Beware The Eyes of March

March 23, 2023.

  Five years ago today, This family died, and was then slowly murdered. 

    How dare you reduce the legacy of this loss in the universe to a paltry “PAYOUT”. How dare you attempt to justify your choice of a “representative” for a family that, by your inaction, and the actions of the elected, disintegrated. How myopic of you to imagine that any of this has ever been about anything as common as money. 

 Recollections may vary, but mine contains a clear moment in time of pleading with you to take a different path with regards to your chosen representative. Begging my blood to listen to concerns, most of which have rapidly come to complete fruition. Betrayal after betrayal. Insult to injury over, and over, and over again. Your audacity to imagine that our, now dismembered, family would be interested in mingling with our butchers is asinine. 

 Furthermore, pertaining to the so called “Payout” what was said to you was, “you would earn Gratitude” if you gave my children what you were already offering to spend in what you referred to as a “generous fashion”. Clearly you still spectacularly suck at listening. This pattern of behavior calls to my mind the words of one of my favourite philosophers, Marshall Mathers;

 “One More Time, Loud As You Can, How’s It Go?” 

  No. 

 Your repeated disregard for the feelings and position of My House, and the house of My Sister is appalling. It’s baffling that you proclaim yourselves our “family”. We have no interest in your gold. We have our treasure. 

Below is link to the photos from The Last Family reunion. Cast your minds back and enjoy. 

And yes, you will miss us. 

https://photos.app.goo.gl/xYmDhLpUmv4Wa8mN9

~The way is shut. It was made by those who are Dead, and the Dead keep it, until the time comes. The way is shut. 

              ~ J.R.R. Tolkien 

Dear Mom,

  Wow.

  Mom, I know that you have been here all along, but wow. Tonight Sara scared us. Well, she didn’t really scare us, she scared herself. She drove Doug The Bug into our truck. She was trying to pull it into the shop, and well, she wrecked it. She was very shaken, and so was Justin. They are both alright physically, but she learned things tonight Mom. And through her collision, she gained some insight that she will clearly need in the future. 

But it scared her. It scared both of them. It scared Scott and me. (Ish) And it jarred me Mom. 

  My babies are growing. All of them. And me too. It’s scary. And it hurts. And there are so many moments when I really, really wish that you and I could talk. Because I still don’t know what I am doing. And I am so scared to mess up. I worry that I didn’t pay attention close enough. And I wonder what your advice would be. And it hurts. I want to share these moments with you. I want your insight. I need you. I miss you so much. I miss sharing these moments with you. 

  I know that you are here, but you know that you really aren’t. And everyday it’s hard in a new and different way. And every day I have to figure out how to do this. How to be Me. How to be a Mom. Without you. Without  you as a sounding board. Without your gentle, kind wisdom. It’s so hard. And it hurts so much. And I am not sure what the hell I am doing Mom. 

Ever. 

 Everyday I wish you were here. Everyday.

 I wasn’t ready.

 Damn near two years on and I am still not ready to be without you. But I am without you. 

We all are. 

And I hate it. Every second. 

I miss you so much. Damnit. So much. 

Full Moon Friday

Dear Nilza,


Happy Friday The Thirteenth,

  Its odd that I like this day so much. All of my recent Friday The Thirteenth's have been pure pain. Today feels different. 

 Nilza, thank you so much for loving my father. Thank you for being willing to change your entire existence to be with him. You struck me as a strong, and genuine woman. I like you. And I could not be more grateful that my Father will be loved and taken care of. That was Moms job. I would like to share a snap shot of Stephanie Danise Winward Evans, My Mom. 

   I suppose the first thing about Mom is that she loved dad. I haven't seen another relationship that looks anything like what theirs looked like. For example, I never heard my parents argue. Ever. I mean, I am sure they had disagreements, but there wasn't ever tension or periods of discord. They laughed a lot, they were gross in the kitchen, kissing all the time. It was beautiful. He was the singular most important part of her universe. She made it explicitly clear that He was Her priority. Always. dad first, everyone else next. 

   Mom had a love for humanity that I didn't inherit. She saw the best in everyone, and She gave of herself with that sight. She was always going out of her way to help others, lightening their burdens in anyway she was able. She took her service of mankind seriously and made a difference in the lives of many. 

  Music was a huge part of Moms soul. Her instrument was the piano. I think it was Her form of meditation. She would always use the little radio in the kitchen. Often I would come visit her in the mornings and find her listening to BYU radio while she did the dishes or her typing. She would swap songs with my kids and dance around the house. She used music everywhere. For talks, for quotes, for fun and eventually for work. To this day Mom is using music to talk to my family. 

   Mom was a very spiritual being.  She had a deep and profound love for her religion. It led her through her life and was what she always had one hand on. For my life, she always had her other hand on my dads. Together they leaned on that faith to endure pain that I can not fathom. When my grandpa died, things changed. I was 15, and I remember the day that I watched death change my mom for the second time.  As an adult, I now have an inkling of how She may have felt, but I won't ever know how hard She cried on my dad. I know that it changed her forever.  Her spiritual vibration became tighter. She was more aware after that. 

Then, Sara died.

   And when its just that sentence, it sounds short. But, it wasn't short at all. It was long. It was scary, and hopeful, and tragic. And my parents held onto each other and to us. And their faith. Watching it as a young adult was horrifying. Seeing my parents agony, being helpless and afraid. And that's just what they allowed me to see. I imagine they shielded us more than I will ever know.  I can't begin to comprehend what kind of damage this did to them. I can only say that again, mortality changed them. Changed all of us. 

   I think Sara's death played a hand in why time stopped at Grandmas House. My Mom Loved being a Grandma. It didn't matter what was going on, if the grandkids came by, the world was put on hold. She made certain that each of them knew how valued and loved they were. She was a safe place, and a warm hug. Often accompanied by chocolate chip cookies. It was heaven on earth for them, and for mom. This role, the role of Grandma is a hole that won't ever be filled. She embodied it. 

  Mom was a rare, selfless human. In every area of her life she sacrificed so that other's could have what they needed. She never thought of herself first, if it all. Her light was bright and infectious. Her words were carefully chosen and to the point. Her love was unconditional. She was an example to me in ways I have yet to learn. 

  She raised us well. She taught me to be better than I often am. 

  On that note, the parts of her that live on in me are grateful knowing dad is being loved. 

  Enjoy the beautiful autumn. It is a stunning time of year around these parts. 

                                                                     Be Well~ 
                                                                                Jill

Dear Twenty One Pilots, (especially Tyler because he was playing the piano)

Dear Twenty One Pilots, 
(Especially Tyler, because he was playing the piano.)

  Driving to out to our local ski hill the other day your Sirius XM concert playing in my car caught me. And it caught me completely off guard.
The piano. The piano was what caught me.
  Tyler, whoever you are, thank you. Thank you for the piano. Thank you for the "Don't Be afraid." Stella told me that title of that song is called Taxi Cab, and that it is her favorite song. (by you.)
Stella is one of my 14 year old twin's.
  Last March, my mom died. She contracted Spinal Meningitis and was gone from our lives in two weeks. My Mom was a music fiend, and a coveted piano teacher in our tiny town. More importantly, she was Stellas piano teacher. Since she was seven years old, Stella had her Grandma teaching her piano. They were bonded by a deep love of music. Both of them fluent in the language that transcends language. And when we lost her, Stella fell apart. We all fell apart. But Stella fell in a way that made her passion for music painful. We are almost at the one year mark of that loss, which also falls days after her birthday. Near a year of mourning, and sorrow. Fear of what was coming, and what we will never have again. It has been hell.
 But, Twenty One Pilots, we believe in ghosts. We know that the dead speak to us. We know that they are familiar with what we hear, and when we pay attention. In this case, it was you. Your concert was playing each time I got into my car. For FIVE DAYS.
No shit.
  Five Days Twenty One Pilots. I could probably repeat the entire concert. The first time I was like 'Wow, this is amazing' and I cried. The second time I was like, 'Wow, this is incredible' and I cried. The third time, I was all like ' ALRIGHT! Alright, I hear you!'
  I too am an advocate for journaling. This part of your concert was for my Baby Sister. She has vacillated between which path she wants to pursue. She has been fearful, and unsure about who she is and what she is supposed to be doing. Then I hear the bit about 'Entertain My Faith.' That is for her. Wow. Thank you for that. For the piano. Entertain my faith. Oh man.
  And just when I am sure I heard everything my Mom was trying to tell me, I hear you, Tyler, talking about the end of the driveway. My Blood. Kids, I love this song. I mean, I loved it the moment it was released. But to hear it as it began, raw. It moved me. I have had to defend my family this past year. "When choices end, you must defend, I'll grab my bat and go with you." This was for me. "Stay with me my blood."
And the piano.
Damn it.
Ok Mom, I hear you.
  Well, obviously Grandma wanted Stella to hear what you were saying in that set. So I tell her we are going to listen to it. 'Mom, I don't want to cry! Please, I can't.'
But I, a magnificent mother, turn it on.
   Twenty One Pilots, (especially Tyler because he was playing the piano) the moment she heard the piano, and the stories behind the music she adores, she relented. Sobbing with sorrow, and joy, and fear she sat down at our piano and played it. For the first time in almost a year. She cried, and her beautiful fingers moved along the places her grandma's once did. And in between those moments of emotional torment and pure peace I watched my darling daughter grow. I watched her struggling, watched her try and ignore the message that you were delivering. I imagine that is what a Pheniox looks like as it is transforming.
  As my mother was lying in the hospital, a dear friend of mine cried with me and said; "The thing about timing, is it's very precise."

Timing is indeed very precise.

Thank you Twenty One Pilots. Thank you for helping my Stella, my Baby Sister, and me to hear what our Ghosts are telling us. "Don't Be Afraid", "Entertain My Faith", and "Stay With Me, My Blood."

Thank you Twenty One Pilots.

Thank you The Powers That Be.

Thank You Mom.

Oh, and Tyler if you need to pick up some extra work, I am in the market for a piano teacher. 

2 AM

"Two am and I'm still awake writing a song. If I get it all down paper,  its no longer inside of me threatening the life it belongs to."

what happened? 

where am I?

Holding my head is getting heavy. 

Holding my heart is getting messy. 

Holding it together is falling apart.

Two am. 

Breathe.

Don't let go. 

Breathe.

 Just breathe. 

Don't Let Go. 

Ladies Don't Start Fights...

The Upside Down~ A place like here, except dark, eerie, and full of A Monster.

Just one Monster.

 That’s how I have been describing the surreality coursing through my life.

I am trying to survive in The Upside Down.

Dear Dad,

I do not anticipate that you will manage to make your way to the end of this journey. If you do, Thanks.

   I love you Dad. I loved you so much. My daughters recently unearthed a time capsule which included a note written by a sixteen year old me. They were surprised to see that I had named you as “The Person You Most Admire.” I shared that note with you mere days later. You made no remarks whatsoevever. You did mention your dating profile though, and how you wanted to practice driving your motorcycle with a passeneger.

 I looked up to you Dad. I worked hard to make you proud. When I felt that I hadn’t met your expectations, it stung me. Your disappointment drove me to be better. Thank you for that.

 Time passed, I grew. We fell away from one another. Then, seven years ago there was a heated exchange in your bedroom. Two requests were made that day. You, Dad asked me to work on building a relationship with my Mom. And in turn you, Dad, were asked to build a relationship with me.

 Today I am so grateful for the different paths you and I chose. Because you asked me Dad, I did build a relationship with Mom. Over the past seven years I was able to take time and get to know My Mother.

As an adult.

One on One.

I was given her undivided attention.

 Those beautiful mornings when I would bring my coffee up and just be with Mom began because YOU asked it of me. The counsel, the humor, the calming constant vibe of My Mother became a vital part of my growth. Cherished, sacred moments that molded me into the woman I Am. Her tender, authentic self. Teaching me, holding me, talking me out of my temper. (Everyone is still alive. Thanks Mom.) How fortunate that I chose to honor your request. I will forever be grateful I made that choice. Precious moments that will now, have to sustain me for the remainder of my life.

 And thank you for the course you chose Father.

 Make no mistake, the first couple of years were painful. Waiting for you to reach out to me. Waiting for a text, a call. I thought since you were driving alone (?) for two, three hours a day, it wouldn’t be a problem. But alas, nothing. Three years after you were  asked to work on Our relationship I built you a ‘Golden Ticket’ for Fathers Day remember? It was pretty. It was a ‘Dad, lets do whatever you want! My treat’ ticket. You have yet to cash it in. The next Father’s Day I picked you up, drove you to a beautiful spot and endeavored to figure out why we still had a disconnect. However, you still didn’t make any motions towards me. Remember when I had that major surgery, and I was in the hospital for five days? I saw you a grand total of ONCE. And you came with Mom.

 After that, I struggled to work with the fact (yes, FACT) that you didn’t chose to build a relationship with me. I missed you. I missed the connection I had with my Dad. Eventually that wound on my heart developed a calice, but the deep pain was still there.

Last fall Mom came to my house and sat in my kitchen.

She cried and asked me, “Jill, you know your Father loves you, right?”  

“Ok, sure Mom. Why can he not say that for himself? He knows how to find me.”

Past the pleasantries, I mean.

Past the passing, placid hug in the kitchen.

Nothing.

 Then, Mom was ripped from our lives. Taken, violently.

 Right as she had begun to live.The fact is Mom had chosen the path of service. She stayed in town to take care of her Mother. She delayed traveling, she waited, she invested, she saved, she sacerficed. Now, fourty years in the making, the fruits of her labor were finally in season. Onward to time with “Her Sweetheart”.

Stolen. Fast and Harshly.

 The day she died was the first time Scott set foot inside that house since the day He requested that You build a relationship with Me. Seven years ago.

That day my hope was renewed. Maybe I would have my dad again…Perhaps here, was a mighty change of heart..

… It was a beautiful, fleeting thought.

 You see Father, you were being very honest with my sisters and I when you told us “This isn't as hard for me as it is for you.”

Clearly, it hasn’t been hard for you at all.

 Watching you in the chapel at your grandson’s baptism as you held and caressed Nilza made me sick Dad. Sick. That you would be so insensitive and disrespectful of Caitlin's family and the sacred occasion of the day was staggering. It was a demonstration that you are spiritually unconscious.

 Yet my sisters and I decided to respond with integrity and grace. We were kind. We extended courtesy. We reached out. When Scott and I had both of you, and Linda and Granny  in our home for Sunday dinner Sara learned to say “I like your shirt.” in Portugese in an attempt to build a bond.

 How was our attitude met? Like this... We, the daughters you know damn well are struggling with the fresh (109 days ago) tragedy of losing our Mother, We get that fatal (group) text. Adding insult to injury and further showing us where your priorities lie.

“Hi My Dears

I love you. I want to tell you that

I am going to ask Nilza to marry me.

I’ve thought about this quite throughly

and it’s what I am going to do.

Again, I love you all very much. (smiley face)”

 But, again I have to say thank you. Because you see Father, after that heartless, cowardly report of what you wanted to tell us, (not discuss, tell) Shit started to fly. Thanks to you. Information. Data. Indiscriminent, and like a fire hose started spewing into my life. Into the lives of my children. Into the lives of my sisters. Into my business. Gems such as how you felt ripped off for having been married to My Mother for forty years. That you never knew joy until you met Nilza. That you are in This One for the long haul.  Or lets touch on the fact that you Father, as a sitting bishop, approached women (womEn) in the ward the week after My Mother died. Asking out women while you prepare the funeral of your wife. I also got to learn that those women haven’t been back to church since.

Dad, this is appalling.

 Now the community whose trust was violated feel that it is fine to air thier grievences about you to me. To my husband. To our family.

 Then there is the campain to present yourself as a victim in this senerio. Villifying some, guilt tripping others, and flat lying or manipulating information to suit your skin. My issue is, I don’t think any of this is new for you. That Sunday dinner we had with Nilza, you told all of us the only word you had learned in Portugese was the word for “I”. (after talking for two months) 
Shocker.

 But that’s who you are.  A selfish, narccisistic man who is finally free.

You better believe I left that book out to be a brat.

You are detracting from the greater tragedy.

You have effectively dismantled the sacred circle you entered into with My Mother.

You have violated trust.

You have poisoned the family she left to sheperd her children.

You have placed people in untenable positions.

You have been malicious.

You have broken my sisters hearts.

You have broken my daughters hearts.

Your desires, your lust, your needs, your turn, your boat, your motorcycle, your happiness, you’re the victim, people are punishing you, you, you.

Fuck You.

 Father, thank you for not chosing me. That choice, proven over the last seven years, and sharpened these past months, has made this insult easier to see. There is a new circle now. And you have chosen to exclude yourself. I now chose to close it. My family doesn’t want to be party to your double  lie/life. I would ask that you not speak further on anything that may involve me. Or my family. I will pay you that same courtesy. I also feel that since you have lit the fires around you with such zeal, you should move.



Dear Everyone Else,

In our future encounters, please suppress the desire to inquire after the relationship between My Father and Myself. If you have questions, feel free to reread.
Love You~

2018

  Monday mornings were when I would check in. When Mom and I would sync our calendars.  Or I could run up after dropping  off the girls to school and visit with her. She and I would sit in the kitchen at the table and talk. Mondays worked out really well because everyone was busy and we could just be. 
  Now, there are no calls. Now I just pick up my phone and cry. Since The Great Campaign of 2018, I don't trust anyone enough. And Granny is gone too. It's an odd feeling. Standing.
Motherless.
 Fatherless. 
Without war. 
Just gone. 
  At least its dark out today. 

Long Black Road

"It's been a long day without you my Friend." 

 Who knew. 

Who knew that when I started out in this journey I would cross paths with such extraordinary people. People who make the days brighter. People whose smiles heal wounds. People whose genius trickles down and seeps into the cracks of my psyche. I didn't. 

 I keep my universe a very small place. The fewer people in it, the better. Trust is over rated and not easily earned, and privacy is paramount. Over the small space of my life I have had the privilege invite some incredible people into my sanctuary. Not just the kitchen, where great coffee, divine treats, and copius amounts of love lives. But into the sanctuary of my mind, or deeper and less likely, my heart. These people are the ones that make my world a better place. The ones that teach me how to brighten and better as I go. Every moment with someone I love and trust is sacred. Every moment emblazoned in my memory. Kept to rejuvenate me when I can't speak to that person, or can't see them. 

 Now if I didn't know that I would meet and accept such amazing people, then for sure I didn't know how painful it would be when the path we on are splits and we have to go separate ways. 

What the? 

Where did you go? 

Why? 

 I get it. 

 We all have a path. And if we are lucky enough to have a fellow traveler as we traverse life, then we can count it as a blessing, a miracle. But eventually, one way or another we always end up walking alone for a while. 

 Thank you to those who walk with me. And thank you to those whose path is no longer intersecting with mine. You have given me so much, and remember that just as I walk with a piece of you in my heart, you also have taken a piece of me. 

I hope with all my heart that our paths cross again. 

"It's been a long day without you my Friend, and I'll tell you all about it when I see you again." 

Charlie Puth, Wiz Khalifa

http://youtu.be/RgKAFK5djSk

Back To Me

"There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed." 

~Hemingway

 Like bleeding a wound, writing soothes my tumultuous soul. 

Is that why I feel over inflated? Have I let this soul fester? Restraining my tounge, keeping the peace.  Working in vain to quiet the swell in the depths of my mind. Showing forth greater love, sitting as a safe haven for toxicity. Once I had a solid spine, once my wit was a sharpened sword, laying in wait for whatever beast strode my way. Now the bloat, and slowness of my pace have overtaken the wolf I once was. 

 Paint under my nails, hands riddled with cuts and flowing with blood, words spewing like green vomit from the possessed, I will claw my way Back To Me.

  It costs to much to be anyone else. 

Grave Robbers Point~ The Last Thing

  " Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him Horatio." 

                                                              ~Hamlet 

       
 The first time I ever ran away from home I chose to go a scant three blocks to the house of an elderly couple. They went to my church, and were long time friends of my family. She a dark haired, kindly lady, He a handsome and hulking man. I showed up on their door step, bags and teddy in tow and They let me in. She made me warm peaches and cream and left me alone to tell Him why I would like to reside at their house from now on. He listened to many small reasons patiently. Nodding and humphing at the appropriate intervals until my tale was told. Then He sat back in His chair, took a long deep breath, and meditated. I felt confident that They would keep me. After all I already sat with them during church, and I visited them many times a week. So my surprise was genuine when He said that I should go home. He said that despite my feelings to the contrary, my parents did love me, and would miss me. He mentioned how lonely my sisters would be and reminded me about my dog. Explaining that as much as They loved me I did not belong with Them. Eventually, after many treats, They persuaded me to return to my dog, sisters and parents. (In that order).

  Today, on an unseasonably warm and beautiful January afternoon I stood back as He was laid to rest next to the wife who left his side only weeks before. It was a small, military graveside service, I having never met any of his children, spoke only to an ancient woman who knew me as a child. Once the scene was void of the living, alongside grave diggers I set to work on the last thing I could do for this Man. I removed my scarf paired gloves with a shovel and began to bury His body.

  During my many wanderings up and down the roads of the cemetery I have become familiar with a name or two. An old school friend and his brother, the old neighbor, a teacher, my family, the family of friends. I take more notice and pay more care to the ones I knew, in turn they provide me with the reminder of the fragility of existence. To bury the remains of an unknown person is something done with reverence and respect. Burying whats left of a friend is something sacred.


 Today, what was once a man I knew was what I now covered with earth. Beneath the lid was a face I had kissed. Arms that had hugged me and carried me, hands that could be counted upon to produce candy at any time. My shovel moved on its own as I, disconnected from my body, watched mournfully. Somewhere I registered that His soul hovered not far off. Part of my brain filled with the moments that compiled memories, another small section recalling how it always seems that people I love get the most agreeable weather for burial, and the other portions divided between my children, my aging grandparents, and to how peaceful I felt at that moment.

  For the first time I was grateful for my crime and the opportunity it had afforded me. To be able to pay respect and homage in a way most are never allowed. My hours today did not go towards my sentence, they went towards a life lived well.

 

Exhale

 Why does that sound so simple?

  I often have to tell my daughters to take a deep breath in order to calm their world and stop it from spinning. They appear to manage it. Why am I finding it so very difficult? Where is my breath? Where is my brain?

  Is it because my wants are too many? Is it because my head is too full? Maybe my lungs are at capacity. Am I up? Or am I upside down? No latitude, no space, no room for a mistake.

 Is this what it feels like to drown? To be suffocated?

 In either case and without further a due, down The Rabbit Hole I go, feet first I pray.  

                 

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~