The day named tomorrow

When the day named tomorrow comes to stare you in the face,

to set your blood humming in your recalcitrant veins.

and tomorrow will remind you of the pain of loss,

because that's what it means.

You may have only a tiny sip of relief.

Of this luminescent, sparkling relief,

to slake your thirst, a sip

and then no more.

Tomorrow looks you in the face and turns away.

It has no sympathy for your thirst.

Petitions of the Heart #3

I have been here before. I have danced to the rhythm of the indolent breezes. I have been lulled to a sleepy torpor by the gentle patter of the summer rain. The exotic scent of wet grass is intoxicating. Even more piquant is the aroma of dusty asphalt, summer baked, exhaling fine tendrils of mist; weaving upward, dodging raindrops.

I have been here before. But then you were with me. You who protected me. You shared the Earthy splendor with me. You were my partner, my lover, my friend. And now, when the elements are just right, as they are right now on this uncommon January day, I miss you with a part of my soul that has been hidden away. The longing is hot under my skin. My eyes burn with unshed tears. And so, I dance alone. We do not reach for raindrops together. Our hands cannot touch. My eyes cannot feast upon your face. And so I dance alone.

I have been here before. The shiny streets of Chicago. Blasting out heat, angry at the summer rain. Repelling the water as it cascades through the alleys, and then heaving a sigh of resignation as it begins to soak it up. Perfume. The soft susurrus and rustle as the Earth settles down and takes a long wet drink. And I find myself turning, and searching, for you. A kindred soul who felt the Earth with me. But you are not here, and my mind skips a beat as it adjusts. I have been here before.

Losing Mudpuddle

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away there lived a tiny, short legged pup named Mudpuddle. This pup was loved so truly and deeply by her adoring humans that any sense of her eventual demise was never even consciously considered.

But during an excrutiatingly difficult time in her Mommy's life that resulted in her Mommy almost losing her life, Mudpuddle became concerned to the point of lowering her natural immunity to illness. So, as her Mommy bacame sicker and sicker so did Mudpuddle. But no one knew that Mudpuddle was sick.

Eventually, Mommy crawled back from the brink of 'who knows what comes next'; but Mudpuddle didn't. Mudpuddle was only 13 tiny years old.

As it turned out, Mommy had to go back to work to support herself and her boy, Josh. So the care of Mudpuddle fell to Mommy's oldest child, Jenine. Jenine is big and brave and very strong. She took care of Mommy from the very beginning of Mommy's sickness. She has nerves of steel but a Pure Heart of Gold.

And so it came to pass that Mudpuddle could no longer walk, or see, or control her bodies natural functions. And one day, while Mommy was at work, Jenine called her and said, "It's time Mom." And she took Mudpuddle to the CSU Vet Hospital so they could help Mudpuddle along her path to 'who knows what comes next'.

And still I cry, bitter tears filled with pain, when I chance upon the oh so sweet memory of Mudpuddle and Jenine's bravery that day. Alone she went, with Mudpuddle cradled in her arms, sweet tiny pup, and gave her over the those who helped.

And Jenine cried big, gloppy tears, that fell and stained her t-shirt. But she knew it was the right time and the right thing to do. Did i tell you she is the bravest person I know?

And now Mommy has another pet who is not going to make it much longer, and she needs Jenine. Because Mommy is not brave. And Mommy's tears are already falling and staining her t-shirt, and this is a decision that she doesn't know how to make herself.

spotty at best

My memory is spotty at best. my life turned out to be a turbulent drama; every time I turned a corner, there I was, into more crap than I bargained for. The fact that I carried along with me a distinct sense of disbelief led to, I think, a blurry, washed out sequence of indistinct events.

Do your dance...

Denver is a noisy and wild place.  I live here.  

Today my son asked me where I would live if I had the choice; I said I'm no longer sure.  I feel like I have no place that I call 'home'.  So wherever I am, I make it 'home'.   To my children, wherever I am is home.  Kind of skewed, but it seems to work.  

   I would like to be surrounded by kind people, by green and growing things, by laughter and babies and my children and grand children.  I don't mind getting older; each day brings me something new to learn or experience and I'm thankful for that.

   In 1997, when I got so very sick, the doctors didn't think I would 'wake from the coma'  'have a functional brain' live more than a few more hours, then days, then months, and now 15 years later they all look at me like they are in the presence of a miracle....and I agree, life is a miracle.  Every day is a gift.  Time does appear to be moving faster, but it's all a part of the miracle.  All it means is that within the parenthesis of each day a person must wring out all the good stuff.  Do your dance.  Don't expect anything, be thankful for the gift of one more day.

a make believe tale...

I set the stage:  A small house with an attached shop sits beneath the branches of old growth trees, and birdsong is always heard.   A small yard with garden flowers and vegetables.  The shop is for thread and fabric and stitching and a gathering place for women.  The house is not small and not big but has two bedrooms; one for me and one for whomever seeks sanctuary.  A fire to chase away cold, and many windows so breezes can chase away hot.  A small village to walk to, where everyone says hello.  
     A small dog to love and who loves me back.
     Not much to need.  A place to belong.  A place to rest.  Birdsong and flowers.   Light through leaves.  A breeze not cool not hot.  A kiss on skin, a sparkling light, no fear at night.
     I don't know how to build this set.

internets

round and round we go in a circle game.

No rest for the eternally distracted...

    What I've discovered at the ripe old age of 65 is that the 'been there done that' mentality has ruled my entire life without me even realizing it.  Example:  I could drop a perfectly good job/behavior/art/husband (not so much), etc, (you get the picture), in favor of  the next new tangent.  
     Interestingly this mindset morphed as I became aware of the brain spasm that occurs just before I switch gears and learn how to change the oil in my car(this is only an example, I would never change the oil in my car). 
    And now comes the stealth response. I kid you not; I haven't changed one bit except now after the spasm occurs, I rationalize it by forgiving myself for dropping what I'm doing to go do something else. And that masks the truth (stealth quality)....the truth being I haven't learned anything in 65 years, I'm still hopping from one foot to the other, but now I'm nicer to myself when I realize that I've done it again.


 No rest for the eternally distracted.

a stitch in time....

 it is so breathtakingly frightening when one wears one's heart on one's sleeve for everyone to see....and poke....and pick off pieces...like lint from the dryer...all we can do is remember the good times....the love.... and learn to duck....when someone reaches for a touch...or with gleaming intent in their eyes....rips the sleeve off. All you can do is sew it back on....and in the process... learn a new stitch.

City forest

‎4 am, the middle of the city is as silent as it can get. The air is warm, even though it's january. I can hear, far from my building, the low, ominous rumble of a city bus; stopping and starting at corners and kiosks, complaining and empty. My sleep dumb mind is searching for reasons to stay awake....or slip back into the nest of sleep. Sleep wins, and the next thing I hear, as I surface again, is the morning call of city birds, chirping and singing with a sense of abandon one rarely hears in this place of deep cement and brick canyons. I am at once charmed. My happy bell starts to chime and wakefulness takes hold. I lay there thinking about those birds who mistakenly think they live in a protected, warm forest of plentiful nesting spots and safety from storms. The parking garage birds. Sometimes one even lands on my windowsill and blesses me with a private aria.

..Petitions of the Heart......The Mountain.

Day turned to night and night to day.  And still he sat upon the mountain.
     "What does he hope to discover?"  thought the angel who sat by his side, unseen by the man.
"Does he know that there are endless endings?"
     "Does he know that he is master of his own fate?"
"Does he think the answer will show itself to him in some sort of magical way?"

The man sighed and the angel relaxed and looked out to the horizon where the man was staring.
   "Dear God," spoke the man.  The angel said Amen and turned to the man to hear what he was going to say to God.
"I am only a man," he paused and cleared his throat.  "I thought that what I was doing was right and so I continued to do it.  And now I am suddenly older and I am no longer sure.  I thought I had all the answers to all the questions.  But now I have questions for which my usual method of finding answers doesn't work.  My patterns are so tightly formed.  I don't know how to get beyond this point.  I am asking for something from you."

The angel nodded his head.  "Good," he thought, "This man really does know the answers; time will help him to see.  Time, faith and truth."

The angel wrapped his wing around the man and the man felt its warmth.  And a gentle thought entered his mind, "Follow your heart.  Wherever it takes you is the right place."

And the sun broke through the clouds and the man left the mountain.