WELCOME, MARCH!

Where I live, March has a tendency to "come in like a lion and out like a lamb." There are always years when just the opposite is true. And with our weather expected to be partially sunny and in the 50s this first day of March, I would hazard a guess that this is going to be one of those exceptions to the rule.

Whatever the case will be, I am usually glad to say good-bye to February. There are good things that happen during the month, but there are a couple of longtime unpleasant memories I tend to recall which took place during February. February and I are not impassioned lovers.

I will miss the winter months. My fondness for the snow has to be moved from a reality to a longing. It does strike my fancy when we get flurries in April. Everyone else grumbles about it, but I am elated. Another taste of my beloved winter.

The daffodils and tulips and crocuses are already beginning to peek out from the earth. I have also noticed more and more green creeping into the landscape. Ah, the change of seasons. Each brings with it its own special signature to delight me in some manner.

I think we all change to some degree along with the seasons. There is a mood shift, be it for better or worse. The eyes absorb the surroundings, and the brain is quick to snatch up the visions and process them. Then, as only the complex human brain can do, it decides how we are going to behave and feel. We are left to adapt to its wishes.

Here is hoping my mind bestows joy and a sense of rejuvenation upon me. The same hope goes to all of you. ::smile::

"The sun is brilliant in the sky but its warmth does not reach my face. The breeze stirs the trees but leaves my hair unmoved. The cooling rain will feed the grass but will not slake my thirst. It is all inches away but further from me than my dreams." ~M. Romeo LaFlamme, The First of March

THE TINKLE EPISODE (Repost 12-17-04)

In numerous journals I read regularly, the authors have been experiencing some especially difficult times. Their hearts are heavy, and their worries are numerous. Good people, painful situations.

There is little I can do to help them except offer my ear, words of encouragement, and prayers. I thought maybe it was time to bring out one of my goofier past entries with the hope I can bring a smile to their lips, at least for a moment, if they should read this repost.

Friday, December 17, 2004; 4:56:00 AM EST;Feeling Loopy; Hearing Lost In The Crowd~Shinedown

The "Tinkle" Episode

This sucks. I fell asleep at 11:15 p.m. and woke at about 2:30 a.m. unable to go back to sleep. ::sigh:: So, I thought I might as well write my journal entry. God only knows how screwed up it will be with me being semi-alert.

Ah, I did say I would write about my preschool tinkle episode. Heh. I have quite a few memories from my childhood. Let me preface this story with a description of me as a little kid. I was as cute as a button. ::wondering why my cuteness didn't stick around as I aged:: I was also a pretty wild child. My three sisters and I behaved perfectly at any function or event we were required to attend as a family. Mom and Dad always said they could take us anywhere, and we always behaved and were often complimented on our unusually good behavior. Now, get me away from the family and on my own...and let's just say I did some goofy things that were not "proper."

Okay, I was stuck having to go to a preschool when I was four. Mom and Dad were concerned because there were no neighborhood kids my exact age. Each of my sisters had others to play with who were age-appropriate playmates. None for me. The solution to the problem was to attend preschool. My teacher's name was Mrs. Hague. I called her Mrs. Egg or Mrs. Egghead (not TO her but to my parents). I didn't much like her. She was pretty old and stern.

One day after we had outdoor recess, we went back into the classroom. I had to tinkle big time. I asked Mrs. Egghead if I could please go to the bathroom. She told me NO...that another child was using the bathroom, and I had to wait. I told her I had to go really bad, and she told me the rules were only one child at a time. (Now mind you, this preschool was in a church where there were separate bathrooms for boys and girls. And it was a boy who was already using the one. I could not see any reason why I could not go, since he was in the boy's bathroom.) I was feeling pretty frantic not being sure I could hold it back much longer. Yes, I remember reaching down and actually holding myself.

Finally, I got the green light from the teacher to go on down the hall to the potty. God, I took off like a bat out of hell and ran down that hall.................all the while tinkling in my panties. ::hanging my head:: Yep, I accidentally opened the flood gates and was unable to hold back any longer. By the time I reached the bathroom, there was no reason to even sit on the potty, since I had already expelled all I had in me. Now what to do? I stood in that bathroom by myself (there were three stalls...all of which were empty) with positively drenched panties trying to think of how in the world I could return to class. There weren't any of those hand dryers that are so common now...that would have been a huge help.

Then I had my brilliant idea. I would just take off my panties and throw them away. After all, I was wearing a skirt, and it wasn't wet. Yay for me! I dragged thosedisgustingly wet panties off and tossed them in the trash can. I happily returned to class certain no one would be the wiser. Oops. I got back just in time for our daily nap portion of the day. We were instructed to get our little rugs and spread them out on the floor. I was close to the panic point. How could I possibly rest on the floor knowing that my bare butt would be seen?

I froze...I simply stood in one spot and watched all my little classmates bustling around gathering up their rugs and settling down to take a snooze. Mrs. Egghead told me to get my rug. I said NO. She told me again. I said NO. She told me I HAD TO. I said NO. She said if I didn't, I would get punished. I didn't say anything to her when she said that...but I also didn't budge from my spot. She was getting increasingly frustrated with me. All the other little nappers were in place and sprawled on the floor. She finally said she had no choice but to punish me.

My punishment? I had to sit on a chair while the kids napped, and I was not allowed to look at picture books or color. All I could do was sit. ::blink:: That was a punishment? That was a gift from God! I could sit there and my lil bare butt would go unnoticed by everyone. Yahoo! And that is exactly what I happily did for the entire nap time. I sat on a chair watching the other kids.

After the naps, we sat at tables and colored, then the day was over. Mom came and picked me up. I had made it! No one knew I had had an "accident." I was feeling pretty darn smug. Until..........

Mom got a phone call from Mrs. Egg. Apparently the janitor found my panties in the trash can (the perv probably kept 'em) and assumed they were someone's from the preschool. He reported his find to my teacher who put two and two together and realized that was probably the reason for my defiant behavior. Yikes...busted! I didn't get in any trouble from Mom or Dad. Mom thought I should have told Mrs. Egg, though, so she could have been called to bring me a new pair of panties. She told me I could not just go around throwing away my clothing. ::shrug::

That's probably one of my earliest memories. I am chuckling right now. Today it would be kind of a turn on to go without panties and see if anyone noticed. ::laughingggg::

Today's quote (note who said it!):

"Children today are tyrants. They contradict their parents, gobble their food, and tyrannize their teachers." ~Socrates

HIS EYES

It is these eyes I miss. These eyes never missed a thing. They had a way of looking into people and seeing their soul. They could read almost anyone, and in doing so, they enabled the owner of them to effectively deal with people from all walks of life. These are the eyes I tenderly closed after his final breath was released.

I painted this watercolor portrait of him (although it was his complete face and his upper body) about 1-1/2 years ago. His eyes were the deciding factor in determining whether or not this painting would be kept or tossed. It was imperative to me that I captured them as I remembered them. The smile that lived in his eyes just had to be there.

It turned out to be a keeper.

The painting hangs on the wall just to the left of me here in this study. I look at him often. Sometimes it is just for a moment or two. Other times I stop and stare for long periods of time.

It is impossible to express how much of an impact this man had on me. He is and always will be my hero. Silly, isn't it? But, he knew me so very well. He could pick up on the most subtle of things regarding me. Things everyone else could not see. I often felt he would have been a fabulous psychologist.

Not only could he see people so well, he could see beauty and appreciate it. Late in his life, he took up watercolor painting. ::smile:: He would get after me to take lessons, because he felt I had the potential to succeed. I always told him, "No way. I am not good enough. I have never even taken an art class of any kind." He would shake his head and reiterate his belief in me.

Here is one of the paintings he created. (Poorly photographed by me, unfortunately. Ignore the glare on the left side.) He never much liked it when he gave it to me. It was not until I matted it in pink that he seemed to take a shine to it. He told me it made all the difference in the world when I changed the matting. It is my favorite painting of his, and it hangs in my living room.

Today, I am thinking about him a good deal. There are two public functions honoring him that are taking place in May, and I have read articles about them and had to do a bit of writing for both of them. I feel sure that is why he is taking such a prominent spot in my thoughts.

And I keep seeing that twinkle in his eyes.

"My father gave me the greatest gift anyone could give another person, he believed in me." ~Jim Valvano

LITTLE GETAWAYS

I travel through dark forests, venture through fields of flowers, get pelted with snow, showered with rain, and warmed by the sunshine along a sandy beach. I wince, smile, shiver, ponder, weep, and laugh along the way.

I take these trips willingly and on a regular basis. I know my heartstrings will be tugged at times. I am aware I will feel things intensely during my journeys. But no matter which emotions will be stirred within me, I am glad for them.

These little vacations afford me the opportunity to meet some spectacular people~men and women. I even get to have glimpses into their lives. I have had peeks into their hearts and souls. That they would be willing to share parts of themselves with me makes me feel good. And it does not even bother me that many, many of these people are intellectually far superior to me. How often does anyone NOT MIND feeling a lack of adequate intelligence?! Well, I sure do not mind a single bit. If anything, I appreciate the newfound knowledge I have acquired through them.

They teach me much in the short time I spend with them before I move along. Some of the lessons learned can be found in books, but the information would not be presented nearly as well or in a manner which invites my eager anticipation. Other lessons are those which can only be found through life experiences. Those stories are told, and I am captivated. I lean forward and try to absorb all there is put out there for me. Opinions are expressed, and I try to remain unbiased while I take in the reasons why they hold those thoughts. I still might not share their views, but I am not offended by the way they speak them. They are careful not to attack those who disagree. These people have class. (The best definition of the word class I have ever heard was said either by Ann Landers or Dear Abby, and the gist of it was this: "A person with class is someone who makes the most people the least uncomfortable.") Oh yes, I do like the people I visit on my trips.

And just where do I go on these many vacations? To the journals/blogs of Blogspot and AOL. I cannot say I have ever come away from reading these people's journals and not been left with food for thought. At times, I also leave with a tummy ache from the laughter they cause me! There are some tremendous people in this world of blogging. I got very, very lucky and located many of them.

No matter the weather they are experiencing at the particular time they write, I will gladly join them there. After all, they bring so much to me.

"Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart." ~William Wordsworth

and

"Be yourself. Above all, let who you are, what you are, what you believe shine through every sentence you write, every piece you finish." ~John Jakes

ODDITIES

Some of you asked for it, and you got it. Bet you are sorry! LOL! I finished it. Uh huh. Done. Completed. As I told Maryanne, I think I worked on it as long as Michelangelo worked on the Sistine Chapel ceiling. He got better results than I did.

I was in a funk afterward. Truth is, I like my painting better in person than how it appears on the computer. That is a first. I just wish it had photographed and transferred here looking decent. ::sigh:: Perhaps because it is such a small painting, it looks odd.

And why is it that we find ourselves pointing out our flaws or critiquing our projects or work? I know I do it an awful lot. I think I want to beat people to the punch. Maybe I think it will be less painful if I am the first one criticizing my work or myself. I cannot blindside myself the way others can blindside me.

The temperature here dropped to seven degrees last nite. Quite a blast of cold wound its way into the warmish temperatures we have been having. I, of course, LOVED it. I immediately got a raging fire started in the fireplace. I even slept on the couch in front of it. I think that is so comforting.

Then today started out on the weirdest note. I thought it was Monday. No one was home when I awoke, and I telephoned my mother to chat. She and I had been talking for a good while when she mentioned church. I told her I was so happy she felt up to attending a service, but at the same time I was puzzled that she inserted that into our conversation when she did. Long story short, it was Sunday morning, and I was flippin' clueless about that. I could have sworn it was Monday.

I have been having the most bizarre dreams lately. I have not had a happy dream of any sort for a good two years. I think it is very disconcerting. I dream every single nite, and I remember them. I hate that there is never a pleasant one. Example. The other nite I dreamed a man who loved me was kissing me tenderly, telling me how much he loved me, and apologizing for having to kill me. At which time, he gently sliced open the side of my neck with a huge blade. I slowly crumpled to the ground in the throes of death. That's a real upbeat dream, now isn't it?!!!

I do not USUALLY do Sunday entries, but then I do not usually think Sundays are Mondays, either. Now you see why. I am disjointed on Sundays.

And with that said, I am going to try to find something to do that will make me feel good about myself. ::big smile::

"One should never criticize his own work except in a fresh and hopeful mood. The self-criticism of a tired mind is suicide." ~Charles Horton Cooley

THE LEGEND (REPOST)

I cannot seem to sit here at any one stretch long enough to write an entry. My mind is going a million miles per minute, and I am running back and forth from my drafting table to the computer. Clearly, I cannot focus on writing while painting. And that spells REPOST! Almost exactly one year ago today, I wrote the following entry. Perhaps now I would add to it and express my thoughts in a better way, but this is what I thought at that time.

Tuesday, February 15, 2005; 3:31:00 AM EST; Feeling Hopeful; Hearing The Prayer~Andrea Bocelli & Celine Dion

The Legend

For literally years, the following Australian legend has captivated me. It has come to mind time and time again without me ever really trying to fully understand it or determine its meaning. As is the case with most things, one's interpretation is subjective. All I came away with when I thought about it was just a hauntingly bittersweet feeling. I think I want to spend the "now" delving into its meaning...at least what it means to me.

I first came to know of this legend from Colleen McCullough's book The Thorn Birds. I loved the book. It was made into a television miniseries, which I found lacking in comparison to the book; however, with few exceptions that is usually the case. And so, here is the legend:

There is a legend about a bird which sings just once in its life, more sweetly than any other creature on the face of the earth. From the moment it leaves the nest it searches for a thorn tree, and does not rest until it has found one. Then, singing among the savage branches, it impales itself upon the longest, sharpest spine. And, dying, it rises above its own agony to out-carol the lark and the nightingale. One superlative song, existence the price. But the whole world stills to listen, and God in His heaven smiles. For the best is only bought at the cost of great pain...Or so says the legend.

Is it just me, or do others find this to be a "smile with tears flowing down your cheeks" legend? It is so amazingly beautiful, yet so very sad. And what does it mean?

In her book, McCullough uses the legend to relate to the love shared between a woman and a priest. She seems to impart that unlike the thorn bird, when we press the thorn to our breast, we know...we understand...and still we do it. It seems quite fitting with the story she writes. A grand love which cannot be completely fulfilled between those two. They both know the consequences of it, but they succumb to whatever they can share even knowing it will kill them inside because it can never be more. Yet during the time they are together, each experiences a joy and beauty they never knew before nor would ever have again.

Do we do that? Do we find ourselves drawn to someone we know we can never fully have? Is it worth it if it hurts us or the other? My guess is sometimes we do. Like the thorn bird, we do not always know at the outset that the someone we are searching for will cost us our "existence"...not until it is too late for us to turn back. All we know is we sing far more beautifully, feel far more deeply, and embrace an inner joy that transcends anything we have ever known. When it is ultimately discovered that which has made us glow is going to cost us our happiness, we still sometimes cling to it and proceed forward even knowing the price. For some, it is worth it. They at least have moments in time to cherish and do so. For others, it is destructive. They may grow bitter knowing it was a once-in-a-lifetime beauty, and that they will never sing so gloriously again.

And what about applying the legend to those who pursue something with a passion? A quest to paint the perfect painting or write the perfect book or sculpt the perfect sculpture. Oftentimes, there is an intense drive for people to create something magnificent. Something that will cause others to gasp from sheer amazement at such a work. What of those creators? They will give all of their time, thoughts, talent, and energy to creating a masterpiece~at the exclusion of establishing any kind of relationship with others. Their existence is solely dedicated to their passion. And if they do create something they deem perfect in their eyes, what is left for them? Surely they will hunger to better even that which they find masterful...or will they? Ah, again, some will content themselves with the knowledge they gave their all to create that which has never before been done. Others will wither and die having devoted their everything to their work of art knowing it is the best they can ever hope to create.

Much like life itself. We make our choices. Sometimes we weigh the pros and cons carefully, and other times we throw caution to the wind and go for the brass ring at any cost. Whatever we decide, we are left with the consequences of our actions...always with the hope we will remember the time we made God in His heaven smile.

Today's quote:

"What we think, or what we know, or what we believe is, in the end, of little consequence. The only consequence is what we do." ~John Ruskin

THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS

The little acts. The big ones. The in-between sorts. We are the recipient of the kindness of strangers quite frequently. (And sometimes the unfortunate receivers of acts of idiocy from strangers and friends...but that is another entry. ::smile::)

As happens during the time I take watercolor lessons, I tend to obsess. I want THE perfect picture to paint. I try and try and try to make my painting as good as I possibly can. The effort is certainly there, but the skill level and natural ability I possess are lacking. That does not stop me from continuing to try to improve. Go me!

Anyway, I have made mention of this current painting of a chapel I am desperately trying to complete. It is different for me in that the size of the painting is very small. It is tedious work.

The church is located in Chicago, and it is part of a wonderful vacation I spent there. I fell in love with the French and English Gothic architecture of this particular church. It is situated on the corner of North Michigan Avenue and Delaware Place, and it is a massive structure. It is on the Delaware Place side where this tiny chapel is located. It seats only 15 people.

So, I pulled up my photographs taken of the exterior of that chapel. None of them showed the very top of the doorway, and I had wanted that in my painting. I surfed the web for hours attempting to find a full picture, but I came up with photos of only the main entrances. As a last resort, I emailed the church and explained my dilemma. I asked if they had a complete picture. I heard nothing from them. I called the church, too, but I did not leave a message on the machine. I decided to just go ahead and paint the scene without the archway.

Lo and behold, yesterday I received a reply to my email. Complete with a photograph of that gorgeous chapel exterior. I was beyond excited. A note was attached apologizing for the delay and hoping it was not "too late" to be of help to me. I had to do some serious scrambling to try to incorporate that picture into my painting. And that is not easy to do with watercolors as opposed to oils or acrylics. Some alterations were impossible to make, so it is not going to be a precise reproduction. That does not matter to me. I have the gist of the little chapel down well enough. I am not done with it yet. We move on to a winter landscape on Tuesday. I have to intensify my efforts to finish before then!

See how a total stranger did something to help me? It was not only nice; it took the person some time. Her time. Time is a valuable commodity. It got me thinking about those who do things to make our days go a little smoother. The cashiers, the grocery store baggers, the gas station attendants, the waitresses, the sanitation workers...people in every profession. Undoubtedly, all of them have gone above and beyond the call of duty to assist someone regularly or occasionally.

Some years back, I was loading my grocery bags into my car. The back of my left hand scraped against the metal of the shopping cart. I barely noticed it, and I continued the task. It was as I was going to take the empty cart back that I realized the diamond was missing from my engagement ring. I panicked. The day was extremely sunny, and the asphalt was sparkling EVERYWHERE. How in the world would I ever find the diamond? I knew I could replace it, but a new one would not hold the sentimental value the original diamond held. Tears were streaming down my face as I got down on my hands and knees looking for that jewel alongside my vehicle and everywhere around the area. I will never forget the stranger who stopped to help me. Even though she was unsuccessful in locating it, she gave me moral support when I was ready to give up. She departed after a time, and I kept hunting. Yes, I found it. And, yes, she deserves the credit for it. I know I would have quit looking had she not happened by just when she did. In the grand scheme of life, that diamond means little. But...

The kindness of a stranger means a lot.

"Life is made up not of great sacrifices or duties, but of little things in which smiles and kindnesses and small obligations, given habitually, are what win and preserve the heart and secure comfort." ~Humphrey Davy

VALENTINE'S DAY

Feel the magic...it is there~

"Love and magic have a great deal in common. They enrich the soul, delight the heart. And they both take practice." ~Nora Roberts

THE OOPS EDITION

Egads! I got behind in my journal reading, and I missed feeling the groping, grabbing hand of a tagger. Uh huh. I did. Jodi without an "i" (I am holding her "i" hostage) tagged me. I am supposed to tell WHAT IS ON MY PLAYLIST. That is quite a chore. I have 22 bazillion playlists. I will choose the one I listen to the most while I am painting. It has too many songs to list all of them, so I will need to pare it down to about 20 or so songs here. Okay by you, Jodi WITHOUT an "i"?

Enigma~Snow of the Sahara

Rick James~Super Freak

3 Doors Down~Away From The Sun

AC/DC~Let Me Put My Love Into You

Alter Bridge~In Loving Memory

Andrea Bocelli~Ave Maria

Audioslave~I Am The Highway

Baby Face~Bodyweak

Bach~St. Matthew Passion Finale Chorus

Beatles~Norwegian Wood

Beethoven~Fur Elise

Berlin~Sex

Big & Rich~Holy Water

Billie Holiday~Good Morning Heartache

Black Label Society~Whiter Shade of Pale (cover)

Camelot~How To Handle A Woman

Cat Stevens~Sad Lisa

Chad Kroeger~Hero

Chopin~Revolutionary Etude Vla

Chris Rea~Auberge

Cinderella~Nobody's Fool

Classical Mozart~Requiem

Coldplay~Fix You

Crazy Town~Butterfly

David Bowie~Cygnet Committee

Def Leppard~Women

::sigh:: I will stop listing. And I am not even up to the E's in my playlist. Otherwise, you would have seen Evanescence, Elton John, Eddie Money, Eminem, and on and on. I love my playlists. All of them.

But wait! I get to tag. I hope I am not too late. I tag............BON & MAL, JIMMY, LIBRAGEM, TJ, AND TAWNYA.

My daughter surprised me yesterday with a goodie she bought for me from an art store. It is a pencil sketch of Johnny Depp. Mannnnnnnn, he is a hottie. How cute is it that she saw it and knew her dear mother would drool over it?

Hubby had to work. On a Saturday. Ugh. For those who boo and hiss about how people who run companies do not do their fair share of work, I have this to say: BULLCRAPOLA. There, that felt better.

And my beloved son is plotting yet another get-rich-quick scheme. He cracks me up. Ever since he was in grade school. he has had some sort of job. His choice. He walked dogs, cut grass, raked leaves, shoveled snow, and the like. No matter what job he has, he always has side jobs, too. He has his college degree (go him!). Now, he wants to buy a house. Money matters. ::grin::

I headed over to MY mommy's house today. She did very well yesterday, and today seems to be even better. Her spirits are quite good. Yahoo!

Last nite I began my painting of the chapel doors of a large church in Chicago. I am definitely trying something new for me. I am making the painting very small. Like really small. That is the good thing about my instructor. He does not make the class follow his exact instructions. While the rest of the class' paintings will be about 14" x 20", mine is only going to be approximately 6-1/2" x 5" (which includes the doors, steps, flower beds, wrought iron fence, and tree). Should be interesting...if I don't go blind first.

And, thus concludes the mundane Saturday edition of Bedazzled's not-so-dazzling life. It does make me happy, though. ::bright smile::

"Life becomes precious and more special to us when we look for the little everyday miracles and get excited about the privileges of simply being human." ~Tim Hansel

HOPE

"A quick fix of hope is what I'm needing." ~Could It Be Any Harder by The Calling

I love that line from the song. I love the entire song. It is about a lost love. However, that one line is appropriate for so many other situations in which we find ourselves as we stumble and run and skip and fall throughout our lives.

Hope WAS what I was needed. And I got more than just one fix of it in various ways during the past few days. Like almost everyone, I will probably be requiring yet another dose of it at some time in the future. For now? I am quite satiated.

Odd what happenings can supply the hope we require. It can arrive in the form of discovering something about ourselves that is a positive one. Or maybe an unexpected kind word spoken to us or about us. It can be in the guise of smiles directed our way.

There are also the obvious sources of hope. Good news supplies us with a great sense of hope. (So, why doesn't the media seem to embrace THAT?) Relief from worry brings with it a sense of renewal and hope. Being loved well is an all-encompassing, ongoing fount of hope. Religion and/or spirituality can surround us with the hope we seek.

We each find it in all sorts of places, ways, and people. Isn't it grand when we can actually FEEL it inside of us? There is a straightening of our shoulders, an easiness with which a smile makes its way to our lips and seems to linger there, a brighter cast to our eyes, and an inner glow that stays with us as we hustle and bustle through our days.

When Pandora's Box was opened and spilled all its ills, diseases, and woes on a previously innocent and worry-free world, do you know what the very last thing was to depart from that box?

It was HOPE.

"Hope is the dream of a soul awake." ~French Proverb

QUICK UPDATE

Who said you can't go home again? (Actually, it was Tom Wolfe.) I sure slept like a baby the two nites I stayed at Mom's house. I was back in my old bedroom that I have not slept in for twenty years. I had to smile thinking about how often I rearranged the furniture in there when I was a young girl. Then I remembered how I had glued a panda bear pajama bag to the wall to "decorate" the room. By the time Mom and Dad noticed I had done that, the glue was completely dry, and removing the pajama bag pulled off a hunk of the wall. ::laugh::

Time will tell how well Mom fares. Until then, we will keep a close eye on her and go with her to every doctor appointment. I noticed an increase in her appetite last nite, and that pleased me tremendously. We did have a good time during my stay with her. We giggled a good bit. She is so easygoing and softspoken (such a contrast to me and my personality). I told her she is my slumber party buddy now.

It felt nice to take care of her and do for her. My three sisters made sure they came over and did some cleaning and visiting with her. I was informed by Mom that I do many things very well...but making coffee is NOT one of them. I do not drink coffee, so I am virtually clueless when it comes to making it. I thought I had followed her instructions accurately, but apparently it was the worst coffee she had ever tasted. ::sigh:: One of my sisters had a cup, and she immediately pulled her shirt forward and looked down inside to see if hair had sprouted on her chest. Um, guess I made the coffee a bit strong.

Anyway, tonite Mom is going to be alone all nite. She wants to see how she does. I told her I am only a phone call away and will immediately come back over and spend the nite if she is uncomfortable on her own. Otherwise, my daily visits will be during the daylight hours.

Mom snoozed off and on during the time I was with her. I worked on a sketch while she slept, but I would sometimes stop and just look at her. She has had a lot of wonderful things happen during her life, but she certainly has had some extremely traumatic things occur, as well. The woman has an incredible ability to handle them in a way that does not leave her bitter, jaded, or unhappy. Time has been a good friend to her. Time and her own coping style. Both have made her a strong woman.

I think I want to be like her when I grow up.

"Where we love is home - home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts." ~Oliver Wendell Holmes

SIGH

My heartfelt thanks to those of you who left comments and sent emails offering up prayers and quick recovery wishes for my mother. You are quite a special group of people, indeed. My preference is to individually respond to each note I receive, but I am feeling a bit out of sorts. With that comes slacking on my part. I apologize for "lumping" my thank yous into this journal.

Before I left in the morning to pick up Mom, my tummy was doing somersaults and tears kept springing into my eyes. Lack of any sleep was not helping either of those things. Like most people, I have some terribly painful memories of hospitals. They were whipping through my mind one right after another.

When I arrived at Mom's, she greeted me with a, "Honey, I can't do this." I felt so bad for her. I assured her that she could do it and would be glad she did. She gathered up the items she wanted to take with her, since she would be spending the nite there. I filled out the medical form she was required to complete. One of my sisters then arrived, and we set off for the hospital. I was driving with my stomach caught in my throat. Gosh, I was afraid.

After the prepping was complete, the associate pastor from Mom's church joined us as we waited with Mom before being taken to the operating room. We kept everything lighthearted and upbeat. The pastor said a prayer moments before the nurses wheeled the bed to the operating room.

Now, you must understand this about me. I can be scared half out of my mind, but no one can tell by looking at or talking to me. I automatically go into joke mode. Some of the things that tumble out of my mouth shock even me at times. One simply would never begin to think I am shaking inside and wishing I could curl up somewhere and cry. Such was the case when we went to the hospital cafeteria for breakfast. Another one of my sisters had arrived by then, and we were waiting for the last one while we ate.

I was naughty. I told naughty jokes (uh huh, the pastor was with us during this), and I was able to get the pastor laughing a lot. There was serious conversation, too, and I certainly was able to focus on that and not be a fool. Side note: The pastor said if I ever write a book, she wants the first copy.

We went back to the waiting room. The receptionist took us to a little room to wait for the surgeon to come talk to us. He was a nice man, but his words rattled us to the core. The pacemaker procedure had gone well. No concerns there. But, he began to throw out a lot of things we were not prepared to hear. Additional procedures might need to be performed. Instead of Mom being able to discard any of her current mediations, she may need to take more. He is not sure the pacemaker will help stop the breathlessness she has been experiencing. He cannot say whether or not her leaking heart valve is contributing to that. He was extremely "iffy" about almost everything. And the four of us girls asked our questions with faces that surely reflected our growing concern.

We did not have a long wait before we were taken to see Mom in the recovery room. She looked beautiful. She was alert, and just her tiny face was peeking out from beneath the soft white blanket. She was pleasant. We did not know what the doctor had told her, so we were careful mentioning what he said to us. When Mom spoke about hopefully being able to get rid of some of her meds, we girls flashed brief glances toward one another. I then asked Mom what the doctor had to say to her afterward. Apparently, it was all limited to the implantation of the pacemaker. My stomach lurched. She has no idea what will be taking place within the next month or so. I thought I was going to cry. Instead, I made a joke that had two of my sisters laughing so hard they thought they were going to wet themselves. It is the only way I know how to cope.

Mom was taken to her private room, and we followed her there. After she was safely nestled in the bed and I had turned on the TV for her, I smooched her, and I left. I was sick inside. I was rattled and full of a million questions that I planned on writing down and asking her doctor.

After some phone calls to her friends, I climbed onto the couch and fell asleep. I had dreams. Bad ones.

Mom is being released sometime on Tuesday. I am going to skip my evening art class and go to her house and spend the nite with her. I do not want her to be alone, and she wants to sleep in her own bed rather than be at someone else's house. I will bring along my sketch pad and a book.

And I will wait on her hand and foot for the next few days. She deserves that.

"The mother's heart is the child's schoolroom." ~Henry Ward Beecher

SPECIAL HANDS (Repost May 6, 2005)

The timing is perfect for me to repost this entry from my old journal. I will be taking Mom to the hospital at 5:30 a.m. on Monday so the doctors can "mend" her broken heart. Chris had asked me to post it when I told her I had written about the same subject she had. We decided that great minds think alike. ::smile::

Friday, May 6, 2005
2:42:00 AM EDT
Feeling Quiet
Hearing Fur Elise~Beethoven

Aren't these the loveliest hands? They are wonderful hands. They have been involved in much working, caring, and loving. Everyone should be blessed to have hands such as these. Look at them closely...see all they have done.

These hands cradled four little baby girls and consoled, encouraged, and loved them as they grew. They changed diapers and dressed squirming bodies. They bathed one right after the other and washed hair. They held onto tiny hands in stores, crossing streets, and in busy parking lots. They tried to give the occasional well-deserved swat, but they failed in producing any sting in the recipient. They combed hair and sewed clothing and cleaned messy rooms. They clapped at all performances those little girls were in and continue to applaud the grandchildren. They wiped away tears and held Kleenex to runny noses. They baked birthday cakes and cupcakes. They cooked three meals a day and numerous snacks.

These gentle hands decorated a beautiful home. They pushed a vacuum and broom, scrubbed floors, washed windows, painted walls, cleaned bathrooms,and did boatloads of laundry. They planted flowers outside and tended to indoor plants. They took dogs on walks, fed the cats, and filled the bird feeders. They held newspapers, magazines, and books. They still prepare the most fabulous meals and lay out a lovely table with each place set just so...and create centerpieces that will draw compliments from the diners.

They played a shrewd game of bridge. They were at their finest, though, playing the piano. These very fingers can glide up and down the piano keyboard in a blur playing boogie woogie, show tunes, jazz, and classical music. They can create music that resonates throughout the house and gives the listener a feeling of peace, joy, a desire to dance, or a sense of wonderment. They are the instruments for displaying the musical gift the owner of them possesses.

These hands have accomplished so much. They tenderly cared for a beloved husband during grueling years of frightening and sad times. They caressed the cheek and held the hands of that man. Their touch to his hands could restore his rapid, erratic heart rhythm to a normal pace. They helped feed him, turn the pages of a newspaper for him, lay out clothing for him to wear. Those fingers soothingly ran through his thick head of hair to tidy it or just to bring comfort to him. They gave him love.

Oh, yes. These are definitely some of the most beautiful hands I have ever seen. They are gifted hands. There is a little finger that curves at a bit of an odd angle~the result of a back operation many, many years ago. It is numb, but it can move. The other fingers are twisted or turned due to the arthritis which insinuated its way into them countless years ago. The knots at the wrists create much pain and sometimes restrict movement. Time has added some spots to the flesh. But, are these not still the same hands they once were? Do the imperfections take away from the beauty these hands have created? Not at all. The loveliness of the hands is in what they have done, how they have touched countless people in ways that are forever to be remembered.

These gnarled fingers will always...for all of time...be beautiful to me. They are the splendid hands of my mother.

"Flowers leave a part of their fragrance in the hands that bestow them." ~Proverb

I'LL FIGURE IT OUT!

"I am not your rolling wheels,
I am the highway.
I am not your carpet ride,
I am the sky.
I am not your blowing wind,
I am the lightning.
I am not your autumn moon,
I am the night."

Those lyrics are stuck in my head (along with the rest of the song). They have been for days. It is not some catchy jingle that infiltrates your brain and refuses to exit even though you desperately want it to leave. No, those words are welcome to stay. I think about them. What they mean. Certainly Audioslave had a specific thought they wished to convey when they wrote the song. I could probably perform a web search and find out the answer. But, I am pretty sure I would rather decide for myself what they mean. My own interpretation. Whatever feelings they stir within me are what matter.

Have you ever really loved a particular poem or song and assigned it a special meaning, then later found out what the writer was thinking when he/she penned it? And when that happened, was it almost a complete 180° from your own perception? I hate when that occurs. The magic of it is often ruined for me.

When I am extremely perplexed, sometimes I do like to know the general theme. It can get my frame of mind in place to read or listen with that theme hovering nearby. It can help me absorb the words and perhaps reach an even deeper level of understanding from them.

It is not unlike a painting in some ways. If the artist HAS to tell you what the picture is all about, then he has failed through the use of his paints to express it adequately.

And so, I will continue pondering...although I think I have a pretty solid handle on the meaning of that song. Go me!

"Pearls and swine bereft of me.
Long and weary my road has been.
I was lost in the cities.
Alone in the hills.
No sorrow or pity for leaving I feel.

Chorus:
I am not your rolling wheels,
I am the highway.
I am not your carpet ride,
I am the sky.

Friends and liars don’t wait for me.
I’ll get on all by myself.
I put millions of miles,
Under my heels.
And still too close to you
I feel.

Chorus:
I am not your rolling wheels,
I am the highway.
I am not your carpet ride,
I am the sky.
I am not your blowing wind,
I am the lightning.
I am not your autumn moon,
I am the night.
The night.

I am not your rolling wheels,
I am the highway.
I am not your carpet ride,
I am the sky.

I am not your blowing wind,
I am the lightning.
I am not your autumn moon,
I am the night.
The night." ~I Am The Highway by Audioslave

BE STILL MY HEART

This is the most gorgeous man I think I have ever seen in my life. He has been dead for over 30 years, and I still swoon when I see this picture of him.

This is Jim Morrison. He was the lead singer and the one who named his band The Doors after a book called The Doors of Perception by Aldous Huxley. Sexy voice, sexy man. Good ol' Jim Morrison makes me weak in the knees when I think of him looking like this and dressed in his leather pants (going commando, of course). I push to the back of my mind the fact that when he died he looked far older than his 27 years, that he was bloated as a result of his alcoholism, and his hair was scraggly and messy. It ruins my Greek god image of him. And he IS flawless in this picture. Look at those perfect cupid's bow lips, those penetrating eyes, a nose that is classic. ::sigh:: Then, there is his hair. Heaven help me, I love that hair. I want my hands in it; my fingers running through it and getting tangled in the curls.

I was not old enough at the time he died to fully appreciate the beauty of his face or any of the fascinating bits of information about him as a person. Interestingly enough, Jim had a superior intellect. He was an avid reader and had a huge collection of books. He was known to ask an individual to choose a book from his shelves and read aloud only one line from the book. And from that sentence, Jim was able to state what book it was from. I cannot think too many people would be able to perform such a feat.

His song lyrics were often dark and moody. Brooding. No doubt his mind-enhancing drug use played some role in the writing of those lyrics. Many of the band's more lighthearted songs were written by his fellow band members. You could always tell the ones Jim wrote. There was a depth to them. Confusing at times, but hypnotic, too. It would have been fascinating to see his genius develop over the years, if he had managed to stay alive.

He had moved to Paris to write poetry, which was published posthumously. He was found dead in a Parisian hotel room bathtub. His death was attributed to a heart attack. Controversy has swirled around him since then. Some believe he never really died. Others believe he overdosed. It really makes little difference. Whatever the cause, he seemed to succumb to the times in which he lived when excessive drugs and alcohol and sex were staples of the music world ala Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin and that generation in general. Talents lost far too early. But, maybe they had already shone the brightest they ever would have. One will never know.

His burial place is in Paris's famous cemetery called Pere Lachaise. His remains are among those of Moliere and Oscar Wilde in a section called The Poets' Corner. Many flock to his grave and leave mementos and flowers and graffiti. His grave is the most popular one visited in that cemetery (and Chopin is buried there, for cryin' out loud!), and the constant stream of visitors who were desecrating the headstones of others around his led to a 24-hour watch being put in effect. Unbelievable! The Doors albums continue to sell. The book, No One Here Gets Out Alive, sells. (I read it!) The mystery remains for yet another generation to delve into.

After all these years and even in death, he is still seducing people through his music, poetry, and his persona.

Closing with a helluva quote that I find appropriate.

"His voice was as intimate as the rustle of sheets." ~Dorothy Parker