Summer will bring kids and their parents to my home which means tea and more tea with painting and more painting plus some history tossed in.
Depending on the country, the ceremony or party, the kids use traditional cups dated as late as the 1940's. My number of countries represented in tea is down to 38 countries because my Kenyan Ceylon container is empty. It's on my list of must have. We've got so many good stores around here but I can't seem to find one that will order this tea for me. I want the loose leaf by Safari.
I let the kids use vintage and antique cups without worrying too much about them breaking but I went ahead and retired my English rose tea pot. I'm a bit more protective of that one. No one uses my daily tea pot either. I'm even more protective of it. I don't fret a lot about the cups being broken but I do expect all to use them respectfully. If one should break then it'll do well as a planter and I can go to Goodwill and search for a replacement. Goodwill is where many online shops get their tea cups for which they charge exorbitant prices.
She's a young one with sad eyes called "With all her imperfections."
Can you love her with all her imperfections? Can you forgive her moody ways, her tendency to frown instead of smile? Can you love her shyness, her uneven horizons?
She spits out poetry like she's on a stage show before college kids smoking herbal cigarettes and talking about diversity. She'll never fit in with them because she thinks they're shallow, but she can't bring herself to stop the verse.
Her eyes have been wide shut to ambition, calling it the true path to unhappiness. Her eyes have been wide shut to the clamor of panels on the news telling her how she should feel about the newest outrage, describing it as "woke". She can't stand it. She feels too much, says too much, writes too much and excels at imperfection, but she needs you to love her. With all her imperfections, can you still love her?
Her face is the canvas of her few years of life. There's still room on her cheeks for roses, still time for the love of life to kiss her lips pink. The brow line still rises and behind sad eyes there is living hope.
Can you still love her? With all her imperfections, can you still love her?
I hugged the lady very tight. She knows my sister. She gave me an update. My sister has locked herself in the apartment and there is still no movement, no contact, nothing has changed. They do know she was last seen in there. No phone activity, no FB activity.
I hand wrote a letter to her. I said nothing negative at all. I said she doesn't deserve to die and that I understand a lot of what she's going through. I asked her to rethink things, to let her support system do what she gathered them to do. She sought out good, solid supporters. I know 2 of them personally.
Of her friends, I asked them to have patience with her. She's a 50-year-old woman who doesn't know what to do with herself. She has to be told what to do and when she's told, she will do exactly as she's instructed. She won't do more or less. The lady kept looking at me like it should be simple for her to function because she's a 50-year-old woman. I said, she's not a 50-year-old woman who has matured. Being on her own is culture shock. She has no clue what she's doing, none. I shared the story that tells exactly how she thinks. I told the story about the garbage bag that my mother told her to get. She got the bag and then waited to be told to put the trash in it. Her friend put her hand over her mouth then said, that's exactly what she does. She waits to be told what to do.
Now you know I have to write about this. I saw the question posed in an entry. As a matter of fact it was the entire entry. What is a mother's love?
My first reaction was to think I don't know because I've not ever felt it but that's not true. I do know what a mother's love is because I'm a natural nurturer. I was a foster mother light years ago.
A mother who loves her child seeks out the best for the child. She helps provide the basic needs but she also touches softly, gives a shoulder to fall asleep on. She cleans up cuts and scrapes. She teaches life skills and leads by example. She's prideful, strong, mild, meek, serious, playful and a thousand other personality traits that aren't detrimental to her child. She's not all at of it wrapped into one. She's an individual, not a character on TV.
A soft white rabbit with a rose colored dress sits beside my very first doll house.
Art Title: "My First Doll House" Art By: Faith Magdalene Austin Media: HP ink, acrylic and ink on acrylic paper with small grain Paper size: 11.5 x 8 Painting size: 5 x 6.25 inches Finish: signed, unmounted, unsealed Style: Illustration ...continue reading →
I realized the other day that I know very little about my mother's childhood other than the abuse. I know they traveled extensively. I remember the house and was absolutely impressed with the basement and it's many rooms and how it lead to the backyard. There are good memories from my grandmother's house yet very little is known of my mother's day to day childhood life. I know even less about my aunts.
The aunt I will eventually sit down with was bullied at school for her very dark skin with very dark, straight hair. They turned her name into a cruel song game. I can all but see them circling this very pretty, well dressed school girl who is trying to ease through a space between girls skipping and singing about how ugly she is.
Could they ever know their songs would be so heavy on the heart of that child and then the adult? No. They too were children and children just don't get it. They don't get how deeply their sing-songs hurt because they lack the life experience to know how emotions work. Kids live in the moment, they're growing, taking risks like there is no debt to pay, no bruise that won't heal. They were just kids that abused my aunt, just stupid kids. How hurtful stupid kids can be to those with a little bit more life under their belt and a clear understanding of emotional consequences.
We put away some of the anger and upset concerning my sister feeling abandoned by me. I won't deny her emotions and the reasons for them, but I don't have to validate them either. If she feels abandoned then that's how she feels, I'm sorry she feels that way.
What Dr. D and I discussed today is how I don't understand it. For a person who couldn't stand the ground I walked on to say she feels abandoned by me, doesn't make a lot of sense to me. She hated me. Her behavior said she loathed me. I felt like crap, felt like I was there only until some other kid came along and then she could go off and play with him or her. My mother exploited that division. However, with a short conversation about how I felt I was seen by my sister, I was able to put away guilt for leaving a person whose behavior said she hated me.