humanity
Humanity begins at home.
'Sewing' Traditions
Start writing...My grandmother was born in 1905. She was one of 12 children. She learned to sew through necessity. At the age of 12, grandma was given her own pair of scissors. She was expected to take extra care of those scissors. They would cut apart untold amounts of used clothing. They would be used to create a new dress or a warm winter quilt. Grandma sewed and quilted for almost 80 years.
By Lonnie Troutwine 5 years ago in Families
My Passion is the Past
My passion has always been the past, the "good ol' days"—and writing. Why not combine the two and monetize it? How? Well, I suspect there are many people, like me, who desire the same products they grew up with. Why, just the other day I ordered a 'Chutes and Ladders' game for my grandchild, and discovered I wasn't the only one looking for the original edition! And just the week before, a friend and I were sighing over the mousse hair product we were forced to purchase, lamenting: "Don't you wish we could find the good ol' 'Dippity-Do' we used to use? Recently a male friend was frustrated because he had a craving for the Root Beer Barrel candies he enjoyed as a child; but he couldn't find them anywhere. My idea is to create a website where people of all ages can share old memories and: "Do you remember?" moments. To monetize it, advertisers would target retro items brought to mind from the nostalgic postings; such as retro-series original edition games, beauty products, clothing, candy and food items, pet supplies—and more!
By Karla Bowen Herman5 years ago in Families
Yearning for Motherhood
I am not a mother in the physical. That’s what I say sometimes when people ask. It’s not that I am not a mother, because I am. I am a mother in the Spirit, I am a mother emotionally, and I am a mother to a pet. I am a godmother to two beautiful girls, I am a mother to my friends, the mom figure of the group, I am a mom to the young LGBTQIA community around me, to the house-less people I used to work with, and sometimes to my own mom. None of those get mother’s day cards though. Every year that holiday rolls around I call my own mother and then spend the day crying. I am a mother. I just don’t have the child yet.
By Acasia Tucker5 years ago in Families
The Zig Zag # 2
Ahh, good morning. It’s 6:30 a.m., and I am at the airport. My flight doesn’t take off until 8:15. I hate that. Although arriving for a flight two hours early is a bit much, in my opinion, the extra time in the airport presents possibilities.
By Kathleen Majorsky5 years ago in Families
Perfectly Horrible & Unspectacular
I wrote my mom’s eulogy before she died. Well, technically, she was brain dead, and I sat on the hospital bed next to her and penned what I thought were the appropriate things to say about a dying woman. She heaved her breaths — no pitter patter — more like a see-saw with cinder blocks tied to each end. Or like two men in the Pacific Northwest in the 1800s, sawing down the mighty sequoia at a pace not unlike the amount of time it took for the tree to grow. And I sat beside the heavy, small woman and wrote on my phone’s note taking app about science projects, real estate, and how her favorite saying was that she was “sparkling,” in reference to her mood. I cried with guilt that evening, as if I sealed her fate for her; The eulogy is written, no turning back. Even though she was already brain dead.
By Kaitlin Oster5 years ago in Families
55 Years of Feeling Different
Sometimes in life, we get our answers thru our children. Sometimes it's not us that figures it all out. The description of high functioning carries so much with it for the individuals whose lives are defined by that reality. I have two kids, both extremely intelligent but both way different from the norm, in many ways that are good. After a lifetime of struggling and being labeled in many unkind ways for myself, a group of licensed professionals figured out my child. Everything made sense at that point about both my children, and myself. After all the hurtful comments and degrading things I have been called during my 55 years of not exactly fitting in, I am beyond grateful that my child is kindly referred to as high functioning. Kindness for being different, that is brand new concept for me after living over half a century experiencing everything but that. As we as a family dive into the world of "neurodiversity", we are learning so much. We are actually getting everyone in our family evaluated for autism. It is truly profound to finally find the piece of the puzzle that makes everything make sense. I pray my child has a different experience in life than I did starting out. I pray for my compassion and understanding for anyone different. I have not been formally diagnosed with autism myself but I have 55 years of being a unique individual that support that diagnosis, and am pursuing formal evaluation. I want to know. However, just being able to accept myself as being who I am, and no longer trying to be "normal" is such a huge relief. Somehow the diagnosis of my child gave me permission to quit trying to be normal myself. It is okay to be different. I give my child permission to never be like everyone else. More profoundly, I forgive myself for never being like everyone else. I am now excited to go forth in life and just be me. Being like I am has been very isolating. I may always be in my own little world and truthfully, no one may ever embrace my love for dogs, polymer clay, turtles and washing machines....but I have hope that things will be different and better now that there is understanding as to why we just don't think or act exactly like the norm. I wrote this poem on the day that I got my child's autism diagnosis. The diagnosis was given to me by a group of highly educated, extremely kind, and overwhelming positive individuals. Later that same day, someone very close to me referred to one of my children as the R word...."retard". I was emotionally destroyed at that point. That day was so emotionally draining the way I dealt with it was to write this poem. I write to get it all out and say what I needed to say. When I wrote this poem I was overwhelming crushed and hurt but I knew that the future would be more kind and understanding. This is what it feels like to be me.
By Ashli D Wells5 years ago in Families
A Lesson in Failing
by: E.B. Johnson For the last 4 years, I’ve been doing a lot of heavy lifting behind the scenes to work through my own history of dysfunction and trauma. From therapy to self-awakening, I’ve re-routed the entire course of my life in a number of years. Not from a desire to be anything or anyone, really. But simply from a desire to survive without the agony of being haunted by a past I couldn’t control.
By E.B. Johnson 5 years ago in Families
A Thread of Legacy
Cloth has a “feel” to it. It has warp and weft, the weave that gives it heft and weight and texture. Aah – texture. I love texture. Is it smooth and silky? Is it coarse and rough? Every fabric has its own story to unfold, to become a garment, or a quilt, or a baby blanket.
By Ruth Sieber5 years ago in Families
A Lineage of Lighthouses
In my life I have come to understand the many depths of a mother's love for a daughter. Sometimes it's about looking in a mirror and trying to shape a better future, it can also be an act of guidance through a right of passage. At it's very best, a mother's love is the sanctuary for a special part of you to be exactly what it needs to be in a complete state of vulnerability.
By Maria Maung 5 years ago in Families
