This One Day In October

Today, on this one day in October, not including every other day, of the few people out of the whole world that I keep in contact with, involves this list of personal concerns

 
7^th round of chemo for a young wife and Mother
Pacemaker surgery for a 90 year old Dad

Hernia surgery
Recovery and healing from a wrist surgery, a shoulder surgery, and a gall bladder surgery
MRI
A casted foot awaiting surgery
Dialysis while hoping for a kidney transplant
Medical test diagnosis
College tests
Root canal
Husband and father in harm’s way in Afghanistan
2 Marines, 1 Navy, 2 Army, serving in various positions and world locations
Feverish child
Ended relationship
An older Mother with cancer
Special needs children
Prostate cancer
A full term pregnancy that will not result in a healthy baby and joy filled parents
The unexpected death of a 29 year old

 
…and this, only a partial list. There surely is much more that I am unaware of. Minds filled with worrisome, dread-full thoughts and hearts so broken it is hard to believe they will ever not be, desperate for things to be different, but things are not different.

On this one day in October there is no person anywhere exempt from the reality of a similar list. This is a typical day in the lives of us. Tomorrow’s circumstances may combine with different individuals, but it promises more of the same as today, and all of the previous days for all people, since the beginning of time.  

In the unwittingly prophetic words of Led Zeppelin’s Stairway to Heaven, “yes there are two paths you can go by, but in the long run, there’s still time to change the road you’re on”, the implication is that some semblance of control exists. I submit that the only control is in the choosing of the path. One leads to helpless hopelessness as life’s list of trouble’s overwhelms and buries under, even causing some to end what they perceive as too painful to continue. The other leads to selfless hopeful confidence that even with the worst possible most devastating outcome of any and every circumstance and situation, the steps on this path will ultimately take you where you want to go.

There are two paths, only two paths. They each lead to a distinctly different, completely incompatible destination. The journey looks much the same along the way regardless of the path chosen, but the distance between them grows wider, and wider still. The two paths will never intersect or merge into one.

There is this one day in October, the 19^th day of the 2012^th year. Savor trouble free moments. Offer no portion of the day to useless, wasteful, frivolous complaint. Many who inhabit this great globe will not get to even see this day in its entirety, this, their last day. This day is wrought with trouble and difficulty; and while we breathe, time to change the road we’re on.

I write these thoughts with an interruption of news about a crash in front of my workplace. Speed, recklessness, and downed live power lines result in a crash victim whose life just took an unexpected turn, in an instant, perhaps even a permanent one.

Yes, there are two paths you can go by, but in the long run, there may not be time to change the road you’re on.

P.J.

“Lord, make me to know my end,
And what is the measure of my days,
That I may know how frail I am.
Indeed, You have made my days as handbreadths,
And my age is as nothing before You;
Certainly every man at his best state is but vapor.
 Surely every man walks about like a shadow;
Surely they busy themselves in vain;

Psalm 39:4-6

Inside

Sitting in the driver’s seat of the guest shuttle, near the fountain end of a long red brick paved, Royal palm tree lined driveway drawing visitors to the entrance of the Breakers Hotel, I need no convincing that this is a pretty special place.

In no direction would a visitor’s eye meet with disappointment. Green thumbs operate various gadgets and machinery with unequaled expertise maintaining golf grasses, trees, flower beds pots and lined paths, regularly refreshing with seasonal plantings. They are botanical magicians.

Along the back of the hotel is the Atlantic Ocean. As far as the eye can see to the east, south and north, spellbound audiences are offered brilliant performances every second of every day for years and years, and years more.

Stepping past smiling greeters, guests are welcomed inside with an ever changing floral arrangement the size of a small car, comprised of roses, orchids, plants, branches and ornaments complimenting seasons and holidays.

Floors, ceilings, walls and furnishings reflect the opulence of the hotel’s place in history. She boasts loomed carpets from the only weaver in the world equipped to undertake and meet size requirements, an original tapestry, ten foot tall hand painted and heavily carved wood doors leading to ballrooms, and gold leaf and crystal chandeliers overhead. Attention is given to the minutest details.

In her kitchens, chefs’ butchers’ and bakers’ perfect the presentation of culinary masterpieces prepared for discriminating pampered pallets, served to them by a synchronized wait staff.

This is the Breakers that guests take pictures of and tell their friends about.

There is a Breakers that they don’t see, a Breakers that the Breakers goes to great lengths to conceal from its guests, a Breakers that would reveal what guests would rather not believe even exists.

The shiny surface masks what is under layers of camouflage. Huge plastic bins on wheels mounded with laundry, loading docks of dusty cardboard, wooden skids and crated shipments necessary for the implementing of unforgettable stays. Industrial sized buckets of dirty mop water, caution signs that warn of wet floors, and the sound of crashing glass into recycle containers releasing their trapped odor from stale liquor bottles each time the lids are lifted. In the underbelly, a trash dumpster’s brew ferments and pollutes the air.

The pretty outside hides the ugly within.

A tall man in a non-distinct dark suit passes in front of me as I await guests desiring a ride. The day’s steady breeze blew the back placket of his non-distinct dark suit revealing its vivid violet lining. I watched the placket hoping for another glimpse of violet until the dark suited man was out of sight. A few minutes later I spotted him again, this time from the opposite direction. I could see his unbuttoned non-distinct dark suit coat flap with his step and the breeze, to reveal an even larger expanse of that vibrant violet lining. It was as if the non-distinct dark suit held a secret it could no longer keep, purposely, gleefully letting it slip.

Sometimes it’s good to know what’s really inside, other times it’s better not to.

I don’t want to be all clean and coiffed on the outside, immediately attractive or impressive, but concealing what is ugly, stinking, rotten and repulsive underneath. I don’t want to be non-distinct, like a thousand others, or keep my inner potential for vibrancy hidden or suppressed, until or unless life’s winds rustle me to action.

I want to be like my birthday purse.

I needed to retire the purse I’d been carrying and did look for a replacement a time or two, but not very determinedly. When my birthday came, my daughter decided she wanted me to have that new purse, so we set out on the mission to find one. A couple caught my eye, but were not just right, and as I was about to abort the mission, I spotted one. It was the only one like it, and it was on sale. The first thing to attract me was the pink pierced trim that resembled eyelet lace. It had charm and uniqueness, interest and color. Upon further inspection, peeking inside, I was treated to a polk-a-dot lining and pink piping. There were pockets and zippered compartments, and sizing it up for the paraphernalia I would carry in it; I determined it to be a keeper. It was perfect.

I do the best I can with my outside, keeping it clean and presentable, for the most part. Continual maintenance is required and sometimes additional attention is necessary. And though the inside is not visible with eyes, still what’s in there leaks out, pours out, is squeezed out or freely offered, so that the secrets within are revealed. As much as I want, and try, to keep my inner dumpster emptied, it still fills up with what rots and putrefies. As much as I try to be vibrant and orderly, sometimes I am as broken glass and dirty mop water.

Everything that influences my eyes, ears and thoughts, matters. If I fill up on trash, the rank odors will seep out, if I input what is good, goodness flows back out. That which is inside either festers or flourishes.

I am obligated to seriously scrutinize what is allowed entry. It is a lifelong responsibility, and I am accountable when I fail to take out the trash.


I want to be encouraged

and stay positive
that is the way
I prefer to live

but sometimes
awful gets the best of me
I'm bombarded
with negativity

thoughts can be poison
consumed in doubt
when garbage goes in
guess what comes out?!

daily circumstances
often improve
when effort is put
toward a good attitude

such as it is
I continue to try
to wisely handle
what goes inside

check my bad thoughts
at the door
and not let them in
anymore
 
P.J.

…whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable--if anything is excellent or praiseworthy--think about such things.

Philippians 4:8

Dining

Looking over the menu, pondering again the savory choices and thoughtfully weighing the many possibilities, I was at long last ready to place my order. I had been seated at the table for quite some time. All the while the one who came to serve me offered exceptional assistance, both by cheerfully stating his desire to honor my request when I was ready, and by patiently waiting for me to become so.

It was not my first time. I'd been at this table before, in fact I was a regular patron of the establishment. We were not strangers, my server and I. He had invested a great deal of his time tolerating my indecisiveness, listening to me try to convince myself that my menu choice would indeed satisfy the cravings of my appetite. All I ever really gave him in return for his service was a pittance of a tip compared to what he'd willingly and even eagerly, and continuously offered in service to me. He was just there, ready when I was.

I could sense as he listened, that he rarely considered my selections favorable. He was right, he was always right. He offered his suggestions, but of course, he would not, could not, make the decision for me. I do like to choose for myself. I did take him up on his offers occasionally, at least bits and pieces, a little of this or that, but all together what he thought I should choose just never seemed to be what I had a taste for.

I have a sweet tooth, so scanning the desert menu normally preceded the entrees. Too often what was visually tasty turned out to be nothing more than a lot of fluff, like European pastries, enticing but flavorless. Those irresistible sweet temptations repeatedly proved a disappointing addition of only unhealthy and non-nutritious artery clogging, heart fatiguing, fat burdening calories. Appie's have also always been especially appealing, but filling up on desert and appetizers left me hungry again soon after.

Substance was lacking.

For years and years it had been my habit to open the menu and direct my eyes to the prices, narrow my choices down to something among the least expensive and then decide. There was a strict limit to what I would allow the activity to cost me. Sometimes I absolutely salivated for one of the menu's most exorbitantly priced indulgences but knew they were reserved, for others.

Familiar as my server was with my fickle cuisine bents and palate inclinations, I knew without looking that he rolled his eyes and shook his head as he listened to me rattle off yet another unsavory choice. He reluctantly but compliantly indulged my whims, never surprised. He seemed to know a secret about me that I did not know about myself. It was as if he knew all along that the day would come when I would sit at his table and only briefly skim the menu for desert and prices, still plagued as a creature of habit, but more positively influenced. 

This time, having already predetermined what my order would be, he listened as I without hesitation looked him square in the eyes and said, I'll start with a hardly-difficult roll and a seize-her-day salad. After that I'd like the full rack-of-babies-with-ticklish ribs, a side of potatoes-all-rotten forgotten, and roasted summer squash-frivolous-squabbles. For desert I'd like the plum-tired-of-nonsense pudding, and a decaf express-my-soul.

He smiled.

Apparently, it was not even necessary to write it down or place the order with the chef. In only moments, large double doors swung open and through them came the entire wait staff bearing silver platters of my hearts desire, all that I had ordered and more!

I admired the lavish offerings with wide eyes, thanking them sincerely and repeatedly, and asked to have it all wrapped up to-go.

My server's smile grew even larger.

Each satisfying dish was carefully wrapped and packaged for safe transport, with a few extra tasty treats added in. It was a delectable feast, and there was plenty of it to share, all around.

"There's more where that came from" he said, "don't forget". I smiled and waved. We both knew I wouldn't forget. I would be back for more, of course.

There's a lot of hungry people out there, and I know where they can get their fill.

P.J.

 Man does not live on bread alone, but on every word that comes from the mouth of God.
  Matthew 4:4 

 For he satisfieth the longing soul, and filleth the hungry soul with goodness.
Psalm 107:9

Taken /Left

Standing at the kitchen sink, peering unfocused through the window into the freshly trimmed backyard, my thoughts wandered.

My eyes liked the little path to no-where, assembled like a concrete patchwork from no longer needed angle cut patio stones, pieces of the old pea rock sidewalk that once led to the front door, and a cement heart. The heart was made by digging a hole in the dirt for the cement truck to empty its down spout into when the new sidewalk was poured.

Purple Morning Glories grew at the back fence. I planted a pink Hibiscus tree and a white Angel Trumpet tree, one on each end of the path. Along its curve is an aluminum hand rail with a large heart shaped scroll work in the middle, one of a pair my son salvaged for me knowing I'd like the heart and find some creative use for. I only have one now, the other was stolen right out of my backyard, the nerve of some people. I made a giant dragonfly yard sculpture from a long necked wine bottle, with wings of copper wire, bits of glass, and beads to add sparkle in the sun. It is nestled nicely near the little path to no-where, as are a few decorative garden finials.

Out of the leftover pile of otherwise useless concrete chunk and paver debris, I constructed a small stacked stone-like wall at the paths beginning. A cast metal horse head tops the end cap. This, my view through the kitchen window.

After showing signs for several weeks of advanced age and service to our family, my old dishwasher finally stopped working altogether. Since then it has not been too much trouble to just wash the dishes by hand, though I look forward to replacing the machine, soon. Still in my robe not quite ready to fully engage the day, and wrist deep in sudsy water, I appreciated the serene view before me. A yellow butterfly delighted in the Morning Glories and a dragonfly lighted on the wing of my glass and wire yard art. Wash rinse drain, wash rinse drain, wash rinse drain. Not much thought needed to go into it, so my mind naturally drifted elsewhere, kids, grand-kids, parents, bills, job, classes, projects I was working on, some not yet started but should be working on. How does it happen that there is always so much to do and seems not enough time to do it in?

The phone rang, startling me back from daydreaming to attention. The answering machine, my no-salary automated call screener, relayed the recorded words I'd heard a hundred times, even a thousand times before, for years, "hello, this is NCO financial, this is an attempt to collect a debt...". I was annoyed, for the thousandth time. I pay my bills, don't have credit card debt, car payments or house payments. Living debt free has meant endless hard work and sacrifice. It isn't fair or right that the long past financial obligations incurred and ignored by others continue to hound, me. I wish the callers realized, and cared, that calling my phone number is a futile attempt toward their intent. The beep indicating a finished message let me relax again. Sunshine and suds drew me back in.

A curious flurry of wings and chirping beaks outside the window looked as if there was something of great interest and importance going on in the world of birds. It made me wonder what all the excitement was about. Wash rinse drain, wash rinse drain. The curly tail lizards that were usually content to bask atop the sun warmed chunks of stacked wall, like kings of the hill surveying their lands, scampered about every which way as if readying for a very important curly tail event. For some reason the whole scene seemed a bit unusual. What was all the raucous about out there?

I needed to quit dilly dallying here in the suds and get a move on or I would never accomplish my overladen to-do-list, or at least an acceptable portion of it. Is that thunder I hear in the distance? Strange, the sky is so sunny and bright, in fact so bright that I'm squinting here at the window, inside the house. As the distant thunder approaches, I can actually feel it under my feet and in my chest.

The trees suddenly bend under a whoosh of wind,
and then,
in the blink of an eye...

~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~

Wearing only socks on his feet to avoid the racket his clicking heals would cause on the 5:45 a.m. tile floor, he fumbled in the darkness as his eyes slowly adjusted, successfully making his way to the fridge without waking her. He swigged juice from the bottle. Today was a day off from her part time job, no need to wake her with his clatter he thought, especially not this early. They were up late last night talking, again, about church and her church friends and an upcoming event with them that she hoped he would attend with her. He was not interested. He had gone to a couple of those God functions with her, a softball game, a carry in supper and family game night, but her crowd just wasn't for him. Making nice on a Friday night with a bunch of Bible thumpers and their kids would not be a social repeat for him.

Instead he would spend his evenings, especially those on the weekends, chilling with his work pals at the Ice Box tavern only minutes up the street from his job. It had become a habit that did not earn any brownie points for him with her, but the beer was cold and he liked the company. She would just have to get over it. Their talks always ended up the same way, her disappointed, and him frustrated. They hadn't been doing well for quite some time, maybe not ever. It wasn't her fault, it wasn't his. They came from, lived in, and were headed toward, two different worlds. Polar opposites.

It wasn't that he could not believe there was a God, higher power, supernatural being, whatever you want to call it, but that he would not be beholden to someone, anyone, not her, not God. He was his own man. He never had and was sure never would, feel the need to strike up a bargain with God, he could handle his own affairs. It's his life, he'll do it himself, his own way.

He decided the ride to work would be much better with a cup of coffee from his favorite drive through. With his mind on other things, he sipped and promptly dribbled the too hot liquid down the front of his shirt pulling it away from his burned lips. With the sun not yet up, he was unable to see if any of the coffee splashed on his new car's upholstery. The thought of that miffed him the most. The day was off to a lousy start. He wished he could ditch the job but he had an appointment that had already been rescheduled, twice. He pulled into the parking space looking forward to 5:00.

His most pressing business was taken care of by late morning. He could have relaxed except that his thoughts kept moving back to his overall dissatisfaction with life. This sorry economy was bleeding his car salesman bank account, for a couple of years now. He had her, he was married, but could what he had with her really be called a marriage? He desperately wanted a change.

His thoughts were interrupted when he could overhear the guy in the next cubicle, "What? What do you mean? Calm down, say it slowly. OK I will. Call me when you get more information and I'll see what I can find out here." Then came the knock on their adjoining cubicle wall, followed by a "hey, come look at this".

Stirred from feeling sorry for himself, he went to where his buddy was looking at a TV. Regular television programming had been interrupted by the emergency broadcast system. Nonsensical words came out of an agitated announcer’s mouth, as the screen bounced from multiple camera crews in several locations where they were filming live. Co-workers joined them at the TV, "turn it up" one demanded. They watched and listened in disbelief. Was it some kind of War of the World's hoax? It was too bizarre, too many disconnected pieces. He looked around; two of his coworkers were missing. The boss, he was probably just out on the links, and the church guy who worked in the office at the other end of the showroom. None of them were particularly close to church guy, but where was he, shouldn't somebody go get him and tell him all hell seems to have broken loose out here?

He called home. The no salary automated call screener relayed his message through the speaker, to no-one listening. Maybe she is still sleeping he thought. He tried again, same thing.
He decided to try the neighbor's. The two women had become best friends since they started attending the same church a few years earlier. He figured he could ask her friend to see if her car was in the driveway. No answer. He tried one more time as he headed to his car, his own uneasiness compelling him to go check on her. Only moments ago he was wishing he could change his life. Well it seems things changed alright, at least for the moment, but this is not the change that he had in mind.

Her car was in the driveway when he pulled up, the neighbor's was too. He was a little puzzled, but mostly relieved to see their cars and to finally get out of the craziness on the roads. He turned the key, pushed open the door and called her name. No reply. He heard the sound of running water. Following the sound to the kitchen where it was coming from, he was bewildered to see only that, running water, and oddly, a pile of laundry on the floor in front of the sink. What distracted her so much that she forgot to turn off the water? And why would she drop a load of laundry there when the washing machine is only a few steps away? He walked over to turn off the faucet, noticing as he got closer that the pile he thought was laundry was in fact her nightgown and robe. The clothing was crumpled onto itself as if it had just slid off of her, right where she stood, at the sink in the middle of washing dishes. Something else on the floor caught his eye, something shiny, there in the corner. Her ring. Had she dropped it and it rolled into the corner?

Somehow he knew. Life as it had always been, would not be that way ever again. Change had come. Indeed.

~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~

A rumble is heard in the distance
both feared, and anticipated
while earth quakes under the feet
of deniers, and those who have waited

and though they know, still,
they will be caught unaware
distracted with trivial pursuits
trapped in the Devil's lair

steadily advancing
nearer the thunderous sound
of the white horse and his rider
as each hoof touches down

the horses nostrils flare
as he breathes anxious restraint
readied for the command
in his rider's loosened reins

when on that final day
the clouds part to reveal
the Rider, King of Kings before whom
all the world will kneel

P.J.

Now I saw heaven opened, and behold, a white horse. And He who sat on him was called Faithful and True,...
And He has on His robe and on His thigh a name written:
KING OF KINGS
AND LORD OF LORDS.

Revelation 19:11, 16

Orchid

Double Nickels

Fifty five years ago, I entered my family's world with a spanking and a cry. Since then, life has continued along pretty much the same way. Thrills, spankings and cry's.

Intermingled amongst the innumerable joys of precious, unforgettable life shaping moments, has been the spankings, equally life shaping. They sometimes came clearly as the consequence of choices, but more often the lashings have merely been the result of being alive, an imperfect person in an imperfect world.

I have cried. When I didn't get my way, when something hurt, when I was sad, I cried. Sometimes the cry was more of a scream of frustration or a fist shaking yell, to no one listening, and better for it to have been that way.

In the beginning I didn't know anything about anything, but I learned some stuff.
In the early middle I didn't know what I thought I knew, but I learned some stuff.
In the middle middle I didn't know very much about very much, but I learned some stuff.
In the later middle, where I think I am now, I don't know a lot about a lot, but I know a lot about some stuff, and look forward to learning a lot more about a lot more stuff.

Those things that I was working toward early on, don't look the same in the rear view as they did looking forward from that point where I started. What I thought life might look like when I got to be age fifty five, has proven to be only slightly as it in fact is.

The spankings that I thought I would not live through, temporarily confused my forward motion, but permanently, positively altered my direction, pointing my feet toward today.

The best thing I have learned on this brisk trip through life up until now, is how to stop.

Stop fussing about somebody else's failures, I am not responsible for them. I only hurt myself twice when I do that, once when the infraction occurs, and a second time when I mull it over and allow it to continue to steal again, my joy and peace.

Stop letting circumstances dictate to me what I can and cannot do. I can take steps to change the circumstances that bind me.

Stop sabotaging my happiness and success with preconceived notions. When things don't work the way I hoped, or even the way I carefully planned, so what, I love lemonade!

These "stops" are good, and I am thankful for the lessons that spankings and crying have taught. But the very, very, very best stop that I have learned, the one that makes the most room for the thrills, is to literally, stop to enjoy life!

I have a vase of flowers on the piano that I stop to smell.
I make a point to stop what I am doing at work, to have a gaze at the ocean.
I stop thinking my own thoughts to be able to listen to someone else's in a conversation.
I stop to get my camera for a picture of anything that catches my eye.

I take pictures of the sun through the kitchen window creating a tiny reflection of light on an apple, or pictures of an insect close up. With a picture on the big screen of my computer I see detail that I did not know existed, appreciating intricacies that I would not otherwise even know should be appreciated. I do not like bugs, in fact quite the opposite, but seeing them up close and large I am fascinated with the God of the universe who cared to put those details on something of such little significance to me, something that I would normally pay no attention to, except possibly to get away from, quickly!

I am not usually wrapped up in something so important that I cannot stop to take a few minutes or even just a few seconds, to enjoy the simple things that are right there, easily and readily available for enjoyment.

I am going to stop right now to get ready for dinner with a sweet friend, even though my floors need to be mopped, I have to go grocery shopping, and tomorrow I work. Through these fifty five years of commitments and tasks, I have learned that they will wait for me, but people, like time, will not.

I would like to glide through the rest of life with no more spankings and no more crying, but then I would have to give up the thrills too. Aliveness encompasses them all, that is a good thing, I like being alive. It means I get more time to stop long enough to extract the treasure of the moment.

There is great value in these double nickels. Much has been invested and the returns are out of this world!

~~*~~

I was given a gift
of uncommon quality
a one-of-a-kind offering
unique to only me

prone to great increase
when invested properly
a gift that keeps on giving
and grows in rarity

I dare not neglect
to appreciate the worth
of this valuable treasure
given me since birth

I must not squander
even a tiny bit
but protect and fully utilize
all of it

as my privileged obligation
'till the day I die
is to wisely use
this precious gift of life

P.J.

I Got Tail-Wagged

Oh my goodness! What happened? My friend's uneasy eyes were focused on the deep blue black bruise on the back of my thigh. Because of its proximity behind me, out of my normal range of vision, I had nearly forgotten about it. At least that is, unless I was sitting with a chair edge pressing on it to remind me.

A couple of days earlier during a visit with my son and daughter-in-law and two grand-babies, I got tail-wagged. They share their home with a large dog, Dozer, a fine four footed pal. He enjoys his human family and their guests with exuberant paw prancing and tail wagging.

That tail of his whipped my bare skin like a wound up damp towel in the hand of a fourteen year old brother. I felt the sting but didn't think much of it. Continuing to feel the sting a minute or so later I reached down to rub it out and was startled to feel a large lump at the point of the sting. Looking, I was even more startled to see where my leg indeed had swollen and was bruising.

I did what doctors always say to do in such a circumstance, apply a cold compress. In this case it was my grandson's chilled juice pouch. I sat for fifteen minutes or so, as the juice pouch provided relief for the stinging and reduced the swelling, it proved highly effective.

By the time my friend spotted the unsightly evidence of my frailty, the bruise was at its worst. It did look like I had been involved in some sort of dreadful accident, but no, I simply wore the proof of an excited k-9.

For a few days it was a reminder of how something as small as that one bruise on the back of my leg, can have so big an influence on the rest of my body. It demanded a lot of my attention and would not let me forget it was there.

I was careful when I sat and when I moved at night, even when half asleep. I was conscious of what I would wear for the day, making sure that if I would be out in public, that part of my leg could not be seen. It was not a pleasant sight, no one should have been unwittingly subjected to the same uneasiness my friend experienced at seeing it.

I thought about how my body's built-in healers sounded the alarm, like the siren of a volunteer fire department house, summoning the special ops team to the emergency, immediately getting to work minimizing and repairing the damage, and how this human body is a fascinating thing.

An ever so faint shadow remains now after a couple of weeks. That too will fade away completely. But this seemingly insignificant experience produced thoughts that are so applicable to living and being alive. How one thing, even a seemingly insignificant thing, one look, one word, one slight wrong move, has the potential to become so much bigger than ever thought possible, for harm or for good. And, though I am only one person, I should never underestimate my God given, God encouraged potential, and should bare in mind that same potential for every one person. Remembering also, that like my bruise, one person has the potential to inflict harm and damage that the whole is effected by, and that when the whole rallies to the aid of the harmed or damaged, healing ensues. One, but not alone, is the DNA of our divine design.

I could have done without the tail wagging as far as the discomfort and unsightliness goes, but the thoughts inspired by the incident are keepers. Those two life ingredients demand attention, and when attention is given, potential produces.

In the future, I will make a better effort to stay near the front end of Dozer, having been once wagged. I will also probably think about all the thoughts that tail wagging prompted. I will pat his head and scratch his ears and say to him, "good boy Dozer, good boy".

I Was Supposed To Be a Princess

No-one ever knew, what I always knew, I was supposed to be a princess.
Not in the traditional sense, of carriages drawn by prized horses on a stone crescent passageway right up to a servant flanked large double door castle entrance.
Not the sort of multi level estate that rose from foggy moors, with turrets and towers where unseen eyes peer from upper room's harlequin leaded and dimpled glass windows.
Not part of a royal bloodline, of governess's, boarding schools and unhappy arranged marriages, that lead to family secrets.
No, not like that at all.
I was to be the happily ever after type of princess.
It was never the wealth that I desired, I knew enough that money would not be the determining factor in my happiness. It was never the grand estate that I needed, I always said I could live in a shack as long as I knew I was loved. Never was it about status or image, I did not aspire to make a mark in the world as a whole, only to the people of my own little world. I always loved beautiful clothes and shoes and jewelry, I loved to have perfectly manicured nails, as well as freshly scrubbed floors, two enemies of one another. Still none of these were to determine my position of princessness.
The one and only determination had always been, the prince.
It would be he whose arm I graced in the world, and into whose arms I would daily securely rest, in our castle, even if it were really just a shack. It would be him, my prince, whose eyes would only ever see me, and what he saw in me would always be more than enough to satisfy. My prince would possess a supernatural devotion that would always and forever, above and before anyone or anything else, protect, honor, and defend, us.
I have lived a lot of life. I have gathered a very fine collection of experiences. Rich, rewarding, fulfilling and even astonishing experiences. But I learned that wishing to be a princess does not make it so.
What I did not know from the beginning was that prospective princes did not automatically enter the would be kingdom wearing rose colored glasses, the kind that I apparently had been wearing unbeknownst to me. Too many potential princes wind up choosing beer goggles as their preferred vision enhancer. Certainly I have always been able to see with an optimistic eye, but in my princesslessness, hindsight has proven blindness.
Some days it is so sad to me. Not many, I could recount the total of them on my fingers, but on those days it is a permeating sadness that I feel. A sadness that overwhelms, and oozes hot from my pores and wet on my cheeks. Why couldn't I have had a prince? Some girls get a prince, why didn't I get one? Should my youthful inexperience be held against me for every day of the rest of my life? Other girls were just as youthfully inexperienced and they were given a prince, why was I not given a prince? The one requirement for my princesshood, denied.
I wanted a Heathcliff of Wuthering Heights, one without whom, neither of us would be whole. That was not, and never can be. That is imagination.

On occasion, for a very few hours, I allow me to indulge in senseless emoting over what is lost, time, youth, or just never was even possible. I don't know, maybe it is just part of the chemical and hormonal makeup of the mysterious female.
It will pass and I will be none the worse for it, in fact maybe I will even be improved.
It is in times of misplaced wishes and dreams that didn't come true, that I redirect focus. As if placing an oxygen mask over my face, shallow breaths first, leading up to deep rejuvenating, life infused, cleansing, invigorating, cool fresh air.
I breathe deep.
Inhale hope in, exhale sadness out, inhale power in, exhale fragility out, inhale color in, exhale gray out.
It works, it cures as I say these words through the oxygen mask to no one listening, but One, Jesus loves me, Jesus loves ME, Jesus LOVES me, JESUS loves me!
I knew I was a princess.

P.J.

A Great Day!

It's been so long since I pecked out (my personal method of typing) a few blog words, that I feel like a stranger to the idea.
There's been a lot to type about but time to invest in the activity has been short.
I have been writing daily in a journal, one poem per day, some days have produced two, for almost a full year. March 11 will complete that goal.
There is also the not so small matter of classes that I've somehow gotten myself mixed up with, demanding my attention.
And I am very careful to take time for me. Time to step back from obligations and commitments, time to sip life's nectar, time to not just look but see, all there is, in every day.
To see what is perfectly infused with beauty, peace and joy, absorbing it into my soul like a sponge at the shore, even if only for a few minutes, is essential to living, like oxygen and water.
This day, this Sunday, I was fortunate to begin the day with the sweet innocence of my precious five year old granddaughter. She had dressed herself for church before anyone else was out of bed. Having twice mentioned her happiness yesterday that tomorrow was church day, she was looking forward to it. She was a vision with her little bohemian influenced outfit of multiple print dress, bracelets and a feathered head band. Any day that begins like this one is bound for greatness.
All day long I have had intermittent thoughts of the service this morning at church. I said to myself in those thoughts, that this may have been the best presentation of the passage of scripture in Revelation about the bride preparing for the Bridegroom, that I have ever heard. I am so inspired by its truths and can only imagine what that ceremony will one day, soon and very soon, actually be like. Just as when Jesus came the first time, people were caught unaware, so will it be when He comes the second time. Prepared or not, He will come. There is an urgency to prepare, for gathering all who are to attend the wedding, and together with them, prepare. As a bride prepares for that special day, with the perfect dress, shoes, hair, makeup, venue, guest list, photographer, food, cake, all in order, no detail left undone, so too should we be ready.
To top off this day, a friend invited me to the fine art, jewelry and antique show, always a feast for the eyes and inspiration for the creative heart. One exhibitor gave me two frame worthy glossies of a particular artists that I am enamored with. I brought home a couple free publications too, another favorite thing to do.
All of that brings me here, to my long neglected but much loved blog.
I'm going to pair these words up with a photo or two of the Valentines day tulips that are on the baby grand piano that dominates my small, but ever so much lovelier because of its presence, kitchen.
Just a few beauties and joys.
What a great day.

P.J.