Love and Forgiveness

I think most of us, at our core, just want to find a way to live where we can feel loved and useful and have a satisfying outlet where we can release our own love. I also think part of our ability to do that lies within our own ability to believe we are worthy of that and that it is possible.

I know the things that make me deep down happy. For me it is still those things I valued as a child, or even wanted as a child. Not some idyllic childhood where my life was perfect, because no one really has that, but where love and forgiveness rode so close together that almost anything was possible. Well, anything that really mattered.

I've been looking for that ever since.

I don't really understand cynics. Well, if I'm honest, I don't really understand most of the world. It seems that intelligence often goes hand in hand with things that make no sense to me.

I wish that it could stay in that place where innocence keeps its purity and love and forgiveness form the rest of a triad that create that proverbial garden of Eden, a place without the artifices of society, or innuendos that ruin things for me.

I am the same child who ran almost naked to swim with my brothers and sister in our backyard pool. I am the same child who slept in a bed full of other children regardless of sex and never gave it a thought. I have no hidden agendas, no ulterior motives beyond those I probably had at six, or eight. These things have caused me a world of problems.

These are the things I have spent my life looking for in other individuals: no hidden agendas, just a life based on love and forgiveness and a belief in real innocence.

I don't know

"What is existentialism?"

I ask my friend and he tries to give me an answer.

I have asked before. I will ask again.

But my brain will just not wrap around it

My mind chooses not to see its simplicity.

I read Camus. I read Faulkner. I read and read and read.

And everyone else's thoughts whirl around me like leaves caught up in the eddy at the foot of bell tower

While the bell tolls, and the sun glints, and I am distracted,

Birds sing and dogs bark, trees grow and brooks gurgle as they run downstream.

Babies cry and lovers love and life moves inexorably on

While I stand gawking and finally shut my eyes and hold my hands over my ears

But still I don't know.

There are so many things I don't know

Thank goodness they happen anyway.

Thoroughly Modern Shmoo

It's funny when I think of what I think.

I grew up wanting to be just like my daddy, or at least my idea of who he was.

I wanted to have a rack of pipes sitting next to an aromatic can of tobacco, a library filled with books in leather bindings and old yellowed pages, polish my shoes every morning, shave with an old straight razor, have a big brown desk full of important papers I was writing and students calling, or dropping by from time to time to discuss some weighty topic relating to literature, or history.

There are many reasons these things never came to pass. Most of them very good, but one very important one that has always bothered me.

Whereas my father was driven by some inner need to study, or I assume he was, he never said otherwise; I am often driven simply by curiosity, or my love of another human being. Someone asked me where my interest lies when getting ready to send me some of their work and I didn't want to say, "In you." But that was the truth. The central, uniting point, in our conversations was the person.

I am like a dog. I am loyal to a fault. If I love the person I am working for, no job is too much, or too menial. If I don't, I have difficulty even caring beyond not humiliating myself. Had my teachers ever really wanted to reach out and snag me, all they really had to do was make me fall in love with them -- and many did that. I am embarrassed to say that I am kind of like a shmoo whose ability to perform is terribly limited.

Still, my curiosity touches on the edges of academia's true quest and I often pass for almost literate.

And these are some of the things I think.

The Voice In The Ceiling

The value of want is hard to understand.

It is much easier to wax poetically over it if it isn't you doing the wanting.

Imagine being five years old and living in a two room apartment with your mother, father, sister and sometimes your cousins.

Mostly you have enough to eat, although it may not always be the most nutritious of foods.

The heat doesn't come out of vents, or little boxes on the floor. It comes from all those relatives crammed into bed with you.

Santa comes to your house, but he brings different things than he does to some of your kindergarten classmates.

You realize something is different and yet your world is still sweet.

You don't have cable tv, but at night, when it is dark and you can't sleep, sometimes you hear things.

Sometimes it is words that filter through the thin walls of your apartment building that you don't understand; people talking about faithfulness and robbing Peter to pay Paul when your only connection to faith is Sunday morning and you don't have a clue who Peter and Paul are.

But sometimes there are stories that filter through the ceiling. Stories told out loud in a quiet voice about other boys and girls who do things and have adventures and even get in trouble. You don't know them either, but still, you see pictures in your head that leave you with a need to make up your own stories.

Over the years the wanting will become so much worse, but if you become the voice in the ceiling, that want will slowly fade away and be replaced by a richness you never dreamed was possible.

It just depends on what you see when your eyes are closed and your heart and head open.

Going Home

Christmas vacation is coming to a close, but I go home renewed by the perfection of this weekend,

The turkey dinner, the tree, the love and friendship that never seems to change,

The turkey soup, the snowy days, old movies and snoozing together in the living room,

The required Upwords Tournament, the score was tied!

The fudge, the cheese ball, playing chase with Chauncey, but most of all...

A heart that is stretched to the limit it is so full.

Tomorrow I promise to write about something else, but it has been such a beautiful weekend.

The Spirit Of Christmas Now

The spirit of Christmas wraps around me this year from every conceivable direction. I am swathed in love and friendships that span both inches and miles. I think if you cut my heart open right now it would just burst into bloom.

It's hard to explain how sweet Christmas is when you are with people you love and who love you.

If there is anything I want right now, it is only to find a way to express the gratitude and joy, the love and absolute fulfillment of this moment.

How often can anyone say that?

How beautiful my life is!

Christmas

The fire burns brightly in the fireplace. The snow falls quietly on the lawn.

Chauncey plays under the Christmas tree and we are singing carols everywhere,

In the car, in the kitchen, in the living room by the beautiful Fraser Fir.

Old friends whose hearts are so intertwined the sweetness cannot even be touched by the Christmas fudge.

Memories and ties that blend and bind as many flavors as the cheese ball sitting on the nearby plate.

This is Christmas at its purest and best.

Silent Night, Stille Nacht...........

Insecurity Dims All Things

Right now I have everything I could possibly want and more. If you had asked me what I wanted for Christmas and told me it could be anything in the world, I would never have asked for all the things I have now, because I would have thought it would be asking for the impossible.

I don't want to win the lottery. I've had money and some of those times were the saddest in my life. There are so many things money can't buy, but when you have it, you feel like you ought to be able to take care of all your wants and needs.

I don't want to be young, or beautiful anymore either. There's a lot of unknowns and responsibility that comes with being younger and I never felt really beautiful when I was young before. I don't think that would change now. Insecurity dims all things, especially mirrors.

Besides I kind of like who I have become. It's sure not perfect, but it's a lot closer than it's ever been before.

In fact, it may be perfect for me.

I Have Room For That Now

How can anyone get lost in a two room apartment? Well, let's be honest it is two rooms with a small half galley kitchen, meaning I have all the necessities with no counter space.

Yet, I will be sitting at the computer, writing and think I should go into the bedroom -- where I already am. Or I will be in the living room thinking and think maybe I will go into the living room!

My imagination is so huge that sometimes I get lost in it, but I have room for that now.

I will be out in a country barn, or playing spider-man with a young friend, or carrying a five year old across the field piggy back and be shocked to look up and see my computer! I am seldom confined by four walls, or even a particular situation anymore. I am becoming my own holodeck!

I am living proof that no matter how bad you think things are, or how irreversible they are, anything can happen. It brings back the Mickey Mouse club of my day when Jimmy and Annette went to the big vault and said, "Mishca, Mooshca Mouseketeer," on anything can happen day.

I now believe that if you dream it hard enough, it can happen. I don't know, it may not be guaranteed to happen, or to last, or even to be real, but it feels real and the joy is real. Isn't that what we all really want? We want the joy of the dream more than the simple material things that might bring that joy.

All my life the two things I can remember always wanting, at least since first grade, were to be loved and to write. What is it you want?

Ride This Rollercoaster With Me

I open my eyes and the breath is sucked from my body in an enormous whish. As if I am on a giant roller coaster and the beauty around me just sucks me up and carries me away down one enormous hill and before I can get another breath, it happens again. This being is miraculous. That it IS and it works and I am part of it astounds me!

It is hard to explain, but Rumi comes closer to expressing these feelings than anyone else I know. He grabs the essence and puts it into words that speak to the viscereal part of me. I am once more a child, sitting at the feet of the grandfathers; caught up in the wonder of these stories.

Rumi was a 12th century Persian poet and John MacEnulty presents Rumi's poetry in ways no one else can with his vibrant readings and flute music.

I really don't think it matters if you are Muslim, Christian, or Jewish. I don't really even think it matters if you believe in God at all. If you believe in love and life and the unbelievable beauty that wraps around us every moment, in more ways than I have ever been able to count, I believe you will love Rumi's poetry.

It is about the ecstasy and wonder of a universe that is ineffable.

Here is a link to about 12 minutes of the Rumi Wedding Night Concert. If you want to hear the rest, it is here too.

You can copy and paste it into your browser.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_DSsD6GJYCY

I Am Only Me

I am a writer.

If you really want to know me, read my writing. It's all here. Who I am. What I think and feel, love and hate.

There's only one thing missing and that is the rest of me.

My body, the way I look, the way I stumble from shyness, the fear in my eyes when I have to face real people.

I can talk to a room full of strangers, not easily, but I can pull that off.

But ask me to talk to one person, to a person whose opinion I care about, to someone whose feelings matter to me and I am twelve years old.

Red faced and shy, afraid I won't measure up. I lose part of myself and only a piece of me stands before you.

Pieces aren't enough for grown-ups, they want whole people, they want the writer and the person they imagine that writer to be.

But I am only me.

?

If you live long enough, it becomes obvious that everything's been "thunk" before. That if I really believe my ideas are novel and new then I am just not well read enough and need to go back, read something new.

At the best, I will learn something. At the least I will convince myself that I am in good company because I, too, had these thoughts!

Nothing much right, or wrong with either of these. It turns out even they are not original to me. Most people eventually think the same things in one way, or another.

Some people just have more nimble tongues and others sprightlier brains and others simply know when to keep their thoughts to themselves.

If I'm not careful I'll convince myself that there is no more reason for me to write these thots, except that I don't really write 'em to wow you. I do it to find what I think of myself.

Some nights that's more than others.

Improbable

I am alone and yet it does not feel lonely. It feels to me as if the world is growing closer, as if all the lovers have become one and all the thoughts united and all the faces a blur of one face and that face says I am stunning and I am certainly stunned by it's stunning face which is truly the face of love.

The improbability of this moment is beyond calculation, beyond the odds of any one whether mathematician, or poet, or pyschoanalyst, or even realist. There is nothing real, or realistic, or rational about this moment. It is the fairy tale without the glass mountain, the fable with no hidden threat. It is the green knight after he has returned and carries his lady's favors forever more.

Here is where the music climaxes and the french horns soar into an ecstasy that brings tears to every eye. Here is where the sun highlights the world in deep dark shadowy light. Here is where the alpha and omega discover their origins and here is a place where every answer is a question.

This is the first place, so long disguised that no one ever believes that and the last place, though no one believes that either.

I am here for you. I always have been. I always will be. We are so much alike no one can tell us apart

Not even me

Adorable

There was once a creature name Sweetie Pie who had every reason to believe it was a Shih-tzu. It had never been called anything else, except Sweetie Pie, of course, so there was no reason to believe otherwise.

Sweetie Pie played with the other Shih-tzus and it was okay. Not spectacular, or outstanding, but who's to know what causes that?

Of course there were other things that went less spectacularly. When Sweetie Pie entered a church and tried to talk to them, he was escorted out the door without any fanfare at all. The same thing happened in another church and another and every other one he entered. Once he began talking, they seemed to realize that a Shih-tzu could not be one of them. They just didn't understand him.

That brings up another subject. Sweetie Pie had always been called a he, but he had no real affinity for other hes, and really not for most she's. He found this rather difficult to discuss this with anyone who might really be able to explain it to him, so he just assumed he would eventually figure out what he was.

The one thing he really wasn't, was happy. He wasn't always unhappy. He just wasn't kick up your heels, let your ears flap in the wind ecstatic! He began to think of himself rather as a loner and did discover that he was happier being alone than feeling at odds with whatever else was going on. There is a certain amount of pleasure in peace no matter the cost.

So it was that one day he was walking through the tall grass when he heard a voice telling a story. Sweetie Pie listened to the story and enjoyed it very much, so he got into the habit of going back to listen more often and one day he even ventured to add his voice to the silence that followed the story and tell a story of his own.

It was the beginning of a very strange and very satisfying friendship. Sweetie Pie never told anyone about it because everyone would tell him that Shih-Tzus needed to hang out with real Shih-tzus and not some disembodied voice, but as time passed he realized he was actually quite happy. He and the voice began talking about all sorts of things and eventually the voice told him it was a rabbit! Sweetie Pie didn't want to tell the rabbit he was a shih-tzu, but to be fair, he finally did and it didn't matter at all.

They went right on telling stories and sharing their thoughts until one day Sweetie Pie frolicked out into the meadow while telling his story and there was a very nice looking rabbit. Now he had always been told that rabbits ran away from dogs, but this rabbit didn't. It just sat there looking at him with a shocked expression on its face, until it finally asked, "Are you Sweetie Pie?"

Nodding, he still waited for it to run away, but instead, it ran right towards him! "Sweetie Pie! It's me! It's the Disembodied Voice!" Then rolling on the ground it giggled and wriggled its nose.

"You?" Sweetie Pie was astounded. He had never seen anyone so sweet in his entire life, but he asked, "Why aren't you running away from me?"

"Well, why should I do that?" Asked The DE.

"Be....because...I'm a shih-tzu." He blurted out the words very quickly then prepared himself to feel sad when The DE left.

Only he didn't go anywhere. "You are?" The DE cocked its head and looked at him closely. "I think you are a rabbit. A very sweet, rather homely rabbit, but a rabbit none the less."

"I don't think so." He stated, a bit uncertainly.

"Well, I don't care anyway." Giggled The DE. "I don't care if you're a rabbit, or a dog. I don't care if you are a he, or a she, sad, or gay, straight, or as round as the sun. Whatever you are, you are my bestest friend in the whole wide world."

"I am?" Sweetie Pie felt all warm and quite happy, but he wasn't sure what to make of all this. Finally, for lack of anything else to say he asked, "Well what's your real name DE?"

"Adorable!" Shouted his friend and they both frolicked around the field giggling and kicking up their heels! And they did that forever more.

Now if I had to come up with a moral for this story I guess it would be: It doesn't matter what anyone else says you are, it matters where your heart connects, but maybe it's just as simple as this too: Best friends don't have to be anything -- except happy.

Touched

No matter what you believe, or don't believe. It is a sobering thought. A sweet thought. One that kind of blows my mind on every level. One that makes me imagine I am only dreaming and that all the other incredibly beautiful things that are happening to me are all some figment of my imagination.

I remember being three years old and contemplating death. I'm not exactly sure why I was doing that at such a young age, but I do recall that I was afraid I wouldn't know anyone there and I would be alone. I have thought many other things since then, but the idea that someone wants me to be there for them in their version of heaven?

Nothing may ever touch me more than that. Somehow that validates me in ways I can't explain.

Ways that really make no sense at all and yet make a difference.

Split Apart

I am sitting here, for how long I don't know, so I better write quickly. I should be with my sister. She is having a tumor removed early in the morning and I was supposed to be with her, but I woke up too sick to even get out of bed and that is where I have been all day. Tonight I felt good enough to move from my bed to my big chair where I watched a movie and cried.

I cried partly because the movie was sweet and partly because my life is so sweet. Sometimes I think I will just split in two and all the sweetness that surrounds me will escape into the air. What a silly fantasy...and yet.... not so silly at all.

It seems most stories and movies are written about people who are bad and then do something good, but my eyes and heart have been given the amazing gift of knowing people who are just plain good. Sweetly, genuinely, heart shatteringly good and I wish I could share that with all of you.

So I sat here in my big chair and just cried and cried and at last I feel like a teapot whose steam has finally been released, leaving me warm and bubbling with joy. A life is filled with so many moments but mine seems overflowing with a disproportionate number of good ones.

And now, I need to go back to bed.

Three Giant Steps Backwards!

Recipe for Fountain Of Youth Elixir


Two large mugs with good sized handles

Two computers hooked up to Internet

2 Open minds

Bottle of milk

2 Imaginations

Pinches of Courage

Tablespoons of Honesty

Bottle, or can of chocolate syrup

Joy to taste

Two Childlike people

Whipped cream

Turn on the computers and connect to the Internet. Depending on your speed, while this is happening, take the milk and chocolate syrup and pour them into the mug, stir thoroughly, heat in microwave, or pan on stove, then add a large dollop of whipped cream.

By this time the Internet should be up and you need to call up the form for a new email.

The designated bravest writes first, using as much imagination as his courage allows, along with some honesty and lots of joy. While he writes the other can slowly sip the hot chocolate in the mug and dream about writing back.

As soon as the first person sends his email, he may also sit back and just enjoy the hot chocolate while waiting for a response.

The responder does the same thing the original writer does, except he, or she must also respond in part to the first email.

This may require a few months to really take hold, but once it does you will notice great leaps backward in thought, word and deed!

Like all good things, as it ages it will take on a flavor of its own and become richer each time.

Enjoy!

Super Heroes

A hero must prove himself and according to the storybooks he does that by fighting dragons and arch villains, but then those are only imaginary heroes.

What about the real ones? Those who begin life conquering impossible foes like dyslexia and attention deficit disorders? Those children who appear to be lazy and negligent but are really working ten times harder than the average child for half the recognition, or achievement? What about those children who survive incredibly abusive step parents and still manage to get good grades and go on through high school to graduate? Sometimes they are even the ones who discover they are not run of the mill gender specific kids who then have to face society's condemnation and misunderstanding too. How about these same kids who sometimes manage not only to make it through college but get advanced degrees?

These children, who have never had it easy, tend to be some of the sweetest ones around and they turn into teachers of the highest sort.

These are the real superheroes in my opinion.

No Excuses

When I write something that bombs I am so embarrassed! I want to hide my head and beg everyone's forgiveness and take back what I wrote so no one else can read it. In short I over react big time. It's my perfectionist nature sneaking out to torture me.

It's the surest sign I have that there is still work to be done. Not just on what I wrote, but on me. Me, that person who is quick to overlook any of your quirks and try to buoy you up when you feel you've failed. What makes me think I am any different than you?

In reality what I wrote is just as good as anything else I've written, but maybe not appropriate for the audience I presented it to. That's what I'd tell you if you were in my position and it's true.

So, I'm not going to apologize for it, or make excuses. I'm just going to admit it isn't something that is very popular and get on with my life.

Today

When something seems too good to be true, it usually is. Or is it really?

All those stories about mean stepmothers and wicked witches and evil queens, is it possible they are all based on the same bad woman as seen by many different people?

All those times when the goodness turns out to just be a trap and not real goodness at all; could it be one story told a million times?

When life is too good I become frightened and some nay say-er is always there to pat me on the back and say, "You're right. This can't be happening to you." Sucking all the joy out of what should be mountain top experiences, what are in reality perfect moments, except for my lack of faith in my own judgment.

Why shouldn't something feel too good to be true? There is absolutely no reason at all for me not to find the purest kind of joy in living. If I expect nothing except the joy, it is usually here for the taking.

It is all those other expectations that weigh things down, make them messy, dull the shine of beautiful moments.

This moment is not tied down to tomorrow. If tomorrow something else happens, it will be up to me to make what I can of it.

Today I am surrounded by joy.

The Good Life

I think it is human nature to always want a bit more. It's probably what has helped us evolve into the top predator on this earth, but what is human nature is not always something to be encouraged.

I don't want to be the top predator. Eating my neighbor is not high on my list.

Neither is being the richest, or the tallest, or smallest, or fattest, or skinniest, not even the smartest, or nicest. I can leave the extremes to those who mostly have no choice. They need all the help they can get. All those "ests" often come at a high price the rest of us would be shocked to learn about.

What I yearn for is a simple life where I can take care of myself, pay the bills, buy food, find something useful to do and enjoy the company of like minds.

It hasn't always been this way. I came to this place via many years of trying out other ways. They simply don't suit me. I have no problem with others wanting more, especially the young, as long as it is tempered with reason and compassion. I don't have any great plans for improving the world, most of the ones I have seen, or read about don't really work all that well anyway.

Living the good life seems to require a lot of improv. Start by defining it and continue on to the best of ones ability and there are still bound to be huge errors along the way. Mainly because we all seem to define it differently and by the time anyone has it figured out they are probably too old, or too close to the end to convince the rest of us they are right.

That's the problem with being top predator. Snap decisions don't leave many alternatives.

Adult Children, Endangered Species

Special care must be taken with children of any age. They are precious creatures, almost a different species from the adults most of them grow into.

It is one thing to be childish. It is something else all together to be a child. Children have an openness, a vulnerability about them that means they are still growing, still being molded into the man, or woman who might someday emerge from this lovely creature who exists right now.

There are a few who never make that transition. They are not peter pans, nor are they childish, they are just adult children. They are no slower as adults than they were as smaller people. Some may be doctors, or teachers, or firemen, or even writers. Some may be waitresses and some may be dancers. They are what they are.

Why this happens I don't know. Some people think it comes through traumatic events that halt development at critical ages and perhaps that is true, but it isn't that easy to put a finger on.

It isn't even easy to identify adult children if you are one. There is no formula, no pattern, no descriptive checklist that I know of and they are relatively rare.

They do not seem to lose the intensity of childhood, the idealistic hopes, the sweetness, or the occasional tantrums. They seem to be creative, but then aren't most children?

I only know that when one adult child stumbles into the presence of another, there is a bond that seems to form quite naturally. It is a deeper bond than many people ever experience, because here you have two very open, very idealistic, very loving individuals who lack the inhibitions and restraints most people grow into in order to survive. I am talking of deep connecting friendship, not necessarily sexual relationships, they also tend to have a naivete that carries through.

That makes their survival somewhat problematic too. They do best in safe environments where they are protected from some of the worlds worst hazards, even finding mates who serve as surrogate parents, or support systems that help them cope.

It's Not Always Just A Dream

Amazing how time waits for no man, how the sun rises and the moon sets, the months march forward and the years fly by and I, standing here in my own little moment am part of it all.

The present, the past, the future, they're all inside of me, all holding my face in their hands and gazing into my eyes, saying, "Take me, I'm yours!"

So I do.

I have learned to embrace them all, to love them and hold them close to my heart and lay my head upon their chest to hear the beating of each heart. Snuggling in close so I can feel the breath of their inspiration upon my face and the warmth of their fingers close upon mine.

Leaping false barriers in a single bound I imagine myself the super hero of the mystics, sitting at Merlin's feet to learn the wisdom of the mages who came before, dancing in daring dervishes with Rumi, or walking with a Jewish Rabbi along the shores of a long dead sea. My dreams carry me to places I have dared to dream of.

I am a child by this universe's standards and so I dare to do childish things and free myself from the burdens of man's somber thoughts tonight. One moment at a time I discover the wonders of being and so each one becomes a revelation worth the risk.

"To dream the impossibile dream....." It's not always just a dream.

Ideals

The fire is roaring in the hearth and the candles flicker on the table. The tree stands brilliantly in the corner of the room, the angel on top elegant and the skirt at its feet equally so. There are Christmas cookies on a plate near the tree, hot cocoa in cups topped with whipped cream and Christmas music piped into the air like spring rain on a sunny afternoon when rainbows arch over fairy tale skies and small children giggle quietly in corners.

It is only a picture that pops up in my mind when I try to write about Christmas. I suppose it is the ideal Christmas we are all taught to yearn for and want, but the reality is actully much sweeter.

No tree gave its life so that I could enjoy it for a few short weeks. A star shimmers above my fake little tree, symbolic of the beauty and order in our magnificent world and the music that flows through my mind is so sweet that I hum along with it.

Joy comes from what is and my world is full of it in this moment.

Tis the season to be grateful for the peace that is, the food that feeds the hungry and the rain that continues to fill our ponds and lakes. The laughter of joyful people, the light that shines from their eyes and the love they share are the gifts that will endure. Anything more than this is only the tinsel and garland that adds a bit of sparkle to an already lovely moment.

A Good Place

My Internet was down last night and most of this morning and I realize that I am definitely dependent on it for so many things it is a bit scary. It is my preferred way of connecting with most of the people in my world, outside of actually seeing them in person of course.

I cannot imagine what it was like to wait weeks, or months, maybe even years to hear from people over time. I do remember when letters took several days and return letters a bit longer because folks needed time to hand write and post them. I also remember when telephone calls were long distance and a few minutes cost precious money I didn't have. We have come so far.

I am at such a good place in my life right now. The young people just starting out are dealing with all those things I remember, no heat, living disconnect to disconnect, well I never had to do that, but I did live one winter with a bare minimum of heat, counting on blankets to keep me warm. Now I can't afford to waste anything, but who would want to do that anyway? Still, I don't have to be cold, or hungry and my health is taking a turn for the better.

I have the luxury of movies streamed straight into my home, coffee steaming hot and ready whenever I want it, and a chance to wallow in my desire to be creative that is the best reason I have ever had for being alive other than the people in my life.

I think that is the one thing I have that young people sometimes don't get until later on. I have found my place!

And I love it!

Perfection

What is perfection?

Is it a beauty that stops people in their tracks? Smooth, glowing skin, twinkling bright eyes, a demeanor guarranteed to look adorable and loving?

Or does it come from within. Are all those outward signs simply illusions projected by a personality and soul so gentle and good and loving that everything around them glows with a magical radiance seldom found outside of children's books?

Perhaps it is even a combination of the two, that occasion when the best of all worlds manifests in one place and those fortunate enough to be there get a glimpse of those rare ones who myths and folk tales are modeled after.

Whatever it is, I only know it exists and I am blessed to have touched upon it.

I Love These Nights

It takes a bit of planning to create fun family get togethers, but we don't have them very often.

My children are scattered all over the country and whenever I see them, let along get two of them together with their families I am in heaven.

Tonight was one of those nights, a night when my oldest granddaughter held my youngest on her lap. They are sixteen years apart!

My beautiful red haired granddaughter sat elegantly on the couch in her white dress and scarf, a true little diva in her own right.

My grandson was the only grandchild not here tonight. He is home in North Carolina celebrating his fifth birthday, but I called and sang happy birthday to him earlier in the day.

We met at my daughter's home where the ambiance was perfect. A Christmas tree sparkled in front of a fireplace whose stockings were hung with extraordinary care. There was traditional lasagna for the carnivores and vegetable lasagna for the pescatarians, garlic bread and salad and apple crisp for all.

When it was over we trooped out to the car to discover two inches of snow on the ground and the air still floating full of big fat flakes drifting gently down.

Tonight we were one big family united for food and fun and a chance to express that love that binds us all together no matter how far apart we might live.

I love these nights.

In That Moment

In the solitary silence of the night I hear the world whispering to me. Words not quite distinct that I strain to hear. Words I yearn to hear. Words I faithfully scribble down, one after the other, knowing that in the end they will rearrange themselves into the order that was proscribed by the daylight as too...too much, too loud, too emphatic, too.

Words too loud for the morning, too garish for an afternoon, too subtle for the evening. Words whose meaning is only apparent in the twinkling of the stars, or diffused by the moon's cold light. Words whose empathy knocks the feet out from under those who stand too solid, or drowns those already too heavy when submerged by all the emotions that flutter around on a sunny day.

In the stillness of the moment, those who lean a faithful ear close might hear the sound of a million hearts beating as one when the mind is not engaged and the ego is firmly under wraps; a moment when time stands still and silence sings the secrets no man remembers later on.

But the words mingle with the wind and the rain and the breath jumbles them all together so that the old familiar patterns become unrecognizable and I believe they are new.

A Dream

What do I do when love burrows into my life in the middle of the night, invading my dreams, writing love stories on the backs of my eyelids and singing songs that make my lips smile when they don't even know they exist?

How can something so ethereal be so satisfying real?

Filling my arms with sensations of love, leaving imprints on my shoulder of a face that never lay there, warming my neck with the soft breath of an invisible entity.

I sigh and my heart beats softly, tha thump, tha thump, tha thump, and I never want to wake up.

Yet when I do, I leap from my bed, filled with joy and ready to begin a new day.

Eager to write the stories and read the words that will fill the next night so sublimely.

Perfection

I wanted the world to love my love, so I began by lopping off the things that made it lopsided.

Then I ground away all the smaller imperfections.

I filled in the chinks, spruced up the color, spiffied up its persona and buffed it until it shone.

I only wanted it to look perfect when the world saw it.

The world saw it and judged it and deemed it imperfect in so many respects.

My tears fell in raging rivers as I sat there, humiliated and depressed.

Until my love held me close murmuring sweet words into my ear,

An ear that was lopsided and attached to great imperfections, on a woman full of chinks with faded hair and dulled skin.

I learned about perfection in that moment.