This is NOT the Schroeder Toy I received. Apparently the soft doll is more rare!
Jean McCaffery gave me a stuffed Shroeder doll – you know,
the piano playing character from the Peanuts comic strip? - at one of my many
birthday parties. My mother always
required I invite all the girls in my class. This was cool: I liked all of
them, so it was a pleasure to schlep everyone – usually in the snow – up and
over the hill on Hawthorne Avenue, east of Linden Avenue School.
It must’ve been in third grade when I unwrapped this gift. I
usually wore two braids, but I am betting on this very special day I got to
wear my long brown hair down my back.
I don’t remember if I liked Shroeder before, but after that
day, I was truly enamored with the character and this doll which was actually
more like a pillow – perhaps a precursor to today’s Pillow-Pet toy.
I can clearly remember those dies resting on my belly,
looking down at the brown floral bedspread that matched my sisters and truly
did nothing for me. I can still feel my left cheek against the pillow. I had
one, only. It often had the book I was reading underneath it for easy access
once Mom thought I was asleep.
Every morning I would pull Shroeder from his resting place
and feel thankful for him.
I don’t know whatever became of him. Such a sad confession.
I know after I visited my family on the west coast when I
was in seventh grade, I started sharing my bed with a bedraggled Smokey Bear
who had a broken belt buckle and was passed from family member to family
member. I loved tradition. I longed for tradition. I suppose I still do.
Recently I arrived at the Smith College campus, completely warn out after a rather, well, lets just say less than stellar red-eye flight. It was late morning on a Monday. My daughter Katherine had classes - she was the entire point of me making this trip.
Kathie and Matilda
An aside - some one recently accused me of loving my children too much. I think this is impossible. Perhaps it is because I would have loved such attention when I was young that I make it such a high priority in my life.
Katherine had classes to attend so I rested on her dorm room bed. I couldn't help but grab her pillow pet, Matilda the cow, and hug her close to my heart. I fell asleep nearly instantly.
Later that afternoon Katherine came into her room and said, "It was so cute! When I came in here you were all cuddled up with Matilda!" I slept with her for the entire visit. Katherine says she can't sleep with her because she would throw her across the room.
My lovies - my stuffed toys, my children's stuffed toys - remain a comfort to me. I suppose it will be this way forever.
I don't mind one bit.
This post is a part of the May series for NaBloPoMo at BlogHer.com
Embracing "This day – this moment – this "right here under our noses" is our day yet. " will change your life
Samuel will be twelve-years-old this coming Monday.
How did this happen?
How is it that in a few short weeks I will no longer have
any children in elementary school and I am expecting my first grandbaby?
People ask – which daughter is pregnant? They almost always
think Emma, which makes her sort of laugh, but no. It is the first daughter I
raised, Beyunca, who is pregnant. She is thirty-one, prime baby time, and very
pleased to be bringing life to the world. She is due in December. We are using
this time to continue recreating our relationship.
Like much of my life, it is not a conventional one.
The one constant, though – for you and for me – is we will
each gain so much when we learn to hold this day as the treasure it is. This
day – this moment – this right here under our noses is our best day yet.
Embracing this thought will help us to understand the purest
forms of gratitude and awaken such an abundant attitude, the sadness of a
little boy becoming a young man will turn into a swelling pride in the young
man he is becoming.
He wants adobe aftereffects for his birthday – the movie
making program – because he keeps honing his skills as a video maker. He does
so many things I could never figure out.
Today Emma is celebrating her first full day at school with
no braces by wearing makeup she put on herself and an adorable outfit. She is
truly coming into her own. The conversations we have been having lately would
be mind-boggling if I didn’t know what a miracle that young woman is, just in
being herself.
I even grieved a bit to learn Katherine is not going to be
home this Summer after all. She is off to either Berkeley (my fingers are
crossed and re-crossed!) or Washington, DC. I have been focusing not on my own
selfish desire to hold her a little bit longer, but on holding her growing
independence as she reaches into the adulthood she has been earning ever since
she arrived on the Smith College campus nearly three years ago.
The mulberries are crashing off the tree today, firm and
tight. Instead of splattering on my neighbor’s cars, they bounce off.
My yard looks like mulberry stew.
I am holding this moment by looking up recipes that include
mulberries. Would you believe I’ve been in this house with this tree for
twenty-two years and never gleaned the fruit to create anything edible?
I wasn’t ready then, I suppose, for the full abundance this
tree has offered me season after season after season.
There is a whole other story there.
I’ll leave that for another day, another moment, another
time of writing life.
Enjoy your best day - what will you create with it?
Taken at Zion National Park last Summer. May they remember....
It is time for the Five Minute Friday Flash Mob of writers.
Every Thursday night until Midnight Eastern time a group of incredible
women gather, waiting for our prompt for the week. We never know what
our prompt will be, but we catch up, nibble on nutella, laugh and
sometimes cry and then we write write write!
Thank you for being here for Five Minute Friday!
Now: my words on REMEMBER...
I am nothing if not a fierce mother.
I get complimented on my motherhood yet it is something I am
most petrified of failing at, especially since after my first daughter was
stillborn one of the popular books to read had the title, When Pregnancy
Fails. I felt like such a failure as
a woman, even though the cord accident was a fluke.
Ever since I was pregnant with Katherine, my second
daughter, I would pray she (and my others) would remember the good times, the
positive memories, the traditions we created together. I longed for them to
remember the laughter and the stories.
In our storytelling family, my children know the people I
grew up with almost as well as I do.
I have told the story of my first day of first grade so many
times that when there was a young women in a mini-dress with dark hair and a
big smile, my then five-year-old Emma gasped and said, “Mommy! Look! It’s Miss
Foley!”
She did look like her, actually, only Miss Foley would have
been in her late 50’s and the long ago young Miss Foley had become Mrs. Downing
a long time in the past.
I hope Katherine remembers how much I pulled for her, how
much I am glad and said of the advice of mine she took. I hope she knows how
much she is loved, not just because she is “the good one” and always does what
is expected, but just because she is.
I hope Emma remembers how many times I got up after I fell.
I hope she remembers how many times I helped her up after she fell. I hope she
remembers how many compliments she received from so many people.
I hope Samuel remembers the many times I went to bat for
him, advocating, being an activist, talking to teachers and doctors and more
teachers to be sure he got exactly what he needed educationally as well as
socially.
I hope they each remember the last words I say to them each
day as they leave me to go to school, “I love you!”
I remember my voice, ringing out to their hearts – even or
especially when they know they don’t have to reply to still receive my love. I
remember….
1. Write for 5 minutes flat – no editing, no over thinking, no backtracking.
2. Link back here and invite others to join in.
3. And then absolutely, no ifs, ands or buts about it, you
need to visit the person who linked up before you & encourage them
in their comments. Seriously. That is, like, the rule. And the fun. And
the heart of this community..
Oh and Ahem, if you would take pity and turn off comment verification, it would make leaving some love on your post that much easier for folks!
Julie Jordan Scott has been a Life & Creativity
Coach, Writer, Facilitator and Teleclass Leader since
1999. She is also an award winning Actor, Director,
Artist and Mother Extraordinaire. She was twice the
StoryTelling Slam champion in Bakersfield.
Did
you enjoy this essay? Receive emails directly to your
inbox for Free from Julie Jordan Scott via the Daily Passion
Activator. One inspirational essay and poem (almost)
every week day. Subscribe here now -
Somehow Emma got to be a fifteen-year-old young lady!
It was before six-thirty yet this morning when I received a
text from my friend, Michelle. “I saw you were out and about…” she wrote. If I
use foursquare, people will find me. My
secret early morning trips to the grocery store alert my friends I am open game
for communication.
The only problem was I was in a hurry to buy food for
fifteen-year-old Emma’s lunch. I find a
peculiar joy in making her especially tasty lunches but lately I’ve done mostly
peanut butter and jelly. This makes me more than slightly sad.
Yesterday I made her a past favorite, penne with pesto
sauce, but it came home only half eaten.
I figured today it would be a BLT minus the T on flatbread.
Naturally I started late and even texting about scheduling a
hiking adventure with Michelle didn’t get in my way. “I must make Emma a lunch
she will love, I must make Emma a lunch she will love, I must make Emma a lunch
she will love.”
My biggest fear in life is failing as a Mother. It is my
most important “job”. My children are the best artwork I ever created. I never,
ever want to let them down.
I flashed back to sunrise on August 20, 1997. I was in a
hospital room overlooking a tumbleweed filled field, watching the ground
squirrels play. Emma was less than a day
old and was resting on my shoulder. “I will never leave you, Emma. We are in
this together.”
Six weeks later I was back at work from eight-to-five and I
thought my then work-at-home husband was going to be her caretaker, but the day
I went back to work was the day he found a daycare provider for my tiny little
baby.
Right then, I felt I had lied to her when she was less than
a day old. The lie continued in a variety of ways and it hurt me enormously
every time I wasn’t “in it” together with this little one who looked more like
me than any of my other children.
She is also my quickest to both frustration and laughter.
She is a whirlwind typist, a gifted writer and has such an active social life
my head spins. This year alone we have hosted three parties, countless study
dates and two teen sleepovers in our home. Emma says her friends love me and
love being in our unconventional home.
Nonetheless, I still had the itchy residue from The Lie. It sat
there, alertly, waiting to catch me repeating myself. I needed to change the
rules. I wrote her a letter.
Dear Emma,
There is still a sorrow cloud that sometimes forms above my
head which rains on my shoulders when I think about the times I have let you
down, the times I have not been there for you like I wanted to be there so
badly. I felt horrible missing the night
time performance of “The Wizard of Oz”, but I did see two day performances and
I did see you on television. I know,
this isn’t the same as seeing the biggest performance of all. I hated missing
the first day of your first period because I was out of town. Mostly I miss the
times I spaced out, huddling under depression so I was just not checked in and
being the Mommy you needed me to be.
I get such joy seeing the young woman you continue to
become.
I cannot promise that I will be with you whenever there is a
big event or a surprise event in your life. What I can promise you is I will do
my best to support you to the very best of my abilities. Sometimes my best is
better than other times, as I am sure you understand now.
I love you so much. Your disappointment may fade, but it is
forever tattooed on my memory.
I hope you will forgive me for my failings. I hope I can
forgive me for my failings and the times I lied when I didn’t even know I was
lying. Perhaps these are the most heinous lines. “I didn’t mean to” doesn’t cut
it with me.
I love you,
Mommy.
Emma sent me a text me this morning during her Algebra class
which she shouldn’t do. “I forgot there is an assembly today. I need my choir
dress, tights and shoes before lunch.”
I may have told an unintended whopper of a lie when I broke
that long ago promise I made to the her as a newborn when together we looked at
the sunrise, but I strive not to break it anymore. Sometimes this even includes
something I abhor: making tedious repeat
trips in my car when I would rather be doing my other non-Mommy related life
work.
I will forgive the past and continue to do the very best I
can for her and with her.
My Emma.
= = =
This post was inspired by the folks at Scintilla13 - Here's what they have to tell us:
Since Katherine left for Smith College, we have always skyped her in to decorate the tree. This year with her in Edinburgh, it was no different
The only sounds I hear right now are raindrops against the
windows and the soft rhythmic breathing of my daughter, Emma. I am still awake
at 3:25 this morning because my daughter Katherine arrived home from Scotland four
hours later than had been expected.
My adrenaline is still heightened from the moment I looked
out the windshield of my Mazda CX5 and saw a plane descending into Bakersfield’s
airport.
“Oh, no…. that must be Katherine’s plane!”
“I don’t want her to arrive at the gate and not be there for
her!”
I picked up my speed but the slippery roads proved
threatening. I breathed consciously, attempting to keep my wits about me but as
soon as I turned off the car I literally ran toward the small-sized airport,
praying all the way she wasn’t standing alone and forlorn someplace in the
lobby waiting area.
I saw a crowd waiting at the one gate from the airplanes and
knew the passengers hadn’t deplaned yet.
I cried as a crowd cheered for a soldier, returning on
leave. There were three sailors, including a woman, and another member of the
US Army. I cried for them all. One of
the Sailors was wearing an outfit that appeared to be just like my father wore
when he was a twenty-one year old sailor. “Your Grandpa was in the Navy,” I
said to Samuel.
“I don’t want to be in the Navy,” he said, “You can go to
war and get killed.”
I added, “Grandpa was in the Navy.” as an example of someone
not getting killed.
“I know,” Samuel said gently.
We stared at the gateway door. I inched my way toward the
door as families greeted one another, blocking the exit and frustrating –
needlessly – me.
Eventually I saw my twenty-year-old and
three-hundred-sixty-four day old Katherine coming around the corner. She was
wearing a bright pink sweatshirt, carrying her London Fog jacket, and had her
large backpack on her shoulders. She waved, smiling, and I fought tears.
I wanted to look so composed, which is sort of ridiculous
for my children as they always expect I will cry. I secretly think my emotions
make them feel more loved because my tears are so vocal and my laughter, so
visible.
I didn’t want to let go of her as we shared a long, long
hug. I asked Samuel, “Do you want to hug Kathie?” and he almost leaped into her
arms, holding her so tightly. He is usually a reserved hugger but this time
there was no holding back.
All she wanted to do was go to sleep.
She took five minutes to prepare and then she came out to say
goodnight. We hugged again, close and tight. “Did my scar scare you?” I
whispered into her ear.
“No, it didn’t,” she answered. My crazy Santa hat probably
scared her more than my scar at almost three o’clock in the morning.
I look forward to seeing how her time in Scotland changed
her. It is impossible that she
Emma, Katherine and Samuel unwrap the gifts under our 2011 tree.
came back without turning some pages in her
human development. Tonight, though, she was simply my baby who first greeted me
twenty-one-years ago tomorrow, on Christmas day, three weeks early.
I couldn’t have imagined this moment as I told her little,
crying self, “I’ve waited so long for you.”
Tonight, it was a long wait. Just like in the maternity wing
at the hospital, I couldn’t be happy.
Kat at ISawYouDancing.com wants to know via Reverb what wasMusic to my ears in 2012:
I just heard it, music, Emma giggling from her perch over on
the couch just now. It is a sound I do not tire of hearing.
Samuel, a couple weeks ago said when I walked in the hallway
where he was waiting. I asked, “Do you need something, Samuel?” and he
responded, “Just you.”
Last Saturday I emceed a cabaret show and I changed my
clothes a bunch of time since the dancers did. My last outfit was very risqué for
me: a short tight dress with a red jacket. I am not small at all. I am
voluptuous squared… and I worried what I wore was too little for too much. I actually
got woot wooted when I walked on the stage. Normally I would say “Hey, don’t
objectify women!” but I have to say, sometimes it actually feels appropriate to
be appreciated objectively. (Yes, my feminist friends. I said that.)
“Your house is so awesome” was music to my ears from a
couchsurfing guest in the Spring. My house needs work so I am rather self
conscious of it.
“The pathology report says we got all of it.” My surgeon
after melanoma surgery. Pretty darn
fantastic.
Those were the most glorious pieces of music to
my ears from 2012 that I can remember. Until next time... oodles of love.
Julie Jordan Scott has been a Life & Creativity
Coach, Writer, Facilitator and Teleclass Leader since
1999. She is also an award winning Actor, Director,
Artist and Mother Extraordinaire. She was twice the
StoryTelling Slam champion in Bakersfield.
Did
you enjoy this essay? Receive emails directly to your
inbox for Free from Julie Jordan Scott via the Daily Passion
Activator. One inspirational essay and poem (almost)
every week day. Subscribe here now -
It started with this adorable drawing in the picture book A Big Ball of String by Marion Holland from
1958. I can’t help myself: if I am thrifting and I see a book that was
published within ten years of my birth, I simply must have it.
YesterdayI bought a book about the wonders of a ball of string and I fell in
love with the protagonist, a little boy of about six. I stared into his little
illustrated face as he made himself feel comforted after bumping his head and
for the first time ever I thought, “I can’t wait to decorate a room designated
especially for my grandchildren.”
Yes. I had that surprising thought.
It was as if everything stopped.
My children are all far too young to give me grandbabies but
on a historical scale, many women my age are Grannies, in some cultures Great
Grannies.
I tell myself I should feel blessed for having friends
across the generations. I have several friends who just had babies. Perhaps I
could take that little guy as inspiration and craft something for one of those
babies.
Maybe or maybe not.
My Godson is only four, maybe he would enjoy something like
that, maybe I could make him a book or just give him a bunch of illustrations
and he could make up the story himself.
Maybe I’ll just frame a copy of it and put it up someplace
to remind me to start praying for my Grandbabies now.
Or maybe it is a
universal, pray for all the babies and their Mommies and Daddies as well as all the future babies and their Mommies and Daddies. Even the thought makes me happy. That must be it!
This is my twenty third post (of 31!) for the October Ultimate Blog Challenge.
Watch here for challenge posts which will include Writing Prompts, Writing
Tips and General Life Tips and Essays.
Julie Jordan Scott
has been a Life & Creativity Coach, Writer, Facilitator
and Teleclass Leader since 1999. She is also an award
winning Actor, Director, Artist and Mother
Extraordinaire. She was twice the StoryTelling Slam
champion in Bakersfield. She leads Writing Camp with JJS &
this Summer will be traveling throughout the US to bring this
unique, fun filled creative experience to the people wherever she
finds the passion & the interest.
Did you enjoyed this essay? Receive emails directly to your
inbox for Free from Julie Jordan Scott via the
Daily Passion Activator. One inspirational essay and
poem (almost) every week day. Subscribe here now -
Emma just called me during her lunch period in tears.
She heard my voice and the tears and
way-too-fast-to-understand speech started flowing.
This hasn’t happened in a while and my instinct is still to
run to the school, scoop her up, bring her home and let her learn about
negotiating socially later.
Instead, when she needed to get off the phone she quickly
caught her breath, immediately sounded back to her normal self and hopefully is
able to move along without losing any more of her day.
This has the makings of a very long weekend if she isn’t
able to move along.
I may have to warm up the, “Sometimes you have to apologize
for the misunderstanding instead of apologizing for what they want an apology
for that you know you didn’t do” speech. She didn’t hear my “Do you know what
it means to be positional?” speech at all.
I don’t even think she recognized how I slid into my “mental
health” voice, the tones and cadence I used to use when my clients with severe
mental illness were on the edge of escalating.
She is fifteen now and her outbursts have become more rare,
but they are still there.
The absolutes gather steam, the hope balloon deflates and
she is temporarily tossing about in the sea of teen pain and sorrow deeper than
I can recognize right this moment.
None of those standard lines like “Things have a way of
working out” or “It will blow over” or “If you just suck it up and apologize it
will make your life so much easier” will work right now.
I just have to stay reasonably comfortable until 3:15 when I
go fetch her from school and pray that between then and now something –
anything – resolves favorably.
This is my fifteenth post (of 31!) for the October Ultimate Blog Challenge.
Watch here for challenge posts which will include Writing Prompts, Writing
Tips and General Life Tips and Essays.
Julie Jordan Scott
has been a Life & Creativity Coach, Writer, Facilitator
and Teleclass Leader since 1999. She is also an award
winning Actor, Director, Artist and Mother
Extraordinaire. She was twice the StoryTelling Slam
champion in Bakersfield. She leads Writing Camp with JJS &
this Summer will be traveling throughout the US to bring this
unique, fun filled creative experience to the people wherever she
finds the passion & the interest.
Did you enjoyed this essay? Receive emails directly to your
inbox for Free from Julie Jordan Scott via the
Daily Passion Activator. One inspirational essay and
poem (almost) every week day. Subscribe here now -
If you ask me what my work is, I usually throw in something
about my commitment to playing my part in positive world transformation. This
is why I write, why I create art, the motivation behind engaging people and my life coaching work, why I teach
seminars and facilitate programs. It is the
reason I don’t only have friends who are exactly like me. This world transformation is the most
significant work I can do, along with Mary Oliver’s words in Messenger, “My
work is loving the world.”
Like Thoreau, I want to “live deep and suck the marrow out
of life.”
With all of this forever the undercurrent in mind, I sit
down this morning to write, like I usually do.
I keep forgetting to turn on music and then a bird outside
my window sings, reminding me I don’t need to turn anything on when they are in
the neighborhood.
I also hear the duet of a couple leaf blowers, so I suppose
they are telling me it is time to turn on my musical companion.
During a moment of rest between the notes of Chopin’s “Andante
spianato and grade polonaise brillante op 22” I hear the gardener’s weapons
have been silenced and when I tune my ears carefully, I can hear the birds
alongside my fingers clattering on the keyboard and the music inviting my mind
to dance.
The piano returns, the human at the keys moving quickly, my
bet is she loves the work out of both her hands and her concentration. It
becomes second nature.
Second.
There is space for two voices, together and two voices
singing separate solos.
I notice the piano and the strutting of a car as it drives
past.
I make space for my fingers pressing the keyboard and the
scrape of the bottom of a Buick on Linden Avenue and Alta Vista.
I allow myself to veer off from my straight path to search
for a quote and come up with these words from Karen Joy Fowler that connect to
my heart in a way not unlike Cupid’s bow:
“Owls hoot in B flat,
cuckoos in D, but the water ouzel sings in the voice of the stream. She builds
her nest back of the waterfalls so the water is a lullaby to the little
ones.”
I briefly search YouTube for
“Ousel” since I have never heard of that bird. I discover a misspelling
– it is Ouzel – and a synonym, American Dipper.
I watch an Ouzel building her nest under a bridge. I note
how comfortable she is in this space right above a waterfall. I wonder if I can
watch one of these lovelies in person. I listen to her song, a gentle
counterpoint to the rapids.
Her voice reminds me of a dance teacher helping a very
serious but intensely passionate and playful dancer, the instructor whispering
instruction and the dancer hears and responds to something that would only
sound like a particular form of gibberish to most of us.
I pause for a moment, wondering what the point is of all
this observation I am carefully constructing to share with… someone…
I notice this segment of Chopin sounds like rapids and the
next, sounds like water caught and swirling between large rocks.
I consider, perhaps, the only person I write this for is
myself.
“What?” the practical-write-only-if-there-is-a-point side of
me stutters. “This writing isn’t to awaken the world to what they aren’t
hearing so they too may listen and enjoy the simplest sounds and perhaps create
the next great work of art for everyone ELSE to enjoy in a huge virus of
creativity sparked by cars and leaf blowers and Chopin and American Dippers
fluttering over rocks and water and diving under bridges?”
Maybe it is and maybe it is just so I may be inspired to go
camping in new places or read a book about the romance between George Sand and
Frederic Chopin.
Maybe it is just so I can hear the announcer pronounce
“Janos” so elegantly.
It is not up to me alone.
It is up to me to simply write, to put my writing out there
and then to listen for any responses without attachment to weather another
sound is created.
The grosbeak again woops it up out my window, almost like
she is reassuring me.
I relax my neck muscles and turn my chair so I may fetch my
laundry.
The only investment was thirty minutes while my wash did its
thing and careful attention. The result I received was fierce, unabated
contentment. Now I am ready to continue the work I am meant to do because being here, enjoying this moment fully without concerning myself about all the a's-and-b's-and-c's of world transformation is the path to world transformation after all.
This is my tenth post (of 31!) for the October Ultimate Blog Challenge.
Watch here for challenge posts which will include Writing Prompts, Writing
Tips and General Life Tips and Essays.
Julie Jordan Scott
has been a Life & Creativity Coach, Writer, Facilitator
and Teleclass Leader since 1999. She is also an award
winning Actor, Director, Artist and Mother
Extraordinaire. She was twice the StoryTelling Slam
champion in Bakersfield. She leads Writing Camp with JJS &
this Summer will be traveling throughout the US to bring this
unique, fun filled creative experience to the people wherever she
finds the passion & the interest.
Did you enjoyed this essay? Receive emails directly to your
inbox for Free from Julie Jordan Scott via the
Daily Passion Activator. One inspirational essay and
poem (almost) every week day. Subscribe here now -
Katherine confessed as I watched her face from six thousand
or so miles away from me, “Yesterday was the first time I was homesick since I
got to Edinburgh!” I couldn’t help but smile and feel a little satisfied.
“I just wanted to go home!” It was our apple picking/pumpkin
collecting combination that got her where her draw to home meet her belly.
Autumn holidays do it for me, too.
Her Nana visited, we were broadcasting on facebook about our
fun and there she was,
looking out the window of her flat at a castle. She was thinking
about going to a high school production of “West Side Story” in Glasgow, just
the thought of which made me chuckle. She was having the luxury of hanging out
with other intellectual religion majors and yet she missed picking apples in
the Tehachapi desert and rummaging through splinter laden pumpkin vines to find
just the right level of perfection in orange and green porch sitting friends?
I suppose it is possible. I suppose I would miss being with
us, too.
I am listening to Celtic music and she is living amongst
Celtic music yet she wanted to be here, sniffing the apple-cinnamon goodness
rising from my crock pot.
I love being a Mommy. I love my babies, wherever and however
and at whatever stage each one finds his or herself.
Tonight it will be back to homework and chores and wrapping
up the day-to-day, but amidst it all the fond memories of yesterday will
continue to hold us close. If we are careful and gentle with those near
memories, they will stay longer.
Julie Jordan Scott
has been a Life & Creativity Coach, Writer, Facilitator
and Teleclass Leader since 1999. She is also an award
winning Actor, Director, Artist and Mother
Extraordinaire. She was twice the StoryTelling Slam
champion in Bakersfield. She leads Writing Camp with JJS &
this Summer will be traveling throughout the US to bring this
unique, fun filled creative experience to the people wherever she
finds the passion & the interest.
Did you enjoyed this essay? Receive emails directly to your
inbox for Free from Julie Jordan Scott via the
Daily Passion Activator. One inspirational essay and
poem (almost) every week day. Subscribe here now -
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