Nefarious Thoughts

    What do I do with these homicidal thoughts swirling around inside my brain?

Why does slime posing as a human, have to eek it's way into happy lives?

It makes me ill.

It makes me angry.



 


 Then before I know what has happened thoughts of nefarious uses for a shiny shovel begin to fill my head, and I am smiling.

 My jaw tightens, my hands become fists, and as hot, furious tears form I fight the desire to break things.

Deep breath.

Sip of hot coffee.

Still trembling. Still angry.

Remember nothing last forever, and everything has a possitive aspect.

Find it.

Forget it.

 I want to inflict pain! I want to be the Karmic repercussion of someone else s poor choices. I want them to suffer! To feel the agony that I struggle with hourly.

I want justice.

I want equality.

I want Peace and Joy.

I want to purge the feelings of hate that poison me and my Loves.

Somebody Help me..

Magic Made

      It began with Sherlock.

  Of late my young pup has been growing into more of a Dog. In that transformation he has acquired a taste for the occasional constitutional. On a way out, or on a way in this morning a door must have been left ajar just enough for the slender, sneaky pooch to escape.

Lovely.

  After that it was all down hill. A coffee spilling, homework forgetting, financially fretting,  sexually impeding, run in with the law, dinner burning kind of a day. Somewhere between the sexual impeding, and the coffee spilling, I lost it. Overcome with despair, worry and frustration I went into zombie mode, on autopilot. Through two meetings, an impromptu visit to a sick nephew, and the four unexpected dropins, I was in another dimension. Removed enough to not to take notice of what was being said around me. So wrapped up in how sorry I was feeling for myself that I required another lesson in humanity, humility, gratitude and magic.

 Three quarters of the way into meeting number two I received a frantic phone call.
Was I home? Was I close?
What is wrong?...

"The dog catcher is outside and he is after Sherlock!! I will put some clothes on and see if I can get him before he does!CLICK"

 Of course. I mean obviously today is Dog Catcher Day for Sherlock, I just didn't check the calender.

  Making my apologies I dash home to rescue my rescuer. Upon my arrival Sherlock had already been snatched from the clutches of the eager hound impounder and was visiting his beloved Gretta who belongs to his rescuer. Following a somewhat lengthy and stern conversation with the officer I went to fetch my dog. Still wallowing in my own misery I walked to  the home of his girlfriend and collected the muddy mess. But before I departed the home of Gretta, his rescuer rescued me. As I sobbed into her arms with gratitude I unconsciously noticed how strong she was.

*Light Bulb*

 The woman who was hugging me so unconditionally was doing so two days after having one hundred twenty eight stitches removed from her chest. The woman who made my daughters Halloween costume had done so while undergoing treatments. The woman who took my children to ice cream once a week if they did one worksheet, was very ill and in pain often. The woman who frantically called me and saved my dog (again) has been going through things that I cant comprehend, and here she is giving of herself in ways I don't feel I deserve.

  Still in semi zombie mode, but walking in a straight line, my day progressed. The children came home filled with the excitement of December. Telling me what parties were when and how well they had done in school today. They hugged me, laughed at each other and did their homework. Then the oldest girl got home. She walked in the door, and as she does every day after admiring her tree and decorations said "Oh Mom, Merry Christmas. I love you.

 But it wasn't until we had curled up on the sofa to read 'A Christmas Carol' that the force of it hit me.

 How in the world could I be so narrow? I am an incredibly fortunate person. My problems and issues are so meager in the scheme of things. My dear neighbour is fighting breast cancer, the child of a family friend was  just diagnosed with brain cancer, my girlfriend is having difficulties with a pregnancy and may lose her baby. I know of families who may not have a Christmas. I know of families who do not have dinner tonight.

 Make magic this year. Be kind to your fellow humans. Take time for the ones you love and who love you. Do more than one good deed  for someone you don't know. Don't ever stop being grateful for who you have in your life. and remember ;

"Life will inevitably move you two steps back one way or another, that's just how it works. You are never on top for very long, and you are never at the bottom very long either. But if you can keep your head up, focus on what truly matters, and help where you can, then happiness will find you and you'll be alright."
K. Kirkham

Tutor To The Universe

  Death is one of life's greatest teachers, and loudest alarms. Death has the power to pull you from the mundane, daily routine that many call life, jam you into focus and give you the insight to live.  Being arrogant mortals, we tend to forget that at any moment, any second, our time can come. We forget that we have no say in how we go, and no say in when. Sadly and all to often, what reminds us most of our own mortality is a brush with Death.

 Have you ever seen him? Death I mean? Has he ever been so close that you can feel him breathing behind you?

 I have seen Death.

 I have been close enough to Death to see his face, and feel the cool wave of energy that follows and proceeds him. Close enough to sense the soul departing, to hear a last breath. I have had to learn the lesson of mortality, and it was painful. But learning it has made me a better human. Learning how quickly a life is changed by events not under our control makes one re evaluate one's own life. It makes you stop and take notice of the way you talk to your kids. Makes you look at where you are putting efforts, and the relationships you may be neglecting. It reminds you of what matters. It forces you to open your eyes. 

The other thing about Death is, he never travels alone.

 My most recent meeting with Death was a particularly harrowing one. The pace of my heart, and the chill on my neck told me how close He was this time. Before I could panic I felt something else. A warm, peaceful buffer between Death and I. Then I heard music. Singing to be exact. Being very familiar with the sweet voice, and warm comfort I knew that my loved ones were safe. Today was not our day. Today Death left with someone Else's loved one. Today I carried my babies home and tucked them in. I get a few more moments.

But, tomorrow it could be me. Tomorrow it could be you.

Grave Robbers Point ~ 2

 Birds were singing, tree's swaying softly, it was a beautiful day. And there I stood unable to enjoy it over the glare of my impending doom.

 So we waited.

  Neither one of us willing to budge or flex on our opinions of this matter.

 After the customary eternal wait time the cop showed up. Stepping out of his car, the officer looked a bit perplexed. The Sexton hobbled over and spoke to the man in blue, recanting my crime and the harm that it "may" inflict on the populous. Several times throughout the rant I noticed that the officer checked his watch and shifted his weight. It looked as though he found this whole affair as annoying and wasteful as I did. However he had no choice but to do his job.

  He came then to listen to my side. I told him everything just as it had happened, and again offered to put the flowers back, volunteered my services for an afternoon, anything to keep this from going further. Looking hopeful at the sound of these options, and the thought of less paperwork, Johnny Law took my offers to the Sexton. . . . and was met with the same stone response that I had hit. I could see he was giving this his all, and I did catch snipets of their conversation...

"She has apologized for her mistake........"Clearly this was an innocent misunderstanding"....

 But I could see that he was having no more luck than I in reasoning with this rigid fellow. Bearing a face that was a mix of frustration and sympathy the officer walked to his car and got out his little back book. (The one with all the tickets in it.) I thought to myself, well, a ticket can't be that bad, I mean they aren't arresting me, so I can deal with this, right?

 "Alright Mam, I am going to have to give you a ticket...for petty theft."

Petty Theft?! Are you nuts?!

 "I am sorry about this, however I have been informed that this is a real problem in the cemetery." He explained. "So, if you'll sign here, thank you, then all I need are a few pictures of the stolen property in your trunk and you are free to go."

  I reluctantly signed and stared at the large mark on my perfect record. Fuming and stunned I watched as my car was photographed for "evidence", and it's contents (ten flowers) were triumphantly removed.

 "One last thing Mam, if you fail to appear on the date printed on your ticket, a warrant will be issued for your arrest. "

Bloody Brilliant. 

Grave Robbers Point~

  The cemetery has long been, if you'll excuse me, a favourite haunt of mine. I find it very soothing, especially in the fall. I love to walk the narrow tree lined paths, and read epitaphs or talk to my little sister. Heck I even taught my twins how to ride their bikes on this holy ground. (No traffic)
 
  In an odd and ironic twist my tranquil retreat has become a minor nightmare. It began after Memorial Day. I was taking my weekly walk and noticed several people picking up flowers off of graves and depositing them into their vehicles. They weren't being at all shy about it either. Most were just strolling down the lanes and nicking the ones they fancied. I thought to myself 'What a great idea! Rescuing these flowers from becoming compost! They are set to be discarded in a day or two, and my beds could use a bit of sprucing. Besides, I have spoken to the sexton in the past, he let me have a bag of dirt for my garden. And if all these people are just blatantly retrieving them, what could be the harm?'

  So, the next day I loaded up the twins and off we went. When we pulled in I told them the plan. We were going to collect ten flowers and give them a good home. They were excited at the prospect of helping plants and they love the graveyard as much as their mother. We went about choosing colpimentary colors and varieties that would suit our front yard. (We plant our beds in orange, white and black for the Halloween displays) Once we had selected our rescues and were on the way out I saw It. The most beautiful dark purple climbing clematis. It was so striking against the lush green backdrop I thought it would be a shame to let it perish. So, against my better judgement I turned back to fetch it. After collecting our last edition and while singing The House Of The Rising Sun we made for the gate. . . and were cut off.

  Out of an authoritative white truck hobles the Sexton. Mumbling something to the effect of '. .don't think all those flowers belong to you. .' and a vague '. .do you know how many people come crying to me. . ' Then, he pulled out his cell and dialed.
The call I caught clearly. "Yes I need an officer to Mountain View Cemetery right away. I have a young lady here stealing flowers."

Stealing flowers? Are you serious? As we waited for the law to arrive I tried to reason with the keeper of the dead, but he would have none of it. I told him I would put them back, I told him I have a perfect record. I mentioned that we had met before and he liked me then. However with each comment he grew more to resemble the monuments he watched over.  Eventually I took my own cue from the dead and fell silent.

Chance

 Today is one more example of how life is connected in the most unusual and continually surprising ways, and also of a reminder to FOLLOW YOUR GUT!

  I have been building a Scarecrow, in my head that is, for about a year. A terrifying creature who will soon be a member of my Halloween treasure trove, and today I met with The Man who will help me bring him to life.

  Last year I was running late for an appointment and by chance drove by a house I see everyday. On this day I saw someone unloading the most realistic Frankenstein and Bride I had ever seen. I pulled over immediately and began to make inquires. The unassuming gentleman in the black was obviously the mastermind so I tried to engage him. He was busy and distracted so our conversation was brief, something along the lines of ."..busy, find me in January..". At this point I had no clue who I was really talking to. Mildly dashed, but determined I waited and in January attempted to work my way into his schedule. Now it is very close to that time of year and finally This Man, who has sent countless one-of-a-kind masks, and props all over the world came and sat in my studio today. It was a wonderful meeting with all kinds of thoughtful connections and interesting prospects. We exchanged stories, laughed about the stifling community (Holy. A LOT Holy.) and did a bit of collaborating. So with a connection made, and projects on the horizon I went about my day and did a bit of research. Guided by a tip or two I made a few more useful contacts and connections. (Also discovered that the other prop I want to build is sold by a friend of The Man in my studio) Then, at one website I saw an interesting conversation and upon exploration found several insightful comments and thoughts.

By sheer chance I clicked on one of the comments.

 Continuing to read I noted that the author lived in            , and was from                   !?! (That last blank equals 20 miles away) Wow! There began another conversation and connection. From this conversation came yet another connection of "You know who?" and "You could do that for me?" followed by "I have been thinking of that person for a long time and need to call.."


How neatly things fall.

How sublimely simple it all appears when laid out in front of your face.

These moments in life that appear to be chance, are never chance.

To Sleep

...Perchance to dream-ay there's the rub."

  I haven't slept in years, decades really. I don't know precisely how come, and neither does anyone else. Ever since I can remember I have been awake at times when everyone else was not. It was scary when I was a small girl, attempting sleep in a narrow and growling basement. Even more so since my bed was placed facing a hall closet. This closet was home to my Mothers most beautiful dresses, each one of them was long and full. So full in fact that when the hour was right, and in a manner most sinister, they would seem come free from their hangers on a mission to devour me. Soon I would learn much about the placement of closets and the presence of things that are to keep me forever wakeful. But in the mean time I decided to make the most of the hours. I sneaked chocolate chips from the kitchen drawers (they were the quietest ones to open.) and if I was feeling brazen, I would help myself to a handful of my Fathers Wheat Thins. Armed with snacks and my beloved books I faced many a dark night and uneasy feeling.

 I knew early on that I was not alone in this basement. Not counting my snoring smaller sister I had company. I tried my hardest to ignore it, or get to sleep before it wanted to come out and play. However most nights I was unsuccessful and at the mercy of the unwanted antagonist. It seemed to be concentrated in the center of the house and interested only in me. It was loud and heavy and didn't show until everyone else was asleep. For a long time I never saw it, I could only feel something scary. Then one night my life was changed forever.

 Laying in my bed, my sweet dog sleeping at my feet I woke up with an overwhelming feeling of dread. Upon opening my eyes I discovered I was surrounded by a thick, heavy red mist. It was everywhere suffocating me and enjoying it. I was trapped in my bed, unable to move or cry. I reached down to get a hold of my dog, hoping that would shake me out of my nightmare. Finding her I was in for a shock. She turned to me with bright glowing red eyes and snarled, nearly biting my hand. I quickly covered my head and hid in the sheets. It seemed as though the mist was laughing and taunting me. This was the longest night of my life.

 The next day I tried to tell my parents about it, they dismissed me as someone with an over active imagination. Nobody believed me, so the thing in the basement continued to harass me. It did so until we moved. I never brought it up again while we lived there, and the mist only reappeared twice. 

 Years later my husband and I bought our first house, a block away from my childhood home. One summer night I took my dogs for a walk past the house. I was sure that whatever was there had to be long gone. But as the dogs and I got nearer to the house they began to bark and growl. Determined to face my fear and triumph I walked through the gate and looked into the windows (the house was again for sale).

I felt the thing. It resides there still, and it remembered me.

  

Channeling

 
  I didn't know how often it would come into play. I had no idea what my mind and soul were capable of building. Nor did I realize how deeply it would impact me. I suppose that everyone does it from time to time. Some on a more conscious level than others.

  I notice it when I am painting, and working with stained glass. Or when I garden and smell the vegetables growing under my care. Or when my daughters and I are singing at the top of our lungs. Even when I am cursing and saying things a bit to plainly I feel Them. But it took someone saying to me "That is where you get it" to realize what I have at my disposal.

  My first passion (artistically speaking) is stained glass. It was a neighbor who turned me on to this beautiful form of transparent art. I fell in love pretty fast and knew it was something I would do for the rest of my life. What I didn't know was that I wasn't the only person in my family to see this challenging art form as something to pursue.  I remember mentioning it to my mother and she told me to talk to Granny. So I did, and soon after she came to my house with an astonishing revelation and a box full of tools and patterns. Granny, (who gives NOTHING away) wanted me to have these things. They belonged to my grandfather.

 Painting is a more recently acquired passion. My home is full of original art. Paintings, drawings, sculpture. It has been my good fortune to know many gifted artists who share their talents with me and my family. Due to the nature and depth of their talent I have always been hesitant to try my hand at those mediums. All the art in my home means something to me, but one or two pieces have a higher place in my heart. In my bedroom I have a painting hanging that is the first thing I see in the morning and the last at night. It is a sunset on calm water  with small waves breaking against rocks. And in the sky are two birds, one of which was slightly smeared. This is one of my dearest treasures. It was painted by my Nanna. She found this passion late in life and painted until she died.

 The girls and I sing, a lot. Loudly. We sing everything from The Dixie Chicks and GLEE to Disney tunes and Blue Oyster Cult. In the morning the ipod comes on and is on all day. We sing in the car and the shower. My Dark Hair got several smiles when we went to a pool and she laid in the shallow end singing quietly to herself. (She is the one with that fantastic alto voice) Ocasionally a song will come on and the girls will start to sing, they will harmonize and groove and I will start to cry. As I watch them dance and listen to the sweetness of their voices I see my little sister smiling and dancing with them. She had a voice from heaven. She died before they were born.

  In so many ways every day I channel the spirits of my loved ones. When I pick up a brush and glance at Nanna's painting, when I break glass and use my grandfathers tools, when my daughters sing and dance. I feel them, I hear them, I smell them. They come to life again.

This is true immortality.

Airborne

  Those thoughts that travel faster than the speed of light. No need to breath, these waves spread like wild fire. Then they infect my brain and spread into my life. Not all of these thoughts are bad, nor are they all good.

Quilting, climbing, painting, driving, Sanctum.

They fly faster into my head when I take off the Yoda Hat.

On goes the hat then as I walk out the door. Keep your thoughts to yourself~

No Rainbows

  I have always watched the sky. Since I was a small girl and bought my first telescope I have starred upwards as far as my eyes could see. Day or night it didn't matter and it hasn't yet. I feature the sky in most all of my paintings, I also have both the sun and moon tattooed on my body. Over the years the heavens have taught me many a cunning trick to grow my plants, and have shown me tell tale signs of trouble on the horizon. Often I may be caught gazing as if day dreaming, when in truth I am watching for signs. 


  This year the one spring sign I am missing is rainbows. My collection of rainbows is vast. But here we are, near past May and my portfolio remains empty as I have yet to catch sight of  a sensational stripe across the blue. Shimmering in the rays to show me that rain has surrendered. Raised as I was the absence of my beloved rainbows in combination with current meteorological, geopolitical, and astrological events gives me pause. 

 Perhaps we should hold tightly to something/one.
                                                                    

Far Away

They are so few those moments of bliss. Those fleeting seconds when eyes meet and hearts beat. When breath and time are both suspended. When for mere moments we are completely exposed. Our naked souls starring at one another.


I live for those sweet seconds.

Growl~

It stings.
 
What's so wrong with me?

 Am I rude?

 Do I look angry?

Is there an issue with my outfit?

 Do I stink? 

 Then why are you not smiling in return?  Why must you whisper and cast sideways glaces? Why when I speak do you look at me as though I am from Mars? I strive to be time, reliable, helpful, even polite. Yet the attitude I am continually met with lacks authenticity and reeks of yikiness. . 

Why is that?

 It's because I am the something hiding in the sheep that is always a threat.

I am the Wolf.

The N-Word

We all have said it before.

 It's the heat of the moment.

 It's anger and horror that makes it come out of our mouths. Hatred, fear, sorrow, love, the same reasons we say every other word we say.

 We weren't thinking.

Never.

 Oh it's a biggy. A dirty, cursed, five letter word. And it doesn't get the respect it deserves. There are parents out there who aren't teaching their children about how this word really works.

  Nearly every Never I ever said has come true. All but a handful. It's a scary thing, the dawning of the power of this curse. When you start to see those Nevers that other people cursed themselves with. The; "I will Never buy a white car. It looks like an appliance driving down the road." And those; "I will Never wear skinny jeans! They are so 80's." Then there's the; "I will Never smoke again, those things kill you." "There will Never come a time when we are not friends.""I would Never make my kids wear a uniform to school."

 Ya right.

 Then I find myself married to a guy who is 5'6, and is named D***. Two Nevers, one shot. Uhuh, I am starting to see a trend here. Move back into my old neighborhood, have twins, and not one small dog, but three, and am planning another Vegas trip. (I will Never go to Las Vegas) It's true, these are the more benign consequences of this curse. The other side is the many other darker Nevers. The Nevers that came when I was severely angry, hurt or scared. Those Nevers give me shudders still. For I have learned there is no taking back a Never.

 So mind you count your Nevers, and teach your children to be mindful to Not Ever use the word Never.

Practically Magic

My body has never approved of the gestation process. After Liv I was told that there would be no more babies. But then I was pregnant, (ugh) and my body liked the idea of growing two humans less than anything else it had done to that point. So as I once again played host to life, I wasn't overly observant of the unusual things that were taking place inside of the bodies growing in mine, or the effects that would linger long after they had been extracted.

Baby A.
 She was beautiful. She was the first child I had who was born with hair. Dark, curly hair. She had her fathers darker complextion, my oval eyes, and long legs. She was uncomfortable, and she was loud. Her name is Stella.

Three minutes later. . .

Baby B.
 She was beautiful. Tiny, blond, locks about her head, her skin nearly translucent. Then those lips, her perfectly shaped, full, pinkish red miniature lips. She was smaller than her sister, wiggly, but nearly silent. She is named Sara.

 Being born four weeks early they were both small, but Sara had always been smaller. So before I had a chance to hold her, and talk with her, she was whisked away to spend some time on the next floor, while Stella was allowed to stay in with her Mom and Dad. This first separation was when I should have begun to see who they are together, and who they are apart. However, being groggy, sore and drugged, I didn't notice.

 Alone with Mom and Dad Stella didn't seem to be enjoying life at all yet, even less so, if she wasn't in my arms. She didn't want food, didn't need changed, and in a deep, alto voice I had never heard out of a baby, she would not slow in her sobbing. I tried, Dad tried. She would have small seconds in between her cries, but on the whole, she wasn't happy. A short time later, the long, loud bundle and I were fetched and wheeled upstairs by Scott to finally meet our Sara. Once Sara was removed from the incubator and handed to me I laid my tiny, wiggling, quiet baby in my lap. Scott, then laid the long, sad baby in his lap and the sisters heads met.

 This is the moment when I took conscious possession of my brain again.

 Stella stopped crying at the exact second she felt her sister's head. Sara immediately became perfectly still. They started to breath in sync, eyes opened together in unison. Now reunited the tiny bodies relax and are finally willing to have something to eat. 

*Light Bulb*

 Seven years later.

 Tall, and thin with my gray green eyes, and her dads curly hair, the globe is in for it when it meets Stella. She's a funny, studious, middle aged child, (seriously I swear she is 30) and someday she is going to run the world. Academically motivated, she retains the qualities of suspicion, strength and clumsiness that displayed themselves in the womb. Quick witted and blunt, she forms her own opinions, enjoys control, and has little care to be a social sheep.  She works hard, plays hard and protects fiercely the people she loves.

 Her twin is her twin in terms of formidability, and ferocity only. Sara is a petite powerhouse. She is this tiny, nimble, fast, blond haired, blue eyed, sweethearted, assassin. Her aim is to be able able to distract people with ballet then kill them with karate. In the academic circle, she will be found hanging upside down from the ceiling testing gravity rather than explaining it. In addition to her skills as a social butterfly, and defy-er of gravity Sara is a most thoughtful, compassionate child. Secretly, and frequently she is of service to her family and her friends. Making my bed, and taking care of her sick dad. Pulling weeds for the neighbor, and curling Alivia's hair.

 Now, as contrary, and different as they are, they are by no means separate. In fact my daughters have taught me more about thought transference than I could ever have learned anywhere else.  They read each others mind's often. This is how they communicate with each other. Overall I am sure that they don't know they are doing it, but they do have moments when they notice that they didn't actually talk out loud, and other moments when they answer questions I never asked.

 Have I mentioned that they are Pisces?

Unusual it is that to me these girls would come.
 (Or Not)

My Sun / Son

 I have been wearing a lot of gray, and black of late. I tend to lean towards solid colors to begin with, and black has always been a staple. But I think my colour palette has adapted to suit the storm that churns in my soul. 

All I see when I look inside are clouds.

I feel dark and rumbley. 

Life with no Son / Sun.  

Superman

Everyone has their favourite comic book hero. I know several Spiderman Fans, Spawn followers, Batman geeks, and WonderWoman fanatics. Their reasons for interest vary from style to religion to philosophy to none. I guess I have a thing for aliens.

I am fond of Superman.

Whats not to love. He's tall, dark and handsome.

He's The Man of Steel.

He has X-Ray vision, super strength, is invulnerable to harm, and he can fly.

Since his debut in 1938 he has been saving mankind from ourselves with elegance, class and a word or two of sound advice. He has graced millions of covers, been given the key's to countless cities, even teamed up with (lesser) Super Hero's when the occasion rises. All in front of an adoring globe.

 The question I have is are we blind? Clark Kent? How does he get away with that? And what's wrong with those Daily Planet people? You call yourselves reporters? I mean lets get real here, how many 6'3, 225lb, black haired, blue eyed men are there out there? There's only a few differences in the physical appearance of the two persona's. A curl of hair, glasses and a deeper voice.

 Superman's real disguise is being such a great Man. Clark Kent is a paradoxical example of what is possible from humans. He is kind, observant, moral, and more authentic than most of us mortals are. He's humble, hardworking, and loyal. This is how he masked who he really was. By being a better version of us than we could be. Because we see what we want to see, and what we are looking for, but hardly ever do we see what is right in front of us. Superman hid so effectively in Clark Kent that when his arch enemy learned his identity he refused to believe it was true.

I am only a human. I can't fly, or see though solid objects. 
( I can see through people though)

And I am learning to see what is right in front of my face.

So look again.

Music, Maniacal Emotions, and The Underlying Hum

 So many things get in the way of real thought, and true emotion. Things that don't matter at all. Things like a house, and things like a car. Gadgets, and gizzmos. Work, homework, building an airplane, riding a bike. Or other stuff that seems important, like polishing that image, and sculpting a six pack. The constant humm of life and it's distractions.

Slow down. 

Stop.
 

What do you feel? 

Do you see this moment, or have you looked past it already?  

Can you hear you? 

Can you hear me?  

Can you feel the music?  

Then why aren't you dancing?  

Joan Of Arc

 My nine year old daughter is Autistic. She was diagnosed at the age of two and immediately began treatment. Most of those who have been involved in her therapy have been fantastic teachers and mentors to our family. Daily I thank God for these incredible people who help guide her, give her opportunity and also give me hope and strength.


  Then there are those other folks. 

  I often see them out with their clients. Paying little or no attention to them what so ever. They will be texting, or flirting, or reading, or simply ignoring the person they have been charged with. I see them in the park, or at stores and I want to scream.

 Today I was at the gym, and there was a woman in a wheelchair who was mentally disabled, another woman who was also mentally impaired, and their "caregiver".  The one woman who could walk wandered from machine to machine and used one or two of them. Quietly, respectfully, she did her thing. Making little eye contact with anyone, and only occasionally talking to the inconvenienced "caregiver". The other woman, sat silently, and appeared as though she was randomly looking around the room at nothing, and muttering. The vacant "caregiver" acted as though she wasn't even there. I watched the woman in the chair and her "caregiver" throughout my workout. The woman who appeared to be looking at nothing was in fact watching a man. She watched him put the weights on his bar and take them off. What looked like muttering was her counting how many he put on each time. She looked away when he actually started lifting, but when he added weight, or took it off she watched, and counted. There were a few moments when she looked as if she was going to tell her "caregiver" what the man was doing, but then she would shake her head and look back at the floor. Somewhere in the midst of this the "caregiver" noticed that I was watching her. After that she appeared nervous each time she looked at me, even though I smiled at her. (Perhaps I only thought I was smiling)

 The woman in the chair however, she made eye contact with me. Her eyes reflected my frustration in the "caregiver".  She has something to say. But because she can't form the words, and people don't take the time, no one will hear her. I bow my head, and the woman looked away.

 These people that we look past, or through are people too. They have something to offer. Something of value. But the offerings will be lost on many, because they are viewed as damaged, or incapable.

That is a shame.

 After watching my daughter sword fight I have concluded that Liv was previously
Joan Of Arc, and that she had decided she wanted a new challenge. Because let me tell you what, having to teach me everyday is a challenge.

The Jade Lion

 I have met many animals in my life that I have been fond of. Several cats, a handful of dogs, even a fish or two have shared my space. Each has been unique and most were spectacular companions. From all of these one stands out in my mind.

The Jade Lion.

 It was in Santa Fe at the home of a friend that I encountered this creature. He sat proudly atop an 18th century mahogany table, and made it look cheap. Carved from solid Jade, he was a  soft glowing green, with a few minuscule veins of  darker, emerald green running through his paws. With an aggressive stance, and a snarling mouth some may not have found him pleasant to look at, but I was mesmerized. Taking note of my reaction to
The Jade Lion, my friend encouraged me to "Pet Him."

Pet him?

Alright.

I reached out, expecting to lay hands on cold, hard rock.

Warmth.

What do you mean warmth? How can this be warm? It's 57 degrees in here.
(my friend is a fan of sweaters.)

But no, he was warm. And. . was that ( I must be nuts) a pulse?

He shifted softly beneath my fingers.

Then came the purring.

I could hear no other sound in the world. None but a soft hum from a solid throat.  

'Come, sit with me.' Said The Lion

 Somewhat sheepishly I climbed onto the table, and curled up next to him. As our minds spoke I petted him. With each pass my head felt lighter and my eyes saw less of the room, and more of The Lion. It was odd to be talking so freely to a lion with whom I was not well acquainted. But our conversation continued. Soon the words were no longer words. They became feelings.

Calm. 

Quiet.

Peace. 

I woke, much later, to the smell of hot Chai and cinnamon. Snuggled up on the table, one hand still on The Lion.  

"He likes you." Remarked my friend. 

I Got Soul, But I'm Not A Solider

Who is stronger?

Who is right?

Who will win this epic fight?

To what end and by what means?

Hand me my sword and we shall see.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hw2vBYBE24Y 

Madness of My Own Making

It is all my fault. Ok, maybe not all my fault. 

 Ever since I was a girl, and to this day Calvin and Hobbes has given me wisdom and insight into the world. Subtly, elegantly, the characters provoke new thoughts each time I read them. I realize that may sound silly and childish, however they contain depth and humor that I can't find elsewhere. I own two full sets of of the comics. One solely for me, and one to share with everyone else.

 Some of my favourites are the ones with Calvin's Dad.  He has such a unique way of parenting. His colorful explanations and disregard for his "slipping polls" make me giggle. There is one strip which is posted on my fridge. It consists of Calvin's Dad telling him about the future.  He says that one day we will all be connected. Our phones and televisions, even the computers. How someday we will carry it all around with us, and miss the simplicity of letters in the mail.
Calvin's response; " I think I was born in the wrong century."

 So here I am, calling, texting my twins and are we connecting? Nope.

They are blissfully ignoring the ring and buzz. Busy on the monkey bars.
 Where they should be. 

 Still, would it kill them to Answer the Phone! 
(Suddenly I am getting flashes of the future. Yikes)

Guess I'll go hang upside down for a bit.

The Dark Side

 Being blond, 6' 1, and 145 lbs isn't always as good as it sounds like it would be. I'm not complaining, I'm VERY grateful for my genetic make up. However, there are many days when I get attention that I would just as soon avoid. Granted, somedays it helps me out. But often it's just to much.
(Like when I am at the newly joined gym)

 So about every two years I go Dark Side. Way dark. Some call it Camouflage, some call it tricky, I call it Channeling Hera. The catch to the Dark Side is that it alters my personality a smidge. I become a tad more bold, and bit more cold.

My girls love it, and my son hates it.
Scott says "I never know who I am going to come home to!"
Yoda says "Clouds everything The Dark Side does. Impossible is the future to see."

 Everybody's got a Dark Side. Mine is just more pronounced now.
And may I add, I look good Dark Side. 
.

To The (Un)Dead

 Once upon a time someone said of me "She has no friends." It was meant to be scathing, and it did sting. But, then I thought about it. The truth is, I don't have friends. 

 I'm picky.

 Plus I don't like people all that much to begin with, and I have encountered 'people' whom, I'm quite sure, aren't human at all. (Really) On the occasion that someone come's to my life who has a similar chemistry, a different perspective, and who makes me think, something amazing and trans-formative happens. It takes time, but those people don't merely become friends. Those people become Family.

 A couple of years ago, one member of my Family chose to Die. The suicide was carried out in a most painful manner, and when I see him about the town my heart hurts. In my spring cleaning I have found many things corresponding to his term in my life, and the life of my family. The sight of them made me smile and laugh.
My children came in and saw the litter of past persons then asked "What happened to him anyway?"
But after sifting through it all I sat in silence for a while, remembering why I don't like people.
(Or viscus vapors masquerading as people)

Here's to the undead; May you have peace and joy on your path.

The Art Of . . . . Art . .

. . Is something I know little about.

But hanging out with my girls I may yet learn.

   Going into week two of Spring Break my daughters are going a bit wonky, and I am beginning to wonder how I will fill their summer days. Today after many chores and much begging to listen to something other than "Mom's Loud Music" they put on the Harry Potter audio books and decided that today's medium would be markers and ceramic piggy banks. They set about giving the pig's eyelashes and hair. Bows, brows and necklaces followed. Then butterfly's, Easter Eggs, and rainbows were careful placed by slender, discerning fingers upon those clinking, plump purses. Four chapters later the swine emerged, transformed into fancy money keepers fit for their crafty owners.

 During this creative process, amid the giggles and opinion exchange I see the inspiration for new works of my own.

Wonderful.

Eating Tree's

Family is a funny thing.

My parents, his parents, my sisters, his sisters. All weirdo's.
No less odd is my home. In fact, if you ask that first bunch, we are most certainly
'Way Out There'.

 Part of our family has been heavily engaged in works of service for the last twenty or so years. They have made limitless sacrifices and taught many life changing/challenging lessons to those they encounter in their path. It has been a different view coming into this side, and seeing what they all have learned, enjoyed, and missed. 


 The time for them to be at the helm of these obligations is coming to a close. And, as with all endings, many new beginnings.  To make the transition run more smoothly, the whole family will be brought together for a day or so, from far and wide. We will celebrate things passing and things to come. My part will be dessert.

I think it should be a tree.

A tall, strong tree with good roots, and long limbs. 

Pendulums and Their Clocks

 I have a mild clock obsession.
 In each room of my house I have at least one clock, and up to as many as three. I even still wear a watch. When other s reach for their phones to get the time, (deplorable) I look old fashioned, and chic. And to be clear, I don't classify digital clocks as true clocks. To be a true clock, one must tick.
So my home is always ticking, and tocking, pendulums swaying in their way most relaxing. All but one.
The clock in the kitchen.
A while ago I was fortunate enough to have found two identical George Nelson clocks, silver and with a free hanging pendulum. One resides in my studio directly above my desk. Surrounded by small circular mirrors, and ancient keys, it speaks to me daily.
 The one in the kitchen, not so much.
If you hang it straight, the pendulum won't move. Perhaps you are a person with a high magnetic frequency, then the clock may chose to cease function altogether.
When the time changed, the clock in the kitchen was shifted to the straight position and stopped. Exactly at 3:33.  But, the pendulum was working perfectly. So I let the clock stay at it's chosen hour for a day or two, to see when the pendulum would relize that it was doing it's job and quit. But, it didn't. Straight and set at 3:33 and has been for near a week now. Today I rewarded it by putting in new batteries and setting it straight (ish). To repay me, the pendulum has once again become finiky and won't swing on time. 

"Quilters Block"

My girlfriend says to me "I am in a funk, I have quilters block!"
And I am thinking to myself, "Me too, Brusher's Block."

Solution,  re reading old blogs, drinking (lots of ) coffee, bought a gym membership.
Still feeling kind of stuck.
The girls got out their large drawing pad, and crayons and sprawled out in the living room.
Still nothing.
Opened up my black art board, paired it with pastels, and drew (sort of) Merridell. With trees and corn blowing in a pumpkin littered field. Even the shine of the roof from the moon..and yet...
Sheesh...What's going on here? Am I suddenly dead?

Sugar Coated

Today has been (so far) a wonderful day with new possibilities around each corner.

I am thankful for inspiration.

I am grateful for opportunity, and it's view.  

Grateful for the forces that lead our lives, and for those placed, ever so carefully, into it.

New projects, will be soon posted~

Butterfly's

Time is a funny thing. There are so many moments that feel as though they last forever.

And there are those which slip through our fingers with sheer liquidity. 

How does one capture, and savor those fleeting seconds? 

Is it possible?

Only in my mind. There is the one place of record. 

Or is it? 

My fingers remember those moments.

So too, does my soul.