All my life has been intense
Must be a good girl
Must make sense
No flights of fancy to take me away
And then I changed . . .
One day I looked around and saw
A world of wonder
World of awe
With love and passion and art and sound
And then I felt . . .
I peeled off the layers
Shed the skin
Ditched the prayers
Let love in
Felt it down to my very toes
I see it in colors, see how it grows
Put it on canvas
Take a picture
Feel it
Own it
Rock the beat
Taste the nectar
Sharp and sweet
Life takes charge!
Friday, August 27, 2010
Friday, July 16, 2010
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Dammit, another poem!
I can see clearly
If I close my eyes
Let my mind go
Loose the ties
That keep me bound
To the "real" world
I see love
A golden thread
Woven through the universe
Showing the beauty
Of every living thing
Harmony, peace
Fragile thing, though
Easily lost
In the mad tarantella
That is called life
By those who do not see
Logical, rational
Imagination suspended
Power, wealth
I close my eyes
And choose love
If I close my eyes
Let my mind go
Loose the ties
That keep me bound
To the "real" world
I see love
A golden thread
Woven through the universe
Showing the beauty
Of every living thing
Harmony, peace
Fragile thing, though
Easily lost
In the mad tarantella
That is called life
By those who do not see
Logical, rational
Imagination suspended
Power, wealth
I close my eyes
And choose love
Friday, May 21, 2010
A Blurred Line
Do we really know what’s on the other side? Do spirits communicate with the living? I believe so. I think the lines between dimensions, conscious, unconscious and subconscious, are fluid depending on circumstances and perception. An example:
In February 2003 my father put a bullet in his brain. The ripple effect from his violent action resonated through my family. My mother, who was in a nursing home with Alzheimer’s, never noticed that her husband stopped visiting. I grieved. I still do. My husband blamed himself because they’d had a disagreement the last time Dad had been at our house. My 10-year-old daughter appeared to matter-of-factly deal with her grandfather’s death, then catalogued it and moved on. My 7-year-old son was devastated.
Grandpa belonged to Jackson. They played together, shared a bond that linked generation to generation. His death left a hole in Jackson’s universe.
In October 2003 we decided to take a road trip to Florida to visit friends. We rented a van to accommodate our family and a friend and his daughter who were also headed to the massive house party that was gathering on Hallowe’en. The trip was mapped, planned, budgeted, and began.
We left after work, picking up Mark and his quiet teenage daughter Teddy on the way out of Dallas. We intended to spend a night in Shreveport, and then have a hard drive to Panama City Beach in time for Hallowe’en. Mark sheepishly told us that, while he was perfectly delighted to help with the driving, it would be best for all involved if he did not take the wheel while in the state of Louisiana, as the law enforcement officials of that state had long memories and good computers.
The trip to Shreveport was uneventful. We started at twilight and drove for three hours as darkness fell, the children grew quiet, and Mark’s daughter strummed quietly on her guitar.
We spent the night in Shreveport, had a hard day’s drive to Panama City Beach, and a wonderful, relaxing vacation among a group of friends who because of their shared religious experience knew how to live life to the fullest. We returned home relaxed, refreshed, and renewed.
Life went on.
Several months later, over dinner, Jackson suddenly asked: “What happened to that boy?”
“What boy?” we asked, mystified.
“The boy who rode with us to Shreveport,” Jackson replied, slightly astonished that he should need to explain.
Again we asked: “What boy, Jackson? There was Mark and his daughter Teddy and the four of us. That was it. Are you thinking of Teddy?”
“NO, not Teddy,” he insisted firmly. “There was a boy. He had dark hair and dark clothes. He was really nice and he sat next to me all the way to Shreveport and I didn’t see him after that. Where did he go?”
We were stunned into silence. There was no flesh-and-blood live boy in that van. Yet, 7 years later, Jackson is still firmly convinced that he had a friend keep him company on the ride to Shreveport.
In February 2003 my father put a bullet in his brain. The ripple effect from his violent action resonated through my family. My mother, who was in a nursing home with Alzheimer’s, never noticed that her husband stopped visiting. I grieved. I still do. My husband blamed himself because they’d had a disagreement the last time Dad had been at our house. My 10-year-old daughter appeared to matter-of-factly deal with her grandfather’s death, then catalogued it and moved on. My 7-year-old son was devastated.
Grandpa belonged to Jackson. They played together, shared a bond that linked generation to generation. His death left a hole in Jackson’s universe.
In October 2003 we decided to take a road trip to Florida to visit friends. We rented a van to accommodate our family and a friend and his daughter who were also headed to the massive house party that was gathering on Hallowe’en. The trip was mapped, planned, budgeted, and began.
We left after work, picking up Mark and his quiet teenage daughter Teddy on the way out of Dallas. We intended to spend a night in Shreveport, and then have a hard drive to Panama City Beach in time for Hallowe’en. Mark sheepishly told us that, while he was perfectly delighted to help with the driving, it would be best for all involved if he did not take the wheel while in the state of Louisiana, as the law enforcement officials of that state had long memories and good computers.
The trip to Shreveport was uneventful. We started at twilight and drove for three hours as darkness fell, the children grew quiet, and Mark’s daughter strummed quietly on her guitar.
We spent the night in Shreveport, had a hard day’s drive to Panama City Beach, and a wonderful, relaxing vacation among a group of friends who because of their shared religious experience knew how to live life to the fullest. We returned home relaxed, refreshed, and renewed.
Life went on.
Several months later, over dinner, Jackson suddenly asked: “What happened to that boy?”
“What boy?” we asked, mystified.
“The boy who rode with us to Shreveport,” Jackson replied, slightly astonished that he should need to explain.
Again we asked: “What boy, Jackson? There was Mark and his daughter Teddy and the four of us. That was it. Are you thinking of Teddy?”
“NO, not Teddy,” he insisted firmly. “There was a boy. He had dark hair and dark clothes. He was really nice and he sat next to me all the way to Shreveport and I didn’t see him after that. Where did he go?”
We were stunned into silence. There was no flesh-and-blood live boy in that van. Yet, 7 years later, Jackson is still firmly convinced that he had a friend keep him company on the ride to Shreveport.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Sex and Violence and Springtime
Every spring in Richardson, Texas, a riot of color delights the eye as poppies, bluebonnets, daisies and Indian paintbrushes burst forth in medians, the service road of the Expressway, and the library grounds from seeds sown by the environmentally aware Parks & Recreations Department. Parents dress up their little darlings and pose them among the wildflowers for family portraits.
I was no different. When Jennie was two years old, I dressed her up in a little sundress, drove to the wildflower field near the Richardson Library and took adorable portraits of my curly blond-headed child. Inspired by the thought of matching pictures, when Jackson turned two, I made the pilgrimage to the wildflower field, children in tow.
Jackson has allergies. LOTS of allergies, and it only took five minutes to find out what exactly tripped his histamines.
As I posed him in the wildflowers, I watched him begin to break out in a rash. With each succeeding photo, his skin became redder and bumpier. His cherubic face, instead of dimpling in a smile, wore a pained expression. He started to scratch and twitch and, finally, began to cry. I quickly lifted him out of the offending pollen-makers and took him back to the car.
As a distraction, I decided to take the children to a nearby pond that was home to a great many ducks. We got some stale bread from home and parked at the duck pond. As we exited the car and looked at the vast array of water fowl, I realized with a sinking feeling that spring, in addition to bringing adorable downy ducklings, also rams home the process by which said ducklings arrive: SEX.
The duck pond was full of ducks, most of which in various stages of pursuit and copulation. Nearby a drake sat on top of a duck, enthusiastically pecking the top of her head, which was bloody.
Jennie was aghast. “Mommy, what’s that duck doing to the other duck?”
“They’re mating, honey. That’s how they get little ducks,” I explained, trying to use words that a 4-year-old could understand.
Jennie thought about it for a minute. “Ouch,” she said, somewhat shocked.
I started to explain that sex was a lot more fun (and less bloody) for humans and then decided that was too much information. I hurried the children over to a quiet end of the pond, where a mama duck was paddling around with six fluffy yellow ducklings. We admired the ducklings, fed them some bread, and were delighting in the pastoral scene when a dark shape began to rise from the depths of the pond. Expecting the theme from “Jaws” to begin playing at any moment, we watched, horrified, as a large turtle shot to the surface, grabbed a duckling by the feet, and took it down.
Jennie and Jackson froze, stunned, as the duckling failed to return to the surface. After a long moment of shocked silence, a few fragile air bubbles rose to the top, and the five remaining ducklings and their mother paddled off.
Jennie broke the silence. “Did the turtle eat the duck?” she asked in tones of terror.
I gulped. “Yes,” I said in a small voice.
“WHY???” she demanded.
“Because the turtle was hungry,” I said simply. “Animals eat other animals when they’re hungry, just like we eat hamburgers and chicken.”
At that point, I decided that there had been enough life lessons for one afternoon. We’d run the gamut of sex, violence, survival of the fittest and the itchies all in one glorious spring afternoon, so we retreated to the benign comfort of Blue’s Clues and Kipper in our air-conditioned and pollen free home.
I was no different. When Jennie was two years old, I dressed her up in a little sundress, drove to the wildflower field near the Richardson Library and took adorable portraits of my curly blond-headed child. Inspired by the thought of matching pictures, when Jackson turned two, I made the pilgrimage to the wildflower field, children in tow.
Jackson has allergies. LOTS of allergies, and it only took five minutes to find out what exactly tripped his histamines.
As I posed him in the wildflowers, I watched him begin to break out in a rash. With each succeeding photo, his skin became redder and bumpier. His cherubic face, instead of dimpling in a smile, wore a pained expression. He started to scratch and twitch and, finally, began to cry. I quickly lifted him out of the offending pollen-makers and took him back to the car.
As a distraction, I decided to take the children to a nearby pond that was home to a great many ducks. We got some stale bread from home and parked at the duck pond. As we exited the car and looked at the vast array of water fowl, I realized with a sinking feeling that spring, in addition to bringing adorable downy ducklings, also rams home the process by which said ducklings arrive: SEX.
The duck pond was full of ducks, most of which in various stages of pursuit and copulation. Nearby a drake sat on top of a duck, enthusiastically pecking the top of her head, which was bloody.
Jennie was aghast. “Mommy, what’s that duck doing to the other duck?”
“They’re mating, honey. That’s how they get little ducks,” I explained, trying to use words that a 4-year-old could understand.
Jennie thought about it for a minute. “Ouch,” she said, somewhat shocked.
I started to explain that sex was a lot more fun (and less bloody) for humans and then decided that was too much information. I hurried the children over to a quiet end of the pond, where a mama duck was paddling around with six fluffy yellow ducklings. We admired the ducklings, fed them some bread, and were delighting in the pastoral scene when a dark shape began to rise from the depths of the pond. Expecting the theme from “Jaws” to begin playing at any moment, we watched, horrified, as a large turtle shot to the surface, grabbed a duckling by the feet, and took it down.
Jennie and Jackson froze, stunned, as the duckling failed to return to the surface. After a long moment of shocked silence, a few fragile air bubbles rose to the top, and the five remaining ducklings and their mother paddled off.
Jennie broke the silence. “Did the turtle eat the duck?” she asked in tones of terror.
I gulped. “Yes,” I said in a small voice.
“WHY???” she demanded.
“Because the turtle was hungry,” I said simply. “Animals eat other animals when they’re hungry, just like we eat hamburgers and chicken.”
At that point, I decided that there had been enough life lessons for one afternoon. We’d run the gamut of sex, violence, survival of the fittest and the itchies all in one glorious spring afternoon, so we retreated to the benign comfort of Blue’s Clues and Kipper in our air-conditioned and pollen free home.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
The Tapestry of Life
I'm 54 years old. Lately I've "seen" things differently. At first I was alarmed that this new sense of life meant I was going to die soon (I’m half Greek and have a more-than-slight tendency to add an unneeded note of drama to my ordinary life) but now I have accepted that this is merely another interesting page unfolding for me.
When I was in 10th grade Art Class, I had a wonderful teacher, Mrs. Brown, who once upon a lazy warm day, showed us how to start a picture with a center design: circle, square, star, whatever. Once we established our center, we drew lines or ovals around it. Then we added around the circles and lines, spreading outward until we had filled the page with beautiful, random forms and figures. We colored them in as we pleased, and a gorgeous tapestry or quilt was created. It was really a kind of glorified doodle, but so very much fun and cool and beautiful. It kind of reached out to the universe, had no end, and to me represented . . . endless possibilities.
At this point in my life I feel very aware of that tapestry or quilt. Everything I do each day, every person I meet, is an interaction with the entire earth in a small way. Kind deeds spread outward to affect countless others (if I smile at a clerk, maybe they will smile at their next customer, and so on and so on). The sight of the full moon spreads beauty throughout the town of Murphy and outward to all of Dallas, and even further out, spreading its gentle glow over the earth. The energy I expend at work adds to the energy of the globe as it goes about its business.
I like that. I like feeling that I am a part of something universal. I like looking at the world as potentially good and, if I spread my small form of goodness, my positive energy, it might help cause a chain reaction of positive energy that will actually make a difference.*
If nothing else, I find the world an endlessly fascinating place, full of wonder and new adventures. I hope I always will.
*CAVEAT: This feeling of benign good will in no way mitigates my frequent desire to slap certain politicians and other idiots upside the head when they do or say something totally asinine, bigoted or downright stupid; nor does it abate my earnest and sincere promise to eviscerate anyone who tries to harm my children.
When I was in 10th grade Art Class, I had a wonderful teacher, Mrs. Brown, who once upon a lazy warm day, showed us how to start a picture with a center design: circle, square, star, whatever. Once we established our center, we drew lines or ovals around it. Then we added around the circles and lines, spreading outward until we had filled the page with beautiful, random forms and figures. We colored them in as we pleased, and a gorgeous tapestry or quilt was created. It was really a kind of glorified doodle, but so very much fun and cool and beautiful. It kind of reached out to the universe, had no end, and to me represented . . . endless possibilities.
At this point in my life I feel very aware of that tapestry or quilt. Everything I do each day, every person I meet, is an interaction with the entire earth in a small way. Kind deeds spread outward to affect countless others (if I smile at a clerk, maybe they will smile at their next customer, and so on and so on). The sight of the full moon spreads beauty throughout the town of Murphy and outward to all of Dallas, and even further out, spreading its gentle glow over the earth. The energy I expend at work adds to the energy of the globe as it goes about its business.
I like that. I like feeling that I am a part of something universal. I like looking at the world as potentially good and, if I spread my small form of goodness, my positive energy, it might help cause a chain reaction of positive energy that will actually make a difference.*
If nothing else, I find the world an endlessly fascinating place, full of wonder and new adventures. I hope I always will.
*CAVEAT: This feeling of benign good will in no way mitigates my frequent desire to slap certain politicians and other idiots upside the head when they do or say something totally asinine, bigoted or downright stupid; nor does it abate my earnest and sincere promise to eviscerate anyone who tries to harm my children.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)