I’m not talking about that song by the The Romantics, but a secret spot I discovered while out walking yesterday.
I can’t believe I’ve lived here for decades and never knew about this little beachy secret. One other person was there with their dogs and we vowed not to disclose this classified location…
Pretty cool, huh?
Looking to the east…
And to the west…
I MIGHT be persuaded to share the coordinates of this idyllic site, but you’d have to also be sworn to secrecy.
Can I trust you?
We had been playing house with her dolls and I styled their hair with braids or headbands and even a sparkly tiara, when Angel Girl said,
“Grandma, take your hair down.”
“Why?”
Those giant eyes scrutinized me with piercing discernment.
(This not-quite-four-year-old is actually quite judgy and has no problem letting me know if I’m wearing the right clothes or if my shoes are tied properly. Definitely some of my DNA, haha.)
“I don’t like it up in a scrunchie, I want to brush your hair.”
Uh oh, I thought to myself. I remember another little girl who used to love to brush my hair and it always turned out to be an exquisite disaster.
When hair is as curly as mine, it’s next to impossible to brush. The only time I can attempt it is when it’s freshly washed and I comb in product.
But will I say no? Not on your life.
“OK, I replied, “but PLEASE be as gentle as I am with your hair and T’s hair. You know it hurts to pull.”
Eye roll. “OK, Grandma. Sit down and turn around.”
Yes, ma’am! These are definitely two bossy boots angel kids.
For the next few minutes, while the angel stands behind me, all is silent as her brush unsuccessfully attempts to glide its way through my hair. She was intensely concentrating on arranging my hair into a semblance of “style.”
I feel her little hands twisting and pulling and puffing up certain areas. I’m afraid to look.
“What are you doing back there? Can I look?”
“Not yet. Grandma, hand me your scrunchie.”
“Here you go.”
Somehow the scrunchie is now imbedded in all of that twisting and spiraling and brushed out tangled up curly bird’s nest of her creative endeavors.
I know it’s going to be a long hard road to untangle the knots, but when she finally tells me she’s done and I can look, the pride (and love) in her eyes was totally worth every bit of it.
“Am I beautiful now?”
“Yes, you ARE beautiful now, Grandma.”
In her eyes, I am, and that’s all that matters.
Later, after the kids were tucked away in bed, I slathered conditioner on my hair, took my wide tooth comb and spent a good half hour or so untangling the knots, and fell asleep with a smile on my face.
These are the rare moments that weave a tapestry of joyful memories. However, I wouldn’t dare share a photo of my medusa-like hair catastrophe!
“Push…fold…turn…”
It’s a mantra of sorts. Do you know what I’m talking about?
Picture Angel Girl wearing my Hello Kitty apron on the other side of the kitchen table, mirroring my movements and my mantra, “push, fold, turn…“
I toss a handful of bench flour on the silicone mat so the dough won’t stick, and hand her a portion of the cinnamon roll dough to start kneading.
“Like this, watch me. With this part of your hand, push…fold…turn.”
“Like this, Grandma?”
“That’s perfect. Let’s say it together.”
We work and speak in harmony…”Push, fold, turn. Push, fold, turn.”
“You can tell it’s ready because it feels smooth. How does your dough feel?”
“Super smooth, Grandma!”
“Awesome! Now we’ll let our dough rise and finish creating our yummy cinnamon rolls.”
“I can’t wait!”
“Neither can I, but we have to follow all the steps to make your Great Grandma Charlotte’s recipe exactly like she taught me.”
After the dough doubled in sized, both the Angels helped to roll it out, sprinkle with sugar and cinnamon, and they allowed me to complete the process.
One more proofing (no one was patient) and the sweet bread was finally ready to bake.
Dad and Mom came home JUST as they came out of the oven and we all gorged ourselves on more cinnamon rolls than we probably should have.
Dad complimented me, “These are really the best you ever made!”
Do you know what the secret ingredient was?
I do.
It was the sweet, loving assistance of two curly haired angel kids.
Push, fold, turn…
The Angels love to look through the photos on my phone, especially all the ones I’ve taken of them, of course.
When we clicked on this rose, I told them it was a selfie of ME cos I’m Princess Rosebud. They thought that was funny but being their dad’s kids, they just HAD to disagree…
“Grandma, you are so annoying! You aren’t a REAL princess!”
“Yes, I am.” I replied. “And you are Princess Charlotte and Prince Theodore.”
“Dad, Grandma’s being annoying again!”
OMG did they just tattle about me to my original Angel Boy? That’s too funny.
From the other room, I hear him say, “Mom, stop being annoying.”
I guess that’s going to be my legacy…however, we’re all royalty around here, so I thought I’d share this little joke to start the week.
This particular rose smells as good as she looks. Spicy and sweet, just like me.
I think a backstory needed to explain the origin of being called “annoying”, thanks to my new friend, wonderfully talented author Debbie Russell. I should have explained it in more detail and to be fair to the Angels.
I first began to reference myself that way when I bothered them as they were busy doing things (just to be funny) like standing in front of the TV during a show they were watching and I’d say, “Aren’t I the most annoying Grandma?” and they’d say “Yes, you are! Stop it!” And I’d stop, of course. Also for example, when I’d read a book to them, a book I’d literally read a thousand times before, to make it more interesting for ME, I’d change the names or spice up the story a bit differently, mainly to see if they were paying attention (which they were) and then they’d say, “Read the exact words, Grandma!” which I thought was pretty cute. And then I’d say, “Do you find it annoying when I do that?” The answer was always yes.
The Angels weren’t being disrespectful. Grandma was!
How does a three year old know me so well?
Her mom purchased a bottle of perfume and it came with a fancy little cosmetic bag full of samples.
Apparently, as the story was told to me, Angel Girl told Mom she had to “save the bag for Grandma” ‘cos “she loves stuff like that.”
She was a thousand percent correct. I LOVE gifts with purchase because it’s like discovering a surprise treasure chest.
How did she know?
I mean, we share the Chanel connection and the ballerina connection, but gift with purchase?
How could this obviously intuitive child see so deeply inside of me?
That’s too much. My heart can’t take it. The joy.
Every single time I use that little bag, I’ll think about my Angel, and smile.
Yup. She gets me.
I walked to the beach during a May gray morning and sat on top of my usual picnic table to overlook the Pacific Ocean, hoping to see a whale or some dolphins.
I didn’t get lucky this time, but there was a crowded lineup of surfers out there and I couldn’t figure out why ‘cos the waves weren’t all that big.
As I took off my hat, unbraided my hair and shook it free from its constraints to feel the salty breeze, I turned around because I could feel someone standing behind me.
It was a man I often see at the beach; I’m not sure if he’s exactly unsheltered or not, but he stays there for hours, working on a crossword puzzle or reading. I’ve chatted with him a dozen times as he’s a fixture on the boardwalk and he’s very friendly, not at all like the the other guy who wanted to write on me and claim ownership!
He said, “Excuse me for saying so, but you have no idea the unmitigated joy you gave me as I watched you liberate your hair. You have the most beautiful curls, and I wanted to say thank you! That made me very happy.”
His language and phrasing was delightful; old worldly elegant, courtly, very much the gentleman.
I was caught off guard by his lovely comment and thanked him profusely. It made my day even more joyful, that’s for sure.
Before I walked home, I stopped at the restroom. Look at what I found written on the wall! So inspirational!
It’s a manta and an affirmation to love oneself and I couldn’t resist snapping a photo.
PS WordPress is so weird. I didn’t publish this until today, the 15th, but it appears as if I published it the 14th, which I did not. WP is strange…
Boketto is one of those magnificent Japanese words that doesn’t seem to have an exact English translation.
Boketto is the act of gazing out into the distance with no specific thoughts, to lose oneself in the vast, mindless, horizon.
I do it a lot, and for me, it’s a sort of trance; a spaced out, zen-like calm and meditative state.
Couldn’t you lose yourself right here above the Salish Sea gazing at the cloud-shrouded Olympic Mountains?
A while back, the two of us sat on the floor contemplating a puzzle of wild animals.
“Don’t help me!” “I can do it by myself!”
“OK, I won’t, but I’m right here if you need me. All you have to do is ask.”
She cocks her head, slyly looks at me, and declares, “I’m smarter than you, Grandma.”
I laughed, “Oh, you are? How so?”
“I can do this puzzle without your help.”
“I know you’re very very smart, so I believe that you can, but I will always be here if you need any help at all.”
A couple minutes go by as we work together to turn over all the puzzle pieces.
“I’m smarter than everybody.”
“Really?” I ask. “Everybody?”
“Oh yes.”
“Are you smarter than Daddy?” “Cos you know MY little boy is pretty smart, right?”
She thinks for a nanosecond.
“Yup, I’m smarter than Daddy.”
“How about Mommy? Are you smarter than Mommy?”
Another second goes by with a nod, “Yes, I am.”
“And what about Theo? Are you smarter than he is, too?”
First a sigh, than a shake of her head as she wistfully says, “No, I’m not smarter than Theo. He can do anything.”
My goodness. I was speechless. I could feel the deep love she has for her big brother.
“Theo IS smart and so are you, my Angel Girl.”
Laughing, she says, “We’re both smarter than YOU, little Grandma!”
I can’t really argue with THAT three-year-old, that’s for sure.
In Hawaiian culture it is said that each person is born with a bowl of light.
This light is the light of consciousness and love.
Each time we give way to negative emotions such as jealousy or hate, a stone appears in the bowl and the light is diminished.
Sometimes it seems that the weight of the accumulated stones will extinguish the light forever.
Hawaiian spiritual teachers say it is always possible to tip the bowl over, empty the stones, and live again in the embrace of the miraculous light we were gifted at birth.
For more on this beautiful concept, read The Bowl of Light by Hank Wesselman. In 1996, a revered Hawaiian elder befriended an American anthropologist, and from their rare and intimate rapport, something miraculous emerged. Through the words and teachings of the kahuna wisdom-keeper Hale Makua, Dr. Wesselman was gifted with an enhanced perspective into the sacred knowledge of ancient Hawaii.
Info curated from https://www.facebook.com/burt.kempner
I don’t know if it was Freud or someone else who said that there was an underlying subliminal reason why someone leaves things behind at your home, but in the case of my Angels, I love it when they do.
I find and gather up the artifacts to either mail or bring with me on my next visit. They’re like little treasures that attach themselves to memories of a special time.
Thank goodness I didn’t step barefoot on a fierce Ninjago Lego minifigure. I had found another one and mailed it along with random socks and a forgotten light up ball that had rolled under the sofa, but this little guy was exhumed when I changed the sheets and I recalled the morning Angel Boy crawled into bed with me at about 6am.
“Grandma, are you awake? Daddy said I could come down. He’s going surfing.”
“Look at my Legos.This is one of the Ninjagos, LOOK!” “He’s one of my favorites.” “Grandma, can you make me a Ninjago cake?” “You can do it, I know you can.”
“I don’t know, T. I can do a kitty or an owl or a bunny, but a Ninjago cake seems pretty difficult for me.”
“Did you wash my favorite (Ninjago) shirt for me?”
“It’s a bit early for me to handwash your favorite shirt, T. How about breakfast first?”
“Grandma, do you always do the same things every single time you wake up?”
“What’s that, T? What do I do?”
“You put on your glasses, take off your retainers, take a vitamin, and do your inhaler. And then you make coffee.”
“You know what, Angel? That’s exactly what I do, in exactly that order. You are incredibly observant to remember each and every detail. I do those same things every single day at your house and my house. Do you think about that?”
“Yes, I do. I’m hungry. Can I have some apple pie?”
The answer to that was yes. The children know me too well. I approve of apple pie for early breakfast. I wrapped a piece for dad to eat before his dawn patrol surf sesh, too.
Those Angels leave a trail of love behind, that’s the best part.
Enchanted Seashells | Princess Rosebud 