MY FAST TAKE ON PATIENCE, AN ALLEGORY ... Fast Take? About Patience?

Some see patience one way and I ... well here it is!

                                

My week studying patience. Dust of the chair.      

And back to school. 

 

Patience does no Hip Hop

But waltzes.

Patience marinades

And never uses the microwave.

She reproves Dr. Atkins

But holds up banners for the Daniel Plan Diet.*

 

Patience lingers at mid-morning bouillon,

And leisurely sips late afternoon tea.

She wears long garments

Of handmade lace from Belgium.

And cobbler crafted shoes

Brought on slow boats from Italy.

 

Patience thinks before she speaks

Aiming to listen, digesting content,

Pushing away the counsel

Of one of her nemeses, Sir Quick Retort.

 

She knows even rain has a purpose,

She weathers it, ready always with her parasol,

And yet finds something else to do

When waiting for dangerous thunder to pass.

 

Patience holds on tight

Her figure thinning, her mantle  

Of longsuffering flowing

In the winds of adversity,

While forced to ride a wild stallion

Called Pain, until her Knight

Of Relief will sweep her away,

To feast at the Castle of Restoration.

 

Patience often sits in fellowship

With her sister Wisdom.

And after, readies to travel long and far

With her mother, Gratitude,

In order to impart themselves  

Into those of opened hearts.

 

I heard that Patience loves to teach mostly by example,

Though this week I was informed of her opened classroom and I … I’ve signed up for the course! Come join me. Have a chair for you!

 

 

 

*The Daniel Plan Diet - A way of life rather than a quick weight loss plan. The plan deals with the physical, mental and spiritual aspects of eating. It encourages the user of the plan to partnership with others who are committed to the same program.



LE BISTRO ... ONE WOMAN'S WAY OF PROCESSING LOSS - AND? WHO STAYED THERE?

Le Bistro ... One Woman's Way Of Processing Loss, from A Dot In Time                   

                                                                                                  

                                          by Amariyls Gacio Rassler  (Marggie)         

                                                                                      

A week after the fatal heart attack, I forced myself to scan her home to take inventory of the work ahead of me. I stared at the wheel chair, the walker, the lifting recliner. The heavy  furniture laden with the memories of my mother's pain. She had suffered much in her last years of life from chronic arthritis. I picked up a salve from the floor and took in the strong scent. I smiled. The smell that kept her Yorkie sneezing and under the bed. That recollection brought the first tears upon my face.

I trudged through all the rooms like a swimmer who knows he has miles to go before reaching shore. Each wall decoration and family photo shouted who she was and what she loved ... my mom, my encourager, my friend.

I ended up sitting at her kitchen table. Bread crumbs still spread over the big apple-shaped mat. Her red and white coffee mug, crowded by medicine bottles stood cleaned and ready for use the way I left it the eve before Mother's Day. The night she passed away. I looked down at the small microwave we had placed on the table and stared at my reflection but I could only see the image coming from my heart, my mom's face.

The crying came in torrents. Forceful waterfalls of pain with groans and moans like thunder.

"Scream if you have to."  A friend who'd lost her husband advised this to handle grief. "Close all the windows and shades and let it rip."

So I did. But the pain only left for a while. And right there in her kitchen it returned to box with me. It was winning all the rounds. How to survive this? That unrelenting question  grabbed my sorrow like a beggar and then my lips formulated that question as a prayer.

Thoughts arrived at different times during the next few days. The invitations bounced around inside my head. They came when pain whispered of emptiness and gloom. Why don't you do something? Busy your mind in other ways. You love to write. What if you could go anywhere to write? My mind reeled with ideas back and forth. I usually enjoyed writing in coffee houses and bistros.   

 I spent the next weeks cleaning my mother's home, built for her on our property. I gave away her living room and dining room furniture. The place seemed so hollow.

 It was during that time, working with my husband, that I asked him, "Could I use the place here for a while?"  

"What for?"

"I think I need to write here. Make it my own. For a season."

"Yes," he said. He knew I had been going through a hard time.

As the days rolled on, grief reappeared with his boxing gloves, again and again. Each time its gloves were a bit more worn and the hands inside them, those I call emptiness and sorrow, packed a weaker punch. The new endeavor of creating a place of my own, a writing place, brought sparks of life back into my soul.

Shortly after, I strolled through one of my haunts, a favorite bookstore. I sipped my espresso and it called out to me. A Writer's Paris, A Guided Journey For The Creative Soul. I bought the book. It spoke of people who went to Paris to write, sometimes in cafes, sometimes in ... a Paris bistro. Paris? Could I create a semblance of a place like that for me to write?

The work began. My husband painted a wall ruby red on our anniversary. My favorite color. And piece by piece I bought the furniture. Black iron benches, park-like, a tiered shelf in the shape of the Eiffel tower, bistro tables and then material to make valances. I chose red and white checkered for the kitchen, to match the tablecloth. Red with silver and black trimmings adorned the living room and dining rooms that reminded me of skirts on can-can dancers. Different shaped statues of chefs were bought to decorate and on a wall by one of the doors the sign, bistro. Focusing on a project I loved, putting my creativity to work, caused a change, the rising of my spirits.

Now  Le Bistro is in use. I come into it and find the smiling statue by the door, of a chef  carrying grapes. I start espresso, turn on the player to hear the sounds of  La Vie En Rose, and open up my computer, enthused to write. Sometimes as I look around I remember the words of my daughter when she saw how I decorated the place. "Oh, Mom, Abuela would be happy to know you're writing here."

Each time I finish writing and it's time to go for the day, my eyes are drawn to a picture I bought for a special reason. It's a painting of a sparrow perched on a wild rose bush, gazing at an empty cage. I find joy as it reminds me that my mother is free of pain and that I'm well on the road to the same.                                          

             Note: This Mother's Day will be the second anniversary of my mother going to heaven. In the last year Le Bistro has been used for much writing. We were gifted with the presence of a best selling author, Steven James, thriller-suspense writer and teacher of the writing craft.  He came to work on his new novel and used our Bistro for a ten day writing retreat. I'm anxiously waiting to see his soon to be published novel that he worked on so diligently at our Bistro! Yay!

           Our little Bistro has also hosted good writing / craft books discussions with writings friends that have blessed me beyond belief. I'm thankful for the healing I have experienced  and I'm experiencing through friends of kindred spirits. And now ... off to WRITE!     

                           

                   

Bestselling novelist Steven James!

    Where I am ... there's food!

 

 

 

THE KISS THAT POLIO LEFT ON MY LEG ... AND MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH A BICYCLE

       

The Kiss That Polio Left On My Leg … And My Love Affair With A Bicycle

      (From Memoir, A Dot In Time)                   

 

 To: My sister who gave me the bicycle charm … and to all who have experienced a handicap.

I sat alone on the cold tile floor in the small bathroom of my mother’s sewing room, above our garage in our home in Cuba, wiping tears. Coming through the window I could hear the sounds of children laughing and ringing their bicycle bells.

“I want a bicycle. I think I can ride!” I had said to my mother and father again that morning but they just gave me that sad, lost look.

I knew what they were thinking. Stricken with polio at the age of four I was a survivor. The diagnosis of the doctor, “She will probably never walk again,” had been deleted by heaven’s plans for me. Months at the hospital, with a year of bed at home, and then I walked! But before polio retreated it left its signature kiss. Some of the muscles in my right leg had atrophied, never to be revived again. My parents worried that I would fall off a bicycle and be seriously hurt.

Yes, I couldn’t lift my right leg. Steps of stairs would be taken for the rest of my life with my left leg. No skating. Not enough control with my right leg to keep my balance. But no bicycling?

A day of “Reyes Magos” came, the day of The Three Kings, who leave presents like Santa Claus in the United States. And, there it was. A bicycle! But with training wheels? How could I ride such a thing? Here I was eight. Ridiculous. Children in the neighborhood would laugh at me!

No compromises were made. Mami and Papi knew I needed to do a great deal just to learn to balance even getting on a bike with only one healthy leg. So the work started. And yes, some children from the neighborhood stared and snickered. And that bicycle was to be used to ride to our new school. My father’s business had done so well that we were going to a beautiful private school for girls, The American Dominican Academy, on a very large property where the pupils entered the gates and rode and rode their bikes to the buildings. And most of the students were well-to-do. What would those classy girls think of me riding with those baby wheels behind me?

First day was the hardest. And the grins and smiles did come but I was determined to be proud. I was riding a bike! And I rode and I rode, pedaling with the power of that strong left leg while the wind hit my face. The bicycle had given me wings!

Much riding practice brought confidence to me and my parents. A bicycle graduation day arrived. The training wheels were taken away. At last, I was normal, like the other children. And along with some falls and scraping of knees I had learned precious lessons.

First, no matter how hard, don’t give up on my dreams.

Second, remember my parent’s wisdom. Papi said, while teaching me to ride, “Keep your eyes ahead, not on your feet. Watch your balance. Test your brakes before you start. Look out for any danger ahead.”  Wow! Life’s lessons I’ll never forget.

I rode my bicycle all the way into university life when, as a newlywed couple, we studied together at the University of Florida and I didn’t know, yet, how to drive a car. Off to class every day, up and down hills I flew on my red bike!

          Some see a bicycle and see a tool for exercising and a fun ride. Me? I see a bicycle and behold the conquering of the pain from rejection and loss, the victory over a handicap, and the love of parents who took a risk in letting their child learn how to fly.

                                            The charm my sister gave me. The bracelet I bought was not gold so it tarnished with time. The charm my sister gave me many years ago was gold. I keep it as treasure. Golden like the love that gave it to me.
                                                                           

 

 

MAMI'S RED BEAN SOUP ... WITH A TOUCH OF AMARILYS!

HILDA GACIO'S RED BEAN SOUP WITH A TOUCH OF AMARILYS!   
                                                               

 

Ingredients: 1 16oz. pkg. of dark red beans

                    1/ 2 of 16oz. pkg. of light red beans

                    3 ham hocks with lots of meat or

                    2 small ham hocks and one small ham steak (we like it with lots of ham).

                    4 small potatoes (peeled and cut in large pieces)

                    2 large sweet potatoes (peeled and cut in large pieces).

                    1 small can 8oz. tomato sauce

                    Salt and Pepper to taste

 Sofritooooo!  1 and ½ big Spanish onion or sweet onions (cut up for sofrito)

                       1 and ½ big green pepper (cut up for sofrito)

                       4 Dientes de garlic, (garlic cloves) (cut up for sofrito)

              

Procedure:  In a 6 quart pressure cooker place your beans and your ham hocks or ham hocks with ham steak and cover them up to the top with water as directed by pressure cooker instructions. Usually inside the pressure cooker is a little circle that I call the marker. The water should stay below the marker unless you want to do a lot of cleaning! You are warned now by the voice of experience. LOL.  Water should not go above that. Cook the beans and the ham for about fifteen minutes after the top of your pressure cooker, (the little hat it wears,) starts dancing a rumbita.

Make your sofrito by placing your cut up onion, garlic and green pepper in a bath of olive oil and cook on low until tender. Drain off the olive oil. (THIS SOFRITO COMES OUT BETTER IF YOU KICK OFF YOUR SHOES AND DANCE AROUND THE KITCHEN TO THE RAP OF MY SOFRITO POEM!

After your pressure cooker has cooled and you can open it, pour in the cooked sofrito, the small can of tomato sauce, the potatoes and sweet potatoes, and salt and pepper to taste into your pressure cooker. If you used a lot of ham you are going to need less salt. Cover pressure cooker for a second time of cooking and cook contents again. About five or six minutes after the little hat on the pressure cooker starts  dancing again. I don’t cook it too long because the potatoes can turn to mush.   

There are times I don’t have the garlic and I use garlic powder. That also works. If for some reason your potatoes do not get cooked the second time because they were too many or cut too big you can let it simmer on the stove until they are done. We eat this many times over white rice. The next day it thickens like a potaje, which is a thicker soup. Not hard to make. Fun! Great therapy especially when your family tells you they love it! 

So what’s the touch of Amarilys? I use beans of two different colors and I dance to my Sofrito Poem while I make it!

                                                                             
                               Mami, Hilda Gacio, receiving the book I dedicated to her and Papi,
                               Cuban-American, Dancing On The Hyphen!

Spirit, Soul and Bread Pudding!

Spirit, Soul and Bread Pudding!

                                                       In the introduction to my blog I state  "I hope to share my stories through both my spirit and soul because with heart those two will write." Here is my attempt at explaining what I meant by that. Just what is the soul? And the spirit? Being of a curious sort...many moons ago I went to find out.

                 

          The classroom received the sleepy looking young men scrambling in, juggling notebooks and coffee mugs that looked more like kettles. The seminarians took seats and sat in a daze, still and quiet.

          I placed the plate of bread pudding on the teacher's desk and  grabbed one of the seats in front of my friend,  the psychiatrist, and his beautiful blonde wife. We had five minutes to wait for our last class of Old Testament Survey. That day we were to receive our grade for the semester. That day the professor had mentioned we could ask anything about the Bible and Marggie Rassler was ready.

       I turned around and smiled at my friend. "So, doctor, what are we getting today?"

      "Some of your bread pudding I hope. The rest I already got. Information. Don't care about the grade. The practice comes first."

      I turned to his wife and she grinned. "Not me. I want both. Information and the A. And you?"  I thought about it for a second and knew the answer. "I'm with you. My brain is mush. I worked hard. I want an A."  

     The class had been packed with much data, homework and exams. Memorization seemed the key to success. We tackled exams full of essay questions and blank maps of Israel to fill out with its cities and regions, important passages of  Old Testament portions to memorize and dissect, theme lines from each of the thirty-nine books of the Old Testament to learn by heart, etc., etc. All put together then, to shine knowledge of its relevance with  New Testament teachings. The class inwardly enriched me. The history and spiritual information learned turned into that artifact I worked hard to excavate but afterward, much satisfaction.  

     I heard the noise of books and papers drop on the teacher's desk and turned to catch a glimpse of Dr. Galleoti with a mouth full of bread pudding. He winked at me. I had come up with the promised goods.

     The Bible questions from classmates started fast and steady. One after another those hard to answer queries tackled by a much prepared teacher. Finally my turn came.

     "Dr. Galleoti, will you explain to me what is the difference between soul and spirit? Is there even a difference?

    He cleared his throat. "Mrs. Rassler, there is a difference. Look up Hebrews 4:12. If  the passage tells  you they can be divided one from the other and it gives you separate names for them, they are different. The soul is all your personality. That person who you are that makes you, you. It was given when God breathed  life into you. At death the soul departs. Look up Genesis 2:7. The soul is the habitation for your mind, emotions and will."

   My eyes traced every movement of  Dr. Galleoti's face. I watched as he took a breath but I could also sense my  classmates. The room pulsed with hungry curiosity. He cleared his throat again.

   "The spirit is that immaterial part of us that has the capability to connect with its Creator. If alive in Him, and open, it can receive its inspiration from Him. Some of the closest times to Him can certainly be when we create. After class I will give you more information for  research."   

    Dr. Galleoti turned to answer others' questions but when there was a pause I raised my hand again.

"Dr. Galleoti, I got one more question. Please?"

 "All right, Mrs. Rassler."

 "What's heaven going to be like? What will we find there?"

 Dr. Galleoti laughed. "That's two questions. Mrs. Rassler, I don't exactly know how to answer that  in the time we have here but I can tell you one thing. There'll be room for your bread pudding.

* I got an A.  Was it the bread pudding?

                              

   GRIEF ... almost a year after.

                    Mothers Day morning of 2013 found me covered with a dark shroud of sadness. The night before my mom had  passed away with a heart attack.

                    The last I saw her we had prayed together for a good night sleep. Then, I left to come up to my home, not far from hers in our property. Who knew that was our last good bye? The last time I kissed my mother good night.
                   
                      Soon I will come face to face with another Mothers Day. Already I'm remembering how two days before her death we spent a special day together at one of her favorite restaurants. An Amish restaurant in Sarasota. The memory of her happiness that day soothes the pain of her absence.
                     
                      Grief  almost a year after? It's still here. Not as a cut from a razor that jags but as a wound in the process of healing reopened by the ambush of memories.

                       Grief almost a year after is still an acute teacher reminding me that now is the time to kiss, to hug, to love.
                      To view my present as a priceless, fragile bird to caress and to hold. And to learn to sing in tune to that bird's song for that too, is a gift from The Master of all.
                 
         

                 

MY INTERVIEW ... HOW DID YOU BECOME A POET?

 AMARILYS, HOW DID YOU BECOME A POET?  INTERVIEW BY TAMPA WRITERS ALLIANCE POETRY COORDINATOR, ELLIOT GREENBAUM.

                                                       

Would you tell us about events in your past that contributed to you being a poet?

 Ms Rassler:                                      

I started writing poems about seven years ago when I was meditating on a Good Friday, on the crucifixion of Christ, and had something like a vision of Him on the cross. The words to the poem, The Vision, Jerusalem 33AD, came to me easily and fast as I put down what I was seeing. I decided to try a poetry group and found that Tampa Writers Alliance had one and I attended it with fear and trembling holding tight to my one poem. There I found the warmest welcome through Ella and Warner Conarton. Warner was leading the group. When I read the poem, Warner’s kind words were, “I wish I could write like that.” Of course he did and so much better than I do. But those words were exactly what I needed to continue to write.

 

Are there other poets in your family?

 Ms Rassler:

Yes! My grandmother, my Abuela, was a great poet and her sister also.

 What about music? Do you play an instrument? Sing?

 Ms Rassler:

I play the guitar a little and I’m teaching myself the ukulele. Sing? Of course. Are there any Latins who don’t sing? The question is how well? LOL. I try to sing for at least a half hour every day. It’s my medicine. I love music. Really feeds my muse.

I know you are also a writer of fiction. How do you see your poetry influencing your other interests?

Ms Rassler:

Poetry shapes my writer’s voice. I believe it weaves itself into everything I write. Poetry is in my blood. It cradles my soul in sad times and creates a fast happy orbit for my heart to spin in during those joyous moments life brings. For a writer of fiction today, poetry is an excellent exercise because the writing teachers of our times encourage us to trim our writing and tell a powerful story without being wordy. Poetry does just that. It tells a story using potent words within a small space. Great poems touch our hearts and move us to tears or laughter. Many have great endings that impact. All those elements align well with the perfect fictional story.

 

With all the chaos in the world now,

do you think a poet can help make a difference? 
  

 Ms Rassler:

Oh yes! Poets can be a voice to fight for what is right. I definitely think we can make a difference. I wrote my book, Cuban-American, Dancing On The Hyphen, with poems like La Cola, (The Line), protesting the injustices of Castro’s Communist regime. I wrote it to make a difference. I wanted to bring to light, through the poems and stories, the needs of an island in torment, stripped and raped of freedom. So I wrote many of those poems with the idea to protest against the conditions there and to inform the public that it is still happening. Little did I know that some of the book’s poems I would read at MacDill Air Force Base to encourage our armed forces … to let them know the importance of what they do for us in protecting our liberty and freedoms. Poetry is a strong weapon. It can teach, inspire, engage and motivate our world toward change. It can comfort, caress and entertain. A poem can be very memorable.

 

 

I know you have published one book of poems and prose, Cuban-American, Dancing On The Hyphen. I have a signed copy. Anything on the horizon we can look for?

                                                                                       

      

Ms Rassler:

Yes. December, 2014, my new book, with a Christmas theme, went on sale at Amazon. It is called THE CHAIRS, … four vignettes, stories, connected by supernatural activity around four Adirondack chairs. It is prose but, of course, has a poem in it called The Chairs. I’m also still working on my memoir, Beyond The Veil, and a novel, Commuters, a tale of demonic transference.

                                                                       

 

What is the best advice you think you have received on writing?

 

 Ms Rassler:

The best advice I have received on writing has come from what Julia Cameron says …

“Write because something ‘touches’ you, write because you want to ‘touch’ someone else, but most of all write to ‘get in touch’ with the divine or because the divine somehow has ‘gotten in touch’ with you.”

 

Two Poems By Amarilys Rassler (Marggie)

 

IN "NIKE SHOES"   A Poem For The New Year

  by Amarilys G. Rassler 

Nike, from Greek origin meaning "Victory."

 

Here I am

Running, running,

My soul's feet

Clad in "Nike shoes,"

My heart with Hope afire

Lit by fuse of 2015 plans,

Oh rising flames

From my desires!

 

Here I am

Running, running,

To Finish Line

Somewhere toward

Unknown horizon.

No knowledge of how close

My final moon shall be,

Or number of morning suns

He has left for me to see.

Yet I run.

Propelled by

His Good pleasure,

Carrying backpack of 2015

Dreams I treasure,

Trusting in His Abounding Love,

Impossible to measure.

 

Here I am.

Have extra pair of "Nike shoes" for you!

Come, come run with me ... too.

  ****************

¡SOFRITO!  Garlic, Onions And Green Peppers By Amarilys Gacio Rassler

From book, Cuban-American, Dancing On The Hyphen by Amarilys G. Rassler

 

Garlic, onions and green peppers,

Bathe in heated olive oil, 

Trinity of scents ascending,

Soon to pot of beans descending,

Make my cravings come to boil.

 

¡SOFRITOOOOO!

 

Moving to a little cha cha.

Feet caressing kitchen floor,

Cooking sofrito sabroso,

To surprise my darling esposo, 

Fast a-coming through the door?

 

¡SOFRITOOOOO!

 

Sensing warm anticipation,

And a thumping heart sensation,

The sofrito and aphrodisiac?

Causing pleasant transformation…,

Amorous thoughts, sofrito rendering,

That’s the dart, sly Cupid’s sending!

Sizzling senses,

Now surrendering,

Leaps of passions... kisses start!

¡Ay Sofrito! ¡Que Sabroso!

CUBAN CULINARY ART!

 

 

 

 

 

(Sofrito – garlic, onions and

green peppers, cooking. Then, used as seasoning for a Cuban dish.

The staple Cuban seasoning!

                                                                                         

Sabroso – delicious

 Esposo – husband, spouse                                                

¡Que Sabroso! – How delicious!

¡Ay!- A Cuban’s heart cry.)