2008

The calendar is new.
Devoid of handwriting.
Fresh, clean pages.
None marked by ink.
Unsullied days and numbers.

But is it really spotless?

The what was exists.
It cannot just disappear.
Dates sparking memories.
A part of me claimed.
Life's events entwined within.

Would I want them to vanish?

Amidst the angst lives joy.
Laughter dwells with tears.
Hope struggles with despair.
Love defies aversion.
Illness tries to pierce wellness.

Do they not help define me?

I am the why.
The how.
The because.
The who.
The what is.

The will be to come from the newness.

*~Nikki/Bedazzled~*

JOY

This is my just-finished pastel painting. When I became overwhelmed by all sorts of emotions and activities during this especially busy time of year, I had to turn to something to restore the calm within me. Creating art~good or bad~is magic for my soul.

And I titled this painting "JOY"...which is what I wish for each and every one of you.

Merry Christmas and much love~

Nikki

"The joy of brightening other lives, bearing each others' burdens, easing other's loads and supplanting empty hearts and lives with generous gifts becomes for us the magic of Christmas." ~W. C. Jones

Run your fingers through my soul~

A NEEDED NUDGE

Alas, a gentle nudge from Mary prompted me to post an entry in my journal. While I probably have nothing that is of particular interest to anyone, I did begin this blog for the purpose of documenting my days, thoughts, activities, and memories. Abandoning it was never my intention.

I am still reeling and deeply saddened from the passing of my friend Patrick. 39 years of age and succumbing to cancer, leaving behind a wife and an 11-month old, a three-year-old, and an eight-year-old, just does not fit into the way I think life should be.

As always, I continue to paint. I keep telling myself that one of these days I will create a painting that is of significance. It has yet to happen, but the joy I get from the effort and experimentation is worth it to me. These are the latest paintings I have done. (The two canvases on easels are quite tiny. They measure five inches from the bottom of the easel to the very top. The canvases are only 2" x 2"! I made them as Christmas tree ornaments for my children, as I do each year. The roses painting is for my son who loves roses, and the floral landscape is for my daughter.)

Seahorses enchant me. They always have. They mate for life. AND the male carries the offspring. This is called "Sea Grace"~

Mermaids also intrigue me. What must they be thinking? Titled "Land's Allure"~

This one was a very different technique for me. I attended a one-day workshop to learn the basics of painting watercolors on gesso-prepared paper. The sky actually has purples in it, too, but the camera refused to capture them. I am eager to try this technique again after the holidays. Named "Forgotten"~

I painted the following for my niece who requested it as her Christmas gift. I practically went blind painting it! Too many details and windows. It is of the Don CeSar Beach Resort in Florida (also known as The Pink Palace)...her favorite place to vacation. Aptly titled "Don CeSar Beach Resort, Florida"~

This was a birthday gift for a beloved artist friend of mine. I painted it from a photograph of him working on a painting. So, the painting within the painting is one of his (although his is magnificent). Named "The Master's Touch"~

There have been a few more paintings, but I think I have made you yawn enough already!

Life has been kind to me and mine. I am grateful for each day.

"If the essence of my being has caused a smile to have appeared upon your face or a touch of joy within your heart, then in living I have made my mark." ~Thomas L. Odem, Jr.

Run your fingers through my soul~

PATRICK~ThisItalianGuy

You were loved well and by many, my friend. And you will be deeply missed. But I cannot wrap my mind around the fact that you are no longer here.

"Tell me not, in mournful numbers,

Life is but an empty dream!

For the soul is dead that slumbers,

and things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!

And the grave is not its goal;

Dust thou art; to dust returnest,

Was not spoken of the soul."

~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

OH, THE IRONY!

I finished this painting on Wednesday, September 12. Its title is FREE FALL. A simple painting that I suppose can be interpreted in numerous ways. What I intended for it to represent is the path that one's heart takes as it swoops and curves when it is falling in love. A free fall through the beautiful sky.

And it was more than ironic when on Friday, September 14, I awoke early feeling very odd...sickly even. I blew off the dizziness, chest discomfort, and overwhelming fatigue as being caused by lack of sleep. I took my daughter to work without letting her know I was feeling poorly. During the short drive, I sent silent prayers to God asking for Him to please let me get her safely to work and to please let me make it home. Sleep would help me feel better, I was certain. Sleep did not come. More discomfort did, however. I grew restless and concerned, and it was still morning. Perhaps I was just anxious, so I checked my pulse. It had a very strange rhythm to it.

I called my mother. Isn't that what daughters do when they feel sick? She suggested I call my family doctor. Following her advice, I called him. He was out of town, and his nurse suggested I go to an urgent care clinic or to the hospital. Uh...no way was I going to the emergency room.

Because I knew I could never attempt the drive there alone, I called my husband. He was on his way to a golf outing. I truly felt bad asking him if he could come home and take me to the local care center, but I was afraid I would faint and cause a crash. I still suspected lack of sleep as being the cause of this very weird feeling I had.

It took the urgent care physician all of about three minutes to suggest an EKG be run. No problem. Strip from the waist up, put on the little paper gown (that is not even as thick as a paper towel), leave the opening in the front. He slapped on the little adhesive conductor things, attached the lines, turned on the machine...and within seconds he was putting nitroglycerin under my tongue. WHAAAAAT? The testing was completed just as he was telling me he was calling an ambulance. HUH? My heart was in atrial fibrillation, and there was a possibility I was having a heart attack. He inserted an IV into my arm.

Yes, my eyes welled up, but I did not cry. I asked my hubby to call Mom to find out the name of her cardiologist at the hospital I prefer. Then, the paramedics helped transfer me to the gurney. I told them to close their eyes so they wouldn't be forced to view old lady boobs. Stupid paper gown.

My first time ever riding in an ambulance. The men were very nice, and I chatted while we were on our way. I asked many questions about their job. I was scared to death, but what good does it do to get worked up about what was already happening? Talking and joking kept me from dwelling on the possibilities.

The ER staff was wonderful. My heart was, indeed, out of rhythm. Meds were given to me, and blood was drawn for testing of cardiac enzymes to see if a heart attack had occurred.

I was not allowed to come home. After about five hours, I said I was feeling much better. Couldn't I just go on home? Nooooooo, they said. So I spent Friday, Saturday, and part of Sunday being monitored, put on blood thinners to dissolve any potential clots (the additional shots of blood thinners that were injected into my stomach were charming).

My orders while there were bed rest. Ugh. I was allowed to go to the bathroom with assistance. Pfffft. Thanks, but no thanks. I went by myself. Late Saturday afternoon I pleaded with the doc to let me roam the hospital, and I was granted permission as long as I had my heart monitor with me. WOO HOO! Hubby and I strolled down to the gift shop. I wanted some magazines. Well, that was one fabulous hospital store, because they had a curio cabinet filled with excellent vintage and estate jewelry. My eyes instantly went to a beautiful smoky topaz (my birthstone) ring. Price was not too bad, either. Hubby ignored my lavish praise of the ring and kept walking. BUZZKILL.

Returning to my room, I rested for a bit, then hubby left. A-ha! On my own AND armed with a credit card. I told the nurse I was going shopping! The gift shop was open, and I am now the proud owner of an extremely lovely topaz ring. A little souvenir of an eventful (albeit frightening) weekend.

I have been poked and prodded and examined every which way, and the exact cause of my irregular heart rhythm episode cannot be determined. I do have a low potassium level, which the cardiologist feels may have played a role in it. Potassium supplements have been ordered. Other than that, my heart rhythm is back to normal. I am being weaned off the Coumadin (blood thinner). I just have to pay more attention to myself and not write off bizarre sensations as flukes. I think I can do that!

But I am uncertain I will be painting anymore pictures of hearts. ::smile::

Run your fingers through my soul~

I KNOW, I KNOW...

Yes, I know that today is the sixth anniversary of the horrid attack on our country. What can be said about it that has not already been said?

For me, I spent the day continuing to believe that there is far more good in this world than evil. And I will keep on believing that.

"Love consists in this, that two solitudes protect and touch and greet each other." ~Rainer Maria Rilke

ETCETERA

"HE LOVES ME NOT"

It has been far too long since I have written in this journal. I think I have had too much to say about many subjects, and I elected to remain quiet. Not that all is good or bad in my world...it just "is."

The puppy continues to grow, but she is still a cuddly thing. We had a name battle at the beginning. I disliked the name my daughter chose. Yes, it is her dog...but yours truly spends a lot of time around it. I wanted a name I liked. After maybe five or six different tries (yes, the vet said it was okay to change her name, since she was still very young), we finally settled on one we all like. Sierra. And the name suits her well.

My sister was taken to the emergency room with what the neurologists thought was a brain aneurysm. They saw it on the CT and MRI films. It was an ugly time for her...and all of the rest of us. We suffered horrendous flashbacks, and some seemingly forgotten memories of Daddy's brain aneurysm rupture resurfaced. After a particular procedure was performed on her, it was discovered that the aneurysm was really just a collection of blood vessels that is somewhat of an anomaly. No aneurysm. We sent up many prayers of thanks. She is doing fine. Now to bury those horrid memories...

"LIGHT COMES"

I have been painting a bit. I hope I will always have that to turn to. Good or bad results, I still like how I feel when I am fiddling around with paints or pastels.

Mom is doing okay. I need to accept that there are just some things that are never going to be the way they were. More doctor visits. More aches and pains. She is mentally extremely sharp, and a delight to be with. We girls go to lunch with her every week or two. I try to call her each day just to blab and check to make sure all is well.

There is a spectacular 121-acre garden/park nearby. One of my sisters and I spent a Saturday there with cameras in hand. A woodcarver had an exhibit at that time. The theme was BIG BUGS! And big bugs they were! Made entirely out of wood. Those along with the beauty that can always be found at the garden made it a grand day.

That is about all I care to discuss at the moment. Suffice it to say that I am continuing to explore and learn. That thrills me.

Have I mentioned how much I love my family and friends? No. Hmmm. I need to fix that. I LOVE YOUUUUUUUUU.

My wishes for happiness in your worlds!

Nikki~

Run your fingers through my soul~

THIS...

...now resides in my home. I did not want it. I had repeatedly stated that I did not want a new dog. That I was not emotionally ready to handle having another dog after losing my poochie in December. I was adamant.

Yet my daughter brought THIS home anyway. I tried not to like this puppy. But she is a carbon copy of my beloved poochie. And I melted when I held her. I love the softness of her fur and her puppy scent. I love how small she is...for now. I love her beautiful eyes. I love her playfulness. I love how she looks when she is asleep. I hate potty training her. ::smile::

Oh, and my mother had her heart operation. It went very, very well. I stayed with her for a few days once she was discharged. Unfortunately, the procedure triggered an extremely painful attack of her arthritis, which has limited her ability to move around or use one of her hands. But, it should pass within a couple of weeks. I am simply grateful that her heart problems seem to have been corrected as best as possible.

And I am busy exploring some new things in my life. Always up for learning and discovering.

Life is good...even with a few bumps and bruises acquired during it.

"Buy a pup and your money will buy love unflinching." ~Rudyard Kipling

Run your fingers through my soul~

TOGETHER

Times together can be wonderful ones. The making of memories before your very eyes. Moments captured and cherished.

One of the most painful aspects of losing someone is that there are no more opportunities for new memories to be made. We are grateful for the ones we do have stored in our minds, and we fondly recall the laughter and love. During anguished times, we call upon and cling to those treasured memories like a lifeline.

Having lost my father five years ago (or was it only yesterday?), I have struggled with and fought the fact that I cannot create any new memories with him.

Well, I made a brand new one. ::beaming:: I am beyond excited. I conversed with him throughout it. I felt him with me...guiding me...helping me.

You see, the above painting was one of the very last ones he was working on when his brain aneurysm struck. It left him unable to draw. That painting sat unfinished on his drafting table. Incomplete. The ideas he had for its completion never to be realized by him.

He had to relearn how to write his name, an arduous task in itself. I bought him sketch pads and pencils. I tried to coax that fabulous artistic talent of his to come to the foreground once again. It was sad to see the pain sweep across his eyes at the realization that his brain and hand simply could not work together to once again produce beauty. The pads and pencils were discreetly put away.

I had wanted to finish it. I had no photograph to follow. Nothing to let me know what it was he had planned on adding to the scene. I could only see an unfinished house and an incomplete landscape. The sky and trees were expertly done by him and only needed a few more touches of my paintbrush. And then I began to make it my painting, too. I made the house the way I thought it should be. The color to my liking. Windows how I wanted them. I put a wreath on the front door to add some holiday warmth. A fence along the right side of the barn. Heavy snow atop the house and barn roofs. A driveway once shoveled but quickly succumbing to the falling snow that I added. A soft background of unblemished snow.

We were together again. Working together. Creating together. Being together. Making a fresh memory.

And it was grand.

"What you need to know about the past is that no matter what has happened, it has all worked together to bring you to this very moment. And this is the moment you can choose to make everything new. Right now." ~Unknown


Run your fingers through my soul~

PREMONITION

Whether or not people think premonitions are a bunch of hooey makes no difference to me. I know...KNOW...they are not. I have had enough of them to be able to discern the difference between a seemingly random coincidence and a strong premonition.

Sometimes I am not as sure that coincidences are coincidences at all, but instead milder, kinder, softer premonitions. But, that is not the subject of this entry. Premonitions are.

I get them. And when I do, my stomach churns from the lightning-swift warning. I get an almost violent and overwhelming surge of anxiety. I have been known to jump to my feet from a sitting position when a premonition strikes. My brain races to process the information the premonition has imparted. It all happens within but a few seconds.

Then I am left to determine what I should do about the forewarning I have been given. I COULD ignore it. Ah, but I have learned not to do that. Why? Because they are almost always correct. In some cases with immediate action on my part, I have been able to prevent the "bad" thing from playing out in its grim entirety. I stopped it in its tracks. I could give many examples that just might knock off your socks, but I am not trying to convince anyone to believe as I do. I am simply explaining me...and this peculiar trait of mine.

I have to admit that it stuns me when I see just how accurate the forewarning was. I have cried when all was said and done. Cried from relief that the scenario was altered to conclude with a more positive ending.

Not all of the premonitions that I have require action. Or maybe not instant action. They still deliver a tremendous wallop or a sensation of being physically ill, however.

There is one that has plagued me since December of last year. It has never left me. And it is growing stronger and stronger. I have done all I can to ensure that it does not come to pass, and I will continue to do so. Unfortunately, it is one that limits just how much I can do. I seek new avenues to circumvent its path, and maybe I have made some headway. I just have not been able to stop it. All indications are that it is proceeding, perhaps at a slower pace, but still moving.

The worst part? I already know it cannot be stopped. I feel it. It hovers. It gets pushed back a step or two, then it takes a leap forward...making up its lost ground. It will happen. Nothing will stop it.

And I hate it. I hate that I know it is there. Lurking. Damaging. Winning.

"Have you ever held something beautiful and know that it will eventually die?" ~The Blind Man by The God Machine

MEMORIAL DAY

"These heroes are dead. They died for liberty-they died for us. They are at rest. They sleep in the land they made free, under the flag they rendered stainless, under the solemn pines, the sad hemlocks, the tearful willows, the embracing vines. They sleep beneath the shadow of the clouds, careless alike of sunshine or storm, each in the windowless palace of rest. Earth may run red with other wars-they are at peace. In the midst of the battles, in the roar of conflicts, they found the serenity of death." ~Unknown

A WIN OR A LOSS?

Sometimes it is through losing that we realize we have actually won. Sounds like a contradiction, doesn't it? Well, it goes along with my longtime belief that out of bad comes good.

I have been caught in a bit of a downward spiral situation that managed to steal the essence of me. Swept up in it was my creative muse. Without it, I am hopelessly lost. Good or bad artist, I need to be able to create. Every single day. And I could not. Nothing. My easel was empty. My drafting table bare. No sparkling computer graphics designed. No poems written. I would wring my hands, despairing. The harder I tried to find my creativity, the more it eluded me.

That particular situation I was in the midst of has been resolved. I "lost" if it can be called that, since it was not a game to me. But even though there has been an end to it that is not to my liking, I have come away from it feeling more like the victor. Looking at what exists in my world...my REAL world...I am a winner. I am lucky. How could I not feel that way when I am so loved by my husband, children, mother, sisters, brothers-in-law, nieces, nephews, and friends? Reality smacked me upside the head and knocked some good old-fashioned sense into me. Thankfully. Surely there are things I wish were different, but perfection leaves little left to hope for.

And then there are the online people who I honestly feel I know as though they were here in my neighborhood. Like they are friends who pop into my home and spend time with me. The impact they have on me is a positive one. The emails I received from some of them touched my heart. I wish I could post them here, but they were sent privately. If they had wanted others to read them, they would have written them in the comments section of my previous entry. Suffice it to say, I am so very grateful to all of you for the words of encouragement and advice. You add to my sense of victory.

So yes, in my losing, I see how much I have truly won and had already won.

On a terribly sad note, I only just last nite learned that one of those online people whose heart was as big as Texas passed away recently. Walt. Bonnie's Walt. The brilliant man with the amazing insights into life and human nature is gone. Gone from here, but thriving in a gentler and more beautiful place. We lost Walt, but we all won by knowing him.

This quotation comes to me via Mary. Thank you, dear friend and sister princess.

"When you come to the end of all the light you know and it’s time to step into the darkness of the unknown, faith is knowing that one of two things shall happen. Either you will be given something solid to stand on or you will be taught to fly." ~Edward Teller


Run your fingers through my soul~

LOST

Q & A

For my dear red-sneakered Chuckles, I am responding to some questions he has asked me. It is part of a meme that he has over at his blog. He asked for volunteers, and I was game for it! ::thinking about that:: I must have been experiencing a high fever at the time. ::grin::

Okay, here are his questions, followed by my answers.

1. Your art is therapeutic, expressive, thoughtful, and fun, at turns. When do you think that you produce your best art?

When I least expect it. Yep. I never have any idea what will be decent and what will be filed in my WTF IS THIS folder. I probably do the best when I do not overanalyze the beginning of it. I tend to be a perfectionist and used to trying to be so exact. I am slowly learning to loosen up. Happy, sad, mad, bad moods do not seem to affect the painting in any different ways. I think because the painting process itself is good for my soul.

2. What is your favorite medium for expressing yourself?

Eek! Asking me a FAVORITE? I do not think I have one. I like all that I have used; however, there is a freedom I feel when using pastels that I do not get with watercolors and acrylics. Yet, this new abstract series I did was wildly exciting for me, and I used hydrus watercolors to create them.

3. Your dad had a job that kept him on the road for a number of months every year, and featured a number of intensely busy times. At the same time, he is your, and your sisters', hero. How did he balancehis work life with his home life? If he had the same job now, would he be able to be the same father to you?

Quite simply, the man never missed a single event the four of us girls had. He was there for our piano recitals, father/daughter functions, school performances, etc. The Sundays when he was home, we went to church, to the bakery, and then he would take the four of us on special outings like miniature golfing or fishing or just rides along the river. We would go out to dinner on Sundays fairly often, too. Nice restaurants. On our birthdays, the birthday girl had a "date with Daddy." Only the two of them. The birthday gal chose whatever restaurant she wanted, and that was where the two went. Oh, how I loved those special dinners. It was grand to be all alone with him. Not having to share him with anyone else. He knew how to let each one of us know how much we mattered to him.

If he had the same job now, he would still be able to be the same father to us. He would keep no job that would have disallowed it. We were THAT important to him.

Not long before his death, I sat next to him one nite. He was quite ill and was sound asleep. I did not want to leave him. I roamed down the hall to the nurses' station and asked if I could look through his chart. The nurse gave it to me, and I took it back to his room to sift through it. And I read something that I will never forget. It was from a questionnaire that was read to him when he first entered the nursing home, and he supplied the answers. One of the questions asked what he felt was his greatest accomplishment in his life. His answer? His four daughters.

My hero, indeed.

4. How did your mother manage not to go insane?

Hey, she had four adorable daughters to keep her sane! Wait. That should have pushed her over the edge, huh? Mom is a very strong but gentle woman. She is a lady above all, and she was never one to berate or shout at us. She was easygoing enough to handle the times when Daddy was out of town. She also had a strong network of friends that she is still close to today. She was a member in bridge clubs, charity groups, etc., and I think spending time with her peers was a good outlet for her. She is a wonderful woman.

5. You don't often speak of your husband in your blog. This leaves us all wanting to know more about him. Tell us of one annoying but cute habit that he has.

The hubby does read all of my blog/journal entries; however, he is not a big fan of the Internet. Chalk it up to the looney tunes he knows thrive in the online environment under the veil of anonymity.

He is a good man who has excellent morals and values. Very busily involved in church and choir and a Christian rock group. Which leads up to the annoying but cute habit he has. ::shudder:: He plays a mean guitar. He can and does read music, but he usually picks up the chords just by ear. And when he is learning a song, he will play portions...portions, mind you...over and over until I want to scratch out his eyes. It is like hearing the same drip from a leaky faucet again and again. By the time he has learned the entire song, I hate it from hearing the segments repetitively played. (Well, sometimes.)

There, my friend...did I do you proud?

If anyone would like to be the subject of my interrogation, please let me know!

"Who questions much, shall learn much, and retain much." ~Sir Francis Bacon


Run your fingers through my soul~

FUN!

I am having a real blast with my paints! Experimenting with techniques and creating abstracts is new to me, and I am loving it. There is a real sense of excitement I experience when I look at a completed abstract and try to see if I "feel" or "see" something in the painting and then come up with a title that fits.

And, bingo! I did with each of these three. I especially like that none of them look the same.

(Carnal Cosmos~Watercolor)

(Jellyfish Soiree~Watercolor)

(Filtered Hope~Watercolor)

The fun is mine...mine, I tell ya!

"I did not think; I experimented." ~Wilhelm Konrad von Roentgen


Run your fingers through my soul~

A HOME FOR EVERYTHING

This is a photograph of my daughter's new pet. Do I hear a collective "Awwww, isn't it so adorable" from all of you? Nah, I did not think so. ::grin::

Yep, this snake was a birthday gift to my daughter. One of her friends gave it to her. She was elated to receive it. My first reaction was not particularly a joyful one. I had mucho questions to ask before I knew whether or not to be calm or to wring the neck of her friend.

Calm won...eventually.

Since the death of our poochie near the end of December, my daughter keeps visiting pet stores and The Humane Society. She is on the prowl for a dog. Nuh uh. No way. I am not emotionally ready to replace that little bundle of white fur with another canine. Nor do I want a cat. I have endured a few snit fits from her when I put down my foot and refused to let her bring home any four-legged pet.

And it got me a snake in the house. So much for working around Mom's rules.

My daughter likes Khleo. He slithers around her wrist, up her back (and mine), and basically just travels and winds itself around anything and everything. She tends to him well making sure his aquarium home is the correct temperature and the water in the bowl is kept clean.

I admit I let out a semi-subdued shriek when the daughter told me there was a mouse in my freezer. WHAAAAAAAT? Oh yeah, she said. It is what I am to feed the snake. I told her under no circumstances was I to SEE the mouse. Fortunately, the mice are kept in plastic bags inside of a brown paper bag. All she has to do is heat each bag in warm water before feeding it to Khleo. I refer to them as "boil in a bag" dinners. And I take no part in doing it or observing it. I sure as heck am not going to watch it being devoured.

But, this snake adds to my daughter's happiness, and, in turn, that makes me happy.

I am a softy. ::sigh::

"I've always liked reptiles. I used to see the universe as a mammoth snake, and I used to see all the people and objects, landscapes, as little pictures in the facets of their scales. I think peristaltic motion is the basic life movement." ~Jim Morrison


Run your fingers through my soul~

BEAUTY AND THE BEAST

(Acrylics on canvas panel)

A typically busy time of year is the spring, and this year is no exception. I have been lax about posting entries, just as I have been about going on my journal/blog travels to those of you whose words I love reading. Soon, I will go on an around-the-world trip via this computer to visit all of you.

As for this journal o'mine, in recent weeks there have been many times I have wanted to sit down and write and write and write. Much I could say about a number of things, yet I choose not to. Maybe because sometimes saying less is saying more. I do wish our media would at least occasionally adhere to that school of thought.

So, amidst the violent, horrendous, and upsetting occurrences of late, I worked on this painting. 'Tis sometimes my way of escaping the insanity that exists in this world of ours.

For the first time, I painted a picture that was based on a poem I wrote. A poem none of you will read. It is private. For me only. Its words define my existence.

It was an interesting experiment to see if I could make the two one and the same. I think I did it. I hope I did. I feel I did.

And just maybe while you view it, it will make you forget the ugly events for a time.

"Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards." ~Soren Kierkegaard


Run your fingers through my soul~

TOO MUCH

How much is too much?

My mother. Her heart literally broke when Daddy passed away. It is sadly touching that his passing caused her healthy heart to suddenly become a diseased one. When you have had a grand love for almost your entire life, the shock of the loss can do wicked things to that vital organ.

Some people never do understand the power of that kind of love.

Example. My father was in Neuro ICU following surgery to stop the bleeding from his ruptured brain aneurysm. He was connected to every kind of machine imaginable. It was too soon to know whether or not he would be able to speak, move, or understand anything. His condition was listed as critical.

The heart monitor was perched above his head. While holding his hand, it was all too easy to find yourself staring at that monitor. Constantly making sure his heart was staying in a comforting rhythm. Of course, it was usually irregular and a source of worry for us. We took turns holding his hand (his right hand was curled up as a result of the bleed, so we usually held his left). The monitor showed the erratic beats of his heart. How hard it was working to function. We all exchanged worried glances during those times. Yet...

Whenever my mother took hold of his hand, we watched the monitor in sheer amazement and wonder as his heart started to slow down and find a steady beat. This happened time and time again.

There was one male nurse who dismissed our belief that Mom had the ability to stabilize his heart. He was a "by the book" kind of person. If it was not a fact in a book, it did not exist. He said it was just a coincidence. I recall taking hold of his arm as he started to walk away, and I basically got in his face and told him that not all that is real is recorded in any damn book. That sometimes things happen because of love. Through love. He said nothing. But, you know? His demeanor changed after that. He became more open, friendlier, and he shared some of his personal life stories...ones that caused him to want to become a nurse. And he ended up being one of our favorite nurses.

Now, Mom is the one with the faltering heart. The heart that is not just hurting because she lost her beloved husband. It is hurting because it is damaged. A valve is and has been leaking since Daddy's death. She has had several hospital trips to have cardioversions (heart shocking) performed. She had a pacemaker implanted. She is taking heart medicine. Yet nothing is working.

She was scheduled to go into the hospital this past Monday to be monitored while being put on a "big gun" heart medicine and to have another cardioversion. A three- or four-day stay it was to be. The arrangements were made.

I canceled them.

My mother, sisters, doctor brother-in-law, and I all discussed this insanity. It is a quagmire. Are we merely putting a Band-Aid on a gaping wound? Is a second opinion warranted, even though it puts Mom through the stress of starting anew with tests and such? At her age, could she physically handle surgery to actually REPAIR the broken part of her heart? How many cardioversions and medications will she have to go through before she gets relief? Tentative plans are to meet with a new cardiologist. She is grateful we are all so involved in being sure she receives the best of care.

But why doesn't holding her hand in mine fix her heart?

"Sometimes I wish I were a little kid again, skinned knees are easier to fix than broken hearts." ~Author Unknown

BECAUSE SMOOSHY HAPPENS

This is my "smooshy mood" entry. Yes, smooshy is my word for this particular mood. It is a time when I could easily laugh or cry, but always due to something or someone I perceive as loving.

Monday nite, my hubby was still out of town on a fishing trip. My son was working and then with friends to watch the NCAA Championship basketball game. It was girls' nite in the house. The daughter and I. For reasons that I will not go into here, my mind was fraught with memories. Some tender. Some sad.

The daughter and I camped out in the family room to watch THE game on the big television. It was nice being with her. Listening to her remarks. Answering her questions. The outcome of the game was never in doubt. Florida was clearly the better team. Hell, they define what teamwork is all about and what unselfish play is. There is a tremendously sexy player on their team...Joakim Noah. During this season, Joakim has experienced much negativity from various sources. He is an exuberant and vibrant force on the team. His father is the famous tennis player Yannick Noah; his mother is a former Miss Sweden, Cecilia Rodhe. I think he is gorgeous. 6' 11" of yumminess. And I love how he displays his emotions. Florida won the game. I watched as Joakim worked his way up into the stands to reach his mother. The loving embrace they shared (as well as Joakim's obvious tears during the long hug) touched me.

And I cried. Wait. I sobbed. My daughter looked over at me, her mouth ajar. I could not stop crying. It had moved me so much. She asked why I was crying. And my voice was unexpectedly loud as I choked out a response, "Because that's what mothers are for. To give support and love and be there for their kids." She had a smile on her face and came over to me to give ME a hug. Yeah, I am sure she thought I had gone around the bend. I probably had during those minutes.

My son's birthday was today. My one-time infant who is now a young man. That transformation happened when I turned my back for only an instant. I could go on and on about what an incredible kid he is. How his kindness, healthy self-confidence, work ethic, determination, and drive should be bottled and sold. The world could use more people like him.

As has been my tradition with both of my kids since their first birthdays, I wrote his annual birthday letter to tuck inside of his card. It is a journey backward for one year. A recording of the significant and maybe not-so-important events that took place since his previous birthday. The jottings about him as an individual. His qualities and characteristics. It takes me a long time to write. I tend to stop and reflect on each paragraph I write, making sure I have captured on paper what I want and need to say. He has come to look forward to these letters (which are saved). He genuinely absorbs my words and takes them to heart. That makes me feel wonderful...and smooshy.

I will be writing another one for my daughter in about two weeks when her birthday arrives. I suspect I will again experience the smooshiness I felt while writing her brother's letter.

Wedged in between their birthdays is my wedding anniversary. So many years together, but our wedding day is forever etched in my mind down to the finest of details. Another smooshy mood on the way.

I think maybe we all have occasions when this type of feeling prevails. We probably do not all express it in the same ways, but inside it is identical.

And it does us a world of good.

"I believe the greatest gift I can conceive of having from anyone is to be seen by them, heard by them, to be understood and touched by them." ~Virginia Satir

Run your fingers through my soul~

THE MAGICAL ARTIST

I do love to sing the praises of people who I find to be extraordinary in some way or another. And I have just the perfect person to sing about today!

His name is Samarel. Artist. Magic Man. Wizard.

While I was already familiar with his erotic artwork (I LOVE erotica), I "met" him after I discovered that he did personal sensual portraits for people. Wanting to surprise my husband with a canvas portrait of the two of us for our upcoming anniversary, I contacted Samarel. I had questions to ask him. He was quick to respond, and I sent him a photograph for him to work from. Soon I was in possession of an impossibly gorgeous canvas print of the hubby and me. The colors he utilized and his technique were captivating.

I was enchanted.

I went back to him for more.

The above image is one he did for me from this photograph of myself taken in October:


He was able to slip inside of my mind and see what resides there. The rare and quiet times when I can immerse myself in my thoughts and feelings. His natural instincts led him to apply the colors and designs to give depth to the image and a meaning that the photograph was unable to express. This will be carved into my headstone...the only addition is that wings will be added. You see, he unknowingly chose designs that resonate with who I am. That golden orb in the upper right corner TO ME is the moon. And I am a child of the nite. I also see an angel in the upper left corner. I do have angels watching over me. Of that I am sure. The colors are precisely right to match the solitude of the moment.

This portrait is on canvas. A 24" x 36" canvas. And it will proudly hang on my wall.

Aside from his obvious wizardry with digital imagery, the man is a good one. Kind. Thoughtful. Intelligent. Sexy. Extremely funny, too! I enjoy and appreciate him a tremendous amount.

If you are looking for a clever and unique gift to give someone, or even to give to yourself, do consider having a portrait done by this delightful and talented artist. I guarantee that you will be pleased.

You can view his portrait site here: Samarel's Custom Portraits

"And my aim in life is to make pictures and drawings, as many and as well as I can; then, at the end of my life, I hope to pass away, looking back with love and tender regret, and thinking, 'Oh, the pictures I might have made.' " ~Vincent Van Gogh

WHERE ARE MY EYEBROWS?

I really did used to have eyebrows. Two of them. No unibrow on me! They were not dainty little arched eyebrows. They were wide and thick. They were black...just like my eyelashes. Their shape was nice. Curved just right, I felt. I never really paid much attention to them. After all, I had had them for as long as I could remember. I took them for granted. I wish I hadn't.

I was sent to charm school. Yes, you heard me. CHARM SCHOOL. My parents sent me to it. Gee, wonder why? ::grin:: They never sent my three sisters there. I was the "lucky" one who got (needed) to go. My God, I think it ruined me for life.

The first day in walked our main teacher. She wore a very pleasant smile on her face. She introduced herself and scanned the room. While she was scanning all of us giggly females, she was talking about how pretty (liar) we were. She commented on the entire group as a whole. She did not single out any one person for specific praise. We all had lovely hair. We all had fine figures. We all had nice posture. We all had outstanding cheekbones. We all had well-tended and well-tweezed eyebrows......

And it was right then that she parked her eyes on my thick eyebrows and said, "Well, all of us except one." I was horrified. I felt my face heat up, and I am quite certain my coloring was scarlet. She might as well have dragged me out of my seat and taken me to the front of the class to show the other girls how NOT to ever allow their eyebrows to look. I really did want to cry. I was so humiliated.

After I got home, I did not tell my parents what had happened. I was too embarrassed. Besides, parents always think their kids are attractive. They just would have tried to bolster my deflated self-image. No, it was best that I keep the snide remark to myself. It was also best if I could find Mom's tweezers and fix my apparently atrocious eyebrow situation.

I rooted through Mom's makeup and face and body creams and hairspray until I came upon the needed tweezers. Then I leaned very close to the mirror. I grabbed hold of one of the hairs with her trusty tweezers and pulled. Oh my God. The pain. It was wicked nasty. I was shocked. And I had about a bazillion more hairs that would need yanked out if I was going to have the "proper" eyebrows for a young lady. I remember pausing and wondering if I really and truly cared what that teacher thought of my damn eyebrows.

And I did care. If she thought they were unpleasant, then surely every other person on the planet must think they were awful, too. Right?

So I plucked and plucked and plucked. Tears filled my eyes with every rip of the tweezers. The entire area beneath the freshly tweezed eyebrows was a harsh red and swollen. Ah, but I had nice and thin eyebrows. Mission accomplished.

At the next session of charm school, the teacher once again complimented all of us. She even made mention of how ALL of us had lovely eyebrows and smiled directly at me. That time there was no exception. I was in the cool club. The Beautiful Brows Club.

My eyebrows never grew back. Sure, I would get the strays here and there. But never many. And never enough to even come close to being the way they were prior to that initial tweezing. Fine by me. I had great eyebrows. Poor schmucks who had to maintain their eyebrows. I was so lucky I did not have to, wasn't I?

Then Brooke Shields came on the scene with her thick ones. And everyone had to have ones just like hers. I would have had to use a paint roller to get my skinny little brows to look like that. I did try an eyebrow pencil to add some bulk, but that was a disaster. I tend to knead that portion of my face when I am perplexed. Smeared eyebrows is not a hot look.

That trend passed, but the stars never seemed to return to the very thin eyebrows. They found a happy median between the two. One I can never reach.

I sit here with my barely there eyebrows and curse that teacher. Had it not been for her, I would have never thinned my brows to this extent.

I want my eyebrows back.

"The eyebrows form but a small part of the face, and yet they can darken the whole of life by the scorn they express." ~Demetrius (Phalereus)

Oh mannnnn, now I find out I cannot even express scorn without eyebrows. ::sigh of disgust::

DANCE OF THE DEMONS

EYE ROLL EARNERS

There are those occasions and those people who earn my patented, exaggerated eye roll. I am annoyed by the situations or the people, and my eye roll just happens. Involuntarily. Sometimes, though, when an annoyance becomes habitual, I have this "thing" I do and say to the person. I reach up and tug down my lower eyelid and say, "Note the concern in my eye?" Ever hear me say that, and you will know I want nothing to do with you anymore. You are done. Gone. Tell it to someone else.

I became aware of the fact that I eye roll probably more often than I had realized. We all probably do. What drivers have not rolled their eyes when an idiot cuts in front of them? Okay, there could be a few colorful words muttered and a hand gesture to accompany the eye roll. But, the eye roll is there.

Stores are a terrific place to count the number of eye roll times. Topping the count would be those people who ram right into me in their hurry to get to the toilet paper on sale. ::snicker:: They practically knock off my shoulder and say absolutely nothing. No "excuse me." No "I'm sorry." Geez. I am not going to bark anything at them when they do it, because they probably bite. And usually look like rabies shots were not a part of their health care. Oddly enough, the "store cart ankle clippers" almost always apologize for destroying my Achilles' tendons. I like courtesy. Even if I am left temporarily crippled.

Sporting events are a real treat. It is a small wonder my eyes have not permanently taken up residence under my upper eyelids. Adults acting like spoiled, undisciplined children. Shouting out the most obnoxious insults to youngsters (ack, don't really old people use the word "youngster"?). Even at the college level, fans need to remember that the players are still teenagers or have only just barely turned 20 or 21. That is young. They also need to remember that most arenas and stadiums adhere to the one-seat-per-person rule. That's right. You have your seat number, and I have mine. Stay OFF my seat. No sprawling your arms and legs into my personal space, either. I have practically raced to sit down on stadium benches after some super athletic or scoring play brought everyone to their feet in order to avoid being shoved six rows down when the stranger to my left decides to park his usually wide load onto MY seat. Even when there are individual, separated seats, it amazes me how people plant their elbows into your ribs or steal your cup holder.

Moving on to another eye roller. Ah, I refer to them as the "don't confuse me with facts" folks. Good grief. If it is raining and the evidence is in their drenched clothing and rivulets of raindrops cascading down their faces, do not insist it is NOT raining if I say it is. We are not talking opinion. It is fact. If the facts happen to get in the way of your beliefs, suck it up like a big boy or girl. Just do not do battle with me.

Snobs. They are better than everyone else, aren't they? Just ask them. ::grin:: If I do not laugh at them, I eye roll instead. I am never quite sure if their snobbery is masking extreme insecurities or if they truly believe they are superior. Either way, they do need to grasp the concept that there will always be people who are prettier, wealthier, nicer, smarter, funnier, etc., than they are. It does not negate their worth. It simply establishes that they are not perfection personified and had best not expect me to drop to my knees and kiss their feet.

There, that is a smattering of eye roll earners. I am certain I could go on and on, but I do not want to dwell on it. I do not even know what exactly prompted me to write about this. I had one of those grand weekends that just felt soooo right. You know what kind I mean. The kind that finds you singing up a storm, feeling all content, walking with an extra bounce in your step...yet there is no one thing you could identify as the reason why you feel that way. You just do.

And you love the feeling...

Far more than the feeling of eye rolls.

"What annoyances are more painful than those of which we cannot complain?" ~Marquis De Custine

MY COMFORT AND JOY

This painting o' mine is completed. I think. Okay, I am sure I will still pick at it and add little highlights here and there before I call it done.

Somewhere, somehow, and from someone, I had a photo of this scene. I have no idea who sent it to me with the suggestion that I attempt to paint it. It immediately grabbed me, and I knew I would try to do just that. I could not decide if it would be suited best for acrylics, watercolors, or pastels. The pastels won out. I like the freedom they give me when I use them.

I worked on it far longer than I typically do any of my paintings. It sat on my drafting table while I hovered over it working the pastels into the mix. I had to keep getting up and walking away from it at times. I was not getting the depth right. It was maddening. I finally put it on the easel. There, I was able to work more easily. I could see where details were necessary to give it a three-dimensional quality.

It was a nightmare and a pleasant dream. A source of frustration and delight. An exercise in futility and small success. And through it all, it still brought me contentment. I am certain that is why I play with my paints. They do take me to a place inside of me where tranquility exists. I need to visit it often.

The husband wants this painting for his office. My daughter wants it for her room. My son simply says he likes when I use pastels. And I? I want it for myself.

"If you hear a voice within you say 'you cannot paint,' then by all means paint, and that voice will be silenced." ~Vincent Van Gogh

HOPE FROM THE HEART

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TCBHAn5Iiog

There are countless songs with lyrics pertaining to love and the heart. Some happy, some sad. And I gave a great deal of thought to which song I would feature here via YouTube for this final entry of my February "heart" month theme. Trying to narrow it down to one was almost an exercise in futility.

I finally decided to put in a song that I feel encompasses our hope that we...our hearts...will be remembered after we have gone. 'Tis beautiful. Just close your eyes (the video image is anime, which I dislike) and absorb the sounds and the emotions they conjure up within you.

Be kind to others' hearts...and your own.

Keep The Flame by Stratovarius

The shadow falls on me today.
Oh, why can't it fade into the distance?

And darkness calls, no other way.
I rage at the riddle of existence.

The day's almost gone, but you'll carry on.
Can you keep the flame for me?
The day's almost gone, but you'll carry on.
Can you keep the flame for me?

A broken plan, a fleeting past.
Oh, how do we always keep on trying?

A tired man is free at last.
Oh, what would the purpose be of lying?

My life's almost gone, but you'll carry on.
Can you keep the flame for me?
My life's almost gone, but please carry on.
Could you keep the flame for me?
Will you keep the flame for me?

A GENTLE TUG AT THE HEARTSTRINGS

I love this photograph. "Eternal Embrace" is what it has been dubbed. The discovery of these skeletons locked in an embrace was quite a find. It is not just the age of the remains~6,000 years~that drew worldwide attention, but also the positioning of the bones in a joint burial. You see, during the Neolithic period it was unheard of for a burial spot to contain more than one body. Archaeologists do not know what to make of this unusual find.

The plan is to excavate all around the couple in order to keep the bones exactly as they were found, instead of dismantling the bones one by one and reassembling them as is typically done. After studying the remains, they will be exhibited in a museum in Italy. Scientists said it will be a record of the longest known hug.

All sorts of stories are swirling around about why these two young people (intact teeth indicate they were young) were buried together and who they are. Most think they were in love. Some that their deaths were a la Romeo and Juliet. After all, the remains were found a mere 25 miles from the city of Verona in Italy. How strikingly curious that Verona was the setting for Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet. Or maybe it was a tragic accident of some kind. The cynics demand to know why everyone is so quick to think the couple was in love. Ah, always someone at the ready to be vocal and rain on everyone's parade.

Yes, I adore this picture. The people are not pretty. There is no glitter, no flashiness, no sparkles in it. Nothing but old bones surrounded by dirt.

Yet, if you look very, very closely, I believe you will see two beautiful hearts joined together as one.

"Imagination is more important than knowledge. For knowledge is limited to all we now know and understand, while imagination embraces the entire world, and all there ever will be to know and understand." ~Albert Einstein

THE QUEEN OF HEARTS

I am she. The Queen of Hearts. "Off with their heads!" And I mean it when I shout it! The rules are my rules. I define them. All will follow them, or it's "Off with their heads!"

It keeps my world orderly, don't you see? I want everything to be perfect. To run smoothly. I have no tolerance for disorder or for fools. Confusion is not embraced in my world. Far better that my form of justice is carried out, even though others (like that pesky Alice) do not care for my style. Why prolong the chaos when I can halt it immediately?

Ah, but like Lewis Carroll's story, few actually do get beheaded. The King of Hearts makes sure of that. And those surrounding the Queen rarely obey her rules. She is feared, but she is actually quite powerless. It does not matter to her as long as attempts are made to keep her world free from disharmony.

My King of Hearts does, indeed, exist. ::smile:: He is the calm to my fury. He is the voice of reason to my cry of unfair. He is the even to my uneven. He is the day to my nite. And occasionally he "gets" me when I am not sure I "get" myself. He accepts that I sometimes love others with an intensity and passion most reserve for only one. Why? Because he knows he is my only King of Hearts for life and far beyond.

And I am his Queen of Hearts.

Together we are an anomaly. I laugh at times when I think about us. We almost never fight. But, when we do, he is the "Off with her head" Heart of the couple. My head. He wants it off. Big time! ::grin:: I cower. Yep, the Queen of Hearts is not her usual bold self then. Scared, even. Ah, but the beauty of it is that the tempest is over quickly, and he is genuinely full of remorse and once again restored to his natural King of Hearts ways.

We are a couple of well-suited cards. ::cheesy pun intended::

"Your way? All ways here are my ways!" ~The Queen of Hearts from Alice In Wonderland

HAPPY HEART DAY ::blowing you a kiss::

STONE COLD HEART

This entry is in keeping with my February theme of hearts and love, but it does not have a flowery, sweet sentiment attached to it. For the heart is not always full of love and kindness, is it?

"Stone cold...and I thought I knew you so well."
I cannot think of anyone I know who has not experienced having a stone cold heart at least once. A heart turned frozen because of the actions of another. For those of us who tend to more easily and willingly share our hearts, having it abused can be devastating. It does not have to be at the hands of someone with whom she was intimate, although it often is. It can be due to a loved friend whose words were poisonous, leaving her with an ice-cold heart.

"Your words like ice fall on the ground, breaking the silence without a sound."
When such a thing occurs, the heart can suddenly grow cold. Very cold. It becomes almost effortless to view the one who caused the damage with a detached sense of dislike. Loathing, even. It continues to remain quite warm and still beats and works its magic for the others we love. It is the person who has tainted it who is the recipient of the crystals of ice.

Deservedly so.

"So many changes, so many lies."
Hearts are not something to be tampered with for the sake of ego, a twisted idea of power or control, or just because it is thought "fun." Not everyone would agree with that. The heart is fair game to them. And for anyone who gives pieces of their heart to those they care about deeply, heart thieves such as those are in their glory. They can snatch and take bits of someone's heart. When circumstances turn sour, they think nothing at all about running off with that scrap of heart and defiling it in whatever manner they wish.

"Oh familiar strangers with nothing to say."
Those who are the recipients of that type of behavior usually react in one of two ways. Their hearts break down and a huge wave of sadness engulfs them, OR their hearts grow cold.

"You're stone cold...ice cold."
My preference is to have an icy heart. There is a clarity that becomes apparent while viewing the hurtful individual through the sharp icicles. It allows me to have a very real, very solid look at the person who has marred my heart. Far better to have that than to be swamped with emotional tears and exaggerated feelings. Yes, the cold heart I develop allows for a more rational, logical, and crystal clear thought process.

"You put me in the deep freeze."
Whether or not a thawing ever occurs towards that person is impossible to say. It has before. If it will again is a question with no certain answer. If I could choose, I would want my heart to remain in a deep freeze concerning the person who violated it.

I believe it is called self-preservation.


(Quoted lyrics from Rainbow's song, Stone Cold)

I HEART MY FRIENDS

In my real world AND in my online world, I do "heart" my friends. The friendships I have developed through the years are solid ones. The older I get, It becomes more and more obvious just who genuinely cares for and about me. And heaven knows I care about them. Be they younger, older, the same age as I, male or female, they have shown me the true meaning of friendship. I am grateful for them. It is my hope they are equally pleased with me and what I bring to them.

There, I needed and wanted to express that. ::smile::

"Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born." ~Anais Nin

HEARTFELT MEMORY

It is one of the best but most bittersweet memories I have. It was the witnessing of the sharing of two hearts. Two people giving pieces of that vital organ of theirs to each other just when it was most needed. When this recollection surfaces, it still causes my heart to melt and my eyes to brim over with tears.

When Daddy's brain aneurysm ruptured and surgery was required, my daughter was in the fourth grade. Still too young to fully understand the ramifications of such a drastic procedure, but completely aware of the fragile status of his condition.

He was in Neuro ICU. A private room. He had been taken off of the respirator, but he was not able to speak. He slept most of the day. His right hand was still balled up and unresponsive. Part of his head had been shaven, and the enormous incision was harshly visible.

We spent countless hours with him, day and night. His condition fluctuated from day to day...hour to hour, actually. Our children were not allowed to visit him yet. Hospital rules.

It was on a sunny day that brought bright light through the large window into his room that one of our favorite nurses told us she felt it would be good for Daddy to have his grandchildren visit him. One at a time. Stagger the visits. Were any of our children out in the waiting room, she asked. My daughter was. I had brought her with me to the hospital, so I could see Daddy for a short time before returning there later in the evening by myself. This nurse asked me if I thought my daughter could handle seeing her grandfather like "this." I was unsure, but I said I would ask her. My fear was that she would be horrified by the scar on his head and his inability to speak and that she might cry, which would upset him. I went to the waiting room and asked her. She wanted very much to see him. I told her what to expect. She still wanted to see him.

My mother, two of my sisters, and the nurse were in the room when I brought in my daughter. I led her to the side of Daddy's bed. The side of his which had the "good" hand. And the light in the room seemed to embrace both of them. Daddy's eyes filled with tears and a smile curved his lips. My daughter's smile was radiant. And then he slowly and with much effort lifted his hand, reaching up to her. He tenderly cupped the side of her face in his beautiful, large hand. Time truly stood still. Their eyes met and held while we all stood there transfixed by the sight. The nurse began to weep and quietly exited the room. His hand returned to the bed, and he lay there. We all swallowed the lumps in our throat and made some small talk. Then, he reached up yet again to press his hand against her cheek and held it there. My daughter's glowing smile continued to shine on him. His misty eyes sparkling into hers.

Within a few minutes, his eyes drifted closed. I instructed my daughter to wait outside of the door while I went over a few things with my mother and sisters. During our hushed conversation, we thought of a question we wanted to ask the nurse. My sister stepped out of the room to find her. And huddled against the wall was my daughter. She was sobbing uncontrollably. My sister stuck her head in the room and motioned for me to come out. I sunk to my knees and hugged my little girl, telling her she had been so brave and so strong for Papa. I told her how much he loved her, and how her visit was like the best medicine for him in the whole wide world. And she calmed down.

What great effort she put forth to refrain from showing her pain during her visit with her beloved Papa. And what strong effort he put into letting her know how very much he loved her. They both gave each other pieces of their hearts that day.

And I was blessed to have witnessed it.

"The heart that truly loves never forgets." ~Proverb

A MATTER OF THE HEART

Where I live, the cold weather has ushered in this month of February. For many, the frigid temperatures are despised, and those people are impatiently awaiting the arrival of spring. Not I! I am more than content with the winter weather. In fact, I revel in it.

But February. Ah, February. It is the month designated for lovers and loved ones. Valentine's Day resides in this month. Is that not enough to warm you when you are bemoaning yet more snow or howling winds?

I think throughout this month, the majority of my journal entries will be about the heart. It is fitting, methinks. That idea came to me moments ago while I was thinking about hearts. Broken hearts, in particular.

No matter our ages, no one has escaped having a piece of their heart ripped away. Some people experience it more than others. Some frequently do the destroying; others do the healing. How often have we felt our hearts have been torn apart? Perhaps losing someone we desperately loved, or maybe when something caused terrible distress for our children. Our hearts feel that pain. We may think we shall never recover from the agonizing hurt.

But just like the patchwork heart depicted above, we piece our own hearts back together. We do have the means to do it ourselves if we try. It is pure bliss when someone mends it for us, knowingly or unknowingly. Love again finds us, and with it we regain a new scrap to replace the missing one. It is carefully sewn into place, perhaps secured with a button. The thread weaving it tightly to the adjoining areas. And each time we lose another piece due to some calamity, something or someone comes along with just enough extra heart to fill our own. We also find the more love we give to others, the more we receive. Piece for piece.

Time wears on, and the quilt begins to get ragged. Holes may start to appear. The thread loses its strength bit by bit, day by day. And just when it seems beyond repair, along comes that special someone or a cherished memory with enough thread and heart to fix it.

Really, were we to be able to see the emotional scars our hearts bear, I think they would resemble a patchwork quilt. The colors would not all be the same. The patterns would differ. The sizes of the pieces would be irregular. But together, they hold strong. And maybe, just maybe, it is those variations that make our hearts even more beautiful than they used to be when untouched by tragedies or heartaches.

Yes, I believe that.

"The heart will break, but broken live on." ~Lord Byron

BLASTS FROM THE PAST (Repost from January 3, 2005)

Monday, January 3, 2005

2:41:00 AM EST

Feeling Chillin'

Hearing What Do The Simple Folk Do~from Camelot

Blasts from the Past

::singing......."What do the simple folk do to help them escape when they're blue?"::

I got to thinking about how I killed time when I was a kid. Geez, there were tons of things to do and play. Running around outside playing kick the can, tag, red rover, girls chase boys or boys chase girls (yeah, that game is still being played well into adulthood along with "Doctor"), hide 'n seek.

But, it was the toys and games I was mainly recalling. We had some kick-ass stuff. Granted, they weren't computer games or other overly high-tech toys. Didn't matter. They were still awesome. Some of the games are still around today. They'd be called classic games, though. Ugh. That makes me sound as if I am ancient (well, I'm NOT). Those games would be Battleship, Monopoly, Operation, Clue, and so on. Most have been updated and are way cool.

There were amazing games/toys that today would be banned and deemed dangerous as hell. It wouldn't be an unfair label, either. The things WERE dangerous. One of my favorites was probably one of the most hazardous. It was called Vac-U-Form. You were given these colored squares of plastic, you slipped them onto this 70 bazillion degree metal mold, and then you closed the lid until the plastic could be molded from the heat into the shape you chose (in two friggin' seconds). Ah, the smell of the plastic as it heated was good. The smell of your flesh burning from accidentally touching the metal wasn't so pleasant. You whipped up the lid, let the plastic cool, then you trimmed away the portions that weren't part of the shape. You could paint them...add wheels (if you'd chosen the car mold)...or even glue on a jewelry pin, so it could be worn. Ha! My sister had her school picture taken with this really ugly Vac-U-Form turtle pin she made and painted. Throw in that she had buck teeth then, too, and she was a real looker. We've never let her forget that.

Along those lines were two other fire-causing toys I particularly liked. One was called Creepy Crawlers. Same premise as Vac-U-Form in that metal molds were used, but you squeezed colored goop into the mold before dropping it into the friggin' kiln. ::laugh:: I loved how you could mix the colors together and end up with awesome looking spiders and worms and butterflies. Incredible Edibles was pretty much the exact same, except the goop was edible (duh, hence the name). Oooo...you made your own gummy worms essentially. I loved messing with that stuff.

I really do like that my family was into playing games. We had a blast with this giant Skittles game. Damn, Mom still has it. It was a huge wood rectangular "box" maybe 5' long, with wood bowling pins, and tops with strings. You wrapped the string around the top and whipped it to set it hopping out of the entrance and on its way to knock down the strategically placed pins with varying point values. That sucker would sometimes hop the gate on its way out. Of course, all of us had our own unique style of wrapping the string to coax the best performance from our tops. ::sigh:: All six of us played that. We reallllllly had fun.

We four girls fought like crazy playing games like Booby-Trap (outta the gutter, pervs...it's a GAME that doesn't involve body touching). The object was to pull out a round disk without moving the wood bar on the spring-loaded board. Amazing just how friggin' keen our eyesight was when it wasn't our own turn. ::snicker:: "It moved...it moved...we all saw it move...it's my turn...cheater...Mommmmmmm, she's cheating." Pick-Up-Sticks was the same damn way. Of course the sticks were practically flying across the room when it wasn't your turn. But when YOU picked up one, the air didn't even move. Lordy, we bitched at each other a lot during games like those. God love Mom. I do not recall her ever yelling at us during those times. Well, 'cept for the one "game" I played with my little sister ONCE. I called it the Match Game. Me: "Hey, wanna see a match burn twice?" Her: "Yes." Me: Lighting a match and saying, "One"...then blowing out the match and immediately holding it on her thigh while it burned her and saying "Two." God, I got in HUGE trouble for that. Mom nailed me with that damn flyswatter...and Daddy spanked me when Mom told him about it. Maybe I wasn't such a cute lil kid after all. (I don't care. I'm still sitting here laughing about that.)

And so here it is, 2005 and all sorts of nifty toys are available for kids. Some would have been fun to have had when I was wee little. But, I think everyone is left with some wonderful memories regardless of what toys were available. It isn't really the game as much as the fact you were involved in the playing of a game with your peers, your family, or whomever.

Today's quote: "You just wait until your father gets home!" ~My Mom and everyone else's Mom

DISPOSABLE DARLING

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-F2X5Qrgo0Y

This seven-minute live version of Roxy Music singing "In Every Dream Home A Heartache" is dark and eerily erotic. The lyrics are haunting, and the guitar is fabulous. It is one of those songs I fell in love with the very first time I heard it. I do adore it when friends tell me about a song (as was the case with this one), and I like it an extraordinary amount.

Do give it a listen. After all, if you dislike it, it is only seven minutes out of your life that you will never get back. ::smile::

Oh, and I think you will notice that my music tastes are eclectic, to say the least.

SWEET SLUMBER

It was during the middle of the nite. The darkest dark of nite. She was sound asleep, surrounded by oversized pillows, and nestled beneath her new quilted bedspread. I could hear the soft sound of her breathing. The fragrant scent of her shampoo and body wash hung in the air. The only light in the room was cast from a dim night-light. I stood at the foot of the bed just looking at my baby girl. She seemed so small in that queen-sized bed. Memories chased around my mind. I had an almost overwhelming urge to scoop her up into my arms and simply cradle her. Quite a few minutes passed while I resisted the temptation to awaken her to hold her. Then, I left her room.

She is 20 years old. I am her mother. And that scene took place last week.

In many ways it is the same scene that has occurred over and over these past twenty years. I recall the tiny six-pound newborn who looked far too small sleeping in her crib. She was dwarfed by the size of that crib. Countless times I stood watch over her slumber. I listened for the sounds of her breathing and watched for the rhythmic and gentle rise and fall of her chest while she slept. The fresh and sweet scent of her permeated my senses. She was so perfect. I wanted to lift her into my arms and rock her. I wanted to feel her warmth against me. To let her know she was safe and loved. That she would be for all of time. Sometimes I gave into the urge and swept her into my arms and against my heart.

I should have given in the other nite.

"The only thing worth stealing is a kiss from a sleeping child." ~Joe Houldsworth

COLOR MY WORLD

The other nite someone asked me to name my favorite color. My response was that I like all colors and do not have a favorite. That was laughingly called a "bullshit answer." And yet, it is true. I do like every single color. They all have a place where they look radiant.

We went back and forth a bit about it. He said life is about choices. Choosing. He is quite correct. It was suggested that I could have replied, "I choose not to choose a favorite color." Okay. But had I said that, it would have given him no real insight into me and the way I think, would it? I believe he asked the question to learn more about me. And learn he did!

His question was a difficult one. It was not a simple one to answer like when I am returning a wedding reception RSVP and have to choose whether or not I want my dinner to be beef, chicken, fish, or vegetarian.

We are talking COLORS. There are endless colors, and I am to select one as my absolute favorite? Impossible. You see, had he asked what was my favorite color for a car, color to wear, color for a house, hair color, etc., I would have had a chance to be specific.

In retrospect, he wanted a black and white answer to a question that resides in a world of gray...and blue...and red...and purple...and yellow...and green...and pink...and orange...and gold...and...

"Color is my day-long obsession, joy, and torment." ~Claude Monet