Sisters of Different Mothers

Driving through Northern Arizona from Albuquerque to San Bernardino to have breakfast with my friend Shoshana that I met at La Verne Law School. So excited that I leave at 4 am when it’s black out and one can see the shooting stars and those that are still only flickering. A couple of hours fly by down I-40 and I’m near the Painted Desert signs and light is coming up all around, so I pull off at Highway 77 to the State Park.

It’s pink, peach, mauve, ivory, and palest of yellows, tans, mochas. The colors are overwhelming, remembered when one closes their eyes to sleep or writes poetry about such momentous events. I pull the car over and wander out to stare at such bounty saying a silent prayer of gratefulness to the Almighty. How did I get so lucky to be here in this moment in time?

Looking down at my shoes I remember from college geology class that most of Northern Arizona was once under water and seashells are everywhere.   I am positively enthralled at what I see. Seashells, lots of seashells near my feet. I reach down grabbing several handfuls laying them gently in the bottom of my purse. Off I go to meet my best friend and bring her a present of seashells. I can’t remember if I ever told her about the Grand Canyon being carved out by the waters of an ocean.

A couple of hours later I pull into a Denny’s and Shoshana is already at the table inside. I start chattering as I always do when I see her or hear her voice. I tell her about the stars, the colors of the desert (she hates cactus), and of course the seashells. She feigns interest, smiling as I reach into the bottom of my purse and place a handful of shells in the middle of the table.   She bursts out laughing, shaking her head.

I respond with, “What?”

“One certainly can tell you’re a poet,” says my friend.

“What do you mean,” I ask?

“Don’t get upset,” says Shoshana. “Those are pistachio shells, not seashells.”

All rights reserved. ©2017 by Sara Fryd

My friend died Saturday last.  This was the last email I received from her.

—– Forwarded Message —–
From: Shoshana Anne Simon <shalom.shoshana@gmail.com>
To: “Fryd, Sara” <sfryd@yahoo.com>
Sent: Saturday, February 11, 2017 3:00 PM
Subject: Sea Shells in the Desert

Ever since you found shells in the desert and we may have mis-identified them as pistachios, something about that whole transaction has bothered me.

I’m reading The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho, which I’ve never read and is now a classic, and the boy (the hero of the book) find sea shells in the desert (in North Africa) and I’m bounced right back to you and me and the pistachios, which may have been shells.

In this book, the idea is that everything in the world/universe is connected and that the desert was once the sea and is just waiting for the transformation back again to the sea.

So, a google search turned up this neat article

http://www.desertusa.com/desert-california/seashells-in-desert.html

 

With pictures.  I thought your poet’s soul might appreciate this turn of events. Especially in the time of craziness.   And I hope we don’t have to leave this country with it’s “religious registries” and clown president.

Love,

Shoshana

Treasures

Like a kid with a couple of cans and string
I wake to find chatter about this or that
Cross my radar screen named Vaio
Used to watch CNN to be in the know
Listening to the constant clamber
About nothing…
For who could feign concern whether Paris’ BFF hates her or not
Or Brittany shaves her head
Does it matter to starving children in Darfur
That Michael, given every opportunity, chose to moonwalk
Then leave…
With can to ear I focus on souls, haiku, treasures of words
Whispered with love across states, continents, seas, oceans
Words that remove barriers of language
Words that heal, touch, give comfort in the night
Syllables, sentences, paragraphs to carry in pockets and purses in daylight
Ordinary words whispered by friends into cans connected with string
Lines of demarcation that used to separate
No more…

 

All rights reserved. ©2009 by Sara Fryd

Whispers In Jars

I save things in jars with lids so they won’t get dusty.

Rocks and shells found on glorious outings on Yom Kippur

With my three year old at the Laguna tide pools so he might learn

That God doesn’t live in a shul (synagogue)

where they charge you to pray

and ask you to atone –

all in the same afternoon.

Along Pacific Coast Highway where the road almost touches the water,

we fill buckets with sand,

sit still on rocks uttering Sh’ma Yis’ra’eil

Adonai Eloheinu Adonai Echad;

Where laughing children throw bread in the air for the gulls.

My son’s tiny hands touch squiggly moving creatures in shallow pools

Waves crashing over smooth rocks

creating rings that can’t escape.

Laughter can’t be saved in jars,

So I save notes with words found in fortune cookies

Like those left at the Western Wall in Jerusalem

During my year of fearlessness

After Golda Meir and before Women’s Lib and motherhood.

There are dotted rock hearts in my jars from the Women’s Collective in Kenya.

A shell from Madagascar, so long in the making

the sand it contained turned to rock.

Silver heart bottles filled with sand from Masada’s floors

lost by courageous women whose only wish was freedom.

Though diamonds may be some girls’ best friend,

I gently place another treasure in another jar in another room

with the lid on –

so it won’t get dusty.

 

All rights reserved.  ©2015 by Sara Fryd