“Have Scissors, Will Cut”

 

            What five-year-old can resist trimming her bangs? I couldn’t. I remember distinctly deciding to cut my hair with my mother’s large, heavy sewing shears. The weight of those scissors meant my hand wavered as I clipped, clipped, clipped. The result? A zigzag of fringe up my forehead and a sound scolding from my mother. I wore my bangs exceedingly short for a few months since to fix my fashion folly, my mother had to cut my bangs back to my hairline.


Notice the crooked bangs?

            Did I learn my lesson and avoid wielding scissors?

            Of course not!

            Over the years, I’ve become a master at cutting my own hair. I have paid for haircuts only three times in thirty-five years!

            Friends can’t believe I’ll snip away until I’ve settled on a new do, but I think it’s rather fun to see the results.

            I never style my hair on a whim. Usually, I debate the change over several days, weighing the pros of my current style, the cons of something different. I may even do something like change the color of my locks before I begin hacking away at them.

            Eventually, the pull of those shears wears me down. Sometimes, it’s simply a little trim to even out growth. Maybe, I just want to see beyond my bangs, so I shorten and feather them softly. Other days, I take the plunge and decide I need a totally new hairdo.

            And so I found myself in the bathroom the other evening, chopping off inches with confidence. If I don’t like my masterpiece? It’s no big deal.

            Hair grows back!!!

 

Cut in 2014

2025 Hair!

 

Copyright 2014 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“A Vegetable Garden”

 

            I dug out, added soil, carved out rows, and neatly planted my first vegetable garden the year I turned nine. In my memory, this plot of backyard covered acreage, but I know in reality it couldn’t have eaten up much of the yard. I grew lettuce, green onions, tomatoes, and two varieties of radishes. If I close my eyes, I can see the child I was kneeling on the ground, worshipping Earth.

            When we moved to Texas, my parents delegated a larger garden for my passion. I added peppers, herbs, and even corn to my crops. One year, I planted cucumbers along one section. That summer we ate cucumbers with onions in vinegar, sugar and water. We ate them on sandwiches and within salads. The bumper crop meant we gave them to our neighbors and friends. My mother didn’t want to pickle them (she had extremely limited pantry space), so we made cucumber ointments for our faces. I remember slicing cucumbers into my bathwater!



Flowers instead of veggies!
 

            Making a living competed with my desire to garden; and as an adult, I shifted to herbs and native plants and flowers. I haven’t grown much more that tomatoes in recent years. And I think a part of me longs to sink my hands into rich soil again.

            In the year since my mother’s death, I’ve toyed with the idea of toiling in a vegetable garden. In my mind, I’ve carved out a huge section of our backyard and planted it to the brim with thriving life. I imagine myself outside each day, watering and weeding. I can actually feel my body kneeling in worship of the harvest. 

            This image seduces me.

            But I’ll prepare no garden this spring. I promised myself a year of doing less, of walking away from the “must do” lists that I create for myself.

            I grow a different garden this year. One that allows me to dip into serendipity instead of structure. I hope to nurture creativity and whim not bound by schedules or lists. In the end, I strive cultivate a gentler “me” who’s not so driven to do more, but instead slows down enough to enjoy more.

            Once I’ve gathered my harvest of contentment? Then I’ll plant a vegetable garden.  

 

 

Copyright 2104 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman  

"The Mist"

Stepping outside,     

I paused and raised my face to the mist.   

Her cold hands slapped my cheeks crimson,     

making me gasp in surprise.   

I hunkered down my shoulders,   

drawing the collar of my coat tighter to fight off the unexpected chill.   

The predawn sky hung heavy with haze that whispered into my ear,     

“Go back to bed.”   

The street lay in waiting silence with its lights haloed weak and pale.   

The fog muffled my steps as I crossed the slick sidewalk.   

She entranced me with her ebbing dance as I inhaled her essence.    

She engulfed me with her silken touch as I stepped deeper into her embrace.   

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Frostbite”

 

            Cold weather blasts into central Texas so infrequently that waking up to a morning with frost dusting any surface provides a spectacular photography opportunity. When I ventured outside this morning with the dogs, frost coated the top of our hot tub. Its sparkle drew my eyes, and I rushed back inside to grab my camera to capture a few shots before the morning sunlight heats the cover and melts away our evidence of last night’s freeze.

 

           



I know many of you sit frozen into place by mountains of snow, and you’ll probably look at these jewels and think, “No big deal.” However, I like pausing in the daily grind just long enough to celebrate Nature’s subtleties.

 

Copyright 2014 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Rolling in the Grass”

Bridget catching lounging in the sun

 

            From puppyhood, our dog Bridget’s loved stretching out in the sunshine. Her sleek black coat catches the sun’s rays. In some lights, she becomes glossy obsidian. No matter the temperature, she’ll lounge outside until she bakes. I think she has some internal censor that pings a warning just before her coat begins to sizzle.
 



Bridget getting ready to roll!

            At that moment, she rolls in the grass.

            Her delight oozes as she squiggles right-left-right-left, and often she grunts in pleasure. When she finishes this ritual, she heads to the back door, which she taps with her paw until someone opens it. But she doesn’t enter the house. Her back, covered with grass or other yard debris, demands a vigorous hand pat or brushing to clear her coat. And so she waits patiently on the back porch while one of us dusts her off.

            This morning’s cold didn’t hinder Bridget’s daily roll in the grass. The rare chill in our Texas air didn’t prevent her from gathering a little warmth from the spotty sunshine and then rolling in the dormant grass.

            Sometimes, I wish my own life could derive happiness in such simple ways. Stretching out in sunbeams—and rolling in the grass.

 

Copyright 2104 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman