Making marks

Early this morning, rain came. Instead of heavy boots I slipped into the soft, light slippers meant as bedroom slippers. They soak up the damp forest floor and the gravel sticks to their under-sides. The pitch an efficient glue. Pausing to go from here to there I laugh at the marks I've made.

On the hooks outside the vardo evidence of common magic-- the safety pin-- holds a pocket, not yet stitched back in place. The magic works, like a transition between I don't notice it while it holds my keys in place or makes for a cozy nest when my hand needs warming.

Time passes. Things change. Some things stay the same. From the rusty but secure metal box the old sepia-tones of times long past draw memories to the fore: the Valley, the blue and white Nash Rambler station wagon, Dad with his chamois cloth, Ma, the Safety Pin Queen, telling my photographer brother to "wait" ... but of course, my brother never waited for anything. Me before I knew I couldn't really see things clearly; before glasses made life appear differently.

As Mars begins to pick up speed, my son and I are working on a mo'olelo pokole a short story, and a eulogy to celebrate my brother David's life. The ceremony and service will be back on O'ahu. My son is in Paris, and I am in the woods of Whidbey Island in the Pacific Northwest of the U.S. We will make our marks present thanks to the bridgework of the Internet, a network my parents could not have imagined. Slowly, I step through the process of grieving, sorting and experiencing the feelings of sadness and sorrow hopeful to find places to squeeze joy and transformation for the telling.

Leaving marks >>>>>>>>>>>>

>>>>>>>>>>>Safety Pins in the right hands, 

>>>>in the right place>>>>>>>

>>>>>>>>Seeing life differently>>>>>>>>>>

Grateful.