Karen Loftis Rankowitz

 My Dearest St. Nicholas, Perhaps it’s my age that has me looking out at the world with a mixture of reminiscent comfort and, honestly, a bit of woeful glumness. I long for times when life was simple. Being somewhat of an “old soul”, and one who prefers the quiet and calm in life, I find myself hiding away from the hum and buzz of the societal hive outside my doors. Much of my comfort comes from reflection. I sometimes wander back in time to when there wasn’t instant gratification and patience was learned. Anticipation brought hope because waiting was the only way. Children played outside, had face to face conversations with each other, and believed in Santa Claus for as long as they wanted (and pretended to, for even longer). Our imaginations were meaningful in working and playing. Ideas were envisioned, not manufactured and forced upon us through technology. We asked our parents questions to seek understanding. We relied on them, not social media or search engines that, too often...

 My Dearest St. Nicholas, Her gift to me was one that came clutched in her tiny hand but, directly from her heart. She is eight years old and the artificial flower was white. Some stains from age were there, trying to hide beneath the dust. Dust that had long settled in on the fabric that formed the tired petals into a rose. A perfect rose, I’m sure she thought.  I held back tears as I hugged her and wondered if she’d truly ever know how much her heart touched mine that day (and how hard it was for me not to cry). I thanked her, though it was tough to talk around the lump that had formed in my throat.  My children are grown now. They’re not eight years old, or even twice that anymore, and I often find myself wandering back in time to visit the eight year olds they once were. Those days seem as far away as the stars that pierce the midnight sky.  I miss so much from when they were younger but, I am grateful and blessed they have had the chance to grow up. They are fig...

 My Dearest St. Nicholas, Writing to you, this year, has been a slow process. I have so much on my mind and each time I sit down to push my pencil across the paper, my thoughts stall. Trying to find a sense of peacefulness among all the external (and often internal) unrest has been a frustrating challenge.  So, I will try to disconnect from the noise, if only for a moment, and pray my pencil can release some magic. Though, I will admit it is not magic that crafts a heartfelt letter or, places the ornaments of treasured memories on my tree or, even lights the Christmas candles that bring the holiday glow to the room. It’s more about believing that the words, and the memories, and the flame are there waiting to be more important than the storms that can dim my shine.  I am an avid believer in the spirit of the season. That it brings hope to those who have sunk into sadness and disparity. I believe in not only finding my own peaceful moments but, that I am able to help other...

 My Dearest St. Nicholas, I have sat down several times this season to write to you. Each time, my flustered thoughts lead my pencil across the page in a flurry of rantings instead of asking for blessings or being grateful for the ones already entrusted to me. Perhaps, I need to put my discontent in writing, crumple the paper and, toss it away. There are better ways than staying stuck and, for certain, there's an ache stuck in the heart of the world begging for relief. So, Santa, maybe a Band-Aid, or something that holds us all together would be a healing blessing. My thoughts race with the rush to keep up with the pace of the season and I need to remember to slow down. That reminder is often found in the glowing lights and the scent of pine as I gently place family memories, one ornament at a time, on the sturdy branches of my tree. It is that peaceful pause that grounds me. Sometimes, the needles fall in a quiet song. Its verses rustle and breathe a poignant whisper that life is ...

 My Dearest St. Nicholas, It’s Christmas Eve and I know I’m writing to you a little late but, my words are hard to find this year. My thoughts are scattered and scrambled. Much like how this year has been, I find it difficult to weave my words into a beautiful tapestry or paint a pretty landscape that wraps us in the comforts we once shared; blessed with family and food, laughter and loving embraces.  Santa, if you would remind me, perhaps nudge me gently, to look a little harder and to dig a bit deeper to uncover the joy. I know it’s there but, my eyes sometimes tear up and lose focus and my arms are tired. They’re tired from trying to carry the weight this year has dumped on the world. The uncertainty so many are facing hurts my heart and I wonder...are there enough prayers being said? Is it time to shout them loudly or, continue to kneel and whisper with my head boughed and my heart believing in the power of their words?  As I sit, once again in the glow of soft light ...

My Dearest St. Nicholas, Another year has come and as I sit near my Christmas tree to pen my letter, I find there isn't much  you haven't guided me through already. There is still much for me to learn so, I will be ever grateful if you'd continued to hold my hand while I stumble along. My tree, for many years now, stands proudly in the same cozy place. Each year new ornaments are added and they represent the special events and milestones that have happened during the year. My hands, that were once young, look much older as I watch them place family memories on the branches. But, my heart is content to know that old hands simply mean I have had many years with my family to collect those treasures. Some memories glow in the warmth of the lights. Others bend the branches with their weight but, the boughs are flexible, even strong, under the heavy burden. I suppose, Santa, this is your way of letting me know how important flexibility is when the weight and worries want...

My Dearest St. Nicholas, I am here again, my living room glows in the soft light of my Christmas tree; the warmth wrapped around me like a favorite blanket and I am blessed to have the comforts of my home and my family. I can smell the pine and, memories of my childhood sneak up and surprise me. My mind drifts back to where I grew up; my home town by the shore, and I hear the coins jingle. My father has one hand in his pocket where he keeps his spare coins and the other holds my own tiny, mittened hand as we walk the path in search of the tree which will sparkle just for Santa. I try to copy him and walk with strides longer than my legs; my feet, that could never fill his shoes, point out just a bit.  It's cold and our exhaled breaths of frozen vapor linger for a moment like an angel briefly visiting before taking flight to its heavenly home. It's dark but, the dim bulbs strung low over the path keeps the shadows at bay and my hand held tightly in my father's own reassur...

My Dearest St. Nicholas, Each year, I thoughtfully pen my letters to ask for my Christmas wishes. I also enjoy letting you know I am at peace and I do feel the joy this time of year brings. There are moments, though, when I miss those I loved and want heaven just a little closer to home. But, I will trust as to why Angels were given wings. Santa, this year I will ask for understanding. I have realized many often suffer, sometimes in silence, with profound heartache during this season. Their sorrows are etched into hearts that have broken. Their tears, held back, are locked away behind eyes that smile but without the joy that can make them sparkle. Would you mind, Santa, asking others to understand and be patient and loving? It may be the kindest gift given to someone who's sad. Their reason for sadness is uniquely their own. Perhaps loved ones will not be touched, their hands not held in grace at Christmas dinner. Little ones without a lap, in which to nestle, on Grandpa...

Happy Mother's Day, Mom. There is no one I consider more worthy of holding that most honored name. When I hear the word 'mom', to me, it means strength, integrity, understanding, and love. It means trust and stability. You, Mom, have been the beacon of light on my darkest days, the safe place to land after the countless falls I've made, the hand that reached out and took my own when my heart and head battled for my life's direction. You have managed, and perhaps on many days simply coped, with the heartache no mother should ever have to endure. Yet, your spirit for life and family remains so strong. It's remarkable, really, and in so many ways you're the greatest thing I have to look up to. Thank you, Mom, for all that you are and I love and trust you like no other.

My Dearest St. Nicholas, In the corner of my living room, standing tall, my Christmas tree, with twinkling lights like fallen stars from heaven, reminds me that angels, shining brightly, are here, still with me despite having made their journey home to God. The ornaments, each one with a story to tell, are touched by me and joyful memories are somehow whispered through my hands and into my heart. Soon, the presents will be nestled below the piney boughs and I cry just a little remembering there will be fewer gifts this year - angels can't unwrap presents. Yet, I still feel the peace this time of year brings. I also feel the tears and wish I had a tissue. I don't want much this year, Santa. To ask for peace, love, and joy, I must first bestow it upon others to know its true value and what it means to me. What I will ask of you is help in overcoming, if they cannot be removed, my fears. Reassure me that in giving love and joy, I will receive, or perhaps achieve, peaceful...

Mother's Day has passed but this isn't just about celebrating my mom only on that day. It's about the respect and honor I have for her everyday. I love my mom and I'm going to share with you who she is and what she means to me all the days of the year. I'm getting older which translates to, in a scary way, that she is too. It's not often enough I let her know she was, and is, the most solid foundation upon which my life was built. She gave to me all the things she knew I needed to live my life with proper values, good morals, and integrity. She also allowed me freedom to make my own choices and either reap the rewards or suffer the consequences. And she loved me through both the joyful or sorrowful results. I've never doubted that. She is the only person I have ever fully trusted; she made me feel safe to do so. I wanted to be a veterinarian, or maybe it was a nurse or a teacher, when I grew up. Well, I am grown up now and I've realized all I ...

Ugh! Common Core Math. It's supposed to explain the logic behind the answers to a problem. It's supposed to allow an understanding of the concepts behind WHY the chosen method works to solve everyday problems. I'm not a mathematically savvy person. I think in 'words', not 'numbers'. If number solving, crunching, manipulating - or processing in general - is required, I manage. But, I'm not using anything special, such as logic, or  a deeper knowledge, to verify the correct amount of change is given when I buy a cup of coffee at Starbucks. What I'm processing is, Dunkin Donuts is so much cheaper when I use my 'Perks' Rewards Card. Clearly, not the logical choice. Let me give some examples of Common Core Math situations I found online and how they compare to the "old method" - the method I learned back in the day. I found these examples on the Foundation for Excellence inEducation  . Elementary School Example ...

Content to be amid flower and trees And meadow where plush grass, with ease, Waves to summer's docile breeze Content to see full moon pinned high, An opal brooch clasped to velvet sky, Which holds her stars for gazing eye Content to know sun's rays will grace Each day its warmth upon my face With comfort gentle in embrace Content to trust true tides of oceans Which quiets seas, calming emotions Bathing shores in rhythmic motions But content, my heart, forever to beat Sharing God's wonders of quiet retreat Where only with Him is faith complete

I consider myself a fairly private person. I share some information publicly here on my blog; but much of my life remains secreted away within the walls of my personal sanctuary, invisible to the critical eye of others. I generalize my thoughts and express them as they might apply to others. Even though my expressions are not stated bluntly, much of what I write is deep from within my heart, it’s what is on my mind, and it is often a struggle to keep my words from invading, not only my own space, but the space of my loved ones. I leave my husband out of my writings much of the time because he is hugely more private than I am and I wish not to over step boundaries and, through a public forum, crash in on his life. If I’m “Rhode Island”, he’s like “Texas” where, I’ve heard, “Everything is bigger.” The date has been set, the trip planned, though we decided not to make it public and the reason is the paparazzi, of course. First, we don’t want anyone following us around. Second, we wor...

February, the month of hearts, flowers, candy of course, and love. Valentine’s Day is here and what better way to express love than through forgiveness. One of the toughest things I have ever had to do, and continue yet to do, is forgive myself for my shortcomings, my faults, and my sins. However, being able to do so has provided for me an understanding of how truly powerful forgiveness can be. It is freeing and encouraging. It replaces anger with calm; distrust is quelled and hope is restored. Smiles come more often and laughter, not sadness, fills the air around me. I am not flooded in the bitterness of tears but lifted from the torrents to safer, flourishing ground. Self-forgiveness is not something done once and then all is well. It is a continuous stream of consciousness allowing me to learn and apply valuable lessons to my life. Having said all this, it has me thinking about the forgiveness of others. I know just how good it feels to be forgiven; I’ve done it for myself. B...

I am shocked, enraged, saddened beyond my ability to express, and unable to make sense of this despicable act. Any answers to the question, “why?” will never suffice and this depressing, dark reality makes me cry. I watch the faces of the children, as the news unfolds in a rush of chaos, and wonder if that little one knows her friend, or sibling, or teacher will not be with her tomorrow, or ever again. I cry for her and the finality of what took only moments for a madman to decide then execute. I see her tears and I weep too…for her life that has been detoured. I pray her journey to heal will be a short one with few scars and a heart that still feels like a little girl’s should. Tears sting the edges of my eyes and I try to hold them back. For whose sake, I don’t know, maybe for my own children’s. But then, they flow anyway for the boy who wanted to be a fireman, or a policeman when he grew up, but now will never be. Forever the age he was. I cry for this boy’s mother who will...

My Dearest St. Nicholas,               As I get older, Santa, I have figured out that I want less of what costs the most.  I want less worry as that would dwindle away my well being. I want less stress so I don’t have to pay with my health. I want less anger so payment isn’t the cost of my loved ones’ peace. I want fewer arguments so feelings are spared the price of hurting. Santa, you don’t have to give me what is not possible. What I ask for instead are the tools to build a safe place somewhere in my mind and in my heart. Here is where I want you to give me freedom to choose between what is right and good and that, which is not. Give me hope and provide for me the strength to hold on to what is precious and a bit of courage to release what I know will tear me down. I like sunshine and warmth; not stormy weather. But when the clouds roll in on chilled, damp air, showing me where to find shelter would be kind, but letting me learn ...

Writers, we all have a certain style. We also have a method, a process by which words clatter, swirl, and chatter (some incessantly) around in our writer brains, then by some miraculous event (similar to my kids eating spinach without vomiting or better yet, The Big Bang Theory) they appear on paper. Some of the greatest have shared the methods in which they produce works that don’t stink. It’s been said that a lot Erma Bombeck’s ideas came to her as she was washing dishes. Dave Barry, I believe, has a stare-down contest with his monitor. He usually wins, and in a big way. As any great writer ‘wanna be’, I devour anything my favorite writers have produced. From novels, to essays, even thank you notes and grocery lists. Reading, they say, will surely improve one’s writing. So, in my quest to be the next great I will attempt to emulate my personal favorites. I know Erma has passed but often times that’s what I emulate the best, but for argument’s sake I have tried to follow her ways...

Being a mother of two boys, Christian is 15 and Noah is 12, is, as it always has been, filled with surprise, wonder, a wayward hippo proposal, and a lot of laughter. They both are rambunctious, energetic, and the absolute, truest loves of my life (but I confess, Vin Diesel ranks up there too). 20 years ago when I met and fell, or rather face-planted, smack down in love with their father I thought our love trumped all. And it did, until I had my boys. I have done many things in my time here on Mother Earth but there is nothing I am more proud of than being their mom. Ok, maybe I am more proud of them than I am in myself, or my mothering abilities. After all, they’ve made it all possible. And I think they’re pretty cool, too – and I concede, they may have gotten that from their father, or perhaps it was Vin Diesel. I gush when I see the fine young men they are growing up to be. They have and will continue to be (if I’m doing this right) the toughest undertaking I have ever come up...

It’s my birthday and time, which is always persistent, is pushing me forward, faster to that half-century mark. Not quite there yet, and I’ve never felt more comfortable with where I’m at in my life. So, for my birthday, instead of giving me presents wrapped in pretty paper and fancy bows, I’ve made a few suggestions about what I want this year. Please feel free to share these ideas with my family, specifically my children, as I rarely get them to read anything I write. I believe they fear there may be a hidden message – like, “clean your room” or “stop whacking your brother with the plunger. Do you have any idea where that’s been?” or “If you don’t like living here, I’ll help you pack your bag.” or simply, “The answer is, ‘no’.” However, I never hide things; I’m pretty blunt with taping ‘mom’s little notes’ – in five words or less - all over the place, on anything they look at or touch – like the TV, a gaming controller, and the cell phones - to get my point across. Here is what...