The Artist

What makes an artist? Is an artist born that way or nurtured to become one? Pablo Picasso said, "every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up." My nine year old son Daniel asked me if I had an extra sketch pad that I could give to him. I said that I would have to check my treasure drawer where I keep my supplies of notebooks and assorted pens. "Why do you need an extra sketch pad?" I asked. Daniel replied that he saw a tip while watching television. The tip was that if you are an artist then you need to carry a notebook to write down your thoughts and your ideas. I smiled and said,"I used to do that". Daniel's response surprised me,"you used to write your thoughts on scraps of paper even on napkins". I felt delighted that he remembered. It was long ago I shared that with him .My heart soared because my son the artist remembered. My son had seen and captured my spirit. He held my stories the way I held his stories. I also smiled that he is inspired to write short stories. That he draws. That he makes me laugh with his sweet jokes that he makes up. He dreams and most of all I love that he recognizes himself for what he truly is,an artist.

Tradition

Today, we picked out our Christmas tree, which stands tall and beautiful, warming our home and our hearts. But today, I find myself reflecting on love and forgiveness, grappling with guilt and the feeling of not fitting in. It's a kind of confession, a struggle to free the thoughts that have been weighing on my mind. When my dad passed away, my brother told me how devastated he was—how he asked Daniel about Hanukkah, and Daniel didn't know why we celebrate it. My father wept in front of him. He was a survivor of the Holocaust, having lost relatives and nearly losing his life. I broke his heart when I married a Christian, and he pleaded with me, "Don’t make me into Tevye," referencing the character from Fiddler on the Roof. When Tevye's daughter falls for a Christian, her father disowns her and considers her dead. As a child, I would pass by a synagogue and ask my father why he never went in to pray. He’d say that he could pray anywhere—God was everywhere, and he didn't believe he needed to go to a synagogue to connect. I grew up with tradition, but more as a spiritual person than a religious one, and I carried that philosophy forward. Yet, my brother's words pierced me deeply. My dad was everything to me. When he entered a room, I always felt safe. He’d kiss my eyelids and call me his little girl, even as I grew older and had children of my own. During Christmas, he would visit and see my decorated tree, full of ornaments I had collected over the years—marking special moments like my baby’s first Christmas, preschool crafts, or Josh's first year at Duke University. I’d linger happily as I placed each ornament on the tree. The story my brother shared tugged at my heart, especially now, as we lit Hanukkah candles. When I did, I thought of my dad—how I broke his heart, yet we found our way back to each other. He accepted me and never turned away, healing through love and forgiveness. I realize how difficult it was for him to accept my choices, but that's the true power of love and forgiveness.

Grandma

My grandmother was a beautiful,strong,independent woman. She was a modern woman before her time and a role model. She had dark hair and a gentle face.She married my grandfather and they had a beautiful home that she opened up to her younger sisters. After World War II ,my grandparents were left with nothing. Their house leveled by bombs. My grandmother was grateful that their lives were sparred . She was selfless. When she heard of anyone needing help she would jump and assist them in whatever they needed. She attended people's funerals,people that she didn't even know. She said a lot of them had no relatives left and she didn't want them to be buried alone.She became an accountant to a large import and export company and she had hundreds of people depend on her.She was loved by them. When I was born my grandmother started a dowry for me. Custom made feather pillows, fine linens of white cotton with pink flowers stitched on the sides. Fine dishes,the pattern delicate with bone colored china with a light trim of orange. Hand made tablecloths that I bring out during our holiday meals. It humbles me that as she built her life back she was also building mine. She was dreaming of the home that I would create for my family someday. I wonder if she visualized that I would see those things that she carefully collected for me and I would smile the way I smiled when she walked into the room . Smile with love at how she thought of every detail. Her dream was that I would have a beautiful family of my own.Sadly she passed away before any of those dreams were realized . I was sixteen. It was sudden and I never got to say good bye. It's an ache that I carry inside me. I was loved by her. I think of her with pride.
I think how much she meant to so many people. How she lead by example as a humanitarian. How she displayed dignity with her courage through crisis and honored her family .Yesterday was her birthday anniversary. I think of her today and my heart is grateful for the love that we shared.

Routine

Rise before the sun comes up.
Rich,dark,coffee aroma seduces me.
News,emails,blogs,all thought provoking.
Daniel hugging his Grey stuffed bunny,
under his blue spider man quilt,
awakens to my kiss and embrace.
Breakfast, uniform,backpack,off to school.
Equipped for the day to unfold.

Role Model

Captain J.F,a hard working family man, an anchor to many. He is one of my husband's role models. He possesses many qualities that my husband longed to see in his father. Captain J.F underwent surgery yesterday. It's the third surgery he has gone through in the past two weeks. Yesterday it was a heart surgery. In my family room,there are photographs of a younger Captain J.F with my father in-law and my husband as a child. Photographs at Hampton Bays,of smiling faces,with decks full of silver shinning fish. When my husband cooks mashed potatoes he remembers,the Christmas that he had his first"real" mashed potatoes(his mom only made instant) at Captain J.F's house. I smile as I watch him drift back to his childhood. A childhood of carefree summers,fishing,digging for clams,finding treasures that he would never forget. As I silently wish Captain J.F good wishes,I think about the many sunrises he has seen on the ocean. I suppress the thought of him drifting away into the sunset. I suppress it with a wish.I suppress it with a prayer.

Hawk's Cay

Bridges

Conversations around the kitchen table. Conversations at bedtime. Words floating, words dancing round and round. When Daniel was born, Josh was in high school. A fifteen year old that was absorbed in his AP classes,volunteer work,and social responsibilities. He was also a fifteen year old obsessed with his computer,his friends and taking long showers. At the time, I would ask him for his help with the baby. I did not ask for much, just to hold the baby for ten minutes while I would finish a chore. Josh would oblige and cradle Daniel in his arms. My heart would jump, my heart would smile. When I returned I witnessed how a change happened. Josh was captivated by his little brother. Their eyes locked together,and a faint smile would be draped on his face. Truth be told, I was building a bridge. A bridge that they could meet at. A bond, that goes deeper than the blood flowing through their veins. This holiday weekend Josh now, a third year medical student and Daniel a fourth grader were having conversations, and they were having pillow fights. I found myself still building the bridge between them. A age gap this large is difficult. They don't have the same interests. And so, on the phone with Josh every night I share stories about Daniel. Stories about the food drive at his school that helped nine families. Stories about wise things he said. Stories about books we are reading that I used to read with Josh. I also tell Daniel stories about Josh. I tell him about Josh's new rotations. I tell him about his volunteer work at the clinic. Most important I tell him that his brother is thinking of him. This is how I nurture the bond. I stitch a needlepoint of a life. This is how I create a legacy. A love that I carry like a locket in my heart. A love that will carry them through time.