A life time.

No set time frame for that statement.  A life time, in a sick newborn is a matter of days or weeks, if your lucky months.  You never heard their voice, or had a conversation with them.  But you loved them and cherished them dearly.  You’d die for them if you could.

A life time.

To a child with leukemia it is a torture not knowing if you will have your first date, if your date will care if your bald, if you’ll ever have a first kiss, be married, mow the lawn.

A life time.

To a young adult – it is a thousand years.  No worries, you are invincible.  You hurry fast, party hard, laugh too loudly because you do not care, you have all the time in the world.

A life time.

To a mature adult – we know better now.  We see how close that car got to us before it came to a screaming stop.  Maybe we walked away from a horrible accident, maybe our friend did not.  Life is a little too real.

A life time.

To a middle aged person – we can feel our wisdom and dip into it.  We’ve been there, done that and gotten a closet full of t-shirts.  We see our bodies changing to look how we remember our parents, when our consciousness turned on.  We’re a little more careful – life insurance, wills, trust funds if we’ve got.  You see the sunset in the distance.

A life time.

To a man or woman who cannot hold a coffee mug with one hand any more.  Who watches the young with a tear in their eye – happy for them, remembering  themselves.  Who tries not to burden anyone with their constant aches, tying a shoe, the crinkle of a diaper they cannot hear themselves, but painfully aware others hear it, smell it, they look away.  Knowing they may wear one day.

A life time.

There are no promises for just how long you have to live on this earth.  Feel the breezes, hear the birds discussing something important in song, touch the cool waters and bask in the sun.

Stop.

So slow down and be aware of this time – this right now – this – its all I have for sure time and do not waste it,

nor feel entitled to it,

or disrespect it.

Cherish it,

your time…

Thinking of Bridges

Delaware

Whitestone

Brooklyn, Tappan Zee

Suspension, stone, steel GWB

Draw bridges lifting

Must bridge the line

Dental bridge aching

Playing bridge calms the mind

London Bridge is falling down

The children sing and dance

Glasses sit on the bridge of a nose

A Band-Aid rolled and lashed

Rope bridge tied to canyon walls

Bridging mountains up on high

Root bridges grow in Jaintia hills

Bridging souls to heavens sky

Bridge the gap between us

Covered bridges up in Maine

To the bridges of Madison County

Golden Gate across the bay

From building the Bridge on the River Kwai

To Bridge Over Troubled Waters sang

Don’t burn your bridges behind you

May you find your way ‘cross again.

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Recently I had the amazing good fortune to attend a wonderful poetry workshop.  The Legacy Workshop Series called “The Brenda Connor-Bey Learning to See Discovering Ideas Where Words Hide” was offered in my local library free of charge.   If you have not stopped by your own library, I encourage you to check it out for these and other programs you can explore for yourself.  If you think you have to spend big bucks to expand your craft – re-think that!  The trick is to keep writing, any way you can, the more you write, the better you will feel about yourself and your writing.

On this particular day the focus of the program was “Food memories how it nurtures, comforts and rewards us”..  One of my favorite subjects – food, selecting it, preparing it, especially eating it.  I have always enjoyed cooking,  my mother used to say, “Cooking was cheaper than therapy?”.  Looking at our hips it might have been healthier to find a therapist, but definitely not as delicious.

The Learning to See program began with a discussion.  Then an opportunity to share ideas and prompts for the days writing.  There were variety of options given, followed by examples of different styles that writers have created.  The topic brought back so many memories and so many recipes that had stories baked into them.  Of course they did, I’m pretty sure everyone has stories centered around food, a holiday meal or special occasion.  As well as not so special occasions or stories they’d rather not remember.

I watched my mother and her sisters read cook books, I bought Maya Angelou’s  cookbook filled with wonderful recipes and stories.  Writing my own story of a memory about food was going to be easy,but which one would I choose?

After a few moments I thought about one of my favorite recipes growing up and to this day.  No Bake Cookies.  I invite you to read this free form style poem posted in the Original Poetry section of this blog,  About one day in a 7th grade  English class I learned to bake a no bake cookie.

Just in case you’re thinking about it – yes, I’ve included the recipe!  Enjoy!