Painting Your Soul Red

Art by Leah

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.

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.

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.

If you were struck blind, how then would you measure your lover’s fairness?
For beauty and eyes both fade, but love abides in the timeless heart.
Youth’s brief kiss will soon be forgotten.
And what then?
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.

HAPPY VALENTINES DAY, LOVERS!

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.

Temple's Spire

Temple's Spire
Leah Griffith

I thought I’d live a bigger life
of sweeping landscapes speeding by,
and neon wonders twinkling bright
against a starless urban sky.

An up-close view of all that is
a searching of the sea and more,
each grain of sand,
each polished shell,
whose chambers whisper to the shore.

I thought I'd climb a castle’s tower,
and punctuate through guarded clouds,
favored with the highest views,
through secret doors concealed from crowds.

All this I’d hoped and much much more,
for words cannot justice give,
the longings of a woman’s heart,
where limits part and hope begins.

Three score and ten—little more,
the gods have counted out our days,
pursued by dragons spewing fire,
and warmed by love’s contented blaze.

The best of years now lag behind,
when muscles answered each demand,
and clear minds snapped with fresh ideas,
ready with a perfect hand.

But now the needle’s eye has closed,
the hand unsteady takes its time,
The castle on the hill afar,
stands flawless in my shrouded mind.

And what remains
is mine to own,
the gold, the dross, the love, the dire;
the journey inward has outrun,
the swiftest feet to temple’s spire.

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

Winging it

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.'

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Wing it!

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

Cupid Must Think I'm Stupid!

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.

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.

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:

But I got this instead:

So you see, my Valentine expectations were lowered long ago, and since then I've learned to lower them even more still.

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.

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.

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.

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!

Ha! Cupid must think I’m stupid!

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.

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!

Surrender to Your Nakedness

I’ve kept clear of writing lately opting instead to dip my brush into tiny puddles of primaries and pastels. It’s not that I haven’t felt the urge to write, but rather I’ve grown tired of my own words. For me writing is a reflective vocation where my words spell out the contents of my heart. If my heart is heavy, my words are heavy, and quite frankly I’ve been in such a state of introspection lately that my writing has become an extension of this self absorbed circuitry.

This negative energy has been trying to drain me of my strength and pallor for some time now, so when my friend, Julia suggested that I splash my life with color; I jumped right in. Actually she made me take up painting as a homework assignment for her Getting Naked Class, that I attend. The class has been huge help in pointing the way to the things that really matter. So thank you Julia for giving me an artistic nudge.

This morning I’m writing because I miss it and I’m hoping to discover some tiny treasures, perhaps a clue as to how to navigate beyond the limited default settings of my mind to a place of freedom and intelligence, a place where the past is tucked in and understood and doesn’t rule the day. A place where the future needn’t mirror the past but holds infinite possibilities and endless surprises. I want to be rid of all the senseless gloom and doom and skip off into the land of perpetual tra la las.

By making the writer paint I’ve stepped off of my predictable path. My artwork is childlike and two-dimensional, bespeaking naivety and a clear lack of formal training, yet it is honest and untainted by the measuring madness of the ego or the shortsightedness of ambition. Painting, when I’m not certain how to paint, has taught me that control is an illusion, as are security, perfection, and time, and that I need only be myself—my rag-tag, bedraggled, silly, somewhat gullible, grumpy, and overly-deep self in order to be happy. I am enough.

Surrendering to this truth is like stripping naked in a fabulous boutique. The silks linens and cottons call to me from the racks, but I must remain naked until I’m certain that I’m not using the clothing as a form of disguise or surrogate security. I must surrender to my nakedness as surely as the evening must surrender to dawn, spring to summer, autumn to the callous cold of winter, and finally life itself must surrender, like a startled zebra seized by the committed jaw of a lioness, to the relentless grip of death.

I am convinced that until I can consistently determine the difference between the conditioned voices of yesterday and the compassionate and intuitive words of today…right now, I will continue to get trapped within the webby inertia of identity-dementia, and waste my days looking backwards for the road ahead.

Transcendent Tango

In recognition of the close of Poetry Month I have revised an old poem I wrote. I'm dedicating it to April, a pretty month, honoring her devotion to hope, awakenings, and vibrant new beginnings.

Transcendent Tango

The sky is a moody companion
driving calm white billows
into foamy currents over blue
piercing thunderous cliffs
with jagged lines of silver
and sending the sun into exile.

I skip.
Not really.
But I have the mind to
for the wind has revived the fallen leaves
who thought their days had ended,
yet now believe themselves to be graceful birds,
with preened feathers
and focused beaks
slicing through the air like winged messengers
eager to tell the tales of love.

I long to keep up with them.
But no.
I reserve my energy
and watch
as my quickened spirit takes flight
twirling with the resurrection.

All are present
yet there are no witnesses
to this transcendent tango
bequeathed by wasted poets
teased by passion's hallowed flames.

Dip me my immortal
kiss the white line of my neck.
Visit me
till evening bows in sated surrender
and morning sings anew.

Leah Griffith

An April offering.

On Transitions, Shifts, and Bed-Ins

For the last few months I’ve been enjoying a morning routine of slow awakenings—opening my eyes gradually then pushing myself into an upright position, propping a wall of warm pillows behind my back—viewing the day as a patient would from a sick bed, although I’m not sick at all, but rather in a place of transitions and ponderings. I wonder if our transitions should be allowed the same pampering offered to the sick, after all, transitions require quite a bit of adjustment and mettle. Actually failure to transition smoothly often results in all manner of ailments and mental collapses.

This winter I decided to make some changes, in order to help myself adjust to other changes, by staging a bed-in (sort of like John and Yoko’s) only with mine lasting just an hour or two each morning. Normally by springtime I would have headed out to the lanai to sit with the sunrise, and I have done that a few times, but this year most mornings beckon me back inside to gather and fluff—lingering in the nest with my coffee, cushioned by a drowsy gentleness with no sharp corners to navigate.

What is this transitioning? What does it matter, for life is a dedicated series of changes and shifts teaching us the freedom of detachment and the wisdom of uncertainty…over and over again. Each of us must faceoff with the great illusion of permanency and control—that tug-o-war between deity and flesh, and finally come to a place of surrender, where we discover the contented flow of life.

I used to leap from bed with the boldness of a bullet, but lately I’m not so daring. It’s been a bumpy year and I’ve seen what a day can do, so I solicit Divinity’s help before my bare feet have a chance to hit the cold tile floor, beginning my day with an hour of reading from an eclectic selection of inspirational writings (It’s amazing how a well-ordered dose of words can secure a shaky soul,) and then I take an amateurish stab at meditation, ending with a meaningful exchange with Spirit. After this, depending on the day, I laze for a little while and write…or simply be.

I’ve found bed to be a sensible place to transition, but it’s also great for other things, like engaging in intimate phone chats with best friends, doing my nails, not to mention escaping the world altogether by watching several episodes of Downton Abbey. I can pay my bills from bed; write a review, text a friend, exercise (leg lifts, crunches, and the subtle, but all important, kegel exercises), or invite family members in. As a matter of fact if I’m not careful I could easily become addicted to living in bed.

One day last month I stayed in bed till 2pm. My oldest daughter had slept over and in the morning she crawled in with me where we spent half the day chatting, playing with the dogs (I have very small dogs) photo’ing the dogs playing together, photo’ing each other’s morning faces, eating, leaning into each other tee-pee style while watching a movie on my 7” tablet—experiencing routine activities with great novelty from the perspective of our little nest.

I like the fact that I can go straight from bed to the shower without having to put on “morning clothes”. Morning clothes are the things I grab to keep myself covered while I do my morning routine; they are usually dirty, mismatched or ripped. If I stay in bed long enough I can eliminate the need for morning clothes and go directly from sleepwear (a wife-beater and undies) to daywear—properly cleaned and coordinated outfits with shoes and accessories.

Another benefit of hopping back into bed is that I don’t have to answer the door. “I was in bed.” Is always a legitimate reason for avoiding early morning visits from wide-eyed neighbors. Of course they may judge me as lazy, but who gives a chit. It’s my life.

Why the change? Like I said, I’m accommodating a transition. My life has shifted—and it is speaking to me. I need to listen. I need to marinate in the things that really matter in order to hear and see beyond the glaring illusions of fear and lack, which our world so steadily promotes. I’ve discovered that the things, which scream the loudest, are very often not real at all, but clever distractions drawing my attention away from the things that genuinely require my care. So, I’m doing this because I need it, and because I deserve this special time of catching up with myself. Who knows how long my schedule will allow for these easy mornings, so I intend to luxuriate in them like a hot bubble bath…until the last bubble pops and the bathwater grows cold.

Lean Into The Blade

How is it that the most powerful moments—the life-shifting events of epic significance—seem to offer the bloodiest, most repulsive, run like hell away if you can, lessons? Yet one can rarely run from the big-screen reality being played front center, where you are cast as both the adored leading lady and the despised villain. So is the way of the well-intentioned life…day after day, sunrise-to-sunrise—messy, in your face, LIFE.

Do you suppose that maybe God sets up our lessons? I can see him; sitting in his director’s chair with his glasses perched low on his nose, “Okay, this is where she finds something very special. Cue something very special. And…action!”

Oddly enough this serendipitous meeting with “something very special” is just the catalyst needed to trigger an avalanche of happenings—all timely, some breathtaking, and some excruciatingly painful, so painful in fact, that you have moments of believing that death would be a blessed relief.

And what does God say when you’re about to bleed out? He says, “Lean into the blade my child. That’s right. Feel the cut of it; welcome the gurgling panic of your ego as it sinks beneath the ruby flow, releasing its deceptive control over your mind.

In the remote wastelands of your soul, not a drop of blood is squandered nor a bitter tear ignored. Pain, a most ferocious lover, will be waiting to drive you deeply into reality where you will finally discover that the solution you so desperately sought dwells within the very heart of your problem.

So weep until all dross is purged, leaving only the sparkle of your uncorrupted Spirit’s smile—Love, ever waiting to escort you back to yourself.”

Today’s lesson: Never seek happiness outside of yourself for to do so is to say, “I am not enough.”

Oooo! Oooo! Oooo!

Teacher: “Okay class, put down your pens. We're going to have an oral pop quiz! Who can define the meaning of living an authentic life?”

Oooo! Oooo! Oooo! I feel like a kid raising my hand with the right answer. When I get full of something you know it’s going to overflow into my writing. So, here goes….

I am my authentic self and I am living an authentic life. It’s a funny term when you think of it…authentic self, authentic life. Like we’ve been offering our bodies as hosts to alien spirits. But in a way it’s true. Emotional pain can cause us to morph into damaged versions of ourselves. It can begin at a young age, and without even realizing it we can live in this state for most of our lives, often wearing a mask to hide our pain.

Or maybe we do realize that we’re feeling “off” and we commit to working on ourselves, making good progress, but then a strategic situation is placed before us to test our growth, the stakes seem higher than ever before, and we do alright for a season, but when the situation moves outside of our control, we freak out, reverting back to our unhealthy thought tracts—responding from a place of panic and desperation, until we no longer recognize ourselves. Where the hell did the real me go?

I can see myself walking into a busy pawnshop and telling the clerk that I want to pawn myself. Would he pull out a loop and look for a signature? Do a scratch test for carats? I can hear him saying, “Sorry lady, but you’re not authentic. You’re a rather sloppy copy of the rare and beautiful Leah Griffith.”

Huh? When did this happen? How could this happen? Was I the victim of a highly sophisticated heist?

If only it were that easy to detect when we’ve lost ourselves. The term authentic self may be a bit overused but the message remains mighty: You are rare and valuable. There is only one of you, and once you allow life’s circumstances to distract and overpower you, you are no longer free to be yourself. You’re living in, and acting from, a state of fear and bondage.

We mostly tie ourselves up in knots and then blame it on other people, emotionally framing them so as to shine the spotlight of suspicion elsewhere. Of course we don’t do this consciously; it’s the ego at work behind the scenes, protecting its fragile empire of half-truths, fears, and delusions in order to get its way and remain blameless and in charge. You may say, “But they wronged me! How is that tying myself up in knots?” Well, believe it or not, you gave them the rope (the power) when you placed too much importance on their roll in your life. By doing so you placed them on the throne and relinquished your power. They may not even be aware that you’ve given them your power. Or perhaps you gave your power away to drugs or alcohol. And why did you do this? Because deep down you held the erroneous belief that something outside of yourself was capable of making you happier than you ever could.

Oh Dorothy, when will you learn that you have always held the power for a happy life?

Here’s a good question: How does one go about taking back their power?

We lose our power one compromise at a time. Gaining back our power is pretty straightforward—but also a lifelong exercise. You must believe that you are a complete person possessing everything you need, both spiritually and emotionally, to live the amazing life placed before you. You must remind yourself of this every day, and when trials come you must remind yourself even more often. Of course you should welcome, love, and appreciate, the people in your life, but you mustn’t ever override your own instincts or convictions out of fear of rousing their anger or being rejected. Be brave enough to love and support yourself and quit comparing yourself to others.

Here’s the really good part about being authentic. Once you take your power back you can then use it to forgive yourself—for abandonment. Yup. You abandoned yourself. Not on purpose of course. But lets say as a child (before you had the emotional maturity to protect yourself) a parent did desert you, and then you carried that rejection into your adult life. You danced to the old tapes for years; never moving beyond the belief that you were not quite enough…something vital was missing. But now as an adult you are able to see that it is impossible to truly be abandoned by another person because only the inhabitant of a dwelling has the power of abandonment. The Free Dictionary’s
definition of abandoned is: unoccupied, empty, deserted, vacant, derelict and uninhabited. So you see, you would have to vacate (abandon) yourself in order for another person to move in. Only you can abandon yourself and give your power away to someone or something else.

Another way to use your reclaimed power is to forgive those people who have hurt you. Now that you have your power back you can see clearly that the other person was simply acting from his or her own limited view of self and life. You can stop measuring and judging them and freely offer them unconditional love. This is a divine love. Not one based on ego, (as long as they make me feel good, or agree with me, I’ll love them) but based on self-love and self-respect, both of which are divine qualities.

Being our authentic selves means fully inhabiting our lives—living from the inside out rather than the outside in, responding to life from a place of love instead of fear, and then offering the world our authenticity instead of our egos. It’s a nail-biting endeavor guaranteed to humble and test, but for those who want to live a powerful life, saturated with creativity and love, there is no substitute.

Okay, enough of my teachy mode. You do realize when I dole this chit out it’s only because I am learning it myself;)

Have I told you lately how glad I am that you’re here with me?