Not just an ordinary Tuesday!

Thirty-four years ago at exactly 8:58 a.m., on July 8, the world shifted to make room for a very special soul. Until that moment, whether this newborn would be male or female was a secret the doctors and nurses kept to themselves. "Don't tell me", I reminded them each time we met over nine months. I wanted to be surprised. Names were pending until the time when either Sarah or Thomas aka "Sarah/Thom" would make an appearance. Either way, the baby would carry on the grandparent's names, and either way, he/she would be very warmly welcomed.

Sarah Eugenia (both grandmother's names) arrived as barely a six-pounder, with the longest fingers I had seen on any baby's tiny hand. "She'll be a pianist", I said. In fact, as I write today, her five-foot baby-grand piano sits in my living room. On her sixteenth Christmas, I wrapped a small piano ornament in paper and placed it in the bottom of the biggest box I could find. After she dug her way to the bottom, her blueberry eyes were intent on the black and whites before turning them on me: "Wait! . . . Are we getting a piano"? Within a week it arrived like a harp on wheels. When the time came for college, I began piano-sitting. It has been a gift I gave to myself! Just like Sarah has been these past three decades. She has touched more than my life. Sarah has touched my soul with her heart of gold.

Nobody I know is more "true blue" in her relationships. At her high school graduation party in the backyard, where all eighteen birthdays had been celebrated, I said:"If you are here today, you are blessed to be one of Sarah's friends. She will never let you down". True enough. This has been the hallmark of her life. This soon-to-be certified art therapist, has also taken her share of bitter disappointments. Yet, she has not given into the worst inclinations to give up. Instead, she has reached deep down like for something buried at the bottom of a treasure box for yet another gift. Herself. She is true to herself, as well. Seems she came with that built-in feature. It has served her well. So, I think, has our family motto.

One day, her Sunday School teacher asked: "What's your family motto"? The silence must have been deafening amongst the eight-year-olds. "Go home and ask your parents and come back next week to tell us". I remember vividly standing at the kitchen sink looking out over the garden when Sarah sprung the question. My mind might have been blank, but instead it scrambled through catchy phrases as if one was waiting to be plucked like an apple from a plethora of trees in an orchard. "Let me think about it", I said. Think about it, I did! It kind of got under my skin like some itch I couldn't quite reach. But, I knew I had to find an answer for her by Sunday. It mattered. There was a weightiness to claiming a motto as one's own. Something to live up to; to live by; to aspire to; to rely on in times of trouble. And, so it came to me out of the true blue above while driving to church the following Sunday.

"Our family motto is: Rise Above It", I proclaimed. There was power in those three words. It fit every occasion that would befall the three of us as we grew older together.

I had it inscribed in her high school ring. Rise Above It . . .Try it on for size and see how it fits!

Happy Birthday, Sarah! See you in Q.C.!

Bragging Rights!

Family!

Sometimes it feels right to brag on yourself, or your kids or grandkids (all the time), or about a small group of beloved writer friends known as the River Writers! So, here goes.

B.C. (before COVID), I offered a writing spiritual memoir course at Flagler College's Lifelong Learning. Three people signed up. The administration, not seeing any money in it for themselves, called to say the course did not fill and therefore would be cancelled. I asked for the roster. Much to my surprise two men had signed up. Mind you after offering this course in other venues for a decade, I knew that the ratio of two men to one woman was an anomaly. The administrator wasn't as blown away by this, but I knew something different was happening so I went to his office to make my case. He agreed to run the course, this time. Great!

"I will be forever grateful for this", said Roger, one of the two men who faithfully attended the summer program. He said this five years after that summer. By then, the four of us plus one who joined later, had been writing together on a monthly basis.

Our unique combination of would-be authors met at my house to share our works in progress. We were serious about our writing and about our evolving relationship. Hardly a month went by when all of us were not sitting in my living room, or on the screened porch overlooking the San Sebastian River. One evening, a tad late to the meeting, Roger poked his head inside, asking: "Are there any River Writers in here"? The name stuck!

Our stories grew as did the solidarity between us. Our "critiques" were given gently. We knew each other's touch points, and tiptoed toward those rather than around them to offer some help. Care was the watchword by which we wrote and told our deeply personal life stories. We laughed a lot. We made a few out-of-town retreats together. During one such time, Mike had a breakthrough that changed everything going forward in his writing. We honored that moment in silence because everyone knew it was a turning point for the writing and for the soul. The group's bond and total trust allowed for such a moment. We had become a family in the true sense of the word: "the people who support and love you, and the people you can confide in and trust".

These River Writer friends of mine matter more than words on the page, although they were instrumental in helping me to finish my second book, Return from Exile*

Speaking of books!

Congratulations to Mike on the launch of his first: https://www.amazon.com/Afterlifes-Door-Dark-Particle-Saga-ebook/dp/B0FF3MJ6QB?ref_=ast_author_mpb

And, drum roll please:

The second St. Augustine Poet Laureate, is none other than our very own River Writer, Ann Browning Masters! https://annbrowningmasters.com/

"I will be forever grateful", sums it up. The following semesters, the course filled but never again would there be anything like the River Writers! Meet the River Writers here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xe5STechJEc&list=PLgEkQClCVY7uyKWLiO-_V1PK2vLaCxx22&index=2

*https://www.amazon.com/Return-Exile-Revelations-Anchoress-Augustine/dp/1666707635#:~:text=A%20true%20story%20of%20two,during%20the%20Black%20Death%20plague.

Dots on a Page . . .

The composer said to the audience: "Until the music is played, it is just dots on a page". Modest and true. Yet, something mysterious and miraculous happens through creating and sharing music.

Pick your favorite kind of music, it doesn't matter whether classical or rock'n roll, the process begins and ends in the same way. In the first instance, an idea is heard in the mind of someone with pencil in hand moving on a blank page; from that moment on, silent sounds yet to be heard take shape. When the day comes, months or years later, the black markings come alive, even the silences, those rests written to breathe space in-between sound. In the end, our ears will hear what another once thought. Then, music becomes a live entity connecting the dots on the page to our lives and with others' lives. Every audience has experienced that ineffable connection with a stranger through music.

Like notes on a scale, I know not where words come from. Yet I sit at my writing desk looking out the large window framing summer like a photo and wonder what words will appear? Today, I started out to write one thing (music as the antidote to horrors of the world) and wound up here, instead. The writer/composer is also editor-at-will. I could simply hit the backspace and return to that original idea, but I don't want to. My head is full of music that I imbibed the past few evenings at the St. Augustine Music Festival. It lingers. The more I think I want to write about the power of music to heal, the more I want to share something of a moment that defies explanation. Music feels like a cool swim on a hot day; a walk through a garden full of red roses; a homesickness for some place; a longing for someone; a memory out of the blue; a bright yellow painting on a white wall; an old friend come to visit; a lost love; a newborn baby; a smile; a tear; a sigh.

Soulful and heartfelt gifts from the heart and soul of one human spirit to another heals individually and collectively. Granted much hard work is necessary from the process to the performance, yet it is that effort that underpins how meaningful and significant music is for a world ailing under its own weight.

A couple of summers ago while in Berlin, by chance I had a long conversation with an artist in her studio about music and time and Julian of Norwich. She invited me to make a video of our serendipitous meeting. This link is the final result of that process. You will find Suzanne Rikus is fluent in English, but you may want to turn on closed caption or follow along with the transcription.

https://youtu.be/ZAvETmk06f4?si=C73IY8WOSkutPWuZ

https://susannerikus.com/