This is my 6th time participating in Skywatch Friday Kind of a lot of the same thing.... no nice pink skies this week - or none that I got pictures of.
Doesn't this one look like a heart? It was clearer in real life than it is in the picture.
The angel stood on the hill singing in her sweet high disembodied voice, and around her the world grew quiet and still. The beasts of the field, even the flowers and trees, paused in their living to listen to the sound of love, to let it wash over and into them. And in the town below, people paused and smiled at one another. Even those who a moment earlier had been quarreling bitterly, were transformed, forgot their angry words and, shedding a tear at their foolishness, embraced one another. Somehow the angel's song reached into their hearts. The sound of her voice let them see with her eyes, and when they looked at each other, they saw only beauty and light and perhaps most miraculous of all, they saw themselves reflected back in their neighbor's eyes through the light of love. They saw only that which was highest and best in themselves and their world was transformed forever.
Most of them, that is. Of course, as there must be, there were some who felt the tug of love and fought it with all their might. These were the ones who cried "witchcraft," "Satan," and other such foolishness and ran through the streets trying to shout down the magic of the power of Love. Sadder still, when they realized that they could not shout Love down, they tried to kill it. "Where's it coming from?" their leader shouted. "Michael's Hill," another responded and off they went, clubs and pitchforks in hand, ready to fight the demon of love with all their might.
As they reached the top of the hill, they began shouting as loudly as they could, "Death to Demon-spawn," and "Silence the Dark Voice." So raucous were their venomous cries that they almost did drown out the angel's song. But not quite. And in their fear and rage they were not prepared for what awaited them over the crest of Michael's Hill. They gasped almost as one being as they approached a vision of such radiant loveliness that she - for this particular angel seemed not so tall or majestic as angels are expected to be, but was rather small and delicate - and, yes, distinctly feminine. When they talked about it later, there was much argument among them about just what they saw. Some reported a raven-haired beauty with bright blue eyes, some a young girl with green eyes and fiery red hair. Others swore her hair was like spun gold and her eyes large and brown as a fawn's. She wore a soft flowing robe that shimmered with a rainbow of colors - or perhaps, like the angel herself, simply reflected back that color which most deeply touched and comforted the eye of the beholder, for as one man remarked "did you ever see threads of such fine silver," his companion gaped at him in astonishment and said, "Silver? It wasn't silver! Why it was greener than the greenest emerald." And his old mother, standing at his side, rebuked him saying, "Why you're both fools. Her robe was as blue as the bluest summer sky with just a hint of clouds in it." And so on.
But about one thing almost everyone agreed: The expression on her face was so tender and gentle, so full of love and compassion and goodness that all the anger and hate which had brought them surging up Michael's Hill simply disappeared. Most dropped their weapons and fell to their knees, not so much in awe, as in delight. And even when they looked away, it was as though the angel's loving gaze washed over and through them, cleansing away aches and pains, not just of the body, but more incredibly, even the most ancient wounds to their spirits and hearts.
Orphans felt themselves wrapped in a mother's love and knew themselves orphans no more. The lonely and bitter felt her hand in theirs and realized that they had never truly been alone. And the poor and hungry knew that from that moment on, they would be rich beyond material measure and their hunger no longer gnawed at them. This moment in the angel's sight made them richer than any king. And the rich - well, suddenly they saw their riches for the paltry treasures they were - and, both worse and better - they felt the hunger in some of their companions and were moved with compassion and a desire to share.
And at the same time they began to feel her song. Which is, of course how one must "hear" an angel's song, not with the ear, but with the heart. Then, one by one, they began singing too so that her song became part of them and they part of her song. They understood as they sang that she would leave Michael's Hill and bring her song to others, but that she would never truly depart because she was part of them now, in their hearts and voices - and, yes, in their eyes and their smiles.
At sunset, as mysteriously and unceremoniously as she had arrived, the angel vanished. But her song lingered on.
Among the villagers, there were a few who wanted to build a great shrine to commemorate the miracle of the angel on their hill, but wiser heads and hearts prevailed. "Don't you see, we are the shrine. We must keep her song always in our hearts, and if we must build something, let it not be some fancy, empty temple, but a place of good works: a school, perhaps, or a shelter for those who are hungry or cold, a place of companionship for those who are lonely and sad. Let it be a gathering place for love and healing. And let it always and forever be a place of song."
And that is the story of the day the angel came to Michael's Hill and sang her song. If you listen carefully, perhaps one day you, too, will hear and be glad.
THE END
The painting at the top of the post was painted in 1889 by American Artist Abbot Handerson Thayer.
Maryt/The Teach over at Work of the Poet has something called Ruby Tuesday which featuring all things red and this week - I hope it's legal to do this - I thought I'd merge it the Creative Photography thing. Here's what happened (not that it matters, but)... I did have a couple of red things but I didn't really feel very happy with them and so I started fooling around with some pictures. I didn't want to just dye something red by colorizing it because that just seemed - I don't know - I just didn't want to do it. And then I remembered that somebody sometime posted something and explained how she did it and I thought, "hmmm... maybe I could try that. As a result. The crow on the wire in the first photo got a dye job and the purple flower in the second got very red in the blooms. Silly, but I kind I learned a new trick with Paintshop Pro and that always delights me. So these are weird and questionably creative, but, heck, I had fun and the are red. In fact I had so much fun that I added a third one... and then I thought maybe I should add the originals too...
"I am responsible. Although I may not be able to prevent the worst from happening, I am responsible for my attitude toward the inevitable misfortunes that darken life. Bad things do happen; how I respond to them defines my character and the quality of my life. I can choose to sit in perpetual sadness, immobilized by the gravity of my loss, or I can choose to rise from the pain and treasure the most precious gift I have - life itself." ~ Walter Anderson ~ (American Trainer, Author)
Well, I was completely stumped for something to write this week. Just didn't have any ideas that really seemed to resonate with me until I received an email with the above quote in it. I had a fairly intense response to the quote both because I think it's a wise and true statement and also because it's author carries the same name as the boy - well, I guess he is a grown man now - who murdered my sister thirteen years ago. How very peculiar to see such words attached to his name.
Although the quote doesn't actually use the word forgiveness, that is certainly one of the talents we need to master in order to move past certain events in our lives. That said, forgiveness is one of those peculiar words which has been so laden with gobbledy-gook over the years that instead of being a source of healing, for many people it has become a source of perpetual pain. As with almost everything in this life, forgiveness is not - as most of us have been taught - about the other person. It is not about overlooking cruelty or injustice or even forgetting it. It isn't about letting the other person off the hook. It's about letting OURSELVES off the hook. Ours is the only life we have any control over anyway. Forgiveness is not about perfection on anyone's part. It is not even really about goodness as is so often implied in both cultural and theological teaching. In truth, usually no matter where our anger is aimed, it is ourselves on some level whom we do not forgive.
In an odd way, I think forgiveness - or maybe the inability to forgive - is about being stuck in time, about remaining hooked to a past which we refuse or fear - or simply don't know how - to outlive. How do we put something like incest or murder or any profound betrayal behind us? These things impact us to the core of our being. They change who we are. Often they shatter who we are, or - more accurately - who we think we are.
This kind of false forgiveness, whereby we pretend to not have our feelings, traps us perpetually in those feelings and leaves us hopelessly unforgiven for our own exquisite humanity. I spent almost 40 years being generously compassionate to everyone but myself. The implication of what so many of us are taught in this life is that compassion and anger or grief and pain are somehow opposites, that it's an either or choice, but that's just not the truth. When we are incapable of having compassion for our own pain, when we box it up and refuse to own it, to take responsibility for it, then generous as our hearts are, forgiving as we pretend to be to those who hurt us, we are living an unconscious lie that ties us forever to our past pain.
Which brings me to the word responsibility. In my upbringing, responsibility was some sort of burden that I was supposed to carry around. To be responsible was to be to blame. It encompassed the pain of all humanity. It implied guilt. If there was pain in the world (including my own), it was my fault. I am not alone in this. It is, to greater and lesser degree, how many, if not most of us, are trained to function. Even in a positive context - "she was responsible for saving the world..." - there is something onerous and burdensome about that word. I know that it can be used in a positive way, but I would be willing to bet money that more than 90 percent of the population of the world, hearing the question, "who's responsible for this," hears it in expectation of some form of criticism.
So what, in a healthier world, what should responsibility mean? Most New Age books that I read redefine it as "the ability to respond," which I find a tad cutesy and not very helpful. I think that it's more meaningful to say that responsibility is about taking ownership of our responses, our feelings - all of them, regardless of what those feelings are. My wonderfully wise former therapist used to tell me that I stayed inside because I could not avoid having feelings when I went out into the world. (That's also, by the way, the reason that many of us over eat, particularly sugar-based foods - because it numbs our feelings.) No matter what anyone tells you, there are no wrong feelings. I've said it before but it needs to be repeated over and over because so much of the pain in this world stems from the false belief that there is something wrong with feelings of anger or pain or hurt or even hate. What's wrong is getting stuck in those feelings and what gets us stuck in them is the belief that we shouldn't have them, because it makes us try to pretend them away rather than letting them move through us and be gone.
This negation of our feelings, this false notion of responsibility, is how - hopefully I'm getting to the point - we get stuck in time and why forgiveness, especially forgiveness for ourselves is such a difficult task for most of us to accomplish. Many of us race through life trying to outrun these feelings. We keep our minds constantly occupied. We take on super human loads. We try to stop pain wherever we see it, partly perhaps from nobility, but also to stop our own pain from being awakened by it's siblings, from surfacing and overwhelming us. I think agoraphobia may often take over when the load of pain and guilt gets so heavy that we can no longer out run it. We are immobilized not by our pain or our sorrow, but by our fear of those feelings.
If we taught our children to ignore the pain of putting their hands into the flame of a stove burner, we would be very rightly locked up for child abuse. Teaching children to swallow their anger and sorrow is the emotional equivalent of holding their hands in the flames and praising them for not screaming in agony. It is a form of learned insanity which is passed from generation to generation. The good thing, the place where hope lies, is that it can be unlearned. We can teach our children (inner and outer) that it is not a crime to be human, that Love (God's and our own) is unconditional, relentless, all-encompassing and eternal. In the end, we can only truly treasure life, when we allow ourselves and those around us to live it in all it's random, awesome, mysterious, confusing, and exquisite beauty and ugliness.
I know I'm on my soap box today and it always embarrasses me when I find myself standing up there. I usually wind up there when I feel like I am touching on a vein of pain so deeply entrenched in both my own and our collective psyches that to tackle it feels like shouting into the wind, when something in me wants to run from person to person and lift away hurts which are so big that we almost don't know we are feeling them. We deserve better treatment than we give ourselves. We deserve to be forgiven for being fallible. We deserve love. And even though it embarrasses me to say it, even though I may not know you, I need to say that "I love you." And now I need to run blushing into a corner and hope you will forgive me for saying so.
How did I not see
The ugliness in your face
When I still loved you
How did I not see
The sweet kindness of your face
Until I knew you
Faceless in the grave
I wonder what your life was
Centuries ago
Why won’t you face me
Why not say what it’s about
So I can have peace
~~~
Faceless demons taunt
Their hateful words spewed at me
From inside my mind
My sister’s children
In your faces I see hers
And know she lives on
(Please scroll down for Skywatch Friday)
This is week 23 of the Saturday Wordzzle challenge. Anyone new to the process can refer back here to find out how it works. Special thanks to Jeff B who sent me a wonderful list of about 60 words and phrases to take me through the next few weeks.
The words for this week's ten word challenge were: follow-up, buffalo wings, silversmith, furniture, as the crow flies, little red roadster, photograph, pencil pusher, argument, streaking
And for the Mini Challenge:
Here's my ten-word offering for this week.
Martha wished she could get to Dinkledorfen as the crow flies instead of having to drive her little red roadster on twisting mountain roads, especially since there wasn’t even any place for her to pull over and take some photographs of the scenery, which was indeed quite beautiful. She was not adventurous by nature. No, she was a born pencil pusher who preferred shopping for furniture to pretty much any other sport around. About the most daring thing she had ever done (by her standards) was to eat buffalo wings at a greasy spoon in
And here's my mini challenge:
No place has better writers and poets than
And the mega challenge:
Preparing to do her follow up report on the local silversmith and furniture maker, Reginald Ireland, who reputedly also made the best buffalo wings in the Sullivan county (yes, they were doing a follow-up report!), young reporter T.S. Eliot, briefly considered driving her little red roadster off the nearest cliff. She had gotten into an argument with her boss about the assignment to no avail. “You want to be a reporter or a pencil pusher?” he had snarled at her. “If the answer to that question is ‘reporter,’ your next assignment is to interview that wacky bookworm woman who wants to restore the fog horn and preserve the
This week's vanity wordzzle used the words: Recipient, rose quartz, UPS, yellow pages, the year 2000 computer problem, thermometer, flame, brandy snifter, electric toothbrush
What with the end of the world scheduled, Sylvia Johnson did not really see why people were so worried about the year 2000 computer problem. But then after she had had a few drinks, Sylvia tended to wonder why people worried about anything at all. She was not much of a drinker as a rule, but today had been one of those days, and she thoughtfully took another sip from the large crystal brandy snifter balanced between her hands. It has been one of the most horrible days of her life and she was tired to the bone. Aside from the fact that George had left her, finally, after years of threatening, the people at Publisher’s Clearinghouse had assured her that she was to be the recipient of a large sum of money on this very date. She had dressed herself neatly in preparation. (She did not intend to appear on TV in dressed only in a towel like some people.) And she had waited, and she had waited. Then finally, at 4:00 PM the bell had rung and she had run breathless to answer, only to find the friendly UPS man with a package for her neighbor. Some stupid electric toothbrush or thermometer or something according to the box. Insult to injury. The only delivery had been for someone else. Now it was 11:00 p.m. and as she stared wearily into the candle flame her eyes filled with tears. Sniffing them back she quickly gulped down the remaining brandy and rose shakily to her feet. Now what was she to do? At least with the money she could have hired a good lawyer, made sure she got her due from dear old George. Now she would have to resort to a lawyer from the Yellow Pages, if she could even afford that. It was so unfair. She hurled the empty brandy snifter against the wall and watched it shatter. It would be a nuisance to clean it up, but she had always wanted to do that or something like it, something high drama and passionate like they did in the movies. So perhaps the day was not a total loss after all, like her life. What had been the point, she wondered of all those years. A waste, a terrible waste. But even as she said that, here eyes fell on the large rose quartz heart that her daughter had sent her for her birthday last month and she realized with a start, that perhaps, disappointing and painful as this day had been, her life had not been such a waste after all. And picking up this rediscovered treasure, she went wearily to bed and fell into a gentle sleep clutching that precious heart against her own.
Special thanks to Jeff B for next week’s challenges. Thank you so much Jeff. Thanks to him I have a list of words that will last me for another month or so.
Next Week's Ten Word Challenge will be: ghastly, excrement, bill of sale, vague, thicket, precarious, life long ambition, gunnery sergeant, posthumous, bellowed
Thanks for playing. For those who are new, here are some guidelines to make the process more fun.
Enjoy! See you next week.
DON'T FORGET TO ADD YOUR NAME TO MR. LINKY!!!!!
I don't know why Mr. Linky has vanished from sight. He is still there. If you click on the little empty square, you will find him playing hide and seek.
This is my 5th time participating in Skywatch Friday after taking a week off last week because I didn't think I could do justice to both Project Black and Skywatch at the same time. That means I'm making up for lost skies this week, so to speak. Drop by and check out hundreds of links to awesome, varied and beautiful sky scenes from around the world.
This is the first poem - and one of the first things - I posted when I restarted this blog a little over six months ago. I wrote it following a therapy session back in 1999. My little voice absolutely insists - against all argument - that I repost it today. I don't know why that is, but usually when my little voice is this loud there's some reason for it. If not, I apologize for repeating myself. I think this is one of the best poems I've ever written. I hope it speaks to you.
THE ROCK AND THE DEAD CHILD
October 5, 1999
In my throat is a rock with a dead child inside
Like the petrified fist of some giant god
It wraps around her small corpse
Her legs stick out, limp and dead
And the rock wonders what she is doing there
And why she died
It does not mean her any harm
It does not understand, even,
How she came to lie dormant and frail in it’s grasp
It does not understand, even
Who IT is
It remembers vaguely as though from some dim dream
That she needed to keep quiet
And stop struggling
But struggling against who or what
It cannot say
And it is frightened
By a vague sense of somehow having done wrong
It wishes she was gone
And then wonders who IT is without her
Maybe they are one being and not two
And it did not exist first
But slowly grew around her
Day after day after day
And year after year after year
Never noticing
Until in this moment
Suddenly awakening
It finds her long dead
It keeps thinking of the Wicked Witch of the East
And wishes some Dorothy would come along
And make those legs
So limp and dead,
So small
Shrivel up and go away.
But this is not Oz
Or
But some no man’s land
And this body is not some evil witch
But a small child
She can’t be more than four
Silenced in a tomb of oblivious stone
That wishes
With whatever dim heart a stone can hold
That it could let her go,
Could bring her back to vibrant life
Wishes too somewhere in it’s confusion
That it knew how to cry
And wash itself clean
Of this child who holds it as captive
As it holds her.
- Katherine E. Rabenau
Maryt/The Teach over at Work of the Poet has something called Ruby Tuesday which featuring all things red.
Listen carefully
The rests between the notes
Add their own music
Resting my body
Is easier than my mind
Which shuns the stillness
Wrested from my arms
Most beloved companion
At rest in the arms of God
Ah, mother
I hope you are at rest now
Shed of the dark cloak of shame and sadness
That you wore like armor against my love
I don’t know why you couldn’t see
The radiance I saw when I looked at you
But then I can’t see my own either
I learned from the best
To be unsure, ashamed, afraid
Though I know that wasn’t your intention
I realize writing this
That though I know/believe
Death has restored
The light of who you are
What I remember, what I cling to
Is the hurt and the rejection
How sad is that?
Especially since I saw beyond
I swear you radiated light some days
Even as you shunned me
Even as you judged me
Even as you pushed my love away
The first time I timidly offered the words
You replied – I laugh about it, though it hurts –
“I don’t mind you so much either,”
It was the best you could do.
I understand that
Your wounds were too deep for anything more
Later, when you too could say the words to others
To me you responded still
“You say it too much; I don’t believe you,”
And maybe I did
I just wanted you to know
I wanted you to see yourself
And I wanted - oh so desperately, agonizingly wanted –
You to see me also
But maybe we were too much the same
Maybe even though I wanted you to see more
(So I could see it too)
Maybe all I was able to let you see
Was the shame you heaped on me
From almost the minute I was born
So afraid you were that I’d be hurt
So afraid that I’d embarrass you
So afraid of what others thought
So afraid
So afraid
So afraid
So ashamed
So ashamed
So ashamed
I know it’s past time to put all that to rest
You are in God’s light now
Where Love is all there is
And I’m here
Clinging to your judgment
Because that’s how you gave your mortal
Maybe it’s time to put that past to rest
And open my heart
To know my fat, my dusty house
Are not deal breakers
Maybe it’s time I put that wounded you to rest
Forgave her for not loving me
Not seeing me
I still don’t know quite how
This old way of thinking and feeling
Runs deep in my bones
But here and now –
I kiss that tired old woman
Gently on the forehead
I loved that you too
Wanted to comfort and mother you
As you couldn’t mother me
But maybe it is time to let her rest
To forgive us both
For being human and afraid
Katherine E. Rabenau
the tail end of the project...
I am my father's daughter, kernel off the old corn cob... couldn't help myself... these last two aren't very good and they don't add much, but there was that pun, taunting me, luring me on and I just had to add them. I tried to combine them into one side by side shot, but each of the two programs I tried it with crashed the computer, so.... Herein ends my tale... or is it tail... or....
(Please scroll down for Project Black)
Can you believe this is week 22 of the Saturday Wordzzle challenge? Anyone new to the process can refer back here to find out how it works. I'd love some volunteers to make up the words/phrases for up-coming weeks. Maybe each of our regulars could take a turn and send me two sets of words.... It's hard having only myself to blame when I struggle over these exercises... But enough whining, on to the challenges.
(Oh - one other thing... I write these off blog and then cut and paste them. Does anyone else have a problem where some words will take color and sentences in the middle don't? Drives me crazy every week and I can't figure out how to fix it, which is why there are letters and words here and there amid the color that are black. Any suggestions?)
The words for this week's ten word challenge were: cardboard box, liquor cabinet, ostrich feathers, longitudinal, hamburger helper, partnership, laundry detergent, magnificent, San Francisco, prognosis
Here's my ten-word offering for this week.
Barbra Jane didn’t know if she had the fortitude to make it through another game of Worst Case Scenario, a game of questions about specialized marginalia on subjects as diverse as snakes in sewers to the water pressure of water fountains. As far as she could tell, the questions were silly and half the answers were wrong. Besides, she wanted to play Clue. She always won Clue and winning was fun.
And the mega challenge:
Delvinia Dewhurst lifted the cardboard box of Hamburger Helper down from the shelf, making a quick side trip to the liquor cabinet before starting dinner preparations. The move to
This week's vanity wordzzle used the words: Jelly beans, bowling ball, Dolly Parton's brassiere, Easter Bunny, mysticism, ice cream, apple pie, life, sequence of events
(Author’s note: Some of you may recognize these words from the vanity wordzzle for week 3. When I was working on my Howling Cat book I did different responses to the same words to show how vast the possiblities are with the same words.)
It was a truly strange sequence of events which led up to my coming into possession of Dolly Parton's brassiere. I was visiting
Next Week's Ten Word Challenge will be: follow-up, buffalo wings, silversmith, furniture, as the crow flies, little red roadster, photograph, pencil pusher, argument, streaking
And for the Mini Challenge: Ireland, mashed potatoes, book worm, fog horn, T.S. Eliot
Enjoy! See you next week.
DON'T FORGET TO ADD YOUR NAME TO MR. LINKY!!!!!
Angel has mostly worked behind the scenes for Project Black, but felt a need to assist today. She didn't approve of yesterday's boot project either, but today she was unable to contain her disapproval of my artistic vision.
Maryt/The Teach over at Work of the Poet has something called Ruby Tuesday which featuring all things red. 
ses which has gotten a bad name from it's sibling, aka marijuana. Hemp is no more responsible for the deeds of it's kin-folk than I am. Just because my brother and I are related doesn't mean we are the same person. There's a reason we don't speak to each other. So it is with poor hemp whose gifts lie dormant while it's glitzy hedonistic kin gets all the attention. But hemp has so much to offer. It is rich in nutrition. I make a shake these days from hemp protein as opposed to soy. It's yummy and it's ultra nutritious. Here's what my niece has to say about it on her Foodscout.com analysis. In addition to it's nutritional values, hemp based fabrics are virtually indestructible. I have a hemp wallet (well it doesn't get much use since I have no money and never leave the house, but still... ) which except for a bit of genteel fading is as sturdy as the day I got it. And I absolutely love Dr. Bonner's liquid soaps which I have probably been using for at least 30 years, before there was any controversy about hemp. In any case, it seems to me that hemp is indeed a wonderful alternative to tobacco. Why not grow something that promotes health, that provides nutrition, rather than sticking with a product which we know kills people. I just don't get it. Not a very masterful treatise on hemp, but the best I have to offer on a Monday morning. At least check it out a bit. For those with truly inquiring minds, here's a site with much more information than I can offer.
Alas and alack
Inspiration comes not
I am myth-defied
(Please scroll down for Project Black and Sky Watch)
This is week 21 of the Saturday Wordzzle challenge. Anyone new to the process can refer back here to find out how it works. I just want to say that whoever came up with this particular set of words should be taken out back and given 50 lashes. Oh wait… it was me… Umm… Maybe I should just be fired and the job given to someone else who will not come up with such an insanely mis-matched, demented set of words. What was I thinking? If I wasn't the host of this thing, I think I would have chickened out this week. Whew, I had a hard time. But enough whining...
The words for this week's ten word challenge were: gouged, symmetrical, Spanish moss, ATV, parallel parking, Luscious, origami, amphibian, turkey, gravy train And for the Mini Challenge: pouring rain, mastiff, church bells, wedding dress, stock car races
Here's my ten-word offering for this week.
Lavender Luscious had failed her driving test four times – not only because she found parallel parking completely impossible - the concept was too symmetrical and she hated anything symmetrical – but because she also had a penchant for driving very fast, ignoring stop lights and chatting amiably with whoever was sitting next to her. This was not such a major problem driving an ATV on wilderness roads, but here in town such methods did not sit well with driving inspectors or other drivers. The last inspector who had taken her out for her test had growled at her, his face red with fury, “This is a driving test, young lady, not an audition for the stock car races.” He was originally from
And here's my mini challenge:
And the mega challenge:
Lucinda Montgomery had always dreamed of getting married to a gravy train husband in an elegant cathedral, with chiming church bells, and a luscious satin wedding dress. She had envisioned bride’s maids, beautiful flowers, and a magnificent banquet. Her beautiful ten layered cake was to have been decorated with origami cranes and real violets. And in her dreams it had always been a glorious sunny day. But here she was, standing in the pouring rain next to the gouged out trunk of a huge old cypress tree hung with Spanish moss that looked like time-worn, shredded veils. There were no shiny limousines either, no streets with parallel parking; instead the open field held half a dozen ATVs and a few beat up cars and trucks that looked like rejects from the stock car races. The choir (yes, she had wanted a choir) consisted of a chorus of wild turkeys, crows and croaking amphibians whose noisy chatter was punctuated by the loud barks of Charley’s six huge black mastiffs. Charley’s face did not have the handsome symmetrical features of her long imagined groom, either. But it was the kindest face she had ever known and reflected the kind and gentle heart of its bearer. Standing beside him in the rain, dressed in blue jeans and a sweater, holding a bunch of hand picked wild flowers, she could not have been happier. She was in love and the wedding of her dreams paled beside the reality of this one.
This week's vanity wordzzle used the words:
Next Week's Ten Word Challenge will be: cardboard box, liquor cabinet, ostrich feathers, longitudinal, hamburger helper, partnership, laundry detergent, magnificent, San Francisco, prognosis
Thanks for playing. For those who are new, here are some guidelines to make the process more fun.
DON'T FORGET TO ADD YOUR NAME TO MR. LINKY!!!!!
![[sky+watch.jpg]](http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_belZ1ir__D0/SFsB15Et5YI/AAAAAAAAGfA/IePaBY1ajTw/s1600/sky%2Bwatch.jpg)
Well, another year has passed and I am now sixty-one. I wanted to write a poem about it - and I did, but I got unexpected company and they stayed quite a while. My wonderful new friend Shannon - I'm not sure of her exact age - between 10 and 12, though - signed me on at Supermodel.com.... Oh my... It was a nice visit, but I didn't get to finish the poem I started this morning. I hated it anyway, so I wrote a new one. Kind of sucky, but it is a poem and it is my birthday, so you have to cut me some slack, right?
Not to toot my own horn - but look what my wonderful, mangificent, niece did for me over at her blog. Am I not the luckiest aunt in the world?
SIXTY ONE! AGGGGGHHHH!
I wanted to write a poem about being sixty-one
But I didn’t know what to write
I don’t like the number sixty one
The birthday’s fine with me
But I much prefer sixty or even sixty-two
No idea why I feel this way
I didn’t like being 33 either.
Silly, I know
But here it is.
Another year passed
I don’t feel any older
Or worse, yet
Any wiser
But the clock has spoken
I’m a year more senior
Hopefully this will win me some respect at least
I’m hoping I can persuade my achy knees
To lighten up on me
“I’m old,” I tell them.
Be kind.
I know it doesn’t work that way
But it can’t hurt to ask
And meanwhile
I’m doing what I can to milk the event
And get me some attention
My inner child seems to like the older me
She’s stepping out a bit more
I’m happy for her
It’s about time she had some fun
So that’s my birthday poem
Sometimes the best things in life
Start out unwanted
I’m hoping sixty one will be that way
A great year… even if it is a creepy number
Being three months old and full of puppy energy, Buster wasn't keen on sitting still to have his picture taken. I kind of like this blurry shot of him before we got him to settle down for a minute or two...
Maryt/The Teach over at Work of the Poet has something called Ruby Tuesday which features red. I don't have a lot of red things in my home. And this week I'm really stretching just to have something to post, so I took some cranberry juice and tried to take "artsy" photos. Not sure that I succeeded with the artsy part, but the juice IS red. Then I had prayer flags hung across my back porch. The string broke a while back so now they hang down a pole and a couple kind of drag on the porch which makes me feel guilty and disrespectful, but I haven't been able to correct the problem. I tried to get some close-ups. The red didn't come out that well, so I stuck a green one in because it's nicer. And that's it for me. I feel kind of foolish with fallen prayer flags and cranberry juice but if I don't do Ruby Tuesday, I'll have to think of something else to do and I don't feel like doing that either, since yestereday's post took a lot out of me. Looking forward to everyone else's reds, though.
Author's Note: This is going to be a long rant today. Sorry. I haven't polished it up either. Sorry about that too. I just have to get this out of my system as best I can. If I try to get it perfect, it will never get posted. So, here goes...
Alphabet backwards day rears it’s ugly head once more and today we greet the letter “I,” a fine letter indeed that offers many wonderful words such as: imagination, invention insecurity, idealism, ideas, inspiration, ignorance, idleness, impressionism, impressive, indigo, islands, irony, idiocy, illness, ill will, igloos, ice caps, Iceland, Inuit peoples, illusion, Iraq, Iran, Ireland, Israel, Italy, International Court, impossibility, indignation, illiteracy, idolatry, improvement, …. I mean the list is impossibly rich. I could go on at tedious length about any number of these topics so WHY, you may be asking yourself another rant about – sorry everyone – impeachment. Why? Because it’s INCREDIBLY IMPORTANT!
I know that some of you are sick of hearing me on this subject, but I think it’s too important to let go of, so, those more practical, more right wing, more whatever than me can just skip over my latest treatise on why impeachment matters or you can argue with me about it. I'm ok with that. It's part of what makes life interesting. So here is a small fraction of the reasons why I think impeachment matters so much.
Impeachment matters b
ecause these men – Bush and Cheney and their colleagues have committed multiple serious violations of our law. They didn’t have sex with an intern (at least not that we know about). What they have done is to repeatedly violate the laws and the SPIRIT of the laws of our nation. They have quite possibly committed acts which rise to the level of treason against the nation. If we don't try them, we will never know for sure.
Whether through intention or ignorance, they led us into an unnecessary war which has resulted in the deaths of thousands of American service persons and hundreds of thousands of Iraqis. In their zeal to engage us in this war, they ignored the UN and the rest of the world, consciously outed a CIA agent and then lied about it. Not one but two of their former press secretaries have written books which attest to this.
They have conducted this war with a lack of planning and skill that is shocking in the breadth of its failures, particularly since they rushed us into it with such enthusiasm. Because of their ineptitude and refusal to listen to any voices but their own, our military is being stretched to or beyond the capacity of the people serving to ultimately endure the physical, emotional and psychological stress. We are running out of people to wear out…and throw away once they return home. Patriotic talk is cheap. Actually caring for the members of our military isn’t and it seems as a nation we favor empty tears over true compassion and care.
The
There is considerable evidence of both incompetence and out and out graft in that part of the war in
The Bush administration has violated the Geneva Conventions and the spirit and intention of American law by setting up
And Mr. Bush and his colleague once again violated both the letter and spirit of the law by spying on American citizens. And there's the whole issue of abuses in and by the Justice Department. Remember Alberto Gonzales, the man with no memory?
Then there’s the integrity of the democratic process itself. There is good reason and substantial evidence to question the legitimacy of both elections. One reason, I think that Dennis Kucinich is particularly keen on impeachment – other than his fundamental integrity as a human being – is that there is significant evidence that the elections in
These are not small things. They are not inconsequential things that should be gotten over because it’s uncomfortable to deal with them. I wonder what these men would have to do for our nation to rise from it’s torpor of indifference and do something. Would we rationalize even torture conducted in public view on the White House Lawn? What does this say about us?
Many of the same people who want to sit back and do nothing about the Bush administration will condemn roundly the acts of foreign leaders who have committed similar crimes. I find that puzzling… that these things apparently – in the minds of some – are only immoral when someone else does them, but when we betray law and decency, we must have had a good reason. Talk about rationalization.
Almost as disturbing as this very partial and fragmentary list of the Bush administration's crimes and failings is the troubling truth that politics and party seem to have taken precedence for most politicians over truth and justice. There is more than ample evidence of questionable behavior. More than one former member of the Bush administration has come out and said as much… or certainly enough to make it mandatory that a nation of law undertake serious investigation. But one of the reasons sited for not pursuing impeachment is that because the Democrats have no actual majority in the Senate, that impeachment is impossible because the vote would split across party lines and no matter how much evidence there is, Bush and Cheney could not be convicted. How sad to think that party matters more than truth and the honor, future and security of the nation. How disgraceful. How obscene.
I’m told by a number of people that Bush and Cheney can still be impeached after they leave office. Better late than never, I guess, but rather like performing surgery after the patient is dead because that way the surgeon no longer is at risk of being sued for malpractice.
Which brings me to the second “I” word I chose for today: Idealism. What has happened to idealism? Our idealism has always seemed to me to be the core of what being America/American means. Our ideals, our idealism was what made us special. We may have fallen short on many occasions, but we never let go of trying before. That’s another reason to impeach the Bush administration. They have rung the final death knell on our idealism. We will never be the same again.
I know not everyone agrees with me about this. This isn’t a researched essay with political and legal proofs. It's not polished or organized in the most logical fashion. It's a rant and it’s my heart and my frustration and my anger and my love of my country. I feel like a mother held back from going into the burning house where my child is sleeping, while the firemen outside argue about who started the fire and whether or not it’s safe to enter and do their job. They argue and negotiate and the child dies. The death of idealism is the death of hope. This is why so many are drawn to Mr. Obama. He is a reminder of the possibility of idealism. I hope that he can awaken the sleeping giant of our greater self. I hope it isn’t too late for my country to be saved. But idealism can't just be pie in the sky talk about tomorrow. If we are to recover our nation, we have to walk the talk of freedom and decency and not just say the words.
This is week 20 of the Saturday Wordzzle challenge. Anyone new to the process can refer back here to find out how it works.
The words for this week's ten word challenge were: handy, operation, gratitude, parallel bars, the color purple, manic depressive,
Well, quite a few people expressed concerns about the fate of Abraham Lincoln from last week's post, so, since I can’t leave everyone worrying about him (how could you think he wouldn’t be rescued?!!) here's my ten-word offering for this week.
Marigold was grateful for the sympathetic ear of the mysterious stranger sitting next to her at the diner’s counter. As she dug hungrily into her plate of filet of sole, she rambled on about her frustrations at succeeding in the competitive arena of the music business and about how wrong it was that a normal (well slightly chubby) person like herself was considered elephantine by the industry. “You’re such a good listener,” she said shaking the stranger's hand as she got up to leave. As he had through out the whole encounter, he smiled graciously at her and nodded. Checking out at the cash register, she mentioned to the cashier how kind the gentleman sitting next to her had been and what a good listener he was. “Harry?” the woman grinned back at her. “He’s deaf as a post.” Seeing Marigold blush, she added, “Lots of us tell our troubles to Harry. He really is a good listener. He may not hear the words, but he is present in a way that many who can actually hear aren’t…. and you feel better, don’t you?” “Well, I guess I do,” Marigold laughed. “Life sure is strange sometimes, isn’t it?” "Indeed," the cashier nodded. "Have a great day," they said in unison and both laughed.
And the mega challenge:
Being manic depressive wasn’t easy and over the years, Violet had become extremely secretive about her condition. Surprisingly, most people were not very sympathetic. Some even reacted as though she was dangerous and pulled back from friendship. She had only fragmentary memories of the days before diagnosis and treatment. What she did remember was a sense of frantic, perpetual motion and racing thoughts. She had nothing but gratitude to the mysterious stranger who had apparently found her in a frenzy of activity, surrounded by a dozen paint cans, trying to paint everything in sight the color purple so that she (being Violet) would blend in. He had somehow persuaded her to check herself into the Puget Sound sanitarium where she had not only received treatment and counseling for her bi-polar condition, but also a gastric by-pass operation which had helped bring her body down from it’s formerly elephantine proportions to something much healthier. The mysterious stranger – who was apparently a kind of John Beresford Tipton for crazy people had not only paid to send her to culinary school (she was, it turned out, more than handy in the kitchen) but built and funded a restaurant for her which she had named Sole Music since sea food, particularly filet of sole was her specialty. She had designed the place with parallel bars on the side walls, one serving alcohol, one serving health food and non potent drinks. Today, twenty years later, as she received the Cordon Bleu Award for Culinary Excellence, she gratefully blessed the mysterious stranger who had given her everything and never asked for anything in return, not even a thank you. No one could ever tell her than angels don’t exist. She was watched over by them.
*********************
This week's vanity wordzzle used the words:
Next Week's Ten Word Challenge will be: gouged, symmetrical, Spanish moss, ATV, parallel parking, Luscious, origami, amphibian, turkey, gravy train
And for the Mini Challenge: pouring rain, mastiff, church bells, wedding dress, stock car races
Thanks for playing. For those who are new, here are some guidelines to make the process more fun.
Enjoy! See you next week.
DON'T FORGET TO ADD YOUR NAME TO MR. LINKY!!!!!
I'm not sure why I'm sharing this poem. It was written in 1969 when I was twenty-one or 22. I hadn't looked at it in a long time. I guess maybe I'm sharing it because I still feel most of these things 40 years later. Little did I know in 1969 that things would just get worse and worse and worse and the days when I wrote these words would seem like the good old days. Boy. Now, I'm depressed. But I'm sharing it anyway. The little picture at the left is how I looked in my naive optimistic days in 1969.
I am young and do not know enough to write a long poem
I do not understand the evils that men do
That they see each other only cruelly
And thereby justify their own injustices
I do not understand why cages are so necessary
To protect us from each other
Or why, locked in those cages
We put on masks to keep back even those we trust
At the same time pleading to be loved
I do not understand what I can do in so big a world
Where we are all crowded so far apart
And where we talk, not to each other,
But to audiences, and majorities, and minorities
Where awareness and humanity are catch-phrased out for us
By mass media and men with charisma
I do not know what I can do
And I do not understand why even though I don't believe in fear
I sometimes feel it surging up inside me
So that I want to run and hide, to get away
I do not understand that I am useless
In a world that has so many problems left to solve
Yet I have no solutions
Easy answers, yes,
But I am just old enough not to believe them
And just young enough to still have hope
But still in all, I do not understand why fear can conquer trust
Or greed abolish dreams
And so I am too young to write a long poem
Which ought to have answers.
- Katherine E. Rabenau
This tiny little squirrel was taken out my front window. It's double paned glass and not very clean (though my friend washed it for me). For some reason everything comes out fuzzy. I'm posting it anyway, because I think his cuteness outshines the blurriness.
Oops... one more comment... Another picture with the front window blur... 
Maryt/The Teach over at Work of the Poet has something called Ruby Tuesday which features red. Since my little kingdom isn't very rich in red, I'm going to use some more of the photos from the pick-up truck that took away branches from the tree tragedy. I actually had fun photographing it.
November 5, 2009
