I think of her often, for thoughts are all I have—not a single memory. She died before I was the age of two.

From what little that I heard, there was little reason to view her in a good light, but now I can see something admirable about her.  After all, this woman endured so much, and the odds seemed stacked against her. Incredibly, between the ages of eleven and sixteen—at least five times—this poor Lithuanian girl crossed the Atlantic in attempts to get into America. Twice, she was turned away. Some may not have had high regard for her, including her own son—my father—but I can see a heroic nature, a survivor, through and through. Just a toddler when she died, I missed out in knowing her. Throughout the years, I really had only gathered bits and pieces of information while trying to know better about her. It has been like constructing puzzle in which the pieces fit here and there, but the gaps are too big to cover.

This woman that I write about is my paternal grandmother. Out of all my grandparents, her story is the one that stands apart, an amazing, heart wrenching and most thought provoking portrait. Evoking emotions of anger, sadness and sympathy, I find it a rich tale of a poor woman.

This has been in the works for quite a while now—in my head, that is. I pictured what I wanted to say, the words playing out in my mind.  What a story it is, too, a tremendous one of sorrow and struggle, of need for love and acceptance, of perseverance and strength of the human spirit. Yet things get complicated when they come from my mind to the page, as I try translating my vision down into words. Before long, like a snake, hesitation surely comes slithering through, as it quickly snuck its way within, fueling my fear, a fear of disapproval and rejection by two people who are now dead and have been for some time—my father and my grandmother.  

And while writing, I imagine what my audience thinks—critics in my head abounding before I even finish. Well, I am the first to stand in line for that.  It’s kind of scary relating such things. I am not sure I am doing the story any justice.  I’m not sure I’ve captured the essence of it well.    

And who would want to read this anyway? Is it too long and of no significance to anybody but myself? I have my doubts. Celebrities do this all the time, and people just eat that stuff up.  I think we all just want to relate to what others have to say about themselves. But it does bare you—your thoughts, your secrets, your soul, —and it feels a bit unnerving, to say the least.  

So, naturally, I still drag my feet. If she were here right in front of me right now, what would my grandmother think? Would she throw the papers in an old fashioned stove—in the fire—as she angrily did to my father’s flowers?  I can only imagine my father as a child—in an impoverished scene that I only have sketchy knowledge of—with his young heart being crushed and shamed, his sign of affection and desire to please his mother, drastically rejected. In return for his small token of love, my father’s mother was furious that her boy spent a few coins on something perceived as useless, a waste of good money. Away like trash, they went. Like the flower story, would my father be ashamed and angry that I revealed some family history for others to read, stuff that he would rather have kept quiet?

This is why I am mentioning no names. Nothing is sugar coated—it is what it is—often not very pretty. Yet this is not intended as an exposé or a smudge on any family members. A slam on my father and grandmother is surely not my intent—far from it.  Rather, it is my offering of affection. It is my little bouquet of flowers to a history that includes me as a part of it.

Like those flowers of long ago, I’ve so wanted to scrap this story in the garbage. Often seeming like a knotted mass of yarn, I have had to work and work to get a smooth flow.  Like a sculptor, I wanted a fine piece of clay to emerge into form, but the chunks, lumps and bumps just frustrate me to no end.

It’s complicated to relate it all. It is revelation about my father’s origins which hold no real pride for him.  There was much pain and shame associated with his mother’s mental illness, his distant father, his broken home and lack of a solid, safe family structure, his constant poverty and fight for survival—the list goes on and on  As I unravel this tale, I continue to fight with the many tangles. As I try to find the face, I feel that my sculpted story is left wanting. So I continue to chip away.

Dishonoring? Embarrassing? I hope it this tale is not.  I envision an admirable purpose instead of the pain and the shame, redeeming the pride that was lost. My father’s origins are mine, too, and they help me to know myself better, and my father—to build that better, more complete puzzle of my grandmother.

Much of what I heard was unflattering terms. From a young age, I knew she was mentally ill. But what did that mean anyway?  Well, to my father she was crazy and nuts, not a good mother. No, she wasn’t mother of the year. Clearly, she had a temper and was known to instigate fights—with her husband, with one of her sisters. When my young father was physically disciplined it was by her, and it was probably quite harsh. If I didn’t like her, it was due to all that I heard. And when I had problems with my father, who had a bad temper, too, I probably felt that the apple didn’t fall very far from the tree.  

But in spite of all the remarks, I grew to have great sympathy for my grandmother. It makes me wonder how mistreated she was as a child.  My father deemed her as neglectful, not in tune to her children’s needs. It is obvious to me that she was in lack, herself.

So what was she really like? I very much wanted to understand her, to be able to relate with her. I don’t know—perhaps, it is because I root for the underdog.  Often, I felt like one, too. And Lithuania is the perfect underdog, under the thumb of Russian rule until much recently.  Perhaps, it was because my dad’s dislike for where he came from made me all that more interested to discover what his roots were all about.  

History often repeats itself—what has shaped my father had a strong influence on me. Like my father, I grew angry and bitter from the upbringing I had. Getting a similar brunt of problematic parenting made for a tough go of things.  I could have easy said, “Who gives a ****?” I could have been thoroughly disgusted about my dad’s old baggage that I had to handle—all the wreckage of rage and shame that became dumped into the next generation.  I evolved from a more sensitive, inquisitive child to one who battled between the feelings of hate and love, painfully clawing my way out of the emotional garbage and with the terrible stench of it.  

Thankfully, the war is over. I am enjoying the peace.  
  
With insight, I grew to understand my father, to accept what he was—capable of good and bad. I can relate quite well in that sense, for I made plenty of mistakes that I wish that I could do differently, ones that hurt others as well as me.  I could not deny that, in my dad, there was a wounded man who could not really figure that out—not until he was much older. I saw a man who was remorseful, and humbled by his costly mistakes. I was able to heal from some of my wounds with that forgiving perspective, though it was not easy and did not come overnight.

Unlike my dad, I’m surely a talker and I ask questions, perhaps my father’s worst nightmare in that sense——he had to have at least one child who always wanted to know things about him and who he came from. That means both sides of my family. Perhaps, I was born that way, with a tremendous sense of wonder. Curiosity always got me, and I am much too hungry to remain clueless about my more secretive father.

Maybe that’s good. Maybe it’s bad. It involves risk which can lead to a boatload of hurt. Where do we come from? What were your parents like? What were your grandparents like? When where they born? When did they die? Do you have any pictures?  Can you go any further than them?  Sometimes, the answers aren’t what you want to hear.  

It’s nice to belong to something, to somebody. It isn’t always possible or realistic to relate to one’s family, I wanted to belong. Not just to my mom’s side did I want to identify—I wanted to fully belong—to both sides.

My mom and dad both had common backgrounds, both coming from poverty and chaos. The fallout from my mother’s unstable father created a similar unease within her childhood home. Yet her family actually seemed like it existed. I knew all of my mother’s seven younger sisters and five younger brothers, as well as all nineteen cousins. We used to visit mom’s parents in Detroit fairly often. My best knowledge of life in this unfamiliar, yet close by, city—my native city—arose through this connection. I heard stories of grandmother’s German immigrant parents and learned of my grandfather’s Polish and Prussian roots, part of his family’s rise from poverty to wealth—to poverty once more.

Born in the latter part of the nineteenth century, my father’s parents were much older than my mom’s. Impoverished Lithuanian immigrants, my dad’s parents surely wanted to be Americans. My grandmother really had to fight to even be on American soil, and my grandfather sought out citizenship and became naturalized. I have likely seen them both, but had no relationship at all. I heard that my dad’s mom came over our house for Thanksgiving dinner—a rare visit—and she died not long after.

My grandfather died the following year, when I was closer to three. Possibly having a primitive, early memory of this man, I am told my dad had him over the house once.  I have a vague recollection of sneaking into the living room, when I was supposed to be in bed, and got a smack on my behind from my dad, crying in protest as I walked past an older man starring at me. But I’ll never know for sure if that is even a real memory.

Since my grandfather was a supporter of the Communist party—a big taboo in those days with the McCarthy era and the Cold War—my dad was mortified and afraid to mention it.  I doubt I’ll ever know much about this grandfather. My father found only one photo of him in his wallet while trying to claim belongings from his flat after the man died. My father eventually gave it to me, and I was shocked by one of the most bizarre photos I ever had seen. In it, my dad’s father was photographed with a woman that my father cannot identify, but the likeness between her and me is so uncanny. I look more like this woman than I do my own mother, but I cannot say if she is even related. My dad knew almost nothing about his father’s family except that he came from a big one back in Lithuania.

Family must have been like foreign word to my father. I can see why. Since boyhood, my dad lived apart from his dad, and they became more strangers than father and son. My dad even admitted that he hardly understood his own father because of his thick, Lithuanian accent. My dad’s background still remains more like shadows in the dim light.  I don’t clearly remember my father’s older brother— out of the two that he had—because I only saw him three or four times. Since my father cut ties with his younger brother, I hadn’t laid eyes on him. Not even a picture was available. When my estranged uncle called on the phone to try to talk to my dad, I would speak to him, instead. One to be sympathetic, I never got why my dad wouldn’t bother with his brother, though the call usually involved asking for money. I was pretty much told that he was a no-good ***, plenty to keep me fairly leery of him. His first wife kicked my uncle out.  Most of his six sons—just as unknown as their father was to me—wanted nothing to do with him. No doubt, the guy was an odd and deeply tormented man, yet we both wanted to meet one day. If I remember one thing he said, that was it, and I agreed. This did seem unlikely, for I didn’t want to stir up the hornet’s nest, not creating more friction than there was.

Years later, that wish came true. One day my dad did get a picture of his brother from the older brother. Much later on—several months after my dad died—I was able to meet this troubled man when he was dying in the hospital and had tubes down his throat. unable to speak to me any more.  

My mom was my source in finding out about my grandmother, but she knew little.  She admits she didn’t know what to say to her mother-in-law, being young and not very savvy when it came to making conversation. What she remembered about my grandmother was that she was very quiet and often stared out from the position of an obscure woman in a room full of people. My mom thought her “spooky”. My mom recalls that my dad said that she smoked down her cigarettes the nub, burning and blackening the tips of her fingers.  She even might have started a small fire in her sister’s waste basket with a burning cigarette.

There is one thing that sticks out that my mother recalls that is sweet. What my grandmother asked my mother shows her humanity: “Do you love my son? “ It shows a woman who has genuine feelings, has desires, and caring. I could see the love that she had for my father when I heard that she brought his boots to school in bad weather, and he was embarrassed by the look of her—rolled down socks and an old fur coat.  I doubt, though, he ever heard the words of “I love you”, as my father did not say these things to his children.

Near the end of his life, when my father was getting dementia, I knew the time was short for us to talk and now was the moment to ask questions. “I know so little about your childhood”, I told him. He said there was nothing worth mentioning, and when I probed him a bit, he told me, “We were the lowest of the low”. It saddens me that the pain was still very much there.

What my parents couldn’t or didn’t tell me, I learned from a few other relatives. I called up my dad’s cousin—who lives in Las Vegas—with plenty of apprehension, never having met her, and not knowing if she’d want to talk with me. Slowly, I sensed her grow from suspicious of my intent to warming up to me a bit. She said she liked my father, but “he could have been nicer to his mother”. This cousin told me that he avoided her a lot, and she felt my grandmother was aware. My dad’s younger brother did, too, I am told. My mom related to me that once when my grandmother would knock on their door back in their flat in Detroit, in their early years of marriage, my dad told her not answer the door to prevent her visit.

If it wasn’t for this cousin’s mother, my grandmother’s sister, as well as two of her daughters, the poor woman would have been quite lonely—though I’m sure loneliness defined her. I am glad they took an extra interest in my grandmother. They would take her out for coffee or have her over.  This sister “felt sorry for her”, the Las Vegas cousin told me.  I’m glad, but she “felt sorry for her? I hope it was more than that.

Considering all what she went through, I am wondering what went through my grandmother’s head. Did this woman ever feel loved? If she did, it must have been like a glass of water in a desert.

Another of my dad’s cousins, from another sister of my grandmother’s, helped me out. Her family stories filled in some gaps, but what she couldn’t tell me records did. The records seemed to prove the stories correct, as some family stories can be more fiction than fact.

I did my own research, as well as get records from others, and finally hired a genealogist. I verified that my grandmother was born in 1892 in a village in Lithuania, not ever knowing the exact date. Loss began early in her life, as her father died of small pox when she was four months old. He was twenty six, and he wasn’t even married a year. Records show this bit of oral history to be almost spot-on.  My parents made a single visit to my grandmother’s youngest sister, and this great aunt told me that my grandmother lost her father at six months old. My dad never knew his real grandfather died, thinking his youngest aunt had a different father. He was surprised to find out that his mother was the one set apart from the others.

So my great grandmother was left a widow with a baby to care for all on her own. This would have been bad for both, so this gr

On this plant, surviving
Sometimes dying, sometimes thriving
Not always clear,
What's my next step, here
But, so far it's been a privilege

I've been quiet for a season
Like the dormancy of winter
Yet I am quite longing for growth of a revolutionary spring
To rise up from my deep hibernation
To bring those tales that beg to take form
The empty screen is longing
To become filled with poetic messages
And works of fictional and nonfictional tales
These fingers itching to type words
To bring them to full fruition
This mind is more than willing
Like a bloom ready to unfold its intricate petals
To spill forth its secrets

Hearing the call
Fidgety to the poking
Feeling the hunger
Responding to the mighty urge
I cannot stop that grumbling murmur within
That has fell into slumber
The reawakening in my soul, stirring
Me into action

So I write, again

This is my mission statement: To help those who have no hope to understand that there is hope, to help others to know that their lives have purpose and value.

Hopefully, prayerfully, my writings reflect this.

I take a good look at myself, and what others have told me, and I admit to myself, "Dorothy, you are one hell of a great writer!"

Then I let that thought sink in, and I want to run away in fear, for how did I deserve such a talent?

I am a thinking person, a logical person. Yes, that is true, but with that said, I am also a feeling person, with emotions intact, yet I am well able to reason and come to solid conclusions when emotions need that counterbalance. Sometimes, I succumb to the emotional side, but I always try to keep that in check with my logic based thoughts.

That said, deep inside somewhere, apart from my intellect and ability to think properly, is an insidious, dark hole that I don't want anyone to penetrate. For if it is penetrated, it takes shape and form to reveal a monster in its lair, like a fire breathing dragon, one that cannot be reasoned with. I know well of its dangerous effects.

That monster is shame. It has been tapped into before. It has been pervasive. It roars its wounded, angry bellow and wishes to take over everything that is about who I am.  It overpowers logic and tells me that I am no good, that I am a failure, that I should just hide away from everyone.  Shame tells me that I am hopeless, helpless and of no value whatsoever.  It doesn't want anyone to come in and cleanse those wounds, for it knows no trust, knows no compassion. So it licks its own sores, soothing its own pain, has opted for self-preservation.

I want to slay that wounded dragon within, to bring it out of that dark, stinking den that it lurks in. I want to seal up the hole and cleanse away the infection, hopefully for good. I want to overcome that battle, to destroy the fierce fire breathing animal that took root early in life, from an ugly childhood, from school bullying, from life experiences that were ungodly.

But I am tired, and feel almost completely defeated. Yet I just exposed that secret to you, and ugly secrets revealed and exposed to the light can and do set us free.

So the battle continues, because I want to win and won't give up until I have.

Someone is drowning right now

in drugs
             in *****
                         in ***
                                   in food
                                           in internet use
                                                             ­  in [fill in the blank]
                                                          ­                                    endless cravings
Going down
                   down
                           down
                                   down
                                        the shaky steps
                                                        the­ slippery slopes
                                                          ­               into the rabbit hole
                                                            ­                                         d
                                                               ­                                         o
                      ­                                                                 ­                     w
                                          ­                                                                 ­      n
Loneliness?
               Brokenness?
                           Emptiness?
                                     Numbness?
                                                      S­orrow?
                                                          ­        Hopelessness?

Been there
              Addiction
                          Not shooting up
                                         Not popping pills
                                                    But devouring my addiction in masses  
                                                        ­           In order to fill the deep, hallow void
                                                                ­                                  Unable to break free

I envisioned the other day
                     That hope can fly away like a little bird
                                                 But it rests on the window sill while still looking in
                                                              ­           Like Emily Dickinson envisioned
                                                      ­         Still chirping its own song
                                                        For it's ready to fly back in
                                                  And roost
                                                
          ­                                               ~~~o~~~
          ­                          has wings
                   like that bird
           hope            
   For

Always chasing happiness
Seldom to stick around
Summer--it's too hot
Winter--it's too cold
Childhood--it's too long
Adulthood--it's too short and hectic
My aching brain can go in feverish circles
Longing, trying to find if happiness really exists
Or it just gives up in complacent surrender
Growing numb with doubt that it ever was real
After all, I belong to a society
That thinks we are forever entitled to happiness
Every minute of every day

But happiness isn't over there somewhere
Nor is it this or that thing that can be gone tomorrow
Too often becoming what really did not make us happy anyhow
Surely, happiness was never designed to heed all our demands
Never to be controlled or schemed  
No, happiness is a journey of the soul  
The ability to receive and to give love and kindness
It's discovery when you think you have nothing else to learn
It's letting go of the stones to throw
Not an easy road, for sure...but worth it
It's discovering what you can do verses what you cannot
It's connecting to a sloppy, messy world
And not expecting its perfection in order to live in it
It's the Divine touch beyond your limited comprehension
It's connecting and reconnecting with yourself
And being at peace with the being that you are

It cannot put pen to paper
But all a flower has to do
Is open up its delicate petals
Unfolding like a noble lady's fan
Broadening to blossom into a lovely jewel
Poetry without any word

A spider weaves its web
Like an author spins tales
It's intentions upon its survival, but
Its intricate home of threads and strings
Like a gossamer harp
Is enchanting to perceive
A make and design of fragile strength

The oceans and seas
Mighty and commanding
They roar and display their majesty
With crashing waves and splashy bravado
They spare few prisoners
And graveyards of sunken ships
Whisper of stories untold

Birds chirp and warble
With songs that humans long to know
For they travel through the air
In simplistic freedom
Their chorus of communication
Is a poetic symphony just as entertaining
As any band of musicians or artists

The winds blow and whistle
Though they have no mouths
If you listen close enough
You can hear their secrets
Their breath of life in the
Ever flowing
Breezes that enfold us

You'd swear the mountains
Were painted that way
Brawny and broad, peaked high above
Against the grand canvas we call the sky
Yes, paintings are poems, too
For a picture speaks a thousand words
But no mere man can make a mountain

You see
We are merely students
Taught by God's natural, creative genius
We are merely imitators
Of what nature displays
We are not originals
For we are not the first poets
Nor the first storytellers

It's the Grim Reaper
It's the Boogie Man
It's the wolf in the closet
It's the monster under the bed
It's the phantom that's chasing you in your dreams
It's the madman who dances delightfully in your brain matter
It's the poison in your coffee
Paralyzing
Petrifying and penetrating
A flesh eating
Bone chomping
Soul *******
Grave robbing Ghoul
Right within the halls of your head
Grotesque and greedy, it is
Gloom everywhere
An anxiety production line
Breeding anguish
Bleeding you out
Windpipe choking
Werewolf watching
Witches brewing
It's dreadful and dooming
It's horror at every corner
It's a newspaper dripping in disaster
It's a future forecasting fatalities
Your obituary in every new edition

BUT IT'S NOT REAL

A lifelong Michigander
I've endured my share of brutal winters
The ones that seem to thoroughly freeze you
Right into the cracks of your armor
You know, the toughness that you show the world
Deeper experiences than your skin, reaching past and
Down right to your bones

A woman seemingly designed for melancholy
I struggle and have to beware of making it my identity
For I am much more than that sorrow which has shaped me
I've endured my share of hardship and pain
You know, the kind that bandages cannot reach
And pain can feel like a gnawing within
Like the winters that penetrate you
Ones that reach your bones
And bone crushing, they do feel

But I'm no fool
And I use the pain
For in vain I won't let it become
For spring could not be so glorious, it seems
Without the show of its flip-side...a frozen reality

Joy would be meaningless to me
Without understanding the truth of
Disappointment, sorrow, hurt, loneliness...
gut-wrenching misery that all must face
At least once in their lives

Maybe it sounds cliche but....
The rain might seem dismal and unpleasant
But surely you bask in the green of its fulfillment
A birth might be agonizing for the mother
But surely the life brought into the world is the beautiful result

These are some of my thoughts, lately
The conceiving and jotting down of them
Help me to hold on when life doesn't seem right
Help me to grow beyond my comforts to reach up and beyond
Challenging me to stretch my faith into a bigger dimension  
While getting through the tempests of life

I write with my hands
          My fingers busily typing along to the dictates of my ideas
                                   Or I'm scribbling out my chicken scratch with pen in hand

I write with my eyes
          They are a telescope that examine and focus to the creation unfolding
                   As I am designing themes and cleaning up any grammatical  errors

I write with a purpose
                            And I often have to work it again and again
                                                      Until­ I think I have done what I set out to do

I write with my mind
           For the horizon of the brain is broad and keenly aware to what comes in its sight
                                           The imagination, as brilliant as a roaring sun

Most importantly.......

I write with my heart and soul
                  Giving my all, my everything within
                                         Genuine, personal, and proud to attach my name to

Without heart
                   Without soul
                                      I'd wish not to write at all

All these ingredients
                      Blend together in a harmonious cohesion
                                                        ­               And make for a good recipe

Part of the problem of letting go
                                             Is that you aren't sure what next to grab hold of
                                                              ­                                                                 ­            .......................................

It looks like any other path. It is deceiving that way, that danger that for whatever reason isn't so obvious to you, it being quite sneaky and tricky while you are thinking that things are going just fine. Before you know it, you're knee deep in it, and it is pulling you under, threatening to devour you in its breath-******* muck and mire. The more you struggle, the deeper you go-- until it has all of you.

That could describe a lot of things, but to me it is the depression and, sometimes, anxiety that I wrestled with my whole life. It was never an everyday thing-- not always the most ominous feeling--and that is why I haven't always been wary of the warning signs. I was quick to want to forget about it, thinking that if I didn't continually address the matter that it would be gone forever. In other words, I wanted to return to the old and familiar, the patterns in which  life seemed easier than dealing with the matter. What felt like normalcy never required anything differently from me.

Ideally, when we are sinking, we would want there to be someone there that would be on solid ground to save us from that deadly patch of quicksand--that tsunami of terrible dread--but often the isolation becomes an only friend, a cold companion. Fear takes over, and it is just as gripping as the loss of our sure footing. Some people just don't understand, or surely think that we should have saved ourselves from this mess in the first place. And, no doubt, there is self-responsibility to counteract the lack of good chemicals in our brains, or deal with the unpleasant circumstances in our lives, but often it starts with us reaching out our hand to accept the hand that lends itself out.  It is that leap of faith to accepting outside help that becomes our first step--one of many steps we need to take in our journey.

And concerning faith, when there isn't a physical hand or tangible grip to grab onto, I know God is  always there. In my lowest of times, I have remembered the teaching that God never leaves nor forsakes us. Even when feeling unlovable, this becomes my lifeline.  So soon-- or eventually-- I come to realize that I can be brought back on dry, level ground, back freely onto my feet, unhampered and untangled from the muddy web I was stuck in. And God remains faithful--whenever I lose good direction--and the way seems so utterly, hopelessly lost. He always has. For no matter what, when I turn to God I know I can always reach out and my hand will not be slapped away.

Gratefully, I will do my best to do the same for someone else.

The year is going. It must leave. Let it go and bring in the new. There's no way to stop time, no amount of human effort that can accomplish the impossible. So we must go with time's instructive hands to move forward. Otherwise, we would only inhibit ourselves in the fruitless process. We would be robbed of the gift of the here and now, and never look upon the horizon for a prospect of our future.

In the year, some of us lost loved ones. Those memories can always remain, for neither time nor decay can deny us their gift. Perhaps, the year was good, and it is a great time to reflect at this point. Perhaps, it was riddled with regrets. Learn from those things and forgive yourselves. Grudges that have festered need to be cleansed from our conscious efforts, as cancer is removed from one who is getting a second chance at life.

I talk of this from experience.

New Year's resolutions can seem like frivolous or empty promises. That is why many give little credence to them. But to rethink one's life path is the right idea, and I say that we don't need to put up a new calendar to do this. Any time is the right time for that, whether it be January or December--or anytime in between.

The year is going. It is fading away soon, into its proper place in history. Bid it farewell, for it had its run, but it must make way for its youthful, less-experienced replacement. Look upon in it with hope and perseverance.

Goodbye 2013

The sky is grey
Today, and I feel blue
Charcoal clouds
in my head

Leaves are finally brown
Ground laden, and down like me
No silver lining
In my murky-cloud view right now

Rainbows aren't gone forever
Clever colors I know I'll still see
But surely not today
For they all blend together in muddy hues

Today, is an overcast, sky-filled grey, autumn day. Nevertheless, the colors are still holding out as the leaves are making their last hurrah in the parade of changing their look. Therefore, I was not bothered by the gloomy looking weather. And on my way to the health food store-- high up among the telephone poles--I spotted the sight of three parallel wires full of birds, perched side-by-side. as if connected.

I am not sure what kind of birds they were, but they lined those wires, brown and thick, like ants on a sugar stick. And they must of huddled there for warmth and security, comrades of instinct and survival. Indeed, they surely seemed fine with their electric perches, with no intent on flying off, congregating contentedly.

With too much human expansion, it seems, I surely do wonder and am at awe at the magnificence of nature, this being a small example. Birds, as fragile as they often look--they haven't a thick coat of fur to warm their feathery bodies--do not appear fit for the cold--not for a second. And many fly to the South for winter. But there they were--bird after bird after bird--just hanging out up there, as if their temporary hangout was wired and strung just for them. This surely is a common sight, and is not supposed to be a big deal , but I found it special enough to keep in mind, important enough to return home to later record in word.  It is akin to me witnessing geese flying in a V-shape pattern, or hearing the melodic calling of a bird to a potential mate, of viewing a mother bird feeding her young in the bird house that I have provided outside my door. Or it reminds me of last year, on a snowy night in the Christmas season. when I was amazed by the sound of birds outside of KFC--of a bunch of sparrows that were just chirping away, arranged in a tree like living Christmas ornaments.  I don't ever want to take this stuff for granted, for it becomes easy to do so in the maze of life we often have.

With just this small example, today. I am reminded of how wonderful and majestic this earth truly is. Nature surely is a feast for the eyes, as well as for nourishment for the body. For me, it is medicine for the soul, sanity for the mind, music to the ears, as well as a stimulating journey in awe and beauty in the wildlife, grand landscapes, fragrant flowers and abundant plant life. Who can say otherwise?

P

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A­wakens the senses....

Captivates the eye with a unique flair, like a skilled artist on the stage-a great dancer, a supreme actor, an athletic acrobat, an experienced musician, an engaging orator, a gifted singer, a heavenly choir
Entices the nose to imagine the hint of various scents, soothing or disturbing, and often blends different aromas into peculiarity
Touches the heart, mind, soul and skin--when it is spot on, perhaps with shivers, or perhaps with warmth
Teases the tongue to taste the words, salty, sour or sweet, vaguely satisfying, sometimes mystifying
Pounds on the eardrum to listen to its beat, at times, offbeat, at times, in perfect rhythm

Trees (haiku #1)

Tree wood with fire
Nature equips survival   
Light, heat, and cooking

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Trees (haiku #2)

Leafy beings, green
Wood umbrellas, ancient roots
Growing, reaching sky

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Trees (haiku #3)

Pluck the tender fruit
Motherly branches feed all
Body and soul, blessed

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Trees (haiku #4)

Shelter for our homes
Furniture within our walls
Uses-myriads

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Trees (haiku #5)

Pencils, books, paper
Education thanks to trees
Writing, poetry

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Trees (haiku #6)

Trees crafted, songs sung
Guitars, violins, harps-more
Wood, melodious

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Trees ( haiku #7)

Birds, critters depend
Harmonious relations
Trees magical grace

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Trees (haiku #8)

Bountiful beauty
Standing upright or chopped down
More precious than gold

I'm hopelessly lost without you, Lord
For I know that my life has been an utter mess
And, with You, it can always have new beginnings
New life breathed into the lifelessness that I've felt

I’m a weird, little guy
Bananas I like to eat
You know we primates
Like a fruity treat  

I’m a monkey with stripes
A true oddity, I must say
A zebra might look at me
And yell, “What the hey?!”

So I’m pretty messed up
With a rip on my side
But what do you expect of me?
To go run off and hide?

And what about my ears?
So you want to make fun?
But it’s none of your business
That I only have one!

It is quite obvious
That I am quite a mess
And with all my monkey shines
I must really confess…..

That I ripped off
My very own ear
But one is JUST FINE!
Your yappin’ I STILL HEAR!

The Moon is a great actor
He plays many roles
A skilled magician
He can make himself disappear

He can be round and fat
Like he swallowed a cosmic balloon
Or so discrete--crescent shaped as a pastry
An angel seated upon his lap, lazily lounging in the night sky

He can be faint like a ghost
Filmy and smoky, most mysterious
Among the wispy clouds
Or as a big brother to the stars

He is an inspiration
A glorious night light
To awakened dreamers
And lovers gazing the heavens

He becomes a teacher
To various artists
Painters, poets and such
Immortalized in print, canvas and stone

He is an orchestra leader  
To the howling wolves, banding in song
An icon of beauty to the human tribute
Towards him in musical rejoicing

He is a master of madness
Maybe in anarchy
One who takes much of the blame
For our odd and crazy behavior

Guys and gals,
Ladies and gents
I love to see the couples in love

Couples newly in love
Couples well into love
Couples who never thought they'd ever find it

Young couples
Old couples
Middle-of-the-road couples

Eye catching couples
Plain couples
Color blind in-love couples

Taller couples
Shorter couples
From alpha to omega couples

Couples who lost the love, but found it again
Couples who struggled on through
Couples who defied the odds

Maybe I'm peering through rose-colored pupils
Maybe my vision has gone radioactive
But I love to see such couples in love

As Lewis walked up to the door, it strangely felt like he had been here before. But he hadn't. She had moved here three years ago, and he never saw the place. It smelled like Nina's home alright, though. The faint whiff of hydrangeas, of roses, and of other flowers caught he keen nose, and he breathed in deeply and smiled reassuringly to himself. The he became serious, as if he had no right to smile.

Was this the right thing to do? He hoped so. Time would tell. It felt as if it was almost yesterday, instead of six years ago, as he knocked on her door.

After a few knocks, a minute or two, Nina opened the door to her house. Someone had to be home, for there was a car in the driveway. As she looked upon him, Lewis expected her to slam the door shut in his face, but she also acted as if she had just seen him yesterday. And it seemed like no big deal to her.

Without much emotion on her face, she left the screen door shut, but she kept the inner door open. Walking away, it was like she expected him to follower her non-verbal lead. He did, hesitantly.

In the kitchen, Nina poured him a cup of coffee. "You hungry?" she asked him. "I am about to put some cinnamon roles into the oven. I'm going to open up a can from the fridge."


"Oh?" Lewis responded, trying to be nonchalant, trying to hid the nervousness in his voice. "Not from scratch?" His heart was practically beating out of his chest.

Nina's back was towards him. She was finishing some dishes in the sink. "Yeah, I know I was always Betty Crocker. But I'be learned to make short cuts, and it tastes just fine. Makes life easier to not do everything like Grandma did it."  

After she separated the rolls apart, and stuck them into the oven, she just kept going about her business. She started to open some mail and sorted the items into piles of importance and priority, and into a pile that could wait.

Lewis was shocked. He couldn't believe her composure. After a while, she turned around, leaned against the counter top, and she acted like she didn't have a care in the world. She didn't look one bit stressed, angry, sad, shocked, disgusted--or anything.

Finally, Lewis said, "Nina, I don't get it." He felt itchy, and tense, as if he could scratch his skin off, as if he was waiting for a bomb to drop. "Why aren't you telling me to get the hell out of her...to go ***** off...or call me every name in the book."

Nina just looked him up and down. He began to chuckle, nervously. "Come on, Nina! I am surprised you just don't grab that pan of hot rolls in the oven, and whack me in the head with them!"

In response, Nina still said nothing, acting as if nothing ever happened.

Becoming quite unsettled with her unexpected composure, he went on. "I mean...come on..scream at me. Cuss me out! Slap me! Punch me! Something, for God's sake!"

Nina raised an eyebrow, and tried to resist smiling. She was waiting patiently for him to explain himself, not to go on like this. "Is that what you want, Lewis? Is that why you came her? To beat you into oblivion with a pan of hot cinnamon rolls?" She didn't try to make him look foolish--he was doing a good job of that on his own.

Lewis turned red in embarrassment, and started to smirk. "Well...yeah...would make more sense to me."

The timer went off and the rolls were done. Putting her oven mitts on, Nina pulled them out of the oven and let them cool on top of the counter. The silence was eerie, awkward.

She poured him another cup of coffee, and finally addressed the elephant in the room. As he still looked up at her, dumbfounded by her, she said, "Lewis...if you have the ***** to come here...than I can certainly let you in and hear you out."

With that said, she filled a plate full of rolls, places them in the center of the table, pulled out a chair and sat down across from him at the table. "I'm listening", she said, her expressions still low-key. Yet Lewis thought that her eyes and mouth seemed ready to mock him, positioned to put him in his place. His guilt wouldn't allow him to think, otherwise.

Why would she serve him food and coffee? Why not just get it all into the open and demand that he spill his guts?

Lewis didn't want to beat around the bush any longer, but spoke plainly in his confession. "Nina, what can I say? I'm an ***." She didn't nod her head in agreement, nor say that he sure was an ***, yet a "look of  suspicion was growing upon her face.

"OK, OK", he went on. "I should never have left you--of all days! What a frickin' wimp! I should have manned-up and told you I wasn't ready to get married. Instead, I stood you up at the church...of all places...in front of your family...your friends. A complete no-show--I made a mockery of that day! It was supposed to be one of the best...and I made it the worst! Some in my family haven't really gotten past it or have forgiven me. Not fully. A few barely talk to me. My best friend, Steve, thinks I'm a *****--a dumb fool!"

Nina sighed with relief. This was what she wanted to hear. The tears started flowing.

Lewis told her, "So I just don't get it. I don't get why you are not furious with me! It just blows my mind!"

Lewis grabbed for another cinnamon role, and Nina handed him a napkin. She wasn't crying anymore, and he was glad. Why was she being so nice though? So hospitable? Did she have something up her sleeve? Did she mean to get back at him? Maybe poison in one of his roles? Lewis had to laugh at himself. Actually, that might alleviate some of his guilt right now.  

Picking at her role, Nina explained, first more sharply. Then she was soft in speech. "It's not all about you, ya know! Look, Lewis, don't think that for a moment that just because it is more OK now that it was OK back then! Well...I guess you already realize this. You see, I'm different now...changed...grown a lot since. I did a lot of soul searching, lots of growing."

"I can see that. It's wonderful."

"And I wondered what I did wrong...at first. Then I hated you, blamed you. I wished that I never said I would marry you. I did plenty of screaming at you--plenty. I bring things in a rage--mirrors, a clock, a dish or two--bruised my fists up pounding things."

She paused and continued, all the time looking at the intricate, lace doily on the center of the table, under a vase of fresh daisies. Finally, Lewis saw the gamut of emotions. In one moment, her face would pinch in frustration and anger. It would then evolve into a soft sadness, and other emotions within.

"Wasn't so composed about you back then, Lewis. Let's see...I swore at you. I wished you were dead. I ripped up every picture of you...put some in the shredder, wishing they were you, instead..prayed that you would die. Bitterness isn't event he word for it. I thought you were the worst thing that happened to me, that you ruined my life forever. I cursed you up and down, Lewis. I'm sure I even invented some new curse words."

That was enough said. She looked up at him and slightly smiled. Lewis smiled back, for at least she felt real to him now, quite natural. She admitted, But I think I cried far more than I hated you. I still loved you."

Lewis wanted to sit right next to her and hold her. "Oh, baby...I'm so sorry..."

Nina quickly interjected. "Honey, you weren't ready for marriage. We were both young, only in our mid twenties...we thought we had it so together. It took me a while, but I finally realized that you needed to find out who you really were, came to that conclusion for a while now. And, boy, did I need to get to know myself more, too!"

"No!", he insisted, emphatically. "Don't make excuses for me! I did not do right by you!"

Nina reached across the table and put her hand upon his. "It seemed like hell at the time, but I needed to learn about me, too! Crazy as it sounds....if it did not happen...I never would have..."

She stopped short. Lewis had tears in his eyes, and one began to roll down his cheek. "Met Gary", he said, finishing her sentence for her.

Surprise flashed across her face. "You did your homework!" Nina stated. She was quite impressed and smiled.

"I wanted to know what happened to you", Lewis responded. "You probably wonder why I didn't walk away for good. I intended to....but you deserve some answers, and I'm here to give them to you. Sure, I could have walked away, and stayed away. I could have saved myself the embarrassment of facing you, again. I could have pretended to have some dignity left."

"But you do have some dignity left", she insisted, sweetly. "It takes a lot of courage to do this. I'm glad you did."

"Are you happy now? I mean...I hope you are."

"Very."

Lewis didn't even have to ask. He could already tell. They sat in silence for a moment. Nina finally said, excitedly, "Gary's a great guy! We both love art. We both love nature, the outdoors, to travel.  He loves other cultures, and learning other things--like languages." Her face was beaming with pride. "Gary is trying to learn Portuguese and brush up on his Spanish. This year ,we are planning a trip to Portugal and Spain!"

Nina always did keep a nice home, and she decorated it with art that was acquired from different places. Where Lewis didn't have a sense of what looked good, she had a good sense of style. When they were both together, the talked of going to different places that they never traveled to--Africa, Asia, Australia--backpacking across Europe. They were big dreams.

Nina did not want Lewis to feel punished, but his agonizing expression of remorse would have been punishment enough. It already was for him, and it showed his sincerity.

"You know how I met Gary?"

Lewis shook his head. "A support group for divorced people! she admitted, gleefully, as if that was the most amazing thing to say.

Lewis looked embarrassed. Perhaps, he misunderstood her.  "What? For divorced people? You were never married before Gary, were you?"

Perhaps, there was something she wasn't telling him. Nina burst out laughing, seeming so carefree as she threw her head back and clapped her hands. Her laughter was beautifully contagious, and Lewis loved to hear it. "No, of course not!" she said. I have no secret past before I met you...or even now. It's just that a divorce support group was the closest support I could get. After all, there are no support groups for jilted brides and grooms!" She laughed even more.

They were talking so easily now, getting along so well. But why? It still seemed so surreal. Lewis laughed along with  her, as if this was just an encounter  to revisit the good, old times. When hearing of Gary, Lewis felt the pain of his loss, as well as some jealousy rise up. As if he had the right!  

He truly was an ***! He never deserved her!

Nina soon became serious, again. "So did you just come here to say you were sorry?" She was thinking he wanted something else from her, something else to say.

Lewis was once poised to take off in a real hurry. Now, he felt more at home. "Yeah...I came to say I was sorry to you...hoping to stop feeling sorry for myself... I guess. I'm wishing I could just turn back the clock. I swear I'd do it all again, differently."

"But the past cannot be change, and we both know it", Nina stated, resolutely.

He nodded in agreement. She didn't burst his bubble, for to think otherwise was a childish, fantasy.

"I don't know what else to say, Lewis". Nina's eyes reflected sorrow, not pity. "Life does really go on...if we let it. We have to let it, though." She now turned the conversation onto him. " So how about you? I hope you have some good news to tell me, something in your life."

He shrugged his shoulders. "I've had a few, short relationships", he admitted. Where there any displeasing looks on her face? Lewis didn't notice anything, now. "Not all that bad, I should say. But I just don't want to settle down until I finish my Masters in business. I'm nearly done."

"Good for you! That is great news!" Nina truly was glad for him, and it just showed him what a great woman she was. But then Lewis already knew this.

"Are you still teaching?" he asked, hoping she was, for she strove for the job, and loved it so much.

"Yes, I teach kindergarten, and Gary teaches science at Darland College."

"Well, what do you know? Both teachers. That sounds like a perfect match for you. And what about kids? None yet?"

"In time...sure. We just aren't ready right now."

She offered him more coffee, but Lewis declined. He was thinking he should go soon.  He said. "You know we used to talk about having a boy and a girl--and in that order, too!"

Nina rolled her eyes. "Yeah, boy oh boy. Like we had complete control over it".

They both laughed. It was fine to reminisce, and they did for a while, Lewis realizing that this would be the last time. He lived three hours away. And why should he come back? He did what he set out to do.

Nina would tell Gary about the visit after he came home from work. As husband and wife, there were not secrets between them. Nina was sure he would be surprised,f or his ex-wife never came to apologize for the pain she caused him.

"Gary's wife had an affair on him, and then left to marry that man", Nina revealed. "Thank God there were no children from that marriage."

"Wow, that is ******! Thank God I never did that to you!. I would have never cheated with another woman...or I might never have tried to face you. It would be easier to slink back into the ditch and stay there! This is hard enough as it is!"

"Maybe so, Lewis. Maybe so." Nina quickly added, "You aren't a bad man. I know this and I wholeheartedly mean this, so don't keep beating up on yourself. I've forgiven you for everything. I forgave you then, and I forgive you now. "

"Nina, that means everything to me!" He started to choke up, and more tears came.

Listen, Lewis. You need to forgive you, too."

He lowered his gaze, as Nina held his hand and gave it a squeeze. Never was Lewis so contrite before. Like many men, he never was overly emotional, and so this different side of him was a refreshing experience.

"Yeah,  it's time to move on", he stated, using a napkin as a tissue.

"Yes, it is. And I loved what you did. It was helpful for us both. It's the closure we need."

"Yep", he said, wiping away more tears.

"You are a guy with guts, Lewis. you do have courage, and more integrity than you think, and I hope you see it."

Nina offered him more coffee, and he accepted. Why couldn't they chat a little while longer? It was no harm, and it made the visit even more meaningful. Sitting and shooting the breeze more was not a bad thing.

The kitchen still held the fragrant smell of cinnamon, as they polished off more rolls and spoke more of good times.

Everything faded to black. He had a hard time remembering just what the hell happened. He wasn't sure of downing some random pills from of the medicine cabinet-- his first attempt to end it all. Making sure he would not recover-- if the pills didn't do the job-- he had already devised the set up of the noose in his bedroom. Definitely, he didn't recall anyone cutting the rope, forcing him down to the floor.

Lacie joked with him. "Dude, you've got nine lives! You must really be a ****, fricking cat in disguise! That's why you'll eat those nasty tuna fish sandwiches they serve in the nuthouse! "

Chris grinned at her.  He had to agree. To refer to it as the psych ward at the hospital made it seem like more of a jail term, but calling it "the nuthouse" lightened up the severity of the situation. As grave and nearly tragic as everything  had become, it was kind of laughable to him.  He supposed he had more chances than a cat's fabled life. It all seemed so crazy that it must be funny.

Well, what could he say? He had flirted with death, but unwillingly managed to escape its grip. "Pathetic..."--he commented. "I don't not even know how to die well..."

Chris  eventually realized that he had been rushed to the hospital, but wished it wasn't true. Since then, everything was either a total blur or a bizarre state of mind . Even waking up in his room was like a remotely vague memory, almost like a long ago dream that might not really have happened.

Maybe, he was somewhat aware that his sister was screaming in shock and horror at the sight of him, shouting out downstairs to her boyfriend to help her. But the walls were turning red, a glowing scarlet- red, with an added fiery orange and yellowish-gold-- all joined together in pulsating embers. He was quickly losing consciousness. It was like some, bad acid trip. Not that Chris knew this firsthand, but it sure was like something he saw on TV or at the movies.

And now he was the star of the horror show.

Did he die?  Death was what he planned on, so waking up was not a relief, or a reality back into motion--just the opposite. It was as if being awake was the real nightmare, a delusional time when everything was not true, and was only an scary, offbeat version of the life of Chris Cartier.

The bad acid trip continued. He recalled hospital staff rushing about him, seeming like real people-- sort of. Then they morphed into fish in scrubs. From overhead, an IV was dripping into his arm. Tubes were shoved down his throat. His vital signs were displayed on a screen that made beeps and sounds, increasing the chaos and adding to the mayhem to his mind. Soon, the vital signs machine started talking to him that he was a "very bad boy" and other such scoldings.

He was thoroughly freaked out. If he was still alive, he'd rather be dead.

He wanted to run. One of the fish pushed him back down and muttered out undecipherable utterances-- like underwater gibberish . Then that fish used its slimy fins to inject him with a needle in his arm. The other fish circled around him like fish out of water--with opening and closing mouths-- as if gasping for air.

As they surrounded him as rubber monkeys shot out from the walls and bounced all over the room. On top of all this madness, the florescent lights above were flickering on and off, in sync to the wild music, like the drum beats of a distant jungle. It was one bizarre tangle of events, a freaky, crazy, out-of-control ride in which reality could not be distinguished from the animation and mass confusion. It was one overpowering ride that he would much rather forget.

When Chris got out of critical condition, he found out that he could still not go home. That would take a few weeks more. Dr. What-The-Hell's-His-Name assured him that he needed to start on the path to his psychological healing--just as grave as the physical--right here in a safe place.

It didn't seem so safe to him.

The enemy wasn't what was out there in the world, but the big, bad wolf was actually him. He had to be protected from the true culprit--himself-- and that was a mind-blowing concept. Just what did he get himself into?   

He never had been a patient in a hospital before. In all his twenty-six years, he didn't so much as even have his tonsils out. Feeling now like a prisoner,, he was still scared out of his mind-- as if it was day one all over again. When was he going to get out of here? Chris began to fear that they would never let him out. No professional had a definitive answer, as only time would tell of his improvement.

Man, why couldn't he just be dead?

His parents visited almost everyday, but it was of no reassurance to him. His mother always left in tears, and his father was lost for words. This was nothing new. When it concerned their troubled son, they felt inadequate to help him. The best his dad could say was, "Hey, Chris, we're pullin' for ya". That was of no comfort, whatsoever, like he was some fighter in a boxing ring that his old man had a bet placed on . His mom always clung to him as she said goodbye, like she needed the hug more than he did, saying to Chris through her sobs , "Miss you....love you". Her emotional state just unsettled him to the core, and he was worried for her more than for himself.    

At best, his outlook was grim. But then he met Lacie Weiss, and things started looking up.

Lacie was one of the quietest psych patients in the ward, always sticking to herself. But then he found himself sitting right next to her in group therapy, and they hit it off. He had no idea that she had a fun side. She usually looked apathetic and quietly defiant to society, a nonconformist in the form of a Goth, with edgy, dyed black hair, dark eye make-up and some ****** piercings of the eyebrow, tongue and nose. Her look was quite in contrast to his light blue eyes and sandy-brown hair. Chris never was into Gothic, viewing those who were as spooky creeps.  

It was obvious that Chris was scared and confused. Now although trying to seem tough and stoic, Lacie seemed so little, almost fragile, yet obviously trying to hide her broken self together. Petite and somewhat girlish in appearance, she was barely 5 feet tall. Chris was 5 feet 11 and a half inches, close enough to the six foot stature that he wanted to be. Only a half inch less really didn't cut it for him, though, even though his slim build gave the impression of a lankier guy. He would have loved to be as tall as the basketball players he so emulated. But such was life. He was never used to having the advantages.  

At first, Lacie never opened up, not to a single soul. Like Chris, she certainly acted like she didn't need this place, and nobody was going to help her--or be allowed to help her. As stony and impenetrable as she tried to be, group therapy it was hard to disappear in. Everyone was held accountable for opening up, and the leader was going to see to it.  No way, though, did Lacie want to crack or look weak in her turtle shell composure, in her self-preservation mode. So it was agony for her.

She first spoke to him, whispering loudly to him, onc,e in the group circle "This is all *******!"

Hanging with Chris was the one salvation that she had in this miserable experience. They both could relate more than he ever realized. They both really liked motorcycles and basketball. He had his own Harley, and it was something he loved to work on and go on long rides with it, his own brand of therapy.  In spite of how she looked, Lacie was also actually close to his age. He was twenty-six. and she was twenty-two.

They first broke the ice with casual introductions. "No, the name is not pronounced like Carter", he corrected her about his last name. "It is like Cart-EE-AY...... It's French".

"Yep", she replied. "Like mine is the same way, but as German as brats and sauerkraut,  Ja dummkopf?"

Chris gave her a weird look. She continued, "My mom's dad was from Germany, and I got my mom's name. Ya don't say it how it looks. You would say Weiss like Vice, but I couldn't give a **** how anybody says it. Nobody gets it right and original, anyhow." Her dark brown eyes flashed at him as she said, " But I think I like Chris Cutie, myself, better than Cartier.....cutie it is for me. Huh, cutie pie? "

Chris laughed hard. She was pretty coy for a die-hard Goth. She batted her eyes playfully at him and winked."You're worth being in here for, ya know", he told her, blushing, still laughing at her silly remarks.

She studied his face in response, all laughing aside. Suddenly, her mood turned solemn.  "I'll bet".

They began hanging out in the commons, walking down the halls for exercise, and swapping stories of their plights. Chris quickly found that she Lacie wasn't so steely and unapproachable as the day he first saw her.  And she discovered that he was more than a pretty boy.

"My parents weren't home when I tried", he told her one time after lunch was done. They were sitting in a corner, trying to be as private as possible. "Twenty-six years old...and I still live with them. Yeah, that's my life. I got a twin brother, and he's moved out and doing alright for himself. My sister's younger, is going to college. Wants to be a doctor".

Lacy didn't have any siblings to compare herself to. "Must be cool to have a twin", Lacie said. "I always wondered how that would be to have two of me running around! Scary, huh, dude?"

Chris shook his head. "No, it's nothing like that. Jake and I aren't identical. We are just a two-for-one deal...I mean  is that my parents got two babies in one, huge-*** pregnancy. Jake and me don't even act like twins. Half the time, I don't want to be around him."

No, it wasn't like his cousins, Adam and Alan, who were identical friends, mirror images, and best of friends. Chris never identified with that kind of brotherly relationship. He and Jake never dressed alike, or knew what the other one was thinking. And Chris felt that his brother always felt superior to him. He was the popular one. He was the ambitious one who landed a great job in computers, as a system analyst.  To add to Chris's feelings of inferiority, his little sister, Kate, had surpassed him, too. She was acing most of her classes, and boarding away at college. She was well on her way to becoming a doctor.    

"So if your mom and dad weren't around...who saved you?" Lacie asked. She stared into his eyes with such a probing stare that Chris almost clammed up. Just thinking about that day was overpowering.

"Uh...my sister and her boyfriend were hanging out in the basement. She was home from college, and I didn't know it. My parents were out-of-town. Our dog, Buster, was acting funny. He knew something was up..."

Chris stopped abruptly, but went on. "Kate, my sister, explained to me that she saw me in my room, getting up on a step ladder. She says she yelled at me to stop. I don't remember...but I guess..I guess I was going to do it anyway, and she wouldn't be able to stop me....stop me from...so I hurried up and jumped off before she could stop me."  

Lacie could almost picture it, as if she was there with him. She said, "But she did stop it. She saved you."

"Yeah", he agreed. "Buster started it all...barking, alerting my sister to come upstairs from the basement, and upstairs by my room...." All of a sudden, he felt so weird, like he was having an out-of-body experience.

"Hey, it's OK", Lacie reassured him. "It's over now. You aren't there anymore".

Chris started to cry, but tried not to. "If it weren't for Brian, Kate's boyfriend....she would not of had the strength to hold me up by herself, and cut the rope, too. I must have been like dead weight, and Brian grabbed a kitchen knife and told her to stay cool about it. Yeah, sure, like that could have been possible ! She was trying to keep the rope slack, while trying to save my sorry ****...and she was scared, shitless! "

Lacie opened up, too, relating her tragic past. She had an unbelievable tale, one hell of a ride herself.  It was amazing how detached she was when relating it, though. "Well" actually I got to fess up" "I'm not really an only child....I mean I am...but not really. I know that sounds weird---hey--but I am weird. Oddly unusual is the story of my life-- even before day one. "

Chris had no idea what she was talking about. "What are ya' trying to say?"

She added another surprising bombshell. "Also,  I have a two-year-old boy. His name is Danny. He don't see his dad--ever. The guy's a waste of space. Anyway, my mom has him. She can afford him more, and can do a better job raising him than me. Well, she does OK money-wise. Anyhow, my mom deserves him because she lost everything. And I mean EVERYTHING! Her whole fricking family practically wiped out!"

The shock that Chris had on his face-- his widened, blue eyes and open mouth were expected.   Most people had a hard time believing her.

She explained, calmly, "I mean she nearly died--way before I was born--in a car accident. And her two, little boys were with her in the backseat...and they died that day. "

Chris looked pale. "That is so awful!" he said, hoarsely, barely able to say it.

"Yeah", she continued. "Not a **** thing she could do about it, too. She was like in a million pieces. I know a part of her died right there and then, too. I just know it.  You know, dude, my mom was once really, really coasting along, just doing fine. A typical wife and mother-- a bit older than me now-- life was good. Her little boys were just cute, little toddlers--like Danny. I found out from my grandma that she was  pregnant, too, just a month or two. Nobody could have imagined it coming. She was just driving--doing nothing wrong-- when some idiot broadsided her.  I don't know if it was a guy or a lady, if they were jacked up on ***** or drugs, but they were speeding like a demon out of Hell. Her husband was at work and wasn't around."  

The boys were Benjamin and Gerard, but Lacie couldn't remember their names, for her mom could barely mention them without breaking down. It was an unbearable loss.

Chris was so horrified, amazed that Lacie related this like it was someone else's story. She was almost too cavalier about it.

"And they died ?!" he asked.

"Yeah....*****, don't it? Pure, pure agony. Downright Hell on earth. My mom had to learn to walk again. It took about year, I think."

"Oh, no! What about the baby she was supposed to have?"

"Miscarriage. Worse yet, the **** doctor told her she'd never be able to have kids again. She lost everything, man! Her husband couldn't handle it and left her. **** on top of ****, on top of more ****, on top of more. If it wasn't for her parents, and her sister's help, she would never have made it.

"But she had given birth to you, right? Or were you adopted?"

"Yeah, she gave birth to me. I was her miracle baby, and she didn't give a rat's rear end if my dad wanted me or not. He'd send her money, once in a while, but he wasn't really into either of us. Who cares though? She didn't give a **** what he thought. I was her baby. Truth is, before I came, she ended up slitting her wrists--just like me. What was the use? At first, there was nothing to live for. But now she has Danny.

"And you!" Chris quickly pointed out.

"Dude, are you kidding me? I have been NOTHING but grief for her, a real pain in her ***!"

Unlike her deceased, half-brothers, Lacie grew up before her mother's eyes, from a shy girl to a ******* rebel. Since the age of twelve, she would sneak drinks from her mom's liqueur cabinet. Eventually, she smoked *** and tried ******* and ******. Dropping out of the eleventh grade, she soon away from home, living with friends or boyfriends ever since.  Thankfully, she wasn't doing drugs when she conceived Danny. And her drinking wasn't as prevalent as it was in her teen years of partying and binge drinking. That didn't mean that her drinking problems magically disappeared, or that she was cured. Immediately, though, when she knew she was pregnant, she refused to touch a bottle, but it was just a white knuckle process that was effective momentarily--a band aid on a more serious wound. And going months without a drop of alcohol didn't deaden her urges--quite the opposite--as it only made her crave what she could not have. Often, her fears caught up with her--of especially becoming

Wise children, beware!
Mutilated pumpkins grin
Wandering, masked souls

I'm a poet....and I do even know it!

To be in need.........is to be vulnerable

To be vulnerable.....is to be a risk taker

To be a risk taker.......is to be brave

To be brave....is to experience what's out there beyond your own existence

To be beyond your own existence....is to be completely alive

To be completely alive......is to fully feel

To fully feel....is keeping it real

To be keeping it real....is worth it to be.

I am

You are

Unfinished business

Life is hard. Often, it is brutally hard. The battles seem so steep, very much uphill, and acceptance is often a bitter medicine to choke on rather than something to swallow in quiet resignation, in complete surrender.

Mentally, emotionally, physically—many have known our share of pain—or more—a pain that has no rhyme or reason—not when you are in the thick of it. I used to think that was what life was all about—fear, shame, isolation, ridicule, depression. It ruled my days. It ruled my nights.  It overtook the feelings that begged to differ, that insisted otherwise to believe in something more.

Yet now I get it. I wish I could recall the first time I got it, had wrapped my brain around it, into those glimpses of why life truly has value, and my place in this world has tremendous meaning. I'd love to ponder upon it for quite some time, if ever there was such an exact epiphany, and relish it in its new-found beginnings.  Like a child who first grasped hold of life with wonder, I want to prize the bright dawning of such hope, never to let it set into darkness.

Those are the moments I treasure. These moments of bliss, I think of them as. When you simply get it, in spite of the circumstances that impede the joy, and you push past such things and press on, to stumble upon the meaningful, the vast potential. Yes, in spite of the conditions of the world-- that reveal that what it contains is not always as beautiful as a sweet dream —but a fraud—I see value above the mess. Such beauty now doesn't seem like such an illusion.

And sometimes, those moments of bliss aren't just for the blink of an eye. Sometimes, they turn into hours. And sometimes, they are days.

If you lend me your ear
I'll write you a poem

.......Or a short story

Whatever comes as inspiration

If you'll  focus your eyes upon my page
You might get a whimsy gleam in them, or wipe away a tear or two

All depending upon the mood and the tone of matter

If you extend to me an open mind
Perhaps, I will fill it, chock full, with something worth your time

And you will read on like a voracious consumer of vocabulary

If you'll  open up your heart
Maybe, I might stir it up with a solid, hearty recipe of words, sentences and imagery

That will satisfy the yearning soul

So give whatever you can give me,
And look forward to all of that

Sometime, more in the future

Oh, Clock
Do you ever tire of the incessant ticking,
Desiring your busy hands to relax, at least once, from of the endless telling of time?

Oh, Sun
Does it ever cross your mind to feel like quenching your fiery furnace
To relieve your sweat and live discretely among the coolness of the shadows?

Oh, Earth
Do you feel the need to be the imperfect dancer
To cease to spin in exquisite precision and simply stand still in thought ?

Oh, Death
Do you not grow weary of the troubling grief and suffering you force upon us
And consider surrendering your demand, your need for the all-consuming end to the beating of our hearts?

Do you?

I want to write a story
You can write one, too
That   -
You know that   -
That one, little keyboard symbol
That will one day be situated
In-between the day you were born
And the day you will die

Fill it up with the story that  is your life
With the highs and lows
The great and the ordinary
The joyful and the painful
The achievements and the lost opportunities
The rock bottoms and the redemption

For you must know that
The crux of the matter belongs in the  -
The pearl inside  
The life that exists within the two extremes
Of your existence,
The beginning and the end


For that is the story of your life

Pen, silent, no tongue
Barren page waits to conceive  
Fluid thoughts wanting

Columbine

Virginia Tech

Aurora, Colorado

Newtown, Connecticut

Is this what our nation has come to?

When shall it end?


What the Hell is Happening to Us?

When she was a little girl, she said she wanted to be an author. She didn't want to be a ballerina or cow girl. Maybe an actress would do, for she had quite a flair for the dramatic.

But to the world, she was so shy, cripplingly shy, and she had very low, self-esteem. She didn't dare to dream too much, for she couldn't imagine really doing anything that could draw attention to herself. She often just wanted to hide, and her imagination accompanied her in her world.

She remembered her grade school teacher reading to her class about Abraham Lincoln. She came home that day, and somehow she wrote it just as well as she could remembrer it, with her own pictures, too. Her mother was so impressed that she bragged to everyone that her daughter wrote it all on her own, out of her own head. It must have looked that convincing to her mother.

But as she grew older, the girl didn't ever give herself permission to write something, even when it was required in school to write a poem. It was daring. She could be made fun of.

How could someone like you do that?

She wasn't unintelligent. She had a good command of the English language. She even went to college and earned a degree, the only one out of three children. But she had her heart set on psychology.

When she moved away from home in her twenties, she suddenly flourished. She took community education classes in painting, and had no idea she really could pull of what she did. Painting felt so free, like such an accomplishment. It felt good to create, to work with her hands.

And then she was on a roll. She began to write, and you just couldn't stop her. Most of her writing was pretty good, and some of her work was not to her liking. Years later she would read them again, and she could see that some so-so ones could be salvaged, or the better ones could even be better yet by fixing some of them up. She once thought she had reached her peak, but when the roller coaster of life brought her new thoughts, she was on another roll.

She wanted to be a published author, but she learned that it really wasn't about being well-known. She tried to publish some poems, but she learned that no matter what she did, she was still an author. Whether she was doing it for living, or for the love of writing, she was still a writer. She was what that little girl wanted to be, but who was terrified it could happen more than she was terrified that it wouldn't come true.

Her ultimate dream was to write a novel. Her uncle, very close in age, was angry at her for writing what he thought was a fantastic draft of a novel. She tore it up, for it was way over her head. And did this all without the help of a computer, scribbling away in notebooks. and haphazard means, that she could even barely read. Her penmanship was never very good.

Imagination has always been a good guide, fueling her with scenerios in her head about people that she had invented, that she had created, with bits and peaces of real life experiences and observations. But translating her thoughts to paper were often a challenge, not always easy to portray as she had thought of them. She surely had a gift, and she didn't think she really deserved it. She took one writing class, and she seemed to do well. But she didn't pursue it much further than a single class, and a few poetry readings.

Someone she knew from her church had got on her case for not writing every day.

You have a gift, and you aren't using it. God gave you that gift".    

"Well, let Him take it away", she retorted to the accusation.

But it would not be taken away. Writing was a catharsis, when life got too heavy. It was an escape, a place she could design her own world--at least on paper.  It was a way to feel freedom and expression that did not come so easily in life. It brought her such satisfaction when done to her approval, when good feedback came.

No, she would not write everyday. She was not a machine, but she knew she would never want writing to be taken away or denied her. That, scared, little girl that once declared that she wanted to be an author never really went away, for her desires were not fickle, not a passing fancy.  

So even if she did not have anything published, sitting on a store bookshelf. thanks to the internet, she has been able to share her thoughts, her fears, her hopes, her dreams, her disappointments--her words on display.

She knows she is in good company.

Sometimes, I wish I had a heart of stone
So I wouldn't have to feel the pain
But if I am to feel at all
I have to feel it all
The joy, the hurt, and the mundane

Christmas lights
Outdoor trees, delight
Taking away the fright
Of a wintry, cold, dark night

Christmas lights
A glorious sight
Taking away the bite
Of a wintry, cold, dark night

Christmas lights
Black skies contrast the ground, white
And warmth of soul ignites
My inner fire on a wintry.....

Cold, dark night

That could describe you
That could describe me
Those of us of obscurity
Who do not have a name to back us up

Not an Ernest Hemmingway
Not a James Joyce
Not a Maya Angelou
Just a continual scribbler of some thoughts

Only are we considered underrated
Because we're not well-known
But that doesn't mean
We can't give the best of them a run for their money

December departs
Old calendar obsolete
Think: Resolutions

Food on the table
Coming together to gorge
Forget not the thanks

Lights strung on houses
Cardinal on snowy branch
Prime pine trees gathered

I surely love to talk
And am seldom lost for words
I even talk in my sleep

But I want to listen more
With my two ears
Outnumbering my one mouth

I want to get the fullness of
What one is saying
And regard those words as just as important

As mine

And most of all
I want to hear God's voice
In the stillness of my life

Turning off the music more
The computer and television
The constant distractions

For God speaks to our hearts
Often in the silence of the day
And I don't want to miss

Those moments

In my forty + years of living, I quite realize that....

Life can be hard and brutal, but life can be equally beautiful and amazing.

I've learned that loving others and liking others are two separate things. Sometimes, I did not like some people in my life...but I love(d) them very much.

I've learned that no matter what my circumstances are, to always have hope. I love the concept of hope. I fight for it, if I have to. And if only I find a flicker of hope, I'll ****** onto it for it to keep me going.

I've learned that forgiveness is vital, is important to living, but that doesn't mean I have to be friends with the one I forgive. Forgiveness is just as much for me as to the person I extend it to.

We don't always get what we want....sometimes, we have to wait and wait, and learn the hard way.....and that can often produce the most growth................the pain, the agony, the unsettling feelings.

I mean we surely can grow during the hardest times, the roughest times. I most certainly have, and have matured much more from when times were uncertain. None of us are entitled.

I've learned sometimes...you just got to do it! Like when I traveled to Britain...I'd rather say I accomplished a dream than "almost".

This is not a poem. It is not really a story, either. I don't really need to classify it in a category, I suppose.  I simply say it is an expression of respect, gratitude, and love for my mom...like a living eulogy.

Recently losing a loved one in the family to a tragic death, I am realizing how vital it is to tell my mother how much she means to me. No, it doesn't have to be Mother's Day for this to take place, nor her birthday (although she just turned 76 on November 2nd). The reason is so much more than the norm, than the expected. It is an urging need within to express my emotions, my creativity—before I forget—before the emotions fade, or I talk myself out of doing what I think is right.  

I fear I might start to take things for granted again and never decide to actually do it.

You see, when my father died nearly eight years ago, it was at his funeral that I spoke the kind, fond words in a eulogy that I wrote for him. It was nice to say it at church to an attentive audience who heard how I lovingly felt about my dad. It seemed easier, safer to my comfort zone, not to speak such things to him while he was alive. Sure, my father knew I cared. I looked after him when he was dying, and we had a great bond during that time. But I would love to turn back time, and tell him face-to-face. I cannot, but I wish to say these things to my mother now, while she is still here—and not simply in her memory someday—writing it all down before I  forget what I want to her to hear and read for herself.

It is easy to fight with someone you love, and to find fault. Most children have conflicts with their parents. Often, some of us want to place blame and be angry, even if it is momentary. It is another thing to stop and think of what our lives mean, and to remember those who enhanced us, shaped us, and taught us. Sometimes, we learn the hard way. We may learn by fire—I often have—for it is the intense stuff that shapes us, develops us, and refines us into who we are. If we are keenly aware about it, that is, and use everything for our good.

My mother taught me many good things. I want to say them in the here-and-now, not just to memorialize her some day in the future….so here it goes.

This is what my mother taught me:

She taught me that hate is a sin. Yes, a sin, for my mother realized that hate is a strong emotion, a destructive one that is not pleasing to God. She thinks it is simply wrong—no matter what.  As a child, this wasn't always what I wanted to hear—if I was passionately, downright, furious with someone—but I surely have grown up and now understand that she was absolutely right. No matter how justified I can feel, the wisdom of it keeps tugging at my heart. As I have heard in a quote before: Hate is easy, love takes courage.  I have my mother to thank for instilling such principles in my childhood. They perpetually instruct me, speak to me and to remind me throughout my years.

My mother taught me to be fair and even in life, and she never played favorites among me and my two older brothers. If it can be helped, she believed that nobody should get more than the other, or less. As the oldest of 13 children, she understood that proper distribution is important, and nobody should be left out

My mother taught me to be honest. I knew that she did not like to lie to anyone for her own gain or anyone else’s.  If I wanted her to lie for me, I saw that she was against it and quite uncomfortable about going against her belief. That is something that I learned to uphold as a virtue, too, applying to my life.

Even the little things, she taught me. "Cover your mouth when you yawn....Answer people when they address you” all have merit. (She still is in the correcting business on stuff like that!)

She has written a little bit of poetry and sketched a bit, too. Her poetry was simple and sweet, and she would write stuff in my birthday cards a few times. She even wrote poetry in her father's card one time, and he thought it was beautiful. It was not often that she heard such compliments.  I guess that is where I get my love of poetry, story writing, painting and drawing—from her. And I think, perhaps, my mom got her interest in sketching from her father.

My mom had and still has a beautiful singing voice. Many in the family told me so. She certainly could have been a professional singer—she was that good. Some of her siblings could sing well, too, and her mother. It used to drive my crazy that she would hum to songs in commercials or start singing when music played in the movies or on TV. "Do you have to sing?" I would ask. But I later realized how fun singing was, and my mom was surprised that I actually liked to do it, too. I think she was convinced that I held an anti-singing stance in life. If only I could sing half as good as she ever did, and appreciated it more.

My mother taught me not to waste, not food or practical things. And although I used to think she was way too much like that, I now understand it is a value to use money wisely. My mom certainly appreciated the value of a dollar, growing up in a large, impoverished family. She certainly did not come from the "throwaway generation".

My mom also taught me generosity. She has been this way with her children, helping us out financially, if needed. My father was that way, too, later in life. It was a blessing to know my mom and dad were there for me, and I could be there for them. They were adamant about helping others if they helped you. And surely that can be expanded to helping those who cannot help themselves, something I am passionate about.

My mother knew how to laugh and have a playful side to her. Even with her physical ailments—her bad back, her arthritis—my mom has maintained her humor. My dad did, too. There was plenty to be serious about. Yet they both had a silly side to them, and those kinds of qualities remind me that growing older does not mean that one has to lose that childlike part that keeps us young and less heavy-laden. My mom just has always had a more bubbly personality. Starting out in life as very shy and introverted—more like my dad—I also learned to be a bit more like her.

Lastly, my mother taught me about faith, that there is a God. I believed in God as a little girl. Later, my mom and I had our share of fighting and bickering about the importance of going to church.. As a teenager, I had major doubts and disbelief, and stayed away from such practices. But there was a foundation laid down before me that I later desired to lean on and thirst for. Although our religious paths differed for good, my mother and I both are Christians, and my mom never lost or questioned her faith like I often have. I am now glad to be able to say that I have faith in God, and it is so necessary for me.

Yes, my mother taught me many things for which I am grateful for.

Stop!

Can't get it togther
My frenetic thoughts
But my Molasses-in-January responses
My dreadful fear and apprehension
My lack of motivation
And my struggle to use time wisely

You are my eye in the hurricane
My Help in the midst of the storm
You are my Refuge
Even though quite often
I practically give You
The *******

Oh, thank You for Your longsuffering
For Your mercy
For Your faithfulness
For Your belief in me to rise above
For my heart to keep beating
For my lungs to take in more air

You are my Hope
You are my Shield
You are my Light
You are my Song
You are my Source
You are Everything to me

My God
But not just mine
There is plenty of You
To go around
To anyone who asks
And that is why You are
Above all that ever existed
Or was made by human hands
Period

How come with all the brilliant thoroughbreds
That stand strong and ready at the starting gates
Those glorious, shiny coats gleaming in the sun
Do I keep on beating dead horses?
Instead of placing my bets on the alive and thriving?

Don't I want to finally engage in the race?
Don't I want to to keep my eyes on the winning prize?
For a dead and decaying horse,
With flies swarming about its lifeless carcass
Just ain't gonna move

Dead horse beating is a ludicrous hobby
It is more futile than leading a thirsty horse to water that just won't drink
That whip, in hand, just needs to be surrendered, put down on the ground
As well as finally releasing, letting go, on the pulling of those reins
So that horse can finally have a proper burial

Be finally laid to rest

In my dictionary
Dead horse (a noun) = people, places, or things of decay that should be out of your life
Dead horse beating (a verb) = from your thoughts to your actions, trying to revive a lost cause
Dead horse (synonoms) =  bad relationships/friendships/acquaintances {that are of the morgue}

Anything that is counterproductive to your life