“We are each of us angels with only one wing, and we can fly only by embracing one another.”~~~author unknown.

As a Catholic child I was raised in the Church when Masses were still in Latin, and reverence was a mighty force. We were taught by the nuns that each of us has a guardian angel sent by God to watch over us and to keep us safe. We were to envision our angel sitting upon our shoulder, especially when we were afraid.

This certainly helped when I was convinced at the age of six that there were alligators under my bed! Inevitably I would call to my father, who then turned all the lights on in my room and held me by the hand as we looked under my bed together. No, there were no alligators. Back to bed I went, still unconvinced once the lights were out, but talking to my guardian angel until my eyes closed without fear, or perhaps by the enticement of exhaustion. When I became an adult and a fairly lapsed Catholic, there may have been an alligator in my bed, but that’s a story for another time.

These days, very much a grown-up and one who is at times bedeviled by changes all around, I find that I envision angels, guardian angels. They may not be upon my shoulder, but their essence, the spirit of them, is felt through words, deeds, and sometimes the quiet grace of their tolerance for me as I work through situations. We share bonds of friendship, some newly formed, and at least one that goes back years, now and was built on the phrase, “Pay it forward.” My love for these friends is abiding. Each one has a unique quality that sparkles in my mind. They are writers; they are poets; a few are artists and one is an artist with a fancy flair for cupcakes! They give me a sense of peace, these angels do, and my heart is better for knowing they are in this world.

We were meant to be interdependent on this earth in sisterhood and brotherhood. “We are each of us angels with only one wing.” So if we are to survive, these guardian angels that were sent to us for strength are the very reason we can put our wings together and fly. We embrace one another and once again we fly, even if we do not know Latin.

—cher

I was such an innocent kid. But then aren’t all children until they reach an age of reasoning and ponder some reflections of their youth? Some reflections bring a smile, some a shudder and some just have me shaking my head. Here are a few of my reflections:

My mother: An intelligent woman of style, class and grace. But mothers leave their marks, don’t they? For example, she would tell me to “go take a long walk on a short pier,” or “sing solo, so low I can’t hear you,” or “go play in traffic.” I always wanted to please her but she gave me mixed signals. Therapy, anyone?

My First Confession: I was raised Catholic and in those days nuns wore habits, looked very austere, and they were strict. “No questions. You must accept on blind faith.” Okay.  So they gave us these little books that were about two inches high and two inches wide and fairly thick. It was the “Book of Sins.” It was divided into “mortal sins and venial sins,” all of which scared me spitless. At the age of nine we were told to study these sins. When the time came to make our First Holy Communion, we first had to venture into the Confessional and tell the priest our sins.

Well, I studied the sin book and couldn’t find a sin that I had to confess. I was beginning to sweat with fear. The nuns were expecting SINS and confession. I did put a little check mark beside a couple so the priest would know I was ready to be a good Catholic. To be on the safe side, I took the “Book of Sins” into the confessional in case I forgot what I had checked off. So I got into the confessional and was so nervous that I dropped my sin book. Plus it was dark in there. It smelled of sins and hell and incense, and I could hear the priest breathing.  I thought I would faint. I confessed to everything from adultery, to coveting and murder just so I could get out. I don’t remember what my penance was but I think I’m still paying it.

Nun-Clickers: In those days the nuns, dressed in their habits, always stood very erect and had clickers. You know, those little aluminum things that in a nun’s hands, at least, emitted a sound that echoed like a roar from God through the hallowed sanctuary. When no Mass was going on, the nuns were teaching us when to stand, sit or kneel by clicking. Sometimes I stood when I should have knelt. “Nooo, Missy,” I would hear the nun at the end of my pew say. She pursed her lips while eyeing me, thrust her arm out with God-given authority and clicked the clicker again. I looked to my right and left to see what the others were doing. I wondered if this was a sin. Fainting became my norm.

Well, life went on and I managed to make it to adulthood. But not without some confusion. At times my mother reminded me of the nuns, though she didn’t wear a habit. The nuns reminded me of my mother because they were all strict, and I had bad dreams of clickers. Maybe I should have played in traffic.

—cher

All my intellect tells me that being superstitious is absurd. Still, there is something about the month of March. First, here in Pennsylvania, March weather can put you in the throes of physical discomfort with snow one day, rain the next, then sunshine and hints of warmth and then cold that pries its way into your bones. It is a month that bonks against its cocoon while trying to find its way into spring. For me it has also been a month that burgeoned my only superstition, The Ides of March.

An old man told me many years ago that if anything bad is going to happen to you, it will happen in the month of March. All his family members had passed away in that month. I knew this to be true, so it was a little bit more than subliminal messaging. And there was the soothsayer who warned Julius Caesar of his death on the Ides of March which was March 15th. Certainly these happenings are not proof that March is a bad month or one to be wary of. Still, I cringe every year when March 15th rolls around.

In my junior year of high school, my first boyfriend broke up with me on that day. He said it was because I was a Catholic and his parents didn’t approve of him dating a Catholic. I did not believe that was the reason, although the nuns had taught me what being a “good Catholic girl” meant. I think that was the real reason he broke up with me. Girl just said “No.”

There were other happenings through the years, but none of real import. I just put the strings of them all together and decided that March is a bad month. This runs counter to whatever intellect I may possess, and certainly is contrary to my Catholic teachings. No superstitions allowed! Well, I’ll do my penance and get through this month as best I can.

Stevie Wonder wrote this in his song “Superstitions:”

” When you believe in things that you don’t understand, then you suffer. Superstition ain’t the way.”

In spite of myself, I again say, Beware The Ides of March!