Heartwings says, “A journey of discovery is fun to share, regardless the goal.”
The search for God by whatever definition has always been an important part of my life. Over time it has revolved around the various interpretations of that word. My parents, as well as Emily, my first caregiver and a practical nurse I spent a lot of time with, were all traditionally religious. By traditionally I mean they went to church on Sundays and followed the mainstream Christian beliefs. They were not dogmatic or “born again” Christians, although my mother had a rather grim view of God. She often said, “God will punish you if you… so I thought that might be something important to avoid.
I learned about the Divine at an early age. Told to say my simple “God bless” prayers, following, “Now I lay me down to sleep…” in my mind I prayed to a kind of big parent in the sky, for that was how I thought of God. At around five, I began attending church. My mother, a devout Catholic went every Sunday and took me with her. The benches we sat on were hard, the ones we knelt on were very hard, and the prayers were mostly in Latin. I preferred my dad’s Episcopalian church, where I got to sing hymns and there were cushions to kneel on. I was able to enjoy it when on special holidays like Christmas and Easter, my mother and I attended both churches, although I believe my mother was unsure it was alright with “her” God to do so.
Once I learned to read, I used to look for books to read on the family’s bookshelves. On a bottom shelf of an upstairs bookcase, I was drawn to an old Bible in the hall. I have a vivid memory of sitting on the floor under the skylight, reading the tissue thin pages and wondering at the images described in them. I found the pages fascinating; I was especially drawn to the colorful descriptions in Revelations. My father’s childhood book of Biblical parables, with steel engraved illustrations was another favorite of mine. The stories were so interesting, and the large pages held my interest.
When I was seven or eight, I created my own church, just for me, in an outer corner of a small, old, greenhouse shed between the wall and the chimney. I gathered moss to kneel on, made a brick for the alter and placed a cross made of twigs upon it. I drew stained glass windows on the wooden panels of the shed wall with chalk. On the other side I made a small Cemetary where I put the animals I found to bury-a cat that had died, some ducklings, and a bird or two. When I felt the need, I would go to my church, kneel on the moss, and take my troubles to God. Somehow it seemed natural to do so.
May you enjoy happy memories of your own personal history and share them when you wish.
Blessings and best regards, Tasha Halpert
PS I welcome comments and hope you will email me with them.
A poet and writer, I publish a free weekly blog, Heartwings Love Notes for a Joyous Life. My Books: Up to my Neck in Lemons, and Heartwings, Love Notes for a Joyous Life are available on Amazon. My latest publication available there is my first chapbook, Poems and Prayers, and I have two more in preparation. You can sign up for my blog at http://tashasperspective.com.
The first person whose death I remember hearing about was a relative named Cousin Ellen Parker. My memory of her is of someone roundish, gray haired, and somewhat wrinkled. I have no real memory of her other than of her appearance. She must have died when I was around four. My great grandmother died in her eighties when I was five. I don’t remember hearing much about that. I do have a vivid memory of picking dandelions in our yard and seeing her walking along in her purple hat. When I told my mother she insisted Grandma Great was dead and I couldn’t have seen her. But I had.
Pujakins 