"My Declaration of Independence"

 

            Over the last half year, a friend caused me pain and sorrow. The details don’t matter. In the past, the old me would’ve accepted her cut-and-paste explanations that appeared in a few texts and with birthday and Christmas cards. My weaknesses to walk in another person’s shoes to understand their reasons would’ve made me not only accept her excuses, but empathize with her. My desire not to cause waves or do anything more that would risk our friendship would’ve led me to mentally offering her a period of grace to remedy the hurt.

            My self-talk, in the past, would’ve gone like this: She really is extremely busy. She isn’t intentionally leaving me out. She wants to see me, but other people take priority.

            “Past Me” would’ve provided even more excuses for her beyond the artificial ones she repeatedly gave. I would’ve talked myself into believing her wishes superseded mine. I would’ve responded to her minimal contact with upbeat, understanding texts or calls.

            My best friend died this spring from Alzheimer’s. Sometimes she initiated contact with me, and we’d circle round, round, round and round with her memories or her latest obsessive topic. Her steadfast love for me never wavered. When she called me twenty times a day, I’d stop whatever I was doing to rerun the same conversation. It didn’t matter. I could remember the girls and women we once were, even if she couldn’t. With our last conversation, we talked of music and our dogs. She knew me in that moment, and held me special in her life.

            This other friend’s rejection, no matter how I tried to justify or rationalize it, made me realize that “Past Me” needed to be buried once and for all.

            I wrote a letter.

            Hand written.

            Posted just like hundreds of other letters sent to this friend.

            I released her from any obligation she may feel to continue our bond.

            I wrote my own Declaration of Independence. I repeated her many excuses sent to me that proved she no longer needed me. I reminded her of our history together and added that the tapestry that we sewed together had tied its final knot.

            This Declaration marked an important change for me. I’ve come to realize that friends should grace my life and not diminish me.

 

Copyright 2025 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Packing Panic"

 

            My tradition to pack away Christmas decorations on the first day of January meant I bounded out of bed extra early last Wednesday. This year, I simplified things a tad by unloading bins into only two rooms. The living room contained Bears, Nutcrackers, various stuffed animals and pillows along with the tree. The dining room displayed half of my Santa collection.

            I cleared the table top first to open that area for all of the tree ornaments. This year, I selected my son’s collection from his childhood, the ornaments we’d picked up on vacations, and special pieces we’d gathered over the years. These decorations I placed in new bins that matched the ones I purchased last year. The tree skirt, stockings, and items I use every year had their own new stackable container, too.

            Even with my husband’s help, it still took endless hours to replace each item back into its designated place. I focused on the living room slowly and carefully packing way each item. A quick glance at my watch reminded me to take a water break after working for a couple of hours. Our slow and steady work resulted in five bins packed neatly before I glanced at my wrist again to check the time.

            My watch was gone!

            Panic froze me in place. Which bin? Where had I last checked the time? Which container had something that would’ve tugged at the band and pulled it off? I envisioned us having to unpack the entire morning's work. 

            Taking deep breaths, I glanced at the bin I’d just completed and ruled it out immediately. It had smaller decorations that came in their own, original boxes. I swept over to the Nutcrackers. The largest Nutcracker, wrapped in an old throw, could’ve snatched my watch. Disappointment flooded me when it wasn’t there. I pulled out a box that I’d used new tissue paper to wrap about six Nutcrackers. Tugging out each one, I found nothing trapped in their soft coverings. My heart sank at the thought of unpacking more bins. Before repacking the box in my hand, I glanced inside. My victory whoop sang.

            My watch was there!

Copyright 2025 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"The Reason for the Season"

 

Showering those you love with acceptance       

Holding tenderness within your heart       

Surrounding yourself with kindred spirits       

Collecting diversity to honor and cherish       

Fostering creativity, individuality       

Nurturing peace, grace, dignity       

Protecting humanity       

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Too Much of a Good Thing”

 

            Last winter I followed the advice of leaving leaves coating our front yard instead of raking them. The wisdom holds that leaves add nutrients back into the soil. Leaves protect plants with a layer of warmth should ice or snow cover the ground. Leaves provide homes for insects and snails.

            No one warned me that too many leaves on our very small front yard could kill the grasses and ground cover buried below. My Horseherb’s tiny flowers never returned once I raked the leaves. Large patches of clover mixed within the grass remained bare all spring. My front yard unexpectedly contained bald spots that sent me on a search for answers. Eventually, I learned that too many leaves can smother a yard. Many people mow and mulch, but we don’t have a power lawn mower anymore!

            This week, I will return to my annual routine of raking and bagging leaves. Fallen leaves will adorn my small gardens to protect those plants, but the remainder of the ground will be leaf free to let sunshine and rain nurture the natural grasses and ground covers that survived my experiment. With luck, returning to my roots will result in a pretty front lawn this spring.

Enough to protect the garden!

Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman