Browsing Tag

death of a child

Grief, Guest Posts

Ghosts And The Perfect Puddle Dive

June 4, 2017

By Debra Feiner-Coddington

Inspired by Edna St Vincent Milay’s, What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why (Sonnet XLIII) 

“… but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain…”

Part I – My World is Full of Ghosts Tonight…

Our house is getting a new room. Built to make our lives easier, it will stand in front of the old glass double doors dented and scratched by 30 years of assorted cats and dogs.  A portico is what I thought it was called but recently learned it is a vestibule – if one cared about accuracy in names – because it will be enclosed when it’s completed.  A portico would be open sided.  Built to collect pebbles and mud from our boots before we enter our house. Built to hold the mess scattered through our lives and our kitchen: shoes, coats, hats, containers overly full of recycling.  Built to make our lives easier, our home is getting a new room.

Made of wide glass panels, its roof is open and light.  Lovely. My husband built it from galvanized steel sheet he carefully measured, cut, laid and folded to fit glass inlaid with chicken wire, like the glass protecting hallways in the little apartment house in the Bronx where I grew up. The first project he’s done for himself in 25 years, he stands under it looking up through the wired-glass at the threatening clouds. Under the safety of his new roof, arms folded across his chest he surveys his work and radiates satisfaction. His chest rumbles, “Hooommmmme.” It is his home. The home he opened to me so generously when we met 40 years ago. The home that grew our business, our children, our lives. Continue Reading…

courage, Grief, Guest Posts

The Circle.

February 10, 2015

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By Robin Gaphni.

She pulled into the parking space and turned the engine off. “Third time’s a charm,” she thought. The first time she drove here, she sat in her car, watched the people file in and 90 minutes later watched them file out. She never even unbuckled her seatbelt.

The second time she waited until she saw, what she hoped was, the last person enter the building. Then she unbuckled her seat belt, opened the car door and walked across the asphalt parking lot. When she got to the door, she gripped the heavy brass handle and froze. She stood silently there for about five minutes, her heart racing, her hand molded around the door knob, her body absolutely unable to move forward. After a bit she slunk back to her car and drove home.

But today she was determined. She glanced over at the door. It was one of those solid, double doors that often grace the entrances to churches-tall, heavy and formidable. But this was not about religion. She had talked to the leader of the group three times and had been promised it was not religious at all, it just happened to be held in a church.

So before she could conjure up any more excuses for not going into the building, she opened the car door, grabbed her backpack and walked briskly across the parking lot. She pulled the heavy church door open and stepped foot in the airy entrance. It was dim and she couldn’t see well. The sanctuary to her left was pitch black. But across the hall there was a light under the door and she assumed that’s where the meeting was. She walked to the door, hesitating only for a split second before turning the handle and walking in.

Jen Pastiloff is the founder of The Manifest-Station. Join her in Tuscany for her annual Manifestation Retreat. Click the Tuscan hills above. No yoga experience required. Only requirement: Just be a human being. Yoga + Writing + Connection. We go deep. Bring an open heart and a sense of humor- that's it!

Jen Pastiloff is the founder of The Manifest-Station. Join her in Tuscany for her annual Manifestation Retreat. Click the Tuscan hills above. No yoga experience required. Only requirement: Just be a human being. Yoga + Writing + Connection. We go deep. Bring an open heart and a sense of humor- that’s it!

Continue Reading…

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