fionacaccese
The school where I work is full of misunderstood kids. When I think of how frustrating it is to be misunderstood about a word or during an argument, I can only imagine how it feels to exist mainly in a file and have your entire life misunderstood. Your motives. Your difficulties. Misinterpreted as lazy.
Wow. The thing I haven't finished. The thing I so respect in others. The thing I may finish. That will make me live more fully. That will fill me with more possibility.
Is everything. It is psychological. It is a filter in our brain. It is very difficult to change when we only have our own experience to look to. It is important to expand our perspective by reading, art, travel, talking to others.
Mom always wore an apron in the kitchen. She cooked every day. I miss aprons. I have a few but am going to sew more comprehensive ones. I need big ones. I cook a lot at once and love making food. I haven't been able to much lately because I broke my leg over the summer. But a nice clean fresh apron is an indication of possibility. A sign of a comfortable home. An invitation to coziness. An implication that all are welcome. How something so utilitarian can carry so much meaning.
I once read a piece by Leo Buscaglia in which he wrote that we should be thinking about death every day so as to remind us to make every moment count. What do you want written on your tombstone? The modern world has taken away the romance of death and resting in peace may be an unattainable goal.I think of old cemeteries in groves of trees by ancient stone buildings. Stones with inscriptions that are more mystery than information. My Dad is resting in a cemetery like that. He's in a cemetery where the stones are like palaces. They exhibit pictures, and containers for holy water. They have small gardens built in or room for a huge planter. People came to fill watering cans and scrub the stones and plant new flowering plants regularly. I wonder if they still do that? Modern life has taken away the romance of death, but certainly not the fear. That old cemetery is a maze. But I think I could still find my fathers grave. He shares it with my grandfather and my great grandmother. None of them are blood related. But death made them room mates. This is not ironic at all. The three enjoyed each other's company immensely. Remembering this has brought back some sunny memories, and some emotionally scary ones. My great grandmother spoke no English. It was scary trying to communicate with her. That memory is counterbalanced with the memory of my great grandmother, my grandmother, my mother, my sister, and I gathering mushrooms for soup. I never found the good ones. And I didn't like mushroom soup at that time in my life. The forest was fragrant with pine trees and fallen needles. The fragrance is whirling in my mind.
writing since 2016 · 5 entries · 5 days shown up
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the words fionacaccese reaches for
deathgrandmotheronesstonescemeterygreatmisunderstoodmodernromancerestingtreesroomfillscarymemorysoup