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© Jo Hewitt THE TEAL MANGO, 2015

Calamitous life events. During mine, I asked someone, “Does the pain ever go away?” “No,” he said. “But eventually you find a way to put it in a little box and store it away where it doesn’t hurt as much.” Another friend likened the hurt, the painful memories, to a stone in your pocket.

Stones in your pockets. You revisit each stone, taking it out, turning it over and over, looking at it from every side, scrutinizing it, analyzing it, holding on to it, holding on to the pain and then putting it back into the dark to weigh you down, you not ready to let go. Maybe you hold onto it because you feel you have nothing else to hold or hold onto.

You take it out again and  again. Each time cutting your heart on the shards of  broken illusions. But each time the edges smooth a little and then a little more until the stones of sorrow diminish, slip away, stone after stone, your life pieced as a path cobbled from those sorrows, from those stones.  The stones that had weighed you down were stepping stones, all along, to lead you to your life.


Stones in My Pockets

Time’s fingers reach for,
Turning over and over,
Stones in my pockets.
Rounding edges of
Heart shards aftermath pain path, 
Stones in my pockets.
Time alone softened stone
Let go echoes cobbled stones
Fall from my pockets.
Pebbles by West Country Photographic

Pebbles by Westcountry Photographic


© Jo Hewitt THE TEAL MANGO, 2015

The SSB Drever and I were walking the other day.  The humidity is up and it is hot by eight. It is mid summer again. The din of cicadas is in the air again. They are emerging from their shells, mating, and dying, leaving their progeny, again. Cycles upon cycles. Emergence. Shedding shells. We rest still where grass meets concrete.



Winged green meets concrete
Din of time lies still, passage
Silent marks our clock
Cicada at the edge of concrete and grass. © Jo Hewitt 2015

Cicada at the edge of concrete and grass. © Jo Hewitt 2015

© Jo Hewitt THE TEAL MANGO, 2015

As the SSB Drever and I were heading from the house toward the garage to leave for a morning walk, I looked across to see my neighbor standing in her yard. I said hello. We each walked closer to the fence to talk, I with The SSB in tow.  I sensed something was not right. As she reached the fence, instead of facing me, her body aligned with her gaze, looking far off and away, searching.

“Jo, is your mother alive?” she asked.

“No. She died a little over two years ago,” I answered.

“My mother just died.”  She paused. “Does the pain ever end?”

I paused.

“It, it gets better,” I responded, as tears welled, hers and mine.

I listened. Her words spilled out with her tears as she told of her mother’s journey of deterioration and death, of her qualities and quirks, memories of younger years. I echoed back to her my experience. We shared the emptiness that we felt with the passing of our mothers. Her mother was just past 64. Mine was three days short of 97. There never is a good age or a good time to lose your mother. We talked of people knowing it was their time to go, of the souls waiting to receive them, and of connections to the spiritual realm. She had cared for her mother those last months, weeks, days and moments. She knew her mother would be waiting for her, to care for her. It gets better.

Threads of Sorrow

Take threads of sorrow.
Weave with remembrance. Draped, soft,
Solaced tomorrows.
Portrait of Anna Akhmatova by Nathan Altman 1914

Portrait of Anna Akhmatova by Nathan Altman 1914

© Jo Hewitt THE TEAL MANGO, 2015

The SSB Drever and I took our morning walk at the park today. It has just enough wildness, excessive manicuring kept at bay, such that its carpet of grass is sprinkled with a confectionary delight of clover. I love the look of clover. I love the smell of it. As a child, for me, it was the perfect bed for dreaming under butter milk blue skies.

Amidst Morning Clover


2015-06-05 15.46.05 copy edit 1 
Humble and gentle,
Subtle, whispered summer scent,
On childhood thought plays.
Sunlit fragrant haze,
Clover blossom path beckons
Back to childhood days.

© Jo Hewitt THE TEAL MANGO, 2015

This event and haiku are from 2012.

The SSB Drever and I ran across something today on our walk that I wish we hadn’t.  Someone had dragged a picnic table into a tree covered ravine/gully and now it was being use for some “extra-curricular activities”. There are some trails that pass through the gully between the grassy areas, running right by the table. Thank goodness I was alert to noises. We did not take those trails; therefore, fortunately we were not exposed to the full monty in action.

The participants had driven their scooter right up to the treed area so they could high tail it out of there when they were done. The funny thing was that they made a few rounds on the streets that border the park before finally leaving the park area. Maybe they were trying to dry out, air out a bit before they headed home.

I think the City Parks Department should know about this. So…

 Memo to the Parks Department

Park Picnic Table by Angela Ooghe

Park Picnic Table by Angela Ooghe

Thought unseen ravine.
Picnic nookie nook, lark at
Ellenberger Park.


© Jo Hewitt THE TEAL MANGO, 2015


Growing up in a family who sat outside of society but holding on to its norms, some good-be polite, work hard, do well in school, some not so good-racism, blind support for war and the military and in general, don’t speak out against the government, I stood apart from society and from them. I questioned (and I stll do). I questioned the war, I questioned the the treatment of women, I questioned racism and a bunch of other isms. I questioned words of the Sunday school teachers and the ministers. I questioned the treatment of the earth. For that time, I was an outlier, an anomaly on the graph, outside the line.  Now there are so many points outside the line. And there are points still where the line used to be, congregated, dark, thick, and intense. Where do we draw the line? Do we draw lines? At some “point” do we stand back, squint our eyes, look at the graph and maybe, just maybe conclude we are one big point of humanity and life with the earth, connected in ways we may never see.  It is an experiment worth considering.



The outlier may be an indication that some unknown process is at work and should be closely examined. Many scientific dicoveries have been made by investigating data that does not fit the pattern.

The outlier may be an indication that some unknown process is at work and should be closely examined. Many scientific dicoveries have been made by investigating data that does not fit the pattern.

A panoply of                            
Anomaly. Who is “you”
And who, who is “me”?



© Jo Hewitt THE TEAL MANGO, 2011

SSIDD aka SSB Drever aka Sadie Stella Bella and I were walking around Jewel Square and Golden Heights  before stopping in at The Teal Mango for coffee and a chat with Maddie. It was a misty April day and this series of haikus are the fruit of it.

April Day


Peach Tree Debutante,
Blossoms demure pink slippers.
Gaudy tulips flaunt.
Red buds whispering.
Quiet violets repose
Amid moss settees
Gray watering sky.
The gently tapping raindrops
Calm my harried thoughts.
                                         Down Pour by LaVere Hutchings

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