Living. Working.

Living. Working.

All of us are doing this in one way, or another. It is how we do it that makes all the difference.

Some of us just do it better than others.

How I work might even make more difference than what I do.

A job well done says a lot about who I am.

I guess, it still all boils down to the fact that it is the journey that counts, not the destination. I sure don't want to ride in an airplane built by tired, lackadaisical people who didn't get enough sleep the night before. I don't want an angry, hung over surgeon operating on me, or a depressed dental assistant cleaning my teeth. I don't want food grown in a place where fertilizers and weed killers are thrown together higgley piggley in some dimly lit shed, or a day care for my children where anti-freeze is mistaken for Kool-Aid in the refrigerator.

Ethical, conscientious people realize that there is so much more to working than showing up and getting paid. Every job, no matter how insignificant it may seem, has ramifications that reach out and out and out, touching people in all sorts of ways we don't necessarily think about.

Greeting Disappointment

Intuition tells me that occasionally there are days when it is best to do nothing at all. These are the days that busy little bees pay for their hard work with a whole cadre of problems. Yesterday was one of these.

I’m not feeling well, so everything is twice as hard and nothing is as clear as it should be. That in itself is reason enough not to do anything, but there were things I wanted to do. I wanted to work on my writing, which required the computer and the computer has been acting up a little. Unfortunately I can ignore some things way too easily and a few computer glitches is one of them. Last night the whole thing crashed. I couldn’t even tell if My Thots went out.

So there I was, achy, nauseous and crabby, with no computer. Truly either an optimist, or maybe a fool, I thought I’d give the computer a little time to redeem itself and try again later. In the meantime I went to work on a card I was making and carefully destroyed the entire thing by cutting too soon after gluing and ruining the edges. A weeks worth of work down the drain.

Now I was achy, nauseous, crabby and sad and I still had no computer and my card, which I had hoped to mail tomorrow, was ruined.. I decided not to let it get me down. I simply began rebuilding my computer only to discover I had not backed up most of my work. (The book is okay, though.)

Just add mad to the above list and you have a pretty good picture of where I was.

Late this afternoon I finally had the computer up and running without my favorite photo editing program, which is evidently gone forever, and without most of this year’s pictures, as well as some videos.

The bright side is that while trying to fill in all the waiting time that comes with rebooting a whole computer, I came up with a new idea for a card that is much better than the old one! It will still take time and it won’t be mailed tomorrow, but it will probably be out by Friday.

Amazing how the way twists and turns… Greeting disappointment with joy is not quite as simple as it sounds, but I am happy about the card.

Shadow Dancer

Amazing choreography, these shadow dancers! I watch them dance across my room in flickering images, decorating lamp shade and dresser, ceiling and counterpane.

Long hours of entertainment when there is nothing else I can do. Movement whose sound track is the wind, whose only call to fame is its incredible act of tenacity. An ever changing cast of bushes and grass and trees filtering the light that graces my life through glass and silk and chiffon. This is no new review, its characters predated Adam and Eve and it will outlast the final breath of every living creature.

Shadow dancers, good company for those of us who have made a life standing in the shadows of those we cherish, supporting them, loving them, trying to do what we can to bring their dreams into fruition..

I am a shadow dancer, just a more perishable sort. The winds of time blow me about, altering the good I do, and maybe diluting any harm too, by keeping me always on edge, always on the brink of not knowing, but always smiling from deep within the shadows of those I love. Oddly content to be a watcher, a supporter, a bit of flotsam touching greatness by its hems, allowing the light to flow around me, hoping some part flows through me.

I am part of the dance, a small part to be sure, but I am a shadow dancer.

Flowers

I spent a couple of years working in a flower shop. Good years, where some of my jobs included plucking the roses and fluffing the carnations! I never got tired of the flowers. No matter how many times I wrapped them up for other people, I still loved getting them.

Nothing has changed. I still love those sweet acts of kindness that enter my life at the most unexpected moments.

This weekend I received flowers twice. Once from Lennon when he brought me some lilacs off the bush on his way down here. They are sitting nearby in a little green glass vase where I can smell them.

The others are sitting in my heart where I smile every time I think of them. Life should always be this simple and good.

Freunden

Friends are the family we choose to surround ourselves with. That old idea that blood is thicker than water is all about chemistry. I know from the way my family is put together that there are things so much more important than blood. Blood is only what is spilled when a body is broken, not what holds families together.

Love holds families together.

Ask me the difference between the foster child and the adopted child and the birth child, the child of my heart and the friends of my heart, and I will tell you it is in the color of their eyes, the texture of their hair, the number of years they have been on this earth.

No discernible differences exist beyond this.

Don't Be Fooled

The love you feel from someone else is an echo.

Like the sonar of a dolphin it bounces off of whatever it touches.

Real, but it can seem to be taken away.

The love you feel deep inside of you, fills you completely.

Give this away and it expands to fill the space.

It is yours forever.

We Are Connected

I have an uneasy feeling this afternoon and so I go into the yard, to sit in the silence and just be.

I am connected here. Connected to everything, whether by spirit, or wind, or water, or sunlight.

There is thought, too. That mysterious thing that places your face before my eyes, your actions within my grasp, your being here within me all the time. Thought that makes you real even when I cannot touch you, nor hear your voice with ears that are just as present.

I am like a balloon with a million strings, each one attached to something different. Pushing and pulling, holding and securing me to everything I am attached to.

Yes, I am connected to you and to everything else. Never doubt that.

Fishing Lures

The local give-a-ways say something about a community. I'm not sure exactly what that is, but our cable company is giving away free fishing lures with new subscriptions. There are two, a dancing frog and a spoon, both said to have top loops and therefore avoid being snagged by the water plants floating on top.

Now most of this means almost nothing to me. I am not a fisherman of any sort. The one and only fish I ever caught was a beautiful green and gold sunfish in Minnesota when I was about nine years old. I refused to let my father take it out of the water and soon it was a bloated white ugly thing that made me so sad I never wanted to catch another fish ever.

Still, these particular fishing lures must be something they expect to draw customers here, something worth paying the advertising for, something worth stocking up on frogs and spoons, which look like silver loops to me, for.

I wonder, does that mean the locals do a lot of this sort of fishing? Or does it mean that the tourists who decide to move in here come to fish? I honestly don't know.

I heard that there was once a bank somewhere that gave out guns with new accounts. This is much better than that. That I do know.

The Second Hardest Thing

The only way I know to do something is to simply do it!

My methods haven't changed all that much from the beginning of my memory until now. Not that this method has been a necessarily good one, or fool proof one. It has gotten me into some trouble here and there, but that doesn't seem to change anything. Not really. I have come to accept it is just a basic part of my nature.

And so it is that I sent my new book's rough copy to a friend to read. Terrifying! It shouldn't be. If anyone knows me inside and out it is this person. Perhaps that is why it is so frightening. I know the critique will be honest. I wouldn't want anything else, but what if it is really bad?

Writing, even fiction, is like baring my soul for the world. Plain old editing I can deal with, typos, paragraphs, spelling. These things are marks of carelessness and I don't mind being humble, admitting I missed them. It is the content that leaves me vulnerable. This story is part of me, if it is not good enough, I need to rethink a bit chunk of who I am, what I do.

All sorts of thoughts pop up. What if I shouldn't write this kind of story? What if. What if. What if. Ultimately the only way to know, if I am gong to keep on writing like this, is to toss it out there and find out. Strangers generally don't want to read someone's manuscript and even if they do, who's to know if their response will be accurate. It has to be done by a friend and the closer the better. (Unless I had an editor!)

Now I do the second hardest thing.

I wait.

Malleability

I take a piece of play dough, that soft smelly stuff kids play with, and scrunch it in my hand. Every little line shows up. It is like Nightmare On Elm Street meets Oil of Olay. Lines, wrinkles, nails, gouges, they're all here. The play dough is new and soft, easily imprinted upon.

Later on, after being exposed to the world, after being left on the table and eroded by the air, it becomes much more difficult to make some of those marks. What was hugely noticeable before, barely shows now. Less pliable and soft, the play dough has become hardened to the world's ways.

I am like that play dough. Today I am tough. You can do an awful lot to me before I will give up, or change my mind about myself. In fact, that is not always a good thing. There are things I would like to change about me, that just seem so ingrained I sometimes despair of every ridding myself of them.

I wasn't always this way, though. That's how I got some of these quirky little hang ups. It's why my music is never good enough, my body never perfect enough, my stories never brilliant enough. As a soft little ball of malleable soul, someone reached out and inscribed these things in me. It made me afraid that I was not enough and that becomes a self-fulfilling prophesy if one is not careful.

It doesn't have to. It can bring out other characteristics, like courage. It takes all my courage to allow anyone to read my new book, or hear me play the piano, or even allow someone to look at my not so perfect picture. Sad that things as simple as this become such a big deal. Life is short, but I hope it is long enough for me to get past a few of these things before I step through the veil. I doubt there's much use for them over there.

Good Conversation

How I love the gift of good conversation. The gift of not having to weigh words, or measure thoughts before sharing them with a soul who is wise enough and kind enough to be able to sift through them, let go of some and grab up the rest, ready to run with it.

Someone who knows that emotions leak through on bad days and joy on good ones. Someone who understands the honor of being absolutely who we are and values me for exactly that, knowing I will reciprocate.

Good conversation is like a fencing match, parry, riposte, parry, then bow and begin again. There is a similarity, but it is never the same. It need never end. It is so sturdy and real, it could last forever.

Subjects include all those forbidden topics, politics, religion, sex. What is believed is more important than whether or not it is correct, this is a sharing process, a learning process, a peek into the soul of another human being willing to open up.

And if it is funny, or droll, or makes me laugh -- all the better! If is is also forgiving and understanding and willing to take the chance of opening up -- even better!

Life is too short not to have these little respites, these small oasis-es in a world of constant critiquing.

My only problem? After opening the treasure chest and discovering it, I keep wanting to peek in all the time, just to be sure it's still there.

Think Cute, Be Cute

I watch people that I admire and realize one of the things that attracts me to them is their confidence in themselves.

I have a friend who has no trouble at all performing in front of people. In fact, he is at his absolute best when he is the center of attention. I have seen this man sit down at a table in a coffee shop and within moments have a crowd gather around him. In concerts, people don't leave when its over. They want to talk to him, but even more impressive, is that before they do that, they want to talk about him!

One time, at a concert, I watched a woman stand up and go on and on about how much she and all the rest of us liked this guy, how good he was, how talented he was and on and on. Most of us might not have known quite what to do, standing there, listening, as she went on and on. Some of us barely know what to do with our hands while we are speaking, let alone being spoken about for that long. I watched him stand there, paying absolute attention to every word she spoke. I am certain she felt like they were the only two people in the room, yet I know each and everyone of us felt very much a part of it. She finally finished and sat down. He paused a moment, then looked up at all the rest of us, the most endearing smile on his face, and said, "Did you hear what she said?" It was perfect! We all loved it!

I realized something that night. He knew he was a very gifted performer, but more than that he knew he was cute! Maybe not as cute as we thought he was, I don't know, but enough so to be confident that what he did would be adored. It made him even cuter, more human, more adorable. It became a sort of self fulfilling thing.

I have since seen this same thing in two other people I know who perform. It is an important lesson I am learning. If I love me, value me, believe in me and think I am cute, or at least worth being with -- other people seem to automatically feel the same way. It works and I am not even particularly skilled at anything. Kind of like Music Man. Think music, play music. Think cute, be cute.

It is why we need to love our children and really let them know it. If they grow up valued, they will feel valued. Self esteem and dignity go a long way towards being successful in this world.

The Coattails Of Angels

I am a pretty ordinary woman. I have a few talents, but nothing outstanding, just a love of things that allows me to dabble here and there in music or art.

But wow, do I know some great people! People who are wise and kind and caring beyond what I think most people are. People who give of themselves and go out of their way to do the right things in this world.

Sometimes I wonder how I got to be so lucky. I sort of live vicariously through all their good deeds, a hanger on to the coattails of angels who do the real work, but whatever it is that allows me to be in contact with them -- I am grateful for it!

Here’s to the sweet and beautiful people who surround me in thought, word and deed!

The Angel

In the northern most part of Denver, Colorado is a place called Adams County. Part of it is home to some of the poorest people, the drug lords rule here, theft is rampant, marital problems occur in loud raucous displays that neighbors report for fear someone will be killed. It is not a good place to live. No one would live here, if they really had a choice, but it is much cheaper than the city, or the more affluent places, so people do live here, good, hard working poor people who just happen to live in a bad place.

Police take liberties here that they would never dream of in the richer suburbs, knowing these folks cannot afford the pricey attorneys wealthier people would hire to find justice. Still, these people deserve justice. They are human beings and they are fallible. People make mistakes and not all mistakes are equally vile. People have a right to have their day in court and to hear the truth told on that day. They have a right to be judged fairly and receive a fair decision from a system that tends to work better if you have enough money to play the game with big name attorneys who can afford to make deals and do whatever is necessary on your behalf. Poor people don’t always have that option in this country, whether we like to believe that, or not.

Colorado is a good state to live in if you need a Public Defender. They have good mentors, good attorneys, good support for young Public Defenders, and these guys work hard, a minimum of sixty to seventy hour weeks doing the best they can to bring about justice for the poorest of the poor.

There is a new Public Defender this year. He just started in August and he works in Adams County. He is young, idealistic, brilliant, was at the top of his class in law school. He isn’t afraid to try things the older guys sometimes are too cynical to bother with, but he is not so arrogant that he doesn’t listen to these elders either. Like all those in his position, he is swamped, but he still finds time to sit down and talk to his clients. He wants to know what they are accused of, what really happened in their words, why they think it happened. Whether or not they feel the police report is correct and why they feel that way. He is not afraid to go to court if he feels it is necessary and his track record is pretty amazing. Last week he was in court four times and won four times.

He already has a reputation. The rumor is, if you are arrested in Adams County, you want The Angel, because he is fair and honest and good.

I was so proud to hear this. He is my hero. He is also my son.

Better Late Than Never

I admire courage, but there is a difference between facing ones fears and being afraid to be vulnerable. One is truly strength and the other is just a facade.

Sometimes I am truly courageous, but more often than not, I am just afraid of showing my vulnerability. Often, to my own credit, I don't know the difference at the time.

I want my children to be strong, but not so strong they don't even know when they are sick, or hurting. By the time my sister and I realize we are really sick, it is often way past the time to do something about it. It was what we learned growing up and old habits die hard.

Suffering in silence and martyrdom were the role models impressed upon us. I never realized the frustration and anger I felt from living with these things until I grew up and moved away from them.

Honesty and forth rightness are so much better. I am just now learning to say that I don't feel good, or need something without feeling guilty. I used to be ashamed to admit I even went to the doctor for anything other than check ups. The other day I not only admitted it to someone, I admitted it hurt!

Kind of sad it took so long to figure this stuff out, but better late than never!

Trust

Lennon and I went for another walk today and we stopped at "his" ice cream store for a treat. He was very clear before we started that he wanted to go there and not to "Gramma's store." Even as we were walking, he was concerned that we not veer off and end up at the wrong place. His faith in my honesty was pretty clearly shaken. When I need him to do something, I am capable of getting it done honestly.

Good lesson for me. Never again will I play with his innocence by tricking him into doing what I want. I still have the power of a god in his eyes and that carries a lot of responsibility with it. I need to use that to show him the greatness of his world and to teach him trust.

So we walked along the rock and stone walls of our neighborhood, marveling at the flowers and talking to the people we met along the way. Today he was intrigued by the dandelions. He wanted to know why they were called lions?

After close inspection we decided that maybe it is because they look like a lion's mane. He even asked one of the ladies we met what she thought! The only awkward thing is that people always think he is a little girl with all those curls. I wonder that they believe I would dress a little girl that way, ball cap, red hiking jacket that is very boyish, black and white tennis shoes. He is boy all the way through, but southern sensibilities say nobody would allow a little boy to have all those long curls! He doesn't correct them, so neither do I.

Lennon is fully aware of his world. He forgets nothing! If being called a girl doesn't bother him while we are discussing more important things, who am I to change the subject?

One more lesson for me.

If I Am You, Then I Am Love

(Once in a while I am inspired to write something that is worth repeating. This is one of those times.)

You are the One who took my hand and led me into the stillness, who guided me with his breath and carried me away into a silence so profound and beautiful that there are no words to describe it, not really any words that even point at it in any effective way. You opened my soul and set it free, knowing that there is indescribable beauty available in the space of a breath. You showed me my feet are on the Way, my thoughts in the light. You lifted me with your words and called to me with your music while we were here in this moment. You are the echo of eternity that reminds me I am you.

And if I am you, then I am love.

Preserving The Precious

I have just spent the happiest few months I can remember in some time. It has created a huge jump in my creativity and productivity for many reasons. Not the least of which is, I am happy.

Not just content. Not just satisfied, but happy. When I look at all the miserable people in this world, being happy is not only an incredible gift, it is almost a miracle.

Miracles are worth preserving at almost any cost. They don't happen too many times in a lifetime.

I am more than grateful for my miracle. I don't want to do anything that changes it. It is too precious.

Of course change is inevitable in life, but those changes don't have to alter beautiful things, they can be worked around, preserving the precious.

Bubbles Bursting

Easter Eves are not my luckiest days. I've had several that were difficult for me. None of them related to another and none of it pertaining to Easter. Just coincidentally difficult days I suspect.

When a bubble bursts the universe only hears a tiny pop, but all the little pieces that made up that bubble are disrupted and scattered. What was a luminescent, iridescent shimmer is gone. What was once a pliable, adaptable filmy boundary no longer exists. The glint of the light has no where to land, the reflection of the parts has no where to be.

We only hear a pop, but a miniature world has ceased to exist. Imagine then, that life is a gazillion little worlds all bumping into each other, all shimmering and shivering and glinting in the light. Why should I miss one small glimmer so much?

I won't be hunting for eggs this morning. Instead, I am hunting for me, trying to figure out where I am, because if matter can be neither created, nor destroyed, I am still here somewhere.

Vanity

I don't like pictures of me. I have forty eight volumes of photos and almost none of them are of me. I take the pictures in this family.

I really don't need any pictures of me. I don't generally need any really good photos of me, but suddenly I feel very foolish when someone asks for a recent photo and all I really have are some two or three years old. What does it matter what I look like anyway?

Hmm, that is a good question. Why am I so sensitive about this? I obviously have a problem about how I look now. That makes me ashamed of myself in so many ways. I might have even violated a good friendship trying to dodge the picture issue and for that I am truly sorry. I didn't even realize I was doing it at first. Most people are perfectly happy with those photos.

I don't know what to do about it at this point though. What is done is done. If that person reads this, please know that I apologize from the bottom of my heart for being so stupidly vain.

Mow The Grass

Mowing the grass. If you are a long time recipient of My Thots, you know this is not my favorite thing to do, but I have managed to deal with it for a long time. Everywhere, from that acre plus when I lived in the country and was surrounded by snakes, to here, where I have a little patch of grass just before the ridge does a twelve foot drop down the mountain, has needed mowing.

It is the true test.

I have discovered that if I find myself smiling while I am mowing the yard, I am in the right place. In fact, smiling has become my litmus test for living. If I am not smiling, I need to step back and reconsider.

Little Swans

Every ugly duckling should have it's day in the sun when it can spread its own wings and everyone oohs and ahs. Not because it is the most beautiful creature on the lake, but just because it is.

All children should have someone in their life who says, "You are the most wonderful, lovable, beautiful person I know."

No one should ever believe they were born too tall, or too big, or too small, or too dark, or light, or dumb, or smart.

I think we should all be born with mirrors hanging over our cribs so we get used to that lovely creature who is us right away.

I will never forget my first baby. He would lie in his crib for very long periods just smiling at that sweet little guy who smiled back at him. (He might still do that for all I know.) I wanted my children to know they were loved! And if some people thought I went a little overboard? Well, they all turned out really good. Argue with that.

I don't think anyone can be loved too much.

Come Visit My Mountain

I didn't have a thot for today. I am busy finishing up my little book and with all the other things going on in my life have not felt much like writing thots lately. They were beginning to feel a little forced. Then I wrote this to a friend today and realized that this is my real thot for today.

"Oh, I wish you could come visit my mountain. It is one of the most beautiful places on earth, I think. Really we are part of the edge of a small town in a place some people might feel is run down, but I consider rustic, that some people might think is poor, but I feel is authentic, that some people might think is just poverty stricken North Carolina, but to me the overgrown shrubbery of summer, the rugged bareness of winter, the space between us and the mountains around us, make it sometimes feel like it might have been the blueprint for the Garden of Eden."

I am blessed by friends across this United States who write to me and tell me about themselves and their lives, by dear ones who send me little notes via videos and letters, by a life that is so simple and plain I cannot believe it interests anyone but me, but it is my life and these are my thots.

Feelings

I don't need fancy things and lots of money to be happy. If there is one thing I have learned from life, it is that very wealthy people with all the toys in the world can be hungry.

A hole in the gut cannot be filled with silver and gold, or fancy cars, or swimming pools. It doesn't stop aching when it eats lobster bisque, or crème Brulée. No amount of clothing, in any shade, or style, can fix a broken heart.

There are no guarantees either. I remember when I was married, living in a big house, with the largest private pool in town and three beautiful children. I was miserable. I also remember later, living at other people's houses because I did not have a place of my own at the time and I was pretty content.

Happiness seems to be a state of mind that comes from somewhere inside of me. I am learning I have limitations. I might be one of those rare people who needs to live alone because I am not fit company for round the clock living, but it doesn't mean I don't need people at all.

I heard a song that reminded me of the first year I was married. I was young and happy, only twenty years old, and in love. I was happier then, then I was in that house with the big pool. The song made me homesick for the feelings, but not the person.

I need the feelings, they are what fills me up and stops the aching. Feelings are what make me smile, or sigh with content.

Without them, everything else feels superfluous.

Write!

I sat out in my back yard for quite a while today. Sitting is a good thing to do when I'm not sure how I am feeling. I am pretty sure that nothing else would be as productive. Lying down just opens the door for darker thoughts. Lying down to me means bedtime, something that I have never looked forward to. I don't know why.

But doing nothing? That I can relate too and today I wasn't really doing nothing. I was railing at God. "Why am I up here on this mountain? What exactly are you thinking of?" That is pretty much the gist of it.

I have heard about Conversations with God. I have been around people who think it is great and it is not so great. Since I haven't read it, I don't know. I have my own conversations with God. Sometimes telling him/her I am not sure I even believe in her/him and other times just throwing all my stuff at his feet (preferring to think of Him as some divine Father for personal reasons.) Conflicted times call for honesty, especially with a God who is supposed to be all powerful.

Sometimes, in the past, I haven't felt like I received any answers at all, but not today. Today I heard, "I put you here to write. So write!" Wow, couldn't have been any clearer. I truly almost laughed when those words popped into my head.

I want to write, but I've been in a slump. Ever since my main character's son died, I haven't been able to go on. Nothing changed in this moment. I couldn't think of anything to write most the rest of the day. Then about four thirty I became very ill, so nauseous that I went to lay down. My mind was okay, just my body was ill, so I put Mindwalk into my VCR and listened to the words as I lay there trying to breathe through this until it passed.

About forty five minutes later I saw one of the most unlikely characters in my story crawling up a cliff and I knew what was happening! I've been writing ever since.

My Morning Coffee Blog

I look out the window and see a beautiful red ball in the living ruins of an old apple tree. I know it is way too early to see apples. The delicate white spring blooms are still clinging to the branches that crawl along the ground and old fence supporting it, so I try to get closer for a better look only to discover it is a young male cardinal as he flies away.

Today, as I sat in my old yard swing wearing my red sweatshirt with the two scottie dogs on it, I wondered if some giant being might look down and think, what is that beautiful red thing on the side of that mountain? Only to discover it is a female human swinging in the morning sun.

Of course my mind went on from there. It always does you know. This randomness is what makes me as creative as I am. How would this being know I was a female. I know the cardinals and birds by their colors. We are not so easy to define in my mind, but Lennon would and has, said that it is because I have baas. Baas are a leftover from his not so distant nursing days. Girls have baas, boys have danglies. I find that definition interesting, especially since it comes straight from him. It works.

I sit on the swing for another ten or fifteen minutes and during that time watch a small black Ram truck come up the road below and back into its driveway. Then I watch a helicopter bob down and fly way too low through our valley towards what is probably some rich person's estate. A small personal sized airplane also flies over and they all look so small, so miniature and hand sized, that it encourages this notion of a giant child playing with us. Backing his trucks up, flying his toy airplanes. Observing us the way I do the birds.

Perspective is everything.

Noticing

For the first time in my life, I am noticing that I am old. The promise of tomorrow does not illuminate my window right now. I have reached the point where no matter what I do, I am beyond youth. Not that I ever really clung to any youthfully needy ways. I never wanted a face lift, or wrinkle remover, but maybe that was because I didn't need it.

It used to be that if I wanted something, I just figured out how to get it. I have learned that it is possible to get things one should not have and when that happens, it just makes everyone miserable in the long run. Well, at least it can make me miserable.

I always seemed to feel very young compared to those around me. Partly because I tended to hang out with older people, but now I am mostly around younger people. I am around loving people, but with love comes responsibility to do the right thing, more than the thing I want. Maybe that is a new concept too, I hope not, but it kinda feels like it.

So, for today, maybe just for today if I am lucky, I am feeling old and kind of hopeless, which is different than depressed. Depressed is a cloud. Hopeless is staring in the mirror and knowing I will never be twenty again, or thirty, or forty.... It is just reality.

Don't worry, though. I tend to be an optimist. Maybe tomorrow reality will run away....

Tiny Clues

The reflections in my life are alive and thriving. Hanging from chains suspended in bright blue skies, holding trees and mountains in hands large enough to encompass them all.

Fairies stand atop of the rock cairn playing music as others dance madly around. Pirouetting in laughing circles to music very few can hear.

The grass grows too fast and the flowers push each other aside vying for room in this magical place where time stands still and yesterday is tomorrow is today. Everything is one here, without distinction.

Except for its reflection.

Only the light glinting off its facets distinguish one thing from another and in these glancing moments I see the truth; sprinkled around me like tiny clues to the beauty of a life lived in the silence.

If I Created The World

I have been thinking about all the creative outlets at my disposal.

I wonder if what I did became reality, would I write and think and do the same things?

Would I separate what I want and like from what I think those affected would want?

How selfish would I be? I might discover things about me that I wasn't so fond of.

Perhaps more interesting is the question of how right, or wrong, I might be in judging what others want? I don't think we know each other as well as most of us think we do.

Grandma's Ice Cream Parlor

Children learn what they are exposed to. Good, or bad, simple, or complex, like sponges they cannot pick up what is not there, but they are bound to pick up anything that is.

I spent less than three hours with Lennon today and a good part of that time was on a walk that ended up eating ice cream in my back yard, which kind of upset him. He doesn't like being tricked, evidently. As we sat on the backyard swing, eating our ice cream sandwiches he explained this to me. They are the same brand as the ones we buy at the gas station after our long walks, but he still prefers those others. I kind of know the feeling. It is anti-climatic to think you're walking to see a new place called Grandma's Ice Cream Parlor only to discover you are back home and it is Grandma's kitchen.

Before we went for our walk, he was moving very slowly, very very slowly then he suddenly spun out and began leaping across the room, shouting, "Watch me! I am getting farther and farther from the earth's center, watch me, the gravity isn't as strong, now I can float. I'm in space! He has no trouble with concepts at all. I said something about the recliner and he thought I said incliner. He told me, "My slide is not a incliner, it is an incline, an incline plane."

When people talk about three year olds they act like they are babies who don't understand what they are seeing and doing. Lennon is already a very whole little person who understands so many things it is kind of scary. He knows what is right and wrong, good and bad. He has an almost instinctual knack for knowing if something is not quite what it should be and he will question you in such a way that it becomes very clear. He plays with words, not just rhyming and naming, but more intricate things. He likes to distinguish between same and similar, love and like and he will play games with you because he knows people prefer to be loved more than liked in his world.

He is already fully aware of the power he holds and, in some cases, actually very responsible in his own way. Imagine, then, what a twelve year old, or fourteen year old, is already dealing with in today's world. Imagine the responsibility really thinking about all this puts on the people who surround a child.

Marked With An X

The poorest of the poor, Mother Theresa ministered to them, not just when it was easy, or she felt good, but when they needed it. Who knows how she felt deep down inside herself. I suspect there had to be times when it was very difficult. And yet, I know there is a certain kind of satisfaction to be had by doing the hard thing and doing it well.

I just don’t ever come close to the Mother Theresa kind of devotion. Most of us don’t. We are what we are and that means most of us are trying to be the best “me” we can as we deal with all the other stuff in our lives. If we could just give each other this much credit, the world would be a sweeter and softer place.

I usually find that a person I dislike is someone the world has stereotyped, or someone I really don’t know. Once I get to know them, I am often amazed at how much I really do like and sometimes even love them. People the world has marked with an X can be doing some of the most godly work around. I need to remember that.

The world doesn’t encourage me to be real. It encourages me to conform and the penalty for not doing that can be scorn, or shunning, or even hate. These are the lowest castes in our world, the non-conformers. There isn’t much of an attempt to understand them, or see who they really are by most people. Unless….

Unless they have a lot of money, and/or are famous. Then their non-conformity is considered eccentric, or just bizarre, but never like it would be if they were poor. Somehow, in our country, being poor is considered a sign that something is wrong with you and it just might be catching. Which brings me back to Mother Theresa.

Somewhere the circle is broken and we need to fix it.