I have infinite love and endless enthusiasm for All Hallows' Eve. A holiday that either brings about the angel in us or the witch. I have hitherto raised all of my children to enjoy the occasion of Halloween. There can be such fun in it. Whether Mama's like it or not, Halloween is a time for preparation unless one would have dear little Johnny end up becoming a friendly ghost for seven years running.

Trust your dear ol' Mrs Carter on this annual occasion of having one's maternal gifts so publically displayed. I carry on just as if I still had little cherubs at home as I insist I'll never tire of, mascarade parades, harvest frolics, All Hallows' pumpkin festivals and elaborate costumes. So I shall commence in sharing throughout October the particulars I have done in the past and continue even nowadays. Perhaps if you enjoy the occasion as much as I do (or have littles at home), you will derive some benefit from this month's posts and traditions that I am of such fondness.

Let us not allow costumes to become an emotional litmus test. It takes one to know one. Mama's be mindful that preparation is of crucial importance. Early on, the first Monday of October, I had an old-fashioned costume planning party for the children. These were activities in creating a space for the children to decide on their costume choice. If you so desire to keep the home circle surviving and intact miraculously, I enforced the rule of 24 hours. I provided the children 24 hours if they wanted to change their original costume to an alternative one. Warn the children ahead of time and be firm. If you waver, dear Reader, you will forever be in a purgatory of regret come each Halloween. Each October, vigilantly remind yourself just whom the Halloween costumes are for, and all will be well. 

Now armed with a notebook, pen and measuring tape, gather the children over for milk, cookies and invite them to confide what they would like to be. Discuss particular items crucial for their costume and write them down. Do not fret over whether the outfit is handmade or store-bought. If you possess reason and if little Johnny wants a store-bought garb, smile and say "delightful". Remember, any costume you help your child create with loving forbearance will be treasured. Inevitably, one year little Minnie May will decide she "really wants to be a princess" instead of a fluffy kitten, even as you are up to your ears in fake fur shreds. This domestic scene is alarming. Respond gently but with resolve, "That is a lovely idea, dear, for next year." The tradition worth preserving is not the homemade Halloween costume but the marked time and fun you set aside that together ensues.

I am going as Little Red Riding Hood, and I plan on making a paper mache wolf mask from a pdf template I collected on Etsy {MiesmesaBerni}.

 

Most affably yours til my next swim, Raquelxxx

Treasured Tales

"Momma, I'm a woman now. I know, baby. I replied with tears. I brushed the stray hairs from her brow and wiped away tears trickling down her peachy flush cheeks.

With my wrinkled, opaque, vanishing face of freckles, I returned, "I am so very sorry dear Zoë Kennedy; I love you so much. I never meant to hurt you. Please forgive me, will you forgive me?

"Yes, I do, Momma." She replied.

The emotions flooded me like a damn that finally broke open. No longer a desire to run, stance with defensiveness, nor fear fleeing from the rejoice of our mending hearts. No one else existed, just a mother and daughter, reconnecting, healing and closure after five long years.

I kept holding onto her as an overwhelming yet fleeting thought surfaced like a swift gust of strong wind, "will this same embrace be my last one of mortality duplicating itself as it did with Sawyer on Mothers day of 2019?" Will, I become childless without her pup once again." Those thoughts cross over a mother that's lost a child to travesty. I restrained the enormous impact of my pounding heart. I quickly diverted my thoughts. No, I said to myself. That is fear attempting to drive a wedge from my flourishing and blossoming newfound relations with my daughter of womanhood.

I slowly turned around, walked inside the cottage and leaned against the nine pane window cottage door of chipping rust paint, peering out, watching her leave, yet allowing myself the consent to feel uncomfortable for the moment. I gave myself the gift of release and the washing away of an olde chapter in my life that has now page turned. If you were to cut my chest open, that scar remains there carved into my heart, but today no longer a wound of injury and sadness. It is now a memory of a mother nicely tucking away a moment in time for safekeeping as you would treasure gifts in a young girls hope chest awaiting anticipation of a never-ending reopening of learning and discovery. Lodged deep within us all, we can see our life stories as beautiful tales with winding roads patched together in love.

How will your story end?

Sharing From My Heart

Might I share a little piece of my heart with you? I shared this on my Instagram feed yesterday, and I felt it lent nicely in what I was trying to convey without spoiling my desire for grace. 

My first marriage is now a faint memory to me, and divorce was the only approaching antidote of something on a grander scale. One can only live for so long on a one-sided love; two hearts were passing like ships in the night. I fought for the eternal element, which made my desire to remain together for decades much more fierce. But, to put it gently, we could not abide together.

During those years, I would return to my writing and painting. When the mire of my thoughts became too much, I would collect my diary and walk to the pond laden with beautiful swans. Essentially I was going home; each time I fled, I was home, living in my words; writing, pondering, meditating, reading and questioning. In those fleeting moments, I never felt happier. To keep it brief, he created within me a fierce drive to find my own truth that otherwise external traditions of religious, generational conditioning would have contrarily silenced. That element of searching has been absent from my life for many year's now. I am on solid and anchored footing. I am complete, but not by the world's standards, such as clockwork with no magic. My God is not your God; my God is in my details. Just as you see the wonder in a long stem red rose, I know that similarity in a dewy fragrant petal of the white gardenia.

When I opened up this space (rejoining Instagram) with you initially, and truthfully, I was pinpricked, wounded and shattered. Yet, I am slowly beginning to reignite and illuminate the light from within myself. Each time I write a caption, portions of my soul resurface. I believe my purpose is revealing itself, and I'll continue forth, dreaming, breathing and wondering. Something will come of it; undoubtedly, something will emerge.