Postcards From The Fog

Postcard #13: October 31, 2017 or "Anxiety is a haunted house"

2017-10-31T16:25:00.001-07:00

It's not often I share a holiday Postcard, especially one inspired by my anxiety. This one just developed, as I explained to a friend, "out of boredom and opportunity" while I was waiting for a late delivery at work. For years I didn't know to what to call it, but now I know who my foe is, and it is Anxiety. Consider this a piece of fan fiction, and I am a fan of conquering Anxiety. Maybe not everyday, but when it matters, I will win. I hope all of you have a great All Hallowed Eve.

* * *

Update On Recent Events: Pain Is A Cage

2017-09-28T16:27:00.000-07:00

Pain is a cage.

It doesn’t start out as one. Certainly I believed I was strong enough to handle “pain” or at least what I thought I knew pain to be. My experience had frankly, luckily, been limited to direct injuries, and until just a few years ago, surgery:

A brand new, out of the box, first time used, nine inch bread knife running into the side of my hand. Tip of a thumb in a mandolin slicer. Plenty of burns in the commercial kitchens. A wasp (or hornet, or yellow jacket, I’m not sure. It didn’t leave a business card, just a sting and a whole lot of swelling). A fish hook running up the side of my finger.

Oh yeah, the surgery. Thyroidectomy, five inch scar across the neck and a small hole below it, where a tube was inserted to help fluids to drain and keep down swelling while in recovery. That was a crazy sensation when the surgeon pulled out the tube without the benefit of any numbing.

A couple weeks ago, I was handed a new type of pain to experience. It had started with a headache feeling like sinus pressure, like a cold or allergies coming on. I didn’t think much of it at first, but I was getting concerned when it hadn’t left me by day three.

Then, on a Sunday evening, standing in the kitchen working some impromptu dinner magic on leftovers, my brain went for a spin. That’s the way it felt; the brain suddenly spins inside my cranium like a ball then stops, leaving me off-balance for a couple seconds. It’s happened before, but not for a couple years. I had not noticed it then, but thinking back, I realized that was the moment the headache went away.

An hour or so later, I felt a little droopy. The left eyelid felt odd, like I couldn’t close it completely. I checked myself in the mirror, and I could close my right eye fine, but the left stayed open unless I shut my eyes hard. The left side of my mouth was also weak. Not numb, but it felt like that, the lingering effects of novocaine after the dentists so gleefully drilled for who-knows-what inside my mouth.

Yes, I went to the ER. Five hours later, after exams, blood tests, head CT, head MRI, chest x-rays, chest CT, and continued observation, the ER doctor concluded some good news. No evidence of stroke. But he couldn’t point to any evidence to say what had caused the headache or the dizziness, and that left only a few explanations for what had become partial facial paralysis. A transient cerebral ischemia, a brief episode of neurologic dysfunction caused by ischemia (loss of blood flow) without infarction (tissue death). Or a complex migraine, a somewhat generic term, but can be defined to encompass migraines that have symptoms which mimic strokes.

Also noted from all these tests: hyperglycemia, pre-hypertension, anemia, gallstones. The doc did say the high blood sugar could just be from the extra adrenaline of being in the ER, but to still keep an eye on it. The pre-hypertension too, but I have been under treatment for that with my primary care doc for a couple years now. The discovery of anemia was a new twist, so it will be interesting to see that play out. And gallstones? So that explains the couple times I thought I was suffering some granite-like constipation. I figured it was stress. There were a few highly stressful events bookending the couple episodes I had with what I now suspect to have been the stones.

But about the cage. The first day after the ER wasn’t the greatest, by a mile or so. My left eye would dry eye from my inability to blink. I couldn’t smile. Just a contorted smirk on the right side of my face and a creepy wink when the right eye shut. I tried an eye patch the next day, but it was more cumbersome than helpful. In fact very cumbersome and hardly helpful at all. But by the third day I was able to get the left lid to shut on command, with extra effort and the occasional assistance of eye drops.

There wasn’t numbness with this paralysis. I could feel anything and everything which touched my cheek, jawline and lips. But the muscles wouldn’t cooperate, from the centerline of my face all the way around to behind my left ear. The muscles along this perimeter would work. I could feel the tugging and the pulling. It was uncomfortable at first, but slowly the bars of this cage started to grow. The muscle tension became a constant reminder that I couldn’t shift the left eyebrow. Couldn’t smile. Couldn’t drink or eat without persistently dabbing my mouth with a napkin to hide the potential, sometimes inevitable, spillage.

The bars on the cage grew not just in heighth but also in thickness. Sleeping on my left side meant waking up with facial soreness akin to being struck in the face. It would fade but never disappear. The pain would wake me at night. After work, all I wanted to do was take a nap to catch up on lost sleep. Even if I made it straight through a night, the pain tired me out during the day, and naps had become a regular event.

The pain cage was closing me in. Tiredness was the first sign. Next, my patience. I didn’t care to be around people. Relating the story over and over, I had physical and emotional trouble speaking because about the paralysis. Hearing stories, though well-meaning, how others went through the same thing. “Try this. Do that. It will help; it helped me.” It was like the cancer stories again, but worse. I think what made it all worse was my simple inability to show any expression on my face. And that I couldn’t point to a cause, like I could with the cancer. Whatever “this was, this happened. Now I must wait until it gets better. Which it should, but without a cause or injury to treat, nobody knows for sure.

Twelve days out, and some slight improvement. I can make the left cheek lift and twitch a little. That causes more pain, but I see it as an improvement. At least it’s not spreading. I hate the cage. The pain is persistent. The sun is shining today. A great day to get out, maybe a little yardwork. Maybe a drive this weekend. No, that involves people. I need a new weed trimmer. Nope, that involves people. Need to hit farmer’s market for fresh veggies. Planning my spicy veggie soup this weekend and I always make a big pot. Yeah no, more people.

Even with good pain killers, the cage door still feels locked. I don’t mind taking something for pain relief, as long as the pain goes away so that I don’t have to continuously take more pain meds. This isn’t like the first week after my surgery, when I had some 800 mg Tylenol with codeine. Good stuff, but after the first day home, I took it only at night to help me sleep. Otherwise, most of the incision area pain went away quickly. But, like I mentioned earlier, I thought I knew pain.

I knew just one kind of pain. I’m now learning firsthand about a different kind.

Postcard #12: The Campfire

2017-04-28T10:42:00.000-07:00

My dreams aren’t easily remembered anymore. Not like the dreams from my childhood, when the fuel for the dreams were Saturday morning cartoons and the newest bully on the playground. Those will always stick with me. One doesn’t forget the kind of dream that makes you a hero, and the villain curses that he would have gotten away with it if wasn’t for those pesky kids. Nor does the memory of that one jerk ever leave you, that one older punk who impressed his “girlfriend” by harassing First Graders, and kept doing it for three years until the morning of the last day of school before moving to a new city, and you fought back and kicked his ass. Or maybe it was just a dream of getting that sweet revenge...ah, who cares. I was starting a new school in a week anyway.

The one recent dream which I could remember made my intrigue meter twitch. (Disclaimer: the dream was months ago, as well as most of this writing. I am also a habitual procrastinator.) Having gone through several life changes lately had caused many sleepless nights and lackluster fits of nightmares. But this one had a feeling of familiarity, definitely of my past that held happier times. I tried explaining the dream to a friend, who wisely pointed out that dreams most often are not about the who, what or where of the dream, but about something in ourselves. At that time I couldn’t remember the ending, which I felt was always there but just out of sight in the fog. Even though I knew my friend was correct, I was frustrated to not be able to reconcile what about me I was supposed to glean from the dream without knowing the ending.

I wrote about the dream, put it aside, wrote some more. Finally, life and work and every other excuse stepped in for me for why I should give up on ever finding the ending. Two months later, it emerged from the fog. I was quite clueless to why it chose that moment, but I was not in a hurry to understand either. Quickly I wrote the ending, stepping back after it was done to see what wisdom could be found…

* * *

I walked through the door and the night sky extended from horizon to horizon. I thought I was outside already before I approached the door, and that it would take me inside somewhere warmer. Soon I realized the space I was in before was just a room with an obscured view. The door shut hard and loudly behind me, startling the people sitting around a campfire several yards away. Maybe ten, possibly more, huddled in a semi circle around the far side of the fire. It was very quiet, but I could tell they were talking among themselves, in pairs or in threes.

I scanned the semi circle from right to left. As I neared the end of my initial examination, I found one familiar face. Hoping she did not notice that I recognized her, I continued my glances from face to face. I had not expected to know anyone here, let alone her. I didn’t even know where here was. It was so dark outside the circle of campfire light I couldn't see any objects or landmarks. Just darkness and suddenly the starlit sky. No sounds but the crackle of wood burning and breaking under its flaming destruction. And the slight murmur of voices.

I approached the fire and began walking behind the people. The campfire cast their shadows against my legs, hushed tones turning into bare whispers as I moved around the circle. It felt so cold there, not just because these people blocked the fire, but they seemed to be talking about me. The whispers grew the further I moved around. I stopped abruptly, and the whispers stumbled, caught in the firelight. She sat there on the opposite side of the fire from me. Her ears were filled with words and phrases from the people on her left and her right. If she heeded their words, her face gave no indication of affirmation or denial. Her eyes were locked on me, demanding that I take notice, to recognize and remember.

My walk behind the people continued, until I reached an unobstructed and unpopulated view of the fire. The ground underneath me was cold as I sat down, a space away from the next person and a bit further away from the fire than the rest. I needed to warm up, badly. Rubbing my hands together didn’t help much, and I could barely feel the heat from the campfire, even after a stranger I hadn’t seen yet used rough branches to stoke it. He grunted at me, waving the stick's glowing red tip to indicate I should move closer. The dust billowed under my feet as I shuffled forward. All at once, in looking up to see if she was still watching me, there was a dark gap in the circle where she was sitting, along with a popping sound that reminded me of the movies, when somebody disappears into thin air.

But it wasn’t movie magic. She had moved and sat on my left, completing my connection to this side of the circle. A warmth returned, like blood rushing back into my hand after leaning on it for too long. I wanted to say something. I wanted to say hi and tell her how much I missed her. I wanted to ask her how she was doing. I wanted to know what she was doing here at the campfire, and if she knew where here was.

But I couldn’t find my voice. I knew I could, if I had the nerve. It should be so easy just to say the words. But I felt like I did almost thirty years ago, the last time I saw her, so why would it be any different tonight? Back then, there was a balance. One might say I was afraid to upset the apple cart. I suppose that statement is true. I was afraid to lose a friendship for the sake of telling her I felt more. I was selfish for that; I didn’t think she had any interest beyond a friendship with me. She was dating somebody else. She would confide in me, as she would to a close friend, and I felt guilty for essentially have a relationship by proxy. So I didn’t want to upset the balance we had in our friendship. That lasted for awhile, until we lost contact and drifted apart. Of course I regretted not telling her more, but I had figured that it was too late.

And here she was at this campfire, choosing to be by my side. My mind jumped so anxiously from thought to thought that I hardly noticed her lean into me and rest her head against mine. Still no word from her. The only sounds were slight murmur of voices. Only the crackle of the wood in the fire and my heart beating in my chest. Only the sound of her breath in time with mine.

And my thoughts raging in my head, a cacophony of words left unsaid.

Postcard #11: Living On The Edge, Part Two

2016-06-22T18:04:00.001-07:00

On The Edge

I AM FOREVER walking upon these shores, betwixt the sand and the foam, the high tide will erase my foot-prints, and the wind will blow away the foam. But the sea and the shore will remain forever.

- Khalil Gibran

What are my dreams? What do my dreams mean to you, my love?

Do you know your dreams are mine as well?

When you dream of walking through grassy fields

And you feel the warmth of the sun on your back,

Do you know it is my radiance upon you?

When you dream of twilight beaches

And stand so solidly in the pulsing waves,

Do you feel my hands rest upon your shoulders?

As you walk among the throngs of people

Who bring fear and anxiety to your sleeping mind,

Do you feel the wind lift you, my wings aiding your steps?

And when your mind wanders, chasing that elusive butterfly called Sleep,

Do you feel the comfort of my breast as I hold you close?

Do you know who I am, who keeps you company in our dreams?

Do you think of me when the dreams are gone?

These dreams are so frustratingly momentary,

A mark in the sand washed quickly away by the surf.

My powers are strong but limited to the world shaded from your vision.

Time is one and all, nothing and everything at once.

I am eager for the dreams, to greet you when you return,

To be more than merely a presence or feeling.

My wings unfold as I stretch my hands to cradle your face.

Your skin warms with my consecrated touch.

Your breath quickens… you breathe deeply

And the powdery essence from my wings falls over you,

A dusting scent of spring rain and wild flowers.

You begin to shake with nervousness,

Overwhelmed by my eternal love flooding your eyes.

I begin to sing my desire for you

But all you hear is a cold ringing in your ears.

My cries turn into shrieks and you pull away from me.

You are so frightened, I want to protect you.

You punch and kick and swing to break free from my enveloping wings.

And suddenly you are awake again,

My dream turning into your nightmare

And I am alone to grieve for my failure to be closer to you.

Oh heart, if one should say to you that the soul perishes like the body, answer that the flower withers, but the seed remains . - Khalil Gibran

Postcard #10: Take A List of Words and Breathe Life Into It

2016-06-21T14:11:00.000-07:00

It was 1989 or 1990. I don't really remember which, but it was a college year and a creative writing class that spawned this one. The class was given several lists of words. We were charged to pick a list and use as many words as possible in a piece of work, a short poem or prose. And, as was my usual method, I waited until the last minute to write it. Reading it again, I felt a little wistful for those college days. My faux-beatnik phase, smoking clove cigarettes and hanging out with fine arts majors between classes. It was a productive but short-lived period, influenced by my studies with the poet Quinton Duval. He was a wonderful mentor and teacher, and I am grateful for his passion to teach and share. I had forgotten the influence he had on my search for a style, as I looked through the old notebooks and read his comments and critiques of my work. I may not have found it yet, but his exercises are a welcome reminder of how I can keep looking, to breathe life into the words.

Postcard #9: Living on the Edge, Part One

2016-06-07T07:34:00.000-07:00

I have always been fascinated by angels and their personification. This next postcard is an early example from 24 years ago or so. I debated whether I should share it when I plan to publish a new one in a few days that is very similar. The style and voice of this one is old, almost ancient. A part of me I haven't visited in a very long time. I prefer my current style much more over this, but I also like putting the old with the new, as two parts to the same story, although the inspiration for each one came from two different sources. Actually, that's a lie. Same Muse, but now an older, wiser Muse. More on that story in Part Deux.

Post-Op reflections, 2 years

2016-05-31T08:16:00.000-07:00

The two-year anniversary of my thyroidectomy was back on November 19th. Although the process started months earlier, with exams, ultrasounds and biopsies, this procedure was the singular watershed moment. Sure, once my thyroid was removed, I knew I was in for medication for the rest of my life. Plenty of other people have done it; so can I. But what I didn't see with the others was the internal struggles, if they had any at all. That will be a topic for another blog, at a later time.

As for the anniversary, taking a moment that morning to look at who I've become, I decided to sit down and write a short postcard to myself. The picture I found to post with it came from a webcam set up in Yosemite Valley. It is one of my favorite places to visit. I don't ascribe anything significant or spiritual with the photo and what I wrote. Except that some mornings, the weight of my thoughts are as heavy as granite. And the light is as easy on me as a puff of wind.

Read more »

Postcard #8: The one when I wrestled with a monster, and almost waved the white flag.

2016-05-18T15:54:00.000-07:00

The photo of the storm came from a long distance friend who has a live-in roommate known as Multiple Sclerosis. She shared this image as a way to show others what she feels on particularly bad days. Luckily, those days don’t happen often, but the MS roommate’s outbursts can be intense. She is a mom to wonderful adult children. She attends school and works and volunteers. And she has a very angry roommate. Using the image she shared, along with descriptions of her good days and her bad days with MS, I created this postcard for her, to describe to others who have never shared her roommate experience. To realize that she, and others with chronic conditions, are not defined by it. She has just a few more issues to deal with before she moves on to being an awesome human being.

Breaking Fast, Rediscovering Connections

2016-05-18T08:39:00.000-07:00

I wrote this "tirade" several weeks, hoping to relieve myself of a demon or two. Although I had started off the year better than typical, by spring time I felt stagnant and listless. After I wrote the first draft, I put it aside for a few days to allow time for a conclusion to develop. During that time, real life (because what I write is all fiction and fantasy, right?) placed obstacles in my writing path and demanded my attention. In fact, I was so distracted I spent very little time posting anything to social media. Nothing new for almost three weeks. I'm still not sure what brought me back to writing at this moment. Perhaps it is the fast-approaching birthday. Or the summer vacation starting soon. Or it's the crazy need to scratch this itch. Who knows. Thank you for indulging me and reading this. The desire to reconnect with all of you was too strong to ignore anymore.

30 Things About My Invisible Illness...Wait, WHAT?!?

2015-09-25T14:39:00.000-07:00

"But you don't look sick!" is a phrase I hear often. But I have never really looked at what my frustration is with that phrase, where it comes from, and how I deal with it. At least until recently. As part of Invisible Illness Week, friends have asked me to share my answers to these thirty questions. You can find the answers below, and more information about Invisible Illness Week at invisibleillnessweek.com/submit-article/30-things-meme. My answers may be a surprise for the people who know me. I hope it is a pleasant surprise, but also a wake-up call to become more aware of our family and friends who have an invisible illness.

30 Things About My Invisible Illness You May Not Know

1. The illness I live with is: thyroid cancer
2. I was diagnosed with it in the year: 2012
3. But I had symptoms since: 2012
4. The biggest adjustment I’ve had to make is: dealing with side effects of hyperthyroidism from taking high doses of thyroid replacement hormones as part of the cancer treatment.
5. Most people assume: that I will get better, all I have to do is take my meds.

6. The hardest part about mornings are: figuring out what kind of day I will have physically and mentally.
7. My favorite medical TV show is: MASH
8. A gadget I couldn’t live without is: My smartphone (I know, original)
9. The hardest part about nights are: pain in my hands in feet, keeping me from staying asleep.
10. Each day I take __ pills & vitamins. Two

11. Regarding alternative treatments I: am open to research and study, but my situation is pretty straight-forward.
12. If I had to choose between an invisible illness or visible I would choose: neither
13. Regarding working and career: I'm still able to work, but I may have to make more adjustments.
14. People would be surprised to know: My illness has turned on an activist mode inside me. I'm more outgoing now when it comes to illness awareness.
15. The hardest thing to accept about my new reality has been: my perpetual reliance on a synthetic version of a hormone that I need but no longer can produce, and the constant struggle to "tweak" it just right to minimize side effects.

16. Something I never thought I could do with my illness that I did was: nothing comes to mind. Except becoming active in support communities.
17. The commercials about my illness: are nonexistent!
18. Something I really miss doing since I was diagnosed is: sleeping without interruption.
19. It was really hard to have to give up: nothing given up. Except my thyroid. ;)
20. A new hobby I have taken up since my diagnosis is: chronic illness awareness activism. I think it's becoming more than just a hobby...

21. If I could have one day of feeling normal again I would: Do nothing different, except rest up for resuming a life of my new normal.
22. My illness has taught me: I have a lot in common with a lot of people. And we can help each other.
23. Want to know a secret? One thing people say that gets under my skin is: "With that being said..."
24. But I love it when people: I hope today is a good day for you.
25. My favorite motto, scripture, quote that gets me through tough times is: (oddly, this was the hardest one to answer, as I love literature and have so many favorites.) "I hold a beast, and angel, and a madman in me." - Dylan Thomas. It reminds me that, no matter the situation, I will always come out on the other side with the help of one, two, or all three of those parts of me.

26. When someone is diagnosed I’d like to tell them: Everybody's case is different. But you don't have to be alone.
27. Something that has surprised me about living with an illness is: how extreme the changes are day to day, physically, mentally and emotionally.
28. The nicest thing someone did for me when I wasn’t feeling well was: they asked me to tell them what they could do to help. They didn't assume what I needed.
29. I’m involved with Invisible Illness Week because: men are often overlooked and support can be difficult to find when it comes to their invisible illnesses.
30. The fact that you read this list makes me feel: hopeful, that awareness is spreading, and that people will become more empathetic to others suffering invisible illnesses, even if it's just friends and family.

Flashing back to a distant past

2015-09-23T21:26:00.000-07:00

Originally shared on a social network with the image on the left: "Tuesday nostalgia. And a line from a poem pops into my thoughts: life raft to younger days. No, that's not quite right. I will have to look it up and share it later. And what if the first line here is interpreted differently: somebody asked me if I knew me?"

That was almost 48 hours ago. I found that poem immediately. I wrote it back in college, part of an assignment for creative writing. Take a list of seemingly randomly selected words and use as many as I could in a writing piece. I won't tell you what that list was, but I believe I used every single word.

So, back to the other part of my original comment. Do I know me? The current me has grown and mature, aged, etc. All the usual ways to describe it apply. Other life changes too, blog topics for another day. But for the moment, the million memories include trips down the literary lane. So I flipped though my old journals and found it, one of my favorites from writing in college.

In the Heat of Mockery

Do you remember your coffee house apparel
During the Summer of the Sunstroke?
The coat was long and dark and brooding,
Your sweater thick with wool
And perspiration steamed your obsidian glasses.
All too stifling, don’t you think?
Why were you there anyway?
I found you sipping black coffee.
The beans were always roasted too long for me.
Paltry pantry I have at home, you said -
But I remember now, you had your poetry -
Paltry poetry you had at the coffee house, I say.
What were those pitiful, prickly lines?
“I sat in the sun
plucking blue berries
from the mulberry bush.
But are mulberries really blue?”
And that other dried-up work you recited?
“Swarm to school,
lifeboat to the younger days.
But do not forget:
before you leave
center the pot on the stove
bought with moss-colored money.”
That was a stuffy piece.
I felt all stopped up in a dirty glass bottle,
Floating all day following the sun over the horizon.
I’m glad I left the coffee house early that day
So I would not hurt you feelings.
I’m sorry, but your poems are so ludicrous
I can’t help but laugh until I’m red
In the face, redder than a boiled lobster.
Hey, now that’s poetry!

Postcard #7: The Speechless Heart

2015-01-28T07:39:00.001-08:00

The rules of this game are pretty simple, and there are many variations. You are given a photo, a painting, some kind of visual source. Take it and write. Doesn't have to be about the subject of the photo, or even refer to it. Just take out whatever it inspires and put it on paper.

A couple weeks ago I received this photo from a friend. As part of the message with it, she hoped it would inspire me to write something. She was taking her daughter to school, and passed this tree along the road. After she passed it on to me, some time elapsed with no general idea of what I wanted to do with it. Then, suddenly all at once, the poem burst out. The shy child who became an adult and still hides a private shyness. The kind of character I once was, may still be, to a small degree. But it's the observation of all the children and adults I have seen working in schools, that there will always be the shy ones among us. Silent, but hopeful, that we will be noticed.

Postcard #7:

The Speechless Heart

I looked up from my work

And saw her standing close.

I became the school kid,

Speechless from her proximity.

My hands fumbled as I looked away.

Others walked into the room

And drew her attention.

My lips felt heavy,

My ears ringing with others' voices.

I wanted to tell her how special she was to me,

The one I trusted over all the others.

But I remained mute,

The words trapped inside unspoken thoughts.

She moved through the crowd,

Heading for the door and

Away from my presence.

I sighed, kicking myself

For missing my opportunity.

She spun around,

Flashing wintry sunlight with her eyes.

She noticed me looking at her.

She smiled, and then she was out the door.

Others continued moving

Around my motionless self.

More work, always work to do.

Yet I remained as they moved on,

Frozen by my own fear and awkwardness,

Wanting to express my feelings for her.

Postcard #6: Actions, Not Resolutions

2014-12-31T12:29:00.000-08:00

December 31. The day that news feeds, tweets timelines and blog notifications fill with retrospectives and resolution promises. Not a bad thing at all. There are very real therapeutic benefits for the people posting like this. Especially, the look back at the old year. The drawback I see is the time and energy spent reflecting on the events of one calendar year, as well as the hours spent today prognosticating on the future and anticipating the success of personal resolutions.

But this is just a day, like any other. And today is just as good a day as tomorrow to make a change. Or the next. Maybe it was yesterday and you missed starting something new, or stopping yourself from continuing an unwanted habit. Or maybe, during this hour, that lightning bolt strikes and you say to yourself, “No more old ways.” There's always another moment coming. The calendar should not be the driving force on when to make a personal change.

The beginning of the new year is arbitrary. It will arrive on time as scheduled, no matter how much you change. It is neither a help or hindrance to your efforts. If you continue your old patterns, if you stay the course and keep "business as usual," the new year obliges you with the same indifference as if you started a new workout regime or stopped smoking.

My advice: tonight celebrate your achievements. Attempts and failures are just as important as attempts and successes. Celebrate those too. Do this in the arbitrary moment of the eve of the new year, then move on. But, if in the next minute, or the next hour, or in whatever arbitrary moment, you choose to make a change, make that moment the beginning of something new. Don’t resolve to change at midnight or the next day; start changing right then and there. Once you do that, you won't be looking forward to a period of retrospect, celebrating your "new life's eve," you will have already begun the new life.

Looking for hope by reaching to the past

2014-12-27T22:21:00.000-08:00

December 27th and this is my first post original post online, on any social network or website, since late Christmas Eve. And this is a repeat of what I posted that night. I'm full of anxiety and frustration right now, and I'm not sure why I'm expressing that here and now, except to vent this poison, be done with it, and move on to better topics.

I wrote this poem many years ago, high school or college, I'm not sure. The original is on lined paper in a notebook, saved in a box that has moved with me ever since I moved out on my own. It made its online debut just a few days ago, late in the evening. Then the melancholy set in. I'm reaching to the past for the flame of hope. I'm finding it harder to hold on to good ideas, the beautiful dreams, the words to describe the wonder I feel inside, the way I did when I wrote this poem. My focus is scattered; my heartbeat is racing with fear that I will lose the flame. Even now as I type. I suppose this is enough, for now. For those who have questions, please ask, and I will answer as best as I can. I hope this becomes trivial, the moment before the fire is rekindled.

Postcard #5:
Midnight on the Mountain

Photo Credit: Wally Pacholka Photographs

Green needles with the sweet smell of pine,
Boughs laden with crisp, new-fallen snow.

I look up through a break in the clouds,
The bright star in the sky tells me so.

’Tis a Holy Babe, wrapped in soft shrouds.
The Christ Child is born in Bethlehem.

Poem by Michael Galli

The View from the Bridge

2014-10-04T07:42:00.001-07:00

As this piece is long, I will preface it simply. This is another photo taken by a friend. I am familiar with this wonderful setting, an arboretum that runs through the local university campus. A wonderful place to get lost and find yourself.

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Colorado Skies

2014-09-30T20:54:00.000-07:00

Or

A Place I Have Never Been To, But Would Like To Visit One Day

Yep, the second title is way too long. But it's true; I would like to visit one day. Hopefully in the spring when the snow has begun to melt. A friend from high school took this photo, during the springtime there in Colorado, where she lives. When she first shared this photo, she asked, somewhat jokingly I think, if I could write a poem for it. There was one attempt, but it wasn't the direction I wanted to go. Attempt number 2 became the following postcard.

Postcard #2:

Eyes from Above

My guardian angel walked with me today.

I told her how much I felt alone,

How I wanted relief from the exhaustive pain.

She looked at me, her brilliant wings opening around me,

And she asked, “What do you want?”

I want to fly!

I want to float on the gusts,

To be carried from horizon to horizon,

To look down on this land where I stand

And count the trees, the lakes, and the fields.

I want to fly!

I want to recline on top of the clouds,

To converse with angels in songs of love,

To be one of the bright shafts of light

And protrude through the clouds to the earth below us.

I want to fly!

I want to rise above this pain-filled body,

To be unburdened of this corporeal machine,

To become part of nature, light and air

And leave behind the dust, the bones and the memories.

The angel folded her wings,

The glow of her celestial power fading slowly away.

Gently she took me by my arm

And we continued walking, back to the living world.

I hesitated. I did not want to go back, not yet.

And she said, “Don’t wish to leave this world so quickly.

There is time enough, still, to live with all you have.

So much more for you to do, yet I cannot tell."

“But you will dream and you will see.

You will feel love, and pain, but you will feel.

I will watch over you, so you will never feel alone.”

And the angel opened her wings again

And with a flash she was gone.

The sky is azure, as blue as the ocean is deep.

Only the clouds are between me and infinity.

I look up to the most dazzling spot.

My angel is there, patiently waiting for me.

A Postcard of Introduction

2014-09-26T16:39:00.001-07:00

Where to start, where to begin this history? How about the recent events? Yes, that will do, the recent and not the distant. I did not expect myself to start this new chapter of my life by exhibiting the old. But as you will read, I'm am not alone on this journey. The choices are not solely mine, and rarely is it unanimous.

For those of you who need to catch up with my story, the "About Me" section on the left will provide a fair synopsis. The post below first appeared a few months in my G+ stream. At that time, I was anticipating a summer off from work (I work at an elementary school) and some extensive tests and exams related to my cancer treatment. Also, I had made some new friends online, people who introduced me to a new philosophy, which emphasizes life and becoming Chronically Awesome. I began writing again: private journals, poems, short prose, rants against the universe. I used to write, during high school and college, but not much after that. The pen and paper have been replace by the computer, tablet and the cloud, but the Muses still speak the same language.

Here is my first postcard.

Postcard #1:
Frightening and Beautiful

At no other time in my life have I felt such an urgent need to change than I do now. But these three entities are with me, always. And I don't know which one is informing me of this need.

My senses are raw from the pain that awakens with me every morning. Some of the pain is physical, but some is emotional, whether it's fear, dread or anxiety for upcoming events. Perhaps it is the beast coming to the surface, as I lash out at others around me. I don't like that animal. It needs to be put on a leash.

Consult the madman or the angel? Which do I choose? I want to ignore this problem. I can distract myself from these thoughts for only so long. The quiet moments are the worst, when I am alone with these three. They argue against the changes I need to make, the changes I want to achieve. I am unsure whether my desires are not really their own.

The angel preaches faith, hope and love. The madman speaks truths hidden inside incongruous words. The beasts seeks food, shelter, and a mate. In other words, the beast desires life.

The beast may yet win.