TARA MANDARANO
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The Days I Prayed For The Things I Have Now

4/28/2017

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As my wise sister is fond of saying, THESE are the good old days, so let's not forget how blessed we are in these moments where we go through our lives just accepting the holy as if it were ordinary.

I don't go to church or follow a specific religion closely anymore, but as I get older, the presence of the wonders of the universe just becomes stronger.

When I think back to the times I wished and prayed for a child of my own—just one—to prove I could fulfill my dream of becoming a mother, it makes me reflect on how much I've gained and grown these past three years.

I also prayed to meet a good and kind man, someone who would find me endearingly odd and potentially weird and love me for those exact reasons. And I did. The universe came through in its own way, in her own time.

So today I look back at my old self and simply tell her to hold on. A wave of blessings—along with all the joys and challenges that come with them—are on the way. They are following the secret map to your heart, slowly but purposefully.

​Open it. Let the tide of the unknown, and all it offers, in.

​You are about to be given the most profound gifts and lessons. Cherish them. Learn from them. There is a world of happiness in store for you. It was written in your stars long ago.

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An Hour Of My Own

4/23/2017

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An hour of my own; that's all it takes to make me happy on this Sunday. Usually I retreat to a room and close myself away, losing myself in a book or magazine. But this morning I wanted to be out in the fresh air, like the flowers and the buds and the trees. I wanted to enjoy the sun's rays on my face and feel the light breeze on the back of my neck.

So I decided to stick to my recent resolution of trying to walk a little bit every day. And you know what? I did it for sixty minutes, and It felt glorious. Freeing. Empowering. Before I went, I wondered whether to wear earbuds and listen to some music, but I'm glad I didn't. The birds that sometimes drive me nuts with their chirping didn't today. I got to say "good morning" to the few people I encountered along the way who actually made eye contact. I also wasn't so buried in myself and my own world for a change, so I saw when a little boy's ball went bouncing toward the street. I was able to catch it.

At the halfway point, I debated whether to get an ice coffee or not. Would the calories undo my physical work? Did I really need it? In the end, I decided to be kind to myself and let myself have it. It quenched my thirst and made me happy, so why shouldn't I drink it?

I wondered what my husband and daughter were making at her art class as I walked by myself. I was glad I had asked him to take her in the first place. Why shouldn't he take a turn? I smiled as I thought about them getting glue and paint all over the place. Usually I would be fighting to keep my cool and my patience. With a little time to myself, though, my nerves finally felt calm and at peace.

Yesterday I found out that my hormone levels are practically menopausal, which is not great news when you're only 39. My naturopath looked at me and said, "No wonder you've feeling extra anxious and down lately!"

It was a validation of sorts. I came home to tell my husband that maybe I wasn't crazy after all, that there really was something wrong with the hormones inside me. He looked at me and said, "I never thought you were crazy. Don't call yourself that. At least now we have more information, so we can figure out how to fix it."

And you know what? He's right. And I'm incredibly lucky that I have someone so supportive of my mental health. It will probably be a while before I feel better and more like myself again, but taking time out to be alone, reflect, and gather my strength helps me face the day and my family with a lighter heart. My best friend and my best girl deserve that. I do, too.

When I was nearly home again, I came across these lovely little yellow flowers planted in a neighbour's garden. They looked so cheerful and determined, and I thought to myself: my soul is like those flowers. It's been beaten down and tossed about by the elements, the rain and wind that comes into all our lives, but it still wants to persevere, to bloom, to show its face to the sun. To become what's it meant to be all along.

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Cars & Grandfathers

4/17/2017

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Dear Grumps,

I stopped by your old house the other day. To me, 67 Elvaston still belongs to you and BG, even though I know some stranger now owns it. I didn't care that it was private property. I wouldn't call it trespassing, exactly; I just poked about the front yard and checked things out a bit. No one has rented it yet.

You would have been 92 today.

Whenever April arrives, I automatically think of you. It saddens me that you never got to meet the two great loves of my life, but in a funny way, they help keep you alive for me.

You see, your great-granddaughter is a car fanatic, just like you were. She enjoys nothing more than lining her toy cars up on the table and playing games with them. They often accompany her while she eats her cereal or picks over her lunch. Every now and then, my husband and her will get down on the living room room and joyfully smash them into each other.

Eve's favourite is the white Morris Minor with the burgundy roof. Michael's fond of the light blue '57 Chevy. He calls it "Smooth Ride" because it glides so effortlessly across the floor. If my daughter's feeling particularly generous, she'll present Morris Minor to me as if it was a great gift.

You used to keep your toy cars lined up on your bookshelf. They shared space with BG's Nancy Regan bio and a well-loved edition of The Thorn Birds. I don't remember us ever playing with them when we visited as kids. They were simply on display, just like your various war medals.

Sometimes I'll notice a dent or a piece missing from one of your classic cars, and I'll cringe, imagining your displeasure at the sight of your cars being beaten up by play. But then I put the thought out of my mind. The fact is, they're being used, and enjoyed.

They're being loved. And through them, so are you. By two people you've never even met.

I remember seeing your red Mustang sitting in my parents' garage after BG died last year, when it officially became an orphan. I knew it wasn't practical to keep it in the family, but I still felt a pang that such a powerful reminder of you would soon be gone.

I can't imagine how my dad felt when he took down all the licence plates you carefully nailed up in your garage. I didn't realize that in the old days, you needed to get a new one every single year.

I remember soon after you died, my sister and I saw the word GRUMPS on a licence plate while driving on the highway. Then we both smelled cigarette smoke late at night, in separate rooms, even though no one around was smoking. We took it as a sign you were still with us. For me, your spirit's about whenever my daughter takes your vintage toy cars out.

I suppose they belong to her now. Or maybe they're just on loan. Either way, they live in a cheap plastic wagon these days. They mingle with Hot Wheels and mini modern automobiles. Sometimes when she goes to bed, I'll take them out and line them up on the fireplace.

I like for her to be surprised when she comes down in the morning, as if they magically drove themselves and are about to race. They're a constant in her life, you see, something she always comes back to no matter what new-fangled toy comes along.

​They don't make them like they used to—toy cars or grandfathers. But don't worry, Grumps: we're taking good care of them for you. We're driving them and playing with them all over the house; it's our tribute to you.

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Daughters & Great-Grandmothers

4/12/2017

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"Mama, that's the chair from BG's house."

It's 7.30 in the morning when I'm jolted out my new-day daze and transplanted into the past. I look at the little white wicker chair in our den. It used to sit in front of a stone fireplace in my grandmother's house, near her rocking chair.

She would rotate her teddy bear collection every week, so her favourites all got a chance to sit on the throne for a spell. It never seemed odd to me as a child; we just knew that every year we got BG a teddy bear calendar for Christmas.

It wasn't until I grew up and out of my own stuffed animal attachments that I wondered at her enduring fascination. Why did she keep so many around the house? They seemed to live in every room in some form—on shelves in her bedroom, or scattered around the living room.

Maybe it had something to do with loss, and trying to fill the hole of grief. My grandmother knew what it was to lose her mother at the age of nine.

When we visited her a couple of years ago, she admitted that she'd never had any teddy bears growing up. Even though she went on to get married and have children, these inanimate objects continued to fill a mysterious space in her heart. They were such a comfort to her, especially when my grandfather died and she wandered the halls of her beloved home alone.

I remember when she died last year, it was so hard to part with any of them. It felt like we were getting rid of pieces of her heart. So my sister and I, sentimental souls that we are, took plastic bags of them home, just to keep them from being thrown out in the trash.

Today I see that my daughter has placed one of her own teddy bears in the wicker chair at some point. For the longest time it's simply been another piece of storage, with various reusable bags sitting on it.

It looks better occupied, I decide, with a flash of guilt.

I'm startled at what my three year old remembers. She only met her great-grandmother a handful of times. They were both always slightly wary with each other, neither of them quick to warm up to new people.

But it's important to me to keep my grandmother's memory alive, to reference her in conversation, to tell stories and hang pictures that keep her with us in spirit.

This afternoon my husband and I were in her old neighbourhood in Toronto after we visited our accountant. Just like the last time we found ourselves there, I couldn't resist the temptation to drive by and say hi. To her, to her house, to the past. Technically it's no longer ours, those bricks and stain-glass windows and stone fireplaces, but it still feels like hers.

So when I saw the For Lease sign still planted on the lawn, I got out of the car while my husband scrolled on his phone. He kept the engine running as I wandered up the path and steps to the front door. I looked at the Canadian flag tangled up and twisted from the wind, and I wished I could fix it. My grandmother would have had a ladder out there at first glance. Then I touched the Eaton's security sticker on the screen door and closed my eyes. It's the closest I get to her these days.
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10,000 Thank Yous

4/12/2017

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​Last night I got a rejection from a well-respected Canadian literary journal I submitted several poems to. I had been holding out a lot of hope that they would accept my work, so the initial excitement of receiving an email from them was swiftly replaced by a crushing sense of disappointment. Since I've had some writing successes in the past few months, however, I feel like I was able to dust myself off more quickly than usual.

This morning I checked the stats on my Poetic Parenting blog and did a double-take. Over the past week, I've had over 10, 000 page views on my site (usually it's a few hundred). I know most of the traffic is coming from people who have read my article about deciding to have only one child and are now curious about the rest of my work. When I dig deeper into the numbers, I see that some of my old blog posts have been read by 900 people recently. It boggles my mind and takes the sting out of the rejection notices and deafening silence that sometimes accompany my queries.

It also lets me know what's resonating with readers, and what's not. Thank you again to everyone who supports my writing career, likes my posts and shares my articles. I never thought I'd get the opportunity to explore it and chase it the way I have in the past year. You give me the encouragement to keep going and keep striving for even more. Thanks for reading. 
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A Message For The Future

4/10/2017

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Dear Eve of 2037: Call your mother.

Remember how she used to go on all the playground apparatus with you, even though it made her feel like a ridiculous giant? Remember how she fashioned your pigtails, only for you to tear them out two minutes later? Remember how she always put you first? 

This picture will remind her when you are grown and flown and she is home alone with your papa on a Friday night watching Jeopardy! in the future. Send it to her. Make her day, her month, her year. 

Call her. Tell her you've finally made it through all her blog posts. Tell her you love her and that she's always been a good enough mother. 

Whisper your own wisdom in her aging ears. Be gentle, as she was once with you, as you comfort her through life's struggles and wipe away her tears. 

Drop in unexpectedly. Forgo your own friends for one evening. Don't bother knocking. Ask her to go to a poetry reading or an author signing. Suggest coffee afterwards. 

She will accept. She will steady her heart in private, put on her coat and take your hand as if you were still three years old and not an adult. Let her.

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Two New Pieces Published!

4/4/2017

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This afternoon, I finally cracked open Well-Read Women: Portraits of Fiction's Most Beloved Heroines, a book my husband got me for Christmas (which I requested, of course). The quote on this particular page made me pause. I haven't read any Ayn Rand, but her words resonated and reminded me of how interconnected we all are, especially across social media.

​Yesterday I pushed a button and sent the most vulnerable part of my heart out into the online world, a place where people often hide behind screens and cut others down with a few careless taps of their keys. I was so nervous about what strangers might say. I worried about being judged. Being called selfish.

Today, a day later, I can proudly say that I've never had such an overwhelmingly positive response to a piece I've written. As a writer, you often fear your work will fall into the cyber abyss and no one will hear it thud into the silence. We may be solitary souls, us scribblers, but we crave validation and feedback, too. We want to know we're making a difference, touching a heart, striking a chord.

I received so many beautiful comments yesterday that I actually compiled them into 15 pages of a Word doc. It was important for me to save them, to savour them, to archive my pride. There will be days ahead when I need to pull out that file full of kindnesses. I know this. And on those tough, challenging days of rejections and silence, I will read through it and remember why I do this, why I transfer my secrets into the screen and share them with all of you.

​A sincere thank you to everyone who responded to my story and let know how it made you felt. My heart is lighter for it.

Last week I also published a poem, Tabula Rasa, on the literary journal, The Sunlight Press. You can read it here. 

It was a long path to publication for this one, mainly because I never felt confident enough to submit it anywhere. I didn't consider myself a "serious" poet. I was scared of being vulnerable, of exposing too much of my personal life and past. But my writing journey over the past few years has taught me something important: the more I share stories and snapshots from an authentic and honest place, the more people respond to it and see themselves in it. I'm so happy I finally worked up the nerve to send it to a publication I respect and admire. 

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    Tara Mandarano

    is a writer, editor, and poet. Her writing ​has been nominated for the Best-of-the Net award, and has appeared in The Washington Post, HuffPo, Today's Parent, Motherwell, Mothers Always Write, and Literary Mama, among numerous other publications. She is also a patient advocate in the chronic pain and mental health communities. Interested in her writing or editing, or want to work together? Check out her contact page.

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