Sunday, December 19, 2010

Moving

The difference between running away and running to is a concept I now understand. I don’t know how life would have been if I had stayed put – living in the land between loss and failure. I ran away thinking that physical change would remedy my heart and new spaces and places would fill the old familiar sadness.

Over time, I learned that haunting aches lingered in the area hanging heavy on my soul and permeated my heart regardless of location. Old regrets moved with me and settled in the neighborhood. With care, I unpacked each mistake from well worn boxes. Whispered words floated in the gentle breath of the wind and found old resting places between each beat of my heart.

In the stillness of the woods, I searched for peace and amidst the glory of Tennessee lilies on a country morning; I found lingering Kentucky memories in full bloom. There was no hiding from the truths blinding my sight. In the hollows of the mountains, I again found the emptiness of my life and settled into the routine until change abruptly slammed me against concrete walls and barriers.

Today, I may only walk on paths but I have chosen these trails and the people who walk alongside. The damp air no longer hides sorrow and I am home in these new places wearing well worn shoes and moving towards a place that is only found in my heart.

Monday, December 13, 2010

Standing Still

On a day when color blended into swirls of grey and white, I stood still and the earth stood still with me. On occasion a blood red cardinal rested on a branch as the northern wind whispered softly through barren woods. The air was damp with sorrow and I reflected the earth’s mood mirroring southern trees bent under the weight of fresh snow. I heard the creek waters slow and languidly dance in new rhythms before stilling in the hush of a darkening sky.

Another gentle gust of air pushed the clouds away from the sun. The landscape sparkled under the winter rays and freshly lit crystals rose with unabashed glory. Icy fingers lingered mid-air creating rare moments in frozen time.

I wondered if my life shone each day with icy glitter or soft as fairy dust sprinkled on the air. Am I found in the soft snow drifts that look solid and firm but fall apart with the slightest touch of a broken twig? Perhaps, I am heard in the harsh sounds of ice laden branches falling off strong trees and shattering into myriad pieces upon landing.

I don’t know what colors others see. Nor do I know what they hear when I speak. Do they remember me during the seasons of time? Perhaps they have already passed me by in search of that which they don’t know -rushing onward with fast steps and faster words always racing without pause. These are all things I don’t know.

And yet, this is what I do know. In the eyes of those who love me, I sparkle as a polished gem and shine like the northern star shimmering above a winter wonderland. They look beyond the cold and through the shadows. Their love burns into the clouds and illuminates my heart. They see what others miss. They listen and hear me in the quiet. They search and patiently uncover my secrets. They know me and still love me. All because they stood still long enough and I stood still with them.

Sunday, December 5, 2010

Handful of Dreams

Long, slim fingers gesture in the air articulating his thoughts with eloquence. Sometimes I get lost in my words as I focus on his hands which typically rest quietly as if waiting for my whispers to permeate his skin and breathe gentle life into hidden veins. Soft hands betray no secrets except how his money is earned as he moves through hallowed halls. His fingers touch cold door knobs which open into dimly lit rooms with scarred desks and metal file cabinets and only enough space for the past and future to collide between us.

I lose coherent thought often in his dark eyes and imagine his fingers caressing moist lips and touching my cheek to smooth away tears. Thinking of interlocking hands, I almost feel his strength course through my body. I wonder if he would touch my hair feeling the smooth weight before tucking loose locks behind one ear. When he reached my heart would he hold the fragility long enough for his pulse to match each tender beat? Would his hands blaze hot trails on my skin searching for new paths to ancient destinations?

Watching as he holds his pen loosely between practiced fingers, I soon am again lost in thought and time and place.

Until his fingers stretch out to cover the distance,I will hear his words float in space before touching my heart. I will feel his kindness find space in my soul. I will look at his hands and imagine myself tightly held. I will dream.

Sunday, November 28, 2010

Seasons of Blessings

As Thanksgiving draws to a close, memories fall gently through my mind floating as stray leaves in the air until landing without sound. Random thoughts scattered in the breezes of past holidays give pause to the darkening sky on the eve of a new day. In the still, I remember loved ones and past holidays filled with friends and family beckoning to my heart with soft voices.

The venue changes each year, as do the people gathered around the table, and thankfulness the only constant. Thankfulness for the basics of food, clothing and shelter; for people who are loved and love us back; for those who have crossed our paths and enriched our lives; for life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness; for health; for every small thing and every large thing, we are thankful.

We take time to dream about the future and lift prayers for those who are fighting so we might continue to be blessed. We plan for the next holiday and ponder different menus and soon will go back to a routine normalcy. It is in the span of these days that we may need to see the leaves swirl together and fall as a rainstorm gusting into our faces and slapping our sleeping senses. How easy it could be to forget all for whom and all of which we are thankful. As we trudge through barren trees and walk amidst land edged in crimson and gold, we might forget the same landscape dotted with bluebells or laboring under the noise of cicadas or frozen under white icing. We might forget that Thanksgiving is not simply a day but the culmination of seasons and the people who have walked the earth before and with us.

Time moves forward and backward fluidly and we along with it as long as we don’t sit at the table too long.

Monday, November 22, 2010

Protection

In an effort to protect ourselves from harm, we strap on seat belts and wear bike helmets. We floss our gums so our teeth won’t fall out and wear sunscreen to prevent skin cancer. We stock up, store up and plan for the days ahead. We protect our hearts from hurt; our spirits from bruising; our souls from damage. And yet, when we look beyond ourselves, the unimagined surprise is worth more than a passing glance.

So it was recently with a friend at yet another hockey game. Oblivious to the commotions around me, I stared at the jumbotron during intermission, while multi-tasking with food, drink and conversation. Suddenly, my friend leapt out of her seat and wrapped her arms around my head burying me in her protective clutch. Within a moment, she released me and startled, I asked her what was happening. It turns out that hockey pucks were being thrown into a receptive audience and she had seen one flying our way.

I wonder how often we spend so much energy looking out for ourselves that we lose opportunities to look out for others? And when the moment comes, would we instinctively jump up to protect others or would we duck and save ourselves? What can we do to prepare for those moments?

Perhaps the answer starts with each one of us. Examining our hearts and discovering what type of person we think we are or hope we can become. Then we expose vulnerable hearts in order to surround ourselves with people who show us the way and teach us how to be there for others--especially when the world is not looking.

Sunday, November 14, 2010

If Only

If only I could paint, I would dip an artist’s brush in nature and color the landscape of your life entwined with mine as forest trees growing together reaching for the sun. I would draw your hair, the color of falling ripe acorns, tumbling across my path until gently resting on solid ground. I would paint the curve of your face in broad, sweeping strokes as if etched into ancient lands until chiseled in stone and carved with graces of time. I would reach for my reflection in the depths of your enigmatic eyes and portray their mysteries in bottomless, black pools. I would trace the flutter of your eyelashes and feel the breath of a gentle breeze against my skin. I would blow onto the wet painting and blur the lines until the calm of a soft night sky emerged sparkling with the wonder of myriad twinkling lights.

If only I could paint, I would dip my brush into your heart and draw a cave beckoning for me to enter. I would lightly feather your bubbling laughter spilling down canyons in wild abandonment splattering my life with goodness. Your strength would stand tall as the oaks weathering a white world until you showed me the colors of spring, summer and fall before drawing back within. Rooted in the earth, your independence would withstand trials and your character would be perennial seeds effortlessly emerging regardless of trodden steps on a leaf strewn trail. Your kindness and mercies would rise high in the background as a sheltering bluff protecting all who draw close to your warmth seeking shelter against ravaging storms. My finger would reach into the soft pastels of a sudden rainbow and design perpetual surprises seen by those who look with love. The birds would soar in complex patterns against the sky detailing a keen intelligence. Featured as the backdrop on my canvas, your soul would shine like the sun casting warm rays into wooded crevices.

If only I knew your name, I could paint.

Sunday, November 7, 2010

Nyquil and Me

I have found peace in many places. This week, I found it in the form of a cherry flavor syrup named Nyquil. However, I'm hopeful to kick my new best friend out of the house soon. Planning on a better day next Sunday, November 14.

Sunday, October 31, 2010

Cold and Flu

These unwelcome guests have made themselves at home. Let's plan on their quick departure and I'll write again on November 7.

Peace.

Sunday, October 24, 2010

Secret Storms

Thunder rumbles into my small piece of the world as lightning races across the midnight sky backlighting rain wrapped tornados. Waves of water deluge the earth; gusts of wind pick up speed; and debris swirls in the midst of the storm. Havoc and chaos form twin torpedoes of destruction and hurl their insults upon the vulnerable.

People can wreak harm as swiftly as tornados breaking free from the clouds and suddenly take that which is not their own. Words aimed with the certainty of missiles to the heart cause the innocent to collapse or fall slowly to private deaths. Thoughtless, careless acts, witnessed by others in the briefest of moments, expose the cold and calloused hearts of the ignorant and illuminate their transgressions.

We can run to our shelters for escape or we can stand exposed to life-- taking chances, living by faith and looking for love. Staring down the storms with open eyes teaches us where to seek refuge and how to gain strength. We learn how to look through howling winds. We touch the source of fury because it first touched us and then we refuse to budge. All that is good and kind, merciful and forgiving, thoughtful and true cannot be wrenched out of our souls. And when the rainbow arches across the sky in shimmering pastels of soft pinks and greens, we will be among kindred spirits racing through the dew wearing grass stained jeans.

Sunday, October 17, 2010

Scrapbooks

Today is my birthday, and one of my friends shared that she will be giving me a scrapbook. I began wondering what would go into this keepsake book and if I needed to attend a scrapbook party to decide. I also wondered if I still possessed my childhood scrapbooks, and so I searched for and found these relics of my past; blew off the dust and opened yellowed pages. My youthful life came to life under crinkled tape. A childhood spent reading, writing, earning Girl Scout badges and attending camp. Accomplishments, notes and vaccination records filled the pages.

I think I might put highlights of my life beginning a few years ago as a starting place. I am eager to lay hands on the scrapbook and feel the pages under my fingers as I ponder what items to place within. I imagine that some 50 years into the future, as perhaps I look back and blow the residue of more life from faded pictures, torn ticket stubs and certificates of achievements would only mirror the older scrapbooks.

And yet, I know now what I did not as a child. That scrapbooks and photo collections are only symbols of precious memories stored in the mind; love captured in the heart; and passion emblazoned in the soul. I know my spirit soars when falling leaves the color of pumpkins, squash and cranberries swirl in wooded paths. I understand the power of music to heal and renew. I believe that magical rhythms of words are art and gentle illusions painted on canvasses defy words. I have experienced the beauty of waterfalls, casting double rainbows in the mist, which stopped me in deafening silence. I have felt the roll of thunder rumble through barriers and heal internal fractures. I’ve heard the roar of the crowd at football and hockey games blend with my beating heart and drown out critical voices. I know what it’s like to face death and live. I have watched friends depart on trails that left no footprints and walked alongside others on paths blazed into my heart.

I can’t tape happiness in the scrapbook binder or paste love on its pages. I won’t attempt to capture dreams and contain them under the hard covers. What I can do is live life to the fullest and along the way find mementos to help me remember not what I did, but how I felt during these moments of my life.

Monday, October 11, 2010

Healing Music

Every night, fatigue slammed my body against massive boulders and left me pulverized under the crush of torrential storms and swollen rivers. By the end of the week, I was so tired that creative thought was not an option and my spirit was too heavy for transport. The weekend was a blur and the few moments alone were spent re-applying under eye concealer and changing clothes for the next activity. It ended Sunday night at a jazz concert.

In the historic auditorium, the talented saxophonist did not play his instrument. Instead, he played my heart with long, slim fingers that deftly merged our pulses using the background rhythms of drums and organ. He poured his soul into my molecules and lifted my weighted spirit into the air. Music flowed in the musicians’ veins and I flowed with them tumbling down waterfalls and into swirling foam. We flung our cares into the controlled chaos of the watery abyss and floated on the still of peace. Soon, the only evidence of our journey shone in the lingering moisture in my eyes.

I received more than the joy of hearing good music played by extraordinary musicians, and I certainly received back more than the event ticket price. The ensemble gave me the gift of contentedness. For two hours, I was absorbed into the keys of well loved instruments and thought of nothing; worried about nothing; wished for nothing. For a few short hours, I lived in the music and felt shared heartbeats. I heard the chords and soared in the wind on harmonic tones of life. I was alive and in the place that was exactly where I was supposed to be --in the present moments of my life.

Sunday, October 3, 2010

Wishes

I wish I were the wind, uncontained and wild, meandering through time with freedom. Caressing the cheeks of the suffering; breathing life into the lungs of the weary; and gusting through the minds of the impenetrable.

I wish I were the rain, soft and gentle, falling through dimensions with abandon. Quenching the thirst of the desperate; filling the empty barrels of the needy; and echoing off tin roofs of the untouchables.

I wish I were the sun, radiant and bright, shining through clouds with ease. Lighting the paths of the lost; warming the hearts of the tired; and illuminating the secrets of the isolated.

I wish I could see that my spirit flies in the wind; my heart beats in rhythms of storms; my soul glows in love.

Until then, I will feel my way through life's journey hearing echoing pulses, tasting salty tears, and living in the brevity of peace.

Sunday, September 26, 2010

Surprises

Beyond the arched frame of the condo’s balcony, limbs grow in tangled abandon. Wind wafts through intertwined fading leaves stirring fall’s colors until they float to the dry ground below. The afternoon sun casts long shadowy fingers swaying into each other until they merge into one shape pulsating in summer’s final heat remaining together until the sun drifts below the horizon.

Alive with forest movement in the midst of the city, the surprising scene captures my imagination. And yet there are people whose souls are not stirred and believe to expect nothing in life. According to them, if anything beautiful happens, it’s as rare as love slipping her hands into the gnarled, arthritic grip of the aged prying apart stiff knuckles.

Although I believe in expecting the unexpected, I was happily surprised when a former business associate called this week. A few years ago, she moved out of town just as I thought we might become friends. We will soon add each other into busy days and let each moment unfold. Every day is a treasure and within its bountiful chest lays sparkling nuggets even more beautiful than the rest and can be found when we immerse ourselves in life looking at both the forest and the trees.

Sunday, September 19, 2010

Daddy Nine Toes

My friend lost his toe last week. Actually, his toe is not missing but surgeons removed it. The toe was not an important one as toes go, but a toe nonetheless. This happened not because of anything exotic but rather a common infection that assailed this frail appendage until doctors decided it was no longer needed. Over time, the medical profession has determined that we don’t require several body parts – appendixes, gallbladders, tonsils, and now an errant toe seeking its own way in life. I wonder how they know what the body needs, and how did they acquire this knowledge? I wonder why some people heal after life altering events and others dispair in perpetuity until their suffrage becomes contagious and spreads to unwitting family and friends?

We’re all composed of bone and blood; heart and soul; good and trouble. Perhaps the only real difference between people is how some are able to rise above harsh realities and keep moving forward while others remain mired in muck and time. For all of life’s inequities, we live a common life. We suffer trauma, heartbreak, joy, and pain. We yearn for understanding and belonging. And yet, our unique reactions define and shape each one of us.

Daddy Nine Toes survives life’s assaults whether it hits him in the foot with infection; in the face with injustice; or in the heart with loss. He never went to medical school to fully understand the functions of livers or brains or colons, and yet he understands what is truly needed to live. It’s not a full head of hair. It’s not 20/20 vision or perfect hips. It’s not the ability to eat 20 ounce steaks or kick back martinis.

He knows that life is not a number, a thing, a perfect set of 10 toes. Life is love defying definition, friendships enduring time, and beauty surpassing description. Life is best when authentically shared, treasured when almost lost, experienced when fully lived. After slogging through the mud, Life is rising tall with wise eyes and mischievious grins. Daddy Nine Toes takes it as it comes and keeps on going, standing strong on nine toes and balanced by values, humor, and integrity.

Sunday, September 12, 2010

First Steps

The screen door crashed behind her as she stumbled into the beach house before collapsing on the kitchen floor. Sand and blood mixed together on her foot and for the briefest of moments, I simply stared until her voice shook me out of my trance. “I’ve been stung by a catfish,” she cried. “It hurts! It hurts!” Another friend and I leapt into action cleaning the blood, the mess, and the wounded. The three of us seamlessly played our parts without rehearsal. One found the first aid kit, Kleenex, tweezers, aspirin and other resources. The fallen friend screamed “Google” when I hesitated on an appropriate course of action. I played nurse and peered into her punctured scrape using a needle to find and extract the venomous barb. Some 36 hours later, she found herself surrounded by even more people in an emergency room and on the receiving end of an x-ray, tetanus shot and antibiotics.

That vacation day is not so unlike other days. Life explodes through a door and lands at our feet. We may freeze, run from the pain, or stand to deal with that which confronts us. When Life slaps us in the face, we can turn the cheek or slap back. When Life disappoints, we can curl in a fetal position or find our backbone and move forward.

I’ve been down and stayed down before. I’ve also slowly straightened wobbly legs and felt trembling knees. I’ve been steadied by family and friends. However, the journey ultimately begins in each one of us. My friend could have chosen to remain on the beach feeling the salt water wash her wound until dizzied with pain; she collapsed under the hot sun. She could have chosen to be helpless and simply lay on the sand until someone saw her. And yet, she chose to struggle towards the house; to reach out to waiting friends; to find safety and relief.

Life waits behind every door whether we open it or not. We simply have to get up, take a step and trust that others are there along the way to help when we need it most.

Sunday, August 22, 2010

Thumb Rings and White Gloves

The sun outlined her long, blond hair and body in gold as she entered the room. Bracelets jangled and earrings danced down her neck. She confidently wore her unique style from her headband down to her tanned legs. Expressive eyes sought me out and she quickly finished her text conversation and hurried over to meet for lunch. We really didn’t know each other. I met her during a time when I was confined to live from dusk to dawn before barely making it home to rest. While I couldn’t make up for lost time, I could now spend my time with people I imagined would connect in heart and laughter and spirit. Some two hours later, I left the restaurant with a new friend and a commitment to buy a thumb ring.

A few days later, I attended a regional meeting for an organization I recently joined. Some 300 women gathered to honor the noble cause and seek ways to further unite together in time-honored traditions. I was the only one wearing blue jeans –- black to be exact. I was dressed from head to toe in black -- black cotton shirt above black jeans and my favorite black platform sandals. Big silver hoop earrings jangled above a beaded necklace my sister made and my long wavy hair was barely contained by a lace black headband. For lunch, I seated myself at a table with two elderly women. With disdainful tones, they described the relaxed dress code and spoke with animation about the upcoming state conference during which white gloves and dresses would be worn. I broke into hives.

On the way home, I thought about my two different lunches with these separate women. Stopping at a jewelry store to purchase the much anticipated thumb ring, I pondered the white gloves. I had no doubt that my new friend, sporting her own thumb ring, would have white gloves. Maybe I would have the guts to wear my large silver thumb ring on top of the crisp gloves I could borrow. Maybe I would wear it under the gloves. Maybe I would not wear it at all in deference to the honor and respect the white gloves portrayed.

What I do know is that it feels good to have discovered someone who owns both white gloves and jangly bracelets and earrings. A friend, who lived on a farm, loves her own thumb ring and suns at the pool. She is a Mercedes driving, free-spirited woman who lives life on her own terms and wears her hair as she pleases and would be perfectly comfortable lunching at my organization’s meeting.

The key is not to look for a perfectly labeled and categorized box, filled with groups of people who are just alike, and have the same personality and interests, to fit within. The secret is to learn that the box isn’t for people. It’s for the assortment of clothes and jewelry and shoes that we can pull out and put on as we float through the universe embracing all that life has to offer. The secret is to look for one person at a time and see if their box contains and assortment of life’s sparkles and glitter, boots and hair clips. That’s when we start finding ourselves. The self capable of wearing both the white gloves and the thumb ring; conforming as needed; rebelling as desired. And then, what fun we’ll have together along the way.

Monday, August 16, 2010

Football Aspirations

It's football time in America. Hope is alive and all things seem possible- well, maybe some things. I remember the end of last year's season. Along with Superbowl aspirations for 2011, I vowed my body would readily fit in the snug stadium seats. I swore I would buy a cute Tennessee Titan's t-shirt and sport it on game day. I imagined myself effortlessly strolling back up the long bridge without needing to stop in the middle to breathe before finally collapsing in my car.

A week from Monday is the first home game. I will once again sweat my way through crowds and arrive breathlessly to cram my heaving flesh into a hot seat. I will step on toes and feel my skin pressing into the skin of others as I clumsily work my way into the middle of the row. No doubt, I will drop corn dogs and spill beer along the way (another memory of last year).

I will pray that others around me don't show up and are mired in traffic (certainly the kid who vomited a few seats down last year). I will pray that oppressive summer heat takes a sudden departure and a cool breeze will settle in the night air. I will pray that we really might have a shot at a winning season.

Just in case none of these things work out, I do have another plan that makes me happy. I have enough hope to imagine that the shrieking woman who has occupied the seat next to me for several years has lost weight.

That's the beauty of a real and hopeful optimist. If I don't live up to my expectations, I do hope that others succeed. And do I hope my seat mate has lost weight (or changed seats). If not and we are joined as Siamese twins watching our Titans, I will secretly know that her hips are still bigger than mine and she is half in my seat, instead of me in hers.

Sunday, August 8, 2010

Roller Derby

I think we all have a need to belong; to fit in; to go where everyone knows our name. Places like the bar in the old television show Cheers; places to fit together and form something bigger than ourselves; places where we are united by common goals and uniquely understood. I was not in that place Saturday night. I stood alone in a crowd and stared.

That night, I was a pink lipsticked southern belle in the middle of a sea of black gathered to cheer women’s roller derby. I watched the crowd watching women bearing names that wouldn’t be found in any pastel pink or blue baby book. This crowd of the night wore tattoos. They wore lip rings, nose rings, and tongue rings. They wore dyed hair as art --standing tall, cropped, shaved, formed and shaped as sculptures for an exhibition. They wore glitter. They wore just enough strategically placed clothing scraps to possibly avert arrests. They wore stockings with seams; with rhinestones; with holes. They wore each other in the hallways and bathrooms.

There were cheerleaders. I’m well-read, articulate and even eloquent according to some. Allow me to simply say – I’ve never seen such. I felt certain I was not like any of these people. Wearing a judgmental attitude and a headband, I stood on platform sandals looking down at these fans of roller derby.

Maybe it was seeing the old man sitting in the chair that helped me gaze around with different eyes. Generations older than the crowd’s median age, he too stared. He couldn’t take his eyes off the roller girls. I imagined that perhaps he was someone’s grandfather. Perhaps he was a former Olympic speed skater who taught a young girl to adore roller skating when she couldn’t ice skate. Perhaps he financially supported the team or maybe he was to roller derby what Hugh Hefner is to many,many, many women. So I looked around the crowd and saw that everyone was someone’s daughter or son; brother or sister; mother or father. I looked beyond the chain smoking pregnant girl and saw her within a family of tourists taking pictures of themselves and the beautiful skyline. I heard the discussions of hot dog or nachos amidst the rattle of chains at the concessions. I saw the love among couples waiting in the perpetual line at the women’s bathroom.

That night when I got home, I looked in the mirror. I looked at the piercings in my ears. I thought about the trouble I took with my hair earlier in the evening. I thought about my hair dresser who I visit every three weeks. I washed the makeup off my face. I took off my new jeans and white cotton shirt.

Under our costumes, masks and jewelry; we are more alike than different. We want those we love to love us back. We want to find a bit of ourselves in others; to fit in; to belong. We want to find a place where we are special.

We can find that place anywhere. We just have to look hard enough.

Sunday, August 1, 2010

JELL-O Decisions

My grandmother used to make a lime JELL-O salad that I loved. Pecan pieces hid in a cream cheese blend of crushed pineapples, and marshmallows dotted the fluffy mixture like cotton clouds on a clear blue sky. I thought about her and my childhood today as I looked at the recipe card scrawled with familiar childish writing. I wondered why no one seems to make JELL-O salads anymore. When did we outgrow congealed salads filled with cans of fruit cocktail?

Life seemed simple back then. As children, we learned in terms of good or bad, right or wrong, and neither/nor. We were either well enough to go to school or we weren’t. Maybe being sick is when we learned about decision making and how to live life in the middle of two big field goals colored black on one end and white on the other end. We learned when to advance from eating nothing to nibbling dry toast or crackers and sipping Sprite. We learned when to graduate to cold cubes of JELL-O that would slide down red swollen throats. We looked forward to the big day when we feasted on Campbell’s Chicken Noodle soup accompanied by JELL-O filled with crushed pineapple or fresh bananas. Before we knew what happened, we grew up, and it seems that collectively we threw out the old JELL-O molds and moved into more complex lives.

We fell in and out of love; lived in valleys and on summits; experienced tragic loss and great joy. We savored expensive wines; took pills in good times and bad, and lost touch with both our childhood and ourselves. And yet, the lessons learned while lying in a pile of crisp white sheets next to a nightstand of icy cold washcloths, thermometers and JELL-O bowls stayed within us even though life is not as simple as right or wrong; sick or well. Life is lived in the moments of decision making when we don’t quite know if we’re able to eat the JELL-O with fruit cocktail, take it plain or if we’ve graduated to full blown concoctions shaped in rings or layers or stripes. Life is lived when we don’t know what to do, and no one can tell us if we want plain or parfait. We yearn for someone else to make the decision for us, just like when we were sick, and bring us exactly what we need.

Picking up my mother’s cookbook entitled Joys of Jell-O, I flip through the pages with black and white pictures of JELL-O shaped in cake rolls, pies, and tall towers. I skim tips on how to whip it, flake it or cube it. Putting it back in the pantry, I pick back up the yellowed, stained index card with my Grandmother’s congealed lime salad recipe and set out the cream cheese to soften. I’m not alone, and I don’t make decisions alone. I carry within me a lifetime of lessons taught around the kitchen table, at picnics by a creek, and lying in a bed waiting to be well. On JELL-O's foundation, I’ve been taught I can achieve any dream. It’s up to me to create my future and some days, I can only move forward when I first recreate the past.

Sunday, July 25, 2010

Sweet Tea

In the midst of a summer heat wave, a few friends and I went to a Saturday night baseball game. It was hot. It was stinkin’ hot. Hair frizzed, program books soaked up sweat and even the flag couldn’t find the energy to fly. I don’t know who we played, how we played or if we won but I remember the heat leeching onto my skin. I recall my mind wandering to the upcoming season of ice hockey and crisp autumn days of football.

I heard the food vendor before I saw him. “Sweet tea,” he cried. “Sweet tea. Who wants some sweet tea?” In plastic cups filled with melting ice, he carried the entire southern culture in his hands. He sold to men wearing sleeveless t-shirts and to women wearing loose cotton frocks and cowboy boots. He sold to men and women carrying gun permits and holding the fear of God. He sold to a multi-generational crowd who grew up on sweet tea and church suppers; sweet tea and family reunions; sweet tea and green beans slow cooked, with just a touch of bacon grease, all day long.

The strains of the national anthem played over the noise of cicadas and the crowd rose in unison. Baseball caps and cowboy hats were removed and without athletic skill, we formed a team bigger than pageant hair and longer than a southern drawl. On that sweltering summer night, in a diverse crowd eating corn dogs and fried pies, we united around country, baseball and our prized sweet tea.

Sunday, July 11, 2010

Broken Promises

I went to the pool today and watched both time and neighbors lazily move under the azure sky until puffy white clouds dotted the horizon. The star attraction was a little girl with wheat colored pigtails wearing a pink bathing suit with pink tulle. She topped off her outfit with bright aqua sunglasses and a shy grin. Her nerve grew bigger than herself and she proclaimed her readiness to splash into the deep end of the pool as long as her mother held her hand and jumped in unison. Holding hands, mother and daughter stood poised above the sparkling water and leapt into the clear depths. Mid-air, the mother let go.

The little girl cried herself into exhaustion screaming, “You let go. You let go. You promised you would hold my hand.” The mother shared her logical rationale. She told her daughter that she was a big girl and could jump by herself the next time. I didn’t see the little girl get any bigger. She was the same little girl experiencing the big pain of a broken promise.

In our hearts, we are all little pink tulle princesses but in the mirror, we are indeed bigger and we typically don’t cry in public. We’ve experienced a lifetime of promises made and broken; friends who have come and gone; love lost and found. The biggest difference between us and the little girl is choice. We can choose to live in the brokenness shutting ourselves off from others or we can choose to live with hope linking arms with others before leaping into the vast unknown. When we choose hope, we again interlock fingers with those we trust won’t let go. We hold hands with like minded people who keep getting up for more even if our tulle splits and we land with a resounding splat.

A friend recently gave me a booklet entitled Eat Your Peas. It contains several promises stating in different ways that she would never let me down. She never has –- she never will. I believe her and two big princesses choose to brush off our tulle and use the strength of combined hope to leap into a world where fairy tales come true for those who believe.

Sunday, July 4, 2010

Life's Closet

Some closets are masterfully designed works of art displaying clothes by color, drawers for jewelry and an array of wooden hangers softly lit by the glow of chandeliers. I know this to be true because I’ve seen them pictured in magazines. I wonder if these people carefully put their secrets in shoeboxes and gingerly take them out on rare reflective occasions before sliding them back into place. Or do they lock treasured moments in cases and then throw away the key? Do they believe that time can be stored in places and spaces and revealed during whims of fancy?

I don’t know about other people and their closets. I only know that my closet will never be featured except perhaps in the before shots of a professional organizer. Life crashes on my shoulders when I go into my space. Lit by a single bulb hiding baking soda and foot deodorant, my closet contains pieces of life crammed in bulging dresser drawers, clothes sorted by size, and disaster preparedness items.

Life is captured in worn moments: a dress at a wedding; a suit at a funeral; faded Levis during a past marriage. Dreams are contained in the poster filled with cherubs wrapped around letters spelling Love. Beauty shines in the eyes of wild rain forest animals on a calendar. A mountain cabin on a creek in a 2006 Thomas Kincaid calendar symbolizes my family’s farm in the country. Bike gloves, weights and heart monitors await a sudden urge to exercise. A picture of Central Park crystallizes the fulfillment of a dream to visit New York City. A suit hangs ready for my sister to try on when she comes to town for an interview. I am mirrored in a Grandmother’s golden gift similar to the one resting in her aqua room lined with placemats of the Smoky Mountains.

Standing on dirty carpet, I reach for one box in my closet and everything falls down. Memories and time simply cannot be contained and blur together in an onslaught of emotion. Under a deluge of time’s mementos, I feel the textures of my life. Some fabrics sparkle and my laughter is reflected in the shine of sequins. Scratchy wool brings tears to my eyes as I remember times that are best forgotten. I stroke the softness of fleece and think about a recent trip to my mother’s home.

My closet isn’t so big but it’s not too little to fit life within. It will never be featured in a photo spread but it’s my closet, encasing me in warmth, filled with my life, my past, my present and my dreams for the future. Memories and moments tumble into my heart and arms as I rise on contented tiptoes with outstretched hands and fingers.

Sunday, June 27, 2010

Kindness

The biggest acts of kindness can be found in the smallest of gestures. It doesn’t take much to reach through aged layers of disbelief and rejection to find the portion of a heart steadfastly beating in faint pulses of hope. Kindness does not require massive wealth or singular brilliance; unique purview or impressive skill.

These acts of gentle outreach start with simple thoughts focused on others. Thoughts that take shape in fragrant flowers or a strong hug or arriving as a note filled with supportive words. Thoughts personified as time spent with another in silence or chatter and spaces filled with smiles expanding around warm, sparkling eyes into crinkles of skin.

Some people are fragile as hand blown Venetian glass butterflies displayed to the world on shelf edges. The slightest breath of the wind could instantly shatter their beauty. Other people are resilient as mountain trees bending with sudden storms and changing colors with the seasons. A few people are diaphanous as dew announcing their presence in the faintest wisp of time before melting into the landscape of life.

In every forest, there lives butterflies, saplings, sturdy trees, and rain falling as tears on all. In every life, there hides secret hurts, unfulfilled dreams and distinctive talents. In every one, there lies the power to extend kindness to others as rest with the touch of a hand; shelter under protective branches; or lifesaving droplets falling without discrimination on the world.

Sunday, June 20, 2010

A Valentine for Father's Day

It’s Father’s Day and I find myself thinking about a Valentine’s gift from decades past. I was 13 and had been awkwardly writing rhymes and prose for at least five years, and my father gave me my first book of "serious" poetry. Pictures of sunset beaches, glacier lakes and mountain creeks were scenic backdrops against flowing words from Shakespeare, Longfellow and Tennyson. Both the poems and the stunning nature photography represented a magical future, ancient past and expressive present as well as a father’s tender heart.

Today, the Valentine’s book still automatically falls open to my first favorite poem and the accompanying idyllic and tranquil picture. I remember staring for hours at the sun dappled pasture on a gentle hill covered with honeysuckle. A single tree cast a long shadow on lushly minted grounds and arose majestically meeting the dark forest edge in the distance. The setting sun beckoned the chestnut horses into the shadows stilling their tails as their noses burrowed into lush clover. The poet's words lived in my heartbeats along with rhythms from the smallest pony and I imagined the words that one day, I would write.

My father has given me many things over time but the gifts most treasured, I found that day reading what remains a favored poem and looking at nature’s gifts to mankind. My father's nurturing love gave me belief in self, independence in spirit, and philosophy in life.

On this Father’s Day, I give back to him, and to each of you, the poem he first gave me.

I THINK I COULD TURN AND LIVE WITH ANIMALS

I think I could turn and live with animals, they
are so placid and self-contained:
I stand and look at them long and long.
They do not sweat and whine
about their condition;
They do not lie awake
in the dark and weep for their sins;
They do not make me sick
discussing their duty to God;
Not one is dissatisfied-not one is demented with
the mania of owning things;
Not one kneels to another, nor his kind that lived
thousands of years ago;
Not one is respectable or industrious over the
whole earth.

Walt Whitman

Sunday, June 13, 2010

Authentic Style

A friend and I recently visited a clothes boutique filled with all things beautiful. While we discovered some items that we didn’t understand where to wear and other items that we couldn’t figure out how to wear, the clearest discovery was that we didn’t have a clue as to what to wear. It wasn’t that we were frozen in decades past armed with shoulder pads and mall hair. It wasn’t that our bodies had altered dramatically over time and we needed a new wardrobe, filled with new sizes, aimed to display trim waists and firm calves. Perhaps it was simply that we didn’t know what image to present to the world.

Other than weddings, funerals or other rare and random occasions, I have only seen my mother in jeans and t-shirts. She is balanced with herself and her clothes reflect her confidence that comfortable Levis will take her anywhere she wants to be and are good enough for anyone with whom she would spend her time. I would like to mirror my mother and wear jeans every day, but I would pair them with crisp white shirts and shiny silver bling. Of course, I can’t wear this desired uniform into the business world. Working women with impressive signature styles perfectly tailored for the workplace race to meetings on stiletto heels lugging designer bags filled with dermatological and manicure appointments. Other working women who are free spirits from the ‘60s exist and reconnect to peace emblems on shirts and earrings.

Men have style as well. My grandfather wore overalls every day. They were patched and faded with innumerable zippers and pockets carrying treasures. They defined him and his life on a country farm. Everyone seems to have found definition and I could shop for others more readily than for myself.

As my friend and I strolled through the Farmer’s Market, bought early Christmas presents and enjoyed a long lunch, I reflected on her style. She wears a gentle and kind heart on her sleeve. She clothes herself with love of family and friends and nurtures both with goodness. She adorns herself with strength and compassion. She layers her body with a zest for life that emanates from within and frames her soul.

As for me, I accessorize with distincively styled friends who are authentic in nature and genuine. I put on pajamas or faded jeans when I come home and decide to worry about what to wear to work on some other day. Style and image are important; however, I believe that what I wear during work time is so much less critical than who I choose to see in my free time.

Sunday, June 6, 2010

Lost and Found

Lately, it seems that I’ve spent a great deal of undefined time looking for my life’s definition. So many years, looking down, searching for the perfect path in order to take the right step somewhere--anywhere. While longing to feel the earth ooze between my toes after a storm, I wandered instead on safe, dry ground. I recovered from events seen and unseen. I yearned for pieces of the past and dreams of the future to merge together and form a puzzle without missing parts. Most of all, I wondered what I’ve accomplished during these vast spans of time searching for place and space and people to walk alongside me on these trails.

The phone rings and I stop musing long enough to talk to a good friend. I glance at a card, sent by another friend, which made me laugh. I stumble over a beach bag given to celebrate an upcoming trip with three remarkable women. A text arrives from an inquiring friend who has been out of town. A necklace lies on the counter to return to another amazing friend who spontaneously loaned it to compliment the new outfit she helped me put together. I catch up on a full in box of emails sent from friends who shared input on an essay I wrote. I make quick calls to my sister and mother to share a tip of possible interest.

Apparently, while I was busy looking for my life; I lived it. I must have distributed pieces of my soul along the trail and opened my heart in the journey. Along the way, I did lose people and memories and time. I lost harsh edges and the ones living life as blood sport. I lost that which I never had and those who never really knew me.

In the softness, I found the beauty in those who picked up my pieces and created a new puzzle. I found the authenticity in those who give gifts beyond jewelry and knick knacks and trips. I found the grace in those who give time and heart and love. I found friends. I found family. I found myself.

Sunday, May 23, 2010

Golden Cross

Children hold onto security by grasping dirty blankets or fuzzy stuffed rabbits. They drag these possessions through life in the mud and rain; winter and summer. By the time they enter first grade, they leave behind these symbols of place and grasp their fathers’ or mothers’ hands. They learn to slowly let go and enter a new world where security is gone, comfort is unknown and friends have yet to be made.

Over time, confidence enters their young life and they grow into adulthood reaching to find old comfort in bank accounts, circles of friends or bands of gold.

I look for security in that which cannot be seen; in arms that cannot hold. I look into the sky and into my heart to find a presence that provides all the security I have ever needed. And yet, I still rub on the gold cross my grandparents gave me and slip the chain around my neck on days that I need to feel secure. On days that I can’t be seen with my old blanket or rabbit.

I’m hopeful – ever hopeful – that one day, I will no longer need a physical reminder of the love of God and His faithful security.

Sunday, May 16, 2010

Furry Lizards

This week, I went to the beach for the first time in almost three years. Upon my return back home and unpacking, I settled into my favorite chair and pondered. From this vantage point, I remembered sitting in the same spot following the same trip. That time, I stayed awake into the early morning hours worrying that I might have a concussion following the car accident that happened on the way home.

During those long hours, I spotted movement under the couch. It looked like a lizard with mouse fur. Or perhaps it was a mouse with lizard stripes. I remembered watching this creature thinking that surely I had sustained grave injuries. Finally, I realized it was a lizard that had traveled back in my luggage and was scampering loose in the house picking up traces of dirt and untold debris.

Sometimes people are lizards passing themselves as mice--running through life in disguise from themselves and others. Using their sharp tongues to hurt and inflict pain. Crawling in the dirt as their reptilian minds plot against the innocent. Lying in wait and lying to others as they create fiction from fact. Using life’s tragedies and circumstances to profit and accomplish hidden motives.

And sometimes things are as they appear. There are people with smiles that reach their eyes and compassion shining on their skin. I know of people extending a hand of service because they care. Daily stories of volunteers showing up at a stranger’s door to help flood recovery. Money given with a joyful heart. Regardless of circumstance, clothes and appearance, people lifting joyful hands to heavens.

Sitting in my chair, I think about the changes over the past few years. Surgery, recovery, friends lost, friends found, and a different job. Perhaps the biggest difference; I more easily recognize lizards-- regardless of disguise.

Sunday, April 25, 2010

Trust

In the hours before the storm, I am most alive. Trees bow to sudden wind gusts, branches snap and bright green leaves spin in contrast against a darkened sky. I stand on a carpet of soft pink cherry blossoms and feel the wind whip hair across my face pulling buried emotions to the surface. Clouds sprinkle the first water drops down an already wet face. The winds sweep aside dead branches and exposes life while thunder sends animals scurrying deeper into the woods. White caps slam into solid creek rock as I watch lightning race across the sky.

I trust this dance and want to be among the ones who feel peace in spring storms. I trust those who live in the moment and aren’t afraid to share emotions. I trust those who experience love until it hurts. I trust the tears of those who laugh hardest. I connect to those who live a life bent that once was broken. I am comfortable with those who carry their scars on healed wrists and extended hands. I understand those who plunge into internal pools and splatter life on bystanders. I trust what I see, what I feel and in these people of the rain.

I don’t trust sunny days filled with people displaying even sunnier dispositions. I wonder what is lurking behind cheery faces and if their names are called Stepford. I wonder about polite half smiles and limp handshakes. I wonder what they hide and if they hide from themselves. I wonder if they apply false illusions with practiced hands to cover up smudges of secret lives.

And yet, I wonder most of all about myself standing still in the storm feeling my mask wash away.

Sunday, April 18, 2010

Listening

In the silence between words, life is spoken. I hear it in the echoes of family and whispers of lost love. I see it in the quivering of moist lips and bright eyes. I feel it in the touch of a gentle hand and skinned knees. I remember it in the taste of chicken soup and the softness of a first kiss. I smell it in Vicks Vapor Rub and spring honeysuckle.

And yet, sometimes the loudest voices belong within. Innumerable voices with unfriendly names. In these conversations, I stand alone and so I battle and conquer; succeed and fail. In a perpetual effort to live in peace, I struggle.

When stillness reigns, I am able hear. I step back and do not form opinions or create persuasive arguments. I do not interrupt or negate ideas. I do not impose. I do not fight. I simply listen to the ones in front of me. Their voices tempered with the tenor of their past, their demons, and their victories.

For in the silence between words, life is spoken. I hear it in tones and pauses. I see it in faces before me and in the hunch of overburdened shoulders. I feel it in the tremor of hands I reach out to touch and in tears I wipe away. I hear it in laughter and in the comfortable stillness of those who know each other best. I feel it in the stickiness of cotton candy hands reaching into mine and in the beat of a fragile heart.

Life is spoken. It’s up to me to listen.

Sunday, April 11, 2010

Flying

Dreams must move from our hearts to our heads before taking shapes as recognizable as scarlet red kites outlined against a cobalt blue sky. Watching and running and chasing after dreams, we watch them plummet in jeopardy as the strings clutched tightly in strong hands knot and the lines tangle. Fragile and delicate, dreams must be nurtured along life’s pathways until daily miracles lift them into the heavens. Unexpected gusts will cause them to spin out of control. They will be buffeted in tumultuous air, pummeled by storms, and float gracefully within gentle breezes.

Such are the flights of dreams. We cannot factor all of the conditions. We cannot account for precise times or the best places for launch. We cannot choose the precise journey they take. I’m not certain we even choose our dreams. They choose us coming first as whispered voices in a sleepless night. Beckoning and calling until insistently they demand our attention; our time; our lives.

We remain tethered to them as we learn to fly and gather strength to cut the weights tying these dreams to the earth. We cull the cast of characters trying to direct the lines. We learn to let go.

Dreams will soar into an undefined future until they are specks against a solid horizon. Ultimately they will land in a remarkable place after a remarkable journey. They will shine without doubt. They will soar without fear. But first, we have to unclench our trembling hands and fly instead in their grasp.

Sunday, April 4, 2010

Words

Words hold a unique magic. Once whispered they hang heavy in the air as early morning fog draped above river banks and reach into recessed caves hiding in ancient bluffs. Some words hover longer and kiss the hearts of tender young saplings and budding spring flowers. Other words meander into shadowy corners and expose crystal dew kissed morning glories. They float as gossamers in the air and land on life’s fragility until they become distant memories. Words have power and soar into the sun dissipating long after impact is felt on the heart.

Words are as fleeting as nature’s images and share the seasons shaping who we are, changing what we become and even altering who we were destined to be. Words can hold shape in sticks and stones and we hold their magic. We place their power on our lips and share love. We offer comfort and healing and bring warmth to friends. We hurl words heated by summer storms and watch them burn into unsuspecting hearts. We freeze the blood of the innocent with words chiseled from blue white glacier fields formed during past heartaches.

Our words have movement and touch the one before impacting the many. They can land as sparkling fairy dust on ocean waters. They can erase pain or create suffering. Words are not simply spoken. They are felt as the sharp sting of thorns or as the soft fuzz on baby birds. They are felt in hearts and minds. They are felt as tears falling down weathered cheeks. Words are personified as lonely faces in a crowd.

Together we float on the gossamer until words shine on our hearts exposing the truth. Until we feel their power as a desert survivor tasting the lifesaving first droplet of water, we float in these silken threads. We remain delicately intertwined, until we find the courage to learn a new vocabulary in whispers. We test it within, transforming our hearts, until we find the spirit to share this new language. It is then; we discover that our magic gives us the strength to stand alone. We use the power to watch the fog lift and bask in glittering fields.

Sunday, March 28, 2010

Spring Secrets

It’s spring in Tennessee, and it’s supposed to be hot this week. Really hot. Warm winds bringing in the kind of weather mixing with sun causing everyone to wear the big, stupid grins of youth. The emboldened smiles that kids have after sucking down mints and spraying perfume to hide the mix of stale cigarettes and beer. This season puts on most faces the grins of the young and foolish who believe no one can smell their secret as they become caricatures of abandoned innocence.

My dirty secret is that I don’t like spring. For a nature girl, I should be into budding leaves and flowering plants. I should be eager to walk in the woods, through creeks and see life ablaze in rainbows after spring storms. I am. However, spring is also awash with past failures and a list of projects.

No matter what clothes I try on from the previous year, I still weigh the same. I thought I would have lost at least a few pounds by now. And it’s time for spring cleaning. What’s that all about? Some idiot told a tale and said it’s supposed to be cleansing and invigorating. Your spirit is refreshed as you stare down spiders and organize drawers. Like a colon detox perhaps. What’s invigorating about dust and mold and mildew? Do I really need a closet filled with perfect wicker baskets lined with matching floral prints to feel better about myself? And I don’t recall anyone I know actually beating rugs outside. That doesn’t seem too helpful for those with allergies or without arm strength.

Of course, it is time for the spring marathon. A friend, whose house is on the route, offered her place on race day so we could sit outside and watch the runners. Oh yes. Sign me up. I’ll bring my chair and a bucket of fried chicken to watch all the fit people, the ones who actually worked out over the winter, run by.

Perhaps it’s just me. I like winter’s hibernation. Call me in another month when full size leaves form a canopy overhead and the hummingbirds return to their favorite bright red feeders. Call me when I can jump in the pool at the bottom of the waterfall without getting frostbite. Or just tell me that after all, the rest of my life is supposed to start today. Remind me that hope is eternal and love comes when you least expect it. Fill my mind with age old clichés and touch my heart with the softness of butterfly wings and purple pansies. Whisper in my ear the dreams kept alive by the light of fireflies. Help me remember the smell of newly cut grass and the feel of clean, white sheets on a warm night. Let me recall the sound of the owl in the middle of the woods and the noise of a flock of geese rising above a still pond at dawn.

Hmmmm…..it’s working. I just remembered another pair of jeans I haven’t tried on. Surely they’ll fit and be great to wear on marathon day. You’ll know me by my big, stupid grin - even though it will still be spring and I’ll be eating fruit.

Sunday, March 21, 2010

Litter

This weekend, I traveled with a friend to celebrate spring in the country. Bright yellow daffodils nestled in newly minted grass and waved their welcome in the warm air. Wild violets peaked out with soft heads and faced a brilliant blue sky. Low grasses in the fields made our hike and conversation easy as we trekked to the river. With eyes glued on the protective bluff and budding leaves, I might have missed the trash, but my feet found their way onto beer cans, glass bottles and a discarded tin sardine lid. A faded red plow sat abandoned in the distance.

Not caring about their lives and strewing torn wreckage on the landscape of my life, they littered. Litter left for others to pick up, fix and relocate. The garbage of their fractured lives interfering with mine. We stooped down and met their presence in the dirt and picked up these traces of their carelessness. We touched their thoughtlessness. We cleaned up their mess.

Still others leave behind that which cannot be seen and it remains as ugly. Handprints frozen on the heart long after an angry slap on the face. Souls permanently bruised by harsh words. Memories imprinted as brain trauma from brutal attacks. There is little escape for that which is trapped within for human fragilities are not easily handled.

As the sun sets and we look back across the fields of our lives, what will be left behind?

Sunday, March 14, 2010

Hockey Therapy

I don’t know exactly when I became a hockey fan, but I did. Over the course of winter’s solstice, while others cocooned in the warmth of their homes feeling love’s embrace, I gorged on nachos and beer. I watched grown men pummel each other to the ice. As the crowd roared in approval, I rose with them and felt a primitive rush of adrenalin. I like the sound of clashing long sticks and secretly yearn for the satisfying smack of players when they hit the boards.

No, I’m not having anger issues. I’m a seeker of harmony and peace. I believe in hopes and dreams and leaving legacies. I want to touch the lives of others and in turn touch their hearts. I am certain that life has purpose and we find each other on the same path because of destiny. I believe in pure love and soul mates. That the touch of the wind on a fall day brings grace falling like leaves in shattered lives. I believe the warmth of the sun on iced snow thaws hearts. That the real beauty of the seasons is embodied in those who plunge from black sand foundations into aquamarine waters without checking depth.

And yet, I still want to smash the faces of those who hurt others. I want to kick the butts of those who take away smiles and leave bruised hearts. I want to be on the ice and get in fist fights and defend the honor of those whose lives have been derailed by the soulless. I want to crack ribs over injustices and split lips over malicious gossip. I want to throw water on cruel power hoarders and watch them sizzle to the ground like the wicked witch in the Wizard of Oz.

I’m a southern girl. Born and bred to smile sweetly and keep rage in the kitchen while crushing pecans for a pie. Staring into my iron skillet watching the hot grease splatter while cooking fried chicken, I ponder life and the people in it. Don’t mess with southern girls. We may snap and get in your face and tell you to go find a puck.

But until then, I go to hockey games, secretly putting new names on the jerseys of the fighters, and recite the Serenity Prayer.

God grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change;
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference.

Sunday, March 7, 2010

The Good Fight

Like ocean tides, Evil relentlessly surges into my life. Pushing. Pulling. Burying me under waves of roaring pressure until I can’t breathe. Filling my lungs with bitter salt until I suffocate.

I walk along the shore and waves crash into me. I swim against the currents and tire. I swim with the currents, lulled by gentle breezes, and almost pay the ultimate price when venturing too far.

So I stop. I quit fighting and simply watch the clams burrow into the sand leaving tiny air bubbles. I imagine these small sea creatures drawing their soft bodies inside hard shells protecting themselves against predators. I feel warm breezes caress my face lifting tendrils of hair into rain soaked air. I watch the sun dip into the water kissing the sky with glorious colors of ripe mangos and warm corrals. It is then I realize how to fight and not become prey to the ocean.

I stand strong in the sand until gravity sucks my feet under. I am rooted in the grains that have been transported from times and places unseen. I stand in the particles that flow together forming beaches and dunes. I am planted firmly in the earth amidst the presence of those who have gone before and shared their wisdom. I gain strength by looking into my heart and feeling their love. I find solace by searching comforting memories until I see their faces and feel their hands holding mine.

I am anchored. I will not fall when evil washes ashore.

Sunday, February 28, 2010

Choices

Every day we make choices. Many are important, some are not, and all create a winding path through life on which we journey. We can spend too much time on the hard ones and too little time on the ones envisioned as easy. We watch and think and act. We rejoice and regret and reconsider. We allow winds of change to swirl among the seasons of time passing through and by each of us.

We stand amidst some choices falling gentle and pure as snowflakes. Tranquilized by beauty, it goes unnoticed that drifts obstruct the view, ice forms underfoot, and we are lost. Fearing a repeat event, we next stay inside, paralyzed before warm fireplaces, never venturing out again. We cling to other choices like trees, rooted in strength, hanging tight to unfurled leaves waving strong against a vivid sky. We celebrate other choices and revel in the explosive glory crimsoned in autumn colors. And then there are the choices seeded in ancient seasons. Budding in spring and tenderly pushing through vestiges of winter’s snow, their results bloom and surprise.

We can choose more than what to wear, when to eat and whether or not to exercise. We can alter and shape destinies. With our thoughts and actions building upon days and forming years, friends, and families, we create a life built upon our choices. We create a life that one day will be left as a legacy and remembered in captured moments.

So let us choose to be kinder today than yesterday and offer help to the hopeless. Let us choose to love those who live in the past and show them how to live in the present. Let us choose to laugh at ourselves, share of ourselves, and care for others. Let us choose who we want to be and how to become that person.

Let us choose wisely.

Sunday, February 21, 2010

Battlefields

Even as an ardent Star Trek fan, I never followed the immortal words “to go where no man has gone before.” When faced with danger, adversity, or the vast unknown, I am more prone to scream, “Beam me up, Scotty.” Beam me up NOW.

Do some of us have damaged DNA chains? Are we missing key brain functions that indicate it’s natural to hurtle down mountains on waxed skis or throw your body in a bobsled and rush over 90mph to the finish line? I represent an entire segment of the population that has never sported an athletic injury. Just last week, I demonstrated my prowess in a restaurant stumbling over an uneven floor. My pride and I smashed on concrete. I’m still pampering the twisted knee and ankle and putting heating pads on shin bruises. Hand over the pain killers and call it a day.

Even if it’s not challenging physical confrontation, I rarely stop long enough to ponder flee or fight. Fleeing is my natural instinct and I’m too busy running away from that which I cannot see to determine how to face it. Is there skill to reaching deep in the soul to find the strength to move forward? To face the future. To be all we can be. And how do you find your future when you’re trying to find yourself? How do you chase dreams when you’re still chasing demons? But such is my destiny – my challenge. To stop running and stare down the universe. To put a face on its complexities. To contain fear and push aside pride and walk with humility. My victories will not be on skating rinks or at the bottom of mountains. My victories will be found in quests to find my path and kindred spirits. To live in love. To search among the clutter and pick up hope and leave its legacy for the next traveler.

Fighting the unknown; facing an uncertain future – these are my battlefields. I will stop running and look in the mirror for strength, look above for guidance, and look to others for support. And then, at some point, I will have to take action. I will have to move if only to clumsily put one foot in front of the other and simply walk. When the transporter is broken and Mr. Scott says in his thick brogue, “There’s only enough power for one. We only have time for one, Captain.” Maybe then I will have found the strength to reply, “Take Mr. Spock.”

Sunday, February 14, 2010

Olympians

Athletes soar in the air, float in space, perform other seemingly miraculous feats, and we gaze in wonder at their accomplishments. We cry with the winners and losers and mourn over young loss. Their greatness, their sacrifice, their moments in this time in these Olympics moves us.

The inspiration of the elite champions captures our collective heart and awakens lost dreams. We believe that we too can overcome, rise above, and conquer. With fresh eyes, we gaze in mirrors and reflect on our images and days. With bold hearts, we embrace life and take faltering steps toward almost forgotten goals.

As we move forward, only then do we see winners in ourselves and others. We feed the poor so they can rise above poverty. We help the sick so they can recapture life. We touch hands so no one is alone. We love without looking back or looking ahead. We live without regret. We lift each other to soar above obstacles and flow through time with only dreams as safety nets. We move in unison as ice dancers in beautiful harmony. We breathe the same air and nurture the same hopes for peace.

We see strength in the mother who rises at a similar hour to the athlete practicing on an isolated practice field so she can find private time before feeding and dressing her children. We see greatness in the father who works all weekend so he can leave the office early and attend his son’s baseball game. We see victory in the addict who overcame unknown pain and suffering and sits next to us at the coffee shop. We see tenacity in the older woman working still to put food on her family’s table –the family who moved in with her when they lost their jobs.

As we go through another 16 Olympic days, we will rise to our feet with wonder, cry when flags are raised and laugh when youthful and heroic exuberance excels. As we go through life, we will feel the Olympic passion burning bright and fueling everyday winners who give their best, sacrifice in secret, work hard, live freely, and love deeply. As we share our unique talents, pursue dreams and help others find theirs; we will find our greatness and capture a lifetime of gold.

While our bodies may not soar as high as ski jumpers, our spirits do. Our strength is found in the shoulders that others lean on and our achievements are measured in the pieces of our hearts which have been given away.

We are all Olympians.

Sunday, February 7, 2010

Butterfly Net

Sometimes I wonder about unfulfilled dreams floating in the air as elusive as butterflies never caught in a net. I look back at life on scarred feet, running through soft green carpets and amidst sharp rocks, chasing an unseen future.

I want to live in the space between the past and the future. It is a present space defined in joy. It’s a place where anticipation belongs in an undefined dimension and regret belongs in another reality. It is a place where feelings soft as an old broken-in goose down comforter cocoons me in warmth. I would live in this space listening in silence to the tick of the clock reminding me that time does exist and I live within its boundaries.

I wouldn’t want to travel anywhere, but instead visit the places in my heart. It is there I clearly see the dreams as bright as endangered orange monarchs, dotted with irregular black spots, which somehow flew magically into my net. It is there I see the colors of my life flying on cobalt blue wings captured in a lifetime of dreams that I no longer have to chase. In this space, I would no longer search for unfilled destinies. In this moment, I would share and enjoy the beauty lying in my net.

Sunday, January 31, 2010

Winter

The white blanket folded over the earth until the night became day in bright luminescence. Trees dripped 10 karat ice crystals and adorned long branches in slender tendrils of sparkling beads which almost touched the snow covered ground. The glittering light reached into dark recesses of the woods until the world magically glowed with tranquility.

Under the frozen scene, life coursed. Swirling pools of mountain water teeming with fish continued to flow down ancient paths. Some animals burrowed deeper into the earth seeking warmth while others continued sleeping in oblivious hibernation.

Fall explodes in color but the snowy winter landscape exposes the brilliant hues of new beginnings. Without prejudice, all is buried. The sky is colored in softness, and the world stops and revels as snowflakes burst onto the frigid wonderland. On the surface, time stands still and for a few moments, a few hours, a day and a night; we are at peace.

Forced into rest, we lie under billowing goose down comforters and look for ourselves in frozen reflections. In our self contained snow globe, hearts beat in wonder that all things are possible when we too are blanketed in virgin white.

Sunday, January 24, 2010

Freedom

In the “land of the free and the home of the brave,” I wonder how many are truly free and how they journeyed. Freedom may sound free but comes with a cost and is paid in commodities uncommonly traded. Can we ever gain freedom from the past and hold its’ joy fragile as a wounded baby bird in tender hands. Endurance stories of family histories shared through generations of slavery are often repeated in quests for freedom, but what of familial histories holding fast to unspoken tales of alcoholism, drug addictions and suicides. Who shares individual chapters about suffrage through loss and chaos? Who hears the voices of inner demons who don’t allow the grace of forgiveness to be heartfelt? What screams are being heard behind the facades of smiling faces?

Perhaps we are the brave because we are born to conquer - accepting challenges as they fall in torrents of spring rain. When horizons become black and the wind unleashes an uncommon fury lashing out and damaging tender saplings, we stand strong. When thunder rolls across the sky and lightning chases the clouds until it cracks a smoldering hole in the earth, we defiantly stand. We slog through the mud with our troubles for companions until we smell only the putrid odors of decay and lose our way through dank, dark passageways. Sudden storms create flash floods propelling us into other entaglements slamming our bodies underwater and filling our lungs with muck. And still we swim; clinging to life, dreaming with hope, looking for handholds to find a moment’s rest, catching our breath, gaining strength, treading water until we find rescue.

The journey to freedom is sometimes on the outside punching through and pummeling obstacles. More often, the journey to freedom is found in the inner passageways through our past, our memories, and our regrets. But we fight; we carry on. We bravely face each day putting one foot in front of the other. These turmoils don’t define us as much as refine us. Shaping our presence and forging new paths to a future never imagined.

We are sustained by that which is not seen -the promise that the truth will set us free -the hope that we will overcome. And when conditions are right, we can see the past as morning mist – present around us but no longer touching. We effortlessly float on clouds of recovery and strength in freedom’s essence –uncontained and undenied of our unique destiny. We do not simply reside in the land of the free and the brave. We are the free and the brave.

Sunday, January 17, 2010

Friends

On a day which stretched further than ocean waters into the horizon, my friends waited and encircled me in compassion. On a day which held more complexities than the world’s unsolved mysteries, my friends offered an escape route into their arms. On a day which held crushing exhaustion, my friends pampered me with kindness.

When determination wavered and vulnerability shone brighter than the moon on a cloudless night, my friends helped me refocus on truth. They were a collective umbrella over my head during the storm. They held invisible safety lines when I descended the cliff. They protected me as mother cubs to their young.

Different days. Different friends. Different journeys converging on the same path. On this day, it is good to rest. For on the quest to become and overcome; to find our way in the world, if we stop and look into the eyes of our friends, we gain the strength to see and believe that we are already there.

Sunday, January 10, 2010

Strength

Winds of change buffet the earth sometimes blowing as hot, suffocating breaths of air smothering life and crushing naive lungs in a vise. Winds can channel frigid arctic air through our skin causing the blood to run cold and changing warm hearts to ice. Hurricane force gales strip defenses bare until nothing remains but exposed and splintered skeletal bone. Other days, however, they come as warm beach breezes caressing our cheeks until rosy glows of hope emerge and our eyes sparkle with anticipation.

We walk against the wind and get nowhere or the wind can be at our back urging us onward. The wind is ever present except in the eye of the hurricane. All is still and nature holds a collective breath until it comes back slamming us forward into unplanned paths. Pushing. Destroying. Wreaking havoc on dreams.

And yet, we stand rooted in the earth solid as the massive redwoods, which have already stood the tests of time and people, in Muir Woods National Monument. These giant pillars of strength tower above the fray and allow the winds to ripple through their branches. Leaves are changed in the fall, shaken off in the winter, bud in the spring, turn green and hang tight in the summer; and yet, the trees bear witness and simply grow. Evidence of past damage can be found on the bark and in the life rings; and yet, these giants grow taller and reach higher every year.

These weathered Muir Redwoods appear as if they touch the heavens. Perhaps they do; and if we reach up and lift our eyes above, we too can find the strength to remain standing tall.

Sunday, January 3, 2010

Perspective

The car was parked under the wrong tree. Missiles of brown splattered like tobacco spit on the metal surface and I had to rush before becoming the next victim. The wind whipped my hair out of place and mocked my painstaking attempts of care. As I brushed errant locks out of my eyes, I noticed him standing across the street blowing his breath on cold fingers in a useless attempt to get warm. An old truck pulled up beside him and stopped.

I couldn’t determine if I needed safety and if so, which door beckoned at the gate of the converted school building. I looked back at the man and the car and suddenly I was forced to shade my eyes from the sun’s bright floodlights. It was only then that I stopped dead in my tracks in the middle of the street. The oak tree was covered in shimmering lights and danced under morning sunbeams. Snow dusted each branch on top of layers of glazed ice. I imagined marches of confederate soldiers, KKK members and Vietnam War protestors gathering under its’ protective branches. Against the vivid blue sky and beyond the magical shimmer of the solid white tree, the city’s skyline of metal and glass formed a technological backdrop to this solitary giant standing firm in the midst of new urban warfare.

Looking back at the man in the street for an instant, we both turned our attention back to the majestic, towering tree. We stood transfixed in the startling beauty of the morning sun which touched each grain of wood lighting every crystal sending shimmering glitter into the darkest of shadows. The stranger then shielded his eyes and looked back toward me. I followed his gaze to a holly bush protected behind a black iron fence. Patches of green pierced the white blanket and bright red berries nestled safely within the virgin snow. Slipping my hand between the metal bars, I touched the cold snow and smiled.

“Have a good morning,” I cried. He waved back and I carried the crystal scene in my heart and soul throughout the appointment. Back onto the street, I noticed my car was converted from silver to brown, but it did not matter. I looked back at the enchanted oak tree and smiled all the way to the car wash.