A Romantic Rumor

I grew up with a diaphanous father who floated above me like a caption bubble saying, “?”.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.


This is a re-run of an old post, dedicated to those who never got to celebrate this day.

The Good Omen

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.

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.

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.

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.

About 7:00 pm the phone rang. It was a man’s voice, sounding as far away as Mozambique, and very official.
“I’m looking for a, Leah Griffith. Is this she?”
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.

“Yes. This is she.”

“My name is Sgt D. Hall with the San Francisco Bay police dept. Do you know Eric G.?”

“Yes. I just spoke to him Sunday. Has something happened? Is he alright?”

“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.”

Eric?

Dead?

Soup?

Not our Eric…

the genteel giant, and dignified Baltimorean, with Clint Eastwood grit and a Mr. French accent.

the story teller whose hearty laugh was as irresistible as a chocolate bar.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Eric loved us all

just as we were.

People willing to do that are rare.

I feel like a bite has been taken out of my soul

because I know

I shall never find another, Eric.

I hung up the phone

fighting for air.

I ‘m still not sure how to wrap my heart around any of this.

I certainly can’t erase it.

Sometimes life whispers

sometimes it sings

And sometimes life simply breaks your heart.

Abandoning 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…
”you’re too old to change."
"You’ve wasted your life."

Such were my thoughts while living in the box.
It was a tight and toxic environment,
where tainted truths were dished out in little doses.

And why did I ingest all the lies?
Because I was told to,
and I wanted to please them,
and it wasn’t their fault,
or mine,
or who knows whose,
because the road to every hood and home has been paved with lies since man's first thought.

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.

I stayed in the box in my twenties, when youth beckoned me “explore”.

I stayed in the box in my thirties, preaching with grave conviction on the apocalyptic consequences awaiting all who abandoned their boxes.

I stayed in the box in my forties, when the days turned stale and life became as unproductive as a dry heave.

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.”

In that instant five decades worth of boxy convictions toppled, inspiring me to peek outside of the box.

Yes, I did.

And what did I see?

I saw myself smiling
right back at me.

So I lifted my skirt
and climbed on outside,
where the sun in its brightness
shone as my guide.

I saw paintings and theaters,
dancers and drunks,
buildings and alleyways
sprayed on by punks.

Some things were so frightening,
I wanted to run
straight back to the box
and hide from the sun,

but I knew in my heart
I had something to do,
so I thought till a thought
bubbled up from true-blue.

I could write a book.
I could
and I did.
I wrote one about
my life as a kid.

It took all my breath
to say stuff out loud,
to recycle myself
back into the crowd.

But now I’m connected
to me and to you
to all of the people
in search of true-blue.

And life is much bigger
than
me
me
me
me
for it’s being lived
by someone who’s free!

Listen to life.
It is wise.
It is generous.
It is speaking.

An Enlightening Interview

Art by Leah Griffith

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.

Please find the interview below. I hope you enjoy the exchange.

LC: Leah Griffith is the award-winning author of Cosette’s Tribe (review here). She joins us today for a few questions about her writing process, her books, and her inspiration.

LC: When did you begin writing?
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.

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.

LC: Cosette's Tribe is somewhat autobiographical. What drew you to writing about certain times in your life?
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.

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.”

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.

LC: Tell us about the second book you’re working on.
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.

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.

I’m aiming for a launch of book two (still untitled) in the spring of 2016.

LC: Meanwhile, you can read more from Leah at her blog Truth From The Booth or her other blog Eating Life Raw.

LC: What do you hope readers experience while reading your books? What do you hope they take away?
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.

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.

LC: Connect with Leah on Facebook.

LC: Tell us about any awards or honors you’ve received as an author. What did those honors mean to you as an artist?
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.

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.

LC: Find Leah’s book trailer and website at www.leahgriffith.com.

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?
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.

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.

LC: Describe your writing space.
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.

The Booth

Little Dog

Cursing Louder Than a Northern Gale

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.

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.

It’s the familiar cycle of self abandonment

that I move in and out of

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.

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.

Yes, this is for me.

So here goes.

My Dearest Self,
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.

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.

You still are my hero.

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.

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.

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”.

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.

And finally, I wish for you to never forget who you really are…
that you were created from stardust and love
believe the rumors of your greatness--and how much I absolutely adore you.

Happy Valentine’s Day,

Love,
Leah

Death and the Rumor Mill.

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Lucy

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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’.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Holy Aha!

My latest holiday painting.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Okay, so I did get an aha or two, I just didn’t know it. I had to root them out with you guys.

Wishing all of you enough joy, love, and holy ahas, to last you all year long.

Love! Love! Love!

Perfectionism Triggers Apocalyptic Melt Downs

The Kid Got to Me

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.

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.

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.

I only know that the kid got to me.

Run Like Hell!

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.

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.

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.

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.

How do you hug a porcupine? Bravely and wholeheartedly, expecting nothing in return, while being prepared to run like hell.

Love bears the scars of trying.

Leah Griffith

I Left a Hot Pot of Coffee for This?

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.

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?

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.

I move forward, trusting that the odds are indeed allies.

A Soft Surrender

I was taking my usual walk
when I noticed a fallen leaf on the grassy path ahead.
I couldn't help but feel a pinch of pity
wondering if this leaf knew that it was dying.

I paused
waiting for the rise and fall
a faint pulse
but the leaf remained motionless
staring into the dappled underbelly of a former life.

Could it see the flitting birds above
whose cares blended well with green?

And what of the greedy squirrels
dropping acorns as they ran
the soft thuds of a midwinter snack
was it jealous of them?

I remained still
pondering this gentle slip of gold
wishing it would somehow rage against the inevitable
maybe catch a swift breeze
ride it higher than blue.

While wondering about all these things
I respectfully snapped a photo.

Upon viewing the simple image...

I realized
that I knew this leaf very well.

2014, Come as You Are.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

2014, I humbly invite you to come as you are.

Last Minute Tree

Art by: Leah Griffith

Last Minute Tree
By: Leah Griffith

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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?”

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.

“Oh that there’s a Blue Spruce, came all the way from Colorado. That one will cost you twelve bucks.”

“Twelve bucks for a tree on Christmas Eve? You’ll be burning them by morning. I’ll give you six.”

The man shuffled over to Alberta, and lit his already smoldering cigar, sucking and puffing, creating such a cloud that his head disappeared altogether.

“I’ll give it to you for eight, but that doesn’t include rope or me helping you tie it to your car.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

It’s always the little things isn’t it?

ELR wishes all our friends a very Merry Christmas, a Happy Chanukah, and a most Happy New Year.

May the blessings we wish for be the blessings we give.

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As a Christmas special, my novel, Cosette’s Tribe, will remain on sale for just 99¢ on Amazon or Barnes & Noble.

Easy as Tiddlywinks

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.

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.

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.

Happy Thanksgiving my good friends!

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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 Amazon or Barnes & Noble.

Is There a Witch Hunt on Childhood?

My magical little niece Ember

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.
No!
We’re turning them into the enemy.

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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.

Tripping Over Blue

Morning yawns before me
whispering blue
whispering blue

The same hungry bird circles

And there I go again
tripping over blue
tripping over blue

Leah Griffith

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P.S. Download Cosette's Tribe on Amazon or Barnes & Noble right now for just 99¢.
You're welcome!

Conjuring Halloween

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.

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.

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.

Trick or Treating

Witches on brooms, haunting the sky
While spiky black cats stand in fright mode
Jack-o-lanterns aglow, there is mischief about
As the beggars push out for their pay loads

Sweaty masks hide, the fear in their eyes
As they tread through the darkness with giggles
Apparitions delight, in the juvenile fright
While their mothers hold onto their fingers

Bags weighed down, with chocolate and yums
Their reward for an evening of pleading
They have braved the dark night, swallowed their fright
And will never forget trick or treating
Leah Griffith

Daring Soul Gypsies

Photograph by Bruce Dale

I haven’t been blogging lately, because I haven’t really had the energy or the urgency to speak. I’ve been in an "in-between" place of questions and guesses, venturing into the now, with now stories to hold my attention, and now beliefs to cushion the path…just me looking and pondering—asking the big questions: Who am I? Who is God? Why am I here?

I may not be able to define God/Truth, but I recognize it when I see it, for my God/Truth is my own—like the fingerprints of my soul.

Most of the time I believe myself to be lost. Not lost in a forever sense, but momentarily lost in the past or future, my mind jetting me back and forth like Judy Jetson, lost in the crowded cosmos of thought, scanning the written pages, and the crystal future of dreams and dreads to come.

One day I’m a laughing puppeteer—a genius creating situations that suit the sunshine, rolling down soft green hills—a dizzying burst of giggles, bumping into nothing at all because the possibilities are endless!

Another day I believe myself to be a colossal screw-up, stuck between an instinctual urge to soar and my bone snapping insecurities—a loser, measuring a tad lower than the brown water stains snaking along the baseboards of my self-imposed expectations. But this is what you get when you cross deity with dust, a hybrid human being with a propensity for immense error and epic love.

Like a tribe of wide-footed gypsies, my thoughts travel from state to state, carnival to carnival, toting my stories along with them, often convincing me that the fun-house mirror image of me is accurate. “Is that me?” I ask my closest friend. “No”, she says, as she stares at her wavy reflection, sucking in her midsection, trying to correct the uncorrectable. And isn’t that what friends do…remind us of who we are lest we get lost within the chaos of erroneous beliefs and unbridled thinking?

Sometimes, against my better judgment, I’ll mount the Carousel of Remembering, enjoying the sensation of movement, as I travel in small circles. It’s the colors of the carousel, the music and the horses, which bid me to ride, and even though I’ve done it a thousand times before with the same fruitless results, I still fall prey to this temptation, leaving behind my real life for a blurred tour of indistinguishable places and events from the past, creating a hesitation in my life—a lapse in Leah.

Our hesitations often become our limitations, the places in life where we doubt ourselves until we become stale and stuck. What are limits really but fear’s suspenders holding up our insecurities. Bull shit on fear.

So here I am today, a smidge bolder…and hopefully a bit badass too, still sorting things out, but coming to you with my mask off. I used to feel pretty much alone, but now I know that we are all here together—riding and jetting, thinking and being, creating and destroying. We really are daring soul-gypsies, forsaking the familiar for the uncontainable collision of right now. I love that.

The Long Halls of The Morning

I’ve been rising early lately, walking the long halls of the morning, not certain where to put myself. My thoughts are what cause me to pace. Invasive little buggers that hijack me on my way to my pre-dawn pee, unsettling murmurs with spikes and spears, finding the softest places in my heart—piercing the pinky folds where wonder, love, and moonbeams are hidden. I never wear my breastplate to bed—that brassy brassiere that guards my heart—I lay it aside in slumber; after all, a girl needs to rest unencumbered by fear.

These early risings have caused my schedule to shift. What I normally do at 10:am I find myself doing by 8, making my day seem like a long train with endless cars rattling by—leaving me waiting for that bright red caboose to end the sentence and lift the gate. Oh wait a minute. That doesn’t sound inspiring at all. It makes life seem like an endurance test of sorts.

Precisely.

Most days rise and fall with events and thoughts, some self-inflicted, some random— the inner and the outer workings of me coming together to create a life consisting of unanswerable questions, nagging have tos, and yes, bliss. Of course the bliss part of my people pie is relatively small—a sliver of sweet aside a platter of boiled liver and cabbage, and somehow I know this is my fault, but hello! I could barely deal with a 17-hour day and now I have 19 hours. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful; but can I really be trusted to carpe diem when I can barely vacuum the carpet?

I’m certain that these early risings have been sent as loving teachers to guide me on yet another divine adventure of how to live joyfully in the moment without judgments and expectations, and I am grateful for everything, no matter how mushy the texture or bitter the taste, but I hope I learn whatever lesson this is quickly.

It just seems I can never get away with anything. It's like my father's the principal or something. Some people skip through life with clean socks and new sneakers, zippidy-doo-da-ing through their day. Why do I always have to have a lesson on something? Oh wait…that goes into the unanswerable questions pile.

Please Universe… send me some fun tests next time, like proving to you that winning the lottery won’t ruin me. I don't mean to whine but I need my sleep!