you know what pisses me off? friends who don't act like friends. friends who tell you they always make time for their friends and don't. friends who ignore you. friends who are happy to see you until they realize you don't fit into their life. friends who don't reply to your email, not even one word. friends who comment on everyone else's wall except yours. friends who encourage you to open your heart and subsequently crush said heart.
you know what also pisses me off? how angry i am with my friend and how important this friendship is for me...why are my eyes welling with tears now? how did i get here? once hopeful and energized by friend and now frustrated and regretful. rejected again. rejected by an old friend, one whom i never thought i would talk to again. one who reminded me of happy me, pre-depressed me, innocent me. one with whom i share common interests. or so i thought.
damned if i do...be myself, tell my truth, feel appreciated.
fuck this world and the horse it rode in on.
too tired to climb the emotional ladder
tired of looking through rose colored fun house mirrors
distortion persuading my heart to peek
look, just a little, maybe this time will be ok
persuading my soul to unlock prayers
and go to bed before I wake
again i fail, fall, frustrate my forward progression
what happened?
no answer
was it something I said?
no answer
one too many emails?
no answer
intrusion of public privacy?
no answer
expectation higher than yours?
no answer
will you please contact me and explain?
nothing
i hear you loud and clear.
i hear gentle crackings, like the iced lake removing itself from the warming shore
that's my confidence
that's why I'm pissed
at myself
Showing posts with label friend. Show all posts
Showing posts with label friend. Show all posts
10/31/11
10/18/11
emergence
I've tended my garden,
hoed and tilled and fertilized.
Ignored it too.
The muddy path and tangled roots are clearing.
My seedlings are planted,
sheltered from the wind and snow that will fall again.
Spring will come.
I didn't realize how lost I was.
I didn't understand my need to recover passions, dreams, and to answer unanswered questions.
A spark lit inside of me that I had no idea was dying.
I had no inkling of its existence, of the flames preparing to ignite.
I found an old friend.
And everything changed.
I opened my eyes and pointed my gaze inward.
He reminded me of a lifetime where my heart was clean and fresh and trusting. He represents a part of myself, of my life, that was forgotten and left for dead. His contact revived me without intention. He assured me by proxy. My friend did what I remember of him three decades ago: shared kindness.
I felt encouraged to bust open my soul’s windows,
to enter cautiously into the dark depths of myself, kept hidden and cold.
I ran into my fire.
The warmth engulfs me and I become complacent and charred.
I've been running through my fire for months,
fanning flames with beer and chocolate,
throwing on logs made of restlessness and doubt,
walking over hot coals instead of walking with God.
Such is life. Life worth fighting for.
Life lived once on earth and life of grace to live later.
No matter how fast I run, or how hot my soul’s fire, life will lead.
I am life’s follower.
Unless I allow my talents to emerge positively.
Unless I allow others inside, even when I doubt they will understand.
Unless I turn my face to the sun especially during the dark of night.
Unless I forgive myself for my past.
Unless I open my perspective to possibility I fear.
Unless I slow down enough to hear my soul’s song.
Unless I tend my garden and share my laborious fruits.
Unless I look around the blinders and stretch my head out of the sand.
Unless I ask and unless I answer.
I live
I see
I love
I am grateful for who I am
and who surrounds me.
Peace
Hugs
Light
Love~L
3/2/11
lesson
Advice from a friend
Gift of empowerment
The way in.
Truth or dare?
Gift of empowerment
The way in.
Truth or dare?
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2/24/11
cue Johnny Cash...
I thought about this keyboard all day. Thoughts positive and light, waiting to be pieced together and shared. Here goes…
Been kinda’ down the last few months for whatever reason or sense of something missing. Been searching, yearning, reaching…for something undefined and needed. Overanalyzed everything. Pushed people’s buttons til they walked away. Hid from others because they could not see. Blah, blah…the same old story I tell with every breath I take. Evolution of L. Sad saga. Life goes on. And WTF!
Pullin up those proverbial bootstraps and beginning again. I fired and rehired myself. Not sure when the metamorphosis ensued, or the event that triggered. Not gonna’ over think this one, just gonna describe the feelings. Hands inside the car, seatbelts fastened, tray tables set for lunch…I’m feeling better. I feel good. Smiling. Positive. My thoughts are turning toward the sun and my shoulders feel looser. Cluttered cobwebs be gone!
So what? So let’s enjoy, shall we?
I was called to give advice to a friend whom I’m just beginning to know. The subject matter was only familiar because the problem involved a female, which I sometimes play on TV. My friend is a man and I have no experience giving this kind of advice to a man. Long story shorter, I found my perspective intelligent and fair and I came away feeling strong and straight and alive. Although my friend’s situation is heartbreaking for him, a door has opened within my soul and I feel the fresh air circulating in my brain. Placing myself in another woman’s shoes in order to fulfill his answers, in order to create temporary solace, with hope that he can see the bigger picture before his cliff rises to meet his doubts and fears, wishing I could make sense of the unknown in order for his heart to continue beating…I listened for hours and I played my part. He claims I helped him. He thanked me for caring. He continues to battle against his broken dreams. And I pat myself on my back.
Something’s shifted. Energy movement from him to me? Chakra, karma, ying, yang? Insert a profound quote. Re-tweet from Buddha or to write love on her arms (TWLOHA). Read a paragraph from my nurse’s notes in a resident’s chart. Clicking. Jiving. Dancing. Mentally moving to the beat of another part of myself. My confident self. Shit I feel good typing these words. Thinking this way, claiming this land as my own. By myself, using my learned skills and practiced talents. I work my earth to produce more. More me. More of my mind. More to share with you. If you’ll have me.
I have a garden metaphor pertaining to my growth. I’ve sprinkled my garden throughout one or two blog entries, hoed and tilled and fertilized over time. Ignored it too. Today the muddy path and tangled roots are clearing. My seedlings are planted and sheltered from the wind and snow that will fall again. Spring will come, says my French class friend. From afar I watch his moves. Learning what he began teaching me last year. To live today and love today. To be grateful for who I am and who surrounds me. Tragedy lurks and fate occurs and only God knows what time schedule we fly by. No use to worry or ask why. Create, elate, celebrate!
Jb, you opened my eyes and pointed my gaze inward. You encouraged me to bust open my soul’s windows, to enter cautiously into the dark depths of myself, kept hidden and cold. You reminded me of a lifetime where my heart was clean and fresh and trusting. You represent a part of myself, of my life, that was forgotten and left for dead. You revived me without intention. You assured me by proxy. You did what I remember of you three decades ago: shared kindness. I didn’t realize how lost I was until you helped me find my passions, my dreams, my unanswered questions. You lit the spark inside of me that I had no idea was dying. I had no inkling of its existence, of the flames preparing to ignite.
FIRE!!!!
So I ran. I ran into my fire. I’m a slow learner, a procrastinator, distracted and unstructured. I’ve been running through my fire for months, fanning flames with beer and chocolate, throwing on logs made of restlessness and doubt, walking over hot coals instead of walking with God. The warmth engulfs me and I become complacent and charred. Such is life. Life worth fighting for. Life lived once on earth and life of grace to live later. No matter how fast I run, or how hot my soul’s fire, life will lead. I am life’s follower. I am part of the massive picture, the one I cannot begin to see unless I believe. Unless I allow my talents to emerge positively. Unless I allow others inside, even when I doubt they will understand. Unless I turn my face to the sun especially during the dark of night. Unless I forgive myself for my past. Unless I open my perspective to possibility I fear. Unless I slow down enough to hear your soul’s song. Unless I tend my garden and share my laborious fruits. Unless I look around the blinders and stretch my head out of the sand. Unless I ask and unless I answer.
Peace
Hugs
Light
Love
~L
Been kinda’ down the last few months for whatever reason or sense of something missing. Been searching, yearning, reaching…for something undefined and needed. Overanalyzed everything. Pushed people’s buttons til they walked away. Hid from others because they could not see. Blah, blah…the same old story I tell with every breath I take. Evolution of L. Sad saga. Life goes on. And WTF!
Pullin up those proverbial bootstraps and beginning again. I fired and rehired myself. Not sure when the metamorphosis ensued, or the event that triggered. Not gonna’ over think this one, just gonna describe the feelings. Hands inside the car, seatbelts fastened, tray tables set for lunch…I’m feeling better. I feel good. Smiling. Positive. My thoughts are turning toward the sun and my shoulders feel looser. Cluttered cobwebs be gone!
So what? So let’s enjoy, shall we?
I was called to give advice to a friend whom I’m just beginning to know. The subject matter was only familiar because the problem involved a female, which I sometimes play on TV. My friend is a man and I have no experience giving this kind of advice to a man. Long story shorter, I found my perspective intelligent and fair and I came away feeling strong and straight and alive. Although my friend’s situation is heartbreaking for him, a door has opened within my soul and I feel the fresh air circulating in my brain. Placing myself in another woman’s shoes in order to fulfill his answers, in order to create temporary solace, with hope that he can see the bigger picture before his cliff rises to meet his doubts and fears, wishing I could make sense of the unknown in order for his heart to continue beating…I listened for hours and I played my part. He claims I helped him. He thanked me for caring. He continues to battle against his broken dreams. And I pat myself on my back.
Something’s shifted. Energy movement from him to me? Chakra, karma, ying, yang? Insert a profound quote. Re-tweet from Buddha or to write love on her arms (TWLOHA). Read a paragraph from my nurse’s notes in a resident’s chart. Clicking. Jiving. Dancing. Mentally moving to the beat of another part of myself. My confident self. Shit I feel good typing these words. Thinking this way, claiming this land as my own. By myself, using my learned skills and practiced talents. I work my earth to produce more. More me. More of my mind. More to share with you. If you’ll have me.
I have a garden metaphor pertaining to my growth. I’ve sprinkled my garden throughout one or two blog entries, hoed and tilled and fertilized over time. Ignored it too. Today the muddy path and tangled roots are clearing. My seedlings are planted and sheltered from the wind and snow that will fall again. Spring will come, says my French class friend. From afar I watch his moves. Learning what he began teaching me last year. To live today and love today. To be grateful for who I am and who surrounds me. Tragedy lurks and fate occurs and only God knows what time schedule we fly by. No use to worry or ask why. Create, elate, celebrate!
Jb, you opened my eyes and pointed my gaze inward. You encouraged me to bust open my soul’s windows, to enter cautiously into the dark depths of myself, kept hidden and cold. You reminded me of a lifetime where my heart was clean and fresh and trusting. You represent a part of myself, of my life, that was forgotten and left for dead. You revived me without intention. You assured me by proxy. You did what I remember of you three decades ago: shared kindness. I didn’t realize how lost I was until you helped me find my passions, my dreams, my unanswered questions. You lit the spark inside of me that I had no idea was dying. I had no inkling of its existence, of the flames preparing to ignite.
FIRE!!!!
So I ran. I ran into my fire. I’m a slow learner, a procrastinator, distracted and unstructured. I’ve been running through my fire for months, fanning flames with beer and chocolate, throwing on logs made of restlessness and doubt, walking over hot coals instead of walking with God. The warmth engulfs me and I become complacent and charred. Such is life. Life worth fighting for. Life lived once on earth and life of grace to live later. No matter how fast I run, or how hot my soul’s fire, life will lead. I am life’s follower. I am part of the massive picture, the one I cannot begin to see unless I believe. Unless I allow my talents to emerge positively. Unless I allow others inside, even when I doubt they will understand. Unless I turn my face to the sun especially during the dark of night. Unless I forgive myself for my past. Unless I open my perspective to possibility I fear. Unless I slow down enough to hear your soul’s song. Unless I tend my garden and share my laborious fruits. Unless I look around the blinders and stretch my head out of the sand. Unless I ask and unless I answer.
Peace
Hugs
Light
Love
~L
2/2/11
it's 4 am, do you know where you are?
as I listen to the snow plows attack the drifting blizzard, I feel safe and peaceful. lately, as you can tell from my blog posts, I have required calm and quiet at home. This quiet is now. I am writing for me and to you and again I feel like fingers follow meaning and sort thoughts into sentences. My brain is on overload with what I have not written in the past 6 months.
I found my nursing niche and I'm honing my psychiatric craft. This job fits me well, like the pair of brown corduroy pants I lovingly lived holes through the knees. My back aches on this antiquated chair, and I am writing. My words are stumbling through the portal, chopping onto the keys and into run ons and fragments. And I'm writing and feeling it again.
clickity clackity
soft black plastic snapping
fingers ready and set in position
typewriter bell is missing, replaced by the hum of the pc's overworked fan
I'm writing.
In blue not ink.
In incorrect grammar and forgotten capitalization.
even as my lungs ache for deeper breaths
and my heavy head leans in the direction of my pillow,
even though my husband may call me crazy for staying up so late
and my dog may beg me to feed her early as I crawl up the stairs,
even if no one reads this post
and I sleep soundly anyway...
breathing in positivity one molecule at a time is good.
is forward momentum.
is what I am about today.
every day.
breathe in, breathe out
inhale, exhale
fill lungs and they will work for you
fill heart and it will beat for you
fill mind and it will think for you
fill life and you will live.
thank you friends and family who believe in the power...together we will fly higher on mended wings and run faster than the snow falls...together or individually, we have positive energy to turn us on, turn us into who we are, turn our hearts toward the sun and turn our inequities into acknowledgments...be...see...free...me.
12/9/10
fast forward
The mid morning sun warms my face as I stand outside against the cool structure. Watching the city move and listening to its breathing, feeling the life of parallel lines and man made structure, reminds me of my blessings. One more blessing is on its way.
I recognize him as he pulls his car up to the curb. Here we go...back to the future, in a BMW. I fumble with the door, realizing if I don't close it quickly a passing vehicle may drive off with it. Smile, breathe, think. Dark sunglasses, open sun roof...turn and look, smile. He holds his hand out toward me as he says hello. I return the greeting with a half hug, over the console between the seats. Awkward, but naturally my m.o. For a moment I forget where I am and he gently reminds me to buckle up. After all, we need to move from this space...and time.
"I haven't seen your eyes yet," he mentions a few minutes after we leave the curb. He hasn't seen them since sophomore year, since 1982, since my eyes were 15 years old. I do as I'm told and remove my sunglasses. He looks at me, into me. With my encouragement, he removes his glasses and I see him again. And then the light turns green.
I watch a confident driver, one arm perched over the top of the wheel and the other drumming on the bottom of the circle, weaving through traffic while fiddling with his i-phone, showing me pictures of last night's concert. I welcome his descriptions of the passing buildings and how they each fit into his life. Into his family's life. Then he offers me his hand again, and I take it, with the wrong hand. I'm supposed to shake it, not hold it. What do I know? I'm just his passenger.
I hug him the first chance I get outside of the car. He hugs me back. He's cool as a cucumber. I, on the other hand, am filled with the anxiety of a new perspective. He notices and comments about my shaking. Kind, and kind of embarrassing. At least he knows how to calm me with a few simple words and a smile. If only I could have a couple more hours to lighten up, to unglue my tongue from the top of my mouth, to reset my memory with interesting facts to discuss, to search for my wit.
Just as he told me, he wears a black shirt. He told me many things in the last two months, through email and chat, and I realize this afternoon that I am the half who remembers most of our dialogue. My priorities are obviously different than his. He left his son's football game to meet me. He keeps glancing at his watch. I know he has somewhere else to go soon. I silently thank God for this small window. And I smile again. In fact I can't stop smiling, and I barely speak. What is wrong with me? Where are all the questions I wanted to ask him? I feel the warmth again, from the rays touching us through the maze of buildings. We stand outside the restaurant, waiting for his name to be called so we may begin our lunch. His idea to meet for lunch. His turf, his time.
We talk about our children, our work, our past, our connections. He tells the waitress that we are meeting for the first time since high school French class and she picks up his vibe: "did you tease her back then?" 27 years ago he sat in the seat behind me and today he sits three feet in front of me, continuing to impress. After settling at our lunch table, my friend looks again. "I see you in your eyes. I see you as you were in high school." His thoughtfulness and compassion overwhelm my sensibility. Keep smiling. Keep breathing. Slow down my beating heart.
He pays for my oatmeal and coffee, takes me to meet a friend, and brings me to a favorite furniture gallery. I let him lead. All the while, I'm soaking in his aura. The friend whom I haven't seen in three decades is walking next to me, showing me how he lives now. I learn that he plays guitar, collects black and white photographs, frequents art gallery openings, and appreciates architecture. He tells me stories of his childrens' births, the progression of his business, his journey. I hear his commitment and feel his loyalty as he wrestles with the logistics of dropping me off and meeting his family.
I say thank you every chance I get. Thank you for letting me in these past weeks. Thank you for boosting my morale and encouraging me to fly higher. Thank you for making me laugh out loud and roll on the floor laughing. Thank you for keeping me interested and interesting me in culture and art and music and writing. Thank you for turning your Saturday upside down so we could see each other again. Thank you for accepting me.
I insist on the last hug. He graciously obliges. His car enters the traffic queue. One wave through the window glass and one last smile. Oblivious to the swirling movement of nearby pedestrians, I walk into the nearest corner of sunshine, in the direction of his moving car.
The autumn heat and the street noises reach inside my throat and grasp my trembling breath. I lean against the warm brick wall and begin the process of perspective. When will we meet again? Will we keep in touch as promised? Was a few hours enough to reconnect thirty lost years? After all, it was just lunch.
I recognize him as he pulls his car up to the curb. Here we go...back to the future, in a BMW. I fumble with the door, realizing if I don't close it quickly a passing vehicle may drive off with it. Smile, breathe, think. Dark sunglasses, open sun roof...turn and look, smile. He holds his hand out toward me as he says hello. I return the greeting with a half hug, over the console between the seats. Awkward, but naturally my m.o. For a moment I forget where I am and he gently reminds me to buckle up. After all, we need to move from this space...and time.
"I haven't seen your eyes yet," he mentions a few minutes after we leave the curb. He hasn't seen them since sophomore year, since 1982, since my eyes were 15 years old. I do as I'm told and remove my sunglasses. He looks at me, into me. With my encouragement, he removes his glasses and I see him again. And then the light turns green.
I watch a confident driver, one arm perched over the top of the wheel and the other drumming on the bottom of the circle, weaving through traffic while fiddling with his i-phone, showing me pictures of last night's concert. I welcome his descriptions of the passing buildings and how they each fit into his life. Into his family's life. Then he offers me his hand again, and I take it, with the wrong hand. I'm supposed to shake it, not hold it. What do I know? I'm just his passenger.
I hug him the first chance I get outside of the car. He hugs me back. He's cool as a cucumber. I, on the other hand, am filled with the anxiety of a new perspective. He notices and comments about my shaking. Kind, and kind of embarrassing. At least he knows how to calm me with a few simple words and a smile. If only I could have a couple more hours to lighten up, to unglue my tongue from the top of my mouth, to reset my memory with interesting facts to discuss, to search for my wit.
Just as he told me, he wears a black shirt. He told me many things in the last two months, through email and chat, and I realize this afternoon that I am the half who remembers most of our dialogue. My priorities are obviously different than his. He left his son's football game to meet me. He keeps glancing at his watch. I know he has somewhere else to go soon. I silently thank God for this small window. And I smile again. In fact I can't stop smiling, and I barely speak. What is wrong with me? Where are all the questions I wanted to ask him? I feel the warmth again, from the rays touching us through the maze of buildings. We stand outside the restaurant, waiting for his name to be called so we may begin our lunch. His idea to meet for lunch. His turf, his time.
We talk about our children, our work, our past, our connections. He tells the waitress that we are meeting for the first time since high school French class and she picks up his vibe: "did you tease her back then?" 27 years ago he sat in the seat behind me and today he sits three feet in front of me, continuing to impress. After settling at our lunch table, my friend looks again. "I see you in your eyes. I see you as you were in high school." His thoughtfulness and compassion overwhelm my sensibility. Keep smiling. Keep breathing. Slow down my beating heart.
He pays for my oatmeal and coffee, takes me to meet a friend, and brings me to a favorite furniture gallery. I let him lead. All the while, I'm soaking in his aura. The friend whom I haven't seen in three decades is walking next to me, showing me how he lives now. I learn that he plays guitar, collects black and white photographs, frequents art gallery openings, and appreciates architecture. He tells me stories of his childrens' births, the progression of his business, his journey. I hear his commitment and feel his loyalty as he wrestles with the logistics of dropping me off and meeting his family.
I say thank you every chance I get. Thank you for letting me in these past weeks. Thank you for boosting my morale and encouraging me to fly higher. Thank you for making me laugh out loud and roll on the floor laughing. Thank you for keeping me interested and interesting me in culture and art and music and writing. Thank you for turning your Saturday upside down so we could see each other again. Thank you for accepting me.
I insist on the last hug. He graciously obliges. His car enters the traffic queue. One wave through the window glass and one last smile. Oblivious to the swirling movement of nearby pedestrians, I walk into the nearest corner of sunshine, in the direction of his moving car.
The autumn heat and the street noises reach inside my throat and grasp my trembling breath. I lean against the warm brick wall and begin the process of perspective. When will we meet again? Will we keep in touch as promised? Was a few hours enough to reconnect thirty lost years? After all, it was just lunch.
10/3/10
celebrate
my month. my birth. my anniversary of blogging. so many events, so little time.
last year I remember being very very pissed off about not getting my birthday off from work. I vented on facebook and my friends rallied to my immature rant. My junior high friends met as we had planned and sang to a piece of cake with my candle sticking out of it. the picture is my memory of number 43. number 44 will be different, will set a precedent, will foreshadow future.
happy birthday to my blog. been blogging since october 2009. sounds like a restaurant slogan. millions of words typed, thousands of readers, hours of hoping. actually, happy anniversary to jb, my french class friend who convinced this lost soul to give it a go. jb, you rock! and you roll too. bothering him today with voicemails about U2 songs as I drive to work, I thank God for open minded friends like this one. Someone who barely knows me realizes my soul needs sensible suggestion, and those who've grown in the same garden continue to question my motives.
When does Lorraine feel sound? what mountain has to erupt for Lorraine to mean more than a pile of potential? when does my rainbow wrap around their golden pot of expectations? never. nada. not gonna happen. I am not giving into conformity. I'm staying true to myself. I'm ready and willing to accept my consequences...like I teach my children, like I reteach myself. Reading, writing, realizing. Seeing, feeling, capturing the clouds on my way to work and the stars above the corn fields. Listening to John Mellencamp sing about mortality and promises broken. Meeting old friends dressed in new cloaks. Speaking up to myself and listening to every word. Showing true colors and allowing muddling. Collecting coins for my fountain. Ringing my bells, louder than ever. Loud enough for all of the extensions of myself to hear, from sea to shining sea, from earth into heaven, from the Little Prince's planet to the big man's bedside.
Bear down and grin and bear it. Sunday night football makes all things right. night night!
peace,
~L
9/17/10
a friend (author unknown)
What is a friend? I'll tell you.
It is a person with whom you dare to be yourself.
Your soul can go naked with him.
He seems to ask you to put on nothing,
only to be what you really are.
When you are with him,
When you are with him,
you do not have to be on your guard.
You can say what you think, so long as it is genuinely you.
He understands those contradictions in your nature
that cause others to misjudge you.
With him you breathe freely,
With him you breathe freely,
you can avow your little vanities and envies and absurdities
and in opening them up to him they are dissolved
on the white ocean of his loyalty.
He understands.
He understands.
You can weep with him,
laugh with him,
pray with him,
through and underneath it all he sees,
knows and loves you.
A Friend, I repeat, is one with whom
A Friend, I repeat, is one with whom
YOU DARE TO BE YOURSELF.
9/7/10
memoirs of life
wake up today
sleep tomorrow
talking about it doesn't hurt
no worries if you face
life
face death
let it roll
and let it go
give it up to God
give yourself a break
let the day lead your mind
let your heart make a path for your soul
this week is difficult for some
reminder of tragedy and humility
in the hands of terror
now in the arms of an angel
unexpected death of a classmate
of my friend's sister
my friend's friend
my friend
weep
wonder what if
wipe off ambiguity with wtf
submit your plan
implement your proposal
start walking your path
lessons learned
on angels' wings
I hear her rustling through this morning
the wind through leaves
outside my house
wisdom floating through the window screen
grace gently singing
forcing my mind's attention
I hear her
I hear you
you teach me
you touch my soul
and I learn to love again
your examples are ingrained among us
the past group of immaturity
rising to your standards
beckoning your approval
among the angels
meaning is magnified
thank you for living with us
we remember you
your graceful dance
your infectious smile
your photos in the yearbook
your family online
your memorials unending
as we breathe
each new day
you are within
you are around
you are why we fill our lungs
for you
because of you
our hearts beat stronger
our love widens
our life walks on
because you lived and loved
us
thinking about the human loss on september 11th, 2001
especially my high school classmate
Mari Rae Sopper
may she be peacefully tumbling her way through God's Heaven
may her family and friends be peacefully walking with her in their hearts
may peace be with humanity
<3
talking about it doesn't hurt
no worries if you face
life
face death
let it roll
and let it go
give it up to God
give yourself a break
let the day lead your mind
let your heart make a path for your soul
this week is difficult for some
reminder of tragedy and humility
in the hands of terror
now in the arms of an angel
unexpected death of a classmate
of my friend's sister
my friend's friend
my friend
weep
wonder what if
wipe off ambiguity with wtf
submit your plan
implement your proposal
start walking your path
lessons learned
on angels' wings
I hear her rustling through this morning
the wind through leaves
outside my house
wisdom floating through the window screen
grace gently singing
forcing my mind's attention
I hear her
I hear you
you teach me
you touch my soul
and I learn to love again
your examples are ingrained among us
the past group of immaturity
rising to your standards
beckoning your approval
among the angels
meaning is magnified
thank you for living with us
we remember you
your graceful dance
your infectious smile
your photos in the yearbook
your family online
your memorials unending
as we breathe
each new day
you are within
you are around
you are why we fill our lungs
for you
because of you
our hearts beat stronger
our love widens
our life walks on
because you lived and loved
us
thinking about the human loss on september 11th, 2001
especially my high school classmate
Mari Rae Sopper
may she be peacefully tumbling her way through God's Heaven
may her family and friends be peacefully walking with her in their hearts
may peace be with humanity
<3
8/14/10
borrowing a laugh from MC Rabbit...and his powdered nut
one of my bloggity friends is one of my funniest friends....thanks for the lol's at 3 am MC.
peace out homies
~L
btw: you'll laugh if you link up to the post by clicking on the title...up there, above the note...
7/11/10
Sweet Relief collects over $13,000 for Matthew Leone
you can read the story about Madina Lake's bassist here
the donation widget is over there>>>>>
and there are fundraisers in place also,
if you want more info/links, write to me.
thanks and peace,
~L
the donation widget is over there>>>>>
and there are fundraisers in place also,
if you want more info/links, write to me.
thanks and peace,
~L
7/1/10
RN again
yep, I got the job I interviewed for last week and wrote about here. Thankful for your support as well as that of my family, extended family, fb friends, and of course God...who, by the way, always leads me on the path I need to walk. Duh!
Why I freak out over an interview when I've been describing myself to social workers and psychiatrists and family members for decades, I'll never know. Just me and my insecurity dueling at the front of the line. Step right up, see the middle-aged nurse doubting herself again. Place your bets on the time she takes to SNAP OUT OF IT!
uh, hello, where am I? I'm employed? I survived the self-sell?
I earned opportunity! I will be working! as an RN! Wait, what?
AND MY JOURNEY CONTINUES~~~
to the middle
toward community
hearts mending
hopes growing
view, frame, focus
begin again
again
PEACE,
~L
4/7/10
my major award
Fra geel ay!
I received this major award from my blogger friend,
Vencora and I have agreed that we share the gift of introspection. We seem to be on a path of self discovery, using our talents to help guide our way. We also both reside in the beautiful state of Michigan, although I think V will be traveling to other lands sooner than I will. She's a bit younger than I am, and she is single, thus the wanderlust fits her better. The beauty of having Vencora as my blogging friend, is that no matter where she resides physically in our world, we will always be connected through the links we've spun on this web.
God bless you V, and all my bloggity companions for brightening my path of enlightenment, supporting my searching soul, listening to my rambling and still coming back for more. As I said in my last post, I enjoy blogging, it keeps me centered and thoughtful, and every one of you who reads this now is part of the magic! (cue sappy music...and fade out)
(my first bokeh)
3/22/10
second look
Only love can leave such a mark~U2
Father and son running errands. Typical Saturday procedure, I'm sure. Dad's precious time spent with one third of his offspring. I know my priority ranking here and I am grateful for the chance to experience. Blessed to meet his oldest child, the blond boy I've admired in photos. His eyes attracting light and reflecting innocence. Reminds me of my French class friend.
Great food, great atmosphere, great company. Four months ago I was mud-stuck. Today I flow with the conversation current. I'm swept up in the fifth grade reality of boy scouting and origami. He's inherited his parents' creativity and intelligence. His spark is contagious and I'm immediately drawn in, soaking up his youthful exuberance. Friend, you have done this boy right. He is going places. You are blessed.
Easy laughter.
3/4/10
just write
having lots of fun reading everyone else....real bloggers...real feelings and thoughts and talent ...filling my spinning mind with balance, and corrupting my balance of mind over matter...read, taste, learn, listen...testing waters and unlocking doors...admiring from afar and admonishing admirers...isn't blogging grand?
~~~~~~~~
I'm off to an adventure this weekend. I'll be meeting my french class friend and possibly part of his family. Lots to peruse and lots to shoot in the urban jungle. Safari in the city. Aiming shots at skyscrapers and roaming pedestrians. Shooting the trophy life I longed for. the past meets presently. two worlds colliding, gliding, careening off line. Looking forward to flight of fancy and fantasizing what-if's...at lunch.
ps: I'm unemployed. tbc...
~~~~~~~~
I'm off to an adventure this weekend. I'll be meeting my french class friend and possibly part of his family. Lots to peruse and lots to shoot in the urban jungle. Safari in the city. Aiming shots at skyscrapers and roaming pedestrians. Shooting the trophy life I longed for. the past meets presently. two worlds colliding, gliding, careening off line. Looking forward to flight of fancy and fantasizing what-if's...at lunch.
ps: I'm unemployed. tbc...
3/1/10
response to HOPE
First of all, thanks for sharing our story. You do a very nice job putting your thoughts down to words. I honestly think you give us, Andrew's parents, way to much credit. I believe we're only doing what any "certified" parent would do. Is it easy, hell no, but being a parent is and always will be about teaching your child to get the most out of life and if you can laugh along the way ... even better. Thanks for thinking about us and once again, nice job. Steve
The best compliment a writer can receive is one from the subject of her creation. The above comment is from Steve Bos, Andrew's father. You know Andrew if you read my post HOPE. I emailed the Bos' with a request for their permission to publish my experience with their family, and they responded with, "We would be honored to have you share our story with anyone you know." Then today I check my comments and I am blown away by the above note from Mr Bos.
Doesn't he sound humble? Doesn't he seem like a wonderful parent? Don't you parents out there wish you had as much positive attitude that Steve describes? I say yes, yes, and yes! Beware, more credit ahead...
Andrew, Myke, and Steve model for our community the reason of our existence on earth: to serve other human beings. Their message is heard in the routine. Their examples are seen in the simple. Their agenda is "about teaching your child to get the most out of life and if you can laugh along the way ... even better." Andrew's influenced me in ways I never imagined. Can you imagine how he's influencing his God given parents and siblings everyday? Andrew's agenda. Believe. Hope. Love one another. Laugh.
Andrew says: "peace out homie!"
2/26/10
HOPE
During my very last nursing clinical rotation, a few months before I received my diploma, I worked as a nurse manager on a medical/surgical (med/surg) floor at a local hospital. One of my patients was famous. Well, locally. His story had been in the papers and talked about around our community. Tragedy had struck one of our own and it could have been one of us.
HIPPA laws intact, I greeted my patient and family with utmost respect and professionalism. Then I realized that I knew MOM and she needed a hug. And I gave her a big one. Even though I only knew her first name and how she ordered her bagel at Good Grains (present employer), our instant connection was born because of who was silently lying in the hospital bed next to us...her son.
What I read in the paper was sad enough. First ride on his new motorcycle, freak accident, brain injury, unknown prognosis, teenager. I followed his progress through another teen I know who visited him a couple weeks post accident, when he was laying precariously balanced in ICU. I read in the paper about his many friends and loved ones making t-shirts with his name on them to wear to our local Christian music festival, UNITY. This was not the first time I've experienced Muskegon's compassionate rallying. I was still amazed and honored.
A couple months later I met this young man. Despite his contracted limbs, his tall body encompassed the skinny hospital bed. His eyes open and distant, windows to an unknown connection. His stuffed fish lay next to him and rolled washcloths tightly fit inside both fists. A tracheotomy tube poked from his neck, gauze covered his cross-skull incision, and his abdomen housed a gastric feeding tube where I would later pour in his lunch. Everything was different now.
Hand written notes were taped to the hospital walls with instructions for daily range of motion exercises and clues to communication. Mom explained with professional precision and proceeded to demonstrate the removal of his leg braces. I was slightly overwhelmed. And extremely humbled. This family had already experienced much more than any nursing student in two months time. My ears and eyes were wide open.
Bells and whistles aside, caring for this patient was simple. Care. Easy for me, mom of two teens. All I had to do was picture one of my children lying helplessly, imagine the empty answers to unending questions, feel the love emanating in that little room. Every visitor I met had a smile and thank you for me. Every chat with mom and dad ended up with a hug and a thank you from me. This was an awesome three day opportunity. My formal education may have been ending but my nursing education was beginning with a bang. I wanted to spend all my time with this family. To soak up every bit of knowledge. To learn all of this boy's needs and how to fulfill each.
Stories about his sense of humor and love for life filled our time as I worked side by side with his parents. They wanted to share and they wanted to teach. Their strength lifted mine and their hope encouraged more. They didn't care who knew their story as long as it was told. And I have been listening ever since.
Now it's my turn to tell and your turn to hear the story of my friend Andrew. His family made a Care Pages website about life with Andrew since accident day #1 in April 2008. Myke is his mother's name and my former bagel customer. She and her husband write as often as possible, including entries of doctor visits, insurance challenges, and life with Andrew's brother, sister, and girlfriend.
I get emailed alerts with each new post and occasionally I'll comment. I have not seen Andrew in person and I don't think he would remember our first meeting. However, the incredible miracles he has shown since then prove that his brain is healing. He won't be the same Andrew who jumped on that motorcycle almost two years ago. He'll be New Andrew. Andrew begun again. Speaking, multiplying, recognizing, remembering, joking, traveling, inspiring.
I pray that you will be inspired by Andrew Steven Bos.
Peace and love.
just so you know, Myke Bos granted me permission to publish this story...thanks friend!
HIPPA laws intact, I greeted my patient and family with utmost respect and professionalism. Then I realized that I knew MOM and she needed a hug. And I gave her a big one. Even though I only knew her first name and how she ordered her bagel at Good Grains (present employer), our instant connection was born because of who was silently lying in the hospital bed next to us...her son.
What I read in the paper was sad enough. First ride on his new motorcycle, freak accident, brain injury, unknown prognosis, teenager. I followed his progress through another teen I know who visited him a couple weeks post accident, when he was laying precariously balanced in ICU. I read in the paper about his many friends and loved ones making t-shirts with his name on them to wear to our local Christian music festival, UNITY. This was not the first time I've experienced Muskegon's compassionate rallying. I was still amazed and honored.
A couple months later I met this young man. Despite his contracted limbs, his tall body encompassed the skinny hospital bed. His eyes open and distant, windows to an unknown connection. His stuffed fish lay next to him and rolled washcloths tightly fit inside both fists. A tracheotomy tube poked from his neck, gauze covered his cross-skull incision, and his abdomen housed a gastric feeding tube where I would later pour in his lunch. Everything was different now.
Hand written notes were taped to the hospital walls with instructions for daily range of motion exercises and clues to communication. Mom explained with professional precision and proceeded to demonstrate the removal of his leg braces. I was slightly overwhelmed. And extremely humbled. This family had already experienced much more than any nursing student in two months time. My ears and eyes were wide open.
Bells and whistles aside, caring for this patient was simple. Care. Easy for me, mom of two teens. All I had to do was picture one of my children lying helplessly, imagine the empty answers to unending questions, feel the love emanating in that little room. Every visitor I met had a smile and thank you for me. Every chat with mom and dad ended up with a hug and a thank you from me. This was an awesome three day opportunity. My formal education may have been ending but my nursing education was beginning with a bang. I wanted to spend all my time with this family. To soak up every bit of knowledge. To learn all of this boy's needs and how to fulfill each.
Stories about his sense of humor and love for life filled our time as I worked side by side with his parents. They wanted to share and they wanted to teach. Their strength lifted mine and their hope encouraged more. They didn't care who knew their story as long as it was told. And I have been listening ever since.
Now it's my turn to tell and your turn to hear the story of my friend Andrew. His family made a Care Pages website about life with Andrew since accident day #1 in April 2008. Myke is his mother's name and my former bagel customer. She and her husband write as often as possible, including entries of doctor visits, insurance challenges, and life with Andrew's brother, sister, and girlfriend.
I get emailed alerts with each new post and occasionally I'll comment. I have not seen Andrew in person and I don't think he would remember our first meeting. However, the incredible miracles he has shown since then prove that his brain is healing. He won't be the same Andrew who jumped on that motorcycle almost two years ago. He'll be New Andrew. Andrew begun again. Speaking, multiplying, recognizing, remembering, joking, traveling, inspiring.
I pray that you will be inspired by Andrew Steven Bos.
Peace and love.
just so you know, Myke Bos granted me permission to publish this story...thanks friend!
2/17/10
just lunch (2nd draft)
The mid morning sun warms my face as I stand outside against the cool structure. Watching the city move and listening to its breathing, feeling the life of parallel lines and man made structure, reminds me of my blessings. One more blessing is on its way.
I recognize him as he pulls his car up to the curb. Here we go, back to the future in a BMW. I fumble with the door, realizing if I don't close it quickly a passing vehicle may drive off with it. Smile, breathe, think. Dark sunglasses, open sun roof...turn and look, smile. He holds his hand out toward me as he says hello. I return the greeting with a half hug, over the console between the seats. Awkward, but naturally my m.o. For a moment I forget where I am and he gently reminds me to buckle up. After all, we need to move from this space, and time.
"I haven't seen your eyes yet," he mentions a few minutes after we leave the curb. He hasn't seen them since sophomore year, since 1982, since my eyes were 15 years old. I do as I'm told and remove my sunglasses. He looks at me, into me. With my encouragement, he removes his glasses and I see him again. And then the light turns green.
I watch a confident driver, one arm perched over the top of the wheel and the other drumming on the bottom of the circle, weaving through traffic while fiddling with his i-phone, showing me pictures of last night's concert. I welcome his descriptions of the passing buildings and how they each fit into his life. Into his family's life. Then he offers me his hand again, and I take it, with the wrong hand. I'm supposed to shake it, not hold it. What do I know? I'm just his passenger.
I hug him the first chance I get outside of the car. He hugs me back. He's cool as a cucumber. I, on the other hand, am filled with the anxiety of a new perspective. He notices and comments about my shaking. Kind, and kind of embarrassing. At least he knows how to calm me with a few simple words and a smile. If only I could have a couple more hours to lighten up, to unglue my tongue from the top of my mouth, to reset my memory with interesting facts to discuss, to search for my wit.
Just as he told me, he wears a black shirt. He told me many things in the last two months, through email and chat, and I realize this afternoon that I am the half who remembers most of our dialogue. My priorities are obviously different than his. He left his son's football game to meet me. He keeps glancing at his watch. I know he has somewhere else to go soon. I silently thank God for this small window. And I smile again. In fact I can't stop smiling, and I barely speak. What is wrong with me? Where are all the questions I wanted to ask him? I feel the warmth again, from the rays touching us through the maze of buildings. We stand outside the restaurant, waiting for his name to be called so we may begin our lunch. His idea to meet for lunch. His turf, his time.
We talk about our children, our work, our past, our connections. He tells the waitress that we are meeting for the first time since high school French class and she picks up his vibe: "did you tease her back then?" 27 years ago he sat in the seat behind me and today he sits three feet in front of me, continuing to impress. After settling at our lunch table, my friend looks again. "I see you in your eyes. I see you as you were in high school." His thoughtfulness and compassion overwhelm my sensibility. Keep smiling. Keep breathing. Slow down my beating heart.
He pays for my oatmeal and coffee, takes me to meet a friend, and brings me to a favorite furniture gallery. I let him lead. All the while, I'm soaking in his aura. The friend whom I haven't seen in three decades is walking next to me, showing me how he lives now. I learn that he plays guitar, collects black and white photographs, frequents art gallery openings, and appreciates architecture. He tells me stories of his childrens' births, the progression of his business, his journey. I hear his commitment and feel his loyalty as he wrestles with the logistics of dropping me off and meeting his family.
I say thank you every chance I get. Thank you for letting me in these past weeks. Thank you for boosting my morale and encouraging me to fly higher. Thank you for making me laugh out loud and roll on the floor laughing. Thank you for keeping me interested and interesting me in culture and art and music and writing. Thank you for turning your Saturday upside down so we could see each other again. Thank you for accepting me.
I insist on the last hug. He graciously obliges. His car enters the traffic queue. One wave through the window glass and one last smile. Oblivious to the swirling movement of nearby pedestrians, I walk into the nearest corner of sunshine, in the direction of his moving car. The autumn heat and the street noises reach inside my throat and grasp my trembling breath. I lean against the warm brick wall and begin the process of perspective. When will we meet again? Will we keep in touch as promised? Was a few hours enough to reconnect two lifetimes?
After all, it was just lunch.
I recognize him as he pulls his car up to the curb. Here we go, back to the future in a BMW. I fumble with the door, realizing if I don't close it quickly a passing vehicle may drive off with it. Smile, breathe, think. Dark sunglasses, open sun roof...turn and look, smile. He holds his hand out toward me as he says hello. I return the greeting with a half hug, over the console between the seats. Awkward, but naturally my m.o. For a moment I forget where I am and he gently reminds me to buckle up. After all, we need to move from this space, and time.
"I haven't seen your eyes yet," he mentions a few minutes after we leave the curb. He hasn't seen them since sophomore year, since 1982, since my eyes were 15 years old. I do as I'm told and remove my sunglasses. He looks at me, into me. With my encouragement, he removes his glasses and I see him again. And then the light turns green.
I watch a confident driver, one arm perched over the top of the wheel and the other drumming on the bottom of the circle, weaving through traffic while fiddling with his i-phone, showing me pictures of last night's concert. I welcome his descriptions of the passing buildings and how they each fit into his life. Into his family's life. Then he offers me his hand again, and I take it, with the wrong hand. I'm supposed to shake it, not hold it. What do I know? I'm just his passenger.
I hug him the first chance I get outside of the car. He hugs me back. He's cool as a cucumber. I, on the other hand, am filled with the anxiety of a new perspective. He notices and comments about my shaking. Kind, and kind of embarrassing. At least he knows how to calm me with a few simple words and a smile. If only I could have a couple more hours to lighten up, to unglue my tongue from the top of my mouth, to reset my memory with interesting facts to discuss, to search for my wit.
Just as he told me, he wears a black shirt. He told me many things in the last two months, through email and chat, and I realize this afternoon that I am the half who remembers most of our dialogue. My priorities are obviously different than his. He left his son's football game to meet me. He keeps glancing at his watch. I know he has somewhere else to go soon. I silently thank God for this small window. And I smile again. In fact I can't stop smiling, and I barely speak. What is wrong with me? Where are all the questions I wanted to ask him? I feel the warmth again, from the rays touching us through the maze of buildings. We stand outside the restaurant, waiting for his name to be called so we may begin our lunch. His idea to meet for lunch. His turf, his time.
We talk about our children, our work, our past, our connections. He tells the waitress that we are meeting for the first time since high school French class and she picks up his vibe: "did you tease her back then?" 27 years ago he sat in the seat behind me and today he sits three feet in front of me, continuing to impress. After settling at our lunch table, my friend looks again. "I see you in your eyes. I see you as you were in high school." His thoughtfulness and compassion overwhelm my sensibility. Keep smiling. Keep breathing. Slow down my beating heart.
He pays for my oatmeal and coffee, takes me to meet a friend, and brings me to a favorite furniture gallery. I let him lead. All the while, I'm soaking in his aura. The friend whom I haven't seen in three decades is walking next to me, showing me how he lives now. I learn that he plays guitar, collects black and white photographs, frequents art gallery openings, and appreciates architecture. He tells me stories of his childrens' births, the progression of his business, his journey. I hear his commitment and feel his loyalty as he wrestles with the logistics of dropping me off and meeting his family.
I say thank you every chance I get. Thank you for letting me in these past weeks. Thank you for boosting my morale and encouraging me to fly higher. Thank you for making me laugh out loud and roll on the floor laughing. Thank you for keeping me interested and interesting me in culture and art and music and writing. Thank you for turning your Saturday upside down so we could see each other again. Thank you for accepting me.
I insist on the last hug. He graciously obliges. His car enters the traffic queue. One wave through the window glass and one last smile. Oblivious to the swirling movement of nearby pedestrians, I walk into the nearest corner of sunshine, in the direction of his moving car. The autumn heat and the street noises reach inside my throat and grasp my trembling breath. I lean against the warm brick wall and begin the process of perspective. When will we meet again? Will we keep in touch as promised? Was a few hours enough to reconnect two lifetimes?
After all, it was just lunch.
1/20/10
melancholy baby
With the addition of my third blog follower (welcome friend!) and the recent invites I've given out, I am anticipating familial questions and sensitive surprise to the premier of my shades of grey.
I feel the need to explain my metamorphosis.
As mentioned in my profile, I was encouraged by a friend. A friend whom I haven't seen for 27 years, since high school French class. He sat behind me. With my girl friend sitting nearby, we formed a triangle of innocent teasing and instant trust. I looked forward to going to that class and smiling and laughing and feeling like high school was going to be ok. He was two years ahead of us. A senior trumping our two sophomores. No matter, in French class we were all equally inept.
He asked me to go out with him. I said no. I feared my father and what may explode by breaking a family rule. Rule #1: no dating until you are 16. I was 15. Instead, I bought him the new Scorpions album he had been excited about. Actually I don't remember which came first, the album or the asking. Doesn't matter, both were turning points.
And three decades forward another page is turned. I found my french class friend on facebook. Just a fluke, as I was perusing some high school reunion site or something. I was a newbie to the social networking scheme, sending a few notes, watching people, stalking as they say. Most of the other alums were enjoying their reconnections. I'll give it a try, I thought. In September, my friend received a brief email from "the girl from french class." Nothing lost for trying. What will I gain?
He remembered. He responded. He and I reminisced and wrote and realized the 27 years between us. We have some stuff in common now. We shared stories through the internet mail and laughed at our past selves. He complimented my ideas and allowed me to express myself. Thoughts easily flowed through my fingertips and onto the screen. Anticipation of my friend's reaction overtook my senses. Joy. Awareness. Introspection. I was writing again.
So as my patient friend received emails of my essays and observations, I began to realize what was missing. As he encouraged me to write and work out my thoughts, I thought of more. I dove deeply into myself and rescued a necessary treasure. I opened my eyes and asked myself the hard questions. I used writing and the writing used me. I flew through my past, attacked my present, and wondered about my future. I was hooked again. I needed to write. I needed to feel. I needed to breathe. And my friend needed a break.
I must introduce you to my friend. He and I knew each other briefly all those decades ago. Two teenagers who lived from minute to minute. There was no contact after that year. We went our separate ways...to the same college, we found out recently. To careers, marriage, children, mortgages, and the meaning of our lives. We had lots to share in those early emails, and I couldn't get enough. After all, I had a willing audience and he responded positively to most everything I fed him. My friend is as gracious as I remember him, and I have told him so.
My honesty spewed forth and many questions were asked. I opened my eyes and my heart, looking for answers. Kinda' risky for a fragile emoter, such as I. My friend pulled me back and gave me advice. He helped me see the importance of my thinking and how I could rope in my enthusiasm on my own blog. Really? On the internet, for everyone to see? And how about writing short stories using your experiences? Really? Me? Thanks for the vote of confidence.
Caterpillar chrysalis becomes butterfly. Wings of hope fly me forward. Breathing easier.
Now I introduce myself to you and the www. Hello, here I am. This is me. This is what I think about. This is what has happened to me. These are my dreams, fears, wants, needs. Here you will research a middle aged woman, wife, mother of two, daughter, sister, aunt. Here lies my inner workings, the core of my being. I have come through and around and under challenges. I have wished and wondered and waited for life. I have lived and loved and loathed. You will hear my history. You will discover my doubts. You will feel my future. You will penetrate my present. You will explore my expectations. You will read me.
Please enjoy.
Peace.
I feel the need to explain my metamorphosis.
As mentioned in my profile, I was encouraged by a friend. A friend whom I haven't seen for 27 years, since high school French class. He sat behind me. With my girl friend sitting nearby, we formed a triangle of innocent teasing and instant trust. I looked forward to going to that class and smiling and laughing and feeling like high school was going to be ok. He was two years ahead of us. A senior trumping our two sophomores. No matter, in French class we were all equally inept.
He asked me to go out with him. I said no. I feared my father and what may explode by breaking a family rule. Rule #1: no dating until you are 16. I was 15. Instead, I bought him the new Scorpions album he had been excited about. Actually I don't remember which came first, the album or the asking. Doesn't matter, both were turning points.
And three decades forward another page is turned. I found my french class friend on facebook. Just a fluke, as I was perusing some high school reunion site or something. I was a newbie to the social networking scheme, sending a few notes, watching people, stalking as they say. Most of the other alums were enjoying their reconnections. I'll give it a try, I thought. In September, my friend received a brief email from "the girl from french class." Nothing lost for trying. What will I gain?
He remembered. He responded. He and I reminisced and wrote and realized the 27 years between us. We have some stuff in common now. We shared stories through the internet mail and laughed at our past selves. He complimented my ideas and allowed me to express myself. Thoughts easily flowed through my fingertips and onto the screen. Anticipation of my friend's reaction overtook my senses. Joy. Awareness. Introspection. I was writing again.
So as my patient friend received emails of my essays and observations, I began to realize what was missing. As he encouraged me to write and work out my thoughts, I thought of more. I dove deeply into myself and rescued a necessary treasure. I opened my eyes and asked myself the hard questions. I used writing and the writing used me. I flew through my past, attacked my present, and wondered about my future. I was hooked again. I needed to write. I needed to feel. I needed to breathe. And my friend needed a break.
I must introduce you to my friend. He and I knew each other briefly all those decades ago. Two teenagers who lived from minute to minute. There was no contact after that year. We went our separate ways...to the same college, we found out recently. To careers, marriage, children, mortgages, and the meaning of our lives. We had lots to share in those early emails, and I couldn't get enough. After all, I had a willing audience and he responded positively to most everything I fed him. My friend is as gracious as I remember him, and I have told him so.
My honesty spewed forth and many questions were asked. I opened my eyes and my heart, looking for answers. Kinda' risky for a fragile emoter, such as I. My friend pulled me back and gave me advice. He helped me see the importance of my thinking and how I could rope in my enthusiasm on my own blog. Really? On the internet, for everyone to see? And how about writing short stories using your experiences? Really? Me? Thanks for the vote of confidence.
Caterpillar chrysalis becomes butterfly. Wings of hope fly me forward. Breathing easier.
Now I introduce myself to you and the www. Hello, here I am. This is me. This is what I think about. This is what has happened to me. These are my dreams, fears, wants, needs. Here you will research a middle aged woman, wife, mother of two, daughter, sister, aunt. Here lies my inner workings, the core of my being. I have come through and around and under challenges. I have wished and wondered and waited for life. I have lived and loved and loathed. You will hear my history. You will discover my doubts. You will feel my future. You will penetrate my present. You will explore my expectations. You will read me.
Please enjoy.
Peace.
1/8/10
friendly observation
"Grey is a problem, grey is fuzzy, grey is the matter that must be defined.. so the black and white can work together. Logic.
You, yes you... are a rainbow of colors. You I'm guessing love the grey. You love to bounce between warm shades and cool shades. You eat up the colors of life, then ask "why can't everyone see all the colors?"
That's what I see."
You, yes you... are a rainbow of colors. You I'm guessing love the grey. You love to bounce between warm shades and cool shades. You eat up the colors of life, then ask "why can't everyone see all the colors?"
That's what I see."
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