Promise gone awry; potential unfulfilled.
See it in the eye; feel it in the will.
Too weary to cry; can not climb the hill.
Life should not have gone this way.
My angel forgot ‘twas my day
My muse was missing: off to play.
I got a bum deal. What’s to say?
Bag of worn out tools; blueprint smudged and grey.
Dream the dream of fools; awake within the fray.
Shadows, wraiths and ghouls steal my hope away.
Suffering appears my lot.
my appointment fate forgot
all my efforts came to naught
ashes now my riches bought
Poisoned air I breathe; exhale poisoned more
As I writhe and seethe, hopeless anthems pour
Yet I can’t believe that this I’m fashioned for.
Hope to faith and faith to sight
Sees life from death, and day from night
From seed to tree from frail to might
It’s all I have to bring things right.
There are people in my world who have it undeservedly hard. Their stories could drag a tear of sympathy or a cry of indignation from the coldest stoic. I don’t pretend to understand the random hand of life. Though I care deeply, I come across as coldly analytical or as simplistically optimistic.
I am an early riser. I’ve only suffered from true depression a couple of times, but I have looked around on a day and said “How did I get here and how do I get out of this?” At such times, the heavens seemed silent.
I have a grand child staying with me who did nothing to deserve his lot in life. True! It is a weeded lot. I wish I could change it. But the dandelion has caught the wind.
Early on, he seemed to have all the “brightest and best” potential. Yet at the grand age of 10 he has lost his vision and has become angry. It’s hard for my bounce out of bed personality to see his answer. Maybe I’ll find 3 friends and we can tie him to a gurney and haul him to the Great physician. But if he’s like I was in my time of despair, we’ll need to muzzle him so a proper diagnosis may be made. But then, I guess God doesn’t really get ticked off or off track like man does.
Bright eyes glowing love without precedent,
Soft feet danced into my heart and mind
Captive laughter entwined with spoken words
Changing my memory with passing time
Hearts and lives grown ever distant by what is
None to fault, yet nagging pain lies there
Amidst the great proud streets and fallen walls
Of happy stories built in yesteryear.
I may not venture back into that realm
of giggling child, or quiet candid talk
to hold ought but a dimly fading light
and walk again where bygone shadows stalk
Robust or timid, moments raced away
before I’d barely pressed them to my mind
And yet my heart holds firm those things it felt
A joyful memory of another kind.
Life happens. I've been ill for a little over a week. My class load has tripled. Yea!! I'm overjoyed and tired.
Tonight my 21 year old came to visit and eat supper with us and pick up her new phone and tell us about all the awesome stuff going by at breakneck speed. She's begun taking on more responsibility at work. It's so exciting. She dated an old friend and got goose bumps that felt really weird seeing as how he's like a brother. He treated her like a lady, invited her in for icecream, and sang to her. I was smiling and yelling "whoa, there Jimmy Stewart" inside. On the outside I offered encouragement. He's good stock! Did I just say that? I love her alot.
One of my students commented last week: "You really get pumped doing this, don't you?" I laughed, "I love teaching; I love art. What's not to get pumped over!?" But I remember how I almost hated it all a few years back. Then I think how I had loved it a few years before that. I'm fickle.
My grand kids are coming next week and then I'll have another group for a while later. It excites me; yet experience tells me how fast it will all go by and I wonder if I'll be able to make those special "remember it forever" moments happen. I've decided they just come along like the teaching and the goosebumps. I hope I don't get so busy I miss them.
I find myself reflective, drenched in melancholy this night. So the poem "Memory of another kind." May you be blessed.
I’m a fairly good storyteller. I get involved with my story; I feel; I smell; I hear. My real difficulty is in ending. My father was an excellent story teller. He had no problem ending a story. He simply went to sleep.
One moment, the listener was on the range in Colorado, or in Kansas, or on ship with bored, homesick soldiers playing jokes and doing hilarious disgusting things or another of a thousand favorite tales, and the next moment there was silence. The story was over and my father sat with eyes closed, his head cocked to one side, his mouth open as in anticipation of the next word and hands folded across his chest which heaved with strong, deep breaths.
His stories were animated, well thought tales that relived his senses and emotions. Frequently, one tale, instead of concluding, led to another tale. But eventually the end was found in sleep. Sometimes the grandchildren would listen for a time, then another would wander in and the first would simple drift away leaving the second a captive audience to my father’s endless story of life, waiting impatiently for the inevitable dose or another sibling or cousin to show up.
His poetry never stopped, it ended, it concluded. Yes, it was introduced, developed and concluded within a specific style and meter. But his stories, well you know. It didn’t bother him in the least.
My dad and my husband made a great pair. One moment we’d leave them, eyes wide, mouths wide in discussion or my dad in his story teller mode with my husband in his full attention mode. We’d return shortly to find them both with heads nodding or cocked, eyes closed, mouths open. If we left the room for a minute they’d be back in full communication mode when we returned. One trip home I commented on it. My husband said, “Your dad is such an interesting, funny guy. I always hate it when I fall asleep. He never seems offended, but I still feel bad.”
I smiled and replied, “Don’t,” realizing that my father probably never knew when my husband went to sleep or when he awoke. Since dad would resume a story when he awoke, it probably startled my husband into consciousness.
It is my dad’s legacy that I and many of my family are storytellers. Redundant storytellers. If the story fits, tell it without questioning who heard it before. It was such fun to watch and listen to my father tell a story, that I didn’t see it as a problem. People truly enjoyed his stories and would never say “You’ve told that story before.” Well, yes, mama would say that, but it didn’t stop him most of the time.
During the last two years of his life, they lived close to me. He had many maladies including one that made his legs and feet from his knees down swell and blister. When they first moved to Fort Smith, his legs were covered with open sores. I took him to the doctor who said he needed more water, to walk more and to loose weight. That was it!?! I began massaging, cleansing, and wrapping his legs morning and night. The sores went away. The color came back.
Those maintenance sessions are some of my most precious memories. His mind was beginning to succumb to age and the onset of Alzheimer’s. I could always tell if it would be a good day or a bad day when I arrived at his house to dress his legs before I started my day as a school teacher. On occasion, he would be sitting half asleep in his recliner when I arrived, he would awaken slowly to the sound of me preparing his water jug and the supplies to cleanse and rewrap his legs. When I began the task, he would try to talk to me, but would change the stories around. Sometimes he’d ask if I remembered when we did something from his childhood. I’d smile and remind him I was Donna. “Oh, yeah, you were later,” he’d say, with an uncharacteristic uneasiness. He always knew I was Donna, but at times, he forgot where I fit in. It pleased me that he knew I was Donna and that we were close in a special familial way. I could see the deterioration, though the diagnosis had not yet been made.
Yet, most days, he was awake and singing as I came up the walk. He greeted me with a cheery, “Hello, daughter dear.” Sometimes I’d giggle as he called out, “Come in here, Bunny Faye (my childhood nick name).”
He’d laugh and sing and recite poetry – usually his own edition - as I worked. I’d laugh and tease and sing along or bounce his nonsense back as I’d always done. We’d reminisce and he’d ask me about my classes and give his authoritative view on the needs of youth in our current world. Then without a break, he’d launch into a story I’d heard a hundred times from the time he worked for Denver Public Schools overseeing one districts maintenance. I knew it would be a good day.
Evenings were not so chipper. The TV was generally on, Mom would make some kind of goody to bless my husband and me as I prepared to clean and dress my dad’s legs for the night. Mom would complain about the day and dad’s antics. We’d all change the subject as we could and watch some TV show we were not interested in. Eventually, the storytelling would begin. My mom would usually say. “Oh Bill, you’ve told that story a hundred times.”
My husband or I would say ,”But I love to hear it,” and while my mother pouted, he’d launch into the story. Some nights it would get jumbled and my mom would interrupt with corrections. But the best nights were the ones where the story telling ended as my dad dosed off: head back, mouth open, eyes closed. I’d tiptoe to kiss my mom while my husband picked up jackets or car keys and then brush dad’s forehead with a soft kiss and whisper “Goodnight, daddy.”
No wonder I never learned how to properly end a story. I usually just stop when my mind goes to sleep or I see other’s have.
The picture is my parents and my three older daughters, preschool age.
standing like the girl at the dance
knowing your name will not be called
prince charming will not notice the extra time
and effort you put into your hair and make-up
prince charming smiles as he calls out names
prince charming raises an eyebrown
everyone knows it means nothing
but he won’t call your name
he won’t hand you an invitation to dream
writhing in the joy of receiving
writhing in the agony of separation
you paste on a smile and wait
and wait until you can go away
from this feeling of lonely rejection
noone is to blame
the only he in your life
is the slave of your sworn enemy
you don’t desire his affirmation of love
and yet . . .
standing alone in this noisy crowd
where every glance seems to say
“don’t stare; she’s got nobody”
you try to remember
what the slave looked like
what his touch felt like
what his hair smelled like after a shower
you cough and shudder
a tear wells in your eye
you ask yourself why
why did I choose this path, this place
why did I choose a man I can’t admire
a man I can’t befriend
or remember
there will be other dances
someday you may be queen
but for tonight
you stand and wait alone
and hide the tears
until you can cry alone
The picture is of my daughter and her son shortly after his 10th birthday.
I
alone
against the raging wind
and pounding rain
as piercing cold lay bare my heart
and drained my will by force again
in its onslaught found a hand
of one as beaten down as I.
We grasped each other hoping
that the little strength we both possessed
would be enough to see us through
what seemed a daunting, endless quest.
On and on
through angry gale
we stood together
gaining strength, gaining will
until our own determined stand
proved to the wind it’s futile strife.
And in that stand each gaining strength
and hope and with it force of life.
till in our own strength we could stand
while wind and rain and cold disband.
Confident,
grateful for the chance to grow
from weak to strong
we found we could let go
And each move out toward a private goal
basking in the sun and warmth
carrying the memory of the struggle in each soul.
Walking, I with head held high and heart held light
pursue a path unknown toward the night
a starless, moonless road with howling wind and rain and I,
I writhe in pain.
I am
alone
again.
A flame for peace?
It feels so good to be home. It felt great to teach in my studio, to watch a movie on my couch or recliner, to drink from my own coffee pot and to sleep in my own bed. It wasn't even too bad a loss watching the Razorbacks fall to Kentucky in my own living room. Don't expect that from me again!
Hobbes has been so loving. It took him until this morning to even fight back at me a little and even then he stopped biting to rub and lick my hand. He was gone to the vet during the first part of our traveling and then was at home alone for a while. We rushed in for a day and a half and then he was alone for a couple more days. Yeah, it's nice to pet him some and hear him purr softly, but there needs to be a balance with the fiesty thing I love so much.
I'm catching up slowly on friends blogs. If I haven't been there, I'll visit soon. I've been out so much, that I have a lot to read up on. I appreciate all my friends, old and new, for the well wishes and kind messages of comfort. I've been processing some of the experience and if it feels right, I'll share at a later date.
I got a couple of messages asking me to post a candle for peace. I thought "Heck yeah, if it'll help I'll post the whole fireplace." My feelings about war were posted back in November and can be accessed through war and military in my tag cloud. But without confusion let me state my position. Some of my blog friends have mistaken me for a different horse to ride.
I value integrity in a man. I feel that integrity is more important than intelligence in a leader, though we always hope for both. My belief is that George Bush Jr is a man of integrity if not always of intelligence and I refuse to bash him because I don't like war. It's okay if you disagree with me, but don't feel you have to make me hate him, Okay? If I don't agree with him, I have a prayer and a vote. If I do agree with him, I have a prayer and a vote. It's enough for me.
I cannot pretend to know what's best for Iraq. I barely know what's best for my little piece of real estate occupied by two adults, fish, a cat, two dogs and a host of critters that make it on their own including a family of doves we encourage and at least one skunk we'd like to discourage. I'm not into arguing why we're in Iraq or what the motives may have been for all concerned. I think that whether this or that happened a couple of years ago, is a moot point now.
I have many military friends and family, some who are currently there. I am saddened by the stories of loss and injury and embarrassed by stories of inpropriety and abuse of power. But I hear what my friends say about the people there and the need and their heart when they come back is toward success for that country. For those military men, it has not been about oil or power or weapons. It's about a hope of a people torn inside and outside. It's about pleas for help and against abandonment. I trust the heart of these, my friends and family and so I wait and pray for a resolution. Frankly I think its not really about us saving face as a nation at this point. There may be a time when we must abandon that nation to chaos and terrorism. I don't know, but my heart cries a line from "Return of the King": "This is not that day!"
Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe the new senate will vote to walk away from the unexpected mess that has developed. I keep hoping and praying for a resolution that, if not good, is at least not unreasonable. Yes, I'll post a candle for the end of the war, but I'll also wait with a troubled heart hoping some solution may be found.
