Alley Way

I like taking a walk down the alley way
Much preferred from the street view
For you see peoples' real
Not the façade that they put on for their neighbors
Your steps down the alley way reveal
Daddy's handy weekend work of assembled tree houses made out of scraps
Gardens that people have poured blood and sweat into - not for aesthetic purposes but to simply grow real food
Chicken coops where hens squawk and eggs are collected daily
And rusty Ford pickups that carried their fathers' farms - simply are too much nostalgia to part with
Greenhouses that stand up to the snow and foster growth despite the cold
Chopped wood piles that fuel the fire
For my walk down the alley way instead of the street reveals that beauty lies in purpose

Love from Afar

A beautiful passage of wisdom that exemplifies the powerful beauty of love that is carried out from a distance.

"From where I am," the sun said, "I can see the Soul of the World. It communicates with my soul, and together we cause the plants to grow and the sheep to seek out shade. From where I am- and I'm a long way from earth- I learned how to love. I know that if I came even a little bit closer to the earth, everything there would die, and the Soul of the World would no longer exist. So we contemplate each other, and we want each other, and I give it life and warmth, and it gives me my reason for living." -Paulo Coelho (The Alchemist)

Thanks to be Had

 

 

 

           This morning I find myself watching the snow fall from the window in the warmth of my home. The sound of my kids rivalrous bickering has to be broken up every once in a while and the fragrance of the pies that we made last night still lingers in the air. My feet are warm from the wool socks that I pulled on and the coffee is strong and warm. I can't help but be brought back to a moment that lasted but 15 seconds on an auto rickshaw in Jodpur, India last December. My sister and I were in the back of the rickshaw that is inherently permeated with the smells of gasoline, exhaust, the smoke from burning trash, with an occasional whiff of curry that sweeps in as we pass a market. Our little tuk-tuk comes to an abrupt stop because of traffic and a little brown eyed toddler emerges in the midst of the exhaust stricken insanity with an outstretched hand. A torn t-shirt hangs off his starving structure and I notice he is shoeless. As his eyes look up at me for compassion I can't help but take notice that he is sick. His nose is running. All I could think in that moment was “where is his mom.” Many children in India are orphaned because their parents have died from AIDS. Many of these children are HIV positive as well. As I began to reach in my purse to grab some candy and toys that I had been carting around India to give to the street children, the tuk-tuk began to take off. I began to weep. I will never forget that little boy, for all I wanted to do was to sweep him up in my arms like I do my own children when they are sick. Give him a warm bath, feed his growling belly, and tuck him into a warm bed. He has nothing. He was born on the streets and will eventually die on the streets. He doesn't have a right to an education, health care, a home, or even food. The country that he lives in is overwhelmed by population expansion, pollution, and poverty. There isn't a soup kitchen, homeless shelter, or orphanage that is going to save him. He can't apply for food stamps, Medicaid, or section 8 housing. I didn’t understand desperation or hopelessness until that point in my life…. I thought I did. Just by the ownership of a United States birth certificate we are entitled to so much. We did nothing for it. It was simply sheer luck to be born in the land of the free. I am so incredibly thankful for every shred of prosperity that I have in my life, both earned and by luck. Happy Thanksgiving! Love, April

Love Her

28 years later. Still the same girl. Just in Rome, Italy.

A postcard that I purchased in Rome for myself... as a reminder.

       As women in today's culture, we can't help but struggle with feelings of inadequacy in the way we look, in our careers, in our homes, as mothers, as wives.... our culture feeds these insecurities. My sister gave me a piece advise once that I will hold close to my heart until my skin is wrinkled and my hair is grey, "love yourself the way you would love your own daughter. The way you would love the child-you." For a while she carried a photograph of her childhood self around in her wallet as a daily reminder. God! How beautiful is that?! I wrote this poem with that mantra in mind:


Love Her

Sweet girl
You were once a little person with chubby toes
You are still that girl
Don't you love her?

You don't grudgingly hold on to that little girl's failures
Instead you remind her that life will include a few stumbles
Just pick yourself back up

Forgive Yourself.

Round tummy that peeks out as she runs and plays
You wouldn't dare criticize her chubby midline
So why do you now?

Love Yourself.

Dreams of growing wings at the height of her swinging on the swing set
You wouldn't dare snuff out the little girl's dreams of flight

Allow Yourself to Dream.

Compassion for her 28 years ago.

Compassion for her today.

A Postcard from Me to Me

A postcard sent to me from me with LOVE from Rome, Italy:


Where does inspiration come from?

As I sit at a café sipping my cappuccino in the early morning (well early for Italians.... 8am)in Piazza Farnese, this question finds itself on repeat in my head.
 

Is it the ornate façade, with every Florentine perfectly aligned?
 

Maybe it's the black cobbled stone that reflects the illumination of the city at night but during the daylight serves as the foundation from which Roma stands?
 

Perhaps, is the enormous fontana that have proven their worth with centuries of longevity?
 

Inspiration may be drawn from the simple white dress that perfectly frames the femininity of her body as she confidently navigates the bumpy road in her stiletto heals.
 

It's the simplicity of the trickling water and it's reflection of the early morning light as it moves over the fontana.
 

Creativity could be found in the dance of the business man's hands as he closes an every day business transaction like a perfectly executed ballet.
 

It's the flapping of the common pigeons' wings, defying boundaries and breaking every rule.
 

It could come form the irony of the white jacketed doctor who chain smokes in the piazza.
 

Or the nun in black and white who paradoxically keeps in step with a young girl in cut off short and belly exposed to the world.
 

The guitarist who smiles a little brighter with every string he strums.
 

It could come from the three wheeled miniature truck with a bed filled with a rainbow selection of flowers as it wobbles down the narrow lanes.

Love,  April Netschke

Bound Nostalgia

 

 

On the cobbled Roman street
my path would purposefully divert
to stroll under the cover of the old book stand.
For the old tattered pieces of literature
offered me not the usual pleasure that books give,
for I am unable to read Italian.
However,
my path diverted so that
I could breathe in the incredible aroma of nostalgia
that these old books held.
There smell whispering a secret of their history that is bound between the covers,
begging to be told.
I'd watch the beautiful souls that rummaged the stand.
One by one
unwrapping the history with the opening of a book.

Tether

Torn between worlds

The rusted chains made of the past and the ode to it

Tether her bright soul to a place in space that exists because of 

promises

a home

a life

Internal acceptance of a long hidden secret acts like a violent tornado of wind

Sweeping her whole pale lifeless body up with unrelenting fury

But the rusted chains hold tight her ankle

The harsh smell of rust permeates the air reminding her of where she should remain

tethered

The internal wind continues to whip

Throwing her hair in every directions

Body like a rag doll

Caught in a tornado of fury

The heavy chains begin to dig into the soft flesh

The thick warmth of her blood begins to drips but splatters with the wind

She cries out but sound is not heard

She can't even hear herself 

Unwilling to command the winds to seize

to give in

She closes her eyes in the midst of the madness

You see in her white knuckled fist she holds the key

The key that could unlock her promise of the past and send her into a whole new world

A key that could end the pain

Yet she remains clenching the key in that white knuckled fist until it's jagged ends tear into her palms

Afraid to unlock the chains

Afraid to let the winds die down