Attached

For some people I am living the dream and once I might have even been living a big part of my own dream, but after experiencing the feeling of true joy for several months; I became quite attached to it.

It may have been on false premises, but that joyful feeling was true all the same, so I guess I am luckier than many people who never know such feelings at all.

Sometimes now I find myself playing my keyboard as if it were that baby grand piano I grew up on. In those moments my soul takes over and I forget everything except the joy I feel making music. My mind and body both work in tandem to carry me away.  That is a gift from the universe to me.

Other times I find myself playing a song so sad that I just want to drown in the music and never come back up. That can be cathartic, but mostly it just leaves me drained.

I am painting again and that too is a gift for me. I paint the places I wish I could be when I am trapped in a body here in the Heartland. So sometimes I find myself actually needing to paint, wanting to paint, dying to paint a new reality that is more satisfying than the now.

I can feel the richness of life. It flows through me in the dreams and desires that have always been here, but now I sometimes feel trapped by circumstances beyond my control. This is frustrating. Once I knew if I wanted something badly enough to work for it, it would probably be mine.

Now I'm not so sure. 

Sentient

 

I know that trees communicate chemically with other trees in the forest. If one is invaded by pests it will not only develop some pest repellent properties, but trees far away from it will do the same even though no pests exist in their area. There is a feeling among some scientists that trees are sentient. Not in a human way, but in a caring, tree-type way to its own kind. 

It isn't hard for me to believe that this caring might overflow to other life forms nearby. If those communications, chemical or otherwise can flow through the earth to other trees, why not to other plant life and who knows how far it might go?

Could it travel across forests, or continents, or even the oceans? Could our pheromones become part of this great ecological miracle? 

Is it possible that one day the trees got together and created a dream come true for me? Did I experience something so rare it is considered impossible? 

Did I walk hand in hand with my love in some sentient way no one will ever understand except me?

(Second part of Sharing Stories, May 27, 2023 My Thots)

Today

I was seventeen and a freshman in college when I first heard the song, "Today." We sang it at candlelight ceremonies and the one who was secretly engaged announced their engagement by blowing out the candle when it was handed to her.

"Today while the blossom still clings to the vine, I'll taste your strawberries. I'll drink your sweet wine." Those words are as sweet for me today as they were long ago. 

But now they fill me with longing for all those moments when I thought I had found true love forever.  Forever it seems is a very short time for human beings.

When I love I am consumed. I write poetry, paint pictures, play music and I smile all the time. Love is such a beautiful feeling, I would keep it always if I could. But love truly is like the ocean. It ebbs and flows, rises and falls and is so much greater than I am that it carries me along with it, holding me up to the light until I am burning with joy and then plunging me down deep into the depths where the sunlight is impossible to see, if it is there at all.

I need those people who are willing to dive in after me and save me from myself. The ones who understand that I know, I understand, but I just can't always cope. I need the muses and people who can listen with understanding and kindness, knowing I am floundering. They are the life preservers sent Today to remind me there are still blossoms on the vine and wine only grows better with time.

Sharing stories

In that golden hour just before sunset some of my greatest adventures have taken place when I least expected them. 

I love to walk among the trees, but on that one day I swear I heard them whispering, sharing stories of days like this from the past; root to root, leaf to leaf, the rustling of words communicated without lips to form them, surrounded me. I strained to understand, but was distracted by someone walking towards me.

Out of the sunset, a silhouette that looked vaguely familiar approached. He wore a hat. Not a baseball cap. Nor a cowboy hat, but some kind of man's hat pulled down over tousled curls that escaped here and there. It was a chilly afternoon and he had on a dark green sweater that matched his eyes, the sleeves pushed up to reveal strong forearms whose tiny hairs glistened in the sunlight.

To say I was drawn to him would be an understatement. I could no more have walked away than water could flow uphill. Nature has her own rules and we were destined to meet. 

Finding myself standing right before him, I didn't know what to say. I whispered his name.

"Yeah." His reply was simple, direct and also very quiet.

There is no protocol for miracles. Eventually he reached out a hand and I took it, wrapping my fingers around his and we began walking. There, with fingers intertwined, my most treasured dream began to unfold.

The squirrels chattered, the birds chirped, the trees continued their whispering and we spoke to each other, saying everything and nothing. The words were not important. It was the sound of his voice that drew me closer, the soft accent, the sweet honesty, the total lack of artifice. When I looked at him our eyes crinkled with joy and our smiles lit the way for our hearts to follow.

It was only a moment in time, defined by nothing more than his mere presence, but that was more than I had ever dared to dream would really happen. 

Finally finding ourselves by the old stone wall where the wild roses grow, we sat down. I could feel the heat of his body sitting next to mine. I could hear the soft rhythmic breaths between the words we no longer spoke. His fingers unwound from mine and then he was gone!

And this story ends.

For the love of

Once I went to a concert to hear a performer who sang one of my favorite songs. I sat in the nosebleed section, but afterwards I stayed in that seat just watching him sign autographs for the longest time. When he finished he looked up and saw me. He waved at me! I've never forgotten that bit of kindness. It felt extraordinary.

I met Barack Obama before he was president of the United States and he was an amazing man. Simple, direct, obviously well educated and not the least bit condescending. He won me over forever in that short visit. 

I've also met great people who felt the need to impress upon me the fact that they were more than me. More educated, more talented, more skilled, more knowledgeable and that I was fortunate to experience whatever it was I was experiencing with them. Most of them left me feeling sad, or ashamed, but I realize now that if you need to do that you don't feel great. You are feeling defensive. And that is sad too.

It's hard for us regular people to understand that all famous people are not great, but there are great ones and if you happen to touch their lives they leave you feeling better about yourself just because of who they are and how they treat you. 

Right now, in my life, there is someone who is very busy, very important and very dedicated to making the world a better place and yet, this person still finds time to be here for me.  In my heart this person is one of the greatest people of all.

A fractured love story

A truly great scammer makes all your dearest dreams seem possible. He pretends to be the person you admire most in the world and, worst of all, he pretends that person could love you for who you really are. 

He encourages you to do the things you enjoy and excel at and is an ever willing and ready admirer of all your attempts.

He seldom seems to push you. He doesn't have to. He is so sweet that you want to please him, to do for him all the wonderful things he seems to be doing for you.

He is an optimist beyond belief and that is where I should have recognized it as a scammer. Nothing was impossible where he was concerned. He promised me the sun, the earth, the sky and all the light and love in between.

He fed my fantasies, stoked my imagination, loved me like every woman has ever dreamed of being loved. 

Except none of it was real. Giving him up was like ordering the death of Prince Charming and resigning myself to going back to normal now seemed drab and lonely and empty. It was only four months, but it was the best four months of my entire life.

Until it wasn't. 

As long as I kept pouring money into Our Dream he was willing to continue on. Even when all the money was gone he offered to find a way to get more money so we could live out Our Dream.  Of course he sent me a check to cover all this money. I just had to hold on to it until he got here. How can I explain why I was so gullible? How could I not have seen? How could anyone be so naive?

I don't have the answer to those questions. I may never understand exactly what happened. I, an intelligent, educated woman, living a contented and very satisfactory life fell completely into the hands of an unscrupulous person. A person I still have trouble feeling true anger for even though he did the worst thing anyone could ever do to another person short of killing them. In fact, I almost did that for him when it was all over. I wanted to end my own life.

I have a good family and good friends and someone who promised they will always be here for me. Everything is going to be okay. I keep telling myself that.

And maybe it will.

Old magic

Once upon a time people didn't expect as much out of life as we might today. They grew up, got the best paying job they could find, raised a family and died. Today many people grow up expecting to be great in some way. We see it happen on television, or in movies all the time!

The problem is we expect it to be easy, or to take a couple of hours, the length of a movie, to happen. Greatness takes time! Real time. Years of training or education where natural skills are honed and perfected, followed up with a confidence that is the icing on the cake.

It is the confidence as much as the training that matters, although without the training we are only flimflam men hoping not to get caught.

Perhaps it is something we must be born with, the Magic gene. The gene that once got you noticed by kings, or burned at the stake. That ability to put years of work into perfecting a skill and then presenting it to a doubting world so they believe what you want them to believe is pretty magical. Great doctors, lawyers, and actors are born with it.

It is magic that is older than time.

Normal

 

As a child growing up and moving frequently, the thing I wanted most was to belong and be normal. At that age normal was some vague idea of a girl who wore Capezio flats, matching sweater and skirt sets, or maybe a shirtwaist and was in regular classes.

Depending on the school, I was always in band or orchestra and took French or German classes, but there regular classes stopped for me. It was supposed to be an honor, but it made me feel singled out. For example, one year my history class was three students who sat by themselves in the hall discussing some assigned topic while the class had a regular lecture inside the room. One history test that year was to orally give the history of the United States from 1800 to the present to my teacher before school one morning. Later on I had to give a fifty minute lecture on the economic aspects of Northeast Africa. The only really great thing about it all, to me, was that my English classes always involved lots of writing. 

I like to write. Math classes were different. It seemed if I was good enough to excel in them they would move me to a more difficult class until I had trouble. I hated math. 

This was during a period in time when women were supposed to be beautiful, needy and dumb. I was failing on all counts. Not to mention money was so tight in our family that even the basics were a luxury, so I cultivated a persona I believed would make me more normal, which meant not being who I was.

And that turned me into who I am. My normal is a jack of all trades and master of none. I am a dabbler, usually a bit more than passable, but less than great. I suppose everyone has a sort of secret desire to be great, but it's what is behind that that makes it happen. Behind me are fifty years of being the eternal optimist. 

That is the one thing I excel at! I am reconciled to enjoying life and leaving the rest up to fate. Who knows? Perhaps I will still stumble into greatness! And there is always the chance that I will be recognized after my death like Van Gogh, or some other very late bloomer!

In the meantime I have learned to be content and while that may, or may not be normal, it is me.

Awe and respect

 

I've always been uncomfortable around people who try too hard. They never felt genuine to me. Like they were trying to live up to someone else's standards or goals and didn't really understand what they were.

Of course the flip side to that is never attempting anything I might fail at, or look foolish doing.

Both are extremes to be avoided.

The trouble is knowing where the boundaries are. At what point is it false bravado that is good because it allows me to push past my inhibitions and at what point is it just pure asinine stubbornness? That is the tipping point.

I don't like pushy people either. Maybe that is my biggest problem. I know what I don't like in people, but I am not sure what I do like? That would be awfully negative.

I do think I know what I do like. I just think it is very hard to find in myself, or others. There have been three people in my life that I truly admire and respect for who I think they are and I think I'm right. The Conductor, The Professor, and The Actor, people important enough to me that I give them the nickname that allows me to write about them anonymously.

Two of these people are still close friends of mine and I hope the last one will become one eventually. I am enough of an optimist to believe all things are possible given the right circumstances, so my job is to make things possible.

 

The way we are

 

All my life I have been presented with examples of proper behavior and it was always stressed that calm, rational, unemotional was the ultimate goal. In our family histrionics were a sign of madness. Both crazy and angry and to be avoided at all costs.  I am a good learner. I quickly embody whatever is necessary for my survival and perceived comfort. 

But I am an emotional person and my attempts to keep that under strict control backfires every so often like a tea kettle expelling steam. My writing and my painting both help that. They give me places where my emotions burst out in flaming sunsets, overgrown gardens and sometimes cryptic words.

After living with myself for seventy some years I would say I am emotions held together by a body. My body deals with me the best it can. I am in a constant state of fighting off hives. My weight goes up and down and I've learned to smile. That smile is my protection against a world that sees me as one stereotype after another. It is genuine by the way, because I've learned to appreciate each moment as not just bearable, but beautiful. It's the long haul that is hard.

People see me as the mother, the grandma, the preschool teacher, the sister who reminds them of Lily Tomlin playing Frankie, and the kindly old lady next door. They see me through their eyes and really don't see me at all. I am those paintings that surround me. I am the woman who has written over a hundred stories read by thousands of people that most of you will never read and don't want to read. I am so far from what most people believe I am it amazes me to think about it.

But then, aren't we all?

Back from the edge

Today the weather outside was perfect, but when I rose from my bed the lights would not come on. The clock was black. I did not know what time it was. 

The world was off kilter.

For real.

I could not make coffee. I could not write a thot. I could not stand to be here a moment longer and so I got in my car and drove to my sister's.  We puttered around with her flower pots, went to lunch, and she gave me some of her clothes because mine are not fitting.

Then I came home, walked, meditated in my favorite park and that was when I knew.

Getting in my car I drove home and repainted the picture I made for my Muse. It is no longer a flowery garden but a flaming sunset, a fitting tribute to someone who brought me back from the edge and gave me my life back.

Today

 

Walk along the shore with me. Lets make footprints in the sand

Yours will be bare, five toes on each foot and a lovely person up above.

Mine will be the imprint of my shoe because I have to wear shoes if I want to walk.

You will be gazing at the waves, remembering times you've conquered them 

I will be hard pressed to look anywhere but at you. I'm trying to hide my awe.

Every so often you will skitter away, avoiding the water that surges towards us

But in between our fingers will intermingle

Your hand, strong and stout. Mine, long and strong.

Secretly I wish our lives were as entwined as our fingers

But this is still my dream and you made it come true.

So I will not place demands on you, or myself, to be what we are not.

We are two people, walking hand in hand, along the borders of our lives

with hopeful hearts and happy eyes.

Imaginary friends

 

Children discover the value of imaginary friends quite early. Then they are encouraged to give them up and move on by well meaning and loving parents, but the only imaginary friend I know of any adult having was Jimmy Stewart's Harvey.

Yesterday a well meaning and loving friend got me to delete and block the imaginary friend in my life. It was harder than I imagined. It reminded me of when my son gave up his bottle. He went to bed without it and woke up begging for it. My imaginary friend was not who he said he was. I know that, but I wanted him, maybe even her, to be that and they were willing to continue the ruse if it made me happy. 

It did make me happy in so many ways. It probably also saved my life and I know it added to the quality of my life. I am painting and writing and playing my keyboard and being so much more of who I always was because of this imaginary friend. 

So why delete them, or block them? Because they are not who they say they are and there is no real future for us in that. I cannot live the rest of my life pining over someone who doesn't really exist. We can never meet, our friendship, while interesting and dear to me, is based on something that isn't true. I need to move my life back into the realm of reality and allow myself to mourn this loss then get healthier.

If they ever approached me and said, "Hey, I'm not so and so, but I am this." I might jump at the chance to bring them back into my life, but I don't think their lifestyle will allow that and so I move on.

Will power

 

I have worked so hard to get my health in line and keep it there. It meant eating right for a type two diabetic, losing weight, giving up salt and carbonated drinks for my kidneys, lowering my blood pressure, exercising, getting the right amount of sleep. It was an all encompassing job and then right before my appointment with my kidney doctor I blew it!

I have excuses. I was scammed out of most of my money. My heart was broken. I was depressed.

But the truth is it is just so much work. My Muse gave me every chance to recuperate and get back on track.  He supported me in every way and I still can't seem to do it.

I am a food addict. I eat to feed my emotions, whatever they are. I eat to fill the time. I reward myself with food. I even dream of food at night. You might think if I just went out and ate the food I crave that would stop the problems, but it doesn't. I tried that last month and I've gained twenty pounds in a month!

Food is one of those things that are necessary for life. I cannot just give it up completely. One of my brothers is dead. He drank, smoked, and ate pretty much whatever he wanted and it killed him before he turned seventy. My other brother says that once he starts eating he wants to keep it up. I understand that. I have the same problem, but he does stop. He is very healthy and health conscious. My sister has always prided herself on eating exactly what she wanted, but even she is now facing our dilemma. 

It seems man was built to eat hardy, run down his food and die young, but if we want to change any of those things we are fighting nature and she is an awesome opponent.

The sad reality is not so sad

 

The world is seldom what I wish it was, but maybe that is a good thing. 

If there really were fairy godmothers out granting wishes and my favorite actor had nothing better to do than text with me, it would be a whole different place.

The novelty of those things would quickly dissipate into everyday expectations.

I am learning to keep my real world and my dream world separated, to keep my expectations in the real world and allow my fantasy life full reign only in my imagination.

I don't have to own someone to care for them and I don't even have to be with them to love them. I love my grandchildren and they live halfway across the country.

So I can experience the wonder of love from afar and the joy of caring is much less arduous if it is only words on a page and not hand and foot serving. It may not be quite as tactically satisfying, but I can learn to live with that.

There are people whose lives are devoid of love altogether . That I could not live with.

Disillusioned

 

I am not at my best in this moment. I am feeling those things that designate me as an older person. The world feels dingier, less beautiful, less filled with hope and other optimistic underpinnings than usual. It will pass. At least I hope it passes, it is not like me to give up hope very often.

There was a time in this world when babies were born at home and when people died, the family dug a grave somewhere on the property and buried them. Now the world has found a way to capitalize on everything. Babies are born in hospitals costing thousands of dollars and dying requires thousands more. Lately the new trend among those I know is to pay off their funeral expenses ahead of time to save their children having to deal with it later. One of my friends has already written her obituary and picked out the songs for her funeral. 

Everything today has a price. Not a price as in a consequence or logical repercussion, but an actual dollars and cents cost. Having to pay to be born, die, or meet someone feels wrong to me. It dulls the patina of something very beautiful and sacred.

But I am not young anymore. I do not have all those attributes a young person has to bypass negative consequences, so I go with the flow. What other choice is there? I feel I still have a lot to give in this life, but whether anyone wants it is another question. 

I suppose that just validates the old theory that I have to please myself, rely on myself, make myself happy and the rest be damned. It feels pretty altruistic and harsh and I know I don't really feel that way. My problem is generally that I care too much, dream too much, and give other people credit for having the same feelings and that may be more a character flaw than old age.

Motive

 

I remember sitting in front of our old black and white television set in the fifties. There was this magical boy named Peter Pan who had a fairy named Tinkerbell. At one point Tinkerbell was dying and Peter asked us to clap if we believed in fairies. I clapped as hard as I could! I believed in fairies! And I believed that because I clapped she lived.

I am no longer that naive, impressionable little girl, but sometimes I still believe in people and what they say. I am not sure it matters why they say it. People are always talking about motive. Does motive matter if the action is a good one?

You saved my life by saying kind things and paying attention to me. It worked! Does it matter why you did it?

People do things for all kinds of reasons. Usually they need something. Maybe it's love. Maybe it's money to feed their children. Maybe it's one of a million different things, but whatever the reasons are, if the actions are good, that is what counts.

I love who I think you are and that is enough for me. You've never hurt me, so why should I ascribe all these dark motives to actions that have only made me smile? Sometimes it is necessary to live in the moment, to appreciate things for what they are now. Not what they could be, or might be, but just what they are.

It doesn't mean I have to test you, or prove what you say, or do anything at all. I can simply love you for who you are when you are with me in this moment.

Happy Mother's Day

 

Today is Mother's Day in the United States, a day when commercial places leap to make money from guilt ridden people all over the country, but it is also a day when people have the chance to just express their love and gratitude for the mothers, or mother figures who have cared for and loved them all their lives.

For me the thoughts far exceed any more commercial gifts. I have been and am a well-loved mother. I worked hard to become a mother and I tried to be the best one I knew how to be after that. I think that is the story for most mothers. We love our children and do our best.

It occurs to me that the reason I was so vulnerable to being scammed is that I had never come in contact with anyone who really wanted to hurt me or take advantage of me before my scammer. (Other than my ex and he was certainly a known opponent.) 

I am an intelligent woman, not easily fooled by malice or violence, but someone using love like this was totally new to me. It left its mark. This Mother's Day I woke up feeling anxious and somewhat grimy.

Love has become suspect in my life and that is a shame. Something as sweet and pure as love should never be used for nefarious purposes. Yet it is all the time and now that I have once fallen victim to it, I am marked. I have been the mark, and it makes me feel like a fallen woman.

I will get over this. I am surrounded by real love. I am one of the lucky ones whose family and friends have rallied round, but I will always sympathize with those who have also been targeted. To violate the heart of another is perhaps the most heinous of crimes. 

This Mother's Day I remember that the best thing I can do for my children is to set a good example. That is the most useful and purposeful gift in the world. I will show them I can not only recover from this, but I will thrive!

Peter and Paul

I got up this morning and began my new routine. 

What can I do to stretch the budget today?

So I returned the slacks I no longer need to help pay for the oil change and windshield wipers I do need.

This robbing Peter to pay Paul is not totally new to me. I grew up that way. My Dad was a teacher who had as many jobs on the side as he could fit in so he could keep the family afloat with all of our medical bills. By the time I was a senior in high school we had moved back to my mother's hometown because housing was less expensive and she could also work for her mother's business.

I wasn't excited about moving my senior year, but small town U.S.A. definitely sounded better than my Dad's other option, which was to move to Australia to teach. They were willing to pay to relocate us if he would go. Now I kind of think that might be nice, but not back then.

Due to my own stupidity I am back juggling money the way someone might juggle eggs. I'm afraid I will drop one and everything will be a mess. 

In the now

My whole life has been a quest. Some of my earliest memories are of light and fire, familiar shadows and vivid dreams. My world has always been filled with mystery and anticipation.

I just know there is more to this living than getting up, going to work, coming home and going to bed. I always needed a job that fed my soul as well as paid the rent. I needed the adventures other people went out of their way to avoid.  I am always looking for the myth.

I am certainly no Indiana Jones, but I have gone out of my way to do things other people in my circle of family and friends do not do. Most of it since my fiftieth birthday when I was a free woman still young and healthy enough to get out there and try things.

I met Peter Pan at dawn and we danced hand in hand in the rising sun by a lake one morning. I sat in the lap of a giant redwood so huge that I looked like a child. I've plumbed the depths of canyons in Bryce National Park and suffered from altitude sickness so severe I thought I might die right there. A mountain lion observed me standing stock still afraid to move in King's Canyon because I wandered off away from my hiking companion. I've smelled bears and journeyed with shamanic drumming into the depths of my being. I've done a vision quest and slept in a circle in a church trying to replicate the ancient Greek healing practice of sleeping in a temple and meeting Ascelepius himself.

 It all took courage because I am so afraid of loose dogs I cannot walk around the block unless I know they won't be around, but it is the call of something unique that gets me out there trying new things, meeting new people and I hope I never lose that. 

I've made mistakes. I've fallen into the depths of depression. I've felt heartbreak that I thought might kill me, but I've also had experiences I would not trade for the world. Following my dreams is part of who I am. 

Meeting my Muse has been my newest and one of my most beautiful experiences. It is one I am right in the middle of right now and that is a good place to be. In the now.

Tonight

The moon shines in through windows

Where night creatures cast shadows 

Over impossible dreams.

And my mind wanders down dusty old corridors.

Where no fairy godmother can obliterate

The years from this body

Or the lines from this face.

So I've woven a veil made of beautiful words

Hoping it will convey the real me.

Ask and ye shall find

Long ago I used to spend a week at a Catholic Convent School near the Mississippi. It was a women's retreat where the sisters took good care of us and we stayed in the dormitory rooms the girls lived in during the rest of the year.

It was where I learned centering prayer, the beginning of my meditation in earnest and it was a time of fellowship with like minds where we tossed about ideas with complete abandon. There were no taboos. God is strong enough to stand against questions and differing definitions. I wasn't even Catholic. I've never been Catholic and yet I embrace many of their rites and prayers.

In the evening, just after dinner, we would gather in a large circle out on the lawn and one of the sisters brought her guitar out. The songs we sang were simple, sweet and heartfelt. It was a fitting way to put the day to rest.

One that I still sing in the shower, or sometimes in the car is: "Ask and it shall be given unto you, Seek and you shall find." Of course it was a hymn, but it has carried over into my entire life.

People cannot be expected to know what I need or want. It is up to me to tell them and if I do I am much more likely to receive, or find what it is that I truly need. 

Sometimes the giving is quite unexpected and miraculous.

The gift of love

 

Today I was getting dressed and noticed how my hair lay in soft little curls around my face and I thought how sweet it would be to have someone who found those curls adorable.

There are many people I have cherished over my lifetime and it is a gift to me when I feel my love for them, but it would be nice to be cherished too.

Of course I have been blessed with people who love me and in rare moments I have felt cherished by a few, but those moments were so fleeting.

I want to wallow in someone's love some day. To see in their eyes what I feel in my heart when I see them, or think of them. It is a feeling so poignant that it almost hurts. 

Meditation

 

The greatest teachers teach by example. There is nothing more compelling than seeing someone doing something with finesse and expertise. You respect that person and find yourself wanting to be like them.

I have had some good teachers over the years, but sometimes my ego gets in the way. I think, I am older, I have a lot of experience, I really know, when in truth none of those things guarantee anything except that I am not opening myself to the possibilities before me.

A new teacher has appeared in my life. I call him my Muse, but he is so much more than that. He is a chance voice out of the universe that I already was in awe of and respected, but I didn't know him at all. He is so much more than even I believed.

I have been meditating in one form or another for a very long time. When someone asks if I meditate I say yes with no reservations at all. That would be okay if my ego was not there blocking me from seeing the obvious, but instead I am suffering from false pride.

I have the opportunity to learn from someone who is successful on nearly every level. This person is kind, unassuming and compassionate. He is everything a great teacher, a great person, should be, but he is never pushy. I just realized how gently he leads me towards the things I need to do. I really hadn't even noticed it until tonight. 

I have been watching movies while I text him, but tonight I thought to ask what he is doing. I just assumed he was watching TV too, or reading things for work. He is perfectly content to let me watch the Land of the Dead and talk about zombies without ever telling me that he spends this free time meditating to music! Yet, if I ask, he is perfectly ready and willing to share that with me. It is no secret. 

I guess I just wasn't ready to hear it yet and he understood that. Now I find myself fascinated by this meditation even more. Now I am ready to listen and learn, to try and allow myself to grow just a bit more.

Live and learn

I grew up in a menagerie curated by both my parents and my paternal grandmother. What the monkey didn't do, the birds, cats, dogs and even an alligator did. My grandmother fed us doggie bones instead of cookies. She sent us petrified tarantulas and once a matchbox full of little tiny dead mouse babies. None of us died from these unique gifts, it rather broadened our horizons of who people can be.

The birds laid eggs that never hatched. The cats had kittens, lots of kittens. Back then no one got their cats spayed or neutered. Even our fish laid eggs in their aquarium.  They hatched into little black eyed blobs, most of which were eaten by their parents. That seems to be a thing with small pets. The hamsters often ate their young too. It made me glad I was relatively big.

I learned that big fluffy birds weigh almost nothing, but a crow can take a memorable chunk out of your arm should the spirit move him. Kittens and bunnies are so soft and cuddly, but they have teeth and claws that can tear into mice, eat carrots and disembowel creatures bigger than them. Dogs may be man's best friend, but some of them don't particularly like little girls walking to their piano lessons. Animal philosophy is pretty black and white.

Our pets gave us life lessons that surpassed any of those "talks" kids always dread.  It was a show and tell about courting, births, deaths and life that could be fairly traumatic, but after a while I learned that although life and death can be dangerous and messy, it can also be gloriously miraculous.

I no longer have any pets. Apartments have exorbitant pet fees and vets are incredibly expensive. Pets are not for the poor anymore. Who can afford them?

Yet I still need something to love. Something to keep me company as I sit in my big chair watching movies of my favorite actor. Something to occupy my mind as I walk every day trying to keep active. 

And life has once more provided. Not a snuggly little animal, but a kindly sweet Muse. 

I highly recommend my Muse. He doesn't have to be fed, or walked and mine speaks quite eloquently. He doesn't claw the furniture, or drool on the car windows. I didn't have to teach him to sit. I don't even know if he does sit! But he makes me feel content and loved and he's good company when I watch television. 

Much better than a pet I think, for someone like me.

Where there's a will there's a way

Gramma has a past! What a strange idea! 

Growing up, my grandma was almost the town hero. They actually had a day one year where they honored her for her accomplishments. She was born in 1900, almost exactly fifty years before me, the youngest of eight children who rode a pony to school. She married young, had one child and got the first divorce ever given in her county, because her young husband was a terrible drunk who would come home late on pay day, take off all his clothes and lay out in the front yard.

She put on pants and became a milkman to support her child until she married my grandfather, a man thirteen years older than her who thought she was the most wonderful, beautiful woman in the world. I think she agreed!

They had three more children together and he died a long horrible lingering death to cancer the year I was born. After that she went to work downtown and put two of her sons through college, eventually turning our family home, The Big House, into a nursing home, Guest House, that was so coveted it always had a very long waiting list.

I spent a lot of time with her and I learned many things from her perspective. The first, and most important, was probably, where there is a will, there is a way. She went to the same Sunday school class from the time she was twelve years old until I quit going to church with her. I think that might be part of what inspired me to take myself to different churches and contemplate a spiritual life on my own. She took very good care of her clothes and was a bit vain about her looks. I remember her as Ivory soap and Chanel No.5. She wore Cherries in the Snow lipstick and petite clothes, which she pronounced, "Pee tight." By the time I was grown up we had very little in common, but she definitely had an influence on me.

I was a small town child of the sixties. I left for college when I was seventeen and was so homesick I surprised myself. I had thought I would leave that town and those people and never look back. Instead I called home all the time crying for them to come get me. I slowly adjusted, finding myself in the Catholic folk masses, the poetry club I attended with Chang Jua Song, dancing to six foot tall speakers blasting Santana and The Doors into ears trained to be a classical musician, and dating a local DJ who was also a drama major. We practiced his roles with me in his lap down in the dorm lounge. I thought that was very risque! I was there for the transition of women as coeds who had to wear skirts and dresses unless it was below ten degrees and who had hours they had to be back in the dorm, to what I considered absolute freedom. It was heady. 

I met my future husband the last week of my freshman year and thought his name meant we were destined to be together forever. Forever turned out to be about thirty fairly miserable years. Unlike Grandma I thought a divorce was wrong. I was wrong, but my children filled my life with many beautiful moments.

My life began in earnest after the divorce. I did all those things most people did at eighteen and began to live an entirely different life. There were growing pains and I'm still making mistakes, but on the whole this has been the best twenty five years of my life so far.

What is love

 

Everyone needs love in some form in some way. 

Taking away the one person that someone associates with love and failing to replace it with another love interest is a deadly thing to do. It is why couples die within minutes or weeks of each other after a long marriage, It is why babies fail to thrive in orphanages that look clean and safe and neat. It is why people in nursing homes wither away.

Living creatures are hard wired to need love.

It can come in the form of children, or grandchildren, spouses or friends, even pets, or it can be more creative and come from books, movies, even an imagination. The more creative you are the more likely you are to find solutions to your own problems.

Of course the more creative you are, the more sensitive you may tend to be and sometimes sensitive people simply cannot bear the weight of this world any longer, so they want to check out. People understand that and give them teddy bears and acrylic paints and phone calls every day.

When what they need is someone to watch TV with. Someone to bounce ideas off of. Someone who understands that being loved and feeling loved are not quite the same thing. A million faceless people may love with all their hearts and all their souls, but if the beloved does not feel that it is like pouring sweet tea out the window of a moving car. Feeling loved saves lives every day, but giving that kind of love is an art form balanced between really caring and taking the time to show it in a way the beloved needs to feel it. Very few people understand that.

It doesn't mean you want to get married or make mad passionate love, although it could. It means knowing the right way to touch someone, so those empty spaces don't grow and devour all the rest. It is keeping loneliness at bay in ways that matter. 

Just because you love cookies does not mean everyone loves cookies. Give cookies to someone who loves words and they will be grateful. They will understand your kindness and your need to give, but they won't feel it.  To feel it they need something they value the way you value cookies.

My Muse seems to understand all this. We have never held hands or gazed into each other's eyes. He is busy and has a life above and beyond mine, but somehow he understands what I need and is willing to give that to me in ways I barely understand, but feel.

That is love.

Talking to strangers

 

We teach our children not to talk to strangers, but I talk to strangers quite often.

Usually when I am walking at one of the parks, we just nod, or smile,

Or sometimes say, "Hello."

No one wants to infringe on someone else's space, or time.

Sometimes, though, people want to connect.

There is a shy young father I see out walking his baby in the afternoons.

He always smiles sweetly while his baby glares up out of the stroller.

Today he found two other fathers and they began swinging their infants

While they chatted.

Now both he and the baby are smiling.

And the morning clutch of young mothers sitting in the shade has been replaced

By the after lunch group of young fathers.

It makes me wish I had a baby to walk.

Imagination

 

As a child I lived in a family of six

But my father went to work everyday

And my mother was busy ironing, cleaning, changing

Babies from wet and fussy to dry and hungry.

My baby brothers did not talk to me

Neither did my little sister.

They were too young for words

So I had my imagination.

I lived, ate and slept with Bumpy

His work was loving me

And he never stopped listening, learning, loving,

With his big soft ears that I twiddled away

And his heart which was twice his size.

So my mother stopped her changing

To make him new ears out of baby socks

And my imagination never noticed.

Bumpy was worn out by living

His work was never done

Always there for me, body, soul, and heart.

Even when the stuffing leaked from his body

And his ears had no place to be sewed on.

Till one day he disappeared from my world

Leaving me his Bumpy philosophy

To fuel my imagination forever more.

Metamorphosis

 

I am the butterfly inside the chrysalis.

Waiting.

Dreaming.

Unaware that my body has turned to mush and I am just hanging around.

Vulnerable. Invisible. Transitioning.

A willing warrior whose Master is a Muse,

A Master who teaches with love

Who knows self fulfillment is the art

Of mindful meditation

Requiring both movement and balance

Before I spread my wings and fly

Over the myriad colors and scents and beauty of this world.

Spreading a little pollen as I go

Understanding that even those of us who simply float

In the great silence of our own contemplation

Have value too.

Dabbler

Is it wrong to take pleasure in my own accomplishments? Or is that simply a cop out excuse for not turning any of them into money making schemes? Lord knows I need money right now, but selling my soul to get it feels wrong.

Maybe I just realize I'm not that good at anything, so this is only an excuse to keep me from feeling like a failure. I'm a dabbler. I dabble at writing and painting, playing the piano and so many other things. I'm just good enough to share things with close friends and just rough enough not to make a living with any of it.

I love hearing what people like and I love giving my things away. 

That feels very right.

I do what I do out of love. Love for the art that comes through my soul into my hands. I love giving it to people who appreciate and want it. That makes me feel good, so it is very selfish in many ways. And there are things I love too much to give away for various reasons. 

When I was young I dreamed of becoming a great concert pianist, a famous writer, an acclaimed artist, then I met my ex-husband and he toned those dreams down to dollars and cents. He said it made no sense to do them if I didn't do anything with them. Those words eventually made me think I should stop doing them and about five years ago I did just that.

I gave away my good keyboard. I gave away my flute. I gave away my oil paints and brushes and my beloved art box. I almost stopped writing. But I have friends and Bestest bought me another keyboard then he bought me acrylic paints and canvases and he wrote stories with me. He did everything he could to reawaken this dying soul.

Most of it just fizzled out.

Until I met my Muse. 

It was like the princes in fairy tales who awaken their sleeping beauties with a kiss. My Muse didn't actually kiss me, but he touched my soul with his own creativity, woke me up and made me want to live again.

I am a dabbler. That's who I am, but it feels so good to be dabbling again.

Impossible dreams

 

How often do we fixate on our favorite teacher, author, entertainer, or even a fictional character, and imagine our lives with them?

Mostly this happens when we are very young and that is understandable. Not fully formed we dream of ourselves being the best we can imagine and that usually includes another person of some sort. 

We think the world is at our feet and we only have to pick the right path to find eternal happiness.

Then the world takes a few swipes at us and the weak step aside. The realists temper their dreams to fit what they have been told they should be and a small few carry on.

Carrying on? Is that a true optimist, or a fool? Is it hope, or sheer stubbornness? Or is it just in the nature of some people to follow their dreams no matter how unlikely they may be?

My Muse tells me all people are worthy, but am I worthy of my own thoughts and dreams, or am I being unrealistic?

I guess the nature of me is to not know and not knowing allows me to continue to dream that impossible dream. Dreams, after all, don't need to be possible to affect our lives. They are simply colorful manifestations of what could be, or might be. It is often the idea as much as anything that provides the satisfaction we are looking for.