Stephie's Epiphanies

Their God On the Road

2012-02-05T08:11:00.000-08:00

written by Stephie Goldfish

Finally
she decides
to leave him
behind

to his God on the road

Days later at a camp for refugees
in Dadaab, Kenya she pleas

I am sure
he was alive
how my heart breaks

I am left to my fate

::

Two of the children
could not walk on
anymore

Instead of us all
dying there
he was forced

to leave them to their fate

Thinking of the other five children and their mother
he left behind at home

He said to himself

Save your life
for the interest
of the five

these two have their God

::

As lovers from our past friendships often cannot pursue
these will be my last words to you:

I wish you all the best in your life

Finally
we decide
to leave them
behind

to their God on the road

STOP and Smell the Roses!

2011-12-26T08:34:00.000-08:00

photo by Stephie Goldfish

Sharing a playdate with
Laura at The Wellspring

Are You Where You Want to Be in 2012?

2011-12-19T13:02:00.000-08:00

Photo credit by: Kim Eisenstein

by Stephie Goldfish

Looking back over this year, 2011, it sure has been a year of people on the move. Courageously leaving her practice here in Raleigh, one of my doctors moved clear across the country. I myself have moved about three times this year—back home to WV, to Nashville, TN, and finally back to Raleigh, NC—all within four months. Some of my Facebook friends, who’ve lived in stability most of their lives, are trying to find their place, knowing that it’s not the actual place that makes one stable, but have feelings of upheaval and the need to move to a place where they will be most comfortable and content within themselves.

It’s also been a year that has shaken things up all over the world, with all the events that took place in the Middle East and elsewhere and even here in our country with the Occupy Wall Street Movement. Even my psychiatrist, who can’t very well pick up and leave her practice here in Raleigh, has gotten involved. I would join forces, too, except I don’t really have anyone who’d bail me out of jail. And if you’ve ever ridden hand-cuffed in a police car and taken to the police station, it is a scary experience.

I’ve heard it said that people are instinctively moving around in 2011 to be where they need to be or should be or really want to be when 2012 ushers in what some think is the End of the World.

During this time of year with Christmas upon us makes me think of how Mary and Joseph were in transit during the birth of Jesus. In fact, Mary and Joseph had nowhere to rest for the night and slept in the stable where the Inn travelers kept their horses. Yet, God was with them. Jesus’ name means, “With us is God.”

That’s what comforted them then and that’s what comforts me now during times of upheaval. I often reflect on Jesus’ life and for most of it he never had a settled or secure place to rest his head or to call his own. But Jesus knew that his heart and sights were not on fleshly but spiritual interests. He cared about the human condition and he wanted to spread good news to everyone he encountered.

In 2012, some think that we are going to be wiped off the face of the earth. Whether it happens or not, I know that God has everything and everyone in his care. He’s even made a promise and he intends to keep it. In 2 Peter 3:9, it says regarding His promise: “God is not slow respecting his promise, as some people consider slowness, but he is patient with you because he does not desire any to be destroyed but desires all to attain to repentance.”

So, we’ve all got less than 12 days before we bring in the New Year 2012. When the ball drops in New York City—the city that never sleeps—and when the acorn falls in Raleigh, North Carolina—the City of Oaks—are you where you want to be in 2012?

A Review of Rumors

2011-11-06T10:27:00.000-08:00

by Stephie Goldfish

Rumors of Water: thoughts on creativity & writing
by L.L. Barkat

I’ve never met L.L. Barkat in person—I don’t know if she’s blonde or brunette, short or tall, or whatever. Someday I hope to meet her in person, but I feel I’ve come to know her writer’s soul through her writing and her blogs. Sharing what she thinks, feels, and believes about creativity and good writing is easy to be found in her latest book, Rumors of Water: thoughts on creativity & writing.

I had learned early on that L.L. was writing a new book, and I even shared some thoughts to her cover designs, along with some other fellow bloggers. The cover design includes a detailed floral design by her youngest daughter, aka Lovely Laughing Lady.

One only has to know L.L.’s passion for tea and her love for her daughters to understand why such a book began as Rumors.

There are many lessons I learned of a mother’s love and deep devotion to her daughters as much as lessons about her commitment to her art of writing and how she shares this with those around her.

L.L. gives us a glimpse of how the story unfolds in the first chapter:

I have been trying to write while raising my girls. I have been struggling. There are days I feel wildly creative; there are weeks when I feel ground down and completely spent. I am trying to show my girls that creativity is theirs for the taking. Sometimes it seems to be. Sometimes I feel the road is so long they will never get where they’re trying to go.

The mother-daughter relationship is intricately woven into a beautiful tapestry of creative lessons taught and creative lessons learned. From the opening poem by William Butler Yeats, “The Stolen Child”, to L.L.’s last words of the book, she honors her girls as well as her passion for the writing life.

One sees that, as a mother raises her daughters, and guides them, it is still God who makes them grow in ways we only hope for and, sometimes, as the title suggests, we have to live by faith—to see it all through.

And I'll Remember You...

2011-10-16T11:26:00.000-07:00

written by Stephie Goldfish

This poem is dedicated to one of my doctors who recently moved away to be closer to her children and to move on in her own spiritual journey of life. She is a wonderful person, dedicated doctor, and devoted mother. In the 3 1/2 years that I got to meet with her, she helped me in a way that words can't express, but I wrote this poem about her to try to convey my gratitude.

I'll remember you,

And other silly things that remind me of you:

Like White Grand Cherokee Jeeps.

And Ice-Cream Cones at the Dairy-Queen in Cary.

Roses blooming at The Raleigh Little Theatre Garden.

And Lotus Openings.

Beautiful Pedicures in the Cold of Winter.

And a Safe Haven to Share My Deepest Thoughts.

Birds in the Windows Sitting, Singing, and Listening.

And Guardian Angels as Tall as the Empire State Building.

Psychology Today Magazines.

And The Road Less Traveled.

Calm Breathing.

And Big Blue Eyes.

Laughter of Children Playing Outside.

And the Silence of Unspoken Words.

A Mother's Love for Her Son and Daughter.

And Compassion and Empathy for Her Patients.

Tears Flowing Down.

And Hearts Lifted Up.

Freedom.

And... Independence.

In my therapy, I've searched for a feeling of home. At times I thought I had that, but when I met her, I felt like I had come full circle. She showed me symbolically and literally what a Mother's Embrace should and could feel like. She put her arms around me and I am home.

___________
Photo credits: freefoto.com

In the Face of Death, Follow Your Heart

2011-10-06T12:24:00.000-07:00

written by Stephie Goldfish

“Almost everything—all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure—these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important. Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart.” ~Steve Jobs

Three years from turning thirty, I came to an awakening about my life—where I had been, where I was at that moment in time, and where I was headed. It all hit me like a head-on collision. I’ve never been the same since. I wondered, at that time, why now, and not then?

I mean, hearing the news about my congenital heart disease at age 17 should have been enough in itself to cause me to bow down and not want to go for my dreams. Then, it wasn’t so much a feeling like my life was over; instead, more a feeling of being vindicated after all those years of wondering what was wrong with me.

What the medical team said to me then was that I would know my limitations. They said that I should be able to go on to art school, since being an artist isn’t as strenuous as being a doctor, marathon runner, or construction worker. They also said that I could die instantly, in my 20s, 30s, 40s, or later. They didn’t know, but they said usually people with my specific congenital heart defect might begin to experience more problems in their late 20s to early 30s.

With all of this in the back of my mind, my twin sister (also a very talented artist) and I went on to art school in Pittsburgh. I had begun receiving a small SSI check and I got help with the Office of Vocational Rehabilitation in Pittsburgh to attend school. The amazing thing was they provided transportation to and from school each day. They let my sister ride with me as I needed help some days carrying the heavy artist’s portfolio.

It wasn’t easy, but we both graduated at the top of our class. We followed our hearts to New York City where we began working in computer graphics.

Life has a way of creeping up on you and before I knew it I was in my late 20s—almost 27 years old. Maybe I had subconsciously known I was heading into that time of life when the doctors said things “might” start getting bad. Call it prophetic or whatever, but I just broke down emotionally. I began to fear dying. I felt the urgency of death and felt the fragility of life.

I still do.

I am 46 years old now, almost three decades after my diagnosis. I still struggle with feelings of failure and lost hopes and dreams. But what I’ve learned is that you can’t live life worrying about whether you’ll be here tomorrow, next week, or next year. I’m learning to live in the moment.

I’d like to say to those who are struggling with life and their CHD: Live life and love life to the fullest. Follow your heart and it will lead you through the many seasons of life.
____________
As a tribute to Steve Jobs, and to everyone facing death, I am reposting this article. This was originally posted on August 30, 2011 over at the Adult Congenital Heart Association's new blog.

Photo credit: freefoto.com

Letters from Mom: A Tuesday in 1988

2011-09-30T22:57:00.000-07:00

Dear Steph,

Kim came home after talking to you. She told me you had lost weight, a size 7. Why don't you call Dr. S. and ask him about this. We love you so much.

If working is too hard on you just stop and come home let us fatten you up. Ha. Like Debra she would come home skinny and I'd feed her good. Then she would go back.

We miss you and it's so hard being so far away. Money isn't everything. Being happy and feeling as good as you can. God, sweetheart. I'm lost for words.

I just want you to know that if you want to come home and rest. We have just as much don't we, when we are here as there.

I know you love J.G. and want a life with him, an apartment. His mom needs him, etc. You can't even get married. Come home to West Virginia. Put Jehovah first. We will too!

I love you so much. I don't like to pressure you. But I just want you to know we want you to come home if you want to.

Life is so uncertain it seems to everyone and critical times hard to deal with. Earth is in it's darkest night.

The dawn of the new era will come very soon, the millennial reign.

I've always heard it is darkest before the dawn.

We need to forget the world and flee to Jehovah. If no one else wants to go then leave them behind to make their own choice of life or death.

This is our only hope. Not to be limping on two opinions. Trying to do good in the world is next to impossible.

The world measures success on your $$$!

Although money is needed to support us, if we humble ourselves and go back to the basics of life, this is more important than gaining the whole world. You know what I mean.

Sure it is hard no matter where we are but to be free from being a slave to the world of Satan -- How great it will be to be truly free. Right. Romans 8 Chapter.

Crossroads

2011-09-04T11:50:00.000-07:00

written by Stephie Goldfish

At the crossroads of the world where paths take many directions

God looked down and heard my cry bringing me to you and you to me

If my prayers were answered it's not a coincidence that our paths crossed

What is so strange is that I was with you for a while but we each had to move on to our destinations

And that's when I met you

Who knows how long our stop will be this time

After our paths have crossed will you still remember me as I'll remember you?

__________
Photo credits: http://www.freefoto.com/

Pruning and Shearing God's Little Things

2011-07-20T16:44:00.000-07:00

written by Stephie Goldfish

Her words cut me like a dagger. Maybe mine did her.

I said to her, I need my space, and she moved over on the other side of the couch, I said, don't you know boundaries, she said, I used to rock you to sleep, I said, maybe that's what's wrong with me, and she said, don't you know you shouldn't say things like that to your mother, and she continued, you're suppose to honor your parents.

And she said, it also says don't be exasperating your children.

She said, I'm 73 years old, and she said, no, mom, you're 74, and she asked, how old will I be nine years from now, and she continued, shoot, by the time you start receiving your pension benefit, I'll be...

And she said, dead, maybe.

It hurts like a dagger. All these words thrown and flung about without thinking of the consequences.

I'm sorry, mom, for what I said.

I do need my space, but it's not only space from you I need. I am just like that. I can't be in close proximity with hardly anyone. Even when I would lay down next to him I felt like I was smothering.

She is outside digging up the weeds around one of her small pine trees. I came in and sat on the bed. I am writing. She came in and laid down trying to rest.

I said, her words hurt me, maybe mine did her too.

There was silence.

He began kneading the soft blue blanket like he's playing on the piano and then curled up next to her.

I said, I can sit here and mull over the hurt, but instead, I prayed, a long, silent prayer for forgiveness, for thankfulness, for long lives, and for kinder words spoken to my mother.

I went outside to see about her, worrying about the heat, and there she sat in the grass and dirt working on her pine tree, pruning so diligently, shearing so carefully.

The strong fragrance of the pine caught my breath. I stood for a moment and just breathed.

Congenital Heart Disease Tests: 6-Minute-Walk

2011-07-07T10:28:00.000-07:00

written by Stephie Goldfish

As a young girl, I often watched shows like the Bionic Woman in admiration of the ease and speed with which she moved. I dreamed of running a marathon, even though I had trouble running one lap around the track field. I had hope in modern medicine and what the future might bring.

Some of the medicine and technological advancements that have been discovered since 1983, the year I first was diagnosed with my heart and lung problem, require being seen by medical doctors and scientists who specialize in my specific heart and lung physiology, which is usually at a medical facility located in large metropolitan areas, such as New York, Cleveland, Pittsburgh, Philadelphia, and Raleigh/Durham.

An example of why I choose to be seen at a major medical facility or clinic that specializes in Adult Congenital Heart Disease is because of the new medicines and treatments that are researched and developed. These tests and medicines prescribed for me there are routine, but may not have even been heard of at most other hospitals.

One such test that is routinely given every three to four months for my congenital heart and lung disease is called a 6-Minute-Walk Test. This test measures my pulse rate and oxygen saturation (O2 Sat) in a short span walk lasting a total of six minutes. The test measures how much oxygen I’m getting and how fast and low the O2 Sat drops upon minimal to mild exertion.

In preparing for the 6-Minute-Walk, I make sure I wear comfortable shoes and clothes. The technician straps a pulse-oximeter reader to my forehead and I carry the monitor around my neck so it is not in the way when I walk. An EKG test is done before and after the test. I’m hooked up to a small tank of oxygen which I pull while walking. I am started on 4 liters of O2 and the technician increases the O2 as I walk and as my O2 Sat level drops. I look almost like the Bionic Woman when all the apparatus is hooked up, but hardly match the speed and distance.

When I begin the test my O2 Sat is around 85%. And, as the picture shows, my O2 Sat dropped to 57% upon completion, and probably went even lower during the walk.

This specific test is used to see how my O2 Sat drops during exertion and to see how the medicine I’ve been prescribed is working. The goal is to have my O2 Sat level as high as possible on exertion, and with the new medicine I'm prescribed and with oxygen therapy my O2 Sat has improved.

Anyone in the medical field knows, or any patient knows, that when an O2 Sat falls under 90% it causes alarm to the nursing staff and doctors, so when you have an O2 Sat falling below 85% is even greater cause for concern. So using the oxygen with medicine therapy helps the heart from over working and thus prevents me from going into complete heart failure sooner than expected.

Doctors don’t know how my body uses such low oxygen, but over time my body has compensated and I’m used to it. It’s normal for me, but hardly normal at all. Isn’t it amazing what our hearts can do?

After the 6-Minute-Walk test at Duke University Medical Center, which has an Adult Congenital Heart Clinic, my doctor, Dr. Terry Ann Fortin, was concerned because I have been having trouble keeping up with my regimen and routine of taking my medicines and using my oxygen. Dr. Fortin specializes in Adult Congenital Heart Disease and also specializes in Pulmonary Hypertension (secondary) that comes with some Congenital Heart Disease. I had been worrying about my vitamin D levels, but Dr. Fortin sat with me and told me straight out that I am most likely going to die from congenital heart disease and pulmonary hypertension and from NOT using my oxygen, not vitamin D deficiency. And since I've been sort of unsettled in my living environment over the past five years, she also told me to get somewhere and take your medicine and use your oxygen, because taking the medicine and using the oxygen requires consistency on a daily basis.

I am happy to report that since my last appointment I have been maintaining a better routine, and hopefully I will pass my next appointment with flying colors.

Fragile

2011-07-03T17:12:00.000-07:00

Fragile, handle with care, thirteen boxes
shipped across the USA by bus three or
four times in a lifetime wear down the
soul, sitting in corners, collecting dust

Do not bend, photos, mailed with
hundreds of letters through snow, rain,
sleet, and heavy wind, but how do you
keep the spirit protected from the pain

Hearts are bound to be broken and spirits
are certain to be crushed and bent, but
loving deeds and words spoken at the
right time surely do mend

Moving Mountains and Hearts

2011-06-01T10:00:00.000-07:00

written by Stephie Goldfish

When I first was diagnosed with a large Ventricular Septal Defect (VSD) with Eisenmengers Physiology at age 17 in 1983, I finally understood why I was always so blue. And, after the numbness wore off from knowing that surgery was not an option for my heart defect, unless I were to have a complete heart and lung transplant, I set my heart on graduating high school with High Honors and going on to Art School in Pittsburgh, PA, and graduating at the top of my class in December 1985.

Being an artist has helped me work out my creative energy, but also it has enabled me to work out some of my fears about living with a serious heart and lung problem. In one of my last quarters of Art School, the professor gave us an assignment to create a painting about a subject either close to our hearts or universal in scope. So, I painted the painting below of what I imagined my heart to look like from the inside. I remember showing ideas to my professor and I told her that I wanted others to know that with God's help I would be OK, thus, the spiritual light coming in from the "blue side".

"Stephanie's Heart", Oil Painting, 1985, by
Stephanie Hodgson aka Stephie Goldfish

It was during this time in Art School that I began to wonder if I was the only adult out there living with congenital heart disease (CHD). I often wondered if I’d ever meet anyone as blue as myself.

I moved from Pittsburgh to New York City for my first job as a computer graphic artist, and basically lived and worked there for twenty years.

It wouldn’t be until many years later, with the Internet and all, that I’d come upon a group of adults living with congenital heart disease that share congenital heart stories. As I said, I had never met anyone as blue as myself, and then I met her — Karen Klein McNulty, the first President and Co-Founder of ACHA (Adult Congenital Heart Association). I met Karen at a luncheon with several other ACHA members around 1999-2000. I was amazed at the devotion with which Karen showed in helping others like myself meet others who share congenital heart disease. She was there with her mother, Mary Kay Klein, who is just as devoted to the ACHD community. Karen had an unrepaired defect and a similar heart physiology that I have — Eisenmengers — that causes cyanosis and shortness of breath. Suddenly, though, Karen’s life was cut short on August 31, 2005, at only age 30.

When I first met some from the ACHA community, in 2000, I felt like I had come full circle, yet the circle was ever expanding. In particular, I met Amy Verstappen, who is the current President of ACHA, through a few informal luncheon meetings in New York City, and she had such a vision for the ACHA community. ACHA’s success is because of the dedication that Karen and Amy have spent bringing together the community of ACHD patients and top adult congenital heart specialists in the world.

The first ACHA Conference I attended was in the summer of 2005 in the New York / New Jersey area. I remember that day so well. I had been going through a separation from my now ex-husband. I was feeling sort of emotionally raw, having been out of touch with everyone at ACHA, and I was feeling isolated and sad. However, at the conference, I met some of the best doctors for my specific heart physiology and defect.

Dr. Gersony and his daughter, Dr. Deborah Gersony, were at this conference. I introduced myself to Dr. Deborah Gersony, and she mentioned I could see Dr. Erika Berman Rosenzweig, whom I had heard that morning with Dr. Michael Landzberg in a breakout session on Eisenmengers. Both Dr. Deborah Gersony and Dr. Erika Berman Rosenzweig are affiliated with Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center in New York City, and they had just opened one of the first ACHD clinics, so this seemed like a good choice.

One-on-ones with renowned ACHD doctors are a highlight of most conferences, which I had with Dr. Michael Landzberg, the Director of the Boston Adult Congenital Heart (BACH) and Pulmonary Hypertension Service. He also suggested that it would be to my benefit if I saw the doctors at Columbia's Adult Congenital Heart Clinic. He mentioned, though, that the team I was with at Mount Sinai Medical Center is a smart group of doctors, specifically Dr. Martin E. Goldman, who has been my favorite cardiologist since 1988. And the painting above is actually hanging up in the Cardiology Board Meeting room at Mount Sinai Medical Center.

I did go for a consultation at Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center in the spring of 2006, and since I hadn’t had a Cardiac Catheterization since 1983, Dr. Erika Berman Rosenzweig performed another one to get a new baseline of my heart pressures. She suggested some new medicine therapy, but as I had planned to move to North Carolina, she said perhaps that the team at Duke could start me on one or two of these new medicines.

Having come from a long history of seeing so many ACHD specialists and all the fellows in training, I appreciate that I have a team like the ACHA staff and volunteers spearheading the care we as a community receive, and ACHA has been expanding in great ways.

I participated in the ACHA Lobby Day in February 2006, held in Washington D.C., and I was so impressed with the organization, the care, and work it involved. They even supplied a shuttle bus for us so we wouldn’t be in the cold weather or have to walk long distances. We moved hearts that day in Washington D.C., and eventually got new laws passed for our benefit.

ACHA has been helpful in establishing a platform for the ACHD community to come together from all over the country and world to meet topnotch professionals and others like me that share similar stories about their hearts.

ACHA has given me a new perspective to look beyond age 18, 30, or 50, but also to have a quality of life that we may not have had without their advocating for us, as many of us with CHD live well into adulthood.

Still, I am sadly reminded that I am the exception; one who has out lived the doctors’ expectations.

I am grateful to ACHA and Amy, and humbly thankful to Karen who was more than just her heart defect: Karen paved the way for us. Her work and legacy at ACHA lives on today. Yes, Karen, Amy, and ACHA have moved mountains and hearts.

Wordle Poem 101: Purple Heart

2011-05-11T13:13:00.000-07:00

written by Stephie Goldfish

T.S. Poetry Press offered a creative challenge to make a Wordle Poem. My Wordle Poem was inspired by two of my favorite poets whom I met through the The High Calling: L.L. Barkat and Marcus Goodyear.

This wordle poem was also created in honor of my own heart and all the hearts that battle a war—physically, mentally, emotionally or spiritually!

Breathing Lessons

2011-04-18T07:04:00.000-07:00

written by Stephie Goldfish

Today, I have both sliding glass doors open to let in fresh air. The doors open to a sunny view of the garden and I hear the water bubbling in the fountain.

I lay down after having wanted to write. I had gotten discouraged after I told my sister, Kim, not to read aloud. She, at the same time I was going to write, had wanted to read aloud from the Bible, Psalms 83:1-18. But I got upset.

“Don’t read out loud,” I said, “It will distract me from what I want to write!”

So I ended up lying down, and my sister went to the other room to read.

I felt bad.

“What have I got to say that’s more important than Jehovah God?” I thought.

::

Lately, when I lie down and try to sleep, my breathing has become labored. I start making sounds, as I am closer to sleep, which sounds like someone crying, or more like dying.

Last night, Kim woke me up and she was scared to death.

“Steph, you need to put on your oxygen!" she said. "You’re scaring me the way you’re breathing. It’s the worse I’ve ever heard you breathe. It’s worse than grandma’s used to be, and it’s worrying me.”

“Would you like me to get your oxygen tubing for you?” she asked.

And she went right away to get it for me, cleaning off the area with alcohol that goes into my nostrils. I immediately felt relief, and my breathing was quieter, and I no longer made gasping sounds.

::

Today, as I lay down, I was back to my normal labored breathing and making sounds, as if I wanted to cry. And something reminded me of my brother, Michael. When I was there with him at his deathbed he was breathing laboriously, making the same sounds similar to mine.

I opened my eyes, and felt a little sad, and wondered if this is a sign of impending death.

One moment, while I was with Michael, his nurse had come in and tried to make him more comfortable. And I asked her about Mike’s position of his arms and hands. I worried whether or not they were in a comfortable position.

And his nurse said, “He likes to keep his hands and arms in that position,” but she didn’t know why.

He had his arms folded on his chest. One of his hands was up around his neck, and was pushing on the area around his esophagus. It seemed this was helping him to breathe easier.

::

I continued lying down, and my breathing became once again labored.

So, I thought of going to put on my oxygen cannula, but felt too tired to even move. I immediately thought of trying to do what Mike had done, and I positioned my hands near my throat and esophagus, and I pushed in. I at once felt relief. My heavy labored breathing stopped.

I quieted down, and felt peaceful. I could easily breathe now.

I thought of Mike and how he must have been trying to get air and find comfort and relief from the gurgling sounds and pressure on his lungs and heart.

And this revelation comes as a sad note to my heart and soul.

Am I slowly dying, in a real physical way, as we all are dying, really, in a physical way?

But this scares me too. I know that there are things that will help me to live longer, and help me have a more quality of life.

::

I got up to write this down.

Kim came in from where she had been reading. She began making her another German hotdog.

And, in her sardonic sense of humor, trying to break the ice after our breach, said, “Van Gogh at Saint-Rémy!”

I breathed a sigh of relief, and we both began laughing out loud.

Sharing a PlayDate with Laura over at The Wellspring

The Wellspring

Also, linking up with Cheryl over at Culture Smith Consulting in her Simplify Journey.

Culture Smith Consulting

Building Upon a Solid Foundation

2011-04-08T11:05:00.000-07:00

written by Stephie Goldfish

Here is the church, here is the steeple, open the doors and see all the people.

As children, our Aunt Velva taught us all how to make a church out of our hands. We'd clasp our hands together, then pull up our two pointer fingers to make the steeple, open our thumbs as if opening church doors, and then, while hands still clasped, twist them up and move all our fingers to reveal “all the people”.

This lesson is simple: God’s fellow workers, his people, are his temple.

Although the place of worship I attended growing up was not called “church”, but called Kingdom Halls, I knew that it wasn’t the actual building or actual place that gave me a sense of place or belonging, it was the friends or people.

Because of moving so many times in our young childhood and adulthood, having a place to call home or being attached to one specific place, seemed odd. My twin sister and I attended sixteen different schools from first grade through twelfth grade. We each of course had a built-in best friend, so adjusting made it easier for us.

The main reason for our adjusting, though, was that we were taught about God and his loving ways from the time we were babies.

This education about God and his righteous principles was the only constant we had in our lives. We learned how to pray from an early age, read the bible, and give demonstrations from the bible, and tell others in the ministry about our faith. Most everywhere we moved, when we were older, our mom asked those who shared full-time in the ministry to study the Bible with us, and we developed very close relationships with these different ones.

When we were little, my sister and I got into fights, as siblings do, but our mom, instead of punishing us, she, instead, made each of us read a story from a book about the life and ministry of Jesus, and we’d read the corresponding scriptures from our own personal copy of the Bible. After we’d both finish, mom would have each of us tell the other what we learned, and then we hugged and made up.

We grew up without a father, and sometimes we’d cry and say we wished we could have a dad. Our mom instilled in us a deep love for God helping us to see that He is our heavenly father.

However, not always having a consistent place to rest our head, sometimes was wearisome. Sometimes we stayed with our grandmother in her small one bedroom apartment, and although she loved us very much and we loved her, it was hard to be all over the place at times throughout our lives.

And when we moved we couldn’t always take all of our belongings, so we never grew attachment to things.

I think also we grew accustomed to saying goodbye to others knowing that we may not ever see them again. We grieved in our own way, because sometimes we never even had a chance to say goodbye.

Although, I don’t have a physical family of my own with children, I am learning to love what I do have, and not focus on what I don’t have, and focus on now and tomorrow.

I have recently, through Facebook, been in contact with some of my relatives whom I have not seen in such a long time. This has brought a sense of belongingness, rootedness, knowing that those who’ve known me as a babe still care about my well being, as I do theirs.

I am learning to be grateful for the advantages I did have growing up. It was adventurous sometimes. It made me less scared of new things, places, and people. We experienced so many things that it made us more open and understanding.

Someone once told me and my sister that we’d be good missionaries, because of all the places we traveled and the people we met, and because of being adaptable to various circumstances.

So, I think that what keeps someone who has lived and grown up in one “place” having a sense of rootedness and belongingness, would be the same for those who have lived in multiple places. It requires building a spiritual foundation, relying on our heavenly father for strength and guidance, becoming familiar with comforting Bible passages. Learning its truths and principles are important, because God’s laws and principles are universal, and will guide us through the most difficult times of our lives when the storms of life hit us.

This post was prompted by a question my friend Jennifer asked me after I commented on her story There's No Place Like Home over at The High Calling.

What about you? If you or someone you know is in a similar position, what do you feel works to create a sense of "place" and "belonging," even while on the move?

Black Bird At Day Break

2011-04-06T08:13:00.000-07:00

written by Stephie Goldfish

Black bird at day break
You talk and you talk

What time is it?

Time to examine my life
and realign it to what
I know is morally and
spiritually correct

Black bird at noon, at midday,
You talk and you talk

What do you see?

I look to the future
in order to see how
my current behavior
will affect it

Black bird at evening, at night-time
You talk and you talk

What path do I take?

Now's the time to be
that better person
I know myself
to be

Black bird at day break
You talk and you talk

Time to walk the way of life
I was meant to walk

When Someone Is Dying

2011-04-02T09:25:00.000-07:00

written by Stephie Goldfish

What do you say to someone who’s dying; he who’s passing from the earthly over to the heavenly realm?

I tried to find some words that were comforting or at least appropriate for something as major as Death.

I have never been before someone in their final hours, except the time my Grandmother died, yet I was out in the lobby with my mother when my Grandmother took her final breath, with my twin sister and aunt by her bedside.

I fumbled out, “It’s OK, Mike,” and “We love you, Mike.”

I prayed silently, as well as openly with him. I, even in my anxious, nervous way, asked him, “Mikey, you want to watch the latest news on CNN (he was always up on the latest Breaking News headline), and I laughed inside at the silliness of such a question when he was going through a most pure and lofty event as his final hours.

My twin sister and mother had been there before he died, but my mother couldn’t bear to see her first born like he was, so my twin sister took my mother back home.

I can’t believe I was there when he spoke his last words and that I was the last earthly creature to hold his hand, to kiss his forehead when he was ready to pass over to the hands of God.

He formed words trying to tell me some things, like when he said, “Maw maw.”

Were others there too; to assist him in this Rebirth, this shedding of the earthly life into a New Life? It made me feel as if he could see our Grandmother right there in front of him.

Is this how it is in the end; like so many think; our passed loved ones waiting for us in order to welcome us into eternity with the One?

I’d rather believe this than not. I do know that this earthly life is not all there is, and God is infinity, and we are made in His image.

Mike had asked me several times during his last hours for the time. And, as the first morning light began making things clearer and clearer, I would let him know the hour, the day, and made sure to remind him it was the first day of spring. I painted a vivid picture of the view outside his French glass doors which opened onto a veranda that overlooked the Ohio River and the new span bridge that goes over into Proctorville, Ohio. The sky had grown silver over the night, but it was still a beautiful view, and the birds were singing a new song.

Michael took his last long exhalation at approximately 8:30 that Sunday morning. And as simple as death can appear to be, he went peaceful as most people say happens at death.

About four weeks before, Michael had hopes of seeing another spring. When I first heard this, I wrote a poem thinking of Michael, but also about the last stage of our life here on earth, when we move from the winter season of death to the spring season of Life Everlasting.

Yes, Michael lives to see another spring.

Another Spring
written by Stephie Goldfish

He's grown dry, like in
the winter season when
dead trees fall down.
Just as a desert that is
barren of water, his tears
have all dried up. Like a
river bed emptied after
a drought, it's hard to
swallow and wash away
his pain. His heart has grown
cold without the warmth
of nurtured love, just as
the land lays destitute
and vegetation becomes
scanty after the harvest
has been reaped. Like a
forest in flames, his nostrils
breathe fire from the burning
air. Yet, relief comes to him
with the blossoming of
a new Spring, when the snow
and ice has melted away
the cold and bitterness
of his heart, and rivers of Life
flow through him once again.

Today I am sharing this poem and story and linking up with Cheryl over at Culture Smith Consulting. I've been away for a few weeks, but I am happy to be back.

Culture Smith Consulting

Love Life and Live Life to the Fullest

2011-02-26T12:41:00.000-08:00

written by Stephie Goldfish

“Therefore, the way I am running is not uncertainly; the way I am directing my blows is so as not to be striking air…” ~ Apostle Paul (1 Corinthians 9:26)

Lately, I’ve been thinking of my life and what I’d leave behind for others to remember me by.

“What would you like for your epitaph to read?” she asked me.

I had to really think what I would want people to remember about me. Would it read something like: Stephie Goldfish, one of the best artists to come out of West Virginia, or Stephie Goldfish, loved life and lived life to the fullest?

And I know why she asked me that question. Not for me to dwell on the morbidity of my death, the eventuality all of us face, but for me to stop and think about my past, present, and future direction.

I’ve been kind of in limbo over the past few years, coming to terms with living with a serious chronic illness, which has made me have to stop working secularly, and the fact that I can and want to do so much with whatever time there is left.

I’m left with so much time on my hands that most everyone I know says they would love to have my life or at least my time. They say they know exactly what they would do if they were in my position: Move to the beach and make art, visit every art museum, write a few novels or write poetry, take walks in the park, sip tea and read books, and watch movies all the time. There is no end to their ideas.

There is a play that I saw back in the summer of 2005, called “Score”, which was a one-man show about the life of Leonard Bernstein. It told the story as if he had come back to life and had been given an opportunity to tell us all how to live our lives. I learned something so powerful from the play: that we have very little time left, and to do all we can with what time is left, and to learn from one another.

In the play, he also said to be aware of those times called twilight times, in between being awake and in deep sleep, because epiphanies will come to us, and he said to note them because they are important.

A few days after seeing “Score”, I was lying down and, in this twilight state, I heard a voice say as clear as day, “to have loved life and lived life to the fullest.”

I woke straight up and wrote that sentence or fragment down. I felt it would somehow be relevant or useful in the days to come.

And so, I find myself, almost six years later, questioning my life and life choices.

I don’t want to be seen as someone living life uncertainly and, at the same time, I don’t want to be seen as someone living life to the fullest without any thought or direction.

My friend Cheryl, over at Culture Smith Consulting, coincidentally, speaks of a Semi-circle LifeShape, which she describes is “used to illustrate a healthy rhythm of abiding and bearing fruit. Rest and Work. Pruning and growing.”

In her post, Cheryl speaks about the first commandment that God gave us, which is to be fruitful and to multiply, and in her post suggests that it isn’t just about biological reproduction, but also includes work and purpose. And this idea has given me something to think about. As Cheryl says, God cares about what we do with our days.

Last Monday, my sister and I were feeling so overwhelmed with trying to decide whether to move back home to West Virginia to be closer to help family or to try to give New York City “one more try” or whether we should just stay put for the moment.

Instead, we treated ourselves to a day of rest and relaxation.

We jumped in the car and drove out towards Jordan Lake.

Near Jordan Lake is a place called Fearrington Village, which has one of my favorite bookstores, McIntyre’s Books, and some other unique shoppes and a café.

This was one of the sanest days either of us has had in a while, and it brought me closer to what I feel I want to be doing with my days: having quality days, where they are filled with peace and quietness, not necessarily quantity days, where one has little time to slow down the pace.

I want to bring more of these days into my life. Today is one of those days where I don’t feel rushed or pulled in any direction. I’m learning to simply be in the moment.

Related posts: Nurturing Friendships, Simply Grounded

What about you? Have you thought of simplifying your life? If you’d like to join in on the discussion, join us over at Culture Smith Consulting where we will be discussing how to Simplify our lives.

Culture Smith Consulting

Nurturing Friendships

2011-02-19T08:21:00.000-08:00

written by Stephie Goldfish

“I swear to you there are divine things more beautiful than words can tell.” — Walt Whitman

I waited at Starbucks a few minutes before I was to meet Laura for coffee.

I brought along my John Bradshaw book I’ve been reading called RECLAIMING VIRTUE: How We Can Develop The Moral Intelligence To Do The Right Thing, At The Right Time, For The Right Reason, and I brought the tiny book gift I got Laura based on the theme With God You Are Not Alone, a theme that Laura so graciously writes often about at her blog and in her books she has written.

Laura entered the coffee shop and at once our eyes met and we smiled and hugged each other.

Laura had also come with some reading material that she shared, one book by Ann Voskamp called One Thousand Gifts: A Dare to Live Fully Right Where You Are , and the new book of poetry by Maureen E. Doallas, called Neruda's Memoirs: Poems. Both of which I anticipate on reading as well.

And my heart settled down and we talked and drank our coffee. It was such a blessing to meet Laura this time after so many years, and after a couple of missed attempts to meet each other this past year due to various circumstances on my part.

Laura and I came back in contact with each other once more nearly a year ago through Facebook, emails, and The High Calling.

Our history goes back to 1995/1996 where I had seen Laura for psychotherapy for a short time after I had moved back home to West Virginia for a while to regroup and recuperate. But I lost contact with Laura in 1996 after I had moved back to New York City.

One of my stories about our friendship was among the many stories listed in the “We Are Real” stories where I wrote about Laura, and how she and I first met, and recently came back in contact with each other. You can read the first We Are Real story here: Think of Laura.

In Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs Pyramid, oxygen, water, food, clothing and shelter are the basics we humans need to survive.

According to Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs Pyramid, we must have each need satisfied, starting with the first level where we find our most obvious needs for survival, such as air, food, drink, shelter, warmth, sleep, etc.

When these lower level needs of physical and emotional well-being are satisfied, then we are concerned with the higher level needs such as belongingness and love needs, esteem needs, and self-actualization needs where we seek personal growth and our experiences peak.

At the same time, Maslow also recognizes that when things that satisfy our lower level needs are removed or brushed away, we are no longer concerned about maintaining our higher level needs.

This is about where I stand on my journey to simplify and ground myself.

At this time in my life, I find myself in sort of yo-yo effect having moved up and down the ladder of Maslow’s Pyramid reaching peak experiences such as when I was in art school or first moved to New York City for my very first computer graphics job in 1986.

I know that when things seem out of control or I’m feeling ungrounded, it’s the basic needs that I have been neglecting, and thus, the higher level needs, such as nurturing relationships, take a back seat.

Maintaining balance is so important, and you are bound to failure if you have not mastered this first level, and to move on to another level where one finds success in relationships will almost always result in failure.

The third level in Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs Pyramid is where one finds that belonging, being part of a group, where, through love and affection, friendships can be nurtured.

And for a few moments, sitting, talking with Laura, time stood still, and I was transported to a place where all of this doesn’t matter. For Laura knows brokenness too, yet, to me, she is one of the most whole persons I’ve ever met.

Laura is such a beautiful spiritual soul, that, being in her presence, I felt at ease and relaxed, and I didn’t worry so much about where each of us are on our journey of life.

And I realize that it’s only through grace of God that any of us are even breathing.

The words of Walt Whitman above are so true; words alone cannot tell all that was felt there at our meeting. I did have a sense that Laura was sad, but I didn’t know at the time that she had just lost a dear friend.

It felt so grounding to be in Laura’s company, and I hope that we will be able to keep our friendship nurtured and some other friendships that have been waning.

Related posts: Simply Grounded

What about you? Have you thought of simplifying your life? If you’d like to join in on the discussion, join us over at Culture Smith Consulting where we will be discussing how to Simplify our lives.

Culture Smith Consulting

The Standpoint of Orphans

2011-02-01T09:35:00.000-08:00

"The form of worship that is clean and undefiled from the standpoint of our God and Father is this: to look after orphans and widows in their tribulation, and to keep oneself without spot from the world." — James 1:27

The child in her
wanted to
be tucked in bed
at night by her mother,
but she knows
it's too late
for lullabies and
bedtime stories.

The child in him
wanted to
run into his father's arms
and be held,
but he stopped
running and holding
on to a fantasy
that someday he'd return.

The children of the world
want to grow up
to be just like
their parents,
and maybe
that's the reason
we need to take care
of our orphans.

Please join us at The High Calling for a Random Acts of Poetry this week with the theme being about orphans.

Simply Grounded

2011-01-30T12:33:00.000-08:00

written by Stephie Goldfish

I began the road to recovery this week. It began with a simple discovery of getting to my deepest feelings, and finally realizing the fact that not being grounded has led me to a chaotic and unstable life over the years, but even more so over the past five years since leaving NYC. These deep feelings I’ve been running from have kept my life in turmoil, and have not led to living a life of simplicity.

My friend Cheryl, over at Culture Smith Consulting, invited me just a few days ago to join her in her Simplify Blog Project: Simplify being her theme for the project through Lent.

The definitions of SIMPLIFY and GROUNDED are different but work together harmoniously:

Here is the definition of SIMPLIFY:

to make simple or simpler: as

a: to reduce to basic essentials

b: to diminish in scope or complexity : streamline <was urged to simplify management procedures>

c: to make more intelligible : clarify

Here is the definition of GROUNDED:

: mentally and emotionally stable : admirably sensible, realistic, and unpretentious <remains grounded despite all the praise and attention>

So, I made a list of things that I think will help simplify my life or, specifically, ground me.

§ Having a feeling or sense of connectedness with like minded (creative) people:

o Like at The High Calling / Friends and Family / My Twin Sister

o People who enjoy doing similar things together

§ Coffee, museums, walking in the park

§ Reading creative work

§ Viewing beautiful art

§ Listening to inspiring music

§ Reading from the bible

§ A tree can only be grounded if it has strong roots:

o So having roots means having a sense of belonging to a place or community

§ Like work, school or volunteering

§ Church / community

§ Being among writers like my friends Laura, Cheryl, L.L., Jennifer, Maya

§ Neighbors

· Getting to know them personally

· Helping out a neighbor in need

§ Being creative — having Energy to create:

o Writing (Nonfiction or Fiction) / Essays, Short Stories, Poems

o Workshops — Maya Stein’s online workshop

o Continuing Education Courses

o Art — drawing, painting, making things

§ Having Sunlight and Water makes a Tree Grow

o Being around good Energy — people who are positive

o Having space to grow

§ Example the Oak tree and the Weeping Willow tree (they cannot live side by side because one hides the sun and one takes all the water).

§ Having my OWN identity:

o If it means going separate places to eat, live and having separate friends

o I’d like to live in my own “space” — not be identified “totally” as The Twins

o Having my own means of transportation

o Having my own life — less worry about each other

o Standing solid and separate, yet not being competitive

o Seeing our own value and qualities, as well as seeing the other’s value and qualities

o Not feeling jealous of my sister and her not feeling jealous of me

§ Being organized and clean

o Keeping house in order/clean/organized

o Showing up for myself and the world

During the weeks that follow, I'll be going into more detail on some of the things listed above.

And along with my friends, we hope to really make some changes that will make our lives have more clarity and simplicity.

What about you? Have you thought of simplifying your life? If you’d like to join in on the discussion, join us over at Culture Smith Consulting where we will be discussing how to Simplify our lives.

Culture Smith Consulting

Anorexic or Epicurean Nations

2011-01-24T11:56:00.000-08:00

written by Stephie Goldfish

There is a time for feasting, a time for famine, a time for fasting, and a time for fattening up. We fast on such holy days as Yom Kippur, from sun up to sun down during the month of Ramadan, and during those occasions when we feel we ought to be pummeling our bodies, such as the death of a loved one or times of horrific tragedies such as 9/11.

These times come and go throughout history and in my lifetime like the many times my weight has fluctuated from an average 135 pounds to a robust 175 pounds and from 135 pounds down to a slender 112 pounds within a few days or week.

We overeat. We starve. Or at least some of us think we are starving. Thus is the cycle of life.

I remember vividly times of abundance and scarcity from childhood well into adulthood. On the first of the month we would go grocery shopping with our mom on our scant welfare check. During the first half of the month we enjoyed meals such as spaghetti and meat sauce with an assorted salad, burritos and tacos made the way we learned in Oklahoma, and fried chicken with mashed potatoes and gravy along with fresh steamed broccoli. Sometimes mom would get us each a New York strip steak and we would have them with a baked potato and salad. Mom tried to buy food to last the whole month, but at the end of every month we existed on simple foods like macaroni and tomatoes or beans topped on fried flour tortillas.

In the winter of 1983, during my last year of high school, and in the midst of finals, when most of my family was living together in one small apartment in the projects in Huntington, West Virginia, the meals we enjoyed suddenly came to a halt. It was so bad that my older brother, Mike, and his wife, Brenda, went door-to-door asking for some can foods or bread. My aunt Dorothy would always say we ate high-off-the-hog. But it wasn’t like we had these three huge meals a day either: breakfast was a rare occasion, and my twin sister and I were sometimes too embarrassed to eat the free lunches provided in the school cafeteria where everyone who ate there was on the free lunch program.

Food has always been a constant in my life yet bringing with it such memories associated with joy and pain. That same winter of 1983, when I was seventeen years old, and everyone else was preparing for graduation, the prom, and their future, I had been diagnosed with a congenital heart defect after being seen by pediatric cardiologist, Dr. Mahmood Heydarian. I had been having symptoms of shortness of breath, and my mother had noticed that my nails and lips turned deep blue. Dr. Heydarian was shocked that the large hole in my heart had never been found prior to this since most congenital heart defects are found when babies are born. I did have symptoms from about fifth grade on, but no one found the defect or suspected anything was wrong. Dr. Heydarian did an echocardiogram, and he wanted to do a cardiac catheterization to determine if surgery was possible. However, because of being one of Jehovah’s Witnesses at the time, Dr. Heydarian recommended I go to The Cleveland Clinic Foundation to be followed up with a team of doctors that could handle my case. If surgery was an option it could easily be done at that facility without the use of blood.

By the end of February of 1983, we made the trip to The Cleveland Clinic Foundation. My older brother, Terry, drove my mom, my twin sister, and me to Cleveland, Ohio on a Thursday. My older brother makes any situation exciting and fun. Terry took us out to eat at Chi Chi’s, our favorite Mexican restaurant. We enjoyed chips and salsa, beef enchiladas with red sauce, and we ate fried ice cream for dessert.

On Friday we had the consultation with pediatric cardiologist, Dr. Richard Sterba, and he scheduled a cardiac catheterization for the following Monday. Since I was still considered a pediatric patient, being only seventeen, Dr. Richard Sterba arranged for my family to stay at the Ronald McDonald house, which was near the hospital. My brother Terry drove all the way back to Charleston, West Virginia to bring back his wife, Starlet and their newborn daughter, Kristen. That weekend, while we waited for Terry to come back, my twin sister and I kept ourselves occupied by playing Ms. Pac Man about 200 times since it was free.

The community kitchen at the Ronald McDonald House was a place to gather and talk and eat. In the mornings, local volunteers delivered sweet cakes, rolls, croissants, and donuts. The freezers were filled with selected Stouffers frozen dinners. There were laundry facilities so my mom kept our clothes and linen clean. The radio played Michael Jackson’s Thriller a hundred times. Ironically, that was one of the most fun but longest weekends I remember. It was like we were staying at the Hilton.

The Sunday before the catheterization, we were in the community kitchen preparing a meal of lasagna. My mom is one who does not have a problem striking up conversations and she began talking with a woman whose son was in the hospital. They both shared their stories, and I remember the woman saying to my mom about me that maybe I didn’t complain enough when growing up and the woman suggested maybe that was why my heart defect wasn’t discovered earlier.

On Monday, March 1, 1983 my cardiac catheterization confirmed that I had a large Ventricular Septal Defect that had been present since birth that was causing my unoxygenated blood (blue blood) to flow over with the oxygenated blood (red blood). The doctors had sent a catheter through a vessel in my groin into my heart chambers to measure the hole and pressures of my heart. After I had come out of the operating room from having the cardiac catheterization, my mom, Kim, Starlet, and Terry were all there waiting for me. Terry was holding Kristen, and he laid her in my arms, and I began to cry. I couldn’t stop crying.

The complete work up left me weak and disillusioned when the team of doctors sat us all in their office, shook their heads in dismay, and told us bluntly the only potential cure for me would be to have a combined heart and lung transplant, because it was too late to just close the hole. We all sat there numb. I was wheeled back to my room to stay overnight. I remember being in the same room with a young girl my age that was diagnosed with breast cancer. She was too young to have cancer, I thought.

The next morning, right when they brought my breakfast, another doctor came and said I was released to go home, and I got dressed and left, foregoing the breakfast. On the long way back to Huntington, I felt an overwhelming void. Even the Long John Silvers fish we had couldn’t fill the sadness I felt.

About a month after the trip to The Cleveland Clinic, an elder in my congregation, Brother Buckhold, and his entire family invited me to go with them up to Lima, Ohio. In Lima there was this homeopathic doctor, who claimed to have cures for everyday ailments; who was also known among the congregation to have a fixation on breasts. Anyway, my older sister Debbie gave me a five-dollar bill to take with me for lunch. I put it in my pocket. I pictured lunch to be a stop at McDonald’s, Wendy’s or Burger King.

However, the first stop we made on our journey to Lima was for lunch in German Town near Columbus, Ohio. We ate onion soup, bratwurst, sauerkraut, and assorted pastries.

Eventually we made it to Lima, and I saw the homeopathic doctor who sent me home with a regimen of vitamins, one of which was beef of heart, which Brother Buckhold paid for. The doctor promised that those vitamins would close that one-inch hole in my heart that has been there since birth, and I hate to say it is still there today.

I thought we were close to ending our trip, but we made a special stop at the Swiss Chalet mall where we tasted cheese and chocolate of all kinds. After that I couldn’t believe there would be any more room for food, but we went to a Polynesian restaurant, shaped in the form of an A-frame house, where we had dinner. I could not resist getting beef with broccoli.

I knew all of this expense was much more than five dollars, and at the end of the night upon returning back home, I couldn’t muster up enough courage to give Brother Buckhold the five-dollar bill, feeling so ashamed of the minuscule amount. Yet, I felt ashamed afterwards for not offering it to him. To this day I am grateful to Brother Buckhold for his kindness and generosity.

Once when living at the Brandon Residence for Women, it was a poor or more like a broke-night, so I decided to eat down stairs in the dining hall. They were serving fried pork chops. I had never had a problem eating them in my life, before, when I was young, because we were raised as Jehovah’s Witnesses and taught it is not a sin. But I had been in therapy with a Jewish woman who escaped the holocaust, and my cardiologist also being Jewish Orthodox understood my religious beliefs at the time of not excepting blood transfusions, since he himself had religious restrictions, not to mention my first husband had educated me on some of the teachings of Mohammed while he was studying to be a black militant Muslim of the group that follows Farrakhan, and I wondered if it was really wrong to eat that pork chop or more like hypocritical. I couldn’t eat the pork chop and I threw it away.

I have since learned to eat swine and not feel guilt. And, more recently, I’ve also learned to accept someone else’s blood in order to save a life. In 2007, I had been taking the wrong dose of Coumadin, and began hemorrhaging. I nearly bled to death, and I needed a blood transfusion. I felt I could not be hypocritical in refusing to accept a blood transfusion.

As for needing the Heart and Lung Transplant, I am still considered a candidate, and to have such an operation would require the use of blood transfusions, which I have come to terms with due to everything I've been through.

Sometimes I wonder if those who survived the holocaust ever really enjoy a meal after such horrific deprivation and humiliation. I can see, too, how people go to extremes — from an Epicurean lifestyle to being on the verge of an anorexic society. We forget when we have, and, when we do not have, we remember.

Having experienced both ends of the kaleidoscopic to monotone color-of-food spectrum, feelings of guilt and shame permeate my mind every time I now have a meal. Tormenting thoughts plague me like when I used to order Thai food at work when others had diligently packed a lunch. These memories are so vivid and fresh that they haunt me now, sometimes taunt.

I ask why such patterns exist today, and I take deep breaths.

At the end of the months may we remember that first harvest of plenty and vow not to let the drought repeat again.

At The High Calling, Laura Boggess is hosting a discussion of The Spirit of Food: 34 Writers On Feasting and Fasting Toward God edited by Leslie Leyland Fields.

Won't you join in the discussion?

The Mother You Choose

2011-01-21T14:35:00.000-08:00

written by Stephie Goldfish

“Have you ever heard the saying, ‘You choose your mother’?” she asked, speaking about some of the beliefs in reincarnation. Not fully understanding what she meant, I probed a little more, and she went a little further and then said, “You somehow have to come to terms with your relationship with your mother, or history just keeps repeating itself.”

I’ve been doing some soul searching since that session with my therapist and after my few visits back home recently to visit my mother. I also just finished reading what I think is one of the saddest books I’ve ever read, for one more day, by Mitch Albom, in which the main character has one more day with his mother who has been dead for a while.

And I’ve come to some epiphanies about the mother I chose:

The mother I chose didn’t give me up, or any of my siblings. There were many times when she could have put all of us in foster care and ran off with the latest Tom, Dick or Harry who promised her the moon if she’d do so. But the mother I chose stood up for her children and, instead, those men went running. And I vividly remember a story that the mother I chose often tells us about when she first learned she was pregnant with twins, after having already three young children, and she went on an interview with such high hopes and expectations, and it ended up being a lost dream. They were even going to put her through college. And the mother I chose knew she was pregnant and she chose to have us.

The mother I chose always put food on the table. We never went hungry. Even if it was a simple meal of macaroni and tomatoes, at least it was served with love.

The mother I chose stands up for God and His Kingdom and has always encouraged us to do the same. The mother I chose has written us hundreds of letters or “books” (we call them), and in each hand written letter, she always encourages us to never give up on God and His son and the promises we have been told in His word. Even when the mother I chose has been shunned for nearly four decades, never once has a bad word come out of her mouth about the ones who’ve “shunned” her, always saying “if you can’t say anything good about someone, then don’t say anything at all.”

The mother I chose may not have been perfect, in a human and physical sense, for the mother I chose has her imperfections and is allowed to make mistakes, just like I’m imperfect and have made major mistakes in my life. The mother I chose doesn’t deserve to be cast off and thrown away by anyone, especially not by her daughter.

The mother I chose is a friend indeed to her neighbors. The mother I chose is peaceable and loving, and has the qualities of those who will inherit God’s Kingdom.

The mother I chose can pull me up from the depths of sadness and make an insurmountable day seem worth living.

The mother I chose would never turn her back on you. The mother I chose would climb the highest mountain to get to you and help you in some way she could.

That’s the mother I chose.

This story is an amendment to a sad story I wrote about the mother I chose. Have you ever wished you could take back words? Or wished you'd done some things a little differently in life?

Magnitude

2011-01-12T10:15:00.000-08:00

written on January 24, 2010 by Stephie Goldfish

This poem is dedicated to Haiti and the Haitian people! I wrote this shortly after the devastating earthquake that struck Haiti on January 12, 2010.

The heavy weight of this pain buries me alive.

I breathe, but the air is getting thinner.

I feel paralyzed with no way out.

My soft faint cries pray for someone to rescue me from this unimaginable fate.

Beyond this hell, I hear life.

They are trying to break through the barriers that traps me here.

Working vigorously around the clock they toil the plunder.

As day turns to night and night turns to day, I lose my sense of time.

What if no one comes to my rescue?

Maybe no one can.

I'm slipping into a dark place, but there is a bright light that suddenly appears.

I've finally been found.

The heavy weight of this pain keeps me alive.

Voices Inside and Out

2011-01-08T08:34:00.000-08:00

written by Stephie Goldfish

Quiet down this constant chatter,

the whispering whirls inside my head

and outside too. They’re real these

voices that laugh and snicker

telling tales true and untrue!

But are they real the voices I hear

inside as loud as out? Laughing at me

saying you’re no good, why bother to

write it down. Staring eyes, coded

hands move making me even more

suspicious and nervous. Someone

stands behind me watching

me as I write. A man walks in and

sits at a computer diagonally across

from me, with a hint of a smile on

his face. He must know about me?

Two librarians are in small

conversation over at the front desk,

talking about what I must have done.

Will this ever subside, these feelings

I have of constantly being

over-exposed and observed?

Rescuing the Child in Me from Second Hand Hugs

2010-11-12T09:16:00.000-08:00

written by Stephie Goldfish

I’ve always felt this yearning to be hugged by my mother; to be hugged in such a way that is reciprocal to my kind of hugs; a feeling of not wanting to let go. I know that when I was a young girl, I adored my mother. In pictures of me with her up until about the third grade, I see a young child latched on to her mother wanting her to have that much affection for me. I can remember about the time I began to feel rejection from my mother.

A memory about my mother that I’ve never forgotten is one summer day when my twin sister and I were in-between second and third grades. We all had been invited to go swimming at the pool of my mother’s latest boyfriend’s home. I remember watching my mother stand in front of the mirror getting dressed, putting on her make-up, and fixing her hair. I was right next to her, admiring her. I was in awe of her.

On this day, I sensed she was happy, and I asked her a question in all sincerity, not meaning to hurt her feelings or be nosy or judgmental. I was curious and didn’t know my question would produce the results it did and I was only about seven or eight years old. I asked, “Did you sleep with him?” I guess it took my mother off guard, and she may have taken my question wrong, and maybe it wasn’t a question an eight year old asks her mother. But she slapped me in the mouth with the back of her hand. The shock of this hurt me more than the actual physical hit, but I began to cry and more on the inside than out. I had felt betrayed by her. I had always sought out her love before this happened.

My mother was so beautiful to me. And I think from a young age I began feeling her emotional pain. When she was happy, I was happy. When she was sad, I was so sad. My mother used to work in the evenings as a bartender and waitress when we were young, and she wouldn’t be home until three or four in the morning. One night, I woke up and went to look for her. I was in about the first grade. She was lying out in the living room where the stereo was and was lying on the floor asleep with the head phones on. She was also wrapped up in her fur coat. I tried to wake her, to tell her I love her, but she was dead to the world. I slipped off the head phones and put them to my ears and an album by The Carpenters was playing a very sad song, and I laid there next to my mom and I cried. I sensed my mother’s pain and her longing to be loved.

My twin sister and I are the youngest of five children and we are from a different father than our two older brothers and older sister. There is about an 8 ½ to 11 year age gap between us. By the time my sister and I were born, my mother had been married and divorced to their dad twice. And she was in her third marriage to another man who was not our natural father and whom my twin sister and I have never met our entire lives. Our mom had fallen in love with our natural father, right after she got married, but he abandoned our mom and us.

Recently, headed on a road trip back home to West Virginia, I confided to my sister that I was longing to be embraced by my mother, longing for her attention and affection. This led us into a deep discussion, and on the way there we decided to turn around. Lately, when we’ve gotten to my mother’s home, my sister and I end up leaving once we’ve arrived. I see the futility of running to someone who isn’t there for me emotionally, as well as physically. My mother likes to smoke, and I feel I can’t put myself in harm’s way especially because of the fact that I have a serious congenital heart and lung problem. And the fact that I use oxygen and a breathing nebulizer, it’s medically advisable not to be around a smoke filled house, to say the least. So, on this past trip, we turned around eighty miles into the 350 mile trip. My sister and I got really sad, knowing how things were growing up and how it is today.

One might say, well, grow up—get over it, and forgive and get on with my life. And I’ve been told that my mother is sick herself and will never be able to respond in the way that I need her or wish her to. I accept that as a reality, and I feel I can no longer bring myself into her presence because of the emotional absence and neglect.

In a high school graduation group photo that my sister and I ran across, we both noticed how my mother is hugging my twin sister, and I am far off to the edge of the group. I look back on this and sense an emptiness that was always present, yet not fully made aware. The longing and hungering is a constant.

I know that I was not as bad off as a child in another third world country. As far as physical needs, we had food, shelter, and clothing most of the time, although our lives were extremely chaotic and we moved around a lot. My twin sister and I attended sixteen different schools from first grade through twelfth grade. And, as twins often do, we developed a close bond, but we basically became each other’s mother, because our mother was so absent emotionally and physically.

When we lived in Los Angeles, in the fifth grade, by then it was normal for us to get ourselves up on our own, go to the corner deli for candy or gum (if we had some change), and walk by ourselves about two miles to school, crossing major highways and streets. Our mother, as usual, would be passed out on the couch when we left in the morning and when we’d come home. I wonder to this day how we survived, but even as time went on, the absence became greater, and now it’s reaping the effects. My mother had been on about 100 valiums a month during that time in L.A., and I’m surprised she was even functioning at all.

It seemed, though, the closer we’d get to finding out about my heart problem, we’d leave and move again. In L.A., I would have severe nose bleeds for hours. It took hours to get an ambulance, so sometimes we’d have to take a taxi to the Emergency Room. But ER’s are known for just treating the emergency at hand. But I still don’t know how my illness went by the wayside. Once, my teacher sent a note home to my mother, after I’d passed out running less than one lap around the track field. So, even this was overlooked. And we moved again.

I was 17 years old and getting ready to graduate from high school that finally something about my heart was discovered. It was during a routine physical exam, and it was only then that my mother and I showed the doctor that my nails and lips turned a deep cyan. But I remember as early as in seventh grade—when we’d have to walk to our classes—a friend of mine noticed my nails and asked why they were so blue. I had no idea. I knew that I’d always get short of breath walking, taking the stairs, or having to run laps.

When I look back on my baby photos, feelings overwhelm me of the neglect from my mother. Didn’t she notice I was always blue, lagging behind in growth, and having trouble keeping up with the other kids? Didn’t she even notice I was a foot shorter than my twin sister at various times throughout our growing up years? And this question really gets me down: Why wouldn’t she have tried to stop a photo shoot of me crying and somehow try to calm me down a little? But as a child, I thought that everything was normal.

What Would You Do?

2010-11-08T16:33:00.000-08:00

written by Stephie Goldfish

What would you do if the skyline suddenly changed? Would you search for greener pastures?

What would you want if you felt lost in a crowd of millions? Would you hope to be found?

What would you believe when no one else can match your gentle bedside manners? Would you care that no one has?

What would you say if I’d said I’d fallen in love with you? Would you have told me the same?

What would you hear if you’d been told what I’d just been told? Would you remain silent?

What would you decide with your heart caught between that Carolina moon and New York City? Would you choose to fall in love again?

What would you do? Don't you know?

I was the first to say goodbye, because I couldn’t bear to see you grow old, get sick, and die.

This poem was written for a Random Acts of Poetry prompt by L.L. Barkat over at The High Calling!

On Empty

2010-11-01T15:21:00.000-07:00

written by Stephie Goldfish

At day break, light gradually spills into the room and beckons me to begin yet another day. Today, I am thankful. I pull back the long blinds from the two sliding glass doors in my living room and dining area. I pull open the plantation blinds hanging from my bedroom window to see a beautifully filled clear blue sky, with no hovering clouds in any direction.

So many ways this day can be spent: filling my day creating a work of art—a painting or drawing; filling my day helping someone or volunteering; filling my day working on that book of short stories or screenplays that I am writing.

I empty the sink of dirty dishes that have been sitting in the sink for a day, and fill up the dishwasher with the dishes I just emptied from the sink. I fill the coffee filter with fresh coffee grinds and fill up the coffee pot with distilled water. I begin filling up the bathtub with hot water to take a bath, and fill up the washer with a load of clothes. Then fill up my favorite cup with coffee and soy milk.

And my day continues into this seemingly endless string of emptying-and-filling tasks:

Emptying the washer

Filling up the dryer

Emptying the dishwasher

Filling up my cat’s dishes with fresh food and water

Emptying out and cleaning the cat litter box

Filling the cat litter box with fresh cat litter

In between doing all these tasks, I am checking my BlackBerry: checking for emails, checking twitter updates, “liking” someone’s status or comments on Facebook. Then I realize that my voice mail box is full of messages so I empty some of them out. Yes, I know. To have 45 saved and undeleted messages may be a little insane, but I keep them and listen to them just to get caught up in nostalgia, until I finally relinquish someone’s message into oblivion.

I go to the grocery store and fill up a grocery cart full of food and at the cash register empty out my purse to find my checkbook that I thought I had lost. I empty out the grocery cart and fill up the trunk with the food I just bought. And when I reach home I empty out the trunk and fill up the refrigerator. As I’m preparing tacos, I fill my mouth with fresh strawberries and raw walnuts.

And by the time I sit down to fill up with tacos, I realize that all I accomplished today was that I emptied out my bank account and now the gas tank “empty” light is on.

This was written for a writing prompt about "Technology: Do You Give It A Rest?" You can write one or read the main article and other's articles over at The High Calling

Poems Written at Maya Stein's Tour de Word Workshop in Asheville, NC

2010-10-20T08:15:00.000-07:00

After settling in from the drive from Raleigh to Asheville, and after being taken aback from the breathtaking view only moments earlier, I sensed I was before artists who were serious about writing and who share a love for poetry. About ten of us were there at Maya Stein's Tour de Word workshop in Asheville, and below are the poems I wrote that Maya prompted us with.

"Little Moments" Prompt--This prompt evolved from writing on sticky notes little moments that we remembered from the past year, month, or day:

Raspberry Colored Leaves

written by Stephie Goldfish

Quiet heart that settles down after a long
drive where harsh words spoken along bumpy
roads of racing cars and fast beating hearts,
calmed by the view of bright raspberry colored
leaves on a tree as we entered Asheville up on
a hill that reminds me of a park drive in my home
town that winds around distinctly situated and
procured houses. Welcomed by a yellow mailbox
and a room full of poetry writers, I should be anxious
and yet I’m not. I feel among those where I belong.

“Substitutes” Prompt--We were to bring or think of a food item that we either love or hate, and then to think how we substitute this in our lives.

Peanut M&Ms

written by Stephie Goldfish

Edna would bring the daily peanut M&Ms. Throw a bag to
each of us. I often wondered why I still had half a bag left
while my twin sister’s would be already gone. But I know the
secret of savoring each one. The candy coated layer melts and
shades my tongue a bright red, yellow, green or orange.

They didn’t have the blue ones then, but I was blue anyway.
When my nails are painted a candy apple red, my older sister
says, “They look like peanut M&Ms.” And, after the coat of red,
yellow, brown, and blue are gone, I’m left savoring the milk
chocolate until it uncovers a crunchy toasted nut.

That’s the way I eat my M&Ms, which brings some comfort
in a world where everything seems like there will be no end
to chaotic and unsettled lives.

“First Love” Prompt--First love is kind of obvious.

Journal Club

written by Stephie Goldfish

In the 6^th grade journal club is where she found
her first love, but reading stories from the Herald-
Dispatch wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. It wasn’t
like The New York Times. So back to Art Club where
they thought she’d be better off.

She knew someday she’d venture into this writing
life—free afternoons sipping decaf café con leches
at Nueva Victoria, reading the headlines of The Daily
News, and watching and observing millions of stories
pass by outside on the streets.

"Contrasting Poem / Object Poem" Prompt--This prompt was to be a contrasting of thoughts and ideas regarding a clothing item that we also brought with us that we love or hate.

That Pink J Lo Coat

written by Stephie Goldfish

It’s not about driving 600 miles in a nor'easter
just so I can see you for the last time. It’s not
about the last six years we’ve spent having a
home and someone to come home to. It’s not
about the way your smile tilts downward on one
side in a shyish way that says something’s up. It’s
not about a three room flat on the Upper East Side
that I want to keep because a flat in NYC is so hard
to come by. It’s not about whether you and I will be
spending the rest of our lives together. It’s not about
these divorce papers I just signed.

Yes! It’s about that pink J Lo coat I just bought.

"Title of a Poem, Short Story, or Novel" Prompt--In this prompt we wrote a title of a poem, short story, or novel on a sticky note and then passed it to our right, and we wrote a poem with the selected title. The title I received was taken from the book titled Five Quarters of the Orange

Five Quarters of the Orange

written by Stephie Goldfish

Five quarters of the orange is all I ate
that day because Dr. Zins said to eat
everything in half.

Like in Jeremiah where he was told to
eat in portions. I ate all my vegetables
though. I was hungry and starved and

to have that NY slice of pizza that Kim
brought me. But Dr. Zins declared, “Stephanie,
I’m surprised! You know that’s not good for you.”

So five quarters of the orange is all I ate.

Lost Highways & Living Rooms is a compilation of writing created from Maya Stein's "Tour de Word" workshops in the fall of 2010, as well as contributions from readers of her ongoing 10-line Tuesday weekly poetry newsletter. The two-month tour took Maya on a circumnavigational trip around the United States and parts of Ontario, where she facilitated nearly 30 workshops for children, teens, and adults. Lost Highways & Living Rooms features poetry, fiction, and non-fiction from more than 60 contributors ages 8-80.

Dr. Else Goldstein: The Good Woman

2010-10-03T11:12:00.000-07:00

written by Stephie Goldfish

In the spring of 1991, at the ripe old age of 26 and 1/2, my life was falling apart, symbolically speaking. The words that follow cannot even compare to all the feelings that spring up when speaking about her, Else, but her patience with me through twelve years of therapy with her is how I would define the nature of a good woman.

She is my mother
She is like my mother
She is not my mother

Will I ever see her again?

She is not dying.
She is retiring.
Or is she dying?
It feels like she is dying!
I am dying inside over the loss it will be to not see her as often as I did over those 12 years.

In 2002 Else had sadly told me she had cancer,
"What type?" I asked.
She asked, "As opposed to what type?"
I guessed, "Leukemia?"
She bluntly replied, "I have Breast Cancer!"

Pausing...taking in that information...I started to cry, and so did she.

Life, I thought, would not be...without her...Else.

She walks with confidence. But, mostly talks and listens with wisdom. Pearls of wisdom. She even taught me how to eat swine! And not feel guilt. She taught me how to eat lox and cream cheese on an "everything" bagel, please! A jewish tradition.

She introduced me to Otto Dix, a German Expressionist painter, who painted Else's father, Dr. Mayer-Hermann, in 1926. The painting is now a part of the permanent collection of the MoMA:

the eyes,
the nose,
and those ruby lips.

Else helped me deal with reality, even in my states of insanity. She helped me through periods of depression. She made my sad days happy.

Once, Else gave me the coat off her back when I had gone to see her one early, bright, cool spring day in April 1992, the day after being released from the hospital, wearing a white linen dress suit with no blouse or bra, the jacket was not buttoned either, except I wore a string of pearls. I had lost so much weight after getting Salmonella food poisoning, which one doctor had first diagnosed as Typhoid Fever. During this week, one patient in my room had been double amputated at the ankles — she would never walk again. I symbolically identified with the woman, because back in 1988 I had had two ectopic pregnancies (or tubal-ligations), a metaphor of losing my "feet". No child would I ever bear having tiny feet to run or walk. After seeing me in this New York State of Mind, I was readmitted to the hospital for another three weeks to face more demons. Else made me see that the women in my life will continue having children, and inserted, "Children do grow up, you know!"

And, Breasts of women — another symbol of the life a mother or woman gives.

Else had been battling breast cancer for two years before she retired in 2003. I do not know if she was in remission. Should've I asked? Or did I want to know the answer?

Losing hair, wearing wigs, getting shingles, having chemo and radiation, having radical surgeries, Else showed me the strength of a woman. Through all this, she was still there for me, to help solve my petty little problems they now seem, but never once did she belittle me.

Her words of wisdom have stood the test of time, as I savored every minute that went by speaking and talking with her over my major issues, but to her simple ruffles of life that needed ironed.

I asked her if she would be at my next wedding, if I ever remarried, and she said, "You bet," and pragmatically added, "Only if it is in New York." I regret that I did not invite her, because I went and got married without her knowing. I was so foolish.

We talked of my mother at times. And through all my difficulties in life and feelings I have towards my mother — good, bad, happy, and sad — Else always made me remember that my mother did the best she could with the circumstances she was dealt. And all "that" is the past, and now is the "present", so Move On, as Barbra Streisand sings in her Back to Broadway CD.

Coincidences seem eternal since I have known this woman — Else:

I ran into her on the Upper West Side as she was walking along Broadway doing some shopping. We smiled in acknowledgment. I was with two friends, and she was with her soul mate. It was the winter of 1993.

I ran into her and her soul mate again on the Upper West Side at Nueva Victoria sipping decaf cafe con leches, which she later called dessert. Seeing her I exclaimed, "Else, what a small world!" It was the early fall of 1995.

Running to catch a 5th Avenue bus, I stumbled up the stairs, cursing under my breath, and there she sat, calmly reading The New York Times, which she always promised me a subscription to, so that I would be in the know. It was a hot summer day in 2000.

I ran into her in the spring of 2002 in the 34th Street subway exit to Macy's. She was again with her soul mate, but she was tired and resting on a bench. She didn't see me, but I saw them go to the Macy's Flower Show.

Something was wrong, but I didn't know.

It has been since the spring of 2003 when I saw her last, and now spring 2010 has come and gone. Why did it have to end?

Else calmed my anxieties and soothed my pain as we talked of dying, both facing death. She longed for twenty more years — I thought I just wanted five or ten!

She may not live to see those twenty years, but I pray to God that if she has gone I will see her again.

Else helped me grow up, not just to womanhood, but also to adulthood, a world that is filled with happy moments, sad moments, difficult times, easy times, some angry times, some fun times, a world filled with sometimes-happy people, sometimes-sad people, some difficult people, easygoing people, angry people, a world that is filled with war, and sometimes peace.

Else once told me that friends are precious, and I introduced her as my friend one time. She was curious of my introduction at the time. But, Else has been more to me than a doctor; she truly has been my "friend".

Through this woman's patience with me, I learned to be a more patient woman, which to me is the best attribute a woman can have.