <p>
So here goes. <p>
My Dearest Self,<br>
First I’d like to say that I feel I owe you an enormous apology. I’m sorry for abandoning you when you were a little girl and that you've had to struggle with this self-abandonment issue your entire life. I underestimated the powerful connection between you and you--that big U within. I left you fluttering like a baby moth, banging into the low glow of this shabby world, and injuring your delicate wings. My looking away cost you your ability to fly, and forced you to walk barefoot across the dirty asphalt of your childhood. I wish I could have remembered who you were back then, but the pain was real, and the darkness of the journey unexpected. <p>
You were a real hero (although you didn’t realize it). No matter how many times you got knocked down, you found a way to get back onto your feet. You faced the unlovely with an open heart, and even forgave the ones with weapons. You remained kind, which is the best type of miracle of all, offering what little you had to those who had less. If only you had offered the same generous love to yourself. I see now that it was your mother’s gift for alchemy that helped to cultivate your richness of soul. She was also a hero, but like you, she never learned to spread her wings. <p>
You still are my hero. <p>
I need to tell you how much I love you, and even though I sometimes pick on you, and underestimate your talents, I never doubt your ability to do great loving things. <p>
Since you were a child you’ve desired a slow-dance intimacy with life, seeking a love powerful enough to lift you into the heavens where the stars sparkle with joy at the sight of you. My wish for you is the redemption of this divine romance--that you lose your cynicism, and look within, where you will discover that the one who steals your breath away with each kiss is always present…always you. <p>
I wish for you to uncover the treasure of unconditioned authenticity; the putting away of the measuring stick, the better and worse, and see that every inch of you is the perfect “enough”. <p>
I wish for you to step out of the tiny--that box, which was designed by your fears, and realize the dreams that have been nesting in your heart, those golden eggs you’ve been tending for years, are about ready to hatch. <p>
And finally, I wish for you to never forget who you really are… <br>that you were created from stardust and love<br> believe the rumors of your greatness--and how much I absolutely adore you. <p>
Happy Valentine’s Day, <p>
Love,<br>
Leah
Leah Griffithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10424758000036417506noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2626984735812620442.post-78732115903278770942015-01-15T06:00:00.000-08:002015-01-20T12:07:46.443-08:00Death and the Rumor Mill. <a href="http://www.bloglovin.com/blog/8167215/?claim=g25frw5nue2">Follow my blog with Bloglovin</a><p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghl_zkP40GV6RnFrRI3PoL7N8IAMP1v2OynmPG_RXDHukZl7oxb7gijh3FULcYcgGxH9t5lnW6oa89DMYW8tZaNr9AWMAeC4bY9SF-I07O3w_LBKoMRHItIJd-_GWyjanuxjq0GPRK2mes/s1600/chicken2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghl_zkP40GV6RnFrRI3PoL7N8IAMP1v2OynmPG_RXDHukZl7oxb7gijh3FULcYcgGxH9t5lnW6oa89DMYW8tZaNr9AWMAeC4bY9SF-I07O3w_LBKoMRHItIJd-_GWyjanuxjq0GPRK2mes/s320/chicken2.jpg" /></a></div><center>Lucy</center><p>
I knew when I saw their burlesque-ish feathers and dirty yellow feet that nothing good could come of me getting too attached to them. Isn’t that like life, to fan something fabulous in front of our faces and then bite us in the arse for getting attached to it? Therefore, I initially kept my distance, sneaking peeks between the palms—watching them strut about my yard, and from time to time skip across my porch, clucking like excited teens on their way to the mall.<p>
I always feel as though I’m being allowed in on a great secret when I sit with nature and it was no different with these hens. Their keen-eyed pecking fascinated me, their proud breasts proof of their badass food fetching skills.<p>
And then the news came that “something” had “gotten” one of our hens. I know, I know, they are not my hens, but the attachment had taken place, and although they didn’t have my last name, they had captured my cautious heart. <p>
The theories weren’t very comforting; “it could have been a python,” the handyman said, leaning against his rake, measuring my reaction. I kept a flat face, refusing to respond to his fear tactics. He resumed raking and speaking, rattling off a shopping list of predators “might have been a panther, coyote, bobcat or even a gator.” My mind examined all the suspects and settled on the python, figuring the death would be quick and clean, but once, Mr. Maintenance showed me the trail of feathers, and the freshly dug hole under the fence, my guess switched to a coyote or a big cat.<p>
After the killing it was hard to watch the 4 hens together without feeling badly about the dead fifth hen. And even though I couldn’t really tell the difference between hen number five and hen number three, the thinning of our flock was causing me to fear for the rest of the girls.<p>
By the end of the week we were down to one lone hen. I was tempted to name her, Lucy because of her brazen presence, plus I figured the name might offer her some protection, after all, other than having a lot of splaining to do to Ricky, Lucy’s life was mostly filled with madcap mayhem, which always ended in laughter, but naming her would have broken the “don’t get attached” rule, so she remained nameless other than ‘The Last Hen’.<p>
I imagined how scary it must have been to be the last hen pecking, knowing that the murderer was hold up someplace close, probably watching her actions and contemplating her thighs.<p>
From the time she had 4 sisters, to her solo scratch across the courtyard, her routine never changed. I’d have been pulling out my feathers with nervousness, but Lucy was calmly enjoying the benefit of being sole scavenger, feasting on the moment, and her newly found freedom, for the owner of the last hen had decided to keep her out of the coop, offering her a running chance from her stalker.<p>
I began feeding her handfuls of hemp hearts. She devoured the fatty treats, while I stood like a statue on the porch, not wanting to disturb the magic that was Lucy. <p>
Then one morning I noticed the silence. Not the silence from no noise, but a stillness that rang so loudly in my heart that it hurt. Writing this I can still feel its weighty presence, a panic of a pause, announcing the truth, that Lucy was gone forever.<p>
So, why did I drag you into my heartache—make you love the wild girls, and root for their survival? I did it because misery loves company, but mostly because love is ALWAYS worth it. I got attached, and I don’t regret it. It was a beautiful honor to share the same courtyard with them, getting to listen to the rolling cackle of their comments, and admire the showgirl strut of those long yellow legs, and although it ended in a tragic blood bath, and I miss them terribly, I will love the next batch of chickens, puppies, children, neighbors, friends, family and of course myself. It’s what I do, for without love, life cannibalizes itself.<p>Leah Griffithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10424758000036417506noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2626984735812620442.post-75594241782858660592014-12-24T06:41:00.000-08:002014-12-24T06:41:19.597-08:00Holy Aha!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNlvtesTrcz7jJKB5U-rnWeij5dchJatRjoQeCg_fkqCYgjZsSAIUvzKy5-VhUa3pCdyHofSVgdQ9FM9NfdZJP0uVvmO1ERgF-FHJW8Eh_kjmRNMQP5DTft2YIHO6OzIZZdoEYZqj7iZwq/s1600/2santa2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNlvtesTrcz7jJKB5U-rnWeij5dchJatRjoQeCg_fkqCYgjZsSAIUvzKy5-VhUa3pCdyHofSVgdQ9FM9NfdZJP0uVvmO1ERgF-FHJW8Eh_kjmRNMQP5DTft2YIHO6OzIZZdoEYZqj7iZwq/s400/2santa2.jpg" /></a></div><p><center>My latest holiday painting.</center><p>
I never did find a place for a tree, or tinsel, or any other accessories to glam up my tiny trailer for the season. This year has been the most unadorned holiday ever. I did, however, paint a few holiday paintings; after all, there was plenty of paint and paper, and of course, my chronic romance with vintage Christmas.<p>
Anyway, I was at the mall, attempting to shop for presents, roaming the glittery pretend streets in search of something that I couldn’t name, when I realized the huge disconnect between my spirit and my actions, inspiring me to skedaddle out of there without buying as much as a gumdrop. <p>
Because my life has shifted so much in the past few years, I’ve decided to go with it and see where it leads me. I am clearly not in control of the cosmos, or the energy that runs it, so I may as well trust it.<p>
As far as this year’s Christmas goes, well, I haven’t had any profound epiphanies, or Oprah ahas yet, I’ve simply been shown that I need to have a more meaningful connection to Christmas just as with life. I need to do something that spreads love, lasts all year round, and reflects a life well lived, rather than money well spent. <p>
Okay, so I did get an aha or two, I just didn’t know it. I had to root them out with you guys. <p>
Wishing all of you enough joy, love, and holy ahas, to last you all year long.<p>
Love! Love! Love!
Leah Griffithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10424758000036417506noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2626984735812620442.post-51566996910192718682014-12-16T06:59:00.000-08:002014-12-16T06:59:39.202-08:00Jonesing on the Porch<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAFtIQkx_PUAlPFOhkVsZQoAumWh23L3xhrEFA7it2sUdgd3WBns73hQir4wO54bROB_GChVqCsdj_-zyqeRkNvt5CCr5_BO4WQbdsAT-_2RiOOtmLu29g1oJzC5Jn_ImZwG9I4J5JO_0p/s1600/homesweethome3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAFtIQkx_PUAlPFOhkVsZQoAumWh23L3xhrEFA7it2sUdgd3WBns73hQir4wO54bROB_GChVqCsdj_-zyqeRkNvt5CCr5_BO4WQbdsAT-_2RiOOtmLu29g1oJzC5Jn_ImZwG9I4J5JO_0p/s400/homesweethome3.jpg" /></a></div><p>Christmas in the trailer is so different than any before. It’s so quiet that I feel tempted to buy a used guitar, sit on the porch, and sing to the youngins. Of course I’d have to wrangle some youngins, because mine are oldins, but wrangling youngins might land me in jail. I remember the good old days when neighborhood kids were part of your extensive family, obligated to help you with your groceries, run to the store for you, and, yes, even listen when you sang. <p>
The world has shifted, and for me, Christmas has shifted too. For those of you who don’t know this, we’ve recently moved from our 2500 sq ft home to a 300 sq ft trailer. We sold our furniture and stored our stuff. Actually, I was able to squirrel away an amazing amount of stuff in the cupboards, draws, and tiny closets of our tinny little trailer, but I have no idea where I’ve put most of them.<p>
That’s kind of how I feel about Christmas this year. I have no idea where I’ve put it, or where TO put it, and this is making me blue. Not boohoo blue, but more of a brooding blue. I’m missing the familiar traditions, which I thoughtfully strung around my old Christmases, and because of this I feel a sort of vacancy inside. It’s like Christmas has gone out for a stroll, without telling me, so I’m here on my porch, wondering where it went.<p>
I know that I have to start from scratch with Christmas, but it doesn’t seem fair, because it took me a lifetime to create the old Christmas. I feel totally polarized. Yesterday I stood in the middle of our trailer for 5 minutes holding a string of lights and then put them away because there was no place to hang them, and if that wasn’t crappy enough, I’ve been waiting over a year to finally have a working stove, so that I could make sleigh loads of holiday cookies, but now I can’t because I’m on a low carb diet, which was recommended by my cardiologist. “Oh” you say, “Don’t eat them. Make them and give them away”. That would be like telling a zombie not to go for the brains. I have no self control in such situations. <p>
The truth is that I’m afraid to let go of my little holiday habits because the world has gotten so damn scary. My Christmas traditions helped to cushion me from all the chaos and clatter, like a soft pillow over my head, Christmas muffled out the discord. Okay, so maybe it was a bit limiting, even smothering at times, but I was willing to overlook it because, well…it’s all that I knew. But now my pillow has been taken away, and I’m jonesing on the porch, because that’s the only place I can string the Christmas lights. <p>
I know I sound like a whiny ass baby, and maybe I am, but I’m hoping if I sit on my porch long enough I might discover something profound…that in the deep, Leah silence, I am being called to this very moment, where a powerful light is shining. Sort of my very own Christmas light, originating from a place that I’m sure I’ve been, yet I can’t name. A familiar place where Ma’s hot chocolate never grows cold, color crayons are perpetually pointy, and life is its own answer. A place where one needn’t look outside of their own full heart to find happiness, for love resides within, a generous love that desires to consume fear, hate, and indifference, and is capable of rocketing you into your incredible life every moment of every day. It is the reason for life, which also happens to be the reason for this season. <p>
Wow! Where’d that come from? I must have been channeling George Bailey and Gandhi. <p>
Happy holy days, people. May you discover that you are not as powerless and alone as you might believe, and that your small hands are actually God’s hands, waiting to ease the world’s woes. So go forth and be merry woe easers, and if you’re in the neighborhood stop by the porch for a little eggnog. I’d invite you in but...there’s no room at the tin. Ta dum dum. <p>
Leah Griffithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10424758000036417506noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2626984735812620442.post-11956373813534025472014-12-01T05:33:00.001-08:002014-12-01T13:01:59.300-08:00Perfectionism Triggers Apocalyptic Melt Downs <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_ov_uUqi3jjeJVXzQWNltnTUm6jiLsbA_AlA3jcMQ-cAy6oB5xfzWaf2elgvQgris7-QQBnUNIpeV-395BzJdqQq6J9SIFSn4TYyAb_tEu3djWCKGWuDWNkiN8mX2zHvBk3Gy6_pLUQaD/s1600/booth1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_ov_uUqi3jjeJVXzQWNltnTUm6jiLsbA_AlA3jcMQ-cAy6oB5xfzWaf2elgvQgris7-QQBnUNIpeV-395BzJdqQq6J9SIFSn4TYyAb_tEu3djWCKGWuDWNkiN8mX2zHvBk3Gy6_pLUQaD/s320/booth1.JPG" /></a></div><p> <center>The Booth</center>
I’m a perfectionist. I used to believe that the badge of a perfectionist should be worn on the outside of the jacket; after all, perfection is the highest rung on the behavioral ladder, the blue ribbon of attributes, and the ideal to strive for. At least that’s what I believed. Yeah, what a crock of steaming you know what. Perfectionism is a disease like alcoholism, Tourette’s and pink eye. It’s a maniacal malady, which manufactures mirages, and measures mankind. God that felt good. And you know what else feels fricken good—letting go of perfectionism. Firing the police of people pleasing, the Nazi of not good enough, the shaman of shame. That felt good too.<p>
Living, and running the family business from this tiny trailer, is an exercise in imustbenuts, for my first nature is to produce an aesthetically pleasing environment. Well, that lasted for about a day. It’s like trying to keep a white tablecloth clean at a pie-eating contest. So I choose not to drive myself, or, Mike, insane trying to keep up with that expectation. If I’m going to keep my sanity I’m going to have to go with the cluttered flow, and stop judging myself, and Mike, for the mess. <p>
I’m also an idealist, which I believe is prerequisite for becoming a perfectionist. I get an image in my head of what something SHOULD look like, and then I go for it. I have images for everything, including people and food, and when something does not live up to the image that I created in my sick little mind I become unhappy. At least I see this now. For years I hated myself for so many things, but mostly for not being quite up to par. <p>
So I’m probably living in this tiny trailer so I’ll learn how to appreciate the important things in life like love, truth, joy, and gratitude—things with real value that won’t burn up should an apocalyptic event occur. <p>
Living here isn’t so bad. I actually appreciate some things about it—if I allow myself. I love that when I sit at the booth sometimes the squirrels will sit on the privacy fence, which hugs the trailer, and look directly in my window at me. They’re so close that I could count their whiskers. I love the canopy of tropical vegetation, which shades the courtyard on hot afternoons and dapples the ground with buttery drips of sunshine, and the urgent cries of the hawk, which wake me each morning inspiring the notion that each day is important. I adore Deja, the landlord’s Rottweiler, who stops by for a snack and a nap, snuggled in beside Little Dog, at the base of the booth, warming my feet as I work. And then there are the numerous fruit trees, bowing low with juiciness. Boy, I could wax poetic over some of the things here…there’s Duck Duck, the guard duck, who acts like she doesn’t like me, but lately I’ve noticed her quack softening when I walk by, and the tree house, which I’ve yet to christen, but I’ve purchased some rope so I can hoist my laptop and coffee up, leaving my hands free to help me climb the steep stairway. <p>
Then there’s the blessed privacy from the world. Sometimes I can hear it out there, rumbling beyond the jungle walls, but if I pretend a bit, it’s easy to convince myself that I live on a tropical island inhabited by me and Mike, and a few friendly natives.<p>
Yes, if I don’t listen to the stories in my head created by my neurotic perfectionist alter ego, about how a woman of a certain age should have more and be more, I could find it easy to enjoy this very simple life style. <p>
My mother used to say to me, “Leah, you wouldn’t know what was good for you if it landed on your nose.” Well, Ma, I think I’m learning. <p>
Leah Griffithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10424758000036417506noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2626984735812620442.post-40742391804231027452014-11-24T04:22:00.000-08:002014-11-24T04:30:30.805-08:00If the Trailer's Rockin<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjusLo29hQ-FLrZAuqd3DWrd39MKC6DvFrq7MzHImwFv1M2RDf6z-CD1KeOV3veA7nONAIld1OFWgOH2F_uuEGinOY_qh5O28ys1qxgzAyXhPgG6S3hAoHBR_9rWLCsQ0uXs169xBQfOGuG/s1600/tr33.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjusLo29hQ-FLrZAuqd3DWrd39MKC6DvFrq7MzHImwFv1M2RDf6z-CD1KeOV3veA7nONAIld1OFWgOH2F_uuEGinOY_qh5O28ys1qxgzAyXhPgG6S3hAoHBR_9rWLCsQ0uXs169xBQfOGuG/s320/tr33.jpg" /></a></div><p>It's been a while since I’ve blogged. Why? Well, let’s just say that my life has radically shifted—everything shakable has been thoroughly shaken. (Thank you God/universe/big bang/karma/my own stupidity.) I won’t go into the gritty details, not in this paragraph anyway, but let me just say that life hasn’t turned out according to my script. You might want to put on a bib because writing about this could get really messy. <p>
Soooo, 57 is a stable age. Right? One would think that my 401K would be locked and loaded, my mortgage paid off, my credit rating stellar, and my vacations well planned…I’m imagining annual treks with bffs, sharing morning mimosas, toasting our lifetime achievements. <p>
Surely by now I should be self assured or at least pretty-damn-sure…breezing about in trendy linen clothing, taking a bit of Botox to soften the years, laughing too loudly at parties, and hosting family gatherings, where grand kids tumble across my expansive lawn, parading about in red white and blue gingham, proving that my life has been fruitful, my heritage proud. <p>
It seems a woman of a certain age should be both financially and personally stable. At least that’s the message the media has been powdering my arse with forever, triggering a discontented itch—causing me to crave a much younger, thinner, richer version of myself, thus suffering for years over what I’m not—thinking if I only had the accessories I would be happy. <p>
Oh. My. Gawd. Somebody give me a lobotomy so I don’t think like this any more! I wasn’t born to perfect my resume, decorate the house, or buy into the herd mentality that a good life should match your high dollar sofa. I wasn’t born to amass an acre of stuff so that my kids can sell it off like the pulled gold teeth of a cadaver. I was born to experience life not promote capitalism. <p>
I was born to overcome the scary, and the ouch, of my youth. I was born to grow brave enough to question everything so that I can figure out who I am, and then perhaps help others to see who they are too. But mostly I was born to love, and then, whether I like to admit it or not, to die. <p>
Yes die. That’s the natural way of this world and I am tired of death being presented as some sort of evil surprise. Of course I speak of old folks dying, not of the young. When a young person dies the loss is stunning, and the grief wider than the echoes of eternity, because their experience here was cut off, and we miss them, but for the rest of us old farts, death is our ticket to renewed vitality. Be a little more appreciative. <p>
I always thought that the two paths spoken about in Stairway to Heaven, and all those other songs and stories, were heaven and hell, but now I know that the two paths are truth and lies. I’ve believed too many of the lies, and the scary stories that sprang from them, which caused me to lose touch with myself. For most of my life I didn’t know how to live it. I was struggling with a stringy ball of threads, pieces of fears and fables collected over the years, none of them long enough to knit a mitten of truth. <p>
Why bother writing about it now?—because if I don’t write I’m going to explode. And now, after some major shifts in my life, I feel a drive to put things on paper. I’m not really sure where to start so I’ll start with this morning, and then weave in and out of the past present and future. <p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil4ZeSBVzr7CaHyzaxWBiEzCMjDtBlX02GnRmcSXsAXGQLVgB3qQ9Dn5SpGr1Q551WFnqW3GecaQc-Trv1fWdDa8Zb0-f-j7s0nK7joAVYOm9FyMgHplxuMiM78GSNpiRDA52ZO6teRlJJ/s1600/rockin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil4ZeSBVzr7CaHyzaxWBiEzCMjDtBlX02GnRmcSXsAXGQLVgB3qQ9Dn5SpGr1Q551WFnqW3GecaQc-Trv1fWdDa8Zb0-f-j7s0nK7joAVYOm9FyMgHplxuMiM78GSNpiRDA52ZO6teRlJJ/s320/rockin.jpg" /></a></div><p>
My husband, Mike and I have just moved from our spacious 2500 sq. ft. home to a 300 sq. ft. trailer, which has been permanently parked on a jungly lot behind a big house, and although I’m thrilled to be able to finally hang a sign on my door that says, “if the trailer’s rockin’ don’t come knockin’” I’m a bit squeamish with the whole ordeal…sort of like the way you feel when you first try canned tuna fish…yuck—wait for it—wait for it—YUM! Well, I’m still waiting for the yum. <p>
Our decision to move into this tuna can wasn’t much of a decision; it was actually our only option if we wanted to stay in Florida and live independently. Our home was in foreclosure, and because of our stinky credit rating (due to said foreclosure), rental agents were holding their noses and crossing the street when they saw us coming. When this little trailer hit our radar at the 11th hour we jumped at the opportunity like a couple of greedy seagulls on a Mc-fry. The universe had finally spoken! We felt lucky to have it and still do. <p>
Right now I’m typing at my booth. I have to sit center in the seat as the flooring is a wee bit soft in places, and lord knows what a pain in the ass it would be to fall through the floor before my first cup of coffee. Anyway, sitting in a booth makes me feel like I’m in a diner. I keep waiting for, Flo to refill my coffee. <p>
The best thing about living in this tiny trailer is that nothing is too far away: bathroom, refrigerator, TV, pepper spray…they’re all within 10 steps of my centrally located booth. The worse thing about living in a tiny trailer is that everything is so close that it makes me to feel claustrophobic and off balance. I already have a collection of interesting bruises from bumping into shit. One looks remarkably like Jesus with an Afro, and I’ve spent half the morning trying to figure out how one would sell a bruise on Ebay. <p>
Back to gratitude…we are to the moon and back grateful to be here, in a trailer home of our own, and even though my 4lb Chihuahua causes it rock like Elvis when she changes positions, and the only place to put our big screen TV was at the foot of our bed, so that my husband spends most of his spare time in a cinematic coma, nesting like a pin-eyed pigeon on a drive-in movie screen, we are extremely thankful to have our own little space in the jungle. <p>Happy Thanksgiving America, and to the rest of you...Happy Everything!Leah Griffithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10424758000036417506noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2626984735812620442.post-66909849062385741252014-09-03T08:03:00.000-07:002014-09-03T08:03:45.668-07:00Winging it<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5pvJYYw3NhagOTGlmaYKSSzgNMhYeN9f6s6YRKXNhPsO8S9SLCjk5jkZnLcz1M_4v_FnblauFxp5bIdKJ22OxkdQ3ct-sShj-0xmtzO6Zv90AY1rOrptcDvhJfv2CU2rq5IicIr2c8apq/s1600/believeyou.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5pvJYYw3NhagOTGlmaYKSSzgNMhYeN9f6s6YRKXNhPsO8S9SLCjk5jkZnLcz1M_4v_FnblauFxp5bIdKJ22OxkdQ3ct-sShj-0xmtzO6Zv90AY1rOrptcDvhJfv2CU2rq5IicIr2c8apq/s320/believeyou.jpg" /></a></div><p>I always sensed that something vital was missing from my life. Was it a person? A situation? God? I wasn’t sure, but I automatically looked outside of myself for answers, which, if I were to write a book on how to give your power away, would be titled, ‘Looking Outside of Yourself for Answers.'<p>
I’ve spent my entire life dodging the shadows and measurers, those who delight in defining others. I’ve feared God, myself, and the future—flinching each time life made a quick move.<p>
I’ve wrestled with the meaning of life, invested myself in the study of death, and tried using crazy glue to reconstruct the ashes of 10,000 yesterdays. <p>
As a child I had a fascination with birds, always wishing I could fly high above the stained sidewalks of my gritty life, so high that the stains blurred into bunnies and well kept gardens, seeing the entire scope of existence all at once and finally “getting” it. <p>
Well, after wearing down countless pair of shoes I’ve discovered that I do indeed have wings, and the joy that this discovery has brought into my life is unmatchable. <p>
My wings are the knowledge that everything that I’ve ever needed to live a full, and authentic, life already resides within me, and that the best way to express this life is through bold creativity. Creativity is the voice of my soul, where inspiration becomes conception and concentration flows into timeless meditation. <p>
Actually, I was about 51-years-old when I first discovered my wings, and began writing my first novel, Cosette’s Tribe, and I was 56 before I put brush to canvas, expressing joy through color, so it is never too late to begin.<p>
But oh how tragic it would have been if I had never discovered my wings, and had spent my days anchored to my own limited stories, or even worse, bowing to someone else’s image of me in order to win their love and approval, never becoming brave enough to fly.<p>
Genuine love coaxes us to open our wings. It challenges us to try new things, hushing shame and judgment, while inspiring us to leave our fearful little nests and launch our hearts into the endless blue. <p>
Flying is a practice, and it requires lots of room, so give your wings the space they need to fully open. Breathe. Embrace your magic, and remember my dear one…you were formed from stardust and love; believe the rumors of your greatness.<p>
Wing it!<p>
Leah Griffithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10424758000036417506noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2626984735812620442.post-64212089230629474942014-04-14T08:56:00.000-07:002014-04-14T10:53:03.906-07:00The Kid Got to Me<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFCR7JLZL9SkvhaXaiAPqcaaUHZNb73wweGma4x1kE7QvPbtEZmBoWZqSiaDD34OI6J1hEgaaDnKhLxW1b7NSjTaiEj7YvQF3JStokHIOZBgdBs4T6ZY2fmmwdcyfOCUHhn5EXWhmgGVRK/s1600/milkylegs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFCR7JLZL9SkvhaXaiAPqcaaUHZNb73wweGma4x1kE7QvPbtEZmBoWZqSiaDD34OI6J1hEgaaDnKhLxW1b7NSjTaiEj7YvQF3JStokHIOZBgdBs4T6ZY2fmmwdcyfOCUHhn5EXWhmgGVRK/s320/milkylegs.jpg" /></a></div><p>I met a girl, 17 and lean—her feet pointing inward, causing knees to bump foreheads as she spoke of her future plans—describing dreams as distant as the milky spills of new galaxies, pale against the pitch black uncertainty of the universe.<p>
I found myself bowing to her naiveté, discovering a bit of my younger self in her newly set eyes. To be so eager and unafraid, like a rocket launching for the first time, piercing the conditioned “you cant’s", and the "don’t you dares” rocking life like a bubble-wrapped renegade from mom and dad’s front porch. <p>
When she told me that she wanted to write books I knew that she had suffered. Only the scarred would dare to write, to make sense of, or at least to look at, the entrails of life. I wanted to pry, to find out why this perfect little prom princess would want to write books. What had happened to make her look inwardly, away from the rockets and the blistering pink of youth? But of course I’ll have to wait and see. Perhaps she’ll be a literary star, or pen cookbooks featuring a thousand ways to use cranberries. I don’t know. <p>I only know that the kid got to me.<p>
Leah Griffithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10424758000036417506noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2626984735812620442.post-71142343947423987652014-04-02T05:36:00.000-07:002014-04-02T05:36:33.972-07:00Run Like Hell!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM6uvz7tmbJMKWb2W9zRVnoIIE6C8dLJ297WR9sTISzMrE68iLqeUtCiz0gZ_ol67W6H4ThXKMH00mWZDQKT0jqyESvkh-fOrRxgZMjD2iAXPM5ma_R_phdanaZ5iaPUuTEAzR6ZNywXeW/s1600/yikes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM6uvz7tmbJMKWb2W9zRVnoIIE6C8dLJ297WR9sTISzMrE68iLqeUtCiz0gZ_ol67W6H4ThXKMH00mWZDQKT0jqyESvkh-fOrRxgZMjD2iAXPM5ma_R_phdanaZ5iaPUuTEAzR6ZNywXeW/s320/yikes.jpg" /></a></div><p>Humans can be porcupinish in nature. You get too close and their adrenaline kicks in, triggering a panicky spray of barbed quills, homing in on your most vulnerable places, usually the face and eyes. <p>
And why would one place their face so close to a human? Because of love and friendship of course. Because someone has to take the risk, step in deep, show their soul, and because one is willing to believe the best, for the conflict exists only within the mind of the porcupine, who cautiously welcomes you in, keeping the quills slicked-back, until you request some authenticity in return, which is perceived as a massive threat, thus triggering the impulsive attack. <p>
And there it is lying on top. It’s always on top. The oily stain of “that should teach you”. But it rarely does, for the heart is both predatory and pollyanna, risking all for the hunt and the soul softening hug of answered friendship. <p>
Sometimes I want to hide from people, and at other times I want to spray them with some of my own quills, but mostly I just want to love them. <p>
How do you hug a porcupine? Bravely and wholeheartedly, expecting nothing in return, while being prepared to run like hell. <p>
Love bears the scars of trying. <p>
Leah Griffith<p>
Leah Griffithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10424758000036417506noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2626984735812620442.post-87539335396676861322014-02-27T08:09:00.000-08:002014-02-27T08:09:32.369-08:00I Left a Hot Pot of Coffee for This?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXv_3mXDignakIOrAA3_rAS23f3sQ3tnQLqa8KU02Sc4kw7IzHDUUMl1rbJWjh9GVmUvFSC3pHljwGzOOr9d0isLGoiyJXLCj0mTJOjkoyTXGjQ3HROkJ16MZjJC61cemd44jI3n6Q7UGb/s1600/carfog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXv_3mXDignakIOrAA3_rAS23f3sQ3tnQLqa8KU02Sc4kw7IzHDUUMl1rbJWjh9GVmUvFSC3pHljwGzOOr9d0isLGoiyJXLCj0mTJOjkoyTXGjQ3HROkJ16MZjJC61cemd44jI3n6Q7UGb/s320/carfog.jpg" /></a></div><p> It's early, and eerie, and I’m getting goose flesh as my morning walk leads me into some really dense fog. I have to push myself across the threshold of hesitation, for who knows what lurks in this heavy haze? And to think, I left a hot pot of coffee for this. <p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf2clcQY1PTIBWE8So8TLFyLywTGl8ZO7KWz1KOFnS5ai4ziG_eNaLzHIHPPTvSBZw3-KNJadh6r4IDpxvieeGjTqZ-s_Gl3DPkOvMYWnSytHlQ3g0zEoe_8GluNvA11a0vJUN6CqoyIIA/s1600/fog2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf2clcQY1PTIBWE8So8TLFyLywTGl8ZO7KWz1KOFnS5ai4ziG_eNaLzHIHPPTvSBZw3-KNJadh6r4IDpxvieeGjTqZ-s_Gl3DPkOvMYWnSytHlQ3g0zEoe_8GluNvA11a0vJUN6CqoyIIA/s320/fog2.jpg" /></a></div><p> Each day is a gamble, but most days, I’m bright blue with optimism—the sky is mine, as is the sun and the moon. But on foggy mornings, when my faithful witnesses have vanished, and the familiar markers of life have morphed into storybook giants, angry she-bears, and spiky plants with mean points waiting to poke out my eyes, how do I motivate myself to keep moving? Do I continue on only because walking backwards is impossible? <p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbXHWmBWgjPtaZeb0qvmUY4PCSzwDYJpIP_sjn3uJPisESIpnn21Ocq6cMakLwjBLOuWa_0HZI0mp5Xn-6hnlWWKTlSnb1QlA0UKq8c0lPLo96-84sbIhUEfec0tEOUbwcL3cC6TJmTmvM/s1600/foggy2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbXHWmBWgjPtaZeb0qvmUY4PCSzwDYJpIP_sjn3uJPisESIpnn21Ocq6cMakLwjBLOuWa_0HZI0mp5Xn-6hnlWWKTlSnb1QlA0UKq8c0lPLo96-84sbIhUEfec0tEOUbwcL3cC6TJmTmvM/s320/foggy2.jpg" /></a></div><p>
I’m amazed at the amount of faith I have in the moment—this flash of now that calls itself life and holds everything with such casual tension, often disarming me by droning on and on like a monotone math teacher, and then shifting my world with sudden brilliance like so many stars kaleidoscoping from heaven. <p>
I move forward, trusting that the odds are indeed allies. <p>Leah Griffithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10424758000036417506noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2626984735812620442.post-32676088690042548042014-02-14T04:32:00.002-08:002014-02-14T04:32:54.958-08:00Cupid Must Think I'm Stupid!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj18MX5m-LD617jACwZdmr6z1TUPb77v20HNHMk0y-UFrfmncF5V0dWjRIlPcYUJFXgjZxa3To4nQqmFju67CLNZ8cwXFoiDSLM-WBMWjPtuf2OpP9CA1ldKJjPExz8F7NzNB6oMdLrdbEY/s1600/cupid.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj18MX5m-LD617jACwZdmr6z1TUPb77v20HNHMk0y-UFrfmncF5V0dWjRIlPcYUJFXgjZxa3To4nQqmFju67CLNZ8cwXFoiDSLM-WBMWjPtuf2OpP9CA1ldKJjPExz8F7NzNB6oMdLrdbEY/s320/cupid.jpg" /></a></div>
Valentine’s schmalentine’s, who gives a crap? Is this day just for daters and maters or for the general population? I’ve been married 35 years and I’ve yet to get a valentine gift. Of course I’m not the type to make a fuss. I like to silently seethe. <p>
Actually, I come from Worcester County, which happens to be the home of the first Valentine. I think I should be demanding preferential Valentine treatment. And I would, if I thought it would do any good. <p>
In grade school we used to exchange cute little cartoon Valentines. Do they still do that or is it considered sexual harassment? I used to be in love with a kid named Stephen Sweet, and man was he sweet! Of course he loved Phyllis what’s her name, and not me. But each year I would savor the fleeting intimacy between Stephen and I as he placed a tiny white envelope on my desk….” I was always hoping for this:<p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEireVrrf_Uw6Af340iyFTrmXMlPiT_B9902OWY-FpJtiPRXIPW_PMa_U46wwGOJa0oz3bM6E2lJf17WzOE8MjzDJTap929_8oJBe3f51gUj2NmtmwqVGD-6Pw10O30TUxioLBHfR0NDlCKE/s1600/val2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEireVrrf_Uw6Af340iyFTrmXMlPiT_B9902OWY-FpJtiPRXIPW_PMa_U46wwGOJa0oz3bM6E2lJf17WzOE8MjzDJTap929_8oJBe3f51gUj2NmtmwqVGD-6Pw10O30TUxioLBHfR0NDlCKE/s320/val2.jpg" /></a></div><p>But I got this instead:<p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTsU2xVlgNbelNbjmtdLbJyuHLLkEV3JjEC35YKDhRvhB4Tn7v9kjfj7PZFnmvX-zzL9BiSiJU4d68xWinHkKhS94kVFluBAySinyim6uQ_CZYAZYS0N7KJlN_9M3bNP_n0N6l21CCL6JT/s1600/val.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTsU2xVlgNbelNbjmtdLbJyuHLLkEV3JjEC35YKDhRvhB4Tn7v9kjfj7PZFnmvX-zzL9BiSiJU4d68xWinHkKhS94kVFluBAySinyim6uQ_CZYAZYS0N7KJlN_9M3bNP_n0N6l21CCL6JT/s320/val.jpg" /></a></div>
<p>So you see, my Valentine expectations were lowered long ago, and since then I've learned to lower them even more still. <p>
I no longer hope for roses, perfume, romantic dinners, and expensive chocolates, but make due with, yard trimmings, deoderant, Marie Calendar’s in-home menu, and thanks to my new cardiac diet, red Jello.<p>
I’ve come to believe that Cupid has a nasty side, sparking inappropriate relationships for hundreds of years, getting our sappy little hopes up, only to have love blow up in our faces or go as flat as a couch potato’s ass.<p>
Cupid doesn’t mention that love has stinky feet, hogs the blankets, burps louder than a marching band, and thinks that a night out is putting on a clean shirt and eating dinner in front of the TV. <p>
So, I finally get it. If this girl wants a memorable Valentine’s Day she’s got to create it for herself. No more waiting for hubby to sweep me off my feet (or to sweep the front porch for that matter). I’m taking this holiday into my own capable hands! <p>
Ha! Cupid must think I’m stupid!<p>
Leah Griffithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10424758000036417506noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2626984735812620442.post-5085525355081991912014-01-12T08:34:00.000-08:002014-01-12T08:35:32.194-08:00A Soft Surrender <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYGSypMopHIWkcEaAWPR0YbJRlhhM1M5mKhvx39-JLi1K5xkCioAoVnmyBEALvXk1yjd9UiyJb2YHAUVDk3cIL8QDNm37YiQk198hcp-OOn8DJkrza9M_5mR0p3PHu_wuvQB7Q1gy2ROE7/s1600/goldsky.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYGSypMopHIWkcEaAWPR0YbJRlhhM1M5mKhvx39-JLi1K5xkCioAoVnmyBEALvXk1yjd9UiyJb2YHAUVDk3cIL8QDNm37YiQk198hcp-OOn8DJkrza9M_5mR0p3PHu_wuvQB7Q1gy2ROE7/s400/goldsky.jpg" /></a></div><p>I was taking my usual walk<br> when I noticed a fallen leaf on the grassy path ahead.<br> I couldn't help but feel a pinch of pity<br>wondering if this leaf knew that it was dying. <p>
I paused<br> waiting for the rise and fall<br>a faint pulse<br> but the leaf remained motionless<br> staring into the dappled underbelly of a former life. <p>Could it see the flitting birds above<br> whose cares blended well with green?<p> And what of the greedy squirrels<br> dropping acorns as they ran<br>the soft thuds of a midwinter snack<br>was it jealous of them? <p>
I remained still<br> pondering this gentle slip of gold <br>wishing it would somehow rage against the inevitable<br> maybe catch a swift breeze<br>ride it higher than blue.<p>
While wondering about all these things<br> I respectfully snapped a photo.<P> Upon viewing the simple image...<p> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijzcg5ek6gvJsmu02tC29fIOldiKcX1hPETiIboHnE9qP01IfIZQCz8VVsAopMvvi7TxhCMHqqYFekL7C1y8ZjXaVGPnzwOJVjML5tLF_w2g-Vm8VSAlJ5Si_uMn_ZWVmIDU35ADGytAgd/s1600/leaf.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijzcg5ek6gvJsmu02tC29fIOldiKcX1hPETiIboHnE9qP01IfIZQCz8VVsAopMvvi7TxhCMHqqYFekL7C1y8ZjXaVGPnzwOJVjML5tLF_w2g-Vm8VSAlJ5Si_uMn_ZWVmIDU35ADGytAgd/s200/leaf.JPG" /></a></div><p>I realized <br> that I knew this leaf very well. Leah Griffithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10424758000036417506noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2626984735812620442.post-33572680063112684812014-01-01T07:23:00.000-08:002014-01-01T07:23:01.532-08:002014, Come as You Are.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYHPP7tEfLTWxcAlxGwVLNHRTo8pvyY7cRUhkGRkJVpyN8yzrjI9B8qmbsPQLSLDCJ_gSy1rHI3el6GqMsWDKxqUtXqlbYPN-G7Z4By9zGARnDkusitL0lXpvxZlRrUvuiZ1MvwBYIM3y0/s1600/2014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYHPP7tEfLTWxcAlxGwVLNHRTo8pvyY7cRUhkGRkJVpyN8yzrjI9B8qmbsPQLSLDCJ_gSy1rHI3el6GqMsWDKxqUtXqlbYPN-G7Z4By9zGARnDkusitL0lXpvxZlRrUvuiZ1MvwBYIM3y0/s320/2014.jpg" /></a></div><p>I thought the year 2012 would kill me, but I made it through, entering 2013 with steady eyes and heightened expectations—silly silly girl. Turns out 2013 had its own plans for Leah, taking the opportunity to teach me some real stunners. I’m not talking cliché quips, or token phrases, but cut out my heart and run over it truths.<p>
The greatest lessons I learned were that I create my own suffering by resisting “what is”, because neither life, nor loved ones, are required to behave the way that I expect them to, and that by trying to change them into something they are not, I am in essence rejecting them.<p>
I’ve learned that without acceptance it is impossible to offer unconditional love, leaving me with nothing left to give but the tawdry offerings of love’s counterfeit—the affections of my demanding and judgmental ego.<p>
It was time for me to drop the belief that I was separate from everything and that in order to live a happy life; I had to protect, promote, and preserve “me”. This belief only perpetuated my self-induced sufferings.<p>
These are epic lessons—ones I’ve yet to master, but I will (for the most part;) do my best to practice them each moment that I’m alive. <p>
Thank you 2013. You were relentless in your lessons, but I know that I needed a good ass whooping to help me get unstuck. I am seriously grateful that you loved me enough to teach me…now get the hell out of here!<p>
2014, I humbly invite you to come as you are.<p>
Leah Griffithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10424758000036417506noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2626984735812620442.post-14050531113952787892013-12-12T07:06:00.002-08:002013-12-12T07:06:58.957-08:00Last Minute Tree<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgko3VEzQ2KuXX6Xjg9J7yOSZGx40SclGN4a6dqPgJaJRrudTtRHHjhQoEPleHpOv3hhI6v-PUGDDQ7UNfq1D0hVzOpQk1WtYUi_zqBEPQHR5hFAt3JK97yDHPpbk9qB1UnjESbOrAnQXXD/s1600/xtown.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgko3VEzQ2KuXX6Xjg9J7yOSZGx40SclGN4a6dqPgJaJRrudTtRHHjhQoEPleHpOv3hhI6v-PUGDDQ7UNfq1D0hVzOpQk1WtYUi_zqBEPQHR5hFAt3JK97yDHPpbk9qB1UnjESbOrAnQXXD/s400/xtown.jpg" /></a></div><center> Art by: Leah Griffith</center><p><center><font size="8"><FONT FACE="garamond">
<p>Last Minute Tree</font></FONT><br>By: Leah Griffith</center><p>
I was about eleven when Alberta Hazard, took me along to help her buy a Christmas tree. It was the night before Christmas, pretty late to be buying a tree, but I was excited to go. This would be my first time breaking away from the nest and seeing how other people did Christmas—discovering that our family wasn’t the center of the holiday universe. <p>
Although only eleven, I was Alberta and Rob’s babysitter, and a good one at that. I was old for my age, having no choice but to grow up quickly because of a complicated home life. <p>
The Hazard’s had five kids back in the day when that was considered an average sized litter. They weren’t your conventional family. They had a fully stocked bar that took up their entire dining room and they kept a vicious Doberman named, Ranger, chained up in the kitchen. The children were well behaved, but who wouldn’t be with parents as stern as Alberta and Rob. They were whiskey serious—you could smell it each time they spoke.<p>
Behind the bar Rob kept a leather strap hanging in full sight. The kids said it looked like a long black tongue waiting to give them a licking. It did. I felt bad for the Hazard kids. Their parents were mean, their dog was mean, and they spent most of their little lives on full alert—like deer sensing danger, tiptoeing around, trying not to piss off Rob, Alberta, or the dog. <p>
When Alberta and Rob would leave for the evening, I’d spoil the kids, giving them “horsey” rides, sharing my snacks, and letting them choose which TV shows we watched. They loved the fun, and I felt like a mini god exercising my power of good over evil. That’s why I was excited to be able to have some say in what kind of Christmas tree they had. Their last year’s tree had been a boney disappointment. <p>
Alberta wasn’t a big talker so we walked in silence, leaving me to watch the snow fall and wonder how something so delicate could make such hard crunching noises under my boots.<p>
The guy selling trees was bundled up against wind, standing under a streetlight chewing on a cigar. Alberta spoke first, “Where do you keep the cheap trees?” Her words sounded crude, absent of holiday manners. Mr. Cigar was just as bad, not bothering to answer, but simply nodding his head, directing us to a dark corner where skinny pines roped in twine, were stacked on top of one another, looking more like a pile of hostages than Christmas trees. <p>
I could imagine the flat line of disappointment in the kid’s eyes if we brought home one of those trees. Lord knows I was pretty familiar with that “let down” feeling myself, praying every night that my perverted stepfather would disappear from my life, only to find him at the breakfast table each morning fresh-faced and ready to rule the roost. I piped up, forcing out my words in big steamy breaths, “These trees are pathetic, Alberta. You guys need a pretty tree to go with that nice house of yours.” <p>
There house was nice—on the outside, but on the inside it was as stark as a cell. Alberta wandered over to a “pretty” tree and lifted a branch, meeting it with her nose and sniffing as one sniffs a rose. I held my breath, afraid of breaking the spell. Dropping the bough, she hollered over her shoulder, “What’s this one cost?”<p>
Alberta wasn’t a girly girl, she wore her hair pulled into a tight ponytail, carried a wallet like a dude, and had one eye that traveled, so you were never certain what she was looking at. She jingled the change in her jeans pocket, waiting for an answer.<p>
“Oh that there’s a Blue Spruce, came all the way from Colorado. That one will cost you twelve bucks.”<p>
“Twelve bucks for a tree on Christmas Eve? You’ll be burning them by morning. I’ll give you six.”<p>
The man shuffled over to Alberta, and lit his already smoldering cigar, sucking and puffing, creating such a cloud that his head disappeared altogether. <p>
“I’ll give it to you for eight, but that doesn’t include rope or me helping you tie it to your car.”<p>
Alberta flipped open her wallet and lifted a perfect tenner out, handing it over to Mr. Cigar Face. He snagged the bill and quickly added it to an ample roll of green, handing her back two ones. “You might want to get your husband over here to help you…” But before he could finish his sentence, Alberta had already lifted the tree and was heading out, with me running behind.<p>
It sure was a beauty, with thick fragrant branches, smelling like every kind of holiday happiness a kid could imagine. I took the light end while Alberta held onto the thickest part of the trunk. We made pretty good progress trudging through the snow along Main Street, passing store after store, their windows burning with holiday temptations, until Alberta’s good eye fixed itself on a neon sign, advertising that Archie’s Tavern was open for business on Christmas Eve. <p>The tree train stopped abruptly with an announcement from Alberta; “We’ll hoist the tree up here in this doorway, and go get a quick night cap. It will be our little secret.” And then she winked at me, sealing my fate as her co-conspirator. <p>
The floor creaked as Alberta led the way through a section of small tables. Heads turned and nodded as she found us seats at the end of the bar. I felt as though I had entered a secret society where serious drinkers, perched like a sullen flock, drowned their troubles in booze. I had to fight the urge to spin on my barstool.<p>
Alberta sipped her whiskey, half listening, as a guy sitting on her other side slur-whispered into her ear. I drank my Coke, glad to be on the end where no one could sit next to me.<p>
A black haired lady in a red sequin dress was busy plunking nickels into the jukebox. Her rump shook to the music like a shimmery lure, drawing a skinny guy from the crowd who pulled her into a slow dance. I strained to focus my eyes, trying to see her face, imagining pretty, but instead finding the face of an old hag fit for handing out poison apples. My stomach twisted as my mind tried to adjust to what it was seeing, and I wondered if she knew what she looked like to everyone else, or if she even cared…if anyone cared. This was a different Christmas. <p>
We made it back to Alberta’s by eight, leaving us plenty of time to decorate. Rob was passed out on the sofa, the kids were in bed, and the only creature stirring was Ranger, licking his bowl clean in the kitchen. <p>
Wilson Pickett’s voice scratched over the hi-fi as we strung lights, and tossed tinsel. We worked like frenzied elves on deadline. Finally finished, Alberta plugged in the tree and shut off the lamp. I had to catch my breath because of the beauty of it—the icy shimmer of Christmas reflected off the tinsel—dancing over everything, including Rob’s sleeping face, transforming their harsh living room in sugar plum softness.<p>
We rushed outside in our stocking feet to catch a glimpse of the tree through the window. It was Rockwellian perfect, fit for a holiday postcard. Alberta smiled at the warm vision she had created, and whispered, "Let's go wake up the kids." <p>
I remember Alberta loading her arms with the three youngest, while I tugged at droopy limbs and whispered, “Come see”. We half-circled the tree, the children’s eyes wide, their voices hushed with wonder. <p>
I could sense the spirit of Christmas standing there with us—the joy, the togetherness, and even though it was temporary, and things would surely go back to normal, Christmas was visiting the Hazard family, waking up little hearts to the message of divine love, and the magic of hope, and change. <p>
The Hazard’s left their tree up until January 22nd that year. Alberta begrudgingly agreed to take it down because Rob said it was a fire hazard. The next two years they had beautiful trees decorated well before Christmas Eve, after that they moved away and I lost track of them. <p>
I like to imagine that the Hazard children grew up and created memorable Christmases for their own families, and that my childlike input on that snowy, tree-buying Christmas Eve, was enough to make a difference for generations of Hazards to come.<p> It’s always the little things isn’t it?<p>
ELR wishes all our friends a very Merry Christmas, a Happy Chanukah, and a most Happy New Year. <p>
<center>May the blessings we wish for be the blessings we give.</center><p>
.<p>
.<p>
As a Christmas special, my novel, Cosette’s Tribe, will remain on sale for just 99¢ on <a href="http://tinyurl.com/nt6sog6/" target="_blank">Amazon</a> or <a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/cosette-s-tribe?store=allproducts&keyword=cosette%27s+tribe/" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a>.<p>Leah Griffithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10424758000036417506noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2626984735812620442.post-6165665986021240032013-11-30T03:18:00.000-08:002013-11-30T03:18:04.316-08:00Forever Carded<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVp4treemkhyphenhypheno0CWHwkRYW7-NtHiBjQ9uxsWJVXp3cDlgWs3Ef8Xqcs9tSLEh1xCtci58R6FIKbgWj3jGb7TR4-YNnR5jDaxbNBnWW8E82reOudHT8h0dYx1vjr8fLRYJnE_AkEu8NE8Ml/s1600/rcard.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5548688795820790082" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVp4treemkhyphenhypheno0CWHwkRYW7-NtHiBjQ9uxsWJVXp3cDlgWs3Ef8Xqcs9tSLEh1xCtci58R6FIKbgWj3jGb7TR4-YNnR5jDaxbNBnWW8E82reOudHT8h0dYx1vjr8fLRYJnE_AkEu8NE8Ml/s320/rcard.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><p>When a store clerk asks me, “Do you have our rewards card? “ I can never remember if I do or I don’t. So…out comes the over bulging wallet as I sift through the random contents looking for a card that I may or may not have, while the people behind me shuffle and sigh with annoyance. I finally give up; hoping my phone number will work in place of the card. The clerk then tries my home phone, cell phone, old phone number, and ET’s phone number, when all fails she then gives me a disgusted look and swipes her store card so I can get the 3% discount. Good Lord! I should get a reward for enduring the inconvenience and embarrassment of digging for the card …enough with the discount cards!<p>Some retailers give you the miniature ones to clip onto your key ring, I have eight on mine, and although they are easier to access, I still have to find my keys and then sift through the litter to find the right one. Why can’t they just give me a discount without making me baby-sit a little card for them?<p>My wallet has to carry my debit/credit cards, pharmacy card, license, auto insurance card, library card, business cards, photos of my beautiful granddaughter, money, ect, this is just my wallet. That wallet then goes into my handbag which is already bulging with other survival supplies, and now my key ring is heavy with ugly little plastic cards instead of cute key ring ornaments.<p>I feel put upon and abused by retailers and sometimes I find myself fantasizing about making the CEOs’ of these companies dance to a shower of ricocheting bullets for the entire length of time that it takes me to find my rewards card. </div><p>This pet peeve of mine was previously posted in 2010 and resurrected in honor of Black Friday and the holiday season. I was hoping by now we would have progressed past the plastic reward card phase. Nope.Leah Griffithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10424758000036417506noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2626984735812620442.post-62998815889902537092013-11-26T15:29:00.000-08:002013-12-11T05:00:57.551-08:00Easy as Tiddlywinks<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiULRaYmN69NYgKmqu8lxgRB0JEMKtaFjdoyJ5XQ-tscEHdjwcrKbmzBaYknZHnSAcHlQG_Rmb-9dDX8GvzcBQGqXK2uk-v2F_sifK-v_hwkyottZXWzCOtjlINP4Hr2mMTJDEQCVzCPjtT/s1600/silouette2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiULRaYmN69NYgKmqu8lxgRB0JEMKtaFjdoyJ5XQ-tscEHdjwcrKbmzBaYknZHnSAcHlQG_Rmb-9dDX8GvzcBQGqXK2uk-v2F_sifK-v_hwkyottZXWzCOtjlINP4Hr2mMTJDEQCVzCPjtT/s320/silouette2.jpg" /></a></div><p>
In seeking to write about Thanksgiving I found myself reaching back to the dim corners of yesterday, uncovering a misty vision of “little me” waiting in my crib for Ma to come and fetch me. I was standing on my toes holding onto the rail, bouncing as I begged, calling, but not crying. And then she appeared—wearing a smile as wide as an open window. With out stretched arms she gathered me up, and toted me off. I don’t remember where she took me, perhaps for a diaper change, but I was ecstatic, and if I had had a tail I’d of surely wagged it. I was grateful to have her all to myself—Ma—the beautiful, who ordered my world like a green-stamp goddess, keeping me fed, fresh-faced, and hugged. Always hugged. <p>
Back in my crib days it was as easy as Tiddlywinks to experience gratitude. Today it takes a bit of grown-up focus and plenty of practice, but like the opening of an oyster, the effort often presents luminous rewards. <p>
I hope that you discover enough blessedness within each ordinary moment to ignite blazes of gratitude in your heart, your life, and the lives of those around you.<p>
Happy Thanksgiving my good friends! <p>
.<p>
P.S. Cosette’s Tribe will remain 99¢ until the end of November! I am extremely close to my goal of 1,000 downloads in November (34 away). Please help me to reach that goal by purchasing from <a href="http://tinyurl.com/nt6sog6/" target="_blank">Amazon</a> or <a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/cosette-s-tribe?store=allproducts&keyword=cosette%27s+tribe/" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a>. <p>
Leah Griffithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10424758000036417506noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2626984735812620442.post-82280168995974299662013-11-10T06:05:00.003-08:002013-11-11T09:04:00.153-08:00Is There a Witch Hunt on Childhood?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBsZ7dG7JXFRKTVYnLr96ujfe3KnadsIquCDT98bovMgNbMzeP4Q1O3Is538cUyeoos0sVyDyFharlBsM5blbqQs3I-nbfENO8pREc7awiPxDHhZkpIs9NR9hXPcrHGhBNfM6QOoPgI3Rx/s1600/embersmile2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBsZ7dG7JXFRKTVYnLr96ujfe3KnadsIquCDT98bovMgNbMzeP4Q1O3Is538cUyeoos0sVyDyFharlBsM5blbqQs3I-nbfENO8pREc7awiPxDHhZkpIs9NR9hXPcrHGhBNfM6QOoPgI3Rx/s320/embersmile2.jpg" /></a></div><center>My magical little niece Ember</center><p>
This post isn’t going to be one of my usual esoteric romps. This one is more of a rant, but if I don’t let it out I just might explode. <p>
I’m really grateful that I got to be a kid back in the 1960’s before society turned into a neurotic knot of fear. Much of my childhood wasn’t easy, but nevertheless I keep finding more and more sentimental old war stories to brag about, like being force-fed cod liver oil, having to walk to school wearing a dress in sub-zero temperatures, or being allowed to bounce freely around inside a moving vehicle without a seatbelt. Station wagons were my favorite because we got to hang out that big back window and make faces at the cars behind us. <p>
We used an Etch A Sketch instead of a laptop, an Eight Ball instead of the Psychic Network, and rabbit ears instead of cable. At recess we used sticks as play guns and stole first kisses without being expelled and labeled as potential terrorists or sex offenders. <p>
My dog, Chips, a Shepherd mix, followed me everywhere I went back then. When we played touch football my buddies would always toss me the ball knowing that no one would dare come near me because Chips would nip them in the ass. I shared every Hershey bar I ever ate with that dog and she lived to be 14.<p>
Back then it was rare for a kid to be overweight because we were always outside playing, but today, because of poor nutrition and lack of activity, our children's health is seriously at risk. I’m not saying that our parents had it right, or that I don’t believe in protecting our kids, but our parents knew something that I believe this generation has forgotten, and that is how to keep things simple and use common sense. <p>
I feel rather sorry for today’s children because they have unwittingly become the victims of a witch-hunt on childhood triggered by the exaggerated fears of some of the adults sent to protect them. “Jason,” who bit his Pop-Tart into the shape of a gun and said, “Bang bang!” is not the enemy. Sweet Bella, who stole a kiss from Ben, and then kicked him in the shin, is not the problem. These are not criminals. They are normal kids. Our kids.<p>
The adults creating blanket rules that fail to take into regard the nature of children/childhood are the problem. When we allow fear to take the reins we lose our capacity to think clearly, which in turn affects our ability to use sound judgment—we become part of the problem, forfeiting our sense of community for a updated version of McCarthyism. I mean, what kind of person thinks it is appropriate to report a six-year-old to the law for stealing a kiss? Someone get a life please!<p>
It is said that what we focus on expands. Well, I believe that today’s kids need something positive to focus on before we turn them into small counterparts of our society—fearful hypersensitive little tattle tales. In short—I think this country really needs to lighten up and smarten up. We’re stressing our children out.<br> No!<br> We’re turning them into the enemy. <p>.<p>.<p>.<p>P.S For just 99¢ you can purchase my award winning novel, Cosette's Tribe, on Amazon and B&N! Get it now because there is just one more week left to this sale.Leah Griffithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10424758000036417506noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2626984735812620442.post-79557605368119104102013-11-03T05:01:00.000-08:002013-11-03T05:11:10.474-08:00Tripping Over Blue<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPrOdeEOGeiYIJOuc9DkNWJq84hceshZkXmQIcGULbiELPfUANH9JODsdhPY_dKJGP7vCULbX5zFIvHTaHbPFMz4f02H0sBTCQrcujVD8_9jrQfi0KKRVuhQ1QtN3MBSRHFMb41Z17kxrH/s1600/morn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPrOdeEOGeiYIJOuc9DkNWJq84hceshZkXmQIcGULbiELPfUANH9JODsdhPY_dKJGP7vCULbX5zFIvHTaHbPFMz4f02H0sBTCQrcujVD8_9jrQfi0KKRVuhQ1QtN3MBSRHFMb41Z17kxrH/s320/morn.jpg" /></a></div><p>
Morning yawns before me<br>
whispering blue<br>
whispering blue<p>
The same hungry bird circles<p>
And there I go again<br>
tripping over blue<br>
tripping over blue<p>
Leah Griffith<p>.<p>.
<p>P.S. Download Cosette's Tribe on Amazon or Barnes & Noble right now for just 99¢.<br> You're welcome!
Leah Griffithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10424758000036417506noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2626984735812620442.post-68706466424874006692013-10-28T07:54:00.003-07:002013-10-28T12:36:20.094-07:00Conjuring Halloween<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq_lcXgzX-m3nHPf11Go61r_aUgr4jnUtfplqnffIVGCDagGbA3lodyFyD7VPwSs0xvFbpsrNieJtvH4JhPvkgN7dAL41WGSRh26BzjSQIg7zhlMw-i3Myn-dMAdUAxLjq5xWwWpykGM09/s1600/house2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq_lcXgzX-m3nHPf11Go61r_aUgr4jnUtfplqnffIVGCDagGbA3lodyFyD7VPwSs0xvFbpsrNieJtvH4JhPvkgN7dAL41WGSRh26BzjSQIg7zhlMw-i3Myn-dMAdUAxLjq5xWwWpykGM09/s320/house2.jpg" /></a></div>
The thing that I’ve always liked about Halloween is that it temporarily demystifies evil, giving us permission to laugh at, and perhaps even celebrate, the dark side of everything. The common bat with its leathery wings, hyper-flapping against the tranquility of twilight, becomes a prop for hauntings and mayhem as we mimic devils, zombies, and vampires, sucking up their dark powers and using them for sport. <p>
We get to poke fun at our greatest enemy, death, by dressing as ghosts and skeletons, ha-ha-ha-ing the night away, puncturing our fears through with laughter—leaving them in a powerless puddle like deflated lawn ornaments.<p>
As a kid Halloween was a fantasy holiday, not only allowing me to imitate my favorite villain, but also providing a sugary booty, fit to inspire tooth decay and belly aches. What more could a kid ask for? So, in honor of our spookiest holiday I have composed a short poem and also painted a couple of pictures to go with it. I hope they inspire you to smile like a jack-o-lantern as you conjure some of your most memorable Halloween celebrations. I would love for you to share them with me.<p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1VuMN1M3md_TeMjhYop4chtGRj7R-Gj7YACG3hV3ANZBHNb5yRonjekiyChZchqyj6J_uOz3Iyesn05G61st6Y1soLl_Op8uIBuEQEon9-i_LfF-Z4h61PGEv_cHVaRWCU3ts5weBSKtM/s1600/hallow3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1VuMN1M3md_TeMjhYop4chtGRj7R-Gj7YACG3hV3ANZBHNb5yRonjekiyChZchqyj6J_uOz3Iyesn05G61st6Y1soLl_Op8uIBuEQEon9-i_LfF-Z4h61PGEv_cHVaRWCU3ts5weBSKtM/s320/hallow3.jpg" /></a></div><p>
<center>Trick or Treating<p>
Witches on brooms, haunting the sky<br>
While spiky black cats stand in fright mode<br>
Jack-o-lanterns aglow, there is mischief about<br>
As the beggars push out for their pay loads<p>
Sweaty masks hide, the fear in their eyes<br>
As they tread through the darkness with giggles<br>
Apparitions delight, in the juvenile fright <br>
While their mothers hold onto their fingers<p>
Bags weighed down, with chocolate and yums<br>
Their reward for an evening of pleading <br>
They have braved the dark night, swallowed their fright<br>
And will never forget trick or treating<br>Leah Griffith</center>Leah Griffithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10424758000036417506noreply@blogger.com19