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 |   Reflections and ruminations from a modern day Alice - Life is Wonderland |
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Reflections and ruminations from a modern day Alice - Life is Wonderland  Welcome to the place were I chronicle my own falls down dark holes and adventures chasing white rabbits! Come on In, Take a Bite, You Never Know What You May Find... "Curiouser and curiouser." Alice in Wonderland    |
| "Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise" DAY 1553 Prompt-- March 19, 2018 Prompt: The Polish poet Adam Zagajewski said that in his country, “poetry killed communism.” Do you think poets can be the forerunners of social change, and if so, how are they managing to bring such revolutions about? I have never been a poet, even my most lyrical prose would not qualify as poetry however some of my favorite literary works are, in fact, poems. There is this incredible power in words and nothing seeks to reveal that better than a well-versed poem or passionate piece of spoken word. I believe people read poetry with a higher level of attention, a type of reverence that gives poets a unique platform to influence public opinion, raise awareness and even bring about social change. This feels particularly true of female poets who use poetry not simply as form of artful expression but as a rebellion. In some places in the world where women do not have a voice, their words are a brave act of defiance. Throughout history and all over the world, female poets lend their voices and tell their stories and people listen. They craft their poetry from war torn countries and their words provide the narrative for the haunting images of dirty, bloodied children of a brutal conflict. An excerpt from Najat Abdul Samad's poem, "When I am Overcome by Weakness" "I bandage it with the steadiness of a child’s steps in the snow of a refugee camp, a child wearing a small black shoe on one foot and a large blue sandal on the other, wandering off and singing to butterflies flying in the sunny skies, butterflies and skies seen only by his eyes." Their words testify to the struggle of being female, of being a minority in a country that comes painfully slow to change. Maya Angelou's "I Rise", is story about the pain of the past, the challenge to find one's place in a world that is often hostile and unforgiving. Her refrain, however, is one of hope and victory and easily lends itself to becoming an empowering mantra for all those who are opposed and oppressed in this world. "Out of the huts of history's shame I rise Up from a past that's rooted in pain I rise I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide, Welling and swelling I bear in the tide. Leaving behind nights of terror and fear I rise Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear I rise Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave, I am the dream and the hope of the slave. I rise I rise I rise." Still I Rise by Maya Angelou In my opinion, female poets are better than most at taking a moment in history and shining a stark, unforgiving light on it. I think Halsey's poem, "A Story Like Mine", serves as a brutal examination of the reality behind the #metoo movement. It is a testimony but also a call to action. "What do you mean, this happened to me? I'm supposed to be safe now. I earned it. It's 2018, and I've realized that nobody is safe 'long as she is alive, and every friend that I know has a story like mine, and the world tells me we should take it as a compliment. It's Olympians and a medical resident and not one f*cking word from the man who is president. It's about closed doors and secrets and legs and stilettos, from the Hollywood Hills to the projects and ghettos … Listen, and then yell at the top of your lungs. Be a voice for all those who have prisoner tongues." An Excerpt from "A Story Like Mine by Halsey All great revolutions that spawn true social changes have many champions and I believe that brave and powerful female poets number among them. "Blogging Circle of Friends " DAY 1950: March 19, 2018 Prompt: It's Motivational Monday, write about some good news that motivates or inspires you in your life, your town, your state, your country, or go to Good News Network or some other website and share some good news that interest you. Some days I am harder pressed to find good news in the daily fodder of this twenty-first century life. I'm pleased to learn there is a "Good News Network", a positive collective that exists to catalog the stories not often given airtime or ink. I am encouraged by the stories of efforts to clean garbage and debris from the Galapagos beaches and marine reserves and the company converting cigarette butts into useful, recycled materials. Even thought these stories might not get the international attention they deserve, it gives me hope to know they are out there, doing something to combat the abuses we inflict on our planet and its resources. I think its important to find hope in the victories, even the ones that might seem to measure small on a global scale like the successful conversion of indigenous Indonesian's from manta hunters to manta rangers. The dedicated efforts by conservationists and marine scientists and the willingness of the people to listen has pulled a magnificent animal back from the brink of extinction. Indonesia has managed to learn what so many other countries fail to see, that a resource might actually be worth more when protected and conserved. Their manta industry has successfully converted from a dwindling, depleted consumption-based system to a wholly sustainable eco-tourist economy. In at least one corner of the world, people have come together to solve a problem and improve, not only their individual well-being but the conservation of a species and its place in the world's oceans. Recently Indonesia proudly declared itself the world's largest manta sanctuary, good news for the manta and good news for us. |
| My daughter celebrated her 8th birthday over two months ago and this one felt just a bit harder for me than the one before. At age 7, Jaden still had seemed that shy, quiet child who wanted me to walk her to her classroom each morning and follow behind me like a shadow everywhere else. The transformation between age 7 and age 8 was something I had not fully been prepared for. It seems that overnight she has discovered the joyous fun in reading graphic novels, the scientific discoveries of slime and geodes and the finer points of picking just the right outfit and tinted lip balm. She is still shy with adults, but she is loud everywhere else. She sings and dances with abandon and often performs with a silly, wanton joy. Yet, she becomes embarrassed to the point of tears if she hears me telling anyone, anything about her. Its as if she likes to be our secret firefly, you can catch her sparking brightly but briefly if you know where to look. Age 8 has brought eye rolling and a new streak of defiance to our negotiations. She argues, I believe, just for the sport of it. She pans refusal for almost everything I suggest she try. She doesn't like what I pick for her to wear and hotly contests any adjustments I insist she make to outfits she assembles. She can be aggressively stubborn. At age 8, she has tapped into a new sense of drama. A recent visit to the doctor for her annual flu shot treated her father and I to an almost Oscar-worthy performance where we might have assumed she was about to have her arm amputated without anesthesia. Each injury, no matter how slight, now seems to be accompanied by copious tears and irrational claims that, "you don't care when I get hurt." Despite the challenges, age 8 has given us the opportunity to see her reach out and seize opportunities to do things she really enjoys. She has found her voice, found new levels of confidence. Without much prodding, she will play piano now for friends and family. She is clearly proud of her burgeoning skills and I'm happy to see that music is still so much part of what she loves about her world. She is one of the few girls in her ninja warrior class, a fact that does not seem to make her self-conscious in anyway. I can see sparks of a competitive nature in her. She likes to be the last one to release her plank during warm up, likes to know her time is that much faster each run at the obstacle course. She makes it up the warped wall in one take but still freezes at the top. She says its the drop that scares her. She describes the feeling of gravity acting on her limbs as an unwelcome and uncomfortable intrusion, something she feels like she can not control. We watch her, perched on the edge of the wall, her small frame tense with the desire to jump, only to back herself down. I ache for her and for myself, not knowing how much to push her past her block. My daughter has always managed to forge wonderful friendships. One of the best things about this age is discovering that she has continues to grow into a loving and loyal friend. She has never forgotten those special friends from preschool and she reserves a portion of each birthday party invite list for those friends she may not see every day, but still counts as part of her little circle. Her delight as seeing their faces, at sharing experiences with them warms my heart beyond measure. She astounds me with her kindness, her limitless expressions of love toward her besties at school. She adores her friends and her book bag bleeds a regular stream of crayola stained testimonials that prove they adore her back. Age 8 brought the very first friend sleep over, a play date that picked up Friday after school with her very best friend and ran straight through the next mid-morning. They stayed up far too late and got up way to early but the house was filled with their playful giggles and running feet . After they had finally dropped off to sleep, I crept into her room to shut off the ipad and found them, heads pressed together, faces soft and serene in sleep. Physically they are polar opposites and they looked something like a sweet composition in cinnamon and sugar. It made me think of my first sleepover with my bestie, whom I still treasure to this day and I felt happy for them and the bond they have forged. Age 8 has given me such bittersweet moments. I have been so proud of her, surprised by her sudden fierceness, delighted by her antics and frustrated to tears by some of her habits. I have discovered pools of her slime in the rugs, her hair and on the dogs. I have lost hours of my life collecting discarded clothes from her floor and rehanging them in her closet. I have caught a glimpse of her applying lip gloss in her room, her face a mask of concentration. I saw the little lady in her suddenly gaining on the child - and it wrecked me for hours. I am not ready for so much that I see coming but I am so excited to see her becoming her own beautiful all the same. One day this past month, I had a rare day off with her. We went to the mall to do some shopping together. At some point, she surprisingly slipped her hand in mine and we walked through the mall hand in hand. I was very conscious of that moment, it felt crystalline and rare. I had to fight down the lump in my throat. I was filled with gratitude that at least at age 8, my daughter still wanted to hold my hand in public. As I listened to her happy chatter, I felt blessed in the knowledge that at that moment, there wasn't anyone else she wanted to be with more than me. At age 8, she is my fierce little firefly, my bright spark of light in my wide night sky. |
| "Blogging Circle of Friends " DAY 1936: March 5, 2018 Prompt: List 10 awesome things about spring. I will try to honor the prompt with a list about Spring even though it is proving to be an elusive season in my part of the world. This morning I drove to work in snow showers and there is another storm on the horizon for later this week as well. 10 Awesome Things about Spring 1. No more driving in the snow. 2. Easter - that pastel-colored holiday that brings us sun-dappled egg hunts and baskets brimming with treats! 3. Buds on the trees 4. Sounds of song birds returning from the South. 5. Warmer afternoons lounging in sun patches 6. Green grass 7. The tips of daffodils breaking through the winter-stained ground. 8. Daylight Savings and the return of longer days 9. Farmer's markets starting to open 10. Retiring the winter coats, hats and gloves "Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise" DAY 1539 Prompt -- March 5, 2018 Prompt: Is there any way to spot a liar? Do you have a special trick for it or what makes you suspicious that someone is lying? There are quite possibly many ways to spot a liar and I know exactly none of them. Truth is, I have proven myself to be blindly trusting of people in the past and it has made me question my ability to know when I am being lied to. There are some people that I have come to understand, who's default setting under pressure, it is lie. That knowledge has only come after being the recipient of those lies, several times over. I wish I could tell more readily when someone is lying to me, more than that, I wish people would instinctively just tell the truth more often. |
| "Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise" Day 1535 March 1, 2018 Prompt: "The butterfly counts not months but moments and has time enough." Rabindranath Tagore Write about butterflies and spring. Yesterday afternoon brought sunshine and the trill of spring birds. Today, in my fickle part of the world, these balmy temps will give way to a Nor'easter bringing rain and snow. As New Englanders, we have all grown accustomed to a cautious optimism when it comes to the arrival of Spring. I found myself believing for a few short hours, that Winter had turned the corner. I half expected to see the fresh green points of daffodils breaking through in the yard and even checked for buds on my early blooming lilac. The latest news report sobered me quickly. The weather man somberly presenting a map in which my town sat squarely in the wide blue swath indicating 3-6 inches of snow. This has little to do with the Tagore's quote of course...but butterflies always bring Spring to mind and here, we are all very preoccupied with that particular season. I think the sentiment behind Tagore's words are that the life of the butterfly might be brief but it is full. After all, how many creatures get to experience a transformation that allows them to life two lives to fruition, both terrestrial and aerial? A caterpillar toils about for the first of its life, grounded and plodding. Then, then brilliant design of its life cycle allows it to emerge, reborn with wings. The butterfly's world is suddenly all air currents and fragrant blooms. It is granted a new life, one that is fleeting but free. Last year my daughter and I watched a painted lady butterfly float slowly to the ground. My daughter gently picked it up, marveling that it has just died there in our yard, almost the moment it's body made contact with the earth again. I'm sure the butterfly lives every moment silhouetted against the sky, grateful for its beautiful and brief existence.  "Blogging Circle of Friends" DAY 1932 March 1, 2018 On this day 1890 1st US edition of Sherlock Holmes (Study in Scarlet) was published. How do you think like Sherlock Holmes? I would have to admit that I have much more in common with Carroll's Alice than Doyle's Sherlock Holmes. The fictional detective was crafted with an almost unnatural intelligence and intuition. He also used morphine and cocaine, to the extent that he has been repeated portrayed as an drug addict. The traits certainly make him an interesting, if unrelatable character for me. Oddly enough, my state has a strange connection to Sherlock Holmes. William Gillette was an actor who realized considerable fame for playing Sherlock Holmes on the stage and in early silent films. In 1914, Gillette began construction on what would later become Gillette's Castle along the Connecticut River. It is an odd structure that I've always thought resembles a sand castle melting under an incoming tide. The grounds are impressive however with trails that meander through the woods and often break into clearings with amazing views of the river valley. It is a state park now and you can tour the castle and its trails almost year round. There are references to Sherlock Holmes all around the property, including the sign out front that bears a typical likeness to the pipe-smoking investigator. |
| There is a fury inside of me today that I am trying to quell with seemingly copious amounts of Motrin and coffee. Today it feels like my pain is more than just topical in nature. There is hot anger running through me and this anger feels like a new, unwelcomed component of dealing with my HS. I’m beyond irritable. I am unapologetically short-tempered and intolerant. Since my diagnosis in my early thirties, I have lived by the rules of prevention and pain management. I have gathered what remedies and suggestions I could from the forums and tried not to be frustrated by the lack of real medical support. My dermatologist called it an “orphan disease”, abandoned largely by the medical profession. Until you are dealing with an agonizing flare up, the true nature of that term may allude you. What it really means is that there is nothing out there to treat you, no cream or ointment, not oral medication to drive the painful boils back down once they erupt. There is nothing you can take medically to control the HS, to keep it locked in remission. There is no cure. You just have to deal…deal with the pain and with the knowledge that it can take you down at any time, triggered by stress, by weight gain or just by the whims of a stalking disease that resides in your genes. Most days I avoid this tide of anger and frustration by counting my blessings. I believe that I am one of the lucky ones. My HS outbreaks so far have been limited to my upper body and with the exception of the one in my neck, and my resulting scars are largely invisible to others. This is not the case with many people. HS can be severely disfiguring. The boils that erupt, those cysts that become infected and eventually rupture cause bad scarring. I have seen images of young men and women with puckered tracks of scarlet scar tissue running down both sides of their groin. It is this most intimate invasion of the disease that leads to isolation and depression for so many. Most days, I remember those images and the stories of the people in the forums, and I feel ashamed of the anger. Today though, I’m feeling furious with my body, with its inexplicable ability to manufacture these horrible, ugly nodules that burn and throb and swell to an impossible size. Today I want to scream. Instead, I stock up on the large size band aids and take the antibiotics that will only speed me closer to the inevitable rupture of my skin and the formation of another scar. The antibiotics don’t make me feel better, in fact, the doxycycline tears up my stomach but there is still that small chance that it will stop the inflammation before it progresses to that awful end stage. There is a chance, according to my epically hopeful primary care doctor, that it may attack the inflammation and help the cysts drain and alleviate before rupture – saving me from more scarring and the general unpleasantness that comes with those ruptures. If she can hope, I suppose I can try to be hopeful as well. Hopeful and less angry... With all of the truths I have come to understand about HS, I am most thankful for the diagnosis. Being able to give a name to the affliction I suffered from for so long in the dark, was honestly the best thing. With diagnosis came the opportunity to explore the research, the remedies and treatments that were available to me. Being diagnosed suddenly gave me the important reasons for this very unreasonable disease. If you think you or someone you know might be suffering from HS, this is the best, most informative and straight forward site I have come across: https://www.nobsabouths.com/what-is-hidradenitis-suppurativa If you suspect you may be suffering from HS, see a doctor, start with getting diagnosed. Find what works for you, because it’s different for everyone. Give yourself those angry, furious days…but always go back to hope. |
| This week I passed the 14 year mark as a member of writing.com. The email hit my inbox along with the expected reminders to update my blog...something I have been hard pressed to do much over the last two months. I could blame it on the lack of time and discipline, the usual suspects, but the truth is my mind feels cloudy - it feels difficult for me to focus. I feel limited with being able to express myself lately, and seem to oscillate between a kind of manic contentment and a crouching darkness that makes me feel heavy and hopeless at times. I know that not writing, not attempting to write, is depriving myself of something key and I feel the absence of it acutely at times. I need to press myself into those familiar spaces again, force the words. My heart needs the outlet, my soul needs the confessional, my life needs the anchor. "Blogging Circle of Friends " DAY 1916 February 13, 2018 Write about three people from whom you've learned the most. I've been fortunate to have had people in my life who have taught me many things, lessons that were good and bad. It is a difficult question because overwhelmingly I have learned the most about myself from people who have hurt and disappointed me the most in life. I have learned from past lovers that some men are forever damaged in ways that can not be fixed, damage that can coat you like a toxin. No one comes to save you, you have to save yourself. You have to choose yourself. In those terrible moments, you can discover a faith you didn't know you had and a strength you did not know you possessed. I have learned the most about myself from being forced into corners, from the hollow sound of my heels in hospital corridors and the fear of knowing a man who claims to love you can still put you in the ground. I am blessed to know a different man now, a husband that cherishes and champions me. He is a man who makes promises and keeps them, a man who magnifies all those special, little moments in life that once eluded me. He has taught me that men can be passionate without all the darkness and the violence. Through him, I have learned that men can live and love without the chains of addiction and rage binding them to their demons. Most of all, my husband has taught me that hope lives inside even the very wounded and that with consistency, with commitment and the smallest, simplest loving gestures, it can grow and become the foundation of a life worth living. "Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise" DAY 1519 Prompt: February 13, 2018 Prompt: Do you think people can change as to how they view love as years go by? And how do you think they perceive love and romance in different stages of their lives? We have all seen them, that sweet elderly couple walking hand in hand or sitting together on a park bench. They are the standard of measurement for a lifetime of love. I marvel at couples who celebrate those milestone anniversaries; 50,60, 70 years together. Ask any one of them and I'm sure they've stories to tell, stories that might sound like fables where the messages are about patience and forgiveness. To make a life with someone that spans decades, there must be forgiveness and acceptance as much as love and devotion. The rush of falling in love is a temporary condition. The euphoria of a budding, passionate romance always gives way to life eventually. Couples marry, have children...the pace of life changes and it gets harder to manage the expectations of another amid the beautiful mess of raising a family. The definition of romance changes over time I think. It is forced to become something else...trails of rose petals and long Sunday morning trysts yield to more practical measures like being able to take a hot bath why your spouse keeps the kids from banging on the bathroom door looking for snacks. My husband is fond of saying, "that's just life" when I complain about lack of "us time" or when we go consecutive nights with a child between us in bed and dogs layered at our feet. We are not the same individuals who once kissed in a rainstorm or spent intimate weekends in romantic inns. Sometimes though, I get our daughter to bed early and go downstairs to find the fire still roaring and the room lit by glowing candles. Love and romance move through time with us, they morph and change as we manage life the best we can I think. Sometimes sharing a waning winter evening and a bottle of Cabernet with the one we love is all the romance we need. |
| "Blogging Circle of Friends " DAY 1907 February 5, 2018 Prompt: Use these three nouns in today's blog entry: holiday, apartment, sun. The robotic buzzing woke Elson from her troubled sleep. The text messages were coming in rapid fire progression, sending her iphone skittering across the nightstand with the vibrations. She did not need to read them, Elson knew who the sender was. She could picture her older sister Megan, standing in the TSA line at TF Green airport, her cell phone clutched in one perfectly manicured hand and her expensive designed carryon in the other. Elson was late. Elson wasn't just late though. Elson had decided she wasn't going on holiday. She also decided it was far easier to not tell her sister ahead of time. She did not have the constitution to neither explain or listen to her sister's admonishments. The iphone buzzed again, angrily, its manic trajectory pitching it off the edge of the nightstand and onto the rug. Elson left it where it landed, grateful that the shag carpeting muffled her sister's ceaseless texting. The sun was making every effort to barrage its way past the heavy curtains. It seeped around the far edges, a narrow band of insistent light. she would have to get out of bed today. She would have to leave today, go outside and get groceries. She would have to call Megan back and explain why after three months of progress, she had experienced a setback of crippling proportions. The panic attack had come out of nowhere. It had driven her into the group, back into the cave of pain and fear she had fought so long and so hard to escape. One minute she had been standing in the grocery aisle buying travel sized shower gel and toothpaste, and then the next, she'd been racing home in the dark. She had fallen through the door of her apartment, her lungs screaming, assaulted by the nightmare force of her fear. No, Elson would not be going on holiday. She would be staying in, shackled here by the phantoms of her past and the demon with the face of an angel. "Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise" DAY 1511 Prompt - February 5, 2018 Prompt: What is betrayal to you? How many faces does it have? Who is to blame, the betrayed or the betrayer? Betrayal can have many faces - those of lovers, friends, family. You have to enjoy a certain level of intimacy with someone to betray them however, so it seems a stranger might be the only one who is truly immune. I think as humans, we all have the capacity to act as Betrayer and Betrayed. Relationships sour and people cheat rather than face the reality of waning love. People backstab and sabotage co-workers to gain power or opportunities. We can attempt to justify our actions but the reality is, it is a conscious and calculating decision to betray someone. I think it takes a toll however, on both people unless a person is completely free of moral responsibility and empathy. In my experience, the stain of having betrayed someone you cared about, wears indelibly on the average heart. |
| "Blogging Circle of Friends " DAY 1903: January 31, 2018 Prompt: "All major changes are like death. You can't see to the other side until you are there.” ― Michael Crichton, Jurassic Park Change is perhaps the most difficult transition for most people. I'm not sure I would go so a far as to characterize major change as death-like. I think as humans, we are naturally creatures of habit and most of us operate better under a consistent routine. It is easy to see how even small disruptions to our set schedules can produce stress. The big changes; divorce, moving, changing jobs, new baby...are life altering certainly but surely only divorce might feel death-like? The old adage that "change is good" typically turns out to be true more often then not I think. Most change brings opportunity in its wake, even if it is forced upon us. "Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise" Day 1506 January 31, 2018 Prompt: "Life was reduced to it's 4 basic elements: air, food, drink and a good friend." Sue Grafton What are your views on this? Life reduced to its barest elements would be, for me... Air: The rare air of an early Fall afternoon, scented with crisp leaves and ripe with witchy anticipation. Food: Real Mexican tacos al pastor on those little round corn tortillas with a side of elotes (corn on the cob) dripping with chile and crema. Drink: A deep, dark Cabernet with hints of blackberry and aged oak A Good Friend: The oldest and dearest variety...that one of a kind friend who knows who you have been and loves you for who its made you today. |
| "Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise" DAY 1504 prompt-- January 29, 2018 Prompt: “Your calling is more powerful than your resume,” says Tama J. Kieves in the January 12, 2018 issue of Signature. In what ways can you imagine your writing to be more powerful than your resume? I have enjoyed the same career for about twenty years now in an industry that is as old school as they come. It is male-dominated, often unapologetically so. It can be demanding, draining and discouraging. Still, its in my blood. I have become at home with the quiet darkness of the early mornings when the fuselage of the aircraft stand like silent sentinels in the shadows. The smells of MEK and jet fuel have become as familiar as the whine of a turbine engine on run up or the way my office shakes when one of the big C-130's makes a landing. In twenty years I have become skilled at the nuances of the job but never 100% immune to the frustrations. I still write emails that never get replies, make suggestions that seemly are not heard, I still have to fight for every ounce of recognition and authority. I still battle with self-doubt and insecurity in a world where most of my peers are two decades older and male. My resume is weighted with highly specialized skills that may or may not be applicable outside the general aviation sector. Like most writers, I dream of a world where I could forgo the day job and write for a living. I dream about actually finishing a piece of novel-length fiction that kicks off my career as a bonified author. I'm mired in enough reality to know I've hardly the time or discipline to do any such thing. I do believe my writing is as powerful as my resume because it isn't bound by rules. It flows from some nature place in my soul and when its particularly effective, it can inspire feelings in others. When I write something that someone else can relate to, that is a powerful way to connect to another person. It is validation for my own feelings and serves as a testimony to my experiences, even my fictional pieces because they all contain my truths in some way. If my characters love, hurt, bleed, heal...its because in some way I have also done those things. While my career is a defining element of my life, my writing is the landscape of my existence. "Blogging Circle of Friends" DAY 1901: January 29, 2018 Prompt: What is your favorite song? Why? Does this song motivate you? Does it bring back memories? Music has been a constant companion in my life. I have always had a wide and varied repertoire that has accompanied all the major and minor moments in my life. It is extremely difficult to chose one favorite. I have several that are what I would call my milestone tunes, they have never faded in the obscurity of my playlists. If I had to give one song more weight than another in my heart, it would have to be Peter Gabriel's "In Your Eyes". The haunting lyrics and melodic musings have made it one of the most stirring songs, even before it became irrevocably linked to a former lover who would sing it to me so often. He told me it would be mine forever. I can't listen to it today without thinking of his hazel pools that dimmed too soon for this world. Even after my love for him faded, that song still allows me to remember the healthier days of our love and friendship. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B3kFPBtc9BE When you experience a loss of love, even if you had prayed to stop caring, you are wounded in a way that you don't believe you will ever heal. Then you meet someone, and it opens you up again. Mozella's "Can't Stop", is the song that reminds me that we are rewarded for having faith in love - even the most damaged. The simply stated candor of the lyrics nearly perfectly sums up the way I felt about meeting my husband, and they honor the way he waited patiently for my heart to realize my place was with him. "Speak to me, read my mind And fill your mouth with flesh and wine And I'll be yours, just give me time Give me time" "Cause you have everything I could ever want You have everything I could ever want" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tbFDA9pAnXA Nat King Cole's "Straighten Up and Fly Right" is forever attached to my daughter. It was the song I'd play that I'd bounce around with her in my arms to comfort her. It was the song I could play to stop her fussing in the car. It was the song we would sing together as she got older. It will forever be the song of me as a new mother, tentative but joyful. It is the soundtrack of dancing barefoot with my new baby girl in my arms and feeling as if the whole universe, for at least four minutes and twenty seconds, was at peace. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6fVaP6dM1fs |
| "Blogging Circle of Friends " DAY 1898: January 26, 2018 Prompt: “Lock up your libraries if you like; but there is no gate, no lock, no bolt that you can set upon the freedom of my mind.” ― Virginia Woolf, A Room of One's Own "They published your diary And that's how I got to know you Key to the room of your own and a mind without end And here's a young girl On a kind of a telephone line through time And the voice at the other end comes like a long lost friend So I know I'm all right my life will come my life will go Still I feel it's all right 'Cause I just got a letter to my soul When my whole life is on the tip of my tongue Empty pages for the no longer young The apathy of time laughs in my face You say each life has its place" Lyrics from Virginia Woolf, by the Indigo Girls Virginia Woolf, mother of writers and poets, sister of the page...how much I have come to appreciate her words, the sentiments behind them - so much more poignant now in these days of social change, of pink hats and marching feet and #metoo. She understood the power of free, uncensored thought. Each time I have written something that has brought me pain or strife, I think of her. I think of that "room and a mind without end" and I understand that terrible and awesome responsibility of telling the truth always. I try to be an unapologetic and authentic writer in all things. "Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise" DAY 1501 January 26, 2018 Pick a fun fact you've come across this week and share it with us. Adam Grant, Author of "How Non-Conformists Move the World", notes in his volume of work that; "Nobel Prize winners in Science are 22 times more likelier to than their peers to have performed as dancers, actors or magicians". Could it be that inside every scientist beats the heart of an artist, a showman who reveals in the creative pursuits of a mind so often bound by the rules of Physics, Biology and Chemistry? I'm not sure why, but I find this fun fact to be positively delightful. Some of my most favorite people have been scientists of one discipline or another. In college, I had an Organic Chemistry professor who was brilliant. He held class in the largest lecture hall at the university and despite the material, he was animated and engaging. I struggled, but I think far less than I might have had he been droll and dry. He was prone to be seen about campus proudly wearing a t-shirt with the chemical equation for sugar emblazoned in hot pink across the chest. He frequently attended the school's drama productions and turned up every so often at the campus coffee shop for to take in the live music and a muffin. I always had the sense he was something else completely outside that lecture hall. I used to imagine he was a closet punk rocker in a weekend garage band or something of that nature. In Hawaii, where I studied for a semester at the University of Hilo, my science professors came to school in board shorts and sandals. They popped into the occasional campus shindig. They were poets and surfers. They played the banjo and smoked clove cigarettes while they debated the merits of religion and modern art. I admired them for their knowledge but also their connection to self, to expression and creativity. These non-conformists and men of science shared much of my early life. This quote makes me remember them and it makes me happy. |
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