Topic: This year's topic focuses on letting go. Here are some wise words to help you get started:

1. Finding Home, by Khadijah Lacina, Shihr, Yemen (FIRST PRIZE!)
2. Making Lemonade, by Susan Kasper, Georgetown, TX
3. De-Demonizing Maui, by Jo Virgil, Austin, TX
4. I Have to Let Her Grow, by Margaret Stephenson, Austin TX

We know you will enjoy these stories as much as we do. Congratulations to our four winners! And look for an announcement of our next competition in June, 2011.

My fingers have combed
through your rough dirt
planted seeds
we have sipped
your breast's sweet
nectar
you taste of home

Even before my husband and I married, we shared the dream of someday moving to Yemen. For years, this was a dream that had to be set aside, left to slumber as we travelled around the U.S looking for a good home for our children. From city, to city, to inner city we travelled, as my longing to establish roots somewhere grew with every move. Finally, we were able to purchase a three story house which had been taken from its previous owner for nonpayment of taxes. It was in a medium sized town in upstate New York. Its insides were unfinished—in some rooms there were cracks by the windows where the trees outside could peek in and see how our little family of gypsies lived. The yard was small and overgrown, with a huge comfrey plant near the back and some ancient pear trees along one side. It was perfect for us.

My husband fixed up the top floor right away, then proceeded to make the kitchen livable, and the living room actually comfortable. The middle floor was left for a later time—while never being finished or even really partially finished, one of its rooms became the boys' bedroom, and one my workroom, where I concocted herbal potions and made soap to my heart's content.

I spent hours outside in the backyard, digging out the largest garden space I could, as well as a couple of smaller ones around the edges of the house and the back fence. I planted vegetables and herbs, choosing those things that my children could snack on as they played outside, or which could be used as medicines when they were ill. The only exceptions were the morning glories which snaked up the black wrought iron fence in the backyard—I have always loved these joyful little flowers, and every time I looked at them I was reminded of my sister Patty, now gone from this earth, who covered her little house in the northern Wisconsin woods with them every year. I rejoiced when the plants pushed free from the ground, and I saw the children pause in their play to eat a carrot from the garden, or nibble on nasturtium or borage flowers.

We got to know the people in our neighborhood. Once they got used to me wearing my Muslim overgarments, my husband and the boys wearing Saudi thawbs, and the girls in their colored scarves and pretty skirts and dresses, they saw us as people, and, eventually, as neighbors. I sold my soaps at local businesses, was asked to speak at the small, privately owned bookstore on Main Street, and my son joined an archery club and learned to bow hunt. In a word, we became accepted.

When the horror of 9-11 occurred, we stayed in our house—it became a sanctuary as the world outside became just a bit scarier. Our car was vandalized and people would drive by yelling obscenities at us, just because we were Muslims. We stuck close to home, our lifeboat in rough seas, and tried to ride out the storm. I realized just how thoroughly our neighbors had embraced us when I was outside one morning harvesting calendula flowers, and the big, bearded, Harley Davidson driving sportsman who lived across the street strolled over. He stood looming over me for a minute, then said, "You having any trouble with the people around here?" My husband, who had been standing nearby, said that no, it was nothing we couldn't handle. He replied, "There's a lot of inbreeds in these hills—if anyone gives you trouble, come to me." With that, he shambled off, not knowing that my mouth was hanging open under my veil at this gruff offer of assistance, this offer of community. The tears came when I went back inside.

One day, after we had lived there for about two years, my husband and I were walking together—something we have tried to do at least once a day since the beginning of our marriage. We walk, and connect, or reconnect, or try to figure out why we are on some sort of disconnect, and we always return recharged and recommitted to each other and our family. This was a beautiful spring day, the trees newly dressed in their green tops, waving happily to each other across the valley. When we reached the top of the hill overlooking the high school, Khalil told me that he had figured out a way that we could finally realize our dream of going to Yemen. If we sold the house, we could afford tuition to a language institute, and to live there for at least a year; then we could see if we could stay longer.

If we sold the house...

hands hold tight
the smell of sweet soil
and life fills my senses
then the pull
the tug
I feel your fingers
slip from mine

Once Khalil had made the decision, it was only a matter of time. He worked to finalize things with the buyer, and we began to sort through the accumulated artifacts of nine years together. The idea of throwing away little bits of our lives, or giving them to strangers, made my heart hurt, but he only wanted us to keep a little bit in storage, those things which we just couldn't part with. Being pregnant with our sixth baby made it even harder. What bit of ourselves would this child never know? The quilts made by my mother, my grandmother's afghans, the gifts of my sister and parents, given to make our house a home, the favorite book of five children? I almost couldn't bear the decisions...how do you choose between all that is beloved to you?

Finally came the day of the sale closing. I thought it should be raining, angry, dark—but it was a clear summer day, a betrayal of the pain in my heart. I hated the people who were buying it—they were going to renovate it and rent it out—my soap room, my enclosed porch, my garden to be destroyed—I hated them, and I hated my husband, just a little, for doing this to me, for pulling up the roots I had finally been able to start sending down in this little community. I cried behind my veil, and began to say my goodbyes.

Afterwards, sitting in the car behind the building, my husband held me as I wept for our lost home, for our lost community, for a path swept away that had seemed so right to follow. When finally the tears were spent, my husband held my hand, his artist's fingers entwined in mine. I realized then, that by letting go of this house, I was finally and irrevocably saying to him, "You are my home." I wiped my eyes, sat up a little straighter, and looked ahead, to the new path we were going to forge, to the new future we were going to write—together.

lives enmeshed
shared
path stretches ahead
we have found
our home

About the author:
I grew up in the Kickapoo Valley in Wisconsin, and lived all over the States before ending up here in Yemen. I have a B.A. in English and Theater from the University of Wisconsin. My passions are my eight children and my husband, Islaam, writing, homeschooling, fiber arts and herbs! I teach Arabic and Islaamic studies to women here, and I work to teach them to recognize their importance, and the need for their stories to be heard.

The ultrasound tech squeezed gel on my breast. How nice; it's warm. I relax as she gently moves the wand over my skin, probing for the "something" that doesn't feel quite right to me. I watch the machine, which seems to be staring at me, pulsing lights undulating across the screen. I have had this experience before, when mammograms have indicated they are "seeing" something suspicious. It's okay, though—I have lumpy breasts.

The ultrasound exam is barely over when the radiologist comes into the room, looming over me. "We need to get a biopsy as soon as possible!" That isn't a part of the script. I am stunned, and can't think of anything to say, so I say nothing. A cold rain pelts down on me as I walk out of the hospital.

Today I let go of the smug certainty that life will always be sunny.

I was so nervous that my heart pounded and my blood pressure soared as the nurse prepared me for the biopsy two days later. She assured me that the Lidocaine will numb me and I shouldn't feel a thing. The radiologist inserts a needle that looks to be the size of a turkey baster into my breast. With a click and a snap, he harvests tissue from this dark invader. I watch as he deposits the bloody strings of tissue into a container with my name on it. The biopsy hurts, both physically and emotionally.

"I'm certain it's malignant," the radiologist says, his brown eyes registering something like sympathy. "I'll call you when I get the pathology report." Numb, I drive home, unsure what to do as I wait by the phone. My brain chants, "Cancer, Cancer, Cancer!"

Today I give up my collection of endless tomorrows.

Wednesday becomes Thursday and then blends into Friday. I sit by the telephone. Everytime it rings, my heart bottoms out somewhere around my knees. My heart knows it's cancer—my brain wants it out—now!

Monday my gynecologist calls and chokes out the words I am expecting. "I'm so sorry; you have cancer." She refers me to a surgeon. I decide to let my family and friends know. I call those closest to me and email the others who might want to know. Amazingly, I am calm and I don't cry. I am eager to engage the enemy; do what must be done. I name my unwelcome visitor "Dammit."

Today I let go of paralyzing fear.

I have decided cancer is about patience, of which I have little. When one hears the sinister term, "It's malignant," after the shock and settling, the first thought is, 'GET THIS THING OUT OF ME!" I want it done yesterday, or before, if possible. Don't confuse me with the details, just get it out!

Then reality sets in. Decisions, decisions. Breast cancer is about a lot of decisions. How can I process the necessary information, get the expert opinions, and make the important decisions that may literally save my life? The clock is ticking. I move into another time zone—Now, Now, Now. And what happens? The clock slows to an irritating "Tick" . . . "Tick" . . . "Tick" . . . I close my eyes and pray.

Today I let go of fruitless impatience.

Google becomes my best friend. I spend hours each day researching breast cancer. I learn many things. Knowledge begets power. I begin to develop my list of questions for the surgeon, the plastic surgeon, the oncologist. My family is completely supportive. My friends gather 'round, with hugs, comfort, and promises of prayers. I become obsessed about educating my friends about cancer. I tell them everything, except how scared I am. They all think I am "brave" and "positive."

The surgeon orders a MRI, since there are questions about other areas in my breast. The MRI shows "multiple areas of suspicious tissue in the right breast." She has scheduled more biopsies tomorrow. As I clutch the phone to my ear, I am thinking, "Just get 'Dammit' and his devil spawn out of me!" We opt for a mastectomy, rather than hoping for a lumpectomy.

Today I let go of the hope that this is just a "little bump in the road."

My friends are phenomenal! We gather for our bi-weekly poker game and the subject comes around to boobs. We all have two of them, more or less, and I discover that four of my fifteen poker partners have had breast cancer. We all lament that our breasts aren't where they used to be, and one friend announces that she wears a "size 36-long bra!" Another sighs that she likes her breasts okay—she just wishes they were where they started out. I laugh and enjoy the warmth and genuine love I feel from these wonderful women.

Today I give up a part of my secret self-reliant self and embrace the ministrations of others.

At last, after seven weeks, all of the preparations come to an end. I finish all of the medical appointments, the last test, the last "To Do" on my pre-op list. I preregister at the hospital and have the necessary blood tests and EKG done. I answer the same questions I have answered many times before. The medical establishment now has more information about me than my parents, my children, and my husband ever did.

Tonight I pack. I shower and lovingly soap my "old lady" breasts. Tomorrow they will be gone. Tears trickle down my face, mirroring the lazy cascade of droplets on the shower door. I finish my preparations and go to bed. As I lie staring sightlessly into the dark, I begin to count the ways I have been making lemonade out of the lemons. I prepare for the ultimate "letting go"—giving up a part of the body I was born with, letting go of a part of my femininity, a part of my youth. I close my eyes and experience a feeling that a multitude of loving arms encircle me and hold me close. I sigh and go to sleep.

In losing a little, I have gained so much. I have learned patience; I have found courage; I bask in the love and support of friends and family. And maybe, most of all, I have learned that though our tomorrows may crash and burn, we can become stronger, more realistic, wiser—more focused on what is really important in life, and we can choose to live joyfully, letting go of the "fluff" that once seemed so important, but is really only an illusion.

I close the front door and turn my face to the morning sun, ready to begin this next chapter in my life.

About the author:
After retiring from a long career in nursing, Susan moved from San Antonio to Georgetown Texas, where she enjoys an active, fulfilling life in beautiful Sun City. At sixty-five, she savors the time spent with her son and his family in Austin, and her three grandchildren keep her young at heart. An avid reader, Susan also enjoys traveling, playing cards, and bowling (very badly!) After being widowed at the age of forty-eight, Susan learned the value of journaling, and has been a member of "Story Circle" for three years. She hopes a book lies in her future.

If I ever had any doubt about the power of ritual, it would have been washed away into the Pacific Ocean off the shores of Maui this past April.

My trip to Maui was more than merely a relaxing vacation, although it was certainly that. My daughter Lauren and I went snorkeling over protected coral reefs, we sat in awe of an authentic luau, we ate fine Hawaiian food, soaked up sunshine, watched whales and sunsets, visited, read—all the magical things that an incredible vacation offers.

But after my four days with Lauren, I had another two days to myself, alone—to figure out how to re-paint my memory of Maui. The last time I was there—five years, seven months, and twenty days before—Les and I were celebrating our 33 years of life together as husband and wife. That trip, too, was wonderful, but the shock of his leaving me just five days later left a stain on every memory I had of the island. Going back to de-demonize Maui was the whole purpose of this trip.

After Lauren left, I spent my first day alone mostly sitting on the beach, thinking, meditating, trying very hard to become part of the peace that wrapped the island. I watched newlyweds walk hand-in-hand along the shore. I watched older couples laughing and sharing stories. I watched children squeal as the waves snuck up on them and doused them in sandy salt water. Happiness was all around me, and I wanted to taste that.

I became fascinated with the wet sand and the waves—how people would walk along the beach, leaving deep footprints to mark their path. Then a wave would come in and smear the distinct five-toed prints into mere oval indentations in the sand. Then another wave would come and erase the ovals entirely. Then another couple would walk along, leaving their footprints, and the cycle repeated over and over. I felt a knowing settle over me—a connection with all the cycles of the planet, of life, of humanity. I understood to the core of my being the necessity of seasons, and birth-and-death, and sunshine-and-darkness, and waves that smooth out the sand. It all made perfect sense, in a way that words won't describe.

I knew what my de-demonizing ritual needed to be. I watched the pattern of the ocean until I was sure how far the strongest waves would come up on shore. Then, as soon as one strong wave crashed up to that point and slid back out to sea, I stood and took exactly 33 steps along the edge of the wet sand, leaving my own deep footprints to represent the 33 years of my marriage. Then I sat back down on the dry sand and waited.

It took three big waves to erase my footprints, to wipe out any evidence of my having walked along the shore. It was a process, a cycle. My 33 footprints became part of the planet, part of nature that changes and cycles and breathes in and out. It wasn't a negative thing—I didn't obliterate my 33 years of marriage or destroy the wonderful memories that I had. What I did was relegate that bit of my history to the inevitable cycle of life. Things had changed—a beach with footprints is no better and no worse than a beach without. In the end, they are the same thing.

At the core of our human spirit, we are wrapped in nature, and in each other, and in the past and the future, and it is ritual that ties all that together and helps us makes sense of it all.

My ritual was perfect. I left Maui with a peace that I hadn't felt in five years, seven months, and twenty days. I still miss Les. I still miss the good times we shared and the life we created together. But things changed.

My footprints on Ka'anapali beach are not really gone—they just changed form.

About the author:
Jo Virgil knows the power of story. Story Circle Network, the Central Texas Storytelling Guild, and the Writers' League of Texas are essential aspects of her life, as is writing. Jo works as Community Outreach Specialist in the Texas Governor's Committee on People with Disabilities, where she often gets to hear powerful and moving stories.

I can't control the way my thirteen year old daughter, Kaley, looks through me, conveying the message that I don't understand her, that I am invisible and she's done with me. She drops a musical script she has written on the table and asks me to read it. I swallow tears; the lucid writing explores the intense emotions between a mother and a daughter, the same subject I'm trying to assimilate. She writes things like, "And you will never see how happy I am. I differentiate myself from my mother. I've finally found a place where I am like no other!"

I say, "I love the script, what was your inspiration?"

She shrugs and says, "it just came to me," as she grabs her journal and disappears to the tree fort, where she can hide away from me and her little brother and sister. I want her to grow up, but I also want her to remain who she is right now; she is an important piece of the puzzle, a piece of the family of five I have poured myself into, and a pain rolls through my chest when I resist reaching out to her as she walks away.

After lunch, she sinks into the sofa, slowly covering the screen of her laptop with her body, her eyes darting toward me when I walk by as she's instant messaging her theater friends. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of what she's talking about and see lines of LOLs and short sentences I can't quite make out. I too hide my writing and click on a new tab if someone's eyes seem to spend too long near my computer while I am journaling my way to self-understanding in my fourth decade.

Today she spends time in the middle of the family-action, in the living room and in the kitchen, ignoring her little brother running around the house doing his "exercise" and her preteen sister filling 300 water balloons in the sink. She reads and writes, laughing aloud to herself and occasionally sighing in frustration as I keep my distance but stay in sight while I do my own work, just in case she might invite me into her world. I try to be sensitive to her need to lose herself in the moment and not be interrupted; I know when I begin asking questions and needing her help, she will slink into her room quietly, trying not to be noticed. I miss the 12-year-old that spontaneously included me in her activities. I reach out, hug her, and say, "I love you."

She is distracted from her thoughts and replies, "why do you always do that?"

I say, "don't you ever feel a wave of love rush through you where you just have to hug that person and let them know how you feel?"

She raises her eyebrows, shakes her head, and says, "no-o-o".

I read my worn copy of Louise Bates Ames' book, Your Ten-to Fourteen-Year-Old, which explains that young teens have to withdraw so that their fragile personalities, which are in the process of being formed, can be protected. I am adjusting to my evolving role and trying to make sense of my own emotions as I let go of the reigns and discover what she needs from me.

On this breezy Spring evening, as I take breaks from a book to catch caterpillars in the garden with my son, Kaley opens the front door and says, "Michael asked me to the dance".

I say, "oh, that's so nice," trying not to give away that while I am happy for her, I am also trying to make sense of my circling thoughts, "is she too young, should I be more open, less open, should I allow texting and instant messaging, should I question more?"

She stands tall with a sparkling smile that shoots out of her eyes, but she's reserved, her voice is smooth and confident. She stares out toward the street in thought while I observe her and then she slowly begins to describe the weeklong string of conversations between several of her friends that culminated in the "will you go to the dance with me?" question from Michael. We fall into the comfortable part of our relationship, laughing together, as I ask questions and she explores the details with me. The Elium's, in their book, Raising a Teenager, share and I take comfort in the statement, "the young teen hangs suspended over two realities—the familiar security of home and family and the dangerous unknown of the search for self." I remind myself as I flip through self-help books about teenagers late into the night, to respect her when she flies away from me like a baby bird and to welcome her back to the nest when she returns.

I embrace the night as I lie in the bath, peering out the window at the dark sky, listening to the younger kids play in the other room; it's the one place everyone seems to understand I am off-duty. Kaley quietly walks in, finds me in the bath, and immediately undresses and slips in. She's confident that I want her with me; she doesn't even ask. Each day her growing body changes and I'm surprised as I look at her face and can still see the baby she once was. She talks about a dream she had the night before and I stare at her, trying to memorize her face before it changes anymore.

I say suddenly, "when you were born, I was surprised by what you looked like."

"What did you expect?" she asks.

I say, "I pictured you as a generic, chubby baby, like you might see in a diaper commercial, but you had wise eyes and distinct features and I was mesmerized." She smiled and my heart jumped.

I greedily wish for more, but hope I can appreciate the sweet moments we have together and join her in this journey through the teen years. I am reluctantly letting go of the parent I was, quietly mourning the one that she needed when she was younger, and listening intently as I try to follow her lead while she gets to know herself as a teenager.

About the author:
I am a homeschooling mother living in Austin, TX with my husband and our three children. If I'm not in the process of actually writing, I'm usually thinking about what I am going to write while jotting down ideas between legos and stoplights. I have immersed myself in learning about parenting and education since the moment my first child was born 13 years ago when my passion suddenly switched from counseling others to caring for my own children. Taking classes through Story Circle Network has inspired me to dive into writing about all that I love.