Arizona

Growing up in small town and rural north western Pennsylvania, I never imagined ever seeing Arizona, let along living here.  My family didn't travel much.  I remember a couple of trips to my Mom's friend Maxine's in or around Detroit, MI.  I remember a few trips to Pittsburgh, PA to visit my stepfather's sister, Mary.  We even moved there for about one year when I was 8 years old.  That was culture shock for all of us.  We lived in a high rise apartment on Brookline Blvd.  It probably wasn't a "high rise", but I remember my nose pressed against the window of my bedroom, looking down at the cars below and thinking they looked like Matchbox cars.  My mother hated it, so in one short year, we moved back to small town Franklin; and then a few months later, into the country 9 miles south.  So, newly married and moving across the state and up into the Hudson Valley of  New York State was more than I imagined in my childhood. And certainly,  moving across the country as a young married woman with 3 children was really far from what I imagined in my life. Yet, I think there might have been some deep seeded wanderlust going on in my heart.  Whenever we would venture beyond visiting family for a vacation, I found myself falling in love with everything I saw.  Whether it was seeing the ocean for the first time or going to Maine or South Carolina or the mountains of New York State or even New York City...I always loved it. 

When Ron came home one day in the early 80's and said that a possible transfer to Tucson, Arizona was being discussed, I was floored.  I had always told him that I would move anywhere before the kids were in school, but after that I didn't want to uproot them.  Yet, here was the opportunity to see another part of the country and it was a good opportunity for his career.  So, I asked if I could go along for what they called his "survey trip".  I said I just didn't think I could go that far without seeing it.  I envisioned the Sahara Desert and spiders and snakes crawling along the sidewalks. I was sure my children would be eaten in the night by some desert creature. 

It was approved and I was allowed to go on the "survey" trip with Ron to Tucson.  Wow!  This was culture shock. But, it wasn't the Sahara Desert like I thought.  It was beautiful.  Sure it was HOT!  It was early July and it was actually steamy with the monsoon rains, but still not muggy and unbearably humid like it was in the east in July.  I loved the swaying palm trees.  I loved the cacti...especially the towering majestic Saguaros.  I did not have a clue how to pronounce any of the vegetation. I won't even embarrass myself by telling you how I pronounced Saguaro.  Use your imagination. I especially loved the mountains that surrounded the city. I was told those were the Catalina Mountains to the north...the Rincons to the east...the Santa Ritas to the south and the Tucson on the west.  I was immediately drawn to the Catalinas.  They took my breath away every time I saw them. 

We went to various restaurants and even had a lady show us some houses just in case we moved here.  We drove around ourselves, exploring the area.  We took in as much as we could in a few days.  The Tucson International Airport is small and in those days (1981), you still had to walk out on the tarmac and up stairs to the airplane.  As I walked up those stairs to board our plane back to NY, I stopped midway and gazed over at the Catalinas to the north and I knew I would be back.  I just had that gut feeling, even though we had not really discussed or discerned about our decision yet.  The Catalinas had already taken me into their arms.  They were not going to let me go then and I they won't now.

This is a view from a few miles up Mt. Lemmon Highway from our house.  This is the road that leads you to the Catalina Mountains.  This is a view from those Catalinas looking into the sun setting over the Tucson Mountains.  This kind of sums it up as to how these mountains capture your heart and won't let go.  I can't imagine living any other place in the entire world. 

DOORS

Doors fascinate me. I am drawn to them wherever I go.  I love to take pictures of them. 

Sometimes, we find doors that are open to us. So wide open, that we aren't sure where to go once inside.  We go in and don't know whether to sit down and experience what is there, or run to find another door to walk out of. 




Sometimes, we find doors that are closed tight  Or,maybe even locked.
They seem to  tell us to walk away. 
They say, this might be harder than I thought.  But, often these doors are simply asking us to stop and take a second look...maybe pray about it, discern about it and look for the key that might unlock it.

And then, there are the ones that invite us to go in .....they may not always be the most beautiful doors
but what is behind them, often is.          

"When one door of happiness closes, another opens; but often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one which has opened for us". ~ Helen Keller

I am reading a book by Joyce Rupp (one of my favorite spiritual writers)  http://www.joycerupp.com/openthedoor.htm "Open The Door".    The metaphor of the door is a beautiful symbolic way to identify who we see ourselves to be and how we experience life.  Joyce Rupp, as always shares this metaphor in a way that easily relatable.   She makes it seem like the book was written just for you.  She takes the image of the door and invites you to enter, where you have the opportunity to grow and become more aware of your own spiritual journey.

What door awaits you today?

She Writes

Sometimes I wonder why I write.  I write about a lot of things.  I have journals in every nook and cranny of the house and few are full or follow a theme.  I pick one up and write, I put one down and pick up another.  No rhyme or reason.  No real rhyme or reason about my writing.

When we are young, we are often asked, "what do you want to be when you grow up"?  I always wanted to be a dancer or a writer.  Neither seemed at all possible for me.  I am 5 foot 4 inches tall, so the long legs a woman needs to be a dancer were not in my gene pool.  Plus, my mother told me I had temper tantrums in dance class and she took me out.  I don't remember that at all.  I always loved to shake my booty to Elvis while doing dishes and school dances were on my favorite list of things to do.  But, I guess being a dancer was not in the stars for me.  No legs like Juliet Prowse and, not enough dance lessons.

On to writing.  English was my favorite subject in high school and I did pretty decent in it.  I have always regretted that I didn't have the opportunity to go to college.  I think I would have majored in English.  I honestly don't know what I would have done with that degree, except maybe teach and I never wanted to do that.  There was no money in my family for a college education. By the time I discovered this was really a long held dream of mine and it was still possible, it suddenly didn't matter any more.  Now, don't go reading this as a critic and checking my grammar, punctuation and spelling. I wasn't that great at English and spelling and remember, I DIDN'T go to college.

But, the dream lingered about the writing and like I said, I journal.  So one day, I saw an ad for a creative writing class being held at our local community college.  I signed up, and the rest is history. 

Nancy Linnon was my teacher.  I loved her from the start.  She was beautiful,  energetic, funky, creative and had the heart and soul of an angel.  She encouraged me and finally made me realize that being a writer is really quite simple...you simply write.  You don't have to be a published author to call yourself a writer.  I think everyone should write. Whether you journal in a fancy journal or simple notebook, on your computer, blog or put snippets on Facebook, just write.  Writing is a way to get in touch with the inner part of ourselves and discover the true essence of our heart and soul. It is therapeutic and refreshing.  It keeps our minds fresh and alive as we grow older.  It is a permanent record of who we are.  It gives us a vehicle to share stories with those we love.  Put a password or lock on stories you don't want to share or burn them if you must, but write them for yourself at the very least.

Nancy taught me to be critical of my writing, but not myself.  She taught me to look deeper at the meaning of what I was writing.  What was at it's root, what made those feelings and thoughts bubble up.  I treasure my classes, writing groups and workshops with her and wish she still lived in Tucson.  Funny sideline:  she and I grew up just a few miles from one another in Northwestern Pennsylvania.  She in Titusvile and me in Franklin. Small world.

And so, PLEASE don't critique my grammar, spelling or sentence structure. After all, I am a long way from that English class I did well in and my 66 year old brain doesn't really work as quickly or efficiently as it used to.  Look beneath, for the life behind the words.  Remember your dreams, find what gives you joy, find your voice in whatever medium suits you, look for what gives you a sense of purpose and believe that you can do it.  Don't let anyone tell you that you cannot do what your heart dreams of.