Cursing Louder Than a Northern Gale

I was directed to write a love letter to myself by my wildly loving friend, J Clement Wall. My initial thought was “how romantic, a love letter to Leah”. But then I felt the unction of resistance, that inner speed bump, which slows down forward motion, and I knew that I wouldn’t write the letter because it required a generous portion of bigness toward one’s self that I was pretty sure I didn’t possess. So I put off the assignment indefinitely.

As it turns out, I have a stack of untouched assignments issued by homespun sages, and as much as I admire these gentle troubadours, I sometimes feel a bit of intimidation by their bright-eyed bullet lists containing the secrets of life from the lates and the greats. I’m cynical of their pastel outlooks, such Monet hearts, and then there’s mine, mucked up and muddy from all my fall downs, tramping along with my broken toe cursing louder than a northern gale, measuring myself against all that isn’t me and feeling the small of it.

It’s the familiar cycle of self abandonment

that I move in and out of

and it hurts more than the toe, or the stretch and yawn into each long day, because I’m not really here. I’m not anywhere. I’m tucked away within the folds of forgetfulness, waiting for the courage to fly back to myself.

So, I’ve decided to go ahead and write that love letter because I could really use one right now, and with Valentine’s Day nearing I figured what a perfect set up for me-mance.

Yes, this is for me.

So here goes.

My Dearest Self,
First I’d like to say that I feel I owe you an enormous apology. I’m sorry for abandoning you when you were a little girl and that you've had to struggle with this self-abandonment issue your entire life. I underestimated the powerful connection between you and you--that big U within. I left you fluttering like a baby moth, banging into the low glow of this shabby world, and injuring your delicate wings. My looking away cost you your ability to fly, and forced you to walk barefoot across the dirty asphalt of your childhood. I wish I could have remembered who you were back then, but the pain was real, and the darkness of the journey unexpected.

You were a real hero (although you didn’t realize it). No matter how many times you got knocked down, you found a way to get back onto your feet. You faced the unlovely with an open heart, and even forgave the ones with weapons. You remained kind, which is the best type of miracle of all, offering what little you had to those who had less. If only you had offered the same generous love to yourself. I see now that it was your mother’s gift for alchemy that helped to cultivate your richness of soul. She was also a hero, but like you, she never learned to spread her wings.

You still are my hero.

I need to tell you how much I love you, and even though I sometimes pick on you, and underestimate your talents, I never doubt your ability to do great loving things.

Since you were a child you’ve desired a slow-dance intimacy with life, seeking a love powerful enough to lift you into the heavens where the stars sparkle with joy at the sight of you. My wish for you is the redemption of this divine romance--that you lose your cynicism, and look within, where you will discover that the one who steals your breath away with each kiss is always present…always you.

I wish for you to uncover the treasure of unconditioned authenticity; the putting away of the measuring stick, the better and worse, and see that every inch of you is the perfect “enough”.

I wish for you to step out of the tiny--that box, which was designed by your fears, and realize the dreams that have been nesting in your heart, those golden eggs you’ve been tending for years, are about ready to hatch.

And finally, I wish for you to never forget who you really are…
that you were created from stardust and love
believe the rumors of your greatness--and how much I absolutely adore you.

Happy Valentine’s Day,

Love,
Leah

Death and the Rumor Mill.

Follow my blog with Bloglovin

Lucy

I knew when I saw their burlesque-ish feathers and dirty yellow feet that nothing good could come of me getting too attached to them. Isn’t that like life, to fan something fabulous in front of our faces and then bite us in the arse for getting attached to it? Therefore, I initially kept my distance, sneaking peeks between the palms—watching them strut about my yard, and from time to time skip across my porch, clucking like excited teens on their way to the mall.

I always feel as though I’m being allowed in on a great secret when I sit with nature and it was no different with these hens. Their keen-eyed pecking fascinated me, their proud breasts proof of their badass food fetching skills.

And then the news came that “something” had “gotten” one of our hens. I know, I know, they are not my hens, but the attachment had taken place, and although they didn’t have my last name, they had captured my cautious heart.

The theories weren’t very comforting; “it could have been a python,” the handyman said, leaning against his rake, measuring my reaction. I kept a flat face, refusing to respond to his fear tactics. He resumed raking and speaking, rattling off a shopping list of predators “might have been a panther, coyote, bobcat or even a gator.” My mind examined all the suspects and settled on the python, figuring the death would be quick and clean, but once, Mr. Maintenance showed me the trail of feathers, and the freshly dug hole under the fence, my guess switched to a coyote or a big cat.

After the killing it was hard to watch the 4 hens together without feeling badly about the dead fifth hen. And even though I couldn’t really tell the difference between hen number five and hen number three, the thinning of our flock was causing me to fear for the rest of the girls.

By the end of the week we were down to one lone hen. I was tempted to name her, Lucy because of her brazen presence, plus I figured the name might offer her some protection, after all, other than having a lot of splaining to do to Ricky, Lucy’s life was mostly filled with madcap mayhem, which always ended in laughter, but naming her would have broken the “don’t get attached” rule, so she remained nameless other than ‘The Last Hen’.

I imagined how scary it must have been to be the last hen pecking, knowing that the murderer was hold up someplace close, probably watching her actions and contemplating her thighs.

From the time she had 4 sisters, to her solo scratch across the courtyard, her routine never changed. I’d have been pulling out my feathers with nervousness, but Lucy was calmly enjoying the benefit of being sole scavenger, feasting on the moment, and her newly found freedom, for the owner of the last hen had decided to keep her out of the coop, offering her a running chance from her stalker.

I began feeding her handfuls of hemp hearts. She devoured the fatty treats, while I stood like a statue on the porch, not wanting to disturb the magic that was Lucy.

Then one morning I noticed the silence. Not the silence from no noise, but a stillness that rang so loudly in my heart that it hurt. Writing this I can still feel its weighty presence, a panic of a pause, announcing the truth, that Lucy was gone forever.

So, why did I drag you into my heartache—make you love the wild girls, and root for their survival? I did it because misery loves company, but mostly because love is ALWAYS worth it. I got attached, and I don’t regret it. It was a beautiful honor to share the same courtyard with them, getting to listen to the rolling cackle of their comments, and admire the showgirl strut of those long yellow legs, and although it ended in a tragic blood bath, and I miss them terribly, I will love the next batch of chickens, puppies, children, neighbors, friends, family and of course myself. It’s what I do, for without love, life cannibalizes itself.

Holy Aha!

My latest holiday painting.

I never did find a place for a tree, or tinsel, or any other accessories to glam up my tiny trailer for the season. This year has been the most unadorned holiday ever. I did, however, paint a few holiday paintings; after all, there was plenty of paint and paper, and of course, my chronic romance with vintage Christmas.

Anyway, I was at the mall, attempting to shop for presents, roaming the glittery pretend streets in search of something that I couldn’t name, when I realized the huge disconnect between my spirit and my actions, inspiring me to skedaddle out of there without buying as much as a gumdrop.

Because my life has shifted so much in the past few years, I’ve decided to go with it and see where it leads me. I am clearly not in control of the cosmos, or the energy that runs it, so I may as well trust it.

As far as this year’s Christmas goes, well, I haven’t had any profound epiphanies, or Oprah ahas yet, I’ve simply been shown that I need to have a more meaningful connection to Christmas just as with life. I need to do something that spreads love, lasts all year round, and reflects a life well lived, rather than money well spent.

Okay, so I did get an aha or two, I just didn’t know it. I had to root them out with you guys.

Wishing all of you enough joy, love, and holy ahas, to last you all year long.

Love! Love! Love!

Perfectionism Triggers Apocalyptic Melt Downs

The Kid Got to Me

I met a girl, 17 and lean—her feet pointing inward, causing knees to bump foreheads as she spoke of her future plans—describing dreams as distant as the milky spills of new galaxies, pale against the pitch black uncertainty of the universe.

I found myself bowing to her naiveté, discovering a bit of my younger self in her newly set eyes. To be so eager and unafraid, like a rocket launching for the first time, piercing the conditioned “you cant’s", and the "don’t you dares” rocking life like a bubble-wrapped renegade from mom and dad’s front porch.

When she told me that she wanted to write books I knew that she had suffered. Only the scarred would dare to write, to make sense of, or at least to look at, the entrails of life. I wanted to pry, to find out why this perfect little prom princess would want to write books. What had happened to make her look inwardly, away from the rockets and the blistering pink of youth? But of course I’ll have to wait and see. Perhaps she’ll be a literary star, or pen cookbooks featuring a thousand ways to use cranberries. I don’t know.

I only know that the kid got to me.

Run Like Hell!

Humans can be porcupinish in nature. You get too close and their adrenaline kicks in, triggering a panicky spray of barbed quills, homing in on your most vulnerable places, usually the face and eyes.

And why would one place their face so close to a human? Because of love and friendship of course. Because someone has to take the risk, step in deep, show their soul, and because one is willing to believe the best, for the conflict exists only within the mind of the porcupine, who cautiously welcomes you in, keeping the quills slicked-back, until you request some authenticity in return, which is perceived as a massive threat, thus triggering the impulsive attack.

And there it is lying on top. It’s always on top. The oily stain of “that should teach you”. But it rarely does, for the heart is both predatory and pollyanna, risking all for the hunt and the soul softening hug of answered friendship.

Sometimes I want to hide from people, and at other times I want to spray them with some of my own quills, but mostly I just want to love them.

How do you hug a porcupine? Bravely and wholeheartedly, expecting nothing in return, while being prepared to run like hell.

Love bears the scars of trying.

Leah Griffith

I Left a Hot Pot of Coffee for This?

It's early, and eerie, and I’m getting goose flesh as my morning walk leads me into some really dense fog. I have to push myself across the threshold of hesitation, for who knows what lurks in this heavy haze? And to think, I left a hot pot of coffee for this.

Each day is a gamble, but most days, I’m bright blue with optimism—the sky is mine, as is the sun and the moon. But on foggy mornings, when my faithful witnesses have vanished, and the familiar markers of life have morphed into storybook giants, angry she-bears, and spiky plants with mean points waiting to poke out my eyes, how do I motivate myself to keep moving? Do I continue on only because walking backwards is impossible?

I’m amazed at the amount of faith I have in the moment—this flash of now that calls itself life and holds everything with such casual tension, often disarming me by droning on and on like a monotone math teacher, and then shifting my world with sudden brilliance like so many stars kaleidoscoping from heaven.

I move forward, trusting that the odds are indeed allies.

Cupid Must Think I'm Stupid!

Valentine’s schmalentine’s, who gives a crap? Is this day just for daters and maters or for the general population? I’ve been married 35 years and I’ve yet to get a valentine gift. Of course I’m not the type to make a fuss. I like to silently seethe.

Actually, I come from Worcester County, which happens to be the home of the first Valentine. I think I should be demanding preferential Valentine treatment. And I would, if I thought it would do any good.

In grade school we used to exchange cute little cartoon Valentines. Do they still do that or is it considered sexual harassment? I used to be in love with a kid named Stephen Sweet, and man was he sweet! Of course he loved Phyllis what’s her name, and not me. But each year I would savor the fleeting intimacy between Stephen and I as he placed a tiny white envelope on my desk….” I was always hoping for this:

But I got this instead:

So you see, my Valentine expectations were lowered long ago, and since then I've learned to lower them even more still.

I no longer hope for roses, perfume, romantic dinners, and expensive chocolates, but make due with, yard trimmings, deoderant, Marie Calendar’s in-home menu, and thanks to my new cardiac diet, red Jello.

I’ve come to believe that Cupid has a nasty side, sparking inappropriate relationships for hundreds of years, getting our sappy little hopes up, only to have love blow up in our faces or go as flat as a couch potato’s ass.

Cupid doesn’t mention that love has stinky feet, hogs the blankets, burps louder than a marching band, and thinks that a night out is putting on a clean shirt and eating dinner in front of the TV.

So, I finally get it. If this girl wants a memorable Valentine’s Day she’s got to create it for herself. No more waiting for hubby to sweep me off my feet (or to sweep the front porch for that matter). I’m taking this holiday into my own capable hands!

Ha! Cupid must think I’m stupid!

2014, Come as You Are.

I thought the year 2012 would kill me, but I made it through, entering 2013 with steady eyes and heightened expectations—silly silly girl. Turns out 2013 had its own plans for Leah, taking the opportunity to teach me some real stunners. I’m not talking cliché quips, or token phrases, but cut out my heart and run over it truths.

The greatest lessons I learned were that I create my own suffering by resisting “what is”, because neither life, nor loved ones, are required to behave the way that I expect them to, and that by trying to change them into something they are not, I am in essence rejecting them.

I’ve learned that without acceptance it is impossible to offer unconditional love, leaving me with nothing left to give but the tawdry offerings of love’s counterfeit—the affections of my demanding and judgmental ego.

It was time for me to drop the belief that I was separate from everything and that in order to live a happy life; I had to protect, promote, and preserve “me”. This belief only perpetuated my self-induced sufferings.

These are epic lessons—ones I’ve yet to master, but I will (for the most part;) do my best to practice them each moment that I’m alive.

Thank you 2013. You were relentless in your lessons, but I know that I needed a good ass whooping to help me get unstuck. I am seriously grateful that you loved me enough to teach me…now get the hell out of here!

2014, I humbly invite you to come as you are.

Forever Carded

When a store clerk asks me, “Do you have our rewards card? “ I can never remember if I do or I don’t. So…out comes the over bulging wallet as I sift through the random contents looking for a card that I may or may not have, while the people behind me shuffle and sigh with annoyance. I finally give up; hoping my phone number will work in place of the card. The clerk then tries my home phone, cell phone, old phone number, and ET’s phone number, when all fails she then gives me a disgusted look and swipes her store card so I can get the 3% discount. Good Lord! I should get a reward for enduring the inconvenience and embarrassment of digging for the card …enough with the discount cards!

Some retailers give you the miniature ones to clip onto your key ring, I have eight on mine, and although they are easier to access, I still have to find my keys and then sift through the litter to find the right one. Why can’t they just give me a discount without making me baby-sit a little card for them?

My wallet has to carry my debit/credit cards, pharmacy card, license, auto insurance card, library card, business cards, photos of my beautiful granddaughter, money, ect, this is just my wallet. That wallet then goes into my handbag which is already bulging with other survival supplies, and now my key ring is heavy with ugly little plastic cards instead of cute key ring ornaments.

I feel put upon and abused by retailers and sometimes I find myself fantasizing about making the CEOs’ of these companies dance to a shower of ricocheting bullets for the entire length of time that it takes me to find my rewards card.

This pet peeve of mine was previously posted in 2010 and resurrected in honor of Black Friday and the holiday season. I was hoping by now we would have progressed past the plastic reward card phase. Nope.

Is There a Witch Hunt on Childhood?

My magical little niece Ember

This post isn’t going to be one of my usual esoteric romps. This one is more of a rant, but if I don’t let it out I just might explode.

I’m really grateful that I got to be a kid back in the 1960’s before society turned into a neurotic knot of fear. Much of my childhood wasn’t easy, but nevertheless I keep finding more and more sentimental old war stories to brag about, like being force-fed cod liver oil, having to walk to school wearing a dress in sub-zero temperatures, or being allowed to bounce freely around inside a moving vehicle without a seatbelt. Station wagons were my favorite because we got to hang out that big back window and make faces at the cars behind us.

We used an Etch A Sketch instead of a laptop, an Eight Ball instead of the Psychic Network, and rabbit ears instead of cable. At recess we used sticks as play guns and stole first kisses without being expelled and labeled as potential terrorists or sex offenders.

My dog, Chips, a Shepherd mix, followed me everywhere I went back then. When we played touch football my buddies would always toss me the ball knowing that no one would dare come near me because Chips would nip them in the ass. I shared every Hershey bar I ever ate with that dog and she lived to be 14.

Back then it was rare for a kid to be overweight because we were always outside playing, but today, because of poor nutrition and lack of activity, our children's health is seriously at risk. I’m not saying that our parents had it right, or that I don’t believe in protecting our kids, but our parents knew something that I believe this generation has forgotten, and that is how to keep things simple and use common sense.

I feel rather sorry for today’s children because they have unwittingly become the victims of a witch-hunt on childhood triggered by the exaggerated fears of some of the adults sent to protect them. “Jason,” who bit his Pop-Tart into the shape of a gun and said, “Bang bang!” is not the enemy. Sweet Bella, who stole a kiss from Ben, and then kicked him in the shin, is not the problem. These are not criminals. They are normal kids. Our kids.

The adults creating blanket rules that fail to take into regard the nature of children/childhood are the problem. When we allow fear to take the reins we lose our capacity to think clearly, which in turn affects our ability to use sound judgment—we become part of the problem, forfeiting our sense of community for a updated version of McCarthyism. I mean, what kind of person thinks it is appropriate to report a six-year-old to the law for stealing a kiss? Someone get a life please!

It is said that what we focus on expands. Well, I believe that today’s kids need something positive to focus on before we turn them into small counterparts of our society—fearful hypersensitive little tattle tales. In short—I think this country really needs to lighten up and smarten up. We’re stressing our children out.
No!
We’re turning them into the enemy.

.

.

.

P.S For just 99¢ you can purchase my award winning novel, Cosette's Tribe, on Amazon and B&N! Get it now because there is just one more week left to this sale.

The Long Halls of The Morning

I’ve been rising early lately, walking the long halls of the morning, not certain where to put myself. My thoughts are what cause me to pace. Invasive little buggers that hijack me on my way to my pre-dawn pee, unsettling murmurs with spikes and spears, finding the softest places in my heart—piercing the pinky folds where wonder, love, and moonbeams are hidden. I never wear my breastplate to bed—that brassy brassiere that guards my heart—I lay it aside in slumber; after all, a girl needs to rest unencumbered by fear.

These early risings have caused my schedule to shift. What I normally do at 10:am I find myself doing by 8, making my day seem like a long train with endless cars rattling by—leaving me waiting for that bright red caboose to end the sentence and lift the gate. Oh wait a minute. That doesn’t sound inspiring at all. It makes life seem like an endurance test of sorts.

Precisely.

Most days rise and fall with events and thoughts, some self-inflicted, some random— the inner and the outer workings of me coming together to create a life consisting of unanswerable questions, nagging have tos, and yes, bliss. Of course the bliss part of my people pie is relatively small—a sliver of sweet aside a platter of boiled liver and cabbage, and somehow I know this is my fault, but hello! I could barely deal with a 17-hour day and now I have 19 hours. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful; but can I really be trusted to carpe diem when I can barely vacuum the carpet?

I’m certain that these early risings have been sent as loving teachers to guide me on yet another divine adventure of how to live joyfully in the moment without judgments and expectations, and I am grateful for everything, no matter how mushy the texture or bitter the taste, but I hope I learn whatever lesson this is quickly.

It just seems I can never get away with anything. It's like my father's the principal or something. Some people skip through life with clean socks and new sneakers, zippidy-doo-da-ing through their day. Why do I always have to have a lesson on something? Oh wait…that goes into the unanswerable questions pile.

Please Universe… send me some fun tests next time, like proving to you that winning the lottery won’t ruin me. I don't mean to whine but I need my sleep!

They Wouldn't Dare Drop Me!

Vacation laundry;)

I know it’s been a while since I last posted a blog. It’s not that I intended to stay away for so long. Let’s just say that life has guided me down some new roads. Roads snaking through bombshells, beauty, and blind corners. I’ve barely had time to catch my breath because of the steady stream of—look at thats!—WTFs!—and could it bes? Yes it could be, and I see it, and here I am trying to write about it.

Like the fizz inside a bottle of Perrier, there is so much going on inside of me that I want to tell you about…but I’m not sure how, so I’ll sum it up with a quick metaphor. You all know how I love metaphors;)

Recently I went on a vacation to Orlando with some friends and we visited The Animal Kingdom in Disney where they have an attraction called Mount Everest. Somehow I allowed my thirty something year-old buddy to talk me into going on this ride with her and her mom. She assured us older gals that it was just a train ride to the top where one could get a panoramic view of the entire park. Okay. I knew we were in trouble when our rickety, half-shell of a bucket seat, clickity click clicked up a seemingly endless ninety-degree incline. We braced ourselves, anticipating a quick plunge down the other side, but what we got instead was a drop backwards into a hot dark tunnel filled with the shattering screams of the newly traumatized. As we continued backwards my stomach began to bubble like a vat of fermented pea soup while little beads of panic dotted my green brow.

I had no idea what was coming next or how long the torment would last, so to keep myself from freaking out I focused myself with self-talk: “It won’t last forever. They wouldn’t dare drop you! You WILL NOT barf.”

And I was right.

I held my lunch and the hell didn’t last too long. Just long enough for me to coin the phrase: “Well scare me shitless and turn me green!”

Susan and me shortly after our ride on Everest. Our gills were still green.

So there you have it. My life (and perhaps yours) is like a roller coaster ride. I’m being thrilled one moment, and terrified the next. I’m learning numerous lessons. One of which is that I am not in control and that the uncertainty of each moment is God.

I’m also seeing some things for the first time. Things I thought I knew but didn’t really. Things about others and myself—freeing things that give me wings, silencing assumptions and judgments, leaving the measurer behind, teaching me what love is and what it is not.

Love doesn’t rise and fall with each emotion, nor does it cling or reject, but stands steady and strong. Love doesn’t blame or run away in fear. It is rugged and abiding and wears practical shoes, always ready for the climb. Love trusts me with the truth—no matter how painful that truth may be, and communicates in a kind and direct manner. Only love is real—and it kicks fear’s ass.

Lately I’ve been moved to make some external changes as well. I’ve quit my lifelong addiction to nicotine and left off drinking my daily round of Diet Coke. I miss them both, but have acquired a new appreciation for Chiclets and slightly sweetened iced-tea. These changes were inspired by nothing more than my desire to have better health, plus I’ll never have to feel the pinch of those annoying FB posts: “Aspartame puts the die in Diet Coke.” LOL!

I’m still painting. My art is very Peter Pan-ish, coming from a place inside of me that believes it can fly. It makes me happy. Thank you Julia Fehrenbacher, my dear friend for inspiring my exploration with paints.

Making Leah happy.

And of course I’m writing my second novel and loving my first, Cosette’s Tribe. As a matter of fact, Karen Wojcik Berner, a gifted author and blogger, nominated Cosette's Tribe for Best Novel, and Best Mainstream Fiction, at the eFestival of Words annual competition! Thank you Karen!

If you’d like to vote for Cosette’s Tribe you can do so below. First you need to complete the initial registration. After you submit, there's a “What’s your zip code” message trying to get you to sign up for additional offers. The best way to get around this is to close the page and relaunch the link to vote. Be sure to vote in both categories. Thanks so much for your support!!

Click here Then click on Awards Hall and vote both categories.

I guess that’s it for now. Consider this a “catch up” blog. I have a feeling my blogging is going to be a bit scant for the rest of the summer as I shall be traveling in August. I will check in, but in the meanwhile give me a shout out and let me know how your summer is going. And remember to kick fear’s ass because only love is real!!

Fear of Flying

When I was young I considered flying an air-sucking adventure to anticipate, sort of like Christmas but with jet engines involved. Of course back then I was in my invincible mode. My thoughts were rarely cautionary, but full-throttle daredevils compelling life to move faster. I was instant and active, my forehead straining against the plexiglas window, eager for a rivet-rattling launch, and then the steep climb through shadowy cloudscapes, where episodic flashbacks of Twilight Zone faces heightened the experience.

As an adult I prefer to leave the thrill of flying to the birds. As a matter of fact on my last trip to MA I became so thrilled (insert sarcastic tone) with the prospect of flying that I had what some might call a mini panic attack. Okay, so it wasn’t so mini. Anyway, I had just cleared security, and was putting my clothes back on, when I was overtaken with the feeling of being trapped inside the belly of the terminal much like Pinocchio being swallowed up by Monstro.

Fighting the sensation of suffocation, I put on my best independent traveler’s face and merged into the masses, the wheels of my oversized carry-on thump thumping across the tile floor, while internally lecturing myself: “You are not allowed to freak out in this airport! You’re fine. You can breathe. They pipe plenty of air into these places. Besides, how are you going to handle being trapped on a plane if you can’t even walk through this terminal?”

Of course mentioning being trapped on an airplane to myself was a gigantic mistake, although it did make the air in the terminal seem much more plentiful. My breathing had stabilized, but I became obsessed with the thought of suffocating on a crowded airplane. I located my gate, and tried distracting myself with IPhone games, but found it impossible to concentrate due to the vast crowd of people filling up the seats around me. Not just regular people, but beefy people bearing bulky bags of burdensome belongings, increasing the odds that our flight would relegate to a cruise due to the weight of the excessive cargo.

I could feel the fight or flight beneath my shirt…the onset of another attack, so I proceeded with more inner dialog: “Leah, no one has ever died from being on a crowded airplane. When everyone else starts to freak out then you have permission to freak out right along with them, but until then—GET A GRIP!

This one-sided pep talk made me feel a little bit better, but it was sitting at the gate better; I needed sitting on the airplane better. I needed something tangible to take my fear down another notch or two. I was contemplating the options of liquor, drugs, or phoning a friend, when the ticketing agent announced over the PA the availability of seats in business class being offered at a discounted rate. I had never flown business class before, and imagining the segregated spaciousness of it all; I bounded up to the ticket counter and paid the extra cash for the upgrade.

Enjoying early boarding privileges, I found my seat and hunkered down like Buddha in a bucket seat. My heart rate was undetectable and my breathing easy; traveling first class was a good choice. Hearing a bit of commotion I glanced over the top of my e-reader at a rumpled herd of pack-mules single filing past me toward the cheap-seat section. I was feeling grateful for my new station in life—I could get used to this kind of special treatment. Craning my neck to snag a guilty peek at the difference in seat size between the haves and have nots, I noticed a thin Gulag-grey curtain hanging between us, looking no better than a tired frock on laundry day. I was expecting a more substantial barrier between them and us…something solid and swanky. Big disappointment.

About an hour into the flight I began to fidget and lost interest in reading, so I turned my attention to the view. I observed a band of chubby little clouds passing over the green landscape, transforming the scene into a pastoral canvas of fleecy white sheep grazing in undisturbed serenity. This sight inspired a warm rush of security—a spiritual kept-ness, which could have only originated from the heart of love. In that instant I knew that I was totally safe—that nothing could ever truly harm me.

“Thou restorest my soul.”

At eight miles above the earth love found me and taught me that fear of flying was synonymous with fear of living, and that I was as safe on that airplane as I was on my own front porch. I also learned that there are many ways of taking care of myself— things that I might do to assist myself as I transition to a place where I’m calm enough to lean back and accept the daring confidence of the deeply loved.

So, here I am now with two happy feet on the ground and a fond memory of flying. I have no trips scheduled any time soon, but when I do, I intend to print this little ditty out and read it prior to boarding the airplane. Sure, there is always the minute chance that the plane could go down—lightening could strike, an aneurism could burst, but somehow love places these threats in the hazy distance, encouraging us to be bold and to move forward. And when our time does indeed come, love will be present to faithfully escort us to our succeeding destination (in first class of course).

30 Nights of Solitude

Last night was my third evening home after 30 nights of solitude spent in a bed far far away. A month was long enough for me to form an intimate relationship with nocturnal privacy, where my thoughts were free to roam naked down the carpeted halls of my mind, bumping into only myself on the way to the bathroom. “Excuse me. Oh! It’s just me.”

It was a luxurious fling. A sprawling self-indulgence of fluffed pillows, and scrolling paragraphs — the creamy night light lulling my lids, my hands releasing my darling tome beside me, his pages butterfly-breathing beneath the ceiling fan, sharing my bed and my dreams.

This is where the needle scratches across the record because I’ve returned home to the city, where solitude is but a smoky memory, having been replaced with suspicious night riders thumping past my windows, their base set to 10, vibrating my crib and my nerves. Really? Is it necessary to massage the entire neighborhood with your music?

My husband Mike, sweet and hushed, snoozes on the left coast, while our two small dogs swim between us like escapees from Alcatraz looking for land, thrashing about and licking themselves, making the most disgusting mouth sounds—and beautiful Bella, our sleek Siamese, perching on my chest to steal a sip from my water glass. Her padded little paws feeling like steel fingers driving through me. Ouch! I should kick them all out of my bed. I don’t know how they got to be so spoiled.

And one mustn’t forget our firstborn, ending his graveyard shift by burglarizing our refrigerator, setting our two-Chihuahua alarm off, jarring me from my slumber, while hubby, conditioned to the sounds of sonny’s pre-dawn home invasions, snores peacefully beside me, the same way he did when our babies woke up in the middle of the night all cranky and foul-smelling, wailing into my clean nighty — wiping their mucousy little noses all over me. Curse these mommy ears, trained like sonar to detect the slightest of sounds! Will they ever let me rest? Will I ever be that person who can sleep through a normal night without having to resort to sound machines and sheep counting?

The morning arrives on time — benign and balanced, reminding me that I have an open invitation to clear away my bed-head blues and begin anew. I smile up at the ceiling, because I’m home and I get to go for a morning walk, listen to the birds…and drink coffee, leaving behind the exaggerated frustrations of the sleep deprived.

Sleep is messy. No! Being human is messy. Hell, it’s all messy! Good thing I’m resilient;)

A Vital Mission

I’m heading up to MA for a spell. I have a vital mission—a delicate assignment appointed to me by the angels and I’m certain that all of heaven will be watching and cheering. And that’s how it should be—packed stands of roaring fans, cheering on brave souls with holes in their shoes.

I grew up in MA, and each time I return I feel I’m on an archeological dig, searching for familial clues, finding bits and pieces of evidence scattered like chalky bones throughout the city. Home. Worcester MA, where I toddled the gritty sidewalks in my size twos, holding Ma’s hand, the church bells pealing out the years, stopping me mid-play to ponder life’s secrets: Will the world end in my lifetime? Can God see everything I do? Am I late for dinner? I was as deep as midnight—as awake as noon, my eyes always watching as the potter’s blade cut into the clay.

I’m not a pessimist or a realist; I’m a wakeful dreamer with both feet on the ground and a good eye for detail. I see the danger, the blood on the wall, but I also see the light. The irony. The humor. The Love.

From a distance life seems so simple, like theories placed in cotton-lined boxes, carried by cautious couriers—unbreakable. But reality chews holes in your theories, rarely offering you the consideration of a cotton-lined box. No. Life is nitroglycerin carried in your own trembling hands. The great experiment whose outcome is yet to be determined. And tremble we do. But is that so terrible? For our trembling bears witness to our desperate need for something greater than our frailties, and accompanies us as we surrender to the vastness within, where we are linked like DNA to our one true love.

Angels, I am honored to accept this assignment. Humbled actually. Ma, I’ll be there soon.

Monkey Mind Maybe

My meditation sitting didn’t go as planned this morning. I went into it feeling sort of blue, hoping to visit the tranquil center of my soul, but then Monkey Mind invaded my thinking. I taped my brain waves during this morning’s session and this is how it went. Please realize that Monkey Mind isn’t me. I don’t know who he is.

Monkey Mind: “So, why so glum chum? What’s the prob today? Something always seems to be bothering you. Aren’t you ever happy?”

Me: “Nothing’s wrong. I’m not supposed to be talking to you.”

Monkey Mind: “Aw… you’re confused and stuck, blue and bloated. Well, hells bells it sucks to be you. Have another banana and take one for the monkey.”

Me: “I am not my thoughts. I am the silence behind the thoughts—the lean back and breathe, the soft in the center.”

Monkey Mind: “Blubber tastes delicious to old-fashioned Eskimos but not to me. It’s too…blubbery. Lots of things on this planet are gross. I knew that life was going to be a bitch when I got slapped on the ass for showing up.”

Me: “Who said that?”

Monkey Mind: “I did.”

Me: “Who are you?”

Monkey Mind: “I don’t know, but I’m not you so relax. “

Me & Monkey Mind: “This is weird…me not being my thoughts. It makes me wonder…. Or is it someone else wondering? Hmmm.”

Monkey Mind: “There’s going to be a flogging at the village square—a tar and feathering—guilty guilty.”

Me: “Stand by the edge of the river and observe your thoughts floating by. Don’t let them distract you. They are not you.”

Monkey Mind: “I gotta pee.”

Me: “Shhh! Who are you anyway?”

Monkey Mind: “Um. God.”

Me: “No you’re not. Shut up so I can meditate. Lean back and observe the thoughts flowing by. I am not my thoughts…. Oh screw it. I’m getting a cup of coffee. You coming?”

Monkey Mind: “You betcha! Loser.”

Me: “What did you call me?”

Monkey Mind: “Nothing. Remember when you used to pick pussy willows by that covered bridge, like that movie with hunky Clint Eastwood in it? Hey I just met you…here’s my number, so call me maybe…

Me: ”It’s going to be a long day.”

Because misery loves company I'm featuring this video today. My friend Beth planted it in my head yesterday, so I wanted to pay it forward:

Lighten Up!

Looking back on the last several weeks, I’m finding it nearly impossible to return to my routine. Perhaps five weeks was too long to be gone, although it seems to have flown by. I miss reading by the swimming pool, or sitting on Linda’s porch at the end of the day, sharing the evening meal while solving all the problems in the world.

I loved strolling through Savannah’s narrow streets with her artsy shops and spooky parks—dripping in Spanish moss and tainted history.

And then there was Hilton Head with her highfalutin beaches tousled with mermaid-hair seaweed, looking all mystical and wild—the exact opposite of what I had expected from this high-class lady.

Being back after a five-week working vacation is like being at a rock concert and mid-way through your favorite song, the place loses its power, creating a head buzzing, ear blocking silence!

Okay, maybe it’s not that bad. I think I’m just in a funk, plus Tropical Storm Debby is getting to me. She’s been lingering off of our coast for days, with her gray bloated self, blowing and boohooing all over everything—going no where because she can’t decide which path to choose, and giving us coastal dwellers a bad case of the nerves. (I know there’s a metaphor in there somewhere;)

All these clouds are putting me in a deeply reflective place. I’ve become way too serious this week and I’m trying to distract myself from it. This morning I did a four-page blog on the origin of thoughts. Four pages!! Yeah, be lucky I didn’t hit you with that one. You’d be running to the Dr. for some Prozac.

I know that I can’t help who I am. I have a tendency to go deep. Even as a kid I was reflective, opting to sit under a tree and listen to the birds, or play wordy records in my room, rather than run the neighborhood with the rest of the kids. I like being reflective and observant; it’s who I am.

I’ve never been much for the surface stuff. I don’t give a flying flip about how high your income is, or how good your children’s grades are. I’m more interested in hearing about you—the real you. And finding out what it is that you yearn for as you watch the sun quietly slip below the summer horizon, with a band of strumming crickets robbing you of your cares—leaving you alone and disarmed before all of creation. That’s the stuff I want to hear about.

So I run deep—and I’m a huge mush. And right now I’m missing the many faces that hold such special places in my heart.

My girls.

Soul sister Beth & family.

Mallory at the beach.

Laine & Mathius

Sweet Melissa

The Hammoudeh gang

I hate never having enough time to completely catch up with them. I’m certain that that’s why I’m feeling a little out of sorts. There’s just too much quiet around me, and then there’s Debby’s wallowing.

So, I guess I’m stuck with my deep-blue self, on this rainy day, although I’m not so far gone that I can’t seek some comedic relief…

Like sporting a pair of wax lips with my goofball friend!

Me & Lano

Or watching reruns of Just For Laughs.

Sometimes you just gotta lighten up!!

Ripples and Repercussions

Saturday evening I was heading north on the Silver Star, a passenger train crammed with a mishmash of adventurous souls traveling over the Mother’s Day Weekend. It was surprising to me how crowded the train was. I assumed that half the passengers were suffering from aviophobia, while the rest were either eager train enthusiasts visiting the Tampa station to celebrate their 100-year anniversary, (which I totally enjoyed) or those whose budgets couldn’t handle the price of airfare. For me it was a combination of two: plus the thrill of being lost in a tangle of strangers, experiencing a certain freedom reserved only for the anonymous.

The train car rattled over the tracks, beating out a rickety rhythm, rocking me to sleep, next to my hushed seatmate, who just that afternoon was still a complete stranger to me—a face with no story, just an extra in my life-movie. But after being sequestered together to a space no larger than a coat closet for fifteen hours, a sort of forced intimacy occurred, bonding this writer to a retired New York City cop with a prickly persona and a heart the size of humanity.

I’m a people watcher; I get my cues and clues watching how people speak to, and about, one another. My defenses rise like steely porcupine needles when I see things that I don’t like: negativity, prejudice, hatefulness, pettiness; all these traits cause me to withdraw into my silent shell—protecting all my soft spots.

Warren was easy for me to read. Initially I could tell that, like myself, he had already withdrawn into his shell; although due to sheer necessity his vulnerable neck and head were poking out, looking around for his seat. His voice was set to “gruff” warning others not to screw with him, stashing his fleshy heart, warm with blood and kindness, safely away within his own shell.

Perhaps it was fate that had decided that Warren and I should meet, although I did kind of initiate things. At first he was behind me looking a bit confused over the seat numbers, but then I invited him to sit beside me, figuring he looked harmless enough. It’s a crapshoot on the train, and the last thing I wanted was to be seated next to Mr. Stinky or Mrs. Crabapple.

We sat politely side by side, both of us taking turns sharing our stories. Two chatterboxes who also happened to be good listeners, creating a give and take as rewarding as an exchange between a kid and an ice cream truck on a blistering August afternoon.

The more we chatted the more I liked him. He spoke with a disarming honesty about himself, and the lessons and rewards he had gleaned from life’s experiences. He expressed immense gratitude for his family—his incredible wife who loved and understood him, and a treasured daughter, smart and beautiful, as he stated, “his best contribution to society.”

We decided to have dinner in the dining car. I guess on trains space is pretty limited because we found ourselves sitting across from an austere looking couple, straight-laced diners, possessing a no-nonsense air about them—Mr. & Mrs. Behave Yourself. Of course at this point Warren and I had sped beyond common niceties and splashed headlong into puddles of silliness. We were like a couple of slap stick comedians sitting at a properly set table, stuffing our nervous giggles beneath our linen napkins, desperately searching for our adult faces—and our table manners.

Watching Warren adjust himself to this couple was like watching the destruction of the Hoover Dam—first the cracks (wine was involved in this stage) then the leaks (humor) and then the flood. No filter “be yourself and screw them” Warren was in full form, and I, being a proper lady, followed his lead until Mr. & Mrs. Behave Yourself morphed into Mr. & Mrs. Life Can Be Fun, and the four of us sat laughing and talking until the waiter poured our drinks into “to go” cups, and shooed us out of the dining car for closing.

We said goodbye to our new friends, who now sported “yes” faces for the entire world to admire, and then we found our seats.

We sat and talked about how alike we were and how much pleasure we found in cracking up Mr. & Mrs. Behave Yourself. We theorized that fate had accidentally thrown the two of us together, causing a rift in the time continuum, thus allowing us to see beyond the cosmic curtain for a brief moment. We saw that we were secret agents from the other side, strategically placed on earth as crust busters for those who take themselves, and life, way too seriously. We had the same life-tasks and the two of us together were—well, pretty efficient, but perhaps a bit much for one small train.

Eventually we nodded off, our heads silently bobbing in sync with the bumps, as we passed the dimly lit hubs of sleepy unknown towns, their soft yellow lights glowing on yesterdays fashions, mom and pop eateries, and neighborhood thrift stores.

My reasons for traveling north were as varied as my thoughts, a little business—a bit of pleasure, but mostly because I felt an unction drawing me northward. I had to go and find out what life had to say to me.

I had never met Warren before, but by the time my trip was over I felt we had become sure friends, and that our meeting was a sort of divine appointment, the repercussions of which will ripple to the corners of the world touching unknown hearts—forever.

It’s an exciting thing to follow your heart—opening yourself up to an innumerable amount of unknown possibilities, and betting on yourself to find what it is that you need. This trip has provided for me a sparkling opportunity, thus wiping my slate clean in order to write something fresh—creating for myself a new chapter as a woman, author—and friend to Warren.

I’ll keep you posted on my discoveries as I walk, with eyes wide open, into the vivid blue of each Tarheel day. Life is good. Tough. But good.

It's On!

It’s a pretty day for living and I’m ready to take the stage. I’ve been quite sick for over a week now, but I believe today is different. The fog has lifted and my body feels like its old self again. I’m no longer aware that I have lungs. One needn’t feel their lungs, or their heart, throat, and ribs. These things should remain silent throughout the day, quietly attending to their tasks.

So I feel well, and I have a beautiful day at my disposal. It’s a working day for me but my job is often so pleasurable that I don’t even consider it work. I look at it as living. It wasn’t always so. I realize that I’m blessed right now. Poor. But Blessed.

My oldest daughter and I have a bit of a debate going on. She insists that my writing isn’t really work because I’m not being paid for it…yet. I tried to explain to her that one day I would be getting paid for the books that I pen right now. It’s a lot like a cabinet maker who spends months building a grand piece of furniture. Is he being paid for that piece as he builds it? No. But once it’s complete he will place it in his shop and wait for the right customer to come along…and then he will get paid.

She didn’t buy my argument and was dogging me; basically trying to get me to admit that I’m a contented slacker engaged in a happy hobby. Okay, she didn’t call me a slacker…but she implied it.

All of my life I’ve worked at various jobs. I’ve been an office worker, waitress, and factory worker. I’ve sold cars, candles, and Christmas decorations. I’ve been in human services for over a decade and spent the last three years of my life living away from home like a soldier. So now, thanks to a very supportive husband, I’ve been given the opportunity to work at what I love. I don’t know how long it will last but I intend to enjoy this gift and use my time wisely.

I shouldn’t let my daughter push my buttons. She got me so upset yesterday that I threatened to disinherit her. She simply rolled her eyes…seeing that my most valuable asset to date is the antibiotics prescription that I just got filled.

You wait and see kiddo! Someday I’ll be cruising on the Caribbean, with my good children, gorging on shrimp and cream puffs, while you’re clocking out for lunch and eating your words!

Be nice to Mummy. *grin