Fatlighter

Rest. I've discovered its good to rest.
I'm spending a lot of time on my new chaise lounge.
Reading, eating oatmeal, listening to nice music thanks to Ennio Morricone.

I build fires. Splitting wood, oh what a soul cleansing experience this is.
First, selecting the piece I want to split. I scan the pile, looking for one that's flat on at least one end.And since I just got a new load, that has bright ivory ends, and is very  heavy, and tough to split,  I look for the older stuff, that has dark brown ends.

Whack! One swing, it drops into two pieces. Yes sir. Set the small pieces up, and swat them. Flop. Down go the pieces on the cement. One becomes two, then four, and sometimes six or eight. I gather them and carry them under my arms. I grab a small piece of fatlighter and head back inside.

Crumpling a small piece of newspaper, I toss it in first. Next, I carefully arrange each piece of wood, like I'm constructing a house of logs. Making sure there are plenty of empty places, so oxygen can flow through and around the wood. 

I place a small, dense, magical pine piece in the middle of the stove, resting it on the wadded up paper, like I am putting it to bed and the paper is it's pillow. One match. Strike, touch, blaze begins. I sit on the brick hearth. Watching. The paper turns yellow, in a quick flash. As it nears the fatlighter, black smoke begins to emerge, along with a scent of gasoline. Short orange and red flames begin licking the split wood. Soon, it looks like long yellow fingers are wrapping around the whole pile of wood. 
The fire moves from the back to the front, then around the ends. The fire begins sending its heat out to me. I notice a log has slipped off the fire-dog, so I grab my poker. I lift it, twist it, support it, heave it back on to the support. My plan is to get this fire going really well, and then do my devotion. 

I begin thinking about how it used to be, BEFORE fathlighter.  

I used to go out into my yard, early in the morning, collect dried limbs and branches, break them up and use them to start my fires. The fight lighter almost makes me feel guilty, like I'm cheating. It's so easy this way. Almost no work....

Suddenly, I see a metaphor. As I used to walk in my pajamas in the yard, at 5 am or midnight sometimes, traipsing alone, feeling alone, feeling angry...and taking an hour to build a fire.. I was doing it all alone, and I was sad, and miserable, and cold.

Two and a half years ago, I made a new commitment...that I would hold God's hand, and walk with him, wherever He took me. I surrendered all. Really and truly. All. I began by spending early mornings talking to him, mostly, sometimes listening with purpose. And reading, lots of reading. And writing down what was really causing me pain. I'd sit on my porch, as it was warmer then, fall. And watch the birds and trees. Whenever I'd see something beautiful, I'd write it down.

Now, I've moved my morning devotion inside. So I build fires first. And eat, then I start. I don't listen very well, but lately, I've just opened up to however God wants to talk to me. But not concentrating on it...just letting it happen. And usually, while I look at the fire, I see God is working things out. Easy. Fatlighter is easy. With God, it is easier. Not without heart-break, or heart-ache, but easier to bear. The pain of life doesn't go away, but I don't run from it anymore. I sit beside the fire, watch it burn away everything. What is left, are all the jewels. They don't burn. I can see them sparkle now. A simple exhale, and the ashes lift up, and I see what was laying beneath....diamonds, created by tears and ache, and love....and more love...for myself.

Somethings are going to hurt, but God will help me burn it away....

I've been reading about prayer and meditation lately. Some people say I am supposed to do something, a chant maybe, to clear my mind. Well, I realize, that building fires, clears my mind, and softens my soul, and enlarges my heart. I don't need a chant. I study the flames, and feel the warmth God gives me, by the destruction of a tree. It's the sacrifice. But God wants me to be warm. And I thank Him for creating trees for me to burn. I thank him for the matches on my hearth, and my bedroom slippers, and fat lighter.

Joe From New Jersey

"Yeah, dese ah really nice. The Holy Muddah on dis one. Would ya lowook at dis? Oh Yeah. Nice, nice."

The middle aged man stood in front of the greeting card section at the Dollar General. His accent screaming out to anyone within earshot, "I AM NOT FROM THE SOUTH!"
A young female clerk stood close beside him, wearing her Santa hat, holding the box of greeting cards for him. She looked at me, then passed the box to him.
He repeated, "Would ya lowook at dis? So nice!" She eased herself away from him, ever so politely, and headed towards the register to ring me up.

I carried two bags of blow-pops and a blue sharpie.

"I'll get dese. Thank ya for helping me find dese." The man said, as he headed to the counter. His tone was mournful, yet grateful.
She rang up his cards and smiled at me, almost to say, "Thank you for coming in to this store when you did."

The man mentioned something about a good place to eat.
"Firehouse subs are good." I said.
"Oh, I triyued dose guys, no gowud, no gowud. But maybe I should. Wad ya get?"
"I had the hook and ladder. Number one. Add some honey-mustard. It's really a good sandwich."
We walked out together and stood on the sidewalk.


Something about this man made me want to keep talking to him. So, I did.
I learned that he recently moved here from New Jersey. That his wife left him 20 years ago, took their three girls, after 15 years of marriage. She'd been having an affair for a while. His father died when he was 11.
"Maddie, my neighbor, he helped me out. He let me help him deliver milk. He'd knock on my door at one a.m., I'd get up and deliver milk. Maddie, he took real good care of me. Took me out to eat.  Said he'd pay for my college." He looked at the ground and shuffled his feet back and forth.  "I didn't go. I met a girl, Barbara, fell in love and got married. She's the one that left me."

"So, how did you survive that?" I asked.
He had a puzzled look on his face.
"I'm talking about when your wife left and took your kids? How'd you handle that?"
"I drank a lot." So simple. The truth. Numb the pain.
"Well, I'm dealing with this too. Not exactly, but similar. My 3 kids are living with their dad now. And I'm having a rough time of it."
"Oh really? Aw that's not nice, not nice. No, not nice."
I wasn't sure what,exactly, he was referring to. But it sure felt comforting.
"No, it's not nice." The whole thing sucks! Is what I wanted to say. But chose to keep that to myself.
"Wadda ya know. Everybody's got something, right?"
"Yea, I think you're right."
"My name's Joe. I'm from New Jersey." He stuck his pudgy hand out to shake mine.
"I'm Kathy, nice to meet you Joe. Welcome to the south. Your story helped me."
"Oh yea, Well that's nice." He didn't seem to question my statement.
"Maybe I"ll try Firehouse Subs again, since you were so nice to tell me that you liked it."
"The bread is what makes it great, I think."
"You have a nice day. It was nice talkin to ya." Joe extended his arm and waved as he headed to his car.
"You too Joe."

We both understand that some things are nice, and some things aren't so nice. Either way, it's Christmas time, and finding a card with a picture of the Holy Mother on it, well, it's just nice.

Remote Control

I'm up at 5:30 am, reading another chapter of Eat, Pray Love, and I'm not worried about myself, or anyone else. Strange. Yes. This is strange for me. If I'm up at 5:30 am, ANYDAY, then it's because I'm worried. I don't usually know what I'm worried about, I just get that feeling that somebody, somewhere, is in danger. Like a bear is about to eat them, they are pinned against a tree. Or they are on a boat, sound asleep, and it's sinking. And, while I don't fear death, I do think that drowning would be the worst way to go. Maybe because I love to swim so much, and have found peace, in very large amounts, while underwater.
It's been 46 days since the atom bomb blue up in my lap, so this being able to enjoy a 5:30 am moment, is a miracle. I realized I just typed the word 'blue' instead of 'blew," but i think the color is more accurate. I've been in a bucket of blue for some time now. Not just 46 days, off and on, pretty much for the past couple of years.

A pending custody case had me in a holding pattern. That's over now. And I'm handling the fall-out.

Only, something new happened last night. Totally new.

I curled up on my new chaise lounge, ivory, with plum colored pillows and a matching throw- that's softer than a chinchilla, ready to read the next chapter in Eat, Pray, Love, and felt my eyelids getting heavy. Sitting a few feet away was my son, who was getting a video cued up on Youtube. A dance group called "Remote Control" appeared on the screen.
"Mom, you gotta watch these guys! This is the dance group I wanted to show you."
My son's excitement lit up the room. I couldn't wait to see the video. He turned the screen to face me, turned off all the lights nearby, and sat close by me.
Three men, spray-painted gold, in their 3 piece suits, began moving to electronic music. They jerked to the beat of the music, moving their bodies like robots, or better yet, like action figures, with joints that will go in ANY direction. The kind that adults and kids alike will put in unnatural poses, and then laugh at the hideousness hilarity of a deformity. Like a fat warrior who can put his sword up his ass, while his shield is stuck between his legs, bent over backwards, with his head cocked to the side. On a relate-able note: That is exactly how I have felt for the past couple of years. Just because I can twist into a strange position, doesn't make it good.
So, we're watching this video together, my daughter joins us, and I am amazed. These aren't just good dancers, they are quintessentially in charge of their bodies. It's beautiful to watch such mastery. After each move, I utter, "Oh my God, that's amazing! Look at his legs! That's CRAZY!" My son responds after about my fifteenth, expression, "I know, I know..." He sounds a bit irritated at my repetitious glee, so I become quiet. I guess he wants me to watch in silence. That's hard for me...I like to say what I'm thinking. After a few minutes pass, "Mom, what do you think?"
"Well, I think they are amazing, I'm being quiet now though, because you said, "I know, I know...mom" and it sounded like you were irritated with my constant comments."
"Oh, I"m sorry. You can tell me what you think. Which one is your favorite?"
The guy on the right had just done a solo. He was really good. "I like this guy on the right."
"Just wait mom, The guy on the left is better. You'll see."
He was right, the guy on the left did some freaky things, he looked like he was suspending himself on one leg, above the ground, and then getting electrocuted. Not that electrocution is something you wanna see. But that is the only thing I can think of to express what it looked like. The guy vibrated his hands and arms, and he was gold, and electrical music was playing.....
Next, I wanted to see what the guys really looked like. (They had been wearing masks.)
So, Google images search took care of the mystery.
After that, I slid back on my chaise lounge to read, while brother and sister began watching silly videos. I thought I should get up and take my sleep medication, but I was too sleepy to get up.
"Well, when I wake up, unable to sleep, I'll take it." I thought.
An hour or so later it seemed, loud music blared, not sure how much time had passed, I simply asked, "Could you turn it down a little?"
It felt like 3 hours, but it had only been about 20 minutes. Around midnight, I uttered the famous phrase, "Bedtime kids."
"Are you sleeping in here?" one of them asked me. In a fog, a good fog, I managed to utter something like, "Yes, this is my new sleeping place."

So, what is new? Sleeping good. Not that I haven't ever slept good. It's just been absent for around 46 days now....probably closer to 60 days..if I'm being totally honest.

The deep slumber I had last night, well, I can't explain it. It was good on a whole new level. And it happened without effort.. I simply fell asleep, went to dreamland, and felt safe and snuggly for most of the night. This may be a common occurrence for the majority of the world, but its not for me.

How did this happen? And how do I know that I slept good?
I guess the evidence is that I woke up at 5:30 am, feeling  happy, and hungry, ready to read, and write. I did wake up a few times, feeling a little too warm, but was able to go back to sleep, fairly well. I only had one bad dream, but compared to the ones I've had over the past two years, it was mild, and didn't keep me awake.

I've found myself writing in my head a whole lot the past couple of weeks. I"ll think of a simple line to start out with, something that encompasses what is going on in my life, but I haven't had the courage or desire to see my own thoughts on the paper.
This morning, though, I feel a breakthrough. So I am writing.
I realized that I sleep best when I know my children are safe.
That is why I didn't need any sleep medicine last night.

What I am witnessing is that my children are strong, resilient. And they are going through this very difficult chapter of their lives together. TOGETHER.

Walking through tough terrain makes tough feet, and builds muscle.

We are all going to be okay. And that answers the "How?" question. My head has known this for a while, but I think my heart finally embraced this truth.

She's a Writer

I check my personal email just before heading out the door of work. Interesting. There's one from my daughter. She doesn't usually email me. She calls, or sends a facebook message. I click on it and start reading.

It began, "Here Lilly, Happy early birthday." The story pulled me in and took me on a fast journey into a the world of teenage girls. It wove and wound around corners, took me into treetops, not literal, but figuratively.
The language was smooth, real and believable. The characters painted were vivid, colorful, intense. Alive. Yes, that's it. They were alive. I could hear their voices. What an amazing writer! As I continued with the story, nearing the bottom of the first page, I recognized a spelling error, "meant" was spelled, "ment." Could this be Annabelle's story? No. Not hers. Then I came to this line, ""I felt like i was being packed in a sardine can. I couldn't move an inch without touching someone. Literaly. I hate people! I hate people! I hate people! I hated crowds, always had. I was a bit of an introvert.
Holy crap! This is Annabelle's story. NO WAY! Holy Crap!...
My dyslexic daughter is writing this?! 
I began to speed read, my heart raced and I leaned close to the computer screen, hanging on each word. What would happen next? Questions filled my head. "Where did the tickets come from and why doesn't Annabelle want to go to the concert?"

Questions are good when you are reading story. It's what keeps the reader motivated. How can she do this so well, so easily...and so damn young?

I finished the chapter and went back to my email to send her a response, and saw there was another email from her. Yay. More of the story!

I clicked it open and continued on this journey.

Annabelle is now riding in a car with Harry Styles. And she doesn't know who he is because she's in a Broadway bubble. The most famous young man in the world, and quite possibly the best looking, is taking Annabelle to an audition. He'd knocked her down on the sidewalk, and then offered to give her a ride, to kind of make-up for it. On the way there, they get mobbed by teenage girls, and Annabelle is clueless as to why this is happening. I chuckle when I read it.

What a GREAT concept! I'm jealous of my own daughter's talent. I've been working on a novel for 2 years now...and she's just pumped out two riveting chapters...that look to be effortless....

I can't wait to tell her what an amazing writer she is. How proud I am that she has a story in her head, and is able to paint a picture with such brilliant colors. In some places, the colors are soft and pastel-like, then quickly, she uses intense reds, oranges and black. Moments later, the picture nearly shifts to grey...How does she do that? I don't know. And it doesn't matter.

I reply to her email, telling her that I'm hooked and want to read more, among other things.
This is not what I expected from her.

When I see her later on in the day, we talk. She tells me that she wrote more than 6 more pages today in class. "So you were in a class with computers?"
"No mom. No computers?"
"How did you write then?"
"With a pen, in my notebook."
My son chimed in. "The old-fashioned way, mom."

Boy did I feel silly. Yep. She's a writer.
She's definitely a writer.....

A country song
Tells me everything
is going to be okay

Because the rain falls
the tractor plows the dirt
And the crops come in.
Time to stand Barefoot
in the tall grass, feel
the sun on your brow.

If I sit on the tailgate
And watch the stars
with someone I love
then everything is going
to be okay

If I ride down an old dirt road
drink a beer
Hold someone's hand
Go to a field and dance
Hang my t-shirt on a limb
And dive in
Then everything is going
to be okay

If I roll down the windows
and just chill
or cruise
and then spread a blanket out
on the ground
and watch the stars
Then everything is going
to be okay.

Simple
True
Good

I've gone country
and discovered
God is here
and everything is going
to be okay

Trust

I walk off the edge
of my own life.

And expect to spin
and feel scared
and loose consciousness

But instead
I feel safe
And loved
And warm.

And discover there is
A large net
that was only
6 inches down.

I sigh.
and breathe in life
and love
and get up
and walk across the net.
It's sturdy.
The rope is triple wound.

Yes, three pieces.
Trinity.

Close the Book

This story is over

And I stay on the last page

re-reading the last line

over, and over and over

Because its not the ending I wanted

It's not the ending I planned for

or dreamed for

or hoped for

or prayed for

Did God hear my prayer?

Does He see this?

Or did he glance away, for just a second

While this last line was written

Or worse yet?

Did he allow this line to be written

A line that cut my heart in half

And left me like a pile

of flesh

Bleeding, openly

For days and weeks

I have decided that the latter is what happened.

He allowed it

Maybe my heart needed cutting

Maybe it was wound too tight

in the flesh

And the only way to release my

spirit

Was to be cut

So here I sit, cut open,

weeping, and weeping and weeping

And sorting through the past 16 years of my life

and asking myself

what I am supposed to do next

Asking God to show me how to grow in this

As I pray

I hear a knock on my door

It's Fed-Ex

A non-descript man hands me

A small package.

I sign for it.

Will it contain a bomb?

I almost hope it does.

I open it

And there lies a book

With a white cover

and small gold letters

with a title

"Sequel to Book One"

I open the cover

and a tiny white feather, 

floats up and around my face

then a wind carries it away

I turn to the first page

And it is blank.

I flip through the whole book

And it's pure whiteness almost blinds me

I go inside

And lay the book face down.

Taped to the back of the book

Is a pen, with silver ink

And a small note

"It's time to write...."

Another tiny white feather

is stuck to the back cover

I trace it with my finger tips

And a sense of hope

Wells up in me

I weep in gratitude

"Thank you." I whisper

To whomever sent me this gift 

Moving

Moving

Boxes

Empty and ready

To store all the wishes

and dreams

and Promises

And Pain

I will put it all in boxes

So I can put away the pain.

The walls weren't thick enough to keep out

an Act of Evil

Because evil can slide under and over and even

go straight through

Physical barriers

Negative energy can smother love

It can drown even the best swimmer

It can choke the widest river

I must put it all in boxes.

And allow what is

to just be

and start over

With nothing

Exept a wounded heart

and a wee little bit of faith

Faith That the seeds I planted,

Seeds of truth

Will germinate

And sooner, rather than later,

Something will grow

In this pile of shit

That I am standing in.

One Direction

We sit in front of the computer. Sharing a single chair.

The wood stove heats the room.

"You have to see this video."

I know that it will be something cute. How could it not be? 

Five young men, well-dressed, slim, 

pretty faces,

smooth voices.

Snapshots hanging on a clothesline

Row after row of them

Close up's of little boys

Playing with toys

Sitting in their mother's laps

Eating in high chairs

Having messy faces

Laughing with their sisters

These are just like

the photos hanging on my walls.

That I need to take down,

Because the reminder 

of what is no longer here,

Is too painful 

to Look at 

Every

Single

Day.

Tears streaming

With no concern for who is watching

"Mama, you are crying?"

"Yes, I am."

She places her delicate fingers on my cheek.

"That photo looks like Lilly and Zebbie."

I know they have missed each other.

How could they not?

People thought they were twins.

They are, in a way.

Separation of twins is never a good thing.

My heart has been torn for them.

They have been reunited.

So my tears are of joy.

Knowing that even though they claim

that they can't stand each other.

Deep inside

They are glad to be

Together

Again.

The Storm

It didn't come quickly, as winter storms do.
It came slowly, like the summer storms.
You see them on the horizon.
A dark, black line separates the
light blue, peaceful sky
from the harsh wind, rain, and hail
that lie dormant
in the heavy clouds.

I built a shelter above ground.
Bolted the windows, sealed the doors.
But as the storm came closer, I could see the destruction in its wake
So I began to dig, first quickly, and then feverishly,
as fast as my hands could move
To create a safe place for myself and my loved ones.
That is what mothers do.

Just as the storm began to unleash itself
I called my family to the shelter.

Two got confused, and thought I was calling from outside the shelter.
They ran into the storm, and got sucked out into flying debris
and the harshest of hail this world has ever seen.
One heard my voice, and came to the shelter, hunkered down.
We listened to limbs crashing down, the roof caving in
water rushing through, pounding and pounding
as part of our lives washed away.

As the storm subsided, we exited the dark, safe confines.
The grief of the two missing ones, nearly overtook me.
But I had one, alive, thriving, that needed me.
I began to pick up the pieces and rebuild.
Singing, music, laughter, wonder, imagination
filled our home
Alongside a constant sorrow, like a lonely violin,
playing over and over, behind every scene in my life.

as I grieved the loss of the two missing children.
But peace gently descended
as I cried out to God.

A coldness descended.
Winter.
A brisk wind, out of the north, swept down while my back was turned,
and lifted my safe child out of my reach.

I called out, holding her hands tightly,
as she gripped my wrists.
But the roaring wind would not let go.
It pulled, with a vengance.
"Let go of my hands!" I pressed out of my lungs.
Her face, twisted and torn, begged me to keep holding on.
But I saw her shoulders beginning to separate, and the pain on her face
was unlike any I've ever seen.
I peeled her fingers
off my wrist, one by one
And watched her fly into the heart of the storm.

I pray that she will find her way out, along with the other two.
And when they return,
I will have the Red Cross standing by
To provide the best first aid
On planet Earth.
God's healing salve, that came to us, through Jesus,
will mend  the bones, and the cuts, and the bruises
and mis-guided thoughts
About life and love.

But I must wait.
And pray.
And believe.

Forgiveness

Forgiveness

It's a gift.
A gift for who?
For me.
Why?
Because I need to be soft.
And open.
And free.

So I say out loud.
"I forgive you."
And my stomach
relaxes.
My heart slows down.
My fists unclench.

The bird outside my window
Sings a beautiful song.
He's free.
He flies to the tip top
and sings.

A smooth, soft song.
takes up the space
of silence
And replaces sadness
with joy.

Brian goes to Mirror Lakes

Brian hopped in his yellow bug, didn't put on his seat belt, and turned on the stereo. He sped out of the gravel driveway-tires throwing rocks at the pine trees.  He stuck his elbow out of window then checked his pocket to make sure he had his cell phone. He sat it on the passenger seat.
"Find me some bo dy to lu uv. Find me some bo dy to lu uv!" He sang, with no shame.
He approached the single red light in downtown Buchanan. It was yellow. Brian sped up and made it just before it turned red. Coming right towards him was Stephanie's dad. He flashed the blue lights, grinned and waved.

Brian's phone lit up. It was Claire.

"You still coming?" She was direct.
"Yep. On my way."

He felt a bit intimidated driving to the elite Mirror Lakes community. He'd heard about it from friends. The rumours-CEO's, pro-athletes, doctors, lawyers, drug-dealers, business magnates built the sprawling development for its convenience to Atlanta.

As he cruised down I-20, he felt free. Like he was taking life into his own hands, determining his own destiny. The tree-lined interstate, with its overhead passes, felt like it was his road.  He noticed state troopers every few miles, and slowed down to 75 mph.

As he exited, he turned on the GPS audio. "Turn left in 100 yards."
"Yea, sure. Okay Miss Sarah." He responded.

The address he plugged in, 104 Nautical Way, sounded like a California address to him. Georgia towns didn't have names like that. Washington, Maple, First Street, MLK Street. Names with history. Nautical reminded him of pirates. He loved Pirates of the Caribbean. And Sinbad. But still, the street name was out of place here.

"Turn right onto Conners Rd. in point three miles."
"Okay Miss Sarah."

His phone vibrated. It was Claire.

"You close?"

"Yep."
"I'm outside with my board."
": )"

As he turned down her street, he saw her standing on the sidewalk. She had on white skinny jeans. Tight ones. And a white T-shirt. She also wore every piece of protective gear one could get on a body. Shin guards-black, elbow guards-black, knee pads, helmet-black. She resembled a storm trooper from Star Wars. Just sexier.

His heart raced and he slowed down as he pulled up beside her.
"You are on time!" she smiled at him and walked towards the car.
"Yea, I like to be punctual. Its a thing of mine." He got a whiff of her. She smelled something like candy and flowers mixed together. He wanted to hop out of the car and kiss her.
"You can park here." She motioned to the driveway. "My dad's out running errands."

He slowly pulled in, and she walked beside him. "You like Queen?" She tapped out the rhythm of Crazy Little Thing Called Love on the roof of his car.
"Love em." Brian grinned at her.
"Sweet. Me too!" Claire flipped her hair over her shoulders and stayed right beside his car, holding on to the roof as he pulled in the driveway.
"Don't let me run over you." Brian couldn't help being protective. It was his nature.
"Yea. I love Queen. My dad had a collection of their albums. I found them last summer. Then I lucked up on a turn-table at the pawn store for 20 bucks."
"What's your favorite album?" She stood on her skate board and began spinning with her arms outstretched.
"If you'd asked me last month, I would have said A Night At the Opera, but now I'm stuck on The Game. How bout you?" He reached into his backseat and grabbed his skateboard and backpack. He left the stereo on.
"Night at the Opera. No question. Best album ever." Claire raised both her hands over her head.
"Did you know that Roger Taylor studied to be a dentist?" Brian added.
"That's crazy. How'd you know that?"
"Well, my middle name is Roger. Yep. I'm named after him. My mom had this serious thing for drummers. But he was her favorite. She said I didn't look much like a Neal or Stewart."
Claire's face twisted around. "Neal?"
" Neal Pert-Rush. Stewart's with the Police. Sorry. My family's all into classic rock." Brian opened the car door, and swung his legs out.
"Freddie is one of my favorite singers of all time. He had soul." Claire skated up to her front door, locked the door, stuck a key in her pocket, and skated back to Brian's car.

"My dad told all his family my name was Ringo. I've got baby cards saying, 'Welcome to the world, Ringo!' That's pretty lame, huh?" Brian meant to be putting on his gear. But he couldn't take his eyes off of her. When she skated, it was like she was floating on a cloud. He'd never seen anyone skate so effortlessly, in person.
"That is sick! Your parents sound like mine. Or, well, my dad." Claire turned away from Brian and it looked like she wiped her face. She spun back around. "Get your gear on. I wanna show you something."
Brian sat in his car seat, opened his bag and pulled out his helmet, knee and elbow pads.
"Let me help you with that." Claire took the knee pads out of his hands, squatted down and velcroed them on. She looked up at Brian. He looked into her light green eyes, encircled with long brown lashes, and felt his heart leap out towards her. This was new. Girl kneeling down, looking at him, and smiling.
"There, all done. Now get your helmet on!" She snapped her fingers and then pointed at him and headed down the sidewalk.
Brain couldn't figure out what to do next. He touched his elbows to make sure he'd put on the pads. The past two minutes were a blur. All he could see were her green eyes. Clear, like a clean swimming pool. He wanted to jump in.

He got on his board, and floated behind her. Watching her hair blow and hoping to catch the scent. She glanced over her shoulder and smiled. He didn't know if he smiled back or not. He was too stunned with her storm-trooper beauty.

Cory Monteith

Cory Monteith

"An accidental drug overdose?" My daughter asked me. 

"Yes, I believe it was."

 He was planning on a life with his longtime girlfriend. He was still on the payroll of Glee. I don't think he intended to die. Maybe take away some pain for a short time, but not his life.

Cory had a tough life. More challenging than most. His parent divorced when he was seven. From there, life pretty much unravelled for him. He attended 16 schools, some of which were alternative schools. He dropped out at age 16, which is pretty typical for someone who has changed schools so frequently. At one point, he lived in his car. It's not surprising that he began using drugs at age 13. He started with marijuana and alcohol, as so many young people do.  He has openly shared about his struggle to live life 'clean.' 

 His story is typical on many levels. His desire to live pain-free is a goal for most humans. Learning to live with pain, and not injure yourself or another is a quest for mankind. No one has mastered it.

Despite his pain and addictions, Cory accomplished a lot in this life. The  producers of Glee stated that Cory had a tremendous work ethic, and was reliable and stable. This is evidence that he was clean for a good portion of his career. Relapses are very common with addicts, and Cory wasn't exempt from this.

The facts remain. Cory was a kind, hard-working young man, that was successful on many levels. He was tremendously generous with his time and money. Just a few weeks before he passed away, he sent a video to encourage a high school student, who struggled with the pain of life. The link is posted below.

http://www.examiner.com/video/cory-monteith-video-message-to-fan

He was the quiet, unassuming, tender man. I hope his life-ending will create a cascade of discussions about drug abuse, addictions and recovery. Maybe there are people, young and old, who will find sobriety through his sacrifice.

Thank you Cory, for following your dream.

You have given us a gift. Yourself.

Whoosh

Water lapping on the shore

Wind blowing my hair

A small plane buzzes through the billowing clouds

A jet ski bumps behind me

I lay on the hard, warm, wooden dock

My eyes are closed, and I face the sky

But I can see the sun through my eyelids

The salty air blows over me, just as I feel my skin begin to sear

What shall I do next, 

Dive off the dock?

Drop some cookies into the water to see what will eat them?

Take a walk to the Johnson's dock

Or just lay here some more and enjoy the sun on my skin.

I can hear a distant voice

"Mom, what'll we have for dinner?"

"Well, we've got that lettuce and those tomatoes. Let's make a salad."

"I'll grill the steaks."

"And bake some potatoes too."

"I'll run to the PX for some more bread and butter."

The ground is cleared.

But the memories swirl around me.

Peace is still here.

In my mind.

Blowing Bubbles

I purse my lips as if to kiss an unseen suitor.
I gently hold a wand of magic in my fingers,
Angle it towards the sky,
Then release a puff of air.

Little circles of transparent eternity
covered in colors
lavender, yellow, orange, pink, green 
swirl over the shiny globes.
They float around me, close, so I can
see through them.

They reflect my present life,
And allow me to see through them, 
to the future.
The colors: soft, gentle, 
inspire me.
They show me that my present circumstances, 
the joy 
and the difficulties
mix together
to create my beautiful life.

I see myself holding the wand, smiling,
gazing at the orb

A gentle wind carries the bubbles over the roof.

My spirit 

lives in the sphere 

of transparent love

 and 

floats 

away.

Now I can send another puff of air
into eternity.
And I will position myself
So that my head
is pointing up
Towards the soft wind, and gentle love
that creates the multicolored world

Bubbles.
They show me everything.

Freedom

Looking at the birds, 

fluttering around on a branch

overhead.

They are hopping on the ground,

beaks, pecking the pine needles

Expecting to find something

As I peck at the seemingly dry ground

I expect to find a drop of water

or a hidden cavern

leading to a new green pasture

The moment my beak hits the ground

The blue sky turns to billowing gray masses

covering any trace of warm, glowing sun

yet a drop of water hits the very spot

of dry, dusty earth

The drop, shaped like a tear

Reflects my face, 

My features become a misshapen oval head

and I sip the drop into my parched mouth

Another drop falls at my feet, and then I feel

a cool drop on my head, another on my back and 

moments later they begin rolling off my oily feathers

Soon I am standing in a small pool

Memory of dryness creeps into my thoughts

And the sun instantly bakes me into a crispy mess

like burnt bacon

I look up and see the birds on the branch

and remember that I must simply put

my beak to the dry ground.

I lower my head

In expectation of the rain

that will soon fall 

and quench my every need.

Chest pounding.
An ache that reminds me of getting run over by a car.
The tire tracks riding straight over my heart.

Remember the kisses on each eyelid, each cheek, then the chin, the forehead
sometimes the top of my head.

I love you all the way to the moon and back.
Now I know what that really means.
I'm on the moon, looking back.
And I peer in the window of our home
our  hearts
And I want to thank you for those hugs, and kisses
And the bedtime prayers

Thank you for bouncing the ball in the house
for leaving your shoes in the middle of the floor
for dropping your book bag in the kitchen

Thank you for taking out the trash
For doing your homework
Thank you for showing me your feelings
For telling me that you were sad, but you didn't know why

Thank you for touching my necklace
And asking me why people cry.

Thank you for riding circles around me on your bicycle
Thank you for letting me try to pitch 100 baseballs to you
in the pouring down rain on a fall day, in the dark
Because you wrote each of your spelling words, ten times.
And each word you put on the paper earned you a pitch from me
And when we got to the 67th pitch, you said,
"Let's go inside mamma. It's raining, and it's dark."

Right now, its raining  in my soul

And I pray the rain will help germinate
a small seed of hope
That will grow
And take the place of my loss

Swimming all day. Coming in exhausted. Eat dinner. Sleep. Repeat. Swim. With no particular destination. Just swim. Dive off the dock, into the murkey salty green water. Look at the little holes on the bottom. What's in the holes? I never found out. I swam. On my back, on my side, underwater, through the pilings of the docks. We got brave and took out the little sailboat. It was dangerous beyond description. No one had a clue how to sail. "Just pull up the sail, let the wind take you out, then turn around and come back in."  I didn't wear a life vest. Neither did anyone else. The boat turned over in the middle of the bayou. We laughed, jumped on the bottom of the boat and celebrated the upside down craft. Just enjoyed the day. The sunshine. We waved at shrimp boats, ski boats, deep sea fishing boats. We righted the boat and headed back to shore. I don't remember any of the conversation, just the feel of the wind, the sun and the houses on the shoreline. They looked so small. We couldn't see one human figure. I was eleven years old, and free. Fearless. Adventuresome. Life would never end. So I lived it fully. Came in sunburned. Tired. Hungry. Smiling. Laughing. Planning to sail out again tomorrow. And we did.

Giving birth. That won't be happening anymore. The reality that 'child bearing years are over' usually doesn't bother me. But once a month or so, I get a little sad about it. Today, I had a notion that I can find a new way to nurture young life. I can plant things, create little flower gardens in different places. Last night as I drifted to sleep I recalled my grandfather ambling up and down the rows of his vegetable garden. That is childbirth. Yes it is. He clipped his roses, as parent scolds his child, picks him up and sets him in the corner. When I marry again, one day, we will plant things, and watch them reach up towards the sun, and enjoy the tender little green arms. And smile when a flower opens. And cry when a bush explodes in color, like a child taking his first steps, or a first word spoken. We will water the plants, as a parent holds her breast to a baby. It won't be the same, but God knew what He was doing when he allowed a woman's body to end the life giving process. He knew that her energy and focus would change. That her muscles would ache after bringing in a few small grocery sacks...and her eyes wouldn't focus on close up objects...so He helped her out. I can enjoy mothering in a different way. Now, mothering myself first. And saying "no" to demands that aren't essential. My body says, "No," and while pangs of maternal drive sometimes push hard inside of me, I see the wisdom in some things coming to and end.

"Everything is temporary." This is a thought I cling to these days. I haven't written in several months. I write in my head, composing all types of essays about my life, and the emotions that rush through my veins and heart and make my fingertips tingle. Loss. That is what I have faced over and over and over and over this year. Loss. Just one loss. Followed by another. Not a greater loss. Just another one. A motorcycle crash. A suicide. And elderly woman's light finally fades out. My son leaves to go live with his dad. Then, a brutal beating, rape and murder of a 9 year old girl, who's older brother is my student. Some days my  heart feels like it is in a vice grip, twisting, turning, trying to escape the chest that contains it.  I listen to the same songs over and over again. Usher's "Numb." For a while, I think I"m listening to it because I like the  melody. After about the 7th viewing, I realize the images in the video reflect my year. Then, I hear myself singing the lyrics, and they touch a part of me that even I don't know exists. Numb. Is he telling me that I need to become numb to things that hurt me? The line about " I only trust in the things I feel, some may say that is strange. You better recognize what is real, because forever is a long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long time. Somethings never change, here we go again. Feel like I'm losing my mind, shake it off, let it go, I don't care anymore, just go numb." I have wanted to be numb. Then, I realized that part of me was numb. And I was glad, because that was what needed to happen. My evenings are long now. Interacting with one child instead of two or three, is not a change, it is an explosion of space. First I imploded. Everything I thought I was shifted. I'm not herding, or prodding, or coaching, or pushing or pulling, or stopping, or lifting like I used to. I can let my arms get weaker, that is what is supposed to happen now. The focus on the lens changed, I moved around to get clearer picture, but it stayed fuzzy. Parts of the picture are still out of focus, and I'm okay with a blurry picture right now.  The small part I see is this: Everything is important. I have recognized what is real, because now is forever, and forever is a long, long, long, long, long, long, long time.