I am a dabbler.
As early as ten one of my music teachers told me to be careful, I might become a jack of all trades and master of none. It seems he might have been right.
Today I felt the need to create something. That is always a good sign. It means I am full and overflowing and need some sort of creative outlet.
Often writing is enough. Writing is the one thing I admit I am pretty good at. I love it, but it isn’t enough today. Other times my camera becomes the way I share my good fortune with the world. I’m not too bad at that either, not because I have any great skill. I have a good eye and am fortunate to be given many opportunities to use it. A picture presents itself and I push the button.
I play around making cards, mostly because people seem to get a kick out of them and it satisfies that preschool urge to cut and paste I never outgrew.
Today, though, I wanted to paint. I haven’t really painted much at all in the past few years. The last really big canvas I finished was the Great Turtle, a dream creature who invaded my life for almost five years. I also have my version of The Kiss, but my version is so different I never really got into it, so maybe that is what I will do tomorrow. I’ll re-gesso the canvas and paint over it.
Tonight, though, the wee tyrant and I made an airplane out of a cardboard box, aluminum foil and paper plates. Tomorrow he can sit in it and fly it around the house.
I am a dabbler.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Awakening
Do you know that I am writing to you? Do you see yourself in these words that crawl across the page in this strange communion of fingers and mind? Do you know how important you are to me?
The Muse left some time ago, but he didn’t disappear until recently. One day he landed gently in my life and then another day, he simply floated away. It is the nature of muses I suppose. Brilliant flashes of light, opening doors and windows, airing out rooms that might become musty if left closed too long. Mysterious creatures, sweet and gentle but with a power that is beyond imagining.
Alone. Bereft. I had no will power left. Sinking down into the mossy grass around me, I spun myself into a soft cocoon. Resting. Waiting. For what I wasn’t sure. I only knew there was nothing else I could do.
I might have stayed there, but your tears woke me up. Your hand reached out and I rose to stand beside you.
Opening my eyes, I watched the light return to the sky, allowed myself to feel the wind once more upon my face, and mingled my tears with yours.
Perhaps that is all the Muse came to do.
Bring me you.
The Muse left some time ago, but he didn’t disappear until recently. One day he landed gently in my life and then another day, he simply floated away. It is the nature of muses I suppose. Brilliant flashes of light, opening doors and windows, airing out rooms that might become musty if left closed too long. Mysterious creatures, sweet and gentle but with a power that is beyond imagining.
Alone. Bereft. I had no will power left. Sinking down into the mossy grass around me, I spun myself into a soft cocoon. Resting. Waiting. For what I wasn’t sure. I only knew there was nothing else I could do.
I might have stayed there, but your tears woke me up. Your hand reached out and I rose to stand beside you.
Opening my eyes, I watched the light return to the sky, allowed myself to feel the wind once more upon my face, and mingled my tears with yours.
Perhaps that is all the Muse came to do.
Bring me you.
Friday, November 20, 2009
You
I hear your whispers falling gently upon my ears like raindrops on a soft Fall night. Crisp and clean, soft and warm, a cluster of wholeness unhampered by tradition. A taste of sanity in a world gone mad.
You are thunder storms and crashing waves, tumultuous winds and trees leaning menacingly low to the ground. You are ice storms and tornados, hurricanes and passion in its wildest forms, but you are also the dog who lies quietly by the hearth on long cold nights, wanting only the warmth and companionship of those you love.
Looking into the lake I see your reflection in my face, knowing that if I dip my hands deeply enough, I will find only myself. Still, I dangle my fingers in the water, playing like a cat with a willow wisp, thoughtlessly chasing the beauty of you in and out of the light and think I see the glancing shadows of fingers playing back.
Elusive children of parallel universes, we are only characters in each other’s storybooks, but these are the good books, the enduring stories that pass down through the ages as legends and myths. More than lovers we are adorers whose depth is unfathomable, whose presence is never recognized, but ever present.
When I am hungry, I look to you. When I am afraid, I look for you. When I am alone I am you.
You are thunder storms and crashing waves, tumultuous winds and trees leaning menacingly low to the ground. You are ice storms and tornados, hurricanes and passion in its wildest forms, but you are also the dog who lies quietly by the hearth on long cold nights, wanting only the warmth and companionship of those you love.
Looking into the lake I see your reflection in my face, knowing that if I dip my hands deeply enough, I will find only myself. Still, I dangle my fingers in the water, playing like a cat with a willow wisp, thoughtlessly chasing the beauty of you in and out of the light and think I see the glancing shadows of fingers playing back.
Elusive children of parallel universes, we are only characters in each other’s storybooks, but these are the good books, the enduring stories that pass down through the ages as legends and myths. More than lovers we are adorers whose depth is unfathomable, whose presence is never recognized, but ever present.
When I am hungry, I look to you. When I am afraid, I look for you. When I am alone I am you.
You
I hear your whispers falling gently upon my ears like raindrops on a soft Fall night. Crisp and clean, soft and warm, a cluster of wholeness unhampered by tradition. A taste of sanity in a world gone mad.
You are thunder storms and crashing waves, tumultuous winds and trees leaning menacingly low to the ground. You are ice storms and tornados, hurricanes and passion in its wildest forms, but you are also the dog who lies quietly by the hearth on long cold nights, wanting only the warmth and companionship of those you love.
Looking into the lake I see your reflection in my face, knowing that if I dip my hands deeply enough, I will find only myself. Still, I dangle my fingers in the water, playing like a cat with a willow wisp, thoughtlessly chasing the beauty of you in and out of the light and think I see the glancing shadows of fingers playing back.
Elusive children of parallel universes, we are only characters in each other’s storybooks, but these are the good books, the enduring stories that pass down through the ages as legends and myths. More than lovers we are adorers whose depth is unfathomable, whose presence is never recognized, but ever present.
When I am hungry, I look to you. When I am afraid, I look for you. When I am alone I am you.
You are thunder storms and crashing waves, tumultuous winds and trees leaning menacingly low to the ground. You are ice storms and tornados, hurricanes and passion in its wildest forms, but you are also the dog who lies quietly by the hearth on long cold nights, wanting only the warmth and companionship of those you love.
Looking into the lake I see your reflection in my face, knowing that if I dip my hands deeply enough, I will find only myself. Still, I dangle my fingers in the water, playing like a cat with a willow wisp, thoughtlessly chasing the beauty of you in and out of the light and think I see the glancing shadows of fingers playing back.
Elusive children of parallel universes, we are only characters in each other’s storybooks, but these are the good books, the enduring stories that pass down through the ages as legends and myths. More than lovers we are adorers whose depth is unfathomable, whose presence is never recognized, but ever present.
When I am hungry, I look to you. When I am afraid, I look for you. When I am alone I am you.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Just Itching
What a year this has been. Last week I had pneumonia, not all that uncommon for me, but it turned out I was allergic to the antibiotic. I would never have guessed this on the first day, or even the fifth day, but by the sixth day there was a teeny tiny warning sign that I ignored.
On the seventh day there was no rest at all. I woke up after a fitful night, scratching! Finally getting out of bed and looking in the mirror I saw this red lumpy, bumpy creature staring back at me. Tons of Benedryl later I was covered head to toe in a torturous, hideous red rash.
Today I went to the doctor and she asked if I wanted to just wait it out? It was the first time I ever wanted to throttle her. Obviously she has never spent three days with almost no sleep, scratching. Even my ears are infected now, so I came home with Prednisone and ear drops and I’m still itching!
I’m sitting here with two ice cubes on the floor under my burning toes and every few minutes I stop to put more anti-itch cream on, or go swallow another Benedryl. Actually the ice works better than anything else, but I’d have to submerge myself in a tub of it to get much relief.
I tried to write something else, but obviously I am a bit preoccupied at the moment. Let me make it through the night, because surely tomorrow is going to be better!
On the seventh day there was no rest at all. I woke up after a fitful night, scratching! Finally getting out of bed and looking in the mirror I saw this red lumpy, bumpy creature staring back at me. Tons of Benedryl later I was covered head to toe in a torturous, hideous red rash.
Today I went to the doctor and she asked if I wanted to just wait it out? It was the first time I ever wanted to throttle her. Obviously she has never spent three days with almost no sleep, scratching. Even my ears are infected now, so I came home with Prednisone and ear drops and I’m still itching!
I’m sitting here with two ice cubes on the floor under my burning toes and every few minutes I stop to put more anti-itch cream on, or go swallow another Benedryl. Actually the ice works better than anything else, but I’d have to submerge myself in a tub of it to get much relief.
I tried to write something else, but obviously I am a bit preoccupied at the moment. Let me make it through the night, because surely tomorrow is going to be better!
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
“Second to the right and straight on to morning!” By J.M. Barrie
The first time I met Pan, I was fifty and he was twenty five, but still, it was a propitious meeting and one that seems to have set the course for the rest of my life. A meeting of minds over matter, of thoughts versus rules, of life over mundane-ism.
I saw him but a few times and the innocence of those times was legendary. We watched the sun rise over the trees at Miller Park, the stars rise over Fairview Park and said good-bye when the geese flew off into the northern sky.
Wendy that I am, I continued to grow up and older until I found myself placed on consignment, to be dusted once daily and put away on a shelf where life was viewed through a distant window and the sounds of laughter and love were only echoes from the people in the hallway. Not so dreary as it sounds, but certainly not Never Land.
Thinking I was banned forever from that magical place, I became content enough until the day I met Peter! Not Pan, nothing like Pan at all. Peter was so beautiful inside and out that he practically glowed and whenever I stood near him, my face reflected all the light of the universe. I could no longer stay on that shelf. Each time I was placed back up there, I simply floated away!
Now I believe! Knowing what I know now, I believe! Whenever that thought begins to falter, I simply think of Peter’s face and his extraordinary philosophy of life.
“Second star on the right and straight on till morning!” By Peter Pan.
Once I was found, but now I am lost forever in that place where good thoughts and good actions make anything possible.
I saw him but a few times and the innocence of those times was legendary. We watched the sun rise over the trees at Miller Park, the stars rise over Fairview Park and said good-bye when the geese flew off into the northern sky.
Wendy that I am, I continued to grow up and older until I found myself placed on consignment, to be dusted once daily and put away on a shelf where life was viewed through a distant window and the sounds of laughter and love were only echoes from the people in the hallway. Not so dreary as it sounds, but certainly not Never Land.
Thinking I was banned forever from that magical place, I became content enough until the day I met Peter! Not Pan, nothing like Pan at all. Peter was so beautiful inside and out that he practically glowed and whenever I stood near him, my face reflected all the light of the universe. I could no longer stay on that shelf. Each time I was placed back up there, I simply floated away!
Now I believe! Knowing what I know now, I believe! Whenever that thought begins to falter, I simply think of Peter’s face and his extraordinary philosophy of life.
“Second star on the right and straight on till morning!” By Peter Pan.
Once I was found, but now I am lost forever in that place where good thoughts and good actions make anything possible.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Thank You
She spotted the note immediately. It was one of her life’s little pleasures, a simple thing that brought a smile to her eyes as soon as she saw it.
Opening all the mundane, work-a-day mail first, she saved it for last, a treat for getting the chores out of the way.
Wondering what might be in it today, she settled back, took a sip of her coffee and carefully opened it. Who knew what might be in there. It was one of the delights of her life that almost anything might pop up. That was one of the beautiful things about this writer, who seldom minced words. He made her laugh and think and sometimes, like today, cry.
Generous beyond belief, he took care of the people around him, making sure the hungry had food, the sick had medical care and medicine, juices and broths. He’d been known to pay utility bills when the temperature was 120 out and the AC was about to be cut off. He hired lawyers for some and had even provided a temporary apartment for those who had no roof over their heads. Doing good deeds was not unusual, it was part of who he was. Just a part, but a large part.
Today, though, he brought tears to her eyes with a small paragraph slipped in among the news and chit chat. Today he touched her so unexpectedly and kindly that she didn’t even know how to respond, so she sat there, heart overflowing, tears in her eyes and smiled for a very long time.
And then she wrote back. Thank you. It wasn’t enough, but the feelings behind it were huge. He would know that. It was one of the things she loved about him.
Opening all the mundane, work-a-day mail first, she saved it for last, a treat for getting the chores out of the way.
Wondering what might be in it today, she settled back, took a sip of her coffee and carefully opened it. Who knew what might be in there. It was one of the delights of her life that almost anything might pop up. That was one of the beautiful things about this writer, who seldom minced words. He made her laugh and think and sometimes, like today, cry.
Generous beyond belief, he took care of the people around him, making sure the hungry had food, the sick had medical care and medicine, juices and broths. He’d been known to pay utility bills when the temperature was 120 out and the AC was about to be cut off. He hired lawyers for some and had even provided a temporary apartment for those who had no roof over their heads. Doing good deeds was not unusual, it was part of who he was. Just a part, but a large part.
Today, though, he brought tears to her eyes with a small paragraph slipped in among the news and chit chat. Today he touched her so unexpectedly and kindly that she didn’t even know how to respond, so she sat there, heart overflowing, tears in her eyes and smiled for a very long time.
And then she wrote back. Thank you. It wasn’t enough, but the feelings behind it were huge. He would know that. It was one of the things she loved about him.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Three
I am reading three books right now.
Founding Mothers by Cokie Roberts, The Lost Symbol by Dan Brown and a little Nora Roberts romance that I use to go to sleep at night. Of course all this reading means I am not writing. I can’t really read someone else’s work and write my own. It just doesn’t work for me.
Normally I would not be reading the first two books at the same time, but circumstances made it impossible to keep my curiosity at bay. The first one is a birthday gift from a friend and I picked it up just to peruse a few pages, then had to go on. The second was loaned to me by someone who knows I love Brown’s books.
It came with a bookmark containing a favorite quote from the book, written in long hand, a tradition for the one who gave it to me. “Don’t tell anyone, but on the pagan day of the sun god Ra, I kneel at the foot of an ancient instrument of torture and consume ritualistic symbols of blood and flesh.” I love descriptions like this.
But, I have to admit that when I read Brown’s books I also feel very close to my father who was the only other person I’ve ever known who could tell a tale with all the attending scientific data wrapped around religious and mythological themes and make it into something that seemed modern and possibly true. You need an incredible amount of knowledge to do that.
Dad had degrees in physics, chemistry, and English. He was born to be a student and he was born with an imagination! He could read and write in four languages, or so he said. I can’t read in four languages, so I just had to take him at his word. I learned early on never to ask him anything I didn’t really want to know because he would research it down to the nth degree and present a dissertation on it, whether I liked it, or not.
So, I’m reading one book to put me to sleep, one that I find fascinating and one that makes me feel like I’m cuddled up next to my Dad being read a grown-up fairy tale and I don’t want to finish any of them too soon.
Founding Mothers by Cokie Roberts, The Lost Symbol by Dan Brown and a little Nora Roberts romance that I use to go to sleep at night. Of course all this reading means I am not writing. I can’t really read someone else’s work and write my own. It just doesn’t work for me.
Normally I would not be reading the first two books at the same time, but circumstances made it impossible to keep my curiosity at bay. The first one is a birthday gift from a friend and I picked it up just to peruse a few pages, then had to go on. The second was loaned to me by someone who knows I love Brown’s books.
It came with a bookmark containing a favorite quote from the book, written in long hand, a tradition for the one who gave it to me. “Don’t tell anyone, but on the pagan day of the sun god Ra, I kneel at the foot of an ancient instrument of torture and consume ritualistic symbols of blood and flesh.” I love descriptions like this.
But, I have to admit that when I read Brown’s books I also feel very close to my father who was the only other person I’ve ever known who could tell a tale with all the attending scientific data wrapped around religious and mythological themes and make it into something that seemed modern and possibly true. You need an incredible amount of knowledge to do that.
Dad had degrees in physics, chemistry, and English. He was born to be a student and he was born with an imagination! He could read and write in four languages, or so he said. I can’t read in four languages, so I just had to take him at his word. I learned early on never to ask him anything I didn’t really want to know because he would research it down to the nth degree and present a dissertation on it, whether I liked it, or not.
So, I’m reading one book to put me to sleep, one that I find fascinating and one that makes me feel like I’m cuddled up next to my Dad being read a grown-up fairy tale and I don’t want to finish any of them too soon.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
No Rush
I see what I want to see.
Driving down the highway, on my first outing since Sunday, I watch the cars around me. Hundreds of people from all over the country surround me, but my eyes are really only looking for one. It’s what I do. It’ll wear off.
Construction pops up and traffic slows down. Usually a reason for me to feel annoyed. Gawkers, no other reason for the hold up. There are still two lanes open, but people seem to automatically slow down way below the required fifty miles per hour. This time it doesn’t bother me. I see a flash of blonde hair, a bit wild and unruly. Could it be? No.
Turning on the computer I read my email, check out my blog, look at a few other things. A recently discovered site catches my attention, the stories are well written, with a familiar style, but again I wonder if it is only my wanting that makes them seem so.
So, is it better to live in the land of hope and possible make believe, or is it better to grab reality by the scruff of its neck and force myself to move on?
It doesn’t really matter. I will do what I will do no matter what. And since it doesn’t really hurt anyone, why not? I’ve always allowed my imagination full reign.
It’s been a beautiful year, but gone by too quickly. Now it is over and time will take care of the moving on, it always has. No need for me to rush things along.
Driving down the highway, on my first outing since Sunday, I watch the cars around me. Hundreds of people from all over the country surround me, but my eyes are really only looking for one. It’s what I do. It’ll wear off.
Construction pops up and traffic slows down. Usually a reason for me to feel annoyed. Gawkers, no other reason for the hold up. There are still two lanes open, but people seem to automatically slow down way below the required fifty miles per hour. This time it doesn’t bother me. I see a flash of blonde hair, a bit wild and unruly. Could it be? No.
Turning on the computer I read my email, check out my blog, look at a few other things. A recently discovered site catches my attention, the stories are well written, with a familiar style, but again I wonder if it is only my wanting that makes them seem so.
So, is it better to live in the land of hope and possible make believe, or is it better to grab reality by the scruff of its neck and force myself to move on?
It doesn’t really matter. I will do what I will do no matter what. And since it doesn’t really hurt anyone, why not? I’ve always allowed my imagination full reign.
It’s been a beautiful year, but gone by too quickly. Now it is over and time will take care of the moving on, it always has. No need for me to rush things along.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
The Missing Twin
I dreamed my life was a huge jigsaw puzzle. Each piece vital to the whole, but each one thinking it was the whole picture. No matter where I turned I saw myself standing posed like the living statues at Bele Chere.
I could move around. I could even talk, but I had the worst ache inside of me. I missed something, craved it, needed it and all the pieces stood between me and whatever “it” was. I was afraid that if I found it and acknowledged it, all the other pieces might turn and walk away. There I stood, in a beautiful park like setting, surrounded by people and so lonely I thought I would die.
Then, just before I woke up, I felt someone helping me put the puzzle together. He was like my other self, the part that filled in the hole and stopped the ache. A twin brother who was not afraid to be who he was and who allowed me to be all of me without any fear that he would turn and walk away. It was so rich, so perfect, so whole.
And then I woke up.
I could move around. I could even talk, but I had the worst ache inside of me. I missed something, craved it, needed it and all the pieces stood between me and whatever “it” was. I was afraid that if I found it and acknowledged it, all the other pieces might turn and walk away. There I stood, in a beautiful park like setting, surrounded by people and so lonely I thought I would die.
Then, just before I woke up, I felt someone helping me put the puzzle together. He was like my other self, the part that filled in the hole and stopped the ache. A twin brother who was not afraid to be who he was and who allowed me to be all of me without any fear that he would turn and walk away. It was so rich, so perfect, so whole.
And then I woke up.
Friday, November 13, 2009
My, by now, rather common recovering from pneuomia, Thots
I was going to write that we need to be careful not to over react, like three year olds, but Lennon is three and he tends to view most things very calmly and closely. He is interested in what is going on and does not jump to conclusions quickly. Of course that is how his father responds too. Children mirror the people around them. Hysterical child generally means hysterical grown-ups behind him. Most of us are no longer children, that gives us some responsibility to consider.
We have become a country of people who run around looking like that kid in Home Alone. Our eyes bug out, our mouths hang open and we are ready to be shocked, upset and over react. Ready to leap into action at the slightest provocation, shout out whatever is on the tip of our tongues, and throw rocks before asking questions. Not a particularly attractive thing if you ask me.
There is a time to leap into unthinking action. When a burning car falls on someone, the baby has one foot over the edge of the grand canyon, or Aunt Maisie‘s cat is about to lick the sugar bowl. Most other dire emergencies respond better to a more rational approach.
One small teaspoon of calculated hype from the newsroom of a well known television station, or an Internet email and people fly into a panic. It is almost like we thrive on hate and despair. As if the chance to vent does not come around every three seconds or so.
For example: there is a billboard on I 26 near Charlotte, SC that says, “Do you believe in god? If you don’t, you are not alone.“ Contrary to popular belief, not believing in god is not the same thing as believing in the devil. In fact, believing in a devil is more likely to come from religious people. Not that this is the question any way. The question is tolerance, understanding and a willingness to allow other people to express their own views. A rational approach might include dialogues, meetings, even debates if you feel so inclined. A more common approach seems to be hurling accusations and a hateful refusal to consider anything more than angry, unthinking invectives.
In order to get cattle to run up the ramps to the abattoir, someone with an electric prod just stirs them up and they begin mooing and snorting, sometimes stamping their feet, but still rushing straight up those ramps where they are supposed to go. Isn’t that a horrible thought?
We have become a country of people who run around looking like that kid in Home Alone. Our eyes bug out, our mouths hang open and we are ready to be shocked, upset and over react. Ready to leap into action at the slightest provocation, shout out whatever is on the tip of our tongues, and throw rocks before asking questions. Not a particularly attractive thing if you ask me.
There is a time to leap into unthinking action. When a burning car falls on someone, the baby has one foot over the edge of the grand canyon, or Aunt Maisie‘s cat is about to lick the sugar bowl. Most other dire emergencies respond better to a more rational approach.
One small teaspoon of calculated hype from the newsroom of a well known television station, or an Internet email and people fly into a panic. It is almost like we thrive on hate and despair. As if the chance to vent does not come around every three seconds or so.
For example: there is a billboard on I 26 near Charlotte, SC that says, “Do you believe in god? If you don’t, you are not alone.“ Contrary to popular belief, not believing in god is not the same thing as believing in the devil. In fact, believing in a devil is more likely to come from religious people. Not that this is the question any way. The question is tolerance, understanding and a willingness to allow other people to express their own views. A rational approach might include dialogues, meetings, even debates if you feel so inclined. A more common approach seems to be hurling accusations and a hateful refusal to consider anything more than angry, unthinking invectives.
In order to get cattle to run up the ramps to the abattoir, someone with an electric prod just stirs them up and they begin mooing and snorting, sometimes stamping their feet, but still rushing straight up those ramps where they are supposed to go. Isn’t that a horrible thought?
Perfection
Count your blessings, instead of sheep. That is supposed to be a good way to go to sleep. It doesn’t work for me. It never has. I don’t go to sleep easily unless I am very sick, then I can barely stay awake, but most of my life I have put off going to bed in order to avoid the hours of lying there awake.
Focusing on anything, no matter whether it is sheep, or blessings, only keeps me awake. My mind is guaranteed to eventually wander. I will start to think about what a chore real sheep are, or how cute cartoon sheep seem. I will remember how Dale Evans once had a lamb in a movie that she kept bows on like a stuffed animal. My mind just grabs some aspect and runs with it.
Same thing with blessings. I think about all the really good people I know and pretty soon I am off on another tangent, imagining what they are doing now, or just did, or how they relate to other people in their lives and soon I am writing stories in my head that can keep me awake all night.
The only way I can go to sleep easily is to reach out to an imaginary place about three inches in front of my forehead. Here I focus on feeling the love and being of someone I love. I imagine myself being enveloped by that love and then expanding myself to fill in that space until we are only one.
I imagine it being similar to a cloud, or mist creeping gently into infinity and becoming something like that primordial space where creation began. It fills me with a sense of wonder and oneness. It is security and warmth, comfort and peace. It is like laying my head against the chest of the consummate lover, knowing all is well and all is truly well.
Focusing on anything, no matter whether it is sheep, or blessings, only keeps me awake. My mind is guaranteed to eventually wander. I will start to think about what a chore real sheep are, or how cute cartoon sheep seem. I will remember how Dale Evans once had a lamb in a movie that she kept bows on like a stuffed animal. My mind just grabs some aspect and runs with it.
Same thing with blessings. I think about all the really good people I know and pretty soon I am off on another tangent, imagining what they are doing now, or just did, or how they relate to other people in their lives and soon I am writing stories in my head that can keep me awake all night.
The only way I can go to sleep easily is to reach out to an imaginary place about three inches in front of my forehead. Here I focus on feeling the love and being of someone I love. I imagine myself being enveloped by that love and then expanding myself to fill in that space until we are only one.
I imagine it being similar to a cloud, or mist creeping gently into infinity and becoming something like that primordial space where creation began. It fills me with a sense of wonder and oneness. It is security and warmth, comfort and peace. It is like laying my head against the chest of the consummate lover, knowing all is well and all is truly well.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
What Do You Think?
Consumer spending is down. That does not seem surprising to me at all. In fact, it seems only right. I am sorry for the small businesses, like the one I worked for in Illinois for a while. It was a family business and I was not family, but they took really good care of us. When I couldn’t find insurance, they found it for me…and…they paid half of it! They treated us like family.
I am not so sorry for the big businesses who lay people off right and left, cut salaries, eliminate bonuses, or make them almost impossible to get. Nor, the ones who jack up interest rates without any provocation except that the people at the top are greedy.
People have to have money in order to spend it.
And having a little money, good people are sharing it with their friends and family who are not so fortunate, rather than buying extra junk, or even extra necessities. Those of us who live at the bottom of the tank need to band together if we are going to survive this little American adjustment.
Those at the top are not going to give up their life styles, or deeply ingrained beliefs without a fight and they are experienced fighters. The idea that they are entitled to their multi-million dollar homes, personal jets and special treatment while those who work for them sometimes don’t even have enough food, or health care is not something they like to think about. It is pretty easy to justify who you are if it has always been that way.
As changes go, this has been a gentle revolution so far. No riots in the street, no storming the halls of justice, no brandishing of arms in front of the magnate’s homes, but life in America is changing, as it had to do. There is always an end to the cornucopia and with more billionaires digging into it, that has become apparent to everyone. Now the top few percent grapple for what’s left and then we will really get down to business.
I see good people trying to care for those around them and I worry they will give until they too are in dire straits. What a strange and long spectrum this is.
So, what do you believe? Are there people out there who should not have the right to eat, or receive medical care, or even have a decent place to live? And if there aren’t, doesn’t something need to change?
I am not so sorry for the big businesses who lay people off right and left, cut salaries, eliminate bonuses, or make them almost impossible to get. Nor, the ones who jack up interest rates without any provocation except that the people at the top are greedy.
People have to have money in order to spend it.
And having a little money, good people are sharing it with their friends and family who are not so fortunate, rather than buying extra junk, or even extra necessities. Those of us who live at the bottom of the tank need to band together if we are going to survive this little American adjustment.
Those at the top are not going to give up their life styles, or deeply ingrained beliefs without a fight and they are experienced fighters. The idea that they are entitled to their multi-million dollar homes, personal jets and special treatment while those who work for them sometimes don’t even have enough food, or health care is not something they like to think about. It is pretty easy to justify who you are if it has always been that way.
As changes go, this has been a gentle revolution so far. No riots in the street, no storming the halls of justice, no brandishing of arms in front of the magnate’s homes, but life in America is changing, as it had to do. There is always an end to the cornucopia and with more billionaires digging into it, that has become apparent to everyone. Now the top few percent grapple for what’s left and then we will really get down to business.
I see good people trying to care for those around them and I worry they will give until they too are in dire straits. What a strange and long spectrum this is.
So, what do you believe? Are there people out there who should not have the right to eat, or receive medical care, or even have a decent place to live? And if there aren’t, doesn’t something need to change?
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Fringe Benefits
I should have my picture taken right now. It is a sad fact that I never seem to look better than when I am really sick.
I lose a little weight, my eyes take on a darker hue and the area around them is darker, the fever gives me a bright blush and all this steaming for my lungs has the secondary benefit of making my skin look really soft and clear.
Hurrah for pneumonia! Now if I only felt good, it would be wonderful. I feel like I could sleep forever even when I am sleeping. I dreamed I was too tired to climb up the steps in my dream.
It is amazing what a little boiling water can do. An old Hungarian Doctor once told me that steaming is what they used to do in the days before antibiotics. Make a tent over a pan of steaming hot water and it clears up the pain in my lungs for a couple of hours and even helps my sinuses. Don’t worry though. I have an antibiotic too.
Someone had the gall to mention that whenever I am really sad, I get sick. This is not that. Somewhere I caught this germ up front and in person!
I lose a little weight, my eyes take on a darker hue and the area around them is darker, the fever gives me a bright blush and all this steaming for my lungs has the secondary benefit of making my skin look really soft and clear.
Hurrah for pneumonia! Now if I only felt good, it would be wonderful. I feel like I could sleep forever even when I am sleeping. I dreamed I was too tired to climb up the steps in my dream.
It is amazing what a little boiling water can do. An old Hungarian Doctor once told me that steaming is what they used to do in the days before antibiotics. Make a tent over a pan of steaming hot water and it clears up the pain in my lungs for a couple of hours and even helps my sinuses. Don’t worry though. I have an antibiotic too.
Someone had the gall to mention that whenever I am really sad, I get sick. This is not that. Somewhere I caught this germ up front and in person!
My Thots Laid Up With Pneumonia
Wake up and smell the coffee! Better yet, wake up and smell that five dollar a cardboard cup coffee you can buy with whipped cream and caramel! You, the perfect American couple! One perfect man and one perfect woman with two perfect children, the all star football quarterback and the Homecoming, Prom Queen, cheerleader. Both high school valedictorians who go off to good colleges and graduate cum laude to move onto top level jobs. Five years later, while Mom and Dad retire to the well earned glory of southern golf courses, these children will marry other perfect children and continue on with the American legacy, upping the ante just one notch for the gipper in each generation of course.
It is the American nightmare, brought to you by those lovely people who gave us Humvees and psychoanalysis, and dedicated to the proposition that no problem is ever insurmountable given enough money and backed by a brash and aggressive American.
The reality of course, is that most of this is a bunch of hooey, so we spend our lives beating our heads against the window trying to get into a house that doesn’t exist.
Life is not about perfection. Life is about imperfection and the wonderful ways that human beings deal with it. Perfection is a concept right up there with Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy, an idea that makes no sense at all if you think about it. Nobody except maybe your mother ever wants your old teeth and anyone who dared to slide down a chimney in the middle of the night anymore, would immediately end up in jail. And while these guys make for a good story, they also make many people feel inferior and left out when the reality falls through.
Life is about secretly shoveling the snow for the widow down the street and taking a box of “extra” groceries to the family across the street and helping Uncle Harry get up the street to buy those cigars we all hate to smell, because he loves them and we love him. It is about bailing cousin Chris out of jail for the umpteenth time knowing he’ll be back in there next week. Then having to deal with those who rightfully say we are enablers, because we did it and we are.
Life is about compassion and love and all the imperfections that accompany them. It is about learning and growing and all those by-passes we take along the way. Life is real.
It is the American nightmare, brought to you by those lovely people who gave us Humvees and psychoanalysis, and dedicated to the proposition that no problem is ever insurmountable given enough money and backed by a brash and aggressive American.
The reality of course, is that most of this is a bunch of hooey, so we spend our lives beating our heads against the window trying to get into a house that doesn’t exist.
Life is not about perfection. Life is about imperfection and the wonderful ways that human beings deal with it. Perfection is a concept right up there with Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy, an idea that makes no sense at all if you think about it. Nobody except maybe your mother ever wants your old teeth and anyone who dared to slide down a chimney in the middle of the night anymore, would immediately end up in jail. And while these guys make for a good story, they also make many people feel inferior and left out when the reality falls through.
Life is about secretly shoveling the snow for the widow down the street and taking a box of “extra” groceries to the family across the street and helping Uncle Harry get up the street to buy those cigars we all hate to smell, because he loves them and we love him. It is about bailing cousin Chris out of jail for the umpteenth time knowing he’ll be back in there next week. Then having to deal with those who rightfully say we are enablers, because we did it and we are.
Life is about compassion and love and all the imperfections that accompany them. It is about learning and growing and all those by-passes we take along the way. Life is real.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Come Visit Me
What would you think if I wrote a bad thought, would you toss it and walk away from me?
Why do you come here? To read my poor thoughts? Do you care what is happening to me?
Or do you wonder, what I’m thinking of? Do you doubt that you’re still in my mind?
Can you imagine that I’d ever stop loving -- loving you all of the time?
What do you do at the end of the night, do you ever think twice about me?
Do you remember our very own moments? The ones just for you and for me?
Yes, I still love you, there’s never any doubt. You are part of this heart of mine.
And I won’t forget you no matter how far, you walk past this place and this time.
But my heart is a haven for loves in my life. The ones that are special to me.
It has no brick walls, no fences, or boundaries, to separate you from me.
You’re in good company whenever you’re here. So sweet and so good and so fine.
And if you still love me, you’re always welcome, to have tea in the mountain sunshine.
Why do you come here? To read my poor thoughts? Do you care what is happening to me?
Or do you wonder, what I’m thinking of? Do you doubt that you’re still in my mind?
Can you imagine that I’d ever stop loving -- loving you all of the time?
What do you do at the end of the night, do you ever think twice about me?
Do you remember our very own moments? The ones just for you and for me?
Yes, I still love you, there’s never any doubt. You are part of this heart of mine.
And I won’t forget you no matter how far, you walk past this place and this time.
But my heart is a haven for loves in my life. The ones that are special to me.
It has no brick walls, no fences, or boundaries, to separate you from me.
You’re in good company whenever you’re here. So sweet and so good and so fine.
And if you still love me, you’re always welcome, to have tea in the mountain sunshine.
Pete and Repeat
I arrived to watch Lennon today and he was playing Lego Star Wars. Pulling up a chair beside him, I asked if I could join him? It was a purely rhetorical question, of course. I always sit right beside him when he’s playing and I baby sit.
This time he glanced up and said, “Sure, if you can just sit there and be quiet. Don’t talk.” It was so hard not to laugh, but I promised to be quiet. Of course three seconds later he was chattering to me and we were off.
Three years old and he plays with the intensity of someone far older, leaning into the direction he’s going, shouting at the screen, moaning and groaning, whooping and cringing.
Thank goodness these men don’t die, they’re blocks that just fall apart, then reassemble! It is made for children and for a video game is really well done, but it is still very real for him. I have dreams about it after watching him play, so I can only imagine that he does too.
We have good imaginations in our family. Really good!
This time he glanced up and said, “Sure, if you can just sit there and be quiet. Don’t talk.” It was so hard not to laugh, but I promised to be quiet. Of course three seconds later he was chattering to me and we were off.
Three years old and he plays with the intensity of someone far older, leaning into the direction he’s going, shouting at the screen, moaning and groaning, whooping and cringing.
Thank goodness these men don’t die, they’re blocks that just fall apart, then reassemble! It is made for children and for a video game is really well done, but it is still very real for him. I have dreams about it after watching him play, so I can only imagine that he does too.
We have good imaginations in our family. Really good!
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Come One! Come All!
What are the Western Highlands of North Carolina?
Mountains and trails, bears and llama trains, waterfalls and pine forests, meandering streams and overgrown deciduous woods, surrounding small towns, rural homesteads and the city of Asheville.
Tourist areas that supplement the economy, by bringing in people who have a lot of money and are ready to spend it on over priced antiques, and even higher priced cottage arts and crafts. Who can say if they are fair, or not? It takes a lot of time to weave a basket, carve a statue, or piece a quilt and the money from selling these things must last long enough to buy food and gas and school necessities for the children. These things might make interesting and romantic movies, but there is really nothing romantic about being hungry, or cold and that is the reality for some of the families around us.
Kitschy little shopping areas that wow the retired set with their 1950’s settings, small shops filled with dolls and fairies, bakeries and restaurants. Elegant art galleries and chic boutiques for the young jet setters. Tie dye and incense for the hippies, potheads and poor, or perhaps those just wishing to reach back into their college days in the seventies. We have novelty in every from, from cute to exotic.
For me this is home now, rocks and rills mixed in among the trees and clouds. Small town living in the twenty first century where the people are mostly good and simple, ready to help each other out and living without many of the frills some folks consider so necessary in today’s world.
My guests come and in three days they can eat in turn of the century ice cream parlors, twentieth century pubs and even the Mellow Mushroom. We have it all!
Mountains and trails, bears and llama trains, waterfalls and pine forests, meandering streams and overgrown deciduous woods, surrounding small towns, rural homesteads and the city of Asheville.
Tourist areas that supplement the economy, by bringing in people who have a lot of money and are ready to spend it on over priced antiques, and even higher priced cottage arts and crafts. Who can say if they are fair, or not? It takes a lot of time to weave a basket, carve a statue, or piece a quilt and the money from selling these things must last long enough to buy food and gas and school necessities for the children. These things might make interesting and romantic movies, but there is really nothing romantic about being hungry, or cold and that is the reality for some of the families around us.
Kitschy little shopping areas that wow the retired set with their 1950’s settings, small shops filled with dolls and fairies, bakeries and restaurants. Elegant art galleries and chic boutiques for the young jet setters. Tie dye and incense for the hippies, potheads and poor, or perhaps those just wishing to reach back into their college days in the seventies. We have novelty in every from, from cute to exotic.
For me this is home now, rocks and rills mixed in among the trees and clouds. Small town living in the twenty first century where the people are mostly good and simple, ready to help each other out and living without many of the frills some folks consider so necessary in today’s world.
My guests come and in three days they can eat in turn of the century ice cream parlors, twentieth century pubs and even the Mellow Mushroom. We have it all!
Saturday, November 7, 2009
At The End Of The Day
Another wonderful day except that today I didn’t feel well enough to keep up. What an eye opener that was!
We started out at a charity flea market, put together to raise money for those folks in our county who need help heating their homes, and then moved on to do some antiquing. My sister secretly slipped me some money, just to be sure I didn’t feel left out and I was touched. We ate lunch at an awesome little place where I ordered a Monte Cristo and the raspberry jam was superb! Then we took off for a quaint little town nearby.
It was straight out of the 1950’s and a lot of fun to look through. We even stopped in an old fashioned ice cream store for hot fudge sundaes with whipped cream, eaten under painted tin ceilings with long spoons and laughter.
They shopped and I joined in here and there, sitting on the elegant little park benches along the way in between, just enjoying the weather and the sights. We spent some time upstairs tonight, visiting with my son and Lennon, then watched a movie and played Bunco before getting ready for bed.
Time is passing so quickly. There just aren’t enough hours in the day, but I am so tired that this day must end now!
We started out at a charity flea market, put together to raise money for those folks in our county who need help heating their homes, and then moved on to do some antiquing. My sister secretly slipped me some money, just to be sure I didn’t feel left out and I was touched. We ate lunch at an awesome little place where I ordered a Monte Cristo and the raspberry jam was superb! Then we took off for a quaint little town nearby.
It was straight out of the 1950’s and a lot of fun to look through. We even stopped in an old fashioned ice cream store for hot fudge sundaes with whipped cream, eaten under painted tin ceilings with long spoons and laughter.
They shopped and I joined in here and there, sitting on the elegant little park benches along the way in between, just enjoying the weather and the sights. We spent some time upstairs tonight, visiting with my son and Lennon, then watched a movie and played Bunco before getting ready for bed.
Time is passing so quickly. There just aren’t enough hours in the day, but I am so tired that this day must end now!
Friday, November 6, 2009
Climbing Chimney Rock
Happiness is hearing my sister’s laugh echoing off the rocks above me!
The mountains are gorgeous! Painted every shade of orange and red, gold and brown, all stippled against the stark dark bones of trees whose arms reach up from every conceivable angle. And we are working our way skyward, trying to reach the summit before legs and lungs give out.
I finally give in. I can go no farther, so I sit down on a rock, watching a young raccoon family playing in the small cave nearby, trying to take pictures of the buzzards floating over the valley below and visiting with those who stop to sit beside me for a while.
The rest go on, they want to claim the top before we head home and I am glad for them, but the beauty of being with kindred spirits is doing what I want and I want to sit here for a while, enjoy the day.
The mountains are gorgeous! Painted every shade of orange and red, gold and brown, all stippled against the stark dark bones of trees whose arms reach up from every conceivable angle. And we are working our way skyward, trying to reach the summit before legs and lungs give out.
I finally give in. I can go no farther, so I sit down on a rock, watching a young raccoon family playing in the small cave nearby, trying to take pictures of the buzzards floating over the valley below and visiting with those who stop to sit beside me for a while.
The rest go on, they want to claim the top before we head home and I am glad for them, but the beauty of being with kindred spirits is doing what I want and I want to sit here for a while, enjoy the day.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
It’s Time!
Timing is everything.
I’ve heard that phrase all my life. It was definitely true at recitals and concerts. Important at social occasions and when speaking in public. Valuable in class, good when trying to make a point and on and on.
Well, it is also true when paying off credit cards with balance transfers. My bank had no trouble charging me the extra, but they have yet to pay the card off that they said they would.
And…it is also true when trying to feed incoming guests who turn out to be hours late. Because? Because they went hiking! Yikes, be nice Linda, be nice!
And… it is also true when mailing a letter across the country. Normally takes three to four days, but not this time!
The Gods of Time are all against me. Out to get me! Driving me nuts!
I just hate it when I have no control over my life like this.
I’ve heard that phrase all my life. It was definitely true at recitals and concerts. Important at social occasions and when speaking in public. Valuable in class, good when trying to make a point and on and on.
Well, it is also true when paying off credit cards with balance transfers. My bank had no trouble charging me the extra, but they have yet to pay the card off that they said they would.
And…it is also true when trying to feed incoming guests who turn out to be hours late. Because? Because they went hiking! Yikes, be nice Linda, be nice!
And… it is also true when mailing a letter across the country. Normally takes three to four days, but not this time!
The Gods of Time are all against me. Out to get me! Driving me nuts!
I just hate it when I have no control over my life like this.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
The Rescue Squad
Family and friends swooping in to save me tomorrow! Not that I need to be saved, mind you, but that’s what they do.
They left today and will arrive tomorrow afternoon sometime, to lift me up and carry me away for a few days. I suppose I really do need this and I am looking forward to them, but I just don’t have the energy to really get ready right now.
I know that won’t matter either. Last year they washed windows, built a rock garden and we hit every antique barn within a hundred miles. I’ll be busy, so might not be able to write every night. I haven’t had much to say anyway, so maybe this is a good thing.
It is a good thing! As I always say, you can never have too many people who love you.
They left today and will arrive tomorrow afternoon sometime, to lift me up and carry me away for a few days. I suppose I really do need this and I am looking forward to them, but I just don’t have the energy to really get ready right now.
I know that won’t matter either. Last year they washed windows, built a rock garden and we hit every antique barn within a hundred miles. I’ll be busy, so might not be able to write every night. I haven’t had much to say anyway, so maybe this is a good thing.
It is a good thing! As I always say, you can never have too many people who love you.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Beware! I am sick today.
I’m not feeling good, but I also think I am becoming a cynical human being. Sitting here today, the thought popped into my head that if anyone is helping anyone out for any reason, other than it being necessary for the keeping and maintaining of their own heart and soul (and I use these strictly as metaphors for sanity and well-being) they haven’t really “got it.”
I don’t think being able to, or trying to, buy my way into anyone, or anything’s good graces is a good enough reason to feel good about myself. Those actions don’t speak about the true nature of loving and giving.
It they did, all rich men/women would be at the top of all lists, which many people do believe is true. The richest person could give the most, pay people to do the most, get to heaven faster and be considered wiser than everyone else. The most fanatic of the fanatics could also be at the head of the class when it came to doing good deeds, but I don’t believe these are truly valid requisites for being a deeply good person.
Likewise, I don’t believe that I, giving my paltry few dollars, am any better than the guy giving ten. I may be, but if I am, it is not because of the amount I am giving, no matter how hard it was for me to come up with it. I don’t believe it is possible to measure goodness in anything except the feelings behind them. Suffering doesn’t count no matter how noble it is. If someone is truly completely altruistic in every single way, they are the best.
Who can measure that? No one that I know of and that is probably just as well, because a lot of good is done by a lot of people for all the wrong reasons and most of it works just as well as otherwise. Thank goodness for our selfish needs, they can benefit mankind and just about everything else -- they just don’t benefit us to the nth degree.
I don’t think being able to, or trying to, buy my way into anyone, or anything’s good graces is a good enough reason to feel good about myself. Those actions don’t speak about the true nature of loving and giving.
It they did, all rich men/women would be at the top of all lists, which many people do believe is true. The richest person could give the most, pay people to do the most, get to heaven faster and be considered wiser than everyone else. The most fanatic of the fanatics could also be at the head of the class when it came to doing good deeds, but I don’t believe these are truly valid requisites for being a deeply good person.
Likewise, I don’t believe that I, giving my paltry few dollars, am any better than the guy giving ten. I may be, but if I am, it is not because of the amount I am giving, no matter how hard it was for me to come up with it. I don’t believe it is possible to measure goodness in anything except the feelings behind them. Suffering doesn’t count no matter how noble it is. If someone is truly completely altruistic in every single way, they are the best.
Who can measure that? No one that I know of and that is probably just as well, because a lot of good is done by a lot of people for all the wrong reasons and most of it works just as well as otherwise. Thank goodness for our selfish needs, they can benefit mankind and just about everything else -- they just don’t benefit us to the nth degree.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Simple Goodness
I have spent most of this day doing really nothing at all. I don’t seem to have the energy, nor the motivation to get up and get going. I am feeling tired. The cloudy day was perfect for holing up and hibernating. Allowing myself the indulgences of doing nothing and I mean really nothing. I did not watch television, or read, or meditate, or really even think. Somehow this day just passed me by.
Tonight, as I took the garbage and recycling bags up to the front street, I noticed the moon. Bright yellow and almost glittery, but with a rainbow-like nimbus around it. A strange looking phenomena that I’m sure people would have attached great significance to in the olden days. Heck, for all I know, someone is still doing that, dancing around in some meadow, beating drums and chanting because the clouds have left a hole for the moon to peek through.
In the midst of incredible greed, horrific hidden prejudices, and a million other plagues. People are doing anything to make things better. Their idea of better that is, not necessarily really better.
Only a few people I know are doing good just because it is the right thing to do, but these few are the ones who give me the energy to write my thots at the end of a day like this. People who willingly give others what they need simply because they love them, really love them. People who put their money or their actions or their thoughts where their heart is, no strings attached. From those who sit rocking their babies and singing them to sleep, to those who make that action possible, I am grateful. What beautiful people they are!
I pick Chauncey up and give him a cuddle. It is really a surrogate cuddle, a hug for all those good folks I cannot reach, the ones who make this night not just bearable, but sweet.
Tonight, as I took the garbage and recycling bags up to the front street, I noticed the moon. Bright yellow and almost glittery, but with a rainbow-like nimbus around it. A strange looking phenomena that I’m sure people would have attached great significance to in the olden days. Heck, for all I know, someone is still doing that, dancing around in some meadow, beating drums and chanting because the clouds have left a hole for the moon to peek through.
In the midst of incredible greed, horrific hidden prejudices, and a million other plagues. People are doing anything to make things better. Their idea of better that is, not necessarily really better.
Only a few people I know are doing good just because it is the right thing to do, but these few are the ones who give me the energy to write my thots at the end of a day like this. People who willingly give others what they need simply because they love them, really love them. People who put their money or their actions or their thoughts where their heart is, no strings attached. From those who sit rocking their babies and singing them to sleep, to those who make that action possible, I am grateful. What beautiful people they are!
I pick Chauncey up and give him a cuddle. It is really a surrogate cuddle, a hug for all those good folks I cannot reach, the ones who make this night not just bearable, but sweet.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Echoes Of A Muse
“Well, it’s gonna happen, so just going to live with it.” Honest words, spoken quietly and calmly. It is a wise person who can live by this philosophy.
Everyone is different. We don’t all have the same favorite colors and we don’t all feel things the same way, but that does not negate the wisdom of facing the truth squarely and avoiding as much drama as possible. It’s a much healthier way of coping that mine.
I do try. I try very hard to deal with life in the moment, but my natural tendency is to try and protect myself up front. I have to watch myself, because I will keep everyone at an arm’s distance in order to avoid the pain of letting go later on. I purposely try not to allow myself to do that.
I try to just give my natural desire to be loving and close, free reign, knowing that eventually there will be separation and pain, but that the richness and the joy that comes first, is worth it.
It is. It also falls under, “Well, it’s gonna happen, so (I’m) just going to live with it.”
So I do a lot of sharing, a lot of loving and eventually it is inevitable that there will be holes when these people move on, but “Well, it’s gonna happen, so just going to live with it.”
It is who I am. Sometimes I fill the holes with tears and find myself treading water before I get over it enough to find those proverbial windows that are supposed to open up. The thing is, I know they are there, but I forget how much pain often precedes them.
That is probably a good thing.
Everyone is different. We don’t all have the same favorite colors and we don’t all feel things the same way, but that does not negate the wisdom of facing the truth squarely and avoiding as much drama as possible. It’s a much healthier way of coping that mine.
I do try. I try very hard to deal with life in the moment, but my natural tendency is to try and protect myself up front. I have to watch myself, because I will keep everyone at an arm’s distance in order to avoid the pain of letting go later on. I purposely try not to allow myself to do that.
I try to just give my natural desire to be loving and close, free reign, knowing that eventually there will be separation and pain, but that the richness and the joy that comes first, is worth it.
It is. It also falls under, “Well, it’s gonna happen, so (I’m) just going to live with it.”
So I do a lot of sharing, a lot of loving and eventually it is inevitable that there will be holes when these people move on, but “Well, it’s gonna happen, so just going to live with it.”
It is who I am. Sometimes I fill the holes with tears and find myself treading water before I get over it enough to find those proverbial windows that are supposed to open up. The thing is, I know they are there, but I forget how much pain often precedes them.
That is probably a good thing.
Happy Halloween
Writers are ghouls of the most persnickety sort.
I don’t want your blood. I actually have no use for that, but I do want to pick your brain, steal your experiences. And I’m not content with just being a voyeuristic ghoul. I want to know how it felt when your baby said his first word, or what you were thinking when you smiled at Aunt Mabel’s funeral last spring.
It’s cool that you can ride a skateboard down the railing at city hall without getting arrested, but what was your first thought when that bone in your arm snapped and popped out through your shirt? What was it like to dive headfirst over the waterfall and how did you learn to do a somersault like that? When you sleep in a sling two thousand feet up on a cliff, what do you dream?
How do you keep track of all the jurors you are questioning without a notepad and what happens if you realize you can’t do it, but there you are? What makes you cry and what makes you laugh so hard you almost pee in your pants?
What is the worst thing you think you ever did? What was the sweetest? Are you afraid to look bad, or sweet? I have a million questions. Just like Aunt Lu used to line her bird cage with the daily news, I line my thoughts with news of you! Then I mix them all up and create characters in the image of a dozen different people. No costumes necessary!
I don’t want your blood. I actually have no use for that, but I do want to pick your brain, steal your experiences. And I’m not content with just being a voyeuristic ghoul. I want to know how it felt when your baby said his first word, or what you were thinking when you smiled at Aunt Mabel’s funeral last spring.
It’s cool that you can ride a skateboard down the railing at city hall without getting arrested, but what was your first thought when that bone in your arm snapped and popped out through your shirt? What was it like to dive headfirst over the waterfall and how did you learn to do a somersault like that? When you sleep in a sling two thousand feet up on a cliff, what do you dream?
How do you keep track of all the jurors you are questioning without a notepad and what happens if you realize you can’t do it, but there you are? What makes you cry and what makes you laugh so hard you almost pee in your pants?
What is the worst thing you think you ever did? What was the sweetest? Are you afraid to look bad, or sweet? I have a million questions. Just like Aunt Lu used to line her bird cage with the daily news, I line my thoughts with news of you! Then I mix them all up and create characters in the image of a dozen different people. No costumes necessary!
Friday, October 30, 2009
I Will Remember You
I remember being your age and I remember the mentors and people along my way who helped me out and were there for me. I remember how odd that sometimes seemed, but it was nice anyway.
I had no idea of the real potential they saw in me, (and some still do and that still seems a little odd to me.) I had no idea how much they were willing to invest in me, no idea how much I meant to them. To me they were simply kind people sprinkled along the pathway of my life. I left most of them behind without a second thought, until now when I realize how much their faith in me helped me to get where I am. That is as it should be.
It is that faith I have in you. I know you have everything you need right now. You were born with it and you will be able to draw on it, grow with it and use it for the rest of your life. I have only been blessed to watch you for a short while, but that while has left me tangled up in feelings so much deeper than I ever might have believed was possible. I discover I would do almost anything for you.
In the villages long ago, you might have called me Grandmother, just a name for a woman who had lived long enough to love easily and be wise enough to see the power in you. In today’s world we will probably never meet again, but I will remember you.
I had no idea of the real potential they saw in me, (and some still do and that still seems a little odd to me.) I had no idea how much they were willing to invest in me, no idea how much I meant to them. To me they were simply kind people sprinkled along the pathway of my life. I left most of them behind without a second thought, until now when I realize how much their faith in me helped me to get where I am. That is as it should be.
It is that faith I have in you. I know you have everything you need right now. You were born with it and you will be able to draw on it, grow with it and use it for the rest of your life. I have only been blessed to watch you for a short while, but that while has left me tangled up in feelings so much deeper than I ever might have believed was possible. I discover I would do almost anything for you.
In the villages long ago, you might have called me Grandmother, just a name for a woman who had lived long enough to love easily and be wise enough to see the power in you. In today’s world we will probably never meet again, but I will remember you.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Pavarotti And Building Inspectors
I had another Pavarotti dream, my third this year. If they continue perhaps I should start a book called my adventures with Pavarotti After He Died. You may, or may not, remember that I dreamed he came to stay with me and watch Women’s World Cup Soccer. Then I dreamed he came to judge an art show, but I ran into him in the hall. He put his arm around me and walked me in. In his hands were a plate of white chocolate covered strawberries and a plate of jelly doughnuts! Tucked up under his other arm were a collection of my framed paintings! He had already decided I’d won!
Today I dreamed I had to rush home because the building inspectors were coming. It was nearly dark when I arrived to find televisions and radios blaring throughout the house. I could not seem to make the remote controls work to turn them off, so I nearly missed hearing the Park Ranger knocking on my door. In fact I did miss him at the front door, so I rushed around to the side one and caught him there just before he left the porch. I told him to make himself at home while I turned off the TVs. I finally just turned the one in the front room way down, but I couldn’t even seem to do that with the radio under the kitchen cabinet.
I heard the door again and this time it was the committee for building inspections, a woman and two men dressed like Dick Tracy. And, Pavarotti! I ushered them all into the family room, seating the first three in over stuffed chairs along one wall and Pavarotti in a kitchen chair beside me, facing them. Then I realized I’d left them in the dark, so I reached over one of the men and turned on a lamp that was too bright,. I had to reach over him again and turn it down a bit.
In the meantime the kitchen radio is blasting away and I excuse myself one more time, thinking maybe I will just rip the thing off the wall and chuck it into the trash, but I don't. Returning to the family room I sit down. Pavarotti turns to me and asks my opinion on something and I am in awe! I see the Park Ranger lurking in the pine trees outside the French doors and hope he has the good sense to go away! Surely he will see that I am talking to Pavarotti!
Pavarotti says he is thinking that it took place around the late 1700’s then he asks me when the Treaty of Menominee was and I tell him I think that was later, more like mid 1800’s. We continue on as the building inspectors talk among themselves. I am constantly aware of who I am talking to and in absolute awe. The woman inspector takes some scraps of paper and scribbles down three questions, then hands them and a pencil to the man on her left saying we need to just vote. I can see some of the words and wonder if I know anything about what we are voting for? Finally thinking, oh well, how hard can it be, I am having a deep and personal discussion with Pavarotti! I woke up right then and thought, oh, I need to hurry. Pavarotti is in the kitchen!
What does this all mean? What does it have to do with my thots? Well, I’m still in awe that I spent the evening with Pavarotti. This is my world!
Today I dreamed I had to rush home because the building inspectors were coming. It was nearly dark when I arrived to find televisions and radios blaring throughout the house. I could not seem to make the remote controls work to turn them off, so I nearly missed hearing the Park Ranger knocking on my door. In fact I did miss him at the front door, so I rushed around to the side one and caught him there just before he left the porch. I told him to make himself at home while I turned off the TVs. I finally just turned the one in the front room way down, but I couldn’t even seem to do that with the radio under the kitchen cabinet.
I heard the door again and this time it was the committee for building inspections, a woman and two men dressed like Dick Tracy. And, Pavarotti! I ushered them all into the family room, seating the first three in over stuffed chairs along one wall and Pavarotti in a kitchen chair beside me, facing them. Then I realized I’d left them in the dark, so I reached over one of the men and turned on a lamp that was too bright,. I had to reach over him again and turn it down a bit.
In the meantime the kitchen radio is blasting away and I excuse myself one more time, thinking maybe I will just rip the thing off the wall and chuck it into the trash, but I don't. Returning to the family room I sit down. Pavarotti turns to me and asks my opinion on something and I am in awe! I see the Park Ranger lurking in the pine trees outside the French doors and hope he has the good sense to go away! Surely he will see that I am talking to Pavarotti!
Pavarotti says he is thinking that it took place around the late 1700’s then he asks me when the Treaty of Menominee was and I tell him I think that was later, more like mid 1800’s. We continue on as the building inspectors talk among themselves. I am constantly aware of who I am talking to and in absolute awe. The woman inspector takes some scraps of paper and scribbles down three questions, then hands them and a pencil to the man on her left saying we need to just vote. I can see some of the words and wonder if I know anything about what we are voting for? Finally thinking, oh well, how hard can it be, I am having a deep and personal discussion with Pavarotti! I woke up right then and thought, oh, I need to hurry. Pavarotti is in the kitchen!
What does this all mean? What does it have to do with my thots? Well, I’m still in awe that I spent the evening with Pavarotti. This is my world!
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
A Museum Of Moments
What a gift this pain is! Each stinging memory, every burning thought that brings tears to my eyes is a poignant and precious reminder of the love that caused it. Had there been less to lose, I might not have even noticed its loss.
But this? This is a grand celebration of that rare and lovely thing that carried me to the mountaintop and turned my face to the light. It is a goodie bag filled with soft dreams and an imagination stuffed to the brim with stories and thoughts so brilliant they fed my body even as they fed my soul.
Each priceless tear carries a smile, or grimace, a laugh, or look that once was part of the reflection in my eye. Every long sigh empties my lungs and forces them to refill themselves for the next, but it is the breath running across my quivering lips that sends shivers down my back, reminding me that that moment has passed and a new one will never be the same.
Priceless moments, a veritable museum of antiquities that are framed and hung along the walls of this person I am, but wait! What is that?
A magnanimous gesture, an act of selflessness and pure goodness flashes before me and my slide down into the valley of darkness slows down! Is it possible that there is life after love? Can it be that love lost only deepens the groove for love to come? Is it shallow to be so easily turned from terrifying black hole, to a creature of wonder?
I don’t think so. I think it is only the life line being tuned so that it vibrates more closely to the loving lines all around it. A sign that the last love was a great one, a harbinger of things to come, one moment in the midst of a flower garden of moments, each one sweeter and more beautiful than the last.
One flower is plucked from my life so that I might see the hand that is tending the garden.
But this? This is a grand celebration of that rare and lovely thing that carried me to the mountaintop and turned my face to the light. It is a goodie bag filled with soft dreams and an imagination stuffed to the brim with stories and thoughts so brilliant they fed my body even as they fed my soul.
Each priceless tear carries a smile, or grimace, a laugh, or look that once was part of the reflection in my eye. Every long sigh empties my lungs and forces them to refill themselves for the next, but it is the breath running across my quivering lips that sends shivers down my back, reminding me that that moment has passed and a new one will never be the same.
Priceless moments, a veritable museum of antiquities that are framed and hung along the walls of this person I am, but wait! What is that?
A magnanimous gesture, an act of selflessness and pure goodness flashes before me and my slide down into the valley of darkness slows down! Is it possible that there is life after love? Can it be that love lost only deepens the groove for love to come? Is it shallow to be so easily turned from terrifying black hole, to a creature of wonder?
I don’t think so. I think it is only the life line being tuned so that it vibrates more closely to the loving lines all around it. A sign that the last love was a great one, a harbinger of things to come, one moment in the midst of a flower garden of moments, each one sweeter and more beautiful than the last.
One flower is plucked from my life so that I might see the hand that is tending the garden.
Exquisite
If you could look into my eyes tonight you would see the most exquisite pain and joy.
Watching the golden bird fly into the sunrise is a bittersweet gift. I would not wish it otherwise. The horizon offers an immense array of possibilities for such a sweet creature and it deserves only the finest and the best.
I admit my eyes will shed a tear, or two. My time for standing before its cage in adoration is over. Life offered me the joy of reaching out with one finger and feeling those tiny feet brush over it. For that I am eternally grateful.
Now I will close my eyes and envision a brighter world where it can build its nest in the fullness of prosperity and contentment, free to be and do whatever its heart desires and knowing whatever that is, it will be perfect
Watching the golden bird fly into the sunrise is a bittersweet gift. I would not wish it otherwise. The horizon offers an immense array of possibilities for such a sweet creature and it deserves only the finest and the best.
I admit my eyes will shed a tear, or two. My time for standing before its cage in adoration is over. Life offered me the joy of reaching out with one finger and feeling those tiny feet brush over it. For that I am eternally grateful.
Now I will close my eyes and envision a brighter world where it can build its nest in the fullness of prosperity and contentment, free to be and do whatever its heart desires and knowing whatever that is, it will be perfect
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