Say Yes to a Friend

Posted on December 5, 2012 by Zita

My first television show came about because a friend, Bea Sheftel, asked me to do her a favor.  The fact that I knew nothing about television didn’t matter to her.  She said we’d make a good team.  I was willing to try and said yes.  Bea was right; we did make a good team.  Sadly, Bea died a few years later.  I’ve gone on to host and produce two series of my own that air weekly on public access channels in Connecticut and Massachusetts as well as on YouTube.  Both shows have won multiple national awards for amateur video production.  In the summer of 2013, I’ll launch a third series – Weddings with Zita. Continue reading →

Posted in Friendship, Funerals, Life in General | 1 Comment

Be Generous With Your Jellybeans

Posted on November 28, 2012 by Zita

When my daughter, Laurie Neronha, was a senior in high school, she worked part-time in the candy section of a fancy department store.  One afternoon, I watched her help several customers.  Each one ordered a pound of gourmet jellybeans.  Laurie was not the only employee on the candy counter.  An older woman worked there as well.  She seemed pleasant enough and, from what I overheard, had been with the store a number of years.  I watched her scoop jellybeans, too.  It didn’t take long to see that Laurie and the other woman had each developed a different technique.  The difference explained why some customers would politely decline the other woman’s offer of help and wait in line for Laurie.

The procedure was to put a white paper bag on the scale, scoop up jellybeans from the giant glass bin, and pour the candy into the bag.  Laurie said it took only a few weeks to know by the weight of the beans in the scoop how close she was to a pound.  I can only assume the other woman had developed the same skill.  So, imagine these two scenarios.

You ask the older woman for a pound of jellybeans.  She places the white bag on the scale.  She fills her scoop with candy and empties it into the bag.  Oops.  A few ounces over.  She lowers the scoop into your bag and takes some candy out.  She checks the scale again.  No.  Still too much.  Once more, she lowers the scoop into the bag and once more takes some of your candy away.  Perfect.  One pound.

You ask Laurie for a pound of jellybeans.  She tells you these gourmet beans are her favorite.  She places the white bag on the scale.  She scoops the candy and empties it into the bag.  Oops.  Not enough.  She scoops up more candy from the giant bin and sprinkles more glistening gems into your bag.  She checks the scale again.  You need just a few more.  There.  Perfect.  One pound.

I once asked Laurie why she didn’t get closer to a pound with the first scoop.  She smiled.  “Because it feels better to add jellybeans than to take them away.”  At just seventeen, she had developed a philosophy that has led to her success.  Now the owner of Viriditas, a thriving skincare clinic in Providence, Rhode Island, Laurie has two employees, a loyal clientele, and, no surprise, a growing wait list.  I’m proud of her, not only for her success but for her generous spirit.

In scooping jellybeans, Laurie enacted a ritual of generosity. Where in your life can you do the same?

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Letting Go – Holding On

Posted on October 4, 2012 by Zita

In August of 2008, two months before author Liz Aleshire died, I was one of six friends — all women, all writers – who gathered on Cape Cod to complete her manuscript, 101 Ways You Can Help: How To Offer Comfort And Support To Those Who Are Grieving.  The book was to be a tribute to her son, Nathan, who had died thirteen years earlier of bone cancer.  He was sixteen.

On the day we arrived at the Cape, Liz called from the hospital and spoke with each of us about what how much it meant to her that we would put our lives on hold to finish her book.  We, in turn, let her know how lucky we were to have a friend for whom we would so eagerly make such a sacrifice.  I had organized the project in mid-July when Liz took a turn for the worse.  Emergency open-heart surgery had not delivered a miracle.

In that phone call, Liz asked what we had learned in finishing her book. For me, it was seeing how much pain she’d hidden all these years behind a smile.  I learned how carefully Liz avoided talking about Nathan’s death.  She had lived through every parent’s nightmare and knew that talking about it made people uncomfortable, enough to drive friends away. Not us.

On the day we arrived in Wellfleet, we combed the beach, each of us looking for two perfect stones.  That night, we painted a word or symbol on one of our stones, something we hoped Liz’s spirit was ready to shed.  On our last evening, we walked down the steps and gathered in a circle for a releasing ritual.  We envisioned Liz’s body free from pain, her mind free of depression, her heart free of sorrow. One by one, each of us walked out at low tide, prayed in our own fashion, and threw our stone as far as we could.

The steps to letting go.

Like the others, I climbed back up the steps with the second stone in my pocket.  On that second stone, each of us had drawn a symbol of Liz’s strength, some quality that enabled her to get through those painful years.  Those symbols might have been for her humor, resilience, loyalty, compassion, wisdom, to name a few.  We would honor Liz by keeping her gift alive.

Liz died on October 13.  She lived long enough to see the cover of her book.  It was published in the spring of 2009.  I can think about her now and not feel that gut-wrenching pain.  Maybe that’s because I have a literal touchstone.  On mine, I wrote “Friendship.”

Liz Aleshire, journalist of all things fun, at the International Women’s Writing Guild closing ceremony

 

 

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Three Words A Year

Posted on January 17, 2012 by Zita

A writer's tools

I meet once a month with a small group of women who come from three different states. We’ve been getting together since 2006. We range in age from mid-forties to late-sixties. Our family scenarios differ, as do our employment situations. We are a creative bunch. Among our interests are writing (fiction, nonfiction, poetry, and plays), fine art, weaving, tarot, dreams, astrology, herbs, and rituals. We also share the desire to enrich our lives through our creativity. Enrichment might mean gaining inner peace, taking a creative or business risk, achieving financial stability, learning to be patient – whatever is needed at the time.

To that end, every December/January each of us picks three words for the year ahead. We don’t view the words as goals. They’re gifts. We empower them in a ritual using earth, air, fire, and water. We commit to our words by writing them in a special book. Sometimes, one word requires more than just one year’s attention. For me, that word is patience.

We’ve all made progress. Over these last five years, one woman opened a brick-and-mortar business; another launched a new career using the Internet. One was invited to exhibit in several galleries. Two women committed to writing projects that would have seemed daunting a year earlier. Serious illness, job loss, and the death of loved ones have scarred the years, too. We survive. Looking at the gifts we gave ourselves, I’m not surprised. Here’s a sampling: Ardor, Attention, Authenticity, Breakthrough, Creativity, Focus, Gratitude, Health, Inspiration, Mindful, Opportunity, Patience, Prolific, Risk, Security, Shadow.

What three words will you give yourself this year? Write them down. Keep them where you can see them. Say them out loud. Often. Best of all, when you discover the serious power in your words, and you will, remember this is one instance where re-gifting is encouraged.

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Maiden, Mother & Crone: Celebrating 3 Generations

Posted on September 26, 2011 by Zita

Every Maiden isn’t young. Every Mother doesn’t have a child. Every Crone isn’t old. What’s important is the energy each embodies and how it makes itself known. Which Goddess are you?

The Maiden embodies the creative force. Like one of spring’s colorful perfumed flowers, her purpose is to attract. Dancing with wild abandon, she gathers the stuff of life – big dreams, bold ideas, and intense desires. But she’s impatient and doesn’t settle down long enough to bring them into reality. She isn’t supposed to. Her story is about beginning. We see her in the waxing Crescent Moon. The Maiden is usually young…but not always. Regardless of your age, if some new relationship, or new project, or new idea is calling you, slip on your fancy shoes. Dance with the Maiden.

The Mother embodies the creative act. Sensual, sexual, fertile and strong, she’s the one who weaves the ideas, dreams, and desires, then gives birth to something tangible. She feeds and protects. The energy of the Mother is often seen in her child. But the child doesn’t have to be human. The Mother’s devotion could be to an idea, a project, a cause, or a story. She is the Lady of the Dance. Her story is about fulfillment. We see her in the Full Moon. The Mother is usually of child-bearing years…but not always. Regardless of your age, if you’ve birthed a creation of any sort, give it time and tender loving care. Find a rocking chair. Feel the rhythm. Nurture with the Mother.

The Crone embodies creative transformation. She sees far beyond the last note of the dance. What was, is no longer. The Wise Woman, she recognizes that death is only a change and that beyond death is life in a new form. She leads those going on that new path, and comforts those left behind. Her stories are about endings. We see her dark outline, an empty womb, in the waning Crescent Moon, what singer/songwriter Wendy Rule calls “the old moon held by her daughter.” The Crone is usually old…but not always. Regardless of your age, if you know, sense, or feel that it’s time to move on with a project, a job, a relationship, do it. Be bold. Cut the cord. Feel the grief. Walk away. It helps to remember that the Crone herself transforms…into the Maiden.

Every summer, I spend a week with hundreds of women writers from all over the world. The gathering is the annual conference of the International Women’s Writing Guild <www.iwwg.org >   I’ve attended this conference every year since 1996, always inspired by how often several generations from one family would attend. In 2008, I designed the closing ritual to honor those many Maidens, Mothers, and Crones.

“We are not just many women gathered here this night. We are generations of women, from every corner and curve of the world. While we may not all be related by the blood of our veins, we are deeply connected by the blood of our wombs – even if we have yet to experience the flow, even if the flow has long ceased.”

I talked about the energy of the Triple Goddess. Then I cued the dramatic, beautiful and very powerful song Diety by Wendy Rule, from the CD of the same title < www.wendyrule.com > As it played, a procession of 27 women slowly, solemnly, entered the packed auditorium, each carrying a candle. Nine were dressed in the white of the Maiden, nine in the red of the Mother, and nine in the black of the Crone. One by one, each one gave tribute in her own words to the Goddess she represented. Here are a few examples:

I honor the story of the Maiden. I honor the seeds within me and scatter them as I go.    Jan Phillips / www.janphillips.com

I honor the story of the Mother. I remember to nourish and nurture myself. / Judy Adourian  / www.writeyes.com

As a Crone, I summon wisdom into our lives. I summon Sophia. / Susan Tiberghien  www.susantiberghien.com

I honor the story of the Maiden. I represent unlimited potential. / Judith Searle www.judithsearle.com

I honor the story of the Mother. I offer warmth and light to tender shoots. / Marsha McGregor www.marshamcgregor.com

I honor the story of the Crone. I know what it means to lose and let go. I have the power to cut the threads of that which is finished. / Paula Chaffee Scardamalia www.diviningthemuse.com

In the auditorium that night were Maidens in their nineties and Crones in their teens. You could be feeling any one of the three energies right now. Remember, age doesn’t matter. What does is that you acknowledge the energy and work with it. You don’t have to create an elaborate ritual. Just reflect. Then write. Or draw. Or sing. Or drum. Say out loud, “I am the Maiden.” Or, “I am the Mother.” Or, “I am the Crone.” You’ll discover layers of meaning only your heart can know.

Posted in Cultural Traditions, Life in General, Seasonal | Tagged , , , , , | 12 Comments

My First Public Ritual: The Making of a Medicine Woman

Posted on September 19, 2011 by Zita

 

To Little Elk, schooled in the healing ways of the Pueblo, she was his destiny.  He knew from a childhood vision that before he died he was to anoint a Medicine Woman, but not Pueblo.  Cherokee.

To Lothar, she was the woman he had loved centuries ago, the woman he sought again in this life.  Night after night, he woke her, instructing her to transcribe the knowledge of his world, a place dismissed by many as the stuff of myth and imagination.  It took five years of such nightly sessions.  She filled countless notebooks: The Manuals.  He said the knowledge could save this world from the same fate as Atlantis.  Lothar taught her Kolaemni, a method of healing using therapeutic touch.  The word itself means “connecting with the light.”

To me, Mechi Garza is a friend, a writer, a teacher, a woman whose striking mixed-blood beauty is not diminished by more than seventy years, whose wisdom is often bottled with laughter, or tucked in the gentle squeeze of her hands.  That I am the one writing about her surprises me, not her.  Lothar had told her to tell the story to Zita.  That we didn’t know each other at the time didn’t faze her.  She knew the day would come.

 

Celebrating the Summer Solstice with Grandmother Mechi at the IWWG summer conference

I met “Grandmother Mechi” in 1996 at the annual conference of the International Woman’s Writing Guild where we each taught.  I’m a romance writer; my class was on genre fiction.  Mechi is a Choctaw-Cherokee tribal elder; her class was about finding the medicine woman in every writer.  I took her class.  She took mine.  When the week was over, we knew we would become friends.  In the fall of 2000, Mechi invited me to attend one of the most significant events of her life.  She was to be officially installed as a Medicine Woman, a validation of the work she had been doing for 30 years.  I had never been to any kind of ritual, much less one like this.  I couldn’t buy a plane ticket fast enough.

Art Tequaecshe, “Little Elk,” a Medicine Man from New Mexico, an acclaimed potter, and Marine veteran from the 1950s, officiated.  That he didn’t know Mechi at the time of his prophetic vision didn’t faze him.  He knew the day would come.

So it was that the three of us gathered in a meadow on a mountain in West Virginia on a cold October weekend in 2000 to meet our destiny.   I was the only one who didn’t realize it.  I had come as a guest.  I had planned to take both pictures and notes, perhaps for use in a future novel.  But destiny is a wide road.  Mechi asked if I would be part of the ritual and something stirred inside.  I was being offered the Holy Grail.

Assisting Grandmother Mechi as she prepares for her ceremony

I was one of several attendants who helped Mechi get dressed: brown buckskin for the first day’s ceremony, soft white leather tunic and leggings for the second day.  On that second day, I listened as Wind Walker, lead drummer from the Turkey Clan, circled the perimeter calling the four directions.  I listened as Little Elk chanted the ancient words he had learned from his grandmother.  I listened as Mechi, once initiated, blessed each of us and gave new names to those who asked. I watched two hawks circle overhead.

People from all over the country came for the ceremony.  The making of a Medicine Woman is a significant event.  In truth, my participation was not significant to the ritual itself.  To me, it was life-changing.  I remember standing behind Mechi who was seated in a lawn chair, bundled in blankets and fur.  I placed my hands on her shoulders, not to reassure her but to keep me anchored in reality.  Ah, but Mechi had only one moccasined foot in this world, something I should have realized.  As the procession around the meadow grew longer, the drumming stronger, and Mechi ever more still, I felt a current rush from her shoulders and into my palms.  Had I just shaken hands with Lothar?

Grandmother Mechi annoints a young man, giving him a new name

Eight years later, Mechi and I were again in ritual together.  This time the ceremony was to close the week-long writers’ conference where we’d first met.  This time, I officiated.  Four hundred women had journeyed from all over the world to be there.  For many of them, the emotional discoveries made that week had been profound.  I asked Mechi to help me hold the energy.   Again, I stood behind her, my hands on her shoulders.  This time she was in a wheelchair.

For the next three years, failing health kept Mechi from attending the conference.  She’s much better now, busier than ever.  I look forward to being in ritual with her again, standing behind, my hands on her shoulders, vibrating from the energy of the woman who showed me my destiny.

Zita, Mechi, Kit

Zita, Mechi, and Kit at a closing ceremony of the International Women's Writing Guild

To learn more about Mechi and to see more photographs from her installation, please visit www.mechigarza.webs.com

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Getting Married? Let a Romance Writer Tell Your Story

Posted on September 10, 2011 by Zita

September 12, 2011

There’s a full Harvest Moon tonight.  Just a century ago, much of life this time of year centered around the harvest.  This was the season when my Pennsylvania grandmother put up glistening jars of grape jelly, apple butter, and strawberry rhubarb jam direct from her garden.  And my South Dakota grandfather and the hired hands worked the fields well before sunrise and long into the night cutting and baling hay to feed the cattle through winter.  For both families, it was a time of hard work and abundance.  With no television and only limited use of the radio, entertainment was like everything else—homemade.  In Pennsylvania, they played cards.  In South Dakota, they played the fiddle.  Both families told stories.  In grammar school, I was always prepared to talk about how I spent my summer vacation.  Storytelling came naturally.  I’m sure it’s what led me to write romance novels.  Just as I’m sure writing romance novels led me to performing weddings.  Destiny is a wide road.

Since 2001, I’ve designed and orchestrated many rituals of many kinds; but the wedding at which I officiated in August was my first.  I’m happy to say that the comment I heard most often was how meaningful, how personal, the service was.  That’s because in the months preceding the wedding, while Elaine and Becky talked about how they met and fell in love, I took notes.  Writers are notorious for eavesdropping.  This was sanctioned.

Becky and Elaine sharing a special moment

  When it came time for the ceremony, I knew about the blind date, about how Becky got lost and Elaine decoded the description of her surroundings in order to find her.  I learned about how each thought cheeseburgers and a walk on the beach would be appropriate for a first meeting.  I learned Becky loves to cook and Elaine loves to eat.  I smiled when Elaine talked about that day on the beach and how Becky reacted with gentle wonder when a tiny crab scurried across her bare foot.  “That’s when I knew I could fall in love with Becky,” Elaine said and I knew she meant it.  I learned how much Becky admired Elaine’s intellect and emotional stability and how stressful it was for Elaine to take the bar exam earlier that same week.  I heard the catch of regret in Elaine’s voice when she talked about not being available to help Becky with the preparations.  When Becky said, “That’s okay,” I knew she meant it.  On separate occasions, I learned that Elaine wondered if their children would echo Becky’s love of nature, of trees in particular and that Becky wondered if their children would have Elaine’s freckles.

  I listened as Elaine talked about how happy—and concerned—she was that her grandparents, both in failing health, planned to travel from the Midwest to be at the wedding.  I listened as Becky expressed disappointment that her godmother didn’t approve of the marriage and had declined to attend.  Becky and I talked on the phone for over an hour one night.  She shared the sorrow of not having her mother at the wedding, how her favorite flowers were yellow roses, and could I incorporate something yellow into the ceremony in memory of the blind woman who died when Beck was a child?  I heard the pride in Becky’s voice when she talked about the 140 hand-turned wooden bowls her father was making for the guests.

Handmade wedding favors

Becky’s dad likes to work with wood. These favors are truly a labor of love.

To a writer, everything is grist for the mill.  The ceremony I created for Becky and Elaine incorporated all I had learned about them.  Writing this now I can relive that August afternoon.  That’s the power of stories.  That’s why we tell them.  I gave Becky and Elaine a basket filled with jars of pesto, pumpkin butter, jelly, and jam.  What can I say?  It’s in the genes.

Posted in Marriage Equality, Weddings | Tagged , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

WRITTEN IN STONE ~ A Wedding Ritual

Posted on August 1, 2011 by Zita

Written in Stone ~ A Wedding Ritual

On June 21, I had the honor of solemnizing the marriage of my former boss and forever friend, Doug Evans, and the love of his life, my new friend, Mikolaj Bauer.   The evening ceremony took place at the Ritz Carlton in Battery Park, New York City, on the rooftop’s Rise Terrace.  The guest included family and friends who had flown from Poland, Germany, and Spain, as well as New Yorkers and those who had traveled from Connecticut, Florida, and Indiana.  Here’s how I began the ceremony :

“Before the sun sets, Mikolaj and Doug will marry each other.  They will join not only their hearts and hands; but also their cultures.  Both the Polish and the American traditions are rich in symbolism and ceremony, particularly for weddings.  Both cultures urge their people to preserve and honor the past when creating the future.  We live in a world where cultures can clash and anger can harden hearts.  And yet here we are, in the welcoming embrace of Lady Liberty — because sometimes the longing for love is strong enough to cross cultural boundaries, to blend something old and honored from each into something new and treasured for both.  So it is tonight.” 

Because the guest list was small, I created a ritual in which each could participate.  Before the ceremony began, I asked each guest to reach blindly into a drawstring bag and pull a stone.  On each stone was carved a word that represented an intangible gift.  During the ceremony, each guest presented that gift to the couple.  Here’s an excerpt from the ceremony:

“For as long as couples have gotten married, friends and family have shown their support by giving gifts.  Couples today might receive anything from a kitchen blender to a crystal bowl.  In much earlier times, wedding gifts symbolized qualities desired in a marriage – fidelity, health, prosperity.  Harkening back to those days, I invite each of you to come forward, one at a time, and bestow Doug and Mikolaj with a wedding gift written in stone. “   

Before the ceremony, I had placed a tray lined with shell chips on the altar.  The tray was copper colored, copper being the metal sacred to Venus, Goddess of Love.  Venus in the form of Aphrodite rose from the ocean’s foam.  The shell chips symbolized her presence.  These small details echoed the energy brought from the far corners of the world on that particular night.

Wedding Ritual "Written in Stone"

"Written in Stone" - a wedding ritual when the guest list is small

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