The Cricket's Umbrella

Golden Throat Elixer

2023-04-08T23:36:00.000-06:00

Many years ago a friend at work taught me a recipe for a natural throat soothing elixir that was so helpful and pleasant which is a rare combination especially when you are sick. I used to make up a few batches every winter as cold season made its annual presence felt. Once my dementia began to affect my mobility and I am out in the world less I do have the benefit of not getting colds or flus often. However, that also means that I have not made said elixir for a few years and could not really (thanks broken brain) remember how to make said elixir; I could remember the basic ingredients.

We have spent the last few days, with my daughter-in-law fighting off a terrible head cold, perfecting our new version of this beloved "syrup" and before I have the chance to forget again I promised to write it down where we won't lose it again. It seemed like the perfect opportunity to share it as well.

1 day supply:

2 bags of Yogi Throat Comfort or Lemon Ginger tea
2 Tbs Honey, (our favorite is pictured above)
1 Tbs Ginger paste (or fresh ground ginger, but when you are sick...really?)
1 Lemon

Steep tea for 20-30 minutes in 2 cups hot water, you want it really strong.

Once tea syrup base is ready add honey and ginger while still warm.

Rinse lemon, roll using gentle pressure on a hard surface then cut into quarters. Remove as many seeds as possible then squeeze as much juice as you are able to into syrup. Set wedges aside**

Stir well and refrigerate.

Elixir can be used by the spoonful like a syrup or added to hot tea as a soothing shot.

**We have found that cutting the lemon into smaller pieces after juicing and adding the pieces to the elixir after stirring it well allows for some of the syrup to saturate the pieces which can then be added to tea or just eaten by themselves to sooth a sore throat.

Crochet a Little Love

2022-02-17T20:46:00.002-07:00

My son and his wife are both fans of One Piece and consider themselves honorary Straw Hats. I love to crochet while watching TV and you can only make so many afghans so I worked out a pattern for crochet straw hats that they seem to like.

One Piece- Straw Hat

Hook: I/9 5.50MM (or size needed to achieve gauge)
Yarn: Vanna’s Choice - A. Honey (for hat)
- B. Cranberry (for band)

Abbreviations:

ch: chain
sl st: slip stitch
st: stitch
sc: single crochet
hdc: half double crochet

Gauge: 3 rounds = 3 ¼ inches

With Color A Ch 3. Sl st in first ch to form a ring.

1. Ch 2 (counts as the first stitch in this round and each round throughout the pattern.) Hdc into the ring
9 times. Sl st with the top ch of the ch 2 to join. (10 hdc)

2. Ch 2. Hdc in the same stitch as the ch 2. Work 2 hdc into the next st and each st in the round. Sl st
with the top ch of the ch 2 to join. (20 hdc)

3. Ch 2. Work 2 hdc in the next st. *Hdc in the next stitch. Work 2 hdc into the next st. Repeat from *
until the end of the round. Sl st with the top ch of the ch 2 to join. (30 hdc)

4. Ch 2. Hdc in the next st. Work 2 hdc in the next st. * Hdc in each of the next 2 sts. Work 2 hdc in the
next st. Repeat from * to the end of the round. Sl st with the top ch of the ch 2 to join. (40 hdc)

5. Ch 2. Hdc in each of the next 2 sts. Work 2 hdc in the next st. * Hdc in each of the next 3 sts. Work 2
hdc in the next st. Repeat from * to the end of the round. Sl st with the top ch of the ch 2 to join. (50
hdc)

6. Ch 2. Hdc in each of the next 3 sts. Work 2 hdc in the next st. * Hdc in each of the next 4 sts. Work 2 hdc in the next st. Repeat from * to the end of the round. Sl st with the top ch of the ch 2 to join. (60 hdc)

7. Ch 2. Hdc in each of the next 4 sts. Work 2 hdc in the next st. * Hdc in each of the next 5 sts. Work 2 hdc in the next st. Repeat from * to the end of the round. Sl st with the top ch of the ch 2 to join. (70 hdc)

8. Ch 2. Hdc in the next stitch and each st in the round. Sl st to the top ch of the beginning ch 2 to join.

9-14. Repeat round 8. (7 rows)

15. Switch to color B, Ch 1. Sc in the next st and each st in the round. Sl st to the beginning ch 1 to join. (70 scs.)

16. Ch 1. Sc in the next st and each st in the round. Sl st to the beginning ch 1 to join.

17- 20. Repeat row 16. (4 rows)

21. Switch back to color A. Ch 2. Hdc in next 5 sts. Work 2 hdc in the next st. * Hdc in each of the next 6 sts. Work 2 hdc in the next st. Repeat from * to the end of the round. Sl st with the top ch of the ch 2 to join. (80 hdc).

22. Ch 2. Hdc in next 6 sts. Work 2 hdc in the next st. * Hdc in each of the next 7 sts. Work 2 hdc in the next st. Repeat from * to the end of the round. Sl st with the top ch of the ch 2 to join. (90 hdc)

23. Ch 2. Hdc in next 7 sts. Work 2 hdc in the next st. * Hdc in each of the next 8 sts. Work 2 hdc in the next st. Repeat from * to the end of the round. Sl st with the top ch of the ch 2 to join. (100 hdc)

24. Ch 2. Hdc in the next stitch and each st in the round. Sl st to the top ch of the beginning ch 2 to join.

25. Ch 1. Sc in next st and in each st in the round. Sl st to the beginning ch1 to join.

Fasten off & weave in ends.

This pattern is really easy to adapt in size by just using a smaller, or larger, hook and yarn. The posted pattern is a basic adult size.

Devastation of a Tree

2019-03-10T18:02:00.000-06:00

When I was young a tree was planted in my mind. I did not see it there growing. Did not notice the flowers that sprang onto branches; not until the child emerged from her roots. The child was beautiful and wild and brave in her adventures. She danced between the roots and gathered falling blossoms to lace through her hair.

She grew from the seed of the tree that was planted from the love of another’s soul. She dreamed and shared her wild universe with the mind of the girl she lived within. The girl began to write of adventures and paint impossibly wild and beautiful creatures. The two danced together invisible yet bound together; then the darkness began.

It was distant for long and away creeping closer even when the tree was first planted it had been hedging the universe within searching for a way in. It hungered for dreams and adventures to consume. The day the girl heard men of medicine say he is not long for this world now the child within grew still, holding her breath. She made ropes of roots and flowers nourished by tears shed in the night. But the darkness was coming closer and closer faster every day. Then the storm began.

Fed by medicines and whispers and broken hopes, the storm hid its ferocity high above the shade of the tree; unseen, unheard until it began to whip and pull at the delicate branches. The night the darkness came the Gardener called the girl and the child to him. He said, “Be brave, be in the world but not of the world. Do not despair. Promise me?” They promised. Hand in hand they sat at his side until he vanished in the darkness. The crying was quiet and constant held tightly within the tree; a thing for solitude, not to be shared.

The tears nourished the tree; girl and child grew with it. Though no longer wild the dance remained strong, with purpose, “Be brave, do not despair.”

The cracks began when the girl lost her first before it ever knew the forest or light. Grew as parents of parents and children of those faded into the grasp of darkness, one by one whatever she loved was ripped from her arms and consumed by the ravenous darkness. Her back stood straighter each time she felt love, yet broke that much more each time it was lost. By the time her mate was pulled away the child within clung to the upper branches and screamed into the whirling maelstrom. Yet the storm of darkness ate her every sound until the girl thought she was alone.

Time and again the gardener's voice tried to whisper to her, “do not despair, be brave.” But the storm isolated the girl and the child; trapped them in silence and darkness, with only a muffled wail to remind them they were alone with the scattered fragments of life.

Each time the gardener came to them the child within told him, “It is a lie this Christmas! It is a mask they wear once a year in hopes of new toys to break. They do not mean what they say. Humanity only wishes to feed the darkness.” Then she would hide in the roots of the tree and draw monsters on the walls and her skin.

The girl could not leave, could not join the darkness, nor the child.

No matter how dark and bitter the night she had a promise to keep: be in the world, not of the world.

In time all that remained was the storm, the girl, and a child hidden in torn roots covered in monsters of blood and ink. Hoping that the day will come when either humanity ceases putting Loki on the throne, or the gardener calls her to him, the girl waits. In silence. Unable to hear the child over the storm she waits for the eye to be over her, she will know then what the last painting will be.

Of this, I am certain.

Breathe deep, Let praise exhale

2018-12-05T18:51:00.003-07:00

There are days when I am too weary of the pain of walking and breathing to get out of bed. I still question my purpose for being here most mornings. The universe has a way of giving you encouragement when most needed, if you are open and willing.

December 3^rd was a bad day for me in that I was more depressed and discouraged than usual. I had been talking to my son and his wife the night before about a memory of watching an episode of NCIS where Abby starts a Living Rocks campaign; aka tell people why you are grateful when you have them not as an epitaph when they are gone.

With that idea stuck in my head and feeling like a cancerous Unicorn with a broken horn I checked my email as I try to at least 3x a week to ensure there were no flames that had to be dealt with before curling up back in bed.

I read an email from a business associate that gave me a sense that there may be at some point, in the not too distant future, a point that life may improve at least a little. This person was doing their job of course. They took the time to explain what they were doing, a courtesy not given often. It made me realize how seldom of late I took the time to do more than be polite to those I must interact with in person. So I sent a short email to express my gratitude.

Today I received a reply from her expressing how touched she was at something that took me one brief moment of inspiration and 2 minutes of effort. I resulted in something tangible she can carry with her for those hard days.

This got me thinking once again. We are all so quick to offer ridicule, to correct others, to honk at rude or careless drivers, to gaze sternly at those weary parents that do not seem to have any control over rowdy children. When is the last time I had offered praise, or corrected myself publicly, or smiled and waved at a courteous driver, or offered patience and a smile to a weary parent?

I have found that when I have a problem with a company and need to communicate in real time I use online chat as often as possible. This allows me to think and censure what I say before I say it. I am able to speak clearly, kindly, and without emotional interference. Life does not afford that luxury in line, face-to-face, in traffic, but a slow deep breath can at least provide a buffer for you to consider what you are about to say and how it can impact the person you are speaking to and how that may in response effect you.

Eternal Impact

2018-07-26T17:15:00.004-06:00

Talking with a friend today I was reminded of the thought I held as a child,
"be the person that makes a difference". I firmly believed that if you always did and said what you knew to be right even if you feel there would be no consequences that you could improve the world.

Don't misunderstand me, I still believe that and it has become so much a part of who I am that it is no longer a conscious choice it just is who I am; I was just reminded that it was a choice, a choice I made.

We all interact with the world daily and every choice we make has the potential to change the world. It may not be the people you smile at, the tiny old woman you get a can off the top shelf for at the store, or the harried mom you let in front of you in the bank; it may be the person watching you.

Even years after my brother passed away we would occasionally meet someone he had known and they would ask after him and when we told them he was gone they all, to a person, cried. He had impact on the world in the all too brief 19 years he spent here. He showed courage, courtesy and hope. Even when he did not feel them.

I want to be that kind of person.

I have many days where I wake up wondering why I am still here, if anyone would care if I was gone, how long it would take for anyone to even notice my absence.

Then I remember there are a few that I listen to without criticism or advice; just listen.
There are those that depend on me financially- sad since I am behind on my electric and internet and will likely have them cut off in a matter of days- yet I do somehow, with Gods intervention, always find a way to pay bills and some depend on me for shelter.

I do extend kindness and courtesy to as many as I can on a daily basis even when I do not feel very kind or courteous. I have no way of knowing if I have any impact on the world and likely never will, but it does not matter.

Mantis shrimp and a very very small percentage of the human population see colors in the spectrum that no one else does; does that mean those colors do not exist? If a tree falls in the forest...?

If you really think about it color does not really exist. What we perceive as color is really just how our brains process various refractions of light across surfaces. But we percieve. The refraction is created by a light source that impacts our perception of the world around us.

We can each be a source of light that influences the colors of the world around us.

Damaged Waiting

2018-06-05T16:06:00.002-06:00

damage- noun
1. injury or harm that reduces value or usefulness:The storm did considerable damage to the crops.
2. damages, Law. the estimated money equivalent for detriment or injury sustained.
3. Often damages. Informal. cost; expense; charge:What are the damages for the lubrication job on my car?
wait- noun
1. a period of waiting; pause, interval, or delay.

According to http://www.dreammoods.com/dreamdictionary/ "Symbols are the language of dreams. A symbol can invoke a feeling or an idea and often has a much more profound and deeper meaning than any one word can convey. At the same time, these symbols can leave you confused and wondering what that dream was all about."

Why am I writing all this?
I have odd dreams; I know many of us think we have odd dreams.

I used to think everyone dreamed the way I do, in time I learned that no, they don't. The depth, detail, and intensity of my dreams can be disturbing.

My brother used to love starting every day talking about my dreams; I wonder sometimes now if he ever dreamed.
He was born with a brain tumor and was in pain every day of his life, though he did not really understand that as he was born in pain, was never without it.
I know he had difficulty sleeping.
I have absolutely no memory of him sharing any of his dreams, just building stories and ideas around mine.

I had an acquaintance some years ago that began asking me the first two words I woke thinking about each day; if they found them ominous they stayed home.

Last night I dreamt about a group of people that dressed in vintage fashion and wandered around shooting photos or film clips in black and white, the prominent style in the dream seemed to be circa 1920's-30's.
As the dream progressed the mood became darker, more frenzied and I was left with the overwhelming realization that their frivolous capers hid violence and unrest.
I was struck by flashes like rot and decay behind a flaking mirror.

The two words I was overwhelmed by for hours after waking were Damaged Waiting.

When my grandmother passed away she left behind many things undone as many of us will I am certain; few are ever "ready" to leave.
Perhaps because she was a child of the Depression or maybe just because she felt confined and limited, she left shelves and boxes of unused fabric and notions and patterns, drawers full of lovely nightwear that she never used, unopened packages of vintage hosiery.
She left an entire life unlived, stored in nooks and crannies.

As a vivid dreamer I have a lot of dream dictionaries, interpretation guides etc. However since my hasty grudging move a year ago I have not even had the energy to really unpack. No painting, no sewing, no crafts, no bookshelves full of knowledge inviting me to explore.

I accept that I am not the same as I used to be physically, that I have difficulty with coordination-but I was relearning how to paint and in an entirely new style that I was enjoying.
I do not have enough funds for laundry so am limited to the occasional kindness of family allowing me to do a load or two in their machine when I can get a ride there, sewing even with the fabric I had ready and waiting seems distant even if I found the supplies in the mountain waiting to be unpacked.
I often feel like those people I used to dread interacting with because they smelled so...lived in. I get it now; lack of towels and clean clothing will do that to you. After a while you start to think why bother with a shower? No one cares, you have nothing clean to put on, it just doesn't matter.

I kept going back to why those words...damaged...waiting...
is the waiting causing the damage?
is the damage causing the waiting?
are they feeding each other using hosts' lethargy unaware?

As I began typing this post and remembering my brother's fascination with dreams and his ability to rise above, I thought about my grandmother's unfulfilled wait for a life that never came, and I realize at least one possible portent for me in a dream of damaged waiting.

Life is pain; it teaches us which movements and motions we can withstand and which to avoid. Sometimes knowing what will break you is about testing that edge. But you have to move, dance, live, explore, reach, dare or there is no basis for growth and knowledge, only waiting for the damge to be revealed behind the mirror.

Unlocked for Hope

2017-11-20T06:18:00.000-07:00

When I started this tiny blog I wanted a place to uplift to speak only those things that improve the world around me through the sharing. It did not, does not, matter if any of those words are ever read by another; just that they are out there, can be read, can offer a balance to all the ugly-meaningless-hurtful-selfish words that are dumped into the world on a daily basis.

In my desire to be that voice I have strived to only write, to share, that which is uplifting and positive as much as possible. Sadly that means I do not write often. As life grows harder, grows complicated, becomes oppressive, my silence grows equally. I realized that perhaps I don’t have to be uplifting, I don’t have to feel joy to write; I need only have the desire to lift another from shadows.

I have somehow always believed all things for a reason; I know that it can sound worn and trite but it does not feel that way. I find that I keep trying to be brave: I keep failing to be brave. I want to write, to share, to see light in the darkness. Yet I do not write, I continue to close myself off, I do not turn lights on as the shadows are easier on my eyes most days. Then I realize I am not the solution I am just another tiny dusty brick on the brink of tottering of the edge of a worn path. But an old cobblestone with cracks can better play host to a sudden flower growth than a paved highway.

Perhaps wanting to feel contentment, desiring to share radiance, failing to do so, and still saying, “I am here if you need to cry, my shoulder is soft” is enough.

I am not joyous, but I am hopeful.

I am quiet, but I listen well.

I do not like bright light, but the calm still shadow of the woods hold many wondrous secrets to be explored.

I am lonesome and sad, I am quiet and withdrawn, but I still believe in a better world. I believe that the majority of humanity cares and will improve the world even if it is one small step at a time. Every lock has a key it just takes a bit of time to locate in the jumble sometimes.

Dawdle-Walking

2017-09-26T01:37:00.001-06:00

When I was young my brother and I had the blessing of a mother gifted with joy and imagination; we lived in a park for a few weeks, in neighborhoods with cement and bullets, below drug riddled prostitutes. We never knew any of that until we were old enough to filter the world ourselves.

Whenever she felt overwhelmed by life we took dawdle-walks together. She would let my brother and I take turns just meandering wherever we felt inspired to wander. She always managed to find secrets to delight and inspire us. We saw the wonder in the world around us long before it could be filtered through its inherent darkness.

Every low rent subsidized apartment we found ourselves in was somehow miraculously transformed by a single mother on very limited funds. Every hole patched, color on every wall, handmade curtains at the windows, and somehow flowers outside of every door with grass whenever even two yards of dirt could be found. When she was waiting for the police to respond to her call for help when the woman upstairs was being beaten by an angry John she turned on the dryer and wrote us a lullaby to drown out the sounds of misery above us.

Though I have always been influenced by the enchantment she brought to my heart and do find secrets and joy in random places, I have to remind myself quite often to look past the clutter of anger and suffering to see the vibrant life pulsing underneath. In those moments that inspiration can be captured for posterity I celebrate the ability to share the vision my mother’s eyes inspire.

When walking today look down, peer through the haze, let your mind and gaze wander to the delightful around you. I promise it is there.

An Un-Fading Existence

2017-09-22T12:43:00.000-06:00

In 2003 I met the love of my life; we were together through trails and joy, made promises, raised children, and in 2012 he left us all too early from sudden electrical heart failure. His first wife worked with her long-time boyfriend/lawyer to prove that her divorce in 2002 was never finalized; I allowed myself to occasionally wallow in self-pity that I had somehow been robbed.

But I wasn’t, I had him. I had his laughter and sometimes tears. I had his love and friendship. There was more wealth in the time we had together and what we shared than any retirement. My mother joked once that ultimately we both got what we wanted as he wanted us to get married and I struggled with the idea of marriage preferring to live together. Ultimately I decided that I believed in him enough to try marriage.

It has been said that true immortality is obtained in what those we leave behind remember of us. His laughter alone will keep many of us going, I still hear it when I do something particularly stupid, like wondering why biscuits are not cooking in an oven that is not on.

One of the things he and I enjoyed together was the fine art of skin-ink. Each anniversary we would get a new tattoo together. One of the first was kanji in red down our left arms that said, “I will never give up on you.” The meaning was important enough that we went to our Chinese cultural center and had the Manager brush them out for us after discussing the intent of the phrase to us. About two years ago I noticed that one of the symbols is fading and since I had the joy of working with someone from Hong Kong I asked her what it stood for; it became a sign and mantra for times to come. What it now reads is “I will never give up.” He is fading from my arm as his pull has faded in my life; what has not left is the strength he helped me build in my own sense of value.

Today even more than two years ago I needed that reminder, I will never give up. I read an old posting and cried that my “Frank” will not be here to get me toast or strawberries. The long-time dream of driving an RV around the country in our joint-memory depraved dotage will never happen without the driver-for-life. The only one who steals my blankets now is the dog he gave me weeks before passing away.

Yet, I am still here. I feel alone too often, despite people trying to remind me I am not. I close myself off, I do not share, do not open, do not weep without the door closed and water running. That is my doing though, my choice; perhaps simply my way of trying to lessen the coming pain. The last tattoo I allowed myself is seven white cranes on my arm, one for each of those I have lost too soon.

Life has purpose. It may not always bring joy, but there is always opportunity for connectedness. Do not avoid those life brings you in the hustle of daily burdens. Do not draw away from potential joy to lessen the pain when the connection is gone. People are often surprised at the amount of ink I have on me; why? What does an inked individual look like? Are they different, less, younger, fiercer?

Who are any of us?

We are the accumulation of those we have allowed to impact us, and those pieces left behind when we share ourselves with others.

Maxine Hong-Kingston was the inspiration for my first tattoo. In her book Warrior Woman she writes of how Fa Mulan’s father carved the history of her people into her back so that when she faced her enemy at dawn the history of her people would shine through like lace. I was so drawn by the symbolism of that. What do we allow to be carved into us? Who does the light of dawn reveal, what is the image of our lace? We determine each moment who we are, how we respond to what happens not only to us but around us.

I may not ever be a social person, I do not know that I ever was; I do not like to leave my house. But I do care deeply for a great many people and I do not have to leave these four walls to let them know I care. Perhaps more importantly I do not have to lie or try to hide who I am. I am fearful and reluctant and withdrawn. I enjoy solitude and quiet. I prefer email and text messages over phone calls; but written words are lasting, can be thought through, should be thought through, can be looked back on.

I believe in mankind. I am frightened and saddened by many things in the world today. I am overwhelmed with joy each time I see small gestures of kindness not done for cameras or praise, just done from the heart of decency. I have faith that those willing to improve the world are blessed with an un-fading existence by all of us willing to build on their example.

Stride Forward, Shake off the Mud

2017-09-21T16:06:00.002-06:00

In 2016 the brain damage that was first thought, in 2008 to be stroke related, then maybe MS, then maybe, then maybe, then maybe... was finally diagnosed as Binswanger's Syndrome which has no cure but mental deterioration can be slowed. According to wikipedia, "Symptoms include mental deterioration, language disorder, transient ischemic attack, muscle ataxia, and impaired movements including change of walk, slowness of movements, and change in posture. These symptoms usually coincide with multiple falls, epilepsy, fainting, and uncontrollable bladder."

I have no difficulty believing this as I had to look up how to spell Deterioration, but I could remember to look up alternatives for decay so I am still in here. I will admit because it feels it should be said, that yes I have difficulty controlling my bladder, but I am grateful that I more often than not make it to the bathroom at this point; I am oddly relieved to know there is a solid medical reason. Now I know why I have difficulty walking and why I fall so often.

In January 2017 I lost my job because side effects were beginning to affect my work and attendance. After six months of review I was determined to be disabled by the retirement board for my previous employer and now am fortunate enough to receive disability retirement; like most retirements that is less than half of what I made while working so allows about $120-150 after rent is paid for me to feed myself, my dog and pay gas, lights, and internet. I am working on alternatives and know that they will take time.

Because I lost my job, in February 2017 I lost my house. When you have no income you cannot make mortgage payments.

The last three months I have had more days than I care to admit where I did not want to get out of bed; it was so hard to move past the fear and sorrow and anxiety that fills my head.

Many things have struck me recently though including the fact that I claim to want to be a writer yet I do not write. Soon enough I will lose the ability to write. This cannot be faced without rage or I was never really a writer to begin with.

So there will be no more curling up and to binge Sherlock Holmes while fiddling with Sims until I have written. If I can get on my computer to play then I can write first.

I have had some realizations:

Today I have a place to live; many in the world and even in the US are homeless.

Today I have electricity; my brother has been without power for over a week in Florida.

Today I can write a word of encouragement even if no one reads it; there are those that have no words of hope within them.

For no reason other than divine intervention today I read through blogs poems and short stories I have written and or posted in the past. I started a blog called OnionLogic with a friend a couple years ago, I do not remeber how to get on and edit or post to it. All I could do at the moment is post what I had shared there on this blog.

Edmund Burke was a wise man. Among a great many amazing things, he said, “Nobody made a greater mistake than he who did nothing because he could do little.”

I realized that I am guilty. Guilty of believing it is my right to give up. Guilty of not trying to be even a small difference in a sad and lonely world. Guilty of believing that whatever joy or little wisdoms I have been given need not be shared. Guilty of refusing to make this world a better place.

No more. I have heard the siren call of Sara B., “Don't run, Stop holding your tongue, Maybe there's a way out of the cage where you live, Maybe one of these days you can let the light in, Show me how big your brave is.”

This is my chance to practice what I preach, I have always said smile at everyone you meet and use duct tape if your words cannot be kind or supportive. I am not gone yet and I will not be silent any longer. I may not post every day, but once a year or two is not acceptable any longer, enough wallowing.

Time to shake off the mud and stride forward.

The Noble Path

2017-09-21T14:23:00.001-06:00

JANUARY 6, 2015

I was getting ready to leave to run to the corner store tonight because I wanted to go and be back before the hour grew later and the cold set in any more than it had. I as grabbed a sweater and slid into warm fuzzy shoes I noticed a new message come up on Skype. Thinking I would just see who it was from so I knew if I should respond tonight or in the morning I found a dear friend struggling against those foul minions we all face too often.

In trying to help him hold his head above water and continue walking down that often difficult path I found myself inspired by the strength and compassion we shared. Though I could edit and build and pretty it up, I realized that it wasn’t needed. Life is not pretty, any more than it is fair, any more than it is predictable; but it is life! It is our life the only one we get this go around, and it is ours to embrace, to share, to change where we can and accept where we cannot change. So I thought instead just offer up what inspired me with no names no times and hope that some of you find hope and inspiration in the exchange like I did.

him

I know the path doesn’t have to be the one…..but I’ve never had this rage, this hurt, this emotional distress before‏

but trying to inflict the pain that was inflicted on you wouldn’t solve anything and it would allow that darkness to take you‏

him

I know….it’s just….not f***g fair…..nothing in this god forsaken land is fair….nothings just nothing nothing nothing…..‏

no one ever said life was fair‏

I know that sounds harsh but its true‏

life is not fair‏, it is messy and unjust and desperate and exhilarating and beautiful‏

him

I always believed that…..but I always hoped for humility….honor and respect….faithfulness and friendships….‏

“Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away”‏ (Vicki Corona)

all the moments in between have the potential to be dark or empty or mundane or painful‏ but the moments that leave us breathless‏, that touch us that move us that make us better‏. Those are what we must cling to in the darkness‏

“We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths;

In feelings, not in figures on a dial.

We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives

Who thinks most—feels the noblest—acts the best.‏” (Philip James Bailey)

You are a noble young man. You believe in and hope for the best in humanity, and though it may be hard when facing the demons, you must continue to believe that they are not of you they are only the darkness in the world manifested to thwart you‏ do not give in‏

him

…thanks….*huggles you close*‏

I love you for the hope that you retain, do not lose that part of you‏

him

“It may be a noble endeavor to try to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders; but it will eventually bring you to your knees and you will struggle to get back up. It won’t be because you are tired, but because of the shame and guilt of failing everybody. You desperately wanted to save everybody you loved but you couldn’t, and now you can’t save even yourself from the bitterness. But you were brave. You were courageous and you did it with love, and you’ll tell yourself that maybe that was enough.”

— Adam Zucconi (via wnq-writers)‏

nice!!!!‏ See you get it!!!

him

why can’t the world be just….simple?‏

because the greatest beauty is not always simple‏

sometimes it is the simple amidst the mess and complex, the single flame in the darkness‏

And that very thought is why you get no attempt at eloquence here, just a very human, honest, simply beautiful flame.

Willing to Try

2017-09-21T14:20:00.002-06:00

MARCH 31, 2015

Yesterday my 18 year-old Step-Daughter made a move that touched my heart to depths that still evoke an emotional response from me in quiet moments today.
She is in transition from an bug infested apartment and her Mother is watching her dog for her while she searches for another apartment. With her beloved friend cared for she was left with 50 lbs of dog food getting stale. Her solution? Pack it all into gallon size zip lock bags and pass it out to anyone who wants to distribute it to homeless individuals with dogs. Her Facebook post garnered many positive comments and likes quickly, so you can imagine my confusion when she was irritated by the responses. When I asked her why, she simply said she didn’t want pats on the back and likes, she wanted people willing to distribute the food to those with hungry animals.

One friend told her, “You make the world a better place.” Her reply humbled us all. “We can all help those in need. We just have to be willing to try.

I know we all have days that it just seems so insurmountable to make any difference in a world so full of pain and suffering, I do. But I have decided that this is a wake up call, at least for me. Maybe I cannot end world hunger, or find shelter for everyone. But one kind word, one meal for dog or man, the cost of one cup of coffee a week…
I can be open and attentive to the world around me.

I can be WILLING to try.
I can change the world.
One person at a time,
starting with me.

Neglect begets

2014-05-14T21:39:00.001-06:00

Neglect begets

Never-to-be’s stunted spiritual growth in excessive demand by the resentful at the bottom of the stairs.

Mother would say, “Let’s talk about roses,” and send anger scurrying to the too-cluttered corners; I knew that was the cause of all those thorns pricking my ten year-old fingers. Caught in a servitude competition.

This is the communal journey against the lie of history-father, of bitterness.

How do we explain away stealing the voices of angels from children long blinded by the hopeless.

Fractured conversations flap in memories caught in the draft of bitterness; toss the forgotten onto the rainbow grill.

I’m waiting for the pain to grow past the bounds of flesh, to push outside of myself in 3-4 time and keep us drifting out the door. I just keep tripping over my joyous expectations where they crumble in puddles on the floorboards.

Wish I could turn off that missing part being so vigilantly ground in the earth/ glad that I can’t

Angel on the edge of wing-spread.

If your arms are not the part of you that truly embraces who I am, and yet it’s your love that brings the safety needed for peace enough to dream, then why do I crave them so in restful moments?

At the worst moments of any given day thoughts of stained glass, forested hills, and a bite on my flesh can bring joy.

Why do I reflect so often, find myself wondering, what windmill does your mind you tilt at? Who is your Sancho P, is it me, or am I Dulcenea?

Stepping Stones

2014-05-10T01:00:00.001-06:00

What an odd and unpredictable journey this is...

I have been so many people over the course of my life, as I know many of us have; in my brash youth I sold paintings on Capital Hill in Denver, ridiculous pieces with no heart. As I grew older my boredom still settled in easily and I would ramble from one project to another leaving a junkyard of half-finished projects in my wake. Five years ago I was told the shaking in my hands and sporadic short-term memory issues were due to random damage to the front area of my brain. Now I find it difficult at best to do any fine work, even reading, for long as it triggers double vision, headaches, and increases the muscle spasms.

I find that by 46 I don't miss the rambling spirit, I hold no lingering regrets for the tolerably pretty young woman I used to be, I do not long for the breathless pace I danced through life at. What I do yearn for is the steady hands and tolerance to continue artistic self-expression. Oh how I wish I had finished a few more projects, or even kept more than the one painting; maybe.

Somehow, I allowed the chaos of the last year and a half to become a cocoon, an excuse, to hide from even an attempt at artistry. Probably fear that I no longer had it in my heart. Silly I know. How often do we let ourselves get caught up in all the "I have to's" of life simply as a subconscious protection against potential failure?

It has been a painful week, yet a week of healing and opening. Though I now know that due to a clerical error, and other oddities, my wonderful marriage of ten years cannot be recognized by a court of law as legal- I have spent the week in reflection and embraced the fact that neither a piece of paper or a judge can change the blessing of watching four amazing children grow to be adults that I value and am proud of. None of it can change the time we had together; none of it can change who I am. What it can do is remind me not to put any of life off, ever. Yes, there are things that must be done: the children must be fed, dogs must be walked, bills must be paid. So too, children and dogs must also go to the park and run with abandon, money must be kept for Popsicles and paints, and time to enjoy those things is just as important as the football game or work.

I found the only painting I ever kept for myself and remembered my dear one telling me he loved my brain fractured and all for the ideas hiding in the cracks waiting to come out. So I picked up a brush and dug out the canvas and paints. True I can no longer do the bold smooth strokes I used to, but it keeps me from getting hung up on a satin smooth finish. I am experimenting with textures and strokes. I will never be a famous painter, then again I never wanted to be. I have found that the patience I have now, even if it takes days to finish a single skull or a clutter of stones, is helping me create work I like better than the quick stylized pictures I used to do. Yes, I will keep the old green me on a wall; it serves as an important reminder.

I have been many people over the course of this life so far, and I am certain I will be more before the journey is over. But for today at least, I am no longer afraid of who that is or what I can or cannot do. I am who I am, just as all things happen for a reason. This is my canvas, I am a work in progress...

Fish in a Tree

2013-10-27T12:35:00.002-06:00

I am saddened at how long since I tried to write, but accept that the chaos of life too often deters us from the path we thought we wanted.

Losing the comfort, the embrace, the vibrancy of my soul-mate was devastating; knowing that he did not suffer, did not linger in pain and frustration eases that - I cannot wish for more than what we shared for ten years. His last acts were brave and caring, as he was.

The last year has been discovering how to breathe without him here to add laughter to my world, how to be brave when alone, how to keep tears for those times when no one is looking; that journey has opened my heart wider than I knew I was willing to risk.

I have found that though I still hold myself apart, I love the world more than I knew. I believe more fiercely in the potential of humanity than I would have believed possible.

There is a sign in a window on the campus I work at that simply says "Scatter Joy." Every time I pass it I smile.

I may not believe a fish can climb a tree, I may not trust or embrace anyone as I did him again, but free flowing water takes skill to navigate while avoiding hooks and nets just as the soul in me is still living even if it is on a different path.

I am still the woman he loved and the best gift I can give in his memory is to share the strength and joy he brought to my life with those I contact in this journey.

There were times that I felt we were so different that he was an Eagle and I a Guppy, yet we found a way to make it work; he never asked me to climb a tree without holding his hand out to help me, and I took joy in the adventure.

My choice for the year to come is to leave the safety of the pond more, scatter more joy in the forest around me, and embrace that though he may not be in my arms he is still in my heart.

Alone with a paper airplane

2012-03-10T09:09:00.001-07:00

Outside my apartment and across the street is a community center and playground, with a big tree spreading it's branches across one entire corner of the basketball court. I went out today and noticed one child in a red coat braving the cold wind and snow to play.
I was struck by two distinct thoughts, how sad and how brave. How brave that he is comfortable being out there alone, his desire to enjoy a day off is enough that he is enough company for his adventures. How sad that he is alone, that his parents did not join him, that he had no friends or siblings willing to brave the forces of nature to explore life's adventure.
As I watched him throw a paper airplane over and over I felt another post grow in my mind.
He is young enough that the shorter and more unpredictable the plane's flight was, the harder he tried to throw it the next time, not understanding that the harder you throw a paper plane the more erratic it's flight becomes; the best launch of paper is a gentle toss into the breeze. In the few minutes I observed the red-clad warrior his plane flew into the trees reaching fingers twice, and twice he had to jump to catch bits of twig tugging until his aeronautic friend was released. Yet he did not stray from his chosen spot to one free of grasping twiggy fingers, he stood his ground and journeyed on.
How often do we approach life in the same way? We struggle and fight and persevere, convinced that if we just fight hard enough and stand in the place we have chosen that "things" will take off. The harder the battle, the harder the toss. Why don't we know already that it will just result in a more erratic course? Might not life's struggles be the same as that bit of paper? Maybe if we simply re-adjust the wings and ballast a bit, and move away from those things that grasp and cling and pull us down, our flight will be true.
My goal this month is now to watch for the branches hanging in my path and to lift my own small wings into the wind and let them soar; no thrusting, no shoving, no strong arm tactics.
Just breathe and be.
Farewell Dave, I will miss you.

Laundromats and Bars

2012-02-12T13:13:00.000-07:00

Have you ever wondered about the profound difference between laundromats and bars?
I mean other than the obvious of course. Hear me out. Windows. Windows tell us so much.

Bars typically have few or no windows and are dimly lit
Laundromats almost always have at least one wall that is all glass and are brightly lit.

Bars, sorry worked in enough I can say this with conviction, smell pretty bad.
Laundromats tend to smell fresh and warm.

Bar floors tend to be dark, cement or wood, and range from dull to sticky.
Laundromat floors tend to bright or white, linoleum, and range from shiny to passably clean.

So I started thinking a bit more about the whys and whens of adventuring to each. Down and dirty first response is we go to bars to loose track of ourselves for a while; we go laundromats to clean the fabric of our lives. It seems obvious how we feel about each as a society and in general when we think about which we are allowed to view others doing without participating ourselves.

So I wonder why? Is there something wrong with wanting to get away from it all and loose track of time; should I really think about the atmosphere of the establishments I choose to go to, select from the few that have windows and good lighting and shiny clean floors?

Why am I okay with the world watching me wash my lingerie? Why do I assume that a laundromat with few windows and dimmer lighting is not clean, is someplace I don't want to take my clothes to get clean?

All of which is not relevant to a great many things I know, but at times following the tracks my mind wanders down really makes me explore how I view things and people; keeping an open mind is important to me. I'm not even saying I hate all bars or love all laundromats.

I think what I have realized is simply that society has set standards for many things, regardless of what I or anyone else may think. Sometimes these standards effect us in ways we may not expect. Sometimes these standards can mislead us if we are not paying attention.

Recently my hubby changed laundromats to one closer to us. It seemed quaint, clean, well cared for. We have noticed little tears in some of our clothing that from sad past experience we know may well come from poorly maintained dryers. So we will be on the search for another 24 hr laundromat that loves our clothes as much as we do, at least until we have a home with our own washer and dryer again.

flagrant thoughts

2010-10-09T19:49:00.000-06:00

My pain, my amazement, my very smallness, overwhelm me
At moments in life, not always significant; at least not at the time.
But what can we know of greatness when the oak is still an acorn?
Did Einstein’s mother neglect her right to irritation
knowing that he would expand E=Mc2 from the wall to cosmic proportion?
Did Mozart’s father ever tell him to put the damn pans back in the cupboard?
Did De Vinci know he was monumental, or did he feel he was the manic/depressive
His friends probably thought him to be?
Could cummings have written about the bitter hands of winter as lovingly as he did of spring?
Or is it all, perhaps, just patience, good weather, and historical luck?
Not that I’ll ever be more than a woman wishing for well-loved, a mother long-loving,
And a mortal enduring. But some days, most days, that is enough.
For those few that it is not, I write; if not always well, at least honestly.

Waiting on my toast...

2010-09-21T19:03:00.000-06:00

So yes, it has been one of the periods in this wild journey that makes you stop more often than expected to catch your breath and search for meaning or at least a little humor.

I spent last week back and forth between work, the hospital (where my mother was held hostage awaiting a diagnosis of congestive heart failure), and home to see which of the kids needed help with homework before starting in on my own. Why I find it necessary to seek another degree at 43 is beyond me, but I still feel it is the right path at this time. This Monday I found out that the financial aid I budgeted to catch up on the mortgage payment would not be in on Sept 24 as expected, but would actually be held until Nov 15- a week after I started attending my 3rd class which is my 6th credit hour this term. I spent 5 minutes in the bathroom crying, then returned to my desk.

In sorting email to tackle the days tasks I found one from a dear friend that has, for the week at least, put things in perspective. It goes like this:

Frank & Marge, a 90 year-old couple, go in for their annual exam. The doctor reports that for their ages they are both in remarkably good health, and side notes that due to common memory issues with advanced ages they may want to get in the habit of writing things down. That evening as they are watching TV together Frank asks if Marge would like anything from the kitchen while he is up. She responds, "Why yes! Some ice cream would be lovely dear." Frank responds, "Alrighty then." "Dear you should write it down like the doc said." "Woman, I can remember a bowl of ice cream," mutters Frank. "Well I'm certain you can dear, but I want strawberries on top. So I think you should write it down." "No, I don't need paper to recall ice cream and strawberries for 20 ft." "Well yes perhaps not dear, but I want whipped cream on top as well, so you really should write it down.""Woman, I been with ya for 60 years. I know how you want your ice cream. I don't need to write it down to remember strawberries and whipped cream." Twenty minutes later Frank returns from the kitchen and hands Marge a plate of bacon and eggs. She looks at the plate, looks at Frank, and says, "Where's my toast?"

Once I stopped laughing like the mad woman I know I am at times, I realized that was the key. I may have thought I wanted Ice cream with strawberries and whipped cream, but life has selected bacon and eggs for me, and I am ok with that... I just want to know where my toast is.

So for those of you, who, like me are looking for reason in the pain and insanity that can overwhelm us at times I offer this, a sincere and heartfelt wish for at least one perfect piece of toast this week. When you bite in and taste the warm salty butter and lick that dollop of jam from your top lip with an embarrassed smile, hold that thought in your heart as ammunition against the next disappointment or moment of despair; remember that sometimes bacon and eggs is a better preparation for what is to come than ice cream.