Children as Our Teachers

Most of our life's lessons, we learn through those older, wiser and more learned than ourselves. We stumble through life collecting other valuable tidbits mostly through trial and error, learning also from the various bumps and bruises we sustain on the long hard journey to become adults.

When we become parents, the baton is quickly passed. Then, drawing on everything we know and have learned and experienced, we evolve into the first of many teachers our own precious children will learn from.

What is both amazing and priceless is that the most valuable lessons I have ever learned have come from the very children I love most and was entrusted to teach ... my own. One of the most important lessons came from my oldest daughter, Carrie, when she was five years old.

Like most parents, my protective instinct was highly developed. I would have literally given my life for any one of my children. Thank God, that was never necessary, but here is what I learned:

We were living at the time in a neighborhood in Elmhurst, Illinois. My two oldest daughters, Beth, three, and Carrie, five, played routinely with two little neighbor girls of about the same ages, who lived directly across the street from us. Their mother and I took turns having the girls play at our houses.

On one particular day, Carrie was riding her bike with training wheels on the sidewalk across the street with her friend who was on her own bike. Her mother kept a protective eye on them from the porch.

At one point, I noticed one of the young neighborhood boys walking with his mother towards the girls. The boy was known to be very rough and we had all experienced his bullying at one time or another. I felt the girls would be safe, but as a precaution, I kept my eye on them across the street, especially Carrie, by peeking out my front window every few minutes.

As the two mothers were talking, I watched the little boy walk over to Carrie on her bike. He put his hand on her handlebars and tugged hard on the bike. Carrie said something to him as she struggled to keep her balance, but he continued to pull on the bike even harder, obviously trying to pushing her off. Carrie again said something to him and I could see that she was getting agitated. My motherly instincts took over and I ran to get my shoes.

As I hurriedly jammed my second sneaker on and was tying it, I peeked out again. Carrie was now off her bike, looking up at the boy and saying something to him. Suddenly, he hit her. Like a bull, I saw red! I was on my feet and headed for the door, when the most surprising thing happened. She decked him! He fell backwards onto the grass, holding his hand over his nose. I stood in the doorway watching this with my mouth open. My chin, I'm sure, was on the floor. Then very calmly, Carrie walked over to the boy, put out her hand, and helped him up.

As hard as it had been for me to watch, I had learned a valuable lesson that day from my five-year-old daughter: children must be allowed to stand up for themselves and to fight their own battles. As a mother, I felt so incredibly proud of her, and so very humbled by her actions. What would she have learned, had I rushed over there and repremanded either the child for his bullying, or his mother for allowing it?

Knowing Carrie now as a woman and a mother, herself, I feel a grateful, overwhelming joy in all that she and her sisters have become.

I love you girls. Thank you.
Mom

Memoir: Sundays at My House: by CJ Heck

Stained Glass Window in Church

Happy Sunday, friends.

Another week is beginning and yet my thoughts have returned to my past and the wonderful memories of going to church as a little girl in a large family.

I remember in those days, people got dressed up to go to church and it was always a big production at my house.

Our dresses were all starched and ironed, the boys wore their dress shirts and pants, Daddy wore his suit and tie, and mama always wore a dress and high heels.

I can still hear the sound her heels made tapping on the sidewalk when she walked and as she climbed up the stairs into the church. I wanted to be just like her and make the very same sound when I grew up.

We always sat in the same pew, as a family, on Sunday mornings right after we children all went to Sunday school.

With six children, our family was large and we took up the whole pew in the front row of the balcony. Mama usually scooted in first, followed by the six of us, and then Daddy on the other end to complete the Parrish "sandwich".

Reverend Kaser was a wonderful pastor. By weaving the weekly Bible passages in with real life, he had the unique gift of grabbing and holding the attention of both old and young with his sermons.

I suppose it was inevitable, due to his shift work as foreman at the steel mill, but in spite of the uniquely talented Reverend Kaser, Daddy would eventually nod off ... indeed, it was a regular occurrence.

I wish I had a nickel for every time Mama would nudge the child next to her and say, "Daddy's asleep." It was then that child's job to pass the nudge to the next in line and so forth, until the child closest to Daddy poked him gently to wake him up.

It really wasn't so bad, except Daddy had a tendency to snore ...

Happy Sunday everyone.
Hugs,
CJ


"A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write." ~CJ Heck

Saturday, May 15, 2010

"Some days are diamonds, some days are dust, and some days ... well most days, are just a little bit of both." ~CJ

I really wanted to write something profound in my blog today; but I confess, since I first woke up this morning and saw the sun shining through my bedroom curtains, I've been filled with a childlike wonder of what all I want to do today. Thus, since I'm predominantly a children's poet, I decided to post a couple of poems to share a Saturday smile with you.

A Little Riddle
by CJ Heck

It comes in many flavors.
It comes in lots of smells.
It can keep a secret
and never, ever tell.

You'll know it when you hear it.
If you look you'll see it too.
It's everywhere around outside,
even there inside of you.

It can turn a sad day happy.
It can turn a mad day glad.
It will even be there
when you've been really bad.

It's something in both day and night,
every second every minute.
It's right there in your family
and everyone who's in it.

Did you guess my riddle?
Just a few things left to say.
If you want a LOT of it,
then give it ALL away!

It's left and right. It's all around.
It's under and above.
I think you've guessed the answer!
It's L - O - V - E love.


Permagosh
by CJ Heck

Mommy's on the couch.
Daddy's in his chair.
I'm in a corner on a stool ...
yup, they put me here

'cause I did somethin' naughty
that I'm not supposed to do.
I invented Permagosh
mixing things with their shampoo.

First a real long worm of toothpaste,
then a cloud of shaving cream,
then two glugs of mouthwash
('cause I love the color green).

I stirred it in a mixing bowl.
Boy it smelled real good!
It was even looking better
than I ever thought it would!

Could it be a cure for cancer?
Take the itch from skeeter bites?
Or maybe, heal a sunburn
when it hurts to sleep at night?

Two shakes of baby powder
made it WAY too hard to stir,
so I added Mommy's perfume.
Permagosh smelled just like HER!

Eww ... then the bowl tipped over.
Permagosh was on the floor
and when I turned around,
Mom and Dad were by the door.

Now Mommy's on the couch.
Daddy's in his chair.
I'm in a corner on a stool ...
yup, they put me here.


Enjoy your Saturday, my friends. I know I will!
~Hugs, CJ

Ode to a Barfly

Walk down a city street and look, I mean really look, at some of the folks you see there. Unless your heart has completely withered away, you can't help but feel compassion for those less fortunate than you.

Down by the mall the other day, I saw a man holding up a cardboard sign. On it was scrawled in black magic marker: "Not looking for a handout. Will work for food". Beside him and holding his other hand was a little girl with a dirty face, high-water jeans and a worn T-shirt, and a scruffy pair of sneakers. My heart went out to this man who looked so beaten down, yet still had his pride.

The same day, I saw a homeless family huddled in the doorway of an abandoned building just off the Boulevard. Their cardboard boxes, a makeshift home for the prior night's sleep, were damp and buckling under the light rain of morning.

It's so hard to imagine how this can happen in a country like ours, where even the illegal immigrants have more advantages than our own American families ...

Today something quite different caught my eye. I watched as a middle-age woman stumbled out through the door of a seedy downtown bar. She squinted into the bright morning sunlight and, losing her battle to stand upright, plopped down into a heap on the sidewalk. I tried to feel some inkling of empathy or at least some understanding, but all I could muster was pity. I couldn't help but turn my thoughts to the people I had seen earlier in the week who at least were trying ... and then my imagination got the better of me ...

Barfly: Woman in a Bar
by CJ Heck

A broken neon sign flashed "Mel’s"
atop a small darkened bar
on the edge of town.
The air, heavy with stale smoke and beer,
blended faintly with the odor
of dried spit on unclean bodies.

She sat at a small table alone
pondering the world’s problems,
two drinks past seeing
beyond the unkempt nails
on the chipped Formica in front of her.

The lines in her face
were knit as if by a palsied hand
dropping stitches here and there
where a pox scar decided to roost.

For her this was home,
at least until tonight’s john
with an empty glass
and full libido swaggered up
and invited her
to the nearest no-tell motel.

Life sucks
but it was her life,
and feeling in control,
a spider in her web,
she threw back another drink
and waited.


Have a nice day everyone.
Hugs,
CJ

Another Why Is It ...

Why is it ...

Someday, I'm going to ask God a few questions, questions I've never found answers to here on earth.

Why is it that children are born into this world at times to parents who don't give a damn? They basically raise themselves, are slapped around and abused, and shown no love in their lives at all. Then on the flip side, there are couples who would give most anything they have just to conceive a child. They have love burning in their hearts to pour into a child, if only they were given the chance.

Why is it that prisons are overcrowded with really bad people who live out long and wasted lives? Then on the flip side, so many men, women and children die young, their goodness never to be fully shared nor realized.

Why is it that we women spend our lives and valuable time shaving various parts of our anatomy to comply with society's norms ... and then when we hit our golden years, the only places hair will even grow is on our heads and our upper lips or chins?

Why is it that there are people in the world that don't value life and who hate others, based purely on differences of religion, sexual orientation, or the color of one's skin? Then they spend the majority of their lives planning ways to unleash terror on innocent people. To what end?

Spiritual counselor, Gary Zukav, says that everything happens for a reason, and that reason is your spiritual growth. Maybe so, but still ... I'm going to ask ...

"Life is unfair, and it’s not fair that life is unfair."
~Edward Abbey, 1927~1989

Tuesday, May 4

What could possibly be better than ... Christmas or my birthday, a sunny spring day, the gentle sound of rain while I'm drifting off to sleep, my first cup of morning coffee, walking barefoot on the beach, the blue blue blue of the warm Caribbean, the sweet smell of freesia ...

That could only be, the warm and fuzzy feeling that comes from being with my loved ones.

My oldest daughter, Carrie, and her two little boys are arriving today from Connecticut, and I'll be in Grammy heaven for a whole week. I'm going to be a little scarce for awhile, but I'm sure you'll understand.

After all, what could possibly be better ...

~Love, CJ

Life Isn't Always Fair

I was savoring my coffee this morning, the bold, intoxicating aroma wafting up and combining with the even more delicious bold taste and I had to smile. Tell me, why is it that on most mornings, it tastes good and wakes up both body and mind, but on rare occasions -- like this morning, for example -- it tastes so-o-o much better? It seems to me that's the way it is with most things ... nothing is ever always good or always bad.

All through life, we're bombarded with all sorts of happy new beginnings, the joys of the middle for as long as they last, and the inevitable sad endings. It isn't really fair, but nothing lasts forever. Then again, no one ever said life has to be fair. I remember reading a quote once by Cherralea Morgen and I've never forgotten it. It goes something like this, "Life’s not always fair. You can get a splinter even sliding down a rainbow." It's an interesting quote, and so true.

I could just as easily apply that reasoning to my delectable coffee this morning. As great as it tastes, if I were to spill it, it would definitely burn ...

It all neatly translates into having to take a little bad with the good in most things. Although, I walked away from two marriages where that little factoid was flawed. We were like oil and water and, as everyone knows, they don't mix. A little good with the bad doesn't work at all. Thank God my Mama understood: "Honey, you have to do what's right for you, no matter what anyone says. It’s your life." Thank you, Mama.

Thank God, nothing is all bad all the time ...

When It's Over, You Just Know
by CJ Heck

You don't always know
how you know,
it comes slowly, the awareness.
With the certainty and final resignation
of a child learning there's no Santa Claus,
you just know

The breakfast table, once a venue
for long dreamy stares
and coffee-flavored kisses,
awkwardly becomes a silent stage
for reading the news,
eating breakfast, and
you just know.

The smell of his shirt
when you'd bury your face there,
the feel of his hands on your body
as if they had a life of their own,
all silently slip to a place
wherever memories go
to gather dust, and
you just know.

You miss the nights,
how his body and yours
breathed and moved as one.
Maybe it's those nights
and how they were
that give the knowing life, but
you just know.

Like ocean waves upon the sand,
love recedes
with all the other yesterdays
and you would trade
all your tomorrows
to have it back, but
you just know.

Transversely, in my present relationship, I haven't found any bad at all, nor do I expect to. It's as unique and good as my coffee this morning, and I feel so blessed ...

Poetry: Finding Your Voice

Why do you need to find your voice?

Let's face it, there are so many poets out there writing poetry, tomes of poetry. If you have any hope of ever standing out, of writing and publishing and then selling what you write, you have to stand out from the crowd. Dare to be different. Dare to take chances with your subject matter, and above all else, write with passion. Your personal voice comes from your uniqueness, the very essence of what sets you apart from everyone else.

Care about your subject matter. If you don't care about the subject you're writing about, you won't ever discover your true voice. It can't exist when you're trying to write in a genre you hate, or in a subject you know nothing about, just because everyone else is writing about it. It also can't exist in the shallow places of your heart or the emptiness of your soul. Voice lives in the deepest waters and the darkest recesses of your very soul. It will only venture out when you've recognized it, given it the passion to grow and then room to breathe, as you write it to life.

What IS voice? With poetry, it can be a combination of things:

* the genre in which you write: children, adults, eroticism, et al
* whether you write in rhyme or free verse
* whether you punctuate and/or capitalize
* first person narrative vs. third person, et al
* subject matter, i.e., pastoral, humor, satire, beat, etc.

Voice is putting yourself into the poetry. Voice is actually bleeding yourself onto the very page.

My own true passion for writing poetry comes from my inner child. That is my poetic voice. I also write poetry for adults, but my true passion lies within writing poetry for children.

The Child Within
by CJ Heck

Down inside this grownup
lives the child that used to be.
When I look in my mirror,
she stares right back at me.

Now that I’m a grownup,
it’s an older face I see,
but the child’s still there, just hiding,
way down deep inside of me.

Sometimes we work together,
that little girl and me.
She comes up from her hiding place
and we write poetry.

I like being grown up
and I wouldn’t wanna swap.
Well, maybe a little younger face
with no grey hair on top.